ÌÇÐÄ´«Ã½

As with years past, we’re going to spend the next five weeks highlighting all 25 titles on the BTBA fiction longlist. We’ll have a variety of guests writing these posts, all of which are centered around the question of “Why This Book Should Win.” Hopefully these are funny, accidental, entertaining, and informative posts that prompt you to read at least a few of these excellent works.

Click here for all past and future posts in this series.

by Wiesław Myśliwski, translated by Bill Johnston

Language: Polish
Country: Poland
Publisher: Archipelago

Why This Book Should Win: I taught this in my class last year, and all of the students loved it. Do you even understand how rare that is? That’s some serious power.

This piece is written by Amy Henry, who runs the website

Words bring everything out onto the surface. Words take everything that hurts and whines and they drag it all out from the deepest depths. Words let blood, and you feel better right away . . . Because words are a great grace. When it comes down to it, what are you given other than words?

Szymek Pietruszka talks endlessly, conducting an inner monologue that never takes a break. An all-around badass who is beloved by all, heÌÇÐÄ´«Ã½™s played many roles: resistance fighter, fireman, policeman, civil servant, and farmer, all while remaining an insatiable ladies man with a penchant for vodka, dancing, and fighting (usually in that order). He has stories to tell—some deadly serious and some not—but all told in a restrained voice that doesnÌÇÐÄ´«Ã½™t ask for pity.

As Stone Upon Stone begins, heÌÇÐÄ´«Ã½™s working on a tomb, obsessing about the details of construction but not explaining who it is for. The tomb and its obvious ties to earth and death form a theme that is lighter than one would imagine. As he studies the other memorials in the cemetery, he makes note of their flaws, as some are too showy, too cheap, or in once case, too tall:

When you stand underneath it itÌÇÐÄ´«Ã½™s like standing at a gallows, and you have to tip your head way back like you were looking at a hung man. What does it have to be so high for? You canÌÇÐÄ´«Ã½™t look at death high up like that for long. Your neck goes stiff. Looking up is something you can only do to check the weather . . . Death draws you downward. With your head craned up itÌÇÐÄ´«Ã½™s hard to cry even.

MyÅ›liwski writes in a style reminiscent of Knut HamsunÌÇÐÄ´«Ã½™s Growth of the Soil, wherein earth and family and history are intermingled; yet as a protagonist, Szymek is witty and naughty and far chattier than HamsunÌÇÐÄ´«Ã½™s Isak. One scene shows Szymek as a policeman, searching the countryside after the war for contraband weapons:

“WeÌÇÐÄ´«Ã½™ve had enough gunfire to last us a lifetime . . . Our Lady up there in that picture, they can be our witness—we donÌÇÐÄ´«Ã½™t have any guns.”

But you only needed to reach behind the Our Lady or the Lord Jesus and pull out a pistol. YouÌÇÐÄ´«Ã½™d look in the stove, and inside thereÌÇÐÄ´«Ã½™d be a rifle. Have them open the chest, and there under a pile of headscarves, rounds and grenades.

[. . .] Not many people got fined, because what were you going to fine them for. It was the war that brought folks all those guns, the war was the one that should have been punished.

As he relates the story, he tells what the guns (pulled from dead soldiers) end up doing in the villages, as from that point, it appears no dispute is too small not to be handled with gunfire. SzymekÌÇÐÄ´«Ã½™s wickedly wry, and the humor takes an edge off what is deeply painful. Similarly, he describes the pride of his hard-won officerÌÇÐÄ´«Ã½™s boots that the villagers admire. Yet without self-pity, he describes loaning those to his younger brother to wear to school, because his search among the dead bodies around the countryside failed to turn up another pair. He notes that no matter how isolated the corpse, the paths to it were wide from the human scavengers. Horrific, but told matter-of-fact.

Foreshadowing is never used; instead, a sort of reverse takes place. When he suffers a deeply personal loss, he looks backward, making a connection with his familyÌÇÐÄ´«Ã½™s traditional sacrifice of bread to the land to ensure future crops. As a child, he mocked it, thinking that the bread should be eaten instead. Of course, he did sneak some of it to eat. Now, given his adult experience, that bread becomes all the more symbolic.

Aside from what heÌÇÐÄ´«Ã½™s thinking, he relays conversations from everyone from his father (who compulsively overreacts to everything) to the villageÌÇÐÄ´«Ã½™s Sure Thing, a batty woman who undresses and seduces while complaining about inventory shortfalls (sheÌÇÐÄ´«Ã½™s kind of adorable). One memorable conversation is with his hated childhood priest, one who named him in sermons “when he needed a bad example that wasnÌÇÐÄ´«Ã½™t from the Bible.” Now nearing death, the priest wants to talk about forgiveness:

ÌÇÐÄ´«Ã½œOf course, itÌÇÐÄ´«Ã½™s said that whoever you absolve, their sins will be absolved, whoever you deny, theyÌÇÐÄ´«Ã½™ll be denied. But can I really be certain who deserves forgiveness and who doesnÌÇÐÄ´«Ã½™t? What IÌÇÐÄ´«Ã½™d most like to do is to absolve everyone, because I feel sorry for everyone. But do I have the right to use GodÌÇÐÄ´«Ã½™s mercy as my own mercy, even when I feel great pity towards someone? Does God feel that pity? ItÌÇÐÄ´«Ã½™s true his mercy is without limit. But I have no idea how what IÌÇÐÄ´«Ã½™m allowed to do relates to that boundlessness?”

Without affectation, Mysliwski ties in the religious faith of the people, the irrationality of war, the endless needs of the land, and the stubborn, often foolish, nature of the villagers that keep charging ahead when the past might suggest they delay a bit. Many of the most important details are not laid out in a narrative form, but hinted at in a sidelong view, with some points being mentioned only in a passing conversation, leaving the reader to put together exactly what has happened with his parents and three brothers and their farm.

They say that when a personÌÇÐÄ´«Ã½™s born, the earth is their cradle. And all death does is lay you back down in it. And it rocks you and rocks you till youÌÇÐÄ´«Ã½™re unborn, unconceived, once again.