Freedom
Warsaw, 1993
It hadn't yet turned six when a train headed for Belarus pulled up beside a dimly lit platform in the east of Warsaw. Tall, proud men stood as it came to a stop, the pre-dawn September chill seemingly unknown to them underneath their heavy military uniform and cigarette smoke.
Michał stood on his toes as he watched them, one by one, disappear into a carriage. The General was last to board the train. Squinting, Michał saw a faint smile on his face as he clasped his hands in a final salute as he stood in the doorway. The door closed behind him softly and that was it. That was the last of them. A giddiness rose inside Michał as he was jostled in the crowd of people that had come to see, with their very own eyes, the last Russian soldiers leave Poland.
The cheering started as the train slipped away eastwards, and so did Michał. He would've chased the train right out of Poland if he could, but his eyes were heavy and he had promised his mother to come home as soon as the train left the station. Shouldering his way back through the crowd, he thought of one place he had to go first.
Mr. Wrzesiński was stood behind the counter of his shop when Michał pushed open the door. The bell above rung out, announcing his presence before he had the chance to. Technically, the shop wasn't yet open, but Michał had known Mr. Wrzesiński all his life, and simple rules no longer applied to him.
"Not out causing any trouble, I hope," Mr. Wrzesiński joked, his eyes brightening with laughter though he wheezed and coughed a moment later. Michał hadn't caused a moments trouble in all his twenty-two years. "Did you see them off?" he asked, shuffling as he moved around the counter, his bad hip causing him discomfort.
Michał ran his finger around the edge of a tin of soup as he responded with a simple, "Yeah," before dropping his hands back down to his sides. He watched Mr. Wrzesiński settle down on a stool, a hand pressed down on his hip as he did. Michał's face softened in sympathy. "Have you been taking your painkillers?" he asked.
Mr. Wrzesiński waved him off. "Every couple of hours." He shook his head as he brought a wrinkled hand up to his face to scratch at his chin. "I don't need you giving me grief, my boy. Anna and Arkadiusz have already given me enough," he complained.
"I've been thinking about getting a tattoo," Michał said hastily, wanting to change the subject as to not upset his old friend.
"Not like mine."
Michał had always been fascinated by Mr. Wrzesiński's tattoo. He'd always wondered how the ink worked, how it stayed on your skin forever. He'd had a million and one questions to ask as a child, but his mother had always warned him against asking them. He hadn't understood at first, but it didn't take him long to find out what the five, uneven numbers tattooed onto Mr. Wrzesiński's skin meant. It made him so sick to his stomach that he cried at night and chewed on the edges of his sheets to stifle the sound.
Mr. Wrzesiński pulled up his sleeve to expose the small digits on his arm. Michał swallowed and shifted uncomfortably, elbow rested up on a shelf. History, some people called out. Reality, Michał corrected, staring at the ink as if faced with death itself.
"Get something nice," Mr. Wrzesiński said, "like your mother's name or our flag, perhaps? We are free now, after all."
Free, Michał thought, the image of the train pulling away replaying in his mind like a broken record. They were free now. For the first time in fifty-four years they were free of everyone and everything. Like a phoenix from the ashes, his country had been reborn from the ruins of a war that should've destroyed her but didn't. Poland and her people would always be painfully scarred, with ink or not, but they were living and breathing and kicking and fighting like it was the only thing they knew how to do.
"I think I know what I'm going to get." Michał stood up straight, accidently bumping into a display of tins but without disaster. "I should go before my mother starts to worry."
Mr. Wrzesiński nodded. "Give her my best," he said, just as he had done a thousand time before. "Be sure to show me when it's done."
"Promise," Michał said with a smile, resting a hand on Mr. Wrzesiński's shoulder for a moment before turning on his heels and leaving.
Years later, fingers pressed against the ink-scarred skin of his wrist, Michał knew his only true regret in life was not keeping that promise. He hadn't lived to see it, but Michał was certain, wherever Mr. Wrzesiński might be, he knew the tattoo was for him.
Michał stood on his toes as he watched them, one by one, disappear into a carriage. The General was last to board the train. Squinting, Michał saw a faint smile on his face as he clasped his hands in a final salute as he stood in the doorway. The door closed behind him softly and that was it. That was the last of them. A giddiness rose inside Michał as he was jostled in the crowd of people that had come to see, with their very own eyes, the last Russian soldiers leave Poland.
The cheering started as the train slipped away eastwards, and so did Michał. He would've chased the train right out of Poland if he could, but his eyes were heavy and he had promised his mother to come home as soon as the train left the station. Shouldering his way back through the crowd, he thought of one place he had to go first.
Mr. Wrzesiński was stood behind the counter of his shop when Michał pushed open the door. The bell above rung out, announcing his presence before he had the chance to. Technically, the shop wasn't yet open, but Michał had known Mr. Wrzesiński all his life, and simple rules no longer applied to him.
"Not out causing any trouble, I hope," Mr. Wrzesiński joked, his eyes brightening with laughter though he wheezed and coughed a moment later. Michał hadn't caused a moments trouble in all his twenty-two years. "Did you see them off?" he asked, shuffling as he moved around the counter, his bad hip causing him discomfort.
Michał ran his finger around the edge of a tin of soup as he responded with a simple, "Yeah," before dropping his hands back down to his sides. He watched Mr. Wrzesiński settle down on a stool, a hand pressed down on his hip as he did. Michał's face softened in sympathy. "Have you been taking your painkillers?" he asked.
Mr. Wrzesiński waved him off. "Every couple of hours." He shook his head as he brought a wrinkled hand up to his face to scratch at his chin. "I don't need you giving me grief, my boy. Anna and Arkadiusz have already given me enough," he complained.
"I've been thinking about getting a tattoo," Michał said hastily, wanting to change the subject as to not upset his old friend.
"Not like mine."
Michał had always been fascinated by Mr. Wrzesiński's tattoo. He'd always wondered how the ink worked, how it stayed on your skin forever. He'd had a million and one questions to ask as a child, but his mother had always warned him against asking them. He hadn't understood at first, but it didn't take him long to find out what the five, uneven numbers tattooed onto Mr. Wrzesiński's skin meant. It made him so sick to his stomach that he cried at night and chewed on the edges of his sheets to stifle the sound.
Mr. Wrzesiński pulled up his sleeve to expose the small digits on his arm. Michał swallowed and shifted uncomfortably, elbow rested up on a shelf. History, some people called out. Reality, Michał corrected, staring at the ink as if faced with death itself.
"Get something nice," Mr. Wrzesiński said, "like your mother's name or our flag, perhaps? We are free now, after all."
Free, Michał thought, the image of the train pulling away replaying in his mind like a broken record. They were free now. For the first time in fifty-four years they were free of everyone and everything. Like a phoenix from the ashes, his country had been reborn from the ruins of a war that should've destroyed her but didn't. Poland and her people would always be painfully scarred, with ink or not, but they were living and breathing and kicking and fighting like it was the only thing they knew how to do.
"I think I know what I'm going to get." Michał stood up straight, accidently bumping into a display of tins but without disaster. "I should go before my mother starts to worry."
Mr. Wrzesiński nodded. "Give her my best," he said, just as he had done a thousand time before. "Be sure to show me when it's done."
"Promise," Michał said with a smile, resting a hand on Mr. Wrzesiński's shoulder for a moment before turning on his heels and leaving.
Years later, fingers pressed against the ink-scarred skin of his wrist, Michał knew his only true regret in life was not keeping that promise. He hadn't lived to see it, but Michał was certain, wherever Mr. Wrzesiński might be, he knew the tattoo was for him.
♠ ♠ ♠
I hope you enjoyed reading this!