§ ≡ A section of The Pilot's Saga { Chapter 0.2 « Chapter 1.1 » Chapter 1.2 }
It's around two o'clock on a Sunday afternoon. Papa says "Let's go for a stroll, shall we?" He always puts it the same way this question, which he poses every Sunday and to which Hanka's answer is always yes. The windows in their small house are open for the first time this Spring, and she can smell a gentle breeze (yes, that is correct — she can smell gentleness, which is one of a few strange but true circumstances of her existence).
She grabs the pink cardigan she has laid out on her bed in anticipation of the outing and dashes to the hallway for her shoes. The hallway contains: on one side, a furnace, a hot water tank, and a small stall shower; on the other side, a wall with coats on coat hooks and a wooden wall-seat that Hanka's mother painted yellow and "decoupaged" with a floral motif some five or six years ago in an attempt to brighten the windowless hallway. On Saturdays in the evening, papa polishes all the shoes that can be polished while he sits in his chair and listens to the weekend concert on radiowa Dwójka. Hanka (who is lying on the carpet propped up on her elbows, dangling her feet across one another, pouring over a book) looks up to watch her father eagerly when, as the music reaches a climax, he stops his polishing to punch the air with his fists in time with the music. When the concert is finished, she helps him bring the shoes to the hallway and place them in a single-file row under the wall-seat. Papa shows her how to arrange her sister's shoes, then hers, then his: first according to size, next according to color. Now she quickly reaches for her sister's favorites (white tennis shoes with smurf laces) and, for herself, the shiny red ones that strap across the top and buckle on the side.
When the first warm days come after a hostile winter, when brittle thorny stems begin to be replaced by supple twigs while scrapings of soot-stained snow have vanished completely and irretrievably from the scene, even the most wretched of creatures succumbs to a sensation (in whatever small measure) of the victor's exultation. Even the most rational of creatures, one who knows the impossibility of complete freedom, feels on a day such as this utterly free. On the road to Lazienki Park, the closed and creeping cars coughing up noxious discharge seem instead to be gliding by releasing through open windows snippets of sound that immediately become an intrinsic part of this day's unique fabric:
The afternoon wanes. As they retrace their steps in a homeward direction, Lev Abramovich registers with more than a modicum of pride the number of heads that turn to gaze with appreciation upon the loveliness and sheer joy embodied by his young daughters.
"It's a school night. No nonsense." Papa loves school nights, and he repeats this phrase with a quiet smile after he has tucked them in, kissed each girl on the forehead, bid each girl goodnight with a stroke of his hand across her head. Once they are certain he is settled in his chair for good with a book and a glass of something that clinks, they begin to chatter again, picking up their favorite stuffed animals from around their beds. Before long, Elena's favorite blue cat asks Hanka's favorite red hippo the inevitable.
"Do you remember mommy?"
"Yes," says the hippo with no sign of trepidation.
"What was she like?"
"Well ... she could play the piano longer than anyone I know without getting tired. ... And ... she smelled like cake. And if you fell down and hurt your knee or something and she would rock you in the rocking chair until it felt better and you'd go back out to play, you could take a break for a second and smell your arm. And it smelled like cake!" Elena scrunches up her eyes, "What kind of cake?"
Hanka jumps out of her bed and tiptoes to the closet. She brings out a neck pillow and hands it to Elena, who without a word puts it up to her nose. She scrunches up her eyes again and whispers, "It smells like angel food cake." Both sit on Elena's bed for a while without speaking, until Elena turns wide-eyed to Hanka and cries softly, "I'm scared." Then they lie down under the covers in Elena's bed, Hanka puts her arms around her sister, and they soon fall asleep.
It's around two o'clock on a Sunday afternoon. Papa says "Let's go for a stroll, shall we?" He always puts it the same way this question, which he poses every Sunday and to which Hanka's answer is always yes. The windows in their small house are open for the first time this Spring, and she can smell a gentle breeze (yes, that is correct — she can smell gentleness, which is one of a few strange but true circumstances of her existence).
She grabs the pink cardigan she has laid out on her bed in anticipation of the outing and dashes to the hallway for her shoes. The hallway contains: on one side, a furnace, a hot water tank, and a small stall shower; on the other side, a wall with coats on coat hooks and a wooden wall-seat that Hanka's mother painted yellow and "decoupaged" with a floral motif some five or six years ago in an attempt to brighten the windowless hallway. On Saturdays in the evening, papa polishes all the shoes that can be polished while he sits in his chair and listens to the weekend concert on radiowa Dwójka. Hanka (who is lying on the carpet propped up on her elbows, dangling her feet across one another, pouring over a book) looks up to watch her father eagerly when, as the music reaches a climax, he stops his polishing to punch the air with his fists in time with the music. When the concert is finished, she helps him bring the shoes to the hallway and place them in a single-file row under the wall-seat. Papa shows her how to arrange her sister's shoes, then hers, then his: first according to size, next according to color. Now she quickly reaches for her sister's favorites (white tennis shoes with smurf laces) and, for herself, the shiny red ones that strap across the top and buckle on the side.
When the first warm days come after a hostile winter, when brittle thorny stems begin to be replaced by supple twigs while scrapings of soot-stained snow have vanished completely and irretrievably from the scene, even the most wretched of creatures succumbs to a sensation (in whatever small measure) of the victor's exultation. Even the most rational of creatures, one who knows the impossibility of complete freedom, feels on a day such as this utterly free. On the road to Lazienki Park, the closed and creeping cars coughing up noxious discharge seem instead to be gliding by releasing through open windows snippets of sound that immediately become an intrinsic part of this day's unique fabric:
People are people so why should it be ... moja mapa wie jak na-prawde ze mne jest patrzy w oczy tak ...The trees in Lazienki Park are still bare. Nature's promise remains a promise (though one that will surely be fulfilled, as it has, since time and space began): the trees will be filled with foliage and the flowers with bloom, the grass will be lush and fragrant. "If it pleases God," Lev Abramovich thinks to himself, "don't rush it!" Hanka and Elena gambol amid the columns of the theater on the island, caught up in a game of their own concoction. As sisters, they complement one another grandly: the older, more serious girl with her sleek light hair carefully pulled back with barrettes, her long lean frame already an elegant structural foundation for fashion; and, the younger girl, so tiny still and yet prepared for any hurdle that may need jumping, so eager to follow her big sister's lead.
The afternoon wanes. As they retrace their steps in a homeward direction, Lev Abramovich registers with more than a modicum of pride the number of heads that turn to gaze with appreciation upon the loveliness and sheer joy embodied by his young daughters.
"It's a school night. No nonsense." Papa loves school nights, and he repeats this phrase with a quiet smile after he has tucked them in, kissed each girl on the forehead, bid each girl goodnight with a stroke of his hand across her head. Once they are certain he is settled in his chair for good with a book and a glass of something that clinks, they begin to chatter again, picking up their favorite stuffed animals from around their beds. Before long, Elena's favorite blue cat asks Hanka's favorite red hippo the inevitable.
"Do you remember mommy?"
"Yes," says the hippo with no sign of trepidation.
"What was she like?"
"Well ... she could play the piano longer than anyone I know without getting tired. ... And ... she smelled like cake. And if you fell down and hurt your knee or something and she would rock you in the rocking chair until it felt better and you'd go back out to play, you could take a break for a second and smell your arm. And it smelled like cake!" Elena scrunches up her eyes, "What kind of cake?"
Hanka jumps out of her bed and tiptoes to the closet. She brings out a neck pillow and hands it to Elena, who without a word puts it up to her nose. She scrunches up her eyes again and whispers, "It smells like angel food cake." Both sit on Elena's bed for a while without speaking, until Elena turns wide-eyed to Hanka and cries softly, "I'm scared." Then they lie down under the covers in Elena's bed, Hanka puts her arms around her sister, and they soon fall asleep.
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