a moment, spread the red glow of the neon sign: YOUNG PEOPLE READ … —the only glow above the thick darkness of the city.
X
THE STREET CAME ABRUPTLY TO AN END, AND Franciszek stopped. Farther on there were fields, dilapidated wooden buildings, unkempt yards, and smoking piles of rubbish; in the fields wrecked cars protruded from under the thawing snow; the sun setting behind the distant city walls gleamed red on their rusty bodies. Franciszek looked about him helplessly—he had never before been in this section. Finally he stopped a passer-by. “I beg your pardon; can you direct me to Acacia Street?”
“Over there.”
“Where that tall house is?”
“Yes. I’m going that way myself.”
They walked along a wet path, avoiding puddles. The stranger asked: “Are you going to watch them clear the snow?”
“What are they doing?”
“They’re clearing the snow.”
“Where?”
“From the roof of that very house. My son told me, so I’m going to watch.”
True enough, before the tall building toward which they waded through the slush stood a large throng of spectators, craning their necks. On the roof a man with a shovel was busily tossing piles of snow into the street; the object of the game was to try to hit an unsuspecting passer-by. From a distance they could hear the happy laughs and enthusiastic shouts that greeted each heave of the shovel.
“I beg your pardon,” the stranger said, tipping his cap. “I must drop in to see a friend, he’ll be glad to …” He scrutinized Franciszek’s face. “Are you by chance from Bloc Committee No. 385?”
“Me? What gave you that idea?”
“I’m only asking. We’re expecting a lecturer today, and, seeing that you’re not from this neighborhood, I thought it might be you. He’s going to lecture about the sun or something. They say we’ll be getting electricity from the sun. Do you think that’s possible?”
Franciszek was about to reply when a mad turmoil broke out before the tall house, and both he and his companion turned their heads. The man with the shovel had succeeded in dropping an avalanche of snow on the heads of three passing hunchbacks, who stood dazed, not knowing what had happened to them. The onlookers were delirious with joy; the man on the roof was shouting merrily, triumphantly waving his shovel.
“Is it possible?” the stranger asked thoughtfully.
“What?”
“That electricity business.”
“Yes, certainly … someday. Goodbye.”
“Someday,” the stranger repeated, and walked off. To the accompaniment of the happy clamor, Franciszek continued on his way until he found the house he had been looking for. It was an old tumbledown building; the wind was tearing at pieces of rotten tarpaper on the roof. Surprised by the squalor of the place, Franciszek stood staring for a few moments, then, with a shrug, plunged into the shadows as into dark water. He waded on blindly, groping for the wall—at last he touched its rough ratlike dampness, and drew back his hand in disgust. There was a smell of washing, of children; from anupper floor came the echoes of a quarrel. He struck a match, and looked for the number by the light of its uncertain flame. At last he stopped at a door, and knocked.
No one answered; a woman was shouting loudly on the same floor. Franciszek was about to leave when he thought he heard a rustling noise behind the door. He knocked again, and then again, louder; at last he heard the sound of shuffling feet.
“Who is it?” a woman’s voice asked.
“Is Mr. Zakrzewski at home?”
There was a moment’s silence. “What’s your business?”
“I want to see him.”
“And who are you?”
“Kowalski.”
There was another brief silence. “Wait a minute,” the woman said.
He lighted a cigarette; behind the door the sound of shuffling feet receded. From the street came a roar of rage and a triumphant clamor; once again a shovelful of snow had found its mark. The bolt creaked in the
X
THE STREET CAME ABRUPTLY TO AN END, AND Franciszek stopped. Farther on there were fields, dilapidated wooden buildings, unkempt yards, and smoking piles of rubbish; in the fields wrecked cars protruded from under the thawing snow; the sun setting behind the distant city walls gleamed red on their rusty bodies. Franciszek looked about him helplessly—he had never before been in this section. Finally he stopped a passer-by. “I beg your pardon; can you direct me to Acacia Street?”
“Over there.”
“Where that tall house is?”
“Yes. I’m going that way myself.”
They walked along a wet path, avoiding puddles. The stranger asked: “Are you going to watch them clear the snow?”
“What are they doing?”
“They’re clearing the snow.”
“Where?”
“From the roof of that very house. My son told me, so I’m going to watch.”
True enough, before the tall building toward which they waded through the slush stood a large throng of spectators, craning their necks. On the roof a man with a shovel was busily tossing piles of snow into the street; the object of the game was to try to hit an unsuspecting passer-by. From a distance they could hear the happy laughs and enthusiastic shouts that greeted each heave of the shovel.
“I beg your pardon,” the stranger said, tipping his cap. “I must drop in to see a friend, he’ll be glad to …” He scrutinized Franciszek’s face. “Are you by chance from Bloc Committee No. 385?”
“Me? What gave you that idea?”
“I’m only asking. We’re expecting a lecturer today, and, seeing that you’re not from this neighborhood, I thought it might be you. He’s going to lecture about the sun or something. They say we’ll be getting electricity from the sun. Do you think that’s possible?”
Franciszek was about to reply when a mad turmoil broke out before the tall house, and both he and his companion turned their heads. The man with the shovel had succeeded in dropping an avalanche of snow on the heads of three passing hunchbacks, who stood dazed, not knowing what had happened to them. The onlookers were delirious with joy; the man on the roof was shouting merrily, triumphantly waving his shovel.
“Is it possible?” the stranger asked thoughtfully.
“What?”
“That electricity business.”
“Yes, certainly … someday. Goodbye.”
“Someday,” the stranger repeated, and walked off. To the accompaniment of the happy clamor, Franciszek continued on his way until he found the house he had been looking for. It was an old tumbledown building; the wind was tearing at pieces of rotten tarpaper on the roof. Surprised by the squalor of the place, Franciszek stood staring for a few moments, then, with a shrug, plunged into the shadows as into dark water. He waded on blindly, groping for the wall—at last he touched its rough ratlike dampness, and drew back his hand in disgust. There was a smell of washing, of children; from anupper floor came the echoes of a quarrel. He struck a match, and looked for the number by the light of its uncertain flame. At last he stopped at a door, and knocked.
No one answered; a woman was shouting loudly on the same floor. Franciszek was about to leave when he thought he heard a rustling noise behind the door. He knocked again, and then again, louder; at last he heard the sound of shuffling feet.
“Who is it?” a woman’s voice asked.
“Is Mr. Zakrzewski at home?”
There was a moment’s silence. “What’s your business?”
“I want to see him.”
“And who are you?”
“Kowalski.”
There was another brief silence. “Wait a minute,” the woman said.
He lighted a cigarette; behind the door the sound of shuffling feet receded. From the street came a roar of rage and a triumphant clamor; once again a shovelful of snow had found its mark. The bolt creaked in the
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