Killing Auntie. Andrzej Bursa

the Capuchin monastery. I knew that in a few seconds I’d come to a small square by the river. From there I could see the paved alley that I’d have to take as my return route. The prospect made me want to stop several times and run the other way. But the route led through the streets I knew by heart; there was no point in running away from the tarmac alley straight back into the embrace of a noisy road.

      When I got to the end of the wall I stopped for a moment’s rest, like a swimmer about to plunge back into the water. I looked to one side. Two stone angels wearing snowy hats stood guarding the small gate in front of a church. The courtyard before the little church was an oasis of peace. Over the surrounding wall, below street level, tree branches from the orchard on the other side were sticking out. They were covered in snow. I was long hardened to all kinds of soppiness and so was able to look calmly at the relief on the walls and the trees growing in the cloister, which I had known so well since childhood.

      From the door leading into the enclosure a bearded monk came out with a broad wooden shovel and began to clear the snow. He didn’t pay any attention to me but I felt awkward. I stepped out of his way and began to study the relief on the wall. The monk kept shoveling the snow, panting laboriously. The longer we were alone the more awkward I felt. In the end I reached the point of no return. Slowly, I approached the gate and entered the church. I took a quiet pew at the back. I was not alone. Three elderly women knelt in front of me, two in the pew, one on the stone floor. Above the altar flickered a little flame like a small red heart. Next to the side altar shone a luminous entrance to a small cavern. Inside it, behind a strong grille, lay the golden arm of a seventeenth century hero.

      Once, I knew the legend well about the hero who bequeathed his golden arm, a gift from the king, to the Capuchin order. Today some details were missing from my memory. Hiding in the pew I took the role of an observer. A banal and thankless role: there was nothing to observe here. From the sacristy emerged a surpliced monk with a stole over his neck. Briskly, he crossed the floor and shut himself in the confessional. I didn’t see his face clearly but with a beard and a high brow he seemed to me beautiful. He was tall, broad-shouldered, not young. The trellis on the confessional door closed, the stole was hung outside. I thought that at this hour it was unlikely anyone would come to confession. By the altar I spotted the same monk who’d been sweeping the snow. He was performing some strange ritual that involved a lot of kneeling. It was high time for me to leave; I just didn’t feel like it. In the empty church (the three women being gone), facing the mute expectation of the priest-confessor, I felt I had found my role. I got up and walked up to the confessional, knelt and knocked. For a fleeting moment I felt fear and stage fright but didn’t back down. Something rustled inside the confessional and the priest welcomed me with a Latin formula. I took a deep breath and recited back:

      “I last came to confession more or less six – no – seven years ago.”

      “Why so long, my son?”

      “I lost faith.”

      “What else, my son?”

      The priest’s voice was weary and passionless. My blasphemous confession didn’t make much impression on him. I was crestfallen. I hesitated. I didn’t know what to say. Desperately I was trying to remember the formulae from school confessions.

      “Since then … since then I offended the Lord with many sins …”

      “Confess them, my son.”

      “I was …” I hesitated again, “I was disobedient with my superiors … I lied, and then bore false witness against my brother …”

      I was getting hopelessly confused.

      “What else, my son?”

      I frowned and after some thought whispered triumphantly:

      “I sinned against the sixth commandment.”

      The priest stirred in his seat.

      “Many times?”

      “Oh, no, not that many,” I sighed regretfully.

      “What else, my son?”

      I couldn’t sense any concern in my confessor’s voice. Feverishly I was looking for words with which I could reveal to him the full horror of my inner life, which should terrify a holy man. In vain. The priest was already whispering the final formula. In a moment I would hear him knock on the confessional and walk away defeated. I quickly pressed my lips to the wooden lattice and whispered earnestly:

      “Father … Holy Father,” I corrected myself, “I concealed one sin.”

      The priest leaned to the lattice. I lowered my voice.

      “I concealed a terrible sin …” I went for a dramatic pause and then whispered emphatically:

      “I killed a human being.”

      Ah, no more indifferent “What else, my son?” now. The priest was panting. After a moment’s silence he asked in an unnaturally loud voice:

      “Whom?”

      “My aunt.”

      “Oh, my son … It’s a terrible sin, terrible …”

      The priest was lost for words. Now that he was lost for words I was cold and to the point.

      “How did it happen?”

      In the priest’s voice, apart from a hellish, almost unchristian curiosity, I detected a note of enthusiasm.

      “Holy Father,” I whispered gravely, “’tis unfitting to speak about.”

      “In confession one must tell everything, everything,” he insisted pleadingly.

      I decided to be succinct.

      “Ok, then. I killed her with a hammer.”

      “A hammer … Oh my son, it’s a terrible sin, a grave sin …”

      “Holy Father, more important than the gate of Hades is my soul,” I replied courteously.

      The priest fell silent for a while and then asked:

      “Had your aunt wronged you in any way?”

      “No.”

      “So why did you kill her?”

      I hung my head.

      “Were you led to it by the repulsive jingle of gold?”

      The priest was trying to rise to his role. I felt grateful.

      “No, Father, to the contrary.”

      “Why to the contrary?”

      “Killing my aunt, I deprived myself of my main means of support. She gave me board and lodging.”

      “So why did you do it?”

      “I’m a murderer, Father.”

      The priest fell silent again. And after a while:

      “How old are you, my son?”

      “Twenty-one.”

      “Oh, twenty-one … Was it … was it your first time?”

      “First time what, Father?”

      “Had you killed before?”

      “No, Father. I would have confessed, wouldn’t I?”

      “True. Oh, my son, repent your deed and cry over your soul.”

      “I can’t repent, Father.”

      “Why, my son?”

      “I’m a hardened sinner.”

      “Oh, my son …” The priest was hopelessly confused. “Oh, my son, cry over your soul…”

      Curiosity won the upper hand.

      “But you had to have a motive. Why did you kill?”

      “I don’t know, Father.”

      He