The Death of Mrs Grabowska
Mrs Grabowska was eighty-four years old when she died. She had a small lump in her throat, and she felt it necessary to visit the doctor. She feared the lump might be cancerous. The doctor feared the same and recommended that she go to the hospital for a scan, and so arranged an appointment. Three months later, specialists at the hospital scanned the lump in Mrs Grabowska’s throat. The lump was larger. Six months after the scan, the results were ready. The lump was larger still.
“It’s cancer, I’m afraid, Mrs Grabowska,” the doctor said.
“Can you do anything about it?” Mrs Grabowska stroked the handbag in her lap, wishing her cat were with her.
“We can give you chemotherapy, to prolong your life, but I’m afraid your condition’s terminal. I’d say you’ve got another three to four months.”
“There’s no hope, then?”
“No, I’m afraid not. If we’d caught it six months ago, we would have been able to eradicate it. But not now, no. But the chemo will slow it down. I recommend you start as soon as possible. Twice a week.”
“When can I start?”
“There’s a waiting list, I’m afraid. It’ll be another seven to eight weeks before we can get you started. In the meantime, take this if you feel any pain,” handing her a prescription. “We’ll call you when we’re ready for you.”
“What should I do until then?”
“Get plenty of rest, good exercise, eat healthy. Lots of fresh fruit and vegetables, three meals a day at least. And try to be positive. Maybe go on holiday, somewhere nice.”
Mrs Grabowska left the hospital and wondered how many of the doctor’s recommendations her state pension was going to cover. She could probably afford to take the tram to the hospital once a week. Maybe Ewa would give her a lift the second time.
Ewa paid for the drugs. She had a good job and they were not too expensive for her. Mrs Grabowska promised to pay her back, and in return for driving her to hospital, she wanted to give Ewa a bag of old dresses she wore in her younger years, the ones she posed in while her husband painted her. She trekked from her ground floor apartment to the top of the building with the bag becoming heavier by the step and when she was halfway up, a door opened and Mrs S–– appeared in her slippers. Her long toenails had poked holes through the ends of the slippers and they scraped along the wooden floor as she shuffled out of her dark apartment.
“Good morning, Mrs Grabowska. How are you feeling today?”
“Good morning, Mrs S––. Very well, thank you. The cancer is receding, I believe.”
“Yes, you look very well. I’m sure you’ll be back to normal in no time at all. Do you need any help with the bag?”
“No thank you. I’m fine.”
“It looks very heavy. If you like, I could bring another bag and we could divide the contents so that they are not too heavy.”
“No, thank you, everything is fine.”
“Is it for Ewa? Be careful of that woman, Mrs Grabowska. She’s only helping you to try to get what she can out of you.”
“Thank you for the warning, Mrs S––, but I’m sure she has a good heart.”
“You know she was living with that man and they weren’t married?”
Mrs Grabowska nodded while Mrs S–– shuffled in her slippers and widened her eyes.
“Oh I know they all do it now, but when I was her age, you know what we called a woman like that? A whore!”
Mrs Grabowska nodded again, lifted the bag and continued to trek up the stairs.
“You watch her, Mrs Grabowska,” Mrs S–– called after her, “she’ll stab you in the back if she gets the chance.”
On the top floor it took her a moment to catch her breath before she rang the doorbell.
“Ewa, dear, I want to thank you for being so kind to me.”
“It’s nothing, Mrs Grabowska. I’m happy to help,” Ewa’s eyes went to the bag. “Do you want to come in for a glass of water or some tea?”
“No, no, I would never trouble you like that. I have something for you.” Mrs Grabowska opened the bag and revealed the dresses. “These are some things I used to wear when I could still fit into them. My husband, God rest his soul, always said I looked beautiful in them, and I want you to look beautiful too.”
“Thank you so much, but really I can’t accept them,” Ewa stepped backward.
“Oh no, dear, I insist. They are quite old, but excellent quality. They were expensive in their time, too. You’re quite young so you probably don’t remember, but it was so hard to get anything under communism, as your mother will tell you. My husband had to save up a lot to get these. They’re made from the best polyester you could get at the time. Look at the colours, so fresh. So vibrant.”
“Yes, they are certainly very colourful. Thank you, Mrs Grabowska.” Ewa lifted the bag out of the hallway into the apartment. Mrs Grabowska lingered and Ewa stood silently smiling.
“I have another chemotherapy treatment next week.”
“What time is it?”
“On Monday morning at eleven fifteen.”
“I can drive you.”
“Oh no, dear, I wouldn’t dream of it.”
“Please, Mrs Grabowska, I can’t let you go alone.”
“Well, if you insist, it would certainly be easier than taking the tram.”
Mrs Grabowska had tried the tram a couple of times, but the treatment was so exhausting that it was next to impossible to function afterward. Ewa brought her home and took her to the sofa bed, fed the cat and dog and made a sandwich for her. On her way up to her own apartment, the door of Mrs S–– slid open and the beslippered woman shuffled into the hallway.
“You took her to the hospital again, didn’t you?”
Ewa nodded.
“Did she pay you anything?”
“She doesn’t have any money.”
“Pah! People always say that, but really she’s sitting on a pile of gold. She probably feeds it to the cat. Did she even thank you?”
“She’s dying.”
Mrs S–– cackled with laughter and her toenails scraped against the floor. “We’re all dying. It doesn’t give us the right to mooch off others.”
“Good day, Mrs S––,” Ewa said and continued up the stairs.
“She’s just using you, you know. Don’t fall for it. I tell you she’s sitting on a pile of gold!”
“You know, Mrs S––, if you were in the same situation, I’d do the same for you.”
Mrs S–– was silent for a moment and she stared at Ewa.
“You would?”
“Yes, I would.”
Mrs S–– shuffled inside the doorway, narrowed her eyes and retreated into her darkness. As the door silently closed behind her, Ewa continued up the stairs, sure that one of Mrs S––’s narrowed eyes disapproved of her from the spy hole.
Father P–– arrived another two weeks later, an ancient man in an ancient car, and he and Ewa and Mrs Grabowska had a meeting in Mrs Grabowska’s cold single-room apartment. The cat hid under the armchair.
“Father P–– is the priest at the local church,” Mrs Grabowska said from her armchair. Father P–– nodded enthusiastically, and turned his long thin neck around to survey the wares in the room.
“Yes, I am. We’re a small community here, and we stick together.”
“As you know, Ewa dear, my husband, God rest his soul, was a firm believer in the Church, though I somewhat lapsed.”
“Nevertheless,” Father P–– said, “Mrs Grabowska is still one of us, and we look after our own.”
Mrs Grabowska stood up and walked to the wall of paintings.
“My husband did all of these. Wasn’t he talented? They’re all of me. Every single one. I was his muse. Father P––, do you think these paintings are valuable?”
“I’m sure they are, Mrs Grabowska, I’m sure they are indeed.” He leaned in close to one of the paintings, a portrait of Mrs Grabowska sitting and smiling in a field, a wide topped, nondescript tree behind her. Ewa looked at it too. It was impossible to tell how old Mrs Grabowska had been when her husband had painted it, because her facial features were so blurred. Her eyes were sockets of blackness, her smile a gash of red, as if the artist were unsure of exactly what he was painting. The colours of the background were almost monochrome, and the tree seemed to absorb all the light from the scene.
“That’s one of me in the savannah in Africa.”
“You were in Africa?” Father P–– turned his neck away from the painting and craned toward Mrs Grabowska and strained his small round eyes to focus on her. He preened the back of his hand against his stubble and scratched his chin with his long, sharp fingernails.
“Oh no, goodness me, I’ve never left Poland. No, my husband saw this picture in a magazine and decided to paint it with me in it. Don’t I look beautiful?”
“Oh indeed you do, Mrs Grabowska. You know, I heard that in Africa the trees don’t have leaves, and when they look like they have leaves, they are actually vultures. The whole tree is full of vultures. It’s probably a survival instinct, you know, that the birds disguise themselves as something else.”
Mrs Grabowska looked closer at the painting, squinting. “It’s been hanging here so many years and I always thought it was just a tree.”
Mrs Grabowska returned to the armchair and the cat jumped up from underneath and installed itself on her lap. She began to stroke the cat and the cat pushed itself hard against her weak hands, digging its claws into her thigh. Mrs Grabowska did not notice.
“Father P–– has offered to take me to the hospital whenever he can. He’s such a busy man, but so very kind.”
“Nonsense, Mrs Grabowska. As I said, we look after our own.”
“Anyway, it won’t be for much longer.”
“Oh, Mrs Grabowska, don’t be so sure. I think you’ll outlive us all.” He laughed with a rasp and then coughed. “But I must go. It is true, yes, I am very busy.” He lifted his coat from the coatrack and walked to the door. The black, featherlike coat concealed his thin frame, and gave him the appearance of a man much weightier than he was. Ewa opened the door for him and he staggered toward it, his eyes scrutinized the room as he went. At the door he leaned close to Ewa and whispered.
“When I’m not here, make sure nobody else comes to see her. I’ve seen this situation before, with little old ladies close to the end. The scavengers come crawling out of the woodwork, trying to get their hands on whatever they can.” He scrutinized the room one more time, clacked his teeth together, ruffled his coat and left. Ewa closed the door and returned to the living room. Mrs Grabowska was looking at the paintings again. Ewa sat on the arm of the sofa bed and crossed her legs.
“Every single day of our life together, he told me I was beautiful. Every single day. Have you ever been painted?”
Ewa shook her head.
“It’s one of the greatest compliments a man can give a woman. To be looked at with such intensity, to be studied. To know that they see your wrinkles and they don’t care, and to trust that when they paint those wrinkles, they’ll be kind to you. That man who lives with you, I hope he makes you — oh, I’m sorry. I forgot that he moved out. Never mind, dear, there’ll be someone.”
Ewa uncrossed her legs and rubbed her arms. Mrs Grabowska spoke again.
“I’m so scared, Ewa. I’m scared of dying. You always think that when you get old, you’ll feel that you’ve had a good long life and you’ll be ready to die. But I’ve had a long life, and even though my husband’s dead, and he was the only thing in my whole life I truly cared about, even though he’s dead, I still don’t want to die. I’m so scared.”
What does a person say to something like that? Ewa sat as still as she could, waiting for Mrs Grabowska to speak again.
“Sing for me, please, Ewa dear. You have such a beautiful voice. I hear you when you practice. Your voice carries all the way down to here, like the voice of an angel. Please sing something for me.”
So Ewa sang. It always gave her pleasure to sing, and lately it was the only thing that gave her pleasure. She loved the feeling of the air entering her lungs, controlling it as it exited, converting it to sound and melody. She felt as if she gave the room a life that was not there before, as if she were creating something new; while at the same time it was a simple but powerful pleasure to hear the sound outside of her. Song was something that came from within her, yet it was more than her. She was both performer and audience, giver and recipient, parent and child. She tried to sing something light, but the old woman did not seem to be paying attention, so she switched to a more sombre tune, and Mrs Grabowska shut her eyes and appeared to concentrate. Ewa’s voice carried through the apartment, into the hallway and up the stairs to Mrs S––’s apartment, who banged on the floor, but neither Ewa nor Mrs Grabowska heard her. After a few minutes, the old woman’s face appeared to undergo a subtle change, as if a spell had been broken. Ewa noticed that she was no longer interested in the music — she was simply waiting for the end.
Ewa stopped, and got up to leave. The smell of the apartment was becoming too much for her. An odour of cat urine pervaded the room, and Ewa smelled a more general odour of sickness that nauseated her. By the time she reached the door, Mrs Grabowska was asleep. The afternoon sun shone into the room and bathed Mrs Grabowska’s thinning skin in its weak winter light. Her eyes had sunk into her face and her lips were drawn back from her teeth, and the sun exposed the dark stains between each tooth, and Ewa saw clearly for the first time the purple lump in the side of her neck. Veins crawled over the surface, while a few long white hairs grew from its side. For a moment, Ewa watched the blood pulsate over the lump. It was the only movement she could detect, the only sign of life that was left.
These days, Ewa did everything for her. Every day she brought fresh fruit and vegetables and cooked for her, and Mrs Grabowska promised to pay her back, and Ewa told her that it was not necessary. To save money, Mrs Grabowska had turned off the heating. Ewa turned it back on while she slept. Ewa hoped that Father P–– might now take some of the responsibility of looking after Mrs Grabowska.
A few weeks later the doctors told Mrs Grabowska that her treatment was complete. She told them she felt worse than ever. Be that as it may, they said, it was no longer necessary for her to come to hospital. There was now nothing more they could do for her. They recommended she seek out a hospice.
“I can’t go to a hospice,” she told Ewa at her apartment, as Ewa tucked her into the sofa bed. “I’m not ready to die. I’m so scared, Ewa. I’m so scared of death.”
“Let me ask Father P–– what we can do.”
“Oh don’t bother him, dear, he’s such a busy man. No, Ewa, there’s something I need to ask you.”
Ewa knelt beside her.
“When I go,” and she paused, as if vocalising her death was too much for her to do. “When I go, I want you to take my cat.”
Ewa nodded. She had expected as much. “Yes, of course. What’s its name?”
“Oh thank you, dear. She has no name. I call her Cat. I found her in the street and took her in. Over there, on the shelf, there’s a magazine. Will you fetch it?”
Ewa collected a magazine with a pocket watch glued to the front.
“This is a collector’s item. I want you to have it.”
Ewa dutifully took the magazine and watch and went upstairs.
“What’s that you’ve got, eh?” Mrs S–– said, opening the door just as Ewa reached it.
Ewa held up the watch magazine.
“Is it valuable?”
Ewa shook her head.
“I thought so. She’ll never give you anything valuable.”
Ewa said nothing. She suddenly felt very tired.
The next day the phone rang. It was Father P––.
“I thought I told you not to let anybody near her.”
“What are you talking about?” Ewa said.
“They tell me there’s a woman there who won’t let anybody in. Who the hell is she?”
“Why haven’t you been round?”
“I’ve been really busy. I haven’t had a chance. Who is this woman?”
Ewa went downstairs and knocked on Mrs Grabowska’s door. A pale-faced lady of between thirty-five and sixty-five answered.
“Hello, can I help you?”
“I’m here for Mrs Grabowska.”
The lady smiled. “Oh don’t worry. I’ve got everything covered.”
“Who are you?”
“I’m an old friend. Mrs Grabowska and I have known each other for years.” The lady’s smile was more hostile than friendly, like a lion baring its teeth, staking its claim on the meat.
Mrs Grabowska’s quiet voice came from the sofa bed, “Is that Ewa? Tell her I’m feeling a little tired and I’ll see her tomorrow.”
The lady smiled again. “Goodbye,” and closed the door.
Ewa returned to her apartment confused. Was her role in caring for Mrs Grabowska over? Was she still needed to go shopping and to cook? Apparently not. This pale-faced lady with the hostile smile had everything covered. Ewa wondered what to do with the dresses and the pocket watch. The dresses were old, mothballed and useless, and the watch was a cheap, malfunctioning replica, yet she was not too young to remember the times when nobody had anything, and she could not bring herself to throw them out.
A few hours later, Ewa’s doorbell rang. She opened the door to see the lady with the hostile smile holding a struggling cat. She thrust the cat at Ewa, who dropped it in surprise. The cat slid down her body, dragging its claws into her skin until it reached the ground, then launched itself into the living room, frantically ran to and fro for several moments, and finally dashed under the bookshelf, where Ewa heard it panting.
“What’s happened,” Ewa said.
“Sadly the woman has passed.”
Ewa nodded. “Do you need any help with anything?”
“No, I’ve got everything covered.” That smile again. “Goodbye,” and the lady turned around.
“Did she say anything, at the end?”
The lady stopped on her way down the stairs and nodded.
“She said she was frightened. She didn’t want to die.”
Ewa closed the door and knelt down at the bookshelf to see the cat. It was trembling in the corner.
“Oh you poor kitty. I’ll go and get you some food.”
She slid a plate of meat under the bookshelf to beside the cat, but the cat did not move, except to tremble. Ewa decided the best thing was to leave it, and she went to bed and cried for Mrs Grabowska.
She was awakened by her telephone. It was Father P––.
“Terrible news. You know, I really thought she’d outlast us all.”
Ewa sighed. She had slept badly and she was groggy.
“So I was there this morning, and I see the cat’s gone. So you got it okay, then?”
“Yes, the cat’s here.”
“Oh, you’re an angel. I’m sure the woman’s up in Heaven now, smiling down on you for being such an angel.”
There was a pause. Ewa waited.
“So, I was there, just to sort out some official business, and I noticed that some things are missing. Maybe you know where they are?”
“What things?”
“Well, three thousand zloty in cash, for one. The woman had five thousand zloty in cash and three thousand of it is missing. Do you know where it might be?”
“No, I’m sorry, I’ve no idea.”
“Are you sure you don’t know where it might be? I’ll have to call the police otherwise.”
“Yes Father P––, I’m sure I don’t know where it is.”
“Okay. Also, some of her paintings are missing. You didn’t take any of them, did you?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“I wouldn’t blame you if you did. Maybe you wanted them for sentimental reasons.”
“No, I don’t have them.”
“It’s just that they were promised to us, along with everything else that she owned. I haven’t had the paintings appraised, but I’m sure they’re very valuable.”
“Goodbye, Father P––. I have things to do.”
She hung up the telephone and went to check on the cat. It had not moved. But for the trembling, it looked like a statue. The food remained untouched. She went back to bed. She was so very tired.
She drifted in and out of sleep, and half awoke to the sounds of Father P–– and Mrs S–– talking in the hallway below. She cursed how thin the walls were. From time to time she heard his raspy laugh, or her disapproving cackle.
“Well, she says the woman gave them to her, but who knows? I wouldn’t trust that whore as far as I could throw her. How much would that pocket watch be worth?”
“Oh, at least fifty zloty.”
“Oh, that’s a lot of money. I’m sure she stole it. Or at the very least she forced the woman into giving it to her. You know what that tight-fisted woman left me? Nothing. Did you find the gold?”
“No.”
“Maybe she fed it to the cat. I wouldn’t put it past her.”
Ewa was again awakened by the telephone. It was Father P––.
“So, I understand the woman gave you some items. Is that right?”
“Yes, what of it?”
“Well, the thing is, those items belong to us. It was part of the agreement, that we would take care of her and in return she would leave us her possessions.”
“Do you want the pocket watch and the clothes or just the pocket watch?”
“I’m afraid I need everything.”
“What about the cat? Do you want it too?”
Father P–– laughed. “Oh, no, she gave you that cat fair and square. And I’m sure you’re in the best position to look after it. How is it, by the way? It looked very well fed the last time I saw it. Now, also, I wanted to let you know that I’ve called the police, so they’ll probably be coming round to search your apartment. I’m sure you haven’t taken anything except what you’ve already admitted to, but just to put everyone’s minds at ease, you know? And I told them about that other woman. Did you find out who she was? She seems to have vanished.”
“No, I don’t know who she was.”
“You never saw her before? She’s not a friend of yours?”
“No.”
“Too bad. It seems she’s probably the one who took the money and the paintings. There’s one more thing. Did you see any gold when you were in the apartment?”
“There is no gold.”
“Now why would you say that?”
“Because nobody has any gold. Nobody has had anything since the Second World War, when everything of value left the country. There’s nothing here that is worth keeping or selling. No gold, no jewellery, no paintings that are secretly worth a fortune. There’s nothing, Father P––.”
“That’s interesting that you should say that. But not to worry, the police will find it. You see, that gold is rightfully ours. But you know what, the saddest thing is that part of the money that was stolen was to pay for the woman’s dying wish, which was to have a proper Catholic burial. She needed one and a half thousand zloty for the burial, and now she’ll just have to be cremated.”
“Don’t you still have two thousand zloty left over?”
“Yes, but that’s our money, that was promised to us. And not even all of it. We were supposed to get three and a half thousand, but we only got two thousand. Do you see how unfair it is?”
After Ewa hung up, she disconnected the phone from the socket and sat down on the sofa.
“She had the money,” she said to nobody, to the cat. “Not very much but enough to get proper treatment. They would have caught it in time, treated her, and she’d be alive today. But now she’s dead and all her money’s gone anyway. Why did she do that?”
Then she was quiet, and she stayed on the sofa, quiet, for a very long time.
Slowly, cautiously, the cat crawled out from underneath the bookshelf, examined its surroundings, and approached Ewa. Minutes passed, and the cat inched closer to her, until finally it was beside her. Ewa reached out and touched its head, and it pushed itself hard against her hand.
“Well, cat, it’s just you and me now. Don’t worry, I won’t let anything happen to you. I’ll keep you safe.”
The cat purred, and Ewa’s spirits soared. She decided to sing, for herself, for the cat, softly, gently, soothingly. But with the first note that she sang, the cat leaped from the sofa and ran back under the bookshelf, and trembled.
The End
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