510
PARTISAN REVIEW
over her shoulder. The young soldier watched her carefully. She
shifted her burden onto the ground. Her face was gaunt, covered
with furrows. Skeins of grey hair fell from under her scarf. She
started to warm her hands over the glowing embers.
"You cold, soldier-boy?" she said, and hunched over the stove.
From the steelworks came a sharp wail of the factory siren split–
ting the frozen silence. The guards moved anxiously. The young sol–
dier also looked towards the works. The old woman remained
motionless. She seemed to be a dead shape, her hands outstretched
over the heat, her rheumatic, twisted fingers quivering. The young
soldier squirmed impatiently. The presence of the old woman had
become oppressive. He cleared his throat and looked at his watch.
The old woman heavily lifted her head.
"Pity.... Pity on all," she said in a low, worn-out voice.
"Pity on you, too, soldier-boy." She fixed her eyes on him. They
were the eyes of an old mother, but also a hawk's eyes, hollow and
piercing at the same time. "Blood on the snow.... Look, soldier!"
Startled, the young soldier looked around. The snow glittered
with cold whiteness. Immaculate snow. The frost increased. But her
words were even more chilling. She stared at him stubbornly. He
shuddered.
"Cut it out, granny!" he said, and unconsciously touched the
machine gun hanging across his chest. He was a young boy with a
plump peasant face. He lowered his head and started to kick the
snow with the tip of his boot.
The old woman slung her bag over her back. She shuffled away
slowly. Soon she disappeared in the darkness. Only the snow
crunched under her feet.
"Who's there?" shouted one of the sentries guarding the road.
"You're crazy!" cried the young soldier after a pause. He
squatted by the stove. The coal crackled. Smoke, fire ....
January 1, 1982
REACCREDITATION
The first up for reaccreditation was journalist Tymoteusz
