The Graveyard Read Online Free PDF Page A

would tell me, but they won’t. What could I have done?”
    The stranger stretched luxuriously. “Each one of us imagines he didn’t do anything,” he said. “Each one of us somehow thinks he is innocent. But then a moment comes when others begin to have power over him, and then our thoughts don’t matter, and only what they think about us matters.” He sighed and turned over. “Thank God I’m nothing but adrunk,” he said. “That’s the only thing that gives me some sort of assurance; if anyone thinks anything about me, it will be only that. Good night. Try to get some sleep. And pretend the whole thing is a dream. A rotten, stupid dream, from which we’ll never awaken.”

IV
    AT LAST DAYBREAK CAME, AND WITH IT A PIERCING cold invaded the cell. Gray light filled the little window up by the ceiling. The faces of the recumbent men became more distinct, emerging from the darkness, puffy, disheveled, with bloodshot eyes. One after another, they sat up on the concrete floor; they looked about them unseeing, then, yawning and shivering, rose on shaky legs. From the street came the first sounds of the awakened city—passing trucks, hurrying footsteps, creaking tramcars.
    Franciszek had sat numb while the cell was dark and silent; his only emotions had been anxiety and anger. But now the realization that only a few yards away, just outside the police station, hundreds of thousands of people were living a normal life without his being able to share in it threw him into a fit of dejection such as he had not experienced for a long time. “This is perhaps the worst thing that can happen to a man,” he thought. “Worse than sickness, solitude, any kind of misfortune. To be cut off from the life of others—can there be anything worse? Is there anything that can get you further down? I’ve had only a few hours of this; how terrible must be the life of a man condemned to endure it for long!” He was seized by only one overwhelming desire: to get out as soon as possible, to be in the streets, in the midst of people and the city bustle.
    The door creaked. The lieutenant appeared in the doorway. A card in his hand, he said: “Romanowski, Bolder, Krupinski, come out.”
    Three men rushed to the door. Franciszek followed them. “And what about me?” he asked.
    “Wait,” said the lieutenant.
    “I could still get to my job on time,” Franciszek said.
    The lieutenant shut the door in his face without answering; Franciszek had barely time to jump back. Several of his cellmates laughed. “You’ll pay for this,” he thought resentfully. “You’ll pay for all your stupidities. I’ll see to it that all of you are thrown off the force, straight out on your faces. That’ll show you that you can’t treat an honest citizen like this.” Pacing back and forth, he planned all kinds of vengeance for everything they had done to him here.
    The cell grew animated; the inmates recalled the events of the day before. Some cracked jokes; others sat staring vacantly. One man kept saying: “What am I going to tell my wife? What am I going to tell my wife? I promised her this would never happen again.”
    On one of the benches three young men were sleeping. The others felt sorry for them, seeing them huddled together like kittens. All of them wore homemade clothes, narrow trousers, yellow shirts, and garish socks. Their faces were black and blue, and their noses were smashed; they had obviously been arrested for brawling.
    Suddenly one of them woke up. He ran his fingers through his hair, and nudged his companions. “Kusiatynszczak, get up!” he cried. “The sun is up. Time to go to work.”
    The other two awoke. They exchanged affectionate glances, then sang in hoarse voices:
    “Welcome you comrades, to work, to work,
    Our factories bustle, our furnaces blaze,
    My country, my home, my happy home,
    To build a house of dreams by our common efforts …”
    “Shut up,” someone growled. Franciszek looked at him: he was the giant