Z wielką radością i niemałą dumą prezentujemy dwa mikro-opowiadania Leszka Różańskiego z nigdzie dotąd niepublikowanej serii "Opowieści kopanieckich" (od 2010).
Leszek Różański (ur. 1963) mieszka w Kopańcu, jest (między innymi!) historykiem, pedagogiem, artystą, badaczem i miłośnikiem regionu.
Opowiadania z serii "Opowieści kopanieckich", chociaż fikcyjne, oparte są na faktach. Wszystkie opisywane nazwiska, nazwy, miejsca, daty etc. didaskalia są prawdziwe. Opowiadania ilustrowane są fotografiami wykonanymi i wybranymi przez autora.
[Foto: Leszek Różański]
Pastor. Rok 1654
The Kopaniec Stories, though fictional, are based on actual historical facts. All the names of persons and places, dates, the whole background, are true. The stories are illustrated with photographs taken and selected by the author.
Wieść o tym, że cesarska komisja likwidacyjna wyruszyła z Cromenau do Seifershau, dotarła do wsi lotem błyskawicy. Przejmowała i konfiskowała ona majątek kościoła ewangelickiego we wszystkich miejscowościach po kolei. Taka była konsekwencja Wielkiej Wojny, która pustoszyła Śląsk przez trzydzieści lat. Pastor Wolfgang Silber siedział zdruzgotany na drewnianym zydlu w wiejskiej chacie. Miał pięćdziesiąt dwa lata, choć wyglądał na młodszego. Od dwudziestu trzech lat pełnił posługę duszpasterską w tej górskiej wiosce. Studiował w Jenie, Frankfurcie i Hirschbergu... Tylko po co?! Zaraz przyjdą cesarscy urzędnicy i odbiorą mu wszystko, na co pracował tyle lat. A co z nim zrobią? Aresztują? Wypędzą? Czuł się kompletnie bezradny. Przez głowę przemykały mu coraz czarniejsze myśli. Cesarz Ferdynand III nienawidzi ewangelików i teraz korzysta z okazji aby się na nich mścić. „Czyżby katolicyzm miałby zwyciężyć na tej ziemi, która od samego początku sprzyjała nauce Lutra?” – myślał załamany pastor. „A co z prawdziwymi chrześcijanami? A co z nim?” – pytał w duchu, a rozgoryczenie narastało. Poczuł się zmęczony i stary. „Już są we wsi i pytają o pastora! Nie mamy czasu! Musimy cię ukryć!” – wykrzyczał wpadając do izby niejaki Burgel. Gdy tylko spojrzał na Silbera zrozumiał, że musi przejąć inicjatywę. „Dzieża!” – wydał polecenie zdezorientowanym chłopom, którzy czekali w izbie na rozwój wypadków. Z trudem wepchnęli do niej oszołomionego pastora. Przykryli go lnianą płachtą i podnieśli. „Do mojej stodoły! Szybko!” – zarządził Burgel. Początkowo pastor Silber ukrywał się w stodole, ale z powodu zimna przeniósł się na strych, gdzie przyklejony do komina spędzał dzień a na noc schodził do izby. Gdy po kilku dniach urzędnicy przestali go szukać i wyjechali, nie musiał już wracać na strych. Ale prawie nie wychodził z domu, chyba że nocą. Wtedy zauważył, jak noc potrafi być piękna. Spędzał dzień w chacie z obawy przed kimś, kto mógłby go zadenuncjować. We wsi mieszkało przecież kilka katolickich rodzin. Gdy doszedł trochę do siebie, poczuł zawstydzenie z powodu swojej słabości i małej wiary. Chłopi, których jako pastor miał prowadzić, wykazali się hartem ducha i odwagą. A on? Poddał się rozpaczy. Postanowił to zmienić. Po kilku tygodniach, gdy sytuacja się trochę uspokoiła, zaczął odprawiać nielegalne nabożeństwa w stodole Burgela i czasami, by zmylić złych ludzi, w domu Gottloba Feista. W tym czasie ochrzcił dwoje małych dzieci i udzielił jednego ślubu. Dużo ryzykował jak i ci poczciwi ludzie, którzy go przyjmowali, ale strach już minął. Gdy nadeszła wiosna, aby nie narażać mieszkańców wsi, postanowił ukrywać się w lesie. Zabrał ze sobą tylko kilka niezbędne rzeczy oraz biblię w tłumaczeniu Lutra. Początkowo las napawał go lękiem, ale z czasem zaczął czuć się w nim co raz lepiej. Poznawał jego ścieżki, odgłosy i zapachy. A właśnie zapachy wydawały mu się szczególnie intensywne. Czuł, że jego ciało napełniają nowe siły witalne. Sporządził sobie szałas, przy kamieniu, w sercu lasu. Jego położenia nie zdradził nikomu, dla bezpieczeństwa. Co niedziela, na leśnej polanie, którą zaczęto nazywać „Pfarrbuschel”, Wolfgang Silber odprawiał mszę. Przychodzili na nią wtajemniczeni mieszkańcy Seifershau, a zdarzało, że i mieszkańcy innych miejscowości. Przynosili mu wtedy wieści ze świata i trochę żywności, aby mógł przetrwać następny tydzień. Pastor choć wyglądał na zaniedbanego, co smuciło wiernych, sprawiał wrażenie zadowolonego. Urosła mu długa broda, a włosy spadały na ramiona. On sam zaczął odnosić wrażenie, że włosów na całym jego ciele jest znacznie więcej niż kiedyś. Nie przeszkadzało mu to. Chłopi namawiali go do powrotu, obawiając się o jego życie i zdrowie. Zwłaszcza, że podobno w pobliżu pojawiły się wilki. Odmówił. „Tak jest lepiej” – powiedział, a wieśniacy nie wiedzieli, co miał na myśli. Ich zaniepokojenie wzrosło, gdy Silber zaczął zdradzać oznaki dziwnego zachowania. A było to w połowie upalnego lata. Początkowo pastor pojawiał się na polanie dziwnie rozkojarzony. Przerywał nagle kazanie wsłuchując się w odgłosy lasu. Potem zdarzało mu się całkiem milczeć, jakby nie wiedział, co ma powiedzieć. Czasem wystawiał twarz w kierunku wiatru, wyczuwając tylko jemu znane zapachy. Zaczął się spóźniać na mszę. Wyglądał strasznie i budził współczucie. Wierni zaczęli podejrzewać, że ich ukochany pastor rozum postradał. „Niech Bóg ma go w swojej opiece!” – szeptali między sobą, gdy wyłaniał się z leśnych zarośli. Kiedyś pojawił się cały zakrwawiony. „Nic mi nie jest” – powiedział z trudem, gdy zobaczył przerażenie i pytanie w ich oczach. Miał poczucie, że zachodzi w nim jakaś zmiana. Nie potrafił jej zdefiniować, opisać. Z dnia na dzień czuł się coraz lepiej. Jakby ubywało mu lat. Doświadczał nagłych i silnych przypływów energii, które powodowały, że nie mógł usiedzieć na miejscu. Którejś niedzieli zmierzał, jak zwykle, w kierunku polany. Już z dużej odległości wyczuł zapach oczekujących na niego ludzi. Jakiż on był przykry i nieznośny. On, duszpasterz, zaczął obserwować z ukrycia swoje owieczki. Jacyż oni byli zalęknieni, jacyż obcy. Nie chciał do nich przemawiać, nie chciał mieć z nimi nic wspólnego. Odrzucił księgę w zarośla i zaczął biec szybko w przeciwnym kierunku. Aby jak najdalej od polany! Aby jak najdalej od ludzi! Pędził jak oszalały. Gałęzie uderzały go po głowie i szarpały i tak podarte ubranie. Był radosny. Chciało mu się dosłownie wyć ze szczęścia.
Od kiedy pastor nie zjawił się na polanie, we wsi zapanował smutek. Trzódka została bez pasterza. Co teraz z nimi będzie? Przygnębienie pogłębiał fakt pojawienia się w okolicy wilczej watahy, która nękała ich i tak wynędzniałe stada. Było to o tyle dziwne, że pierwszy raz, od kiedy pamiętali, wilki podchodziły pod domostwa i atakowały latem. Gottlob Feist spał płytkim niespokojnym snem, gdy usłyszał jakiś hałas w zagrodzie dla owiec. Zerwał się na równe nogi. Złapał wcześniej przygotowane na taką ewentualność widły. W ciemnościach ruszył w kierunku swojego stadka. Z mroku dobiegało przeraźliwe beczenie przerażonych owiec. Przypominało krzyk małych dzieci. Feist zatrzymał się przy ogrodzeniu, próbując zobaczyć cokolwiek w ciemnościach. W potwornym tumulcie zobaczył leżące na ziemi dwie owce. Jedna miała rozszarpane gardło i była już martwa. Druga miała straszliwie pokaleczone kończyny, na których próbowała stać, bez powodzenia. Wydawała z siebie rozpaczliwe dźwięki. Feist ściskając mocno widły szukał, wśród biegających bezładnie owiec, napastnika. Dostrzegł szary cień po drugiej stronie zagrody. Wiedział, że szybko tam nie dobiegnie. Zamierzył się widłami, chcąc rzucić nimi niczym włócznią. Już miał wykonać rzut, gdy nagle zamarł w bezruchu. „Wolf...?...gang...Silber…?“ – wyszeptał przerażony. Cień rzucił się do dziury wygrzebanej pod ogrodzeniem. Po chwili mknął po łące w kierunku lasu, ciągnąc za sobą zapach świeżej krwi. Gottlob Feist opuścił widły. A owieczki ciągle niemiłosiernie beczały.
It is with great pleasure and no small pride that we are presenting two micro-short stories from Leszek Różański’s hitherto unpublished series The Kopaniec Stories (from 2010).
Leszek Różański (b. 1963) lives in Kopaniec and is (among other things!) a historian, pedagogue, artist and a researcher and enthusiast of the region.
The Pastor
A.D. 1654
The news that the imperial liquidation commission had set off from Cromenau to Seifershau reached the village in no time. The commission was taking over and confiscating the Protestant Church’s properties in all town and villages, one by one. It was a consequence of the Great War that had been ravaging Silesia for thirty years.
Pastor Wolfgang Silber sat on a wooden stool in a peasant cottage. He was fifty two years old, but looked less. He had been ministering to this mountain village for twenty three years now. Before that, he had studied in Jena, Frankfurt and Hirschberg... But for what?! The imperial officials will arrive any moment now and take away everything he has worked hard and for so many years to achieve. And what will they do to him? Arrest him? Deport him? He felt completely helpless. The thoughts crossing his head were ever bleaker. Emperor Ferdinand III hates Protestants and is now using the opportunity to take revenge on them. ‘Is Catholicism going to prevail in this country, which from the very beginning has supported Luther’s teachings?’ the desperate pastor was thinking. ‘And what about the true Christians? What about himself?’ he was asking silently, and his bitterness was growing. He felt old and tired. ‘They are already in the village and asking about the pastor! We must hide you!’ cried a man called Burgel, bursting into the room. When he looked at Silber, he knew he had to seize the initiative. ‘The bread trough!’ he called to the disoriented peasants who were waiting to see how things developed. They struggled to squeeze the stupefied pastor into the trough. They covered him with a linen cloth and lifted. ‘To my barn! Quick!’ ordered Burgel. At first, the Reverend Silber hid in the barn, but then the cold had him move to the attic, where, clinging to the chimney, he spent the day, returning to the chamber below for the night. A few days later, when the officials stopped looking for him and left, he no longer had to go back to the attic every morning. But he barely left the house at all, and if so, only at night. It was then he noticed how beautiful night can be. He spent the day in the cottage for fear that someone might turn him in. After all, there were a few Catholic families in the village. When he recovered a little, he felt ashamed of his own weakness and lack of faith. The peasants, whom he was supposed to lead as their minister, had displayed fortitude and courage. And he? He had given in to despair. He decided to change it. After a couple of weeks, when things got quieter, he started celebrating illegal services in Burgel’s barn and sometimes, to mislead the ill-wishing, in Gottlob Feist’s house. During that time, he baptised two little children and married a couple. He was taking a big risk, like the good people who agreed to take him in their homes, but the fear had passed. When spring came, he decided to hide in the forest to minimise the risk for the villagers. He took only a few necessary things with him and a Bible in Luther’s translation. At first, the forest filled him with fear, but gradually he felt better and better there. He was getting to know its paths, sounds and smells. Precisely the smells seemed particularly intense to him. He felt a new élan vital filling his body. He built a shack for himself by a rock, in the heart of the forest. He told no one its exact location, for safety’s sake. Every Sunday, on a forest clearing that soon started to be called Pfarrbuschel, or ‘vicar’s bush’, Wolfgang Silber celebrated a mass. It was attended by the initiated residents of Seifershau, and sometimes by people from other places. They brought him then news from the world and some food, so that he could survive another week. Although he looked scruffy, which made the congregation sad, the pastor seemed happy. He had grown a long beard and his hair reached his shoulders. He himself felt that there was much more hair on his body now than before. It didn’t worry him. Fearing for his life and health, the locals urged him to return. Especially that wolves had reportedly been seen in the area. He said no. ‘It’s better this way,’ he said, and the peasants weren’t sure what exactly he meant. Their alarm grew when Silber started displaying symptoms of unusual behaviour. It was in the middle of a hot summer. At first, Pastor Silber started appearing at the clearing strangely absent-minded. He would interrupt the sermon in mid-sentence, listening intently to the sounds of the forest. Then he would start sinking into utter silence, as if he didn’t know what to say. Sometimes he turned his face to the wind, smelling only he knew what aromas. He started coming late for the mass. He looked terrible and aroused compassion. The members of the congregation started suspecting their beloved pastor had lost his mind. ‘May the Lord protect him!’ they whispered between themselves when he emerged from the thicket. One day he showed up all bloody. ‘It’s nothing,’ he grunted when he saw horror and question in their eyes. He felt a change was taking place in him. A change he couldn’t define or describe. He felt better and better every day. As if he was getting younger. He was experiencing powerful and sudden surges of energy that made him restless. One Sunday, as usual, he was heading towards the clearing. Already from a large distance he felt the smell of the people waiting for him. How unpleasant and intolerable it was. He, the minister, started watching his flock from hiding. How fearful they were, how strange. He didn’t want to speak to them, didn’t want to have anything to do with them. He threw the book away and started running in the opposite direction. As far from the clearing as possible! As far from people as possible! He ran like mad. The branches hit his head and pulled at his already torn clothes. He was cheerful. He literally felt like howling with happiness.
Pastor Wolfgang Silber sat on a wooden stool in a peasant cottage. He was fifty two years old, but looked less. He had been ministering to this mountain village for twenty three years now. Before that, he had studied in Jena, Frankfurt and Hirschberg... But for what?! The imperial officials will arrive any moment now and take away everything he has worked hard and for so many years to achieve. And what will they do to him? Arrest him? Deport him? He felt completely helpless. The thoughts crossing his head were ever bleaker. Emperor Ferdinand III hates Protestants and is now using the opportunity to take revenge on them. ‘Is Catholicism going to prevail in this country, which from the very beginning has supported Luther’s teachings?’ the desperate pastor was thinking. ‘And what about the true Christians? What about himself?’ he was asking silently, and his bitterness was growing. He felt old and tired. ‘They are already in the village and asking about the pastor! We must hide you!’ cried a man called Burgel, bursting into the room. When he looked at Silber, he knew he had to seize the initiative. ‘The bread trough!’ he called to the disoriented peasants who were waiting to see how things developed. They struggled to squeeze the stupefied pastor into the trough. They covered him with a linen cloth and lifted. ‘To my barn! Quick!’ ordered Burgel. At first, the Reverend Silber hid in the barn, but then the cold had him move to the attic, where, clinging to the chimney, he spent the day, returning to the chamber below for the night. A few days later, when the officials stopped looking for him and left, he no longer had to go back to the attic every morning. But he barely left the house at all, and if so, only at night. It was then he noticed how beautiful night can be. He spent the day in the cottage for fear that someone might turn him in. After all, there were a few Catholic families in the village. When he recovered a little, he felt ashamed of his own weakness and lack of faith. The peasants, whom he was supposed to lead as their minister, had displayed fortitude and courage. And he? He had given in to despair. He decided to change it. After a couple of weeks, when things got quieter, he started celebrating illegal services in Burgel’s barn and sometimes, to mislead the ill-wishing, in Gottlob Feist’s house. During that time, he baptised two little children and married a couple. He was taking a big risk, like the good people who agreed to take him in their homes, but the fear had passed. When spring came, he decided to hide in the forest to minimise the risk for the villagers. He took only a few necessary things with him and a Bible in Luther’s translation. At first, the forest filled him with fear, but gradually he felt better and better there. He was getting to know its paths, sounds and smells. Precisely the smells seemed particularly intense to him. He felt a new élan vital filling his body. He built a shack for himself by a rock, in the heart of the forest. He told no one its exact location, for safety’s sake. Every Sunday, on a forest clearing that soon started to be called Pfarrbuschel, or ‘vicar’s bush’, Wolfgang Silber celebrated a mass. It was attended by the initiated residents of Seifershau, and sometimes by people from other places. They brought him then news from the world and some food, so that he could survive another week. Although he looked scruffy, which made the congregation sad, the pastor seemed happy. He had grown a long beard and his hair reached his shoulders. He himself felt that there was much more hair on his body now than before. It didn’t worry him. Fearing for his life and health, the locals urged him to return. Especially that wolves had reportedly been seen in the area. He said no. ‘It’s better this way,’ he said, and the peasants weren’t sure what exactly he meant. Their alarm grew when Silber started displaying symptoms of unusual behaviour. It was in the middle of a hot summer. At first, Pastor Silber started appearing at the clearing strangely absent-minded. He would interrupt the sermon in mid-sentence, listening intently to the sounds of the forest. Then he would start sinking into utter silence, as if he didn’t know what to say. Sometimes he turned his face to the wind, smelling only he knew what aromas. He started coming late for the mass. He looked terrible and aroused compassion. The members of the congregation started suspecting their beloved pastor had lost his mind. ‘May the Lord protect him!’ they whispered between themselves when he emerged from the thicket. One day he showed up all bloody. ‘It’s nothing,’ he grunted when he saw horror and question in their eyes. He felt a change was taking place in him. A change he couldn’t define or describe. He felt better and better every day. As if he was getting younger. He was experiencing powerful and sudden surges of energy that made him restless. One Sunday, as usual, he was heading towards the clearing. Already from a large distance he felt the smell of the people waiting for him. How unpleasant and intolerable it was. He, the minister, started watching his flock from hiding. How fearful they were, how strange. He didn’t want to speak to them, didn’t want to have anything to do with them. He threw the book away and started running in the opposite direction. As far from the clearing as possible! As far from people as possible! He ran like mad. The branches hit his head and pulled at his already torn clothes. He was cheerful. He literally felt like howling with happiness.
Since the pastor had stopped coming to the clearing, the village was overtaken by sadness. The flock had lost its shepherd. What’s going to happen with them now? The gloom was exacerbated by the presence in the area of a pack of wolves that were attacking their already emaciated herds. Which was strange insofar that for the first time they could remember the wolves came close to the houses and attacked in the summer.
Gottlob Feist was sleeping a light, restless sleep, when he heard a noise in the sheep shed. He jumped out of bed. Reached for a fork prepared for the occasion. In the darkness, he ran towards his little flock. The terrified animals were bleating shrilly. It was like the screaming of little children. Feist stopped by the fence, trying to see anything in the darkness. Amidst the terrible noise, he saw two sheep lying on the ground. One had a torn throat and was already dead. The other had horribly mutilated legs on which, unsuccessfully, it was trying to stand. It was making desperate sounds. Gripping the pitchfork tightly, Feist looked for the attacker between the panicked sheep. He saw a grey shadow at the far end of the shed. He knew he wouldn’t get there fast enough. He raised the fork to throw it like a spear. When he was about to make the throw, he suddenly froze still. ‘Wolf… ? gang… Silber…?’ he whispered, terrified. The shadow rushed towards a hole dug underneath the fence. A moment later it was sprinting across the field in the direction of the forest, dragging the smell of fresh blood with it. Gottlob Feist lowered the pitchfork. And the sheep kept bleating horribly…
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