Context
from Annihilation
Piotr Szewc
We
are on Listopadowa, the second street crossing Lwowska. In one of the
tiny backyards close to the intersection, Mr. Hershe Baum is standing
near the house and feeding pigeons perched on his arm. Here they are
called Persian butterflies. Isn’t it a beautiful name? In all
likelihood they were brought from Persia. But is that certain? We won’t
be able to verify it. Data, documents, and credible explanations are
unavailable. Supposedly the pigeons can fly for many hours at a height
that makes them invisible to the human eye. But since we received this
information from a merely casual acquaintance, we cannot vouch for its
accuracy. We haven’t been interested in such matters. It is beyond
doubt, however, that Mr. Hershe Baum’s pigeons are highly valued by
local pigeon breeders. One often sees buyers of his birds. Now, at the
peak of the season, the pigeons draw high prices. A
horse-drawn wagon loaded with sacks passes by. It’s only logical to
assume it carries grain—a flour mill is located on Listopadowa, and the
cart is going in that direction. As our eyes follow the cart, the sun,
reflected off a window that someone is opening, blinds us. Soon,
through the half-opened window, an extended hand pours the contents of
a chamber pot. The whole scene takes only a few seconds. Before we can
notice it, the pigeons, scared by the clatter of the wagon, fly off Mr.
Hershe Baum’s arm. And the hens cackle loudly when the contents of
Kazimiera M’s pot lands on them. It was Kazimiera M who poured what was
in the pot out the window. Although it’s warm, Kazimiera M carefully
closes the window. For a moment we see her white gown through the
windowpane. Most likely she went to sleep late, and now, after
she has emptied the pot, she will want to lie down for at least
half-an-hour or so. Sleep is best the morning after a busy night. To
keep the sun out, Kazimiera M decides to draw the curtains. Even if we
wanted, we couldn’t peek into her apartment. So let’s allow Kazimiera M
a well-deserved rest. Mr. Hershe Baum, who until this minute
was standing near the house, shoos away the pigeons clamoring for more
gain and ambles into the street. He picks up an apple, one of many
scattered in front of the house, and standing outside the opened gate,
he brings the apple to his mouth. It has a nice tart taste. With his
free hand, he shades his eyes. He contemplates the sun, which has
already reached the trees behind the brewery. For the last few days the
sun has been unusually bright. Mr. Hershe Baum calls his wife out of the apartment. Now, shading their eyes, both look at the sun. It takes only a moment. ____________________ Translation by Ewa Hryniewicz-Yarbrough
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