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Jul. 20th, 2024 02:28 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
freevistasStory: Without Homeland
Colors: Teary-eyed #15: Broken glass
Word Count: 927
Rating/Warnings: PG
Note: Also posted to Rainbowfic
Part of him smiled when he saw the shards of glass twinkling like ice on the sidewalk in front of the print shop. The ice and snow had long since melted, and Alba had long since disappeared, and it had been months since they’d released the first and only issue of her journal, but still, the ice-like glass of the broken window and the wrecked letterpress and the solidified puddle of once-molten lead on the printshop floor all reminded him of her and the winter they’d spent together.
Because this was no robbery, Karol knew almost immediately, even before he pushed open the print shop door–left ajar and hanging from its hinges, a spray of splinters still clinging to the spot where a crowbar had powered past the lock–and saw that nothing had been taken from the place except the capacity to reproduce more of Alba’s words, the potential for her words to continue their imperfect echoes across the pages of her pamphlets in Italian, English, and Polish. Nothing had been taken, in other words–Alba’s words, again–but the means of production.
And Karol couldn’t imagine that the vandals could have had a problem with anything the print shop produced besides Alba’s journal. Mr. Jaronczyk printed all sorts of things–poorly translated pulp novels, prayer books, shoddy transcriptions of presidential speeches, collections of jokes and magic tricks, but he was an opportunist, not an ideologue. There was nothing he made that anyone could consider worth destroying.
Tiny crystals of glass and some other unidentifiable grit crunched under Karol’s feet as he stepped across the floor of the shop, that tiny, oppressively familiar space suddenly rendered so foreign by the intrusion. A slanted column of early-morning sunlight plunged through the gaping window, and Karol froze as he stepped into it, suddenly seized by the sensation of being caught. Some instinct in him began formulating excuses and apologies until he remembered that he hadn’t been the one to break into the shop, he’d just found it like this.
But all the same, he thought as he tried to right the fallen letterpress, he wasn’t entirely innocent in all this. If he hadn’t agreed to help Alba print her anarchist tracts, then this never would have happened.
From the moment he agreed to collaborate with Alba, he’d begun developing a series of ever-evolving rationalizations and justifications, first to himself, and then, once he’d gone too far to turn back, to the tribunal of earthly or divine judges he knew would someday pin him down and force a confession out of him.
He figured Mr. Jaronczyk would be the first. Karol had never asked permission or forgiveness for using his press for his own side project, and he knew that his boss would surely fire him, or worse, if he found out. And now, even though he hadn’t been caught in the act in quite the way he’d imagined, Karol knew that he’d be held responsible for the break-in. No, he corrected himself, finally managing to set the letterpress upright, he wouldn’t be ‘held responsible.’ He’d take responsibility. For once.
Alba would be proud of him for that, some part of him thought as he lifted the broom from its resting place in the corner of the room. Alba had never denied who or what she was, had never tried to make excuses or compromises, despite the risks. She probably could have talked her way out of getting fired from the Fairchilds–could have crafted a damned believable story about how all that anarchist literature ended up in the attic apartment. She might have been able to keep her job, even at the expense of her integrity. What difference did it make what that hateful lady thought of her anyway? But she’d accepted the risks of her actions and their consequences. She’d chosen to leave. On her own terms. With dignity. Not just the Fairchilds,’ but New London.
At least that was the story Karol told himself. Because the other story was too hard to bear. He could feel it taking shape in his mind; he tried to distract himself by dragging the brittle bristles of the broom across the floor to collect the tinkling detritus. But it was too late–there it was, the likelier story: that Alba’s boss had caught her in possession of a trove of anarchist literature. That Mrs. Fairchild had threatened to call the police. That Alba had run. That she hadn’t run to Karol–not to ask for help, not to ask forgiveness, not to say goodbye, not to ask him to come with her. No, that she had just run, run to the safety of the next bunker in her lonely war. Because he was nothing to her, nothing but a doormat hiding a key to a print shop.
Karol dumped a pailful of shards and splinters into the trash bin. If he worked quickly enough, he might be able to get the place looking halfway decent by the time Mr. Jaronczyk waddled in–decent enough to soften the blow. And he’d tell Mr. Jaronczyk about Alba, about the journal, about why he thought someone would break into the shop and trash it, about why he thought he was to blame. He’d accept Mr. Jaronczyk’s rage. He’d finish out the day, if Mr. Jaronczyk allowed him to. He’d go to confession to finish clearing his conscience. He’d take the money he’d been saving for seminary and give it to Mr. Jaronczyk for a new press. And then he’d start over. Again. Just as he imagined Alba had, wherever she was.
Part of him smiled when he saw the shards of glass twinkling like ice on the sidewalk in front of the print shop. The ice and snow had long since melted, and Alba had long since disappeared, and it had been months since they’d released the first and only issue of her journal, but still, the ice-like glass of the broken window and the wrecked letterpress and the solidified puddle of once-molten lead on the printshop floor all reminded him of her and the winter they’d spent together.
Because this was no robbery, Karol knew almost immediately, even before he pushed open the print shop door–left ajar and hanging from its hinges, a spray of splinters still clinging to the spot where a crowbar had powered past the lock–and saw that nothing had been taken from the place except the capacity to reproduce more of Alba’s words, the potential for her words to continue their imperfect echoes across the pages of her pamphlets in Italian, English, and Polish. Nothing had been taken, in other words–Alba’s words, again–but the means of production.
And Karol couldn’t imagine that the vandals could have had a problem with anything the print shop produced besides Alba’s journal. Mr. Jaronczyk printed all sorts of things–poorly translated pulp novels, prayer books, shoddy transcriptions of presidential speeches, collections of jokes and magic tricks, but he was an opportunist, not an ideologue. There was nothing he made that anyone could consider worth destroying.
Tiny crystals of glass and some other unidentifiable grit crunched under Karol’s feet as he stepped across the floor of the shop, that tiny, oppressively familiar space suddenly rendered so foreign by the intrusion. A slanted column of early-morning sunlight plunged through the gaping window, and Karol froze as he stepped into it, suddenly seized by the sensation of being caught. Some instinct in him began formulating excuses and apologies until he remembered that he hadn’t been the one to break into the shop, he’d just found it like this.
But all the same, he thought as he tried to right the fallen letterpress, he wasn’t entirely innocent in all this. If he hadn’t agreed to help Alba print her anarchist tracts, then this never would have happened.
From the moment he agreed to collaborate with Alba, he’d begun developing a series of ever-evolving rationalizations and justifications, first to himself, and then, once he’d gone too far to turn back, to the tribunal of earthly or divine judges he knew would someday pin him down and force a confession out of him.
He figured Mr. Jaronczyk would be the first. Karol had never asked permission or forgiveness for using his press for his own side project, and he knew that his boss would surely fire him, or worse, if he found out. And now, even though he hadn’t been caught in the act in quite the way he’d imagined, Karol knew that he’d be held responsible for the break-in. No, he corrected himself, finally managing to set the letterpress upright, he wouldn’t be ‘held responsible.’ He’d take responsibility. For once.
Alba would be proud of him for that, some part of him thought as he lifted the broom from its resting place in the corner of the room. Alba had never denied who or what she was, had never tried to make excuses or compromises, despite the risks. She probably could have talked her way out of getting fired from the Fairchilds–could have crafted a damned believable story about how all that anarchist literature ended up in the attic apartment. She might have been able to keep her job, even at the expense of her integrity. What difference did it make what that hateful lady thought of her anyway? But she’d accepted the risks of her actions and their consequences. She’d chosen to leave. On her own terms. With dignity. Not just the Fairchilds,’ but New London.
At least that was the story Karol told himself. Because the other story was too hard to bear. He could feel it taking shape in his mind; he tried to distract himself by dragging the brittle bristles of the broom across the floor to collect the tinkling detritus. But it was too late–there it was, the likelier story: that Alba’s boss had caught her in possession of a trove of anarchist literature. That Mrs. Fairchild had threatened to call the police. That Alba had run. That she hadn’t run to Karol–not to ask for help, not to ask forgiveness, not to say goodbye, not to ask him to come with her. No, that she had just run, run to the safety of the next bunker in her lonely war. Because he was nothing to her, nothing but a doormat hiding a key to a print shop.
Karol dumped a pailful of shards and splinters into the trash bin. If he worked quickly enough, he might be able to get the place looking halfway decent by the time Mr. Jaronczyk waddled in–decent enough to soften the blow. And he’d tell Mr. Jaronczyk about Alba, about the journal, about why he thought someone would break into the shop and trash it, about why he thought he was to blame. He’d accept Mr. Jaronczyk’s rage. He’d finish out the day, if Mr. Jaronczyk allowed him to. He’d go to confession to finish clearing his conscience. He’d take the money he’d been saving for seminary and give it to Mr. Jaronczyk for a new press. And then he’d start over. Again. Just as he imagined Alba had, wherever she was.
