Post by Nevena Grosdova on Oct 10, 2010 19:29:41 GMT
Country: Narew, Poland.
Current Time: 10:25 pm, September 1939
Weather Conditions: Cold and windy.
Nevena looked around her with an uncertain glance, eyes of clearest emerald green surveying the pub that was a smaller room within the proprietor’s inn; the proprietor, Julek Borawski, was not particularly keen to see a multitude of Soviet soldiers occupying his pub, yet after the events of the 1st September, and combined with the attack of the Soviet army sixteen days later in Kresy he had no other choice but acknowledge and submit to the historical earthquake which had seized hold of his country. Poland had been divided successfully between the two great powers, and now the only thing Borawski could do, albeit bitterly so, was to see there were no shortages in liqueur and vodka, considering the Soviets were at present making a terrible ruckus within the pub; some of them were playing cards, others were singing Soviet marches in their drunken, off-key tones, some were telling one another crude jokes, but certainly all of them were setting down their glasses upon the wooden tables with unnecessary force, the glass tinkling every time they made toasts, barks of laughter overwhelming the atmosphere, and new orders continued to have their glasses refilled. One or two women were looking at them with cheap lust in their hideous, heavily lidded eyes, staring at the strong, burly men as they laughed, and jeered, and shouted their tough words, while old men sat by themselves, smoking from their pipes and attempting to avoid the Russians’ gaze. Borawski spoke Russian rather fluently, which was a positive aspect since the Russians spoke Polish rather crudely.
Only a young woman was not drinking; she had sat herself in the very corner of the pub, in a table against the wall and was drenched in shadows. The military overcoat was hanging from behind her as she now stood down with a simple sweater and a knee-length skirt, her raven-black hair tied up in a tight ponytail, pale fingers circled around the edges of a thin brown notebook. Borawski bent over behind the bar table to fetch the large bottle of vodka and refill the men’s glasses upon their renewed request, after having grumbled to his wife in the store room in quick, angry Polish over how the Russians had broken at least two bottles already in their drunken delight, creating a commotion within the pub such as Borawski had not often witnessed. As he finally walked over the wooden tables back on his way to the group of men, he noticed the young woman sitting by herself in a table by the corner, quietly observing the room; he furrowed his eyebrows silently as he stared after her before he turned over and reached the men’s table, overfilling their glasses with the burning liquid as they laughed and whistled happily. He swallowed down any words of protest he might have forwarded towards their direction at such uncouth, boorish behaviour, but was perfectly aware his complaint would hardly be treated with compliance or, in the least, with a civilized response. He walked towards the young woman’s direction once he had filled – overfilled upon their intense, barking request – their glasses, looking at her with an expectant and glum expression written across his face.
“Chto ya mogu prinesti?” the man asked her but she did not seem to have heard him, lost in her own thoughts and with her concentration impaired as only her own soul knew what bothered her mind at the given time. She had barely noticed his arrival, until she suddenly looked up at him, an expression of mild bewilderment in her pale face as her eyes glinted brightly with a benevolent touch, appearing kind but also enquiring. The proprietor repeated the question, this time slightly frowning, to which she responded with moments of initial silence as she glanced at him curiously. Then she broke the inconvenient silence. “Yestʹ li u vas stakan moloka?” she asked him in a voice that could best be described as whiskey being poured down bed sheets of velvet, soothing and calm, almost airy and breathy, with the appropriate touch of slight hoarseness in the edge, enough to counterbalance the deep softness of her tone. Borawski was caught off-guard by such an unusual request, and remained in his position, silent, a deadpan expression written across his surprise and looking into her honest, innocent eyes. “Ya posmotryu, yestʹ li levyĭ,” he responded sternly, and quietly stepped away from her table.
The girl turned her gaze back at her notebook. Her neat handwriting could be discerned across the yellowed pages, speaking poems that most touched her heart, poems she had once read and replicated in small notebooks with her own pen in a small form of anthology. This one was by a Russian poet, Aleksandr Blok. While the proprietor had vanished inside the store room in search of any remaining milk in the buckets, not without having confessed to his wife of this rather curious and unexpected request, the young girl folded her hand underneath her jaw and buried her mind into the first verse.
Translation
What can I bring you?
Do you have a glass of milk?
I’ll see if there is any left.
Current Time: 10:25 pm, September 1939
Weather Conditions: Cold and windy.
Nevena looked around her with an uncertain glance, eyes of clearest emerald green surveying the pub that was a smaller room within the proprietor’s inn; the proprietor, Julek Borawski, was not particularly keen to see a multitude of Soviet soldiers occupying his pub, yet after the events of the 1st September, and combined with the attack of the Soviet army sixteen days later in Kresy he had no other choice but acknowledge and submit to the historical earthquake which had seized hold of his country. Poland had been divided successfully between the two great powers, and now the only thing Borawski could do, albeit bitterly so, was to see there were no shortages in liqueur and vodka, considering the Soviets were at present making a terrible ruckus within the pub; some of them were playing cards, others were singing Soviet marches in their drunken, off-key tones, some were telling one another crude jokes, but certainly all of them were setting down their glasses upon the wooden tables with unnecessary force, the glass tinkling every time they made toasts, barks of laughter overwhelming the atmosphere, and new orders continued to have their glasses refilled. One or two women were looking at them with cheap lust in their hideous, heavily lidded eyes, staring at the strong, burly men as they laughed, and jeered, and shouted their tough words, while old men sat by themselves, smoking from their pipes and attempting to avoid the Russians’ gaze. Borawski spoke Russian rather fluently, which was a positive aspect since the Russians spoke Polish rather crudely.
Only a young woman was not drinking; she had sat herself in the very corner of the pub, in a table against the wall and was drenched in shadows. The military overcoat was hanging from behind her as she now stood down with a simple sweater and a knee-length skirt, her raven-black hair tied up in a tight ponytail, pale fingers circled around the edges of a thin brown notebook. Borawski bent over behind the bar table to fetch the large bottle of vodka and refill the men’s glasses upon their renewed request, after having grumbled to his wife in the store room in quick, angry Polish over how the Russians had broken at least two bottles already in their drunken delight, creating a commotion within the pub such as Borawski had not often witnessed. As he finally walked over the wooden tables back on his way to the group of men, he noticed the young woman sitting by herself in a table by the corner, quietly observing the room; he furrowed his eyebrows silently as he stared after her before he turned over and reached the men’s table, overfilling their glasses with the burning liquid as they laughed and whistled happily. He swallowed down any words of protest he might have forwarded towards their direction at such uncouth, boorish behaviour, but was perfectly aware his complaint would hardly be treated with compliance or, in the least, with a civilized response. He walked towards the young woman’s direction once he had filled – overfilled upon their intense, barking request – their glasses, looking at her with an expectant and glum expression written across his face.
“Chto ya mogu prinesti?” the man asked her but she did not seem to have heard him, lost in her own thoughts and with her concentration impaired as only her own soul knew what bothered her mind at the given time. She had barely noticed his arrival, until she suddenly looked up at him, an expression of mild bewilderment in her pale face as her eyes glinted brightly with a benevolent touch, appearing kind but also enquiring. The proprietor repeated the question, this time slightly frowning, to which she responded with moments of initial silence as she glanced at him curiously. Then she broke the inconvenient silence. “Yestʹ li u vas stakan moloka?” she asked him in a voice that could best be described as whiskey being poured down bed sheets of velvet, soothing and calm, almost airy and breathy, with the appropriate touch of slight hoarseness in the edge, enough to counterbalance the deep softness of her tone. Borawski was caught off-guard by such an unusual request, and remained in his position, silent, a deadpan expression written across his surprise and looking into her honest, innocent eyes. “Ya posmotryu, yestʹ li levyĭ,” he responded sternly, and quietly stepped away from her table.
The girl turned her gaze back at her notebook. Her neat handwriting could be discerned across the yellowed pages, speaking poems that most touched her heart, poems she had once read and replicated in small notebooks with her own pen in a small form of anthology. This one was by a Russian poet, Aleksandr Blok. While the proprietor had vanished inside the store room in search of any remaining milk in the buckets, not without having confessed to his wife of this rather curious and unexpected request, the young girl folded her hand underneath her jaw and buried her mind into the first verse.
A girl sang a song in the temple’s chorus,
About men, tired in alien lands,
About the ships that left native shores,
And all who forgot their joy to the end.
About men, tired in alien lands,
About the ships that left native shores,
And all who forgot their joy to the end.
Translation
What can I bring you?
Do you have a glass of milk?
I’ll see if there is any left.
