Jirinecka, the Polish Succubus: Part 2 of 4

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.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

“Why are you so sad?”

What was I supposed to say?

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