From where the previous post left off:
It was ten o’clock at night. She opened the door again and stood frozen like a statue in my doorway. Jirinecka was wearing a black silk dress, and even her blond locks seemed somehow black. Her dark veins made wandering marks along her pale shins, like a black frame lining a white page.
They sought you through fear and terror of darkness, O silver ingot.
When will you befriend us and, in short, turn this blackness into white?
Kindly tell us again the meaning of black verses you recite.
I didn’t have anything in the house. She put on my black bathrobe and set out on the path towards town. Half an hour later she came back with a basket full of food and drinks. I didn’t dare close the door to my room anymore. Inside and out I was distraught and frenzied. Whatever she wanted, I did.
She said, “Isn’t it a pity when people just stay inside?”
We were floating together in the moonlight.
“How come you came to me tonight?” I asked. “Aren’t you afraid of me?”
“Of you? I wasn’t even afraid of the S.S. soldiers. I escaped from their prison.”
What was the use? All Polish girls had these tales to tell. The moon stood beside the sky, listening, mocking us. A few frogs croaked in complaint. The unrelenting and monotonous call of a screech owl reminded me of the tragic misfortunes that are our destiny. I had taken her hand and was ambling with her in the intoxicating beauty of a cool summer night.
She asked me, “Why is your hand so hot?”
“I’m running a fever.”
“I don’t know.”
“Why are you so sad?”
What was I supposed to say?