Ostatny w domu

Night Search by Leszek Szaoliński Gloom presses down on the cold, hard concrete wall. In the alleys, suddenly—the People’s Police sirens call. Security Bureau men push the iron gate wide, come searching, come hunting, through the black rubble of night. An old man leaps the low wall, hides in the dark debris. An old woman, trembling, opens the door alone to face what must be. The hunters’ shouts crack like whips against steel bars. Her confession rasps like hoarse static from an old radio’s scars: “Comrade, please, hear me through— My three sons were all sent to the front. Not long ago a crumpled letter came: two more are buried in the cold, cold mud. The living one lingers beneath high walls; the dead—their names are blacked out on the rolls. There are no other men left in this house, only a grandson still nursing at the breast. While the child stays, my daughter-in-law cannot leave, though she cannot even patch a decent coat. Comrade, if these old bones still have a little strength, take me with you—tonight I’ll go back to camp. Throw me before the factory’s night-shift furnace; at least I can cook the army a pot of breakfast gruel.” The harsh questions and the plea fall into silence. Only the water pipes sob faintly in the cold night. I lie awake till dawn, then walk on through morning mist. At the street corner, the old man who escaped is silently waving me on.