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window would just happen to look out onto the site. But
she never glanced up to see who’d come in. Not many
people visited the library. So the librarian loved it when
anyone appeared. But her, she didn’t look up. She even
seemed to sink deeper into her book, so as not to draw
attention to herself.
So I would not notice her. Or God forbid I should ever ask
what she was reading. That might have embarrassed her,
turned her against me, hurt her even. And what for? I knew
she was waiting for him. And who cares what she was
reading. It was better she was in the library than standing
or pacing to and fro in the rain. You know, I often felt more
sorry for her than I did for myself.
It goes without saying that people told all kinds of stories
about her. I don’t even want to repeat them. For instance,
there were rumors that she cleaned his room, did his
laundry, washed his shirts, darned his socks. That she spent
the night there. See how her eyes are all puffy, what do you
think that’s from? It never occurred to anyone it could be
from crying. It was like that love of hers was the property of
everyone. Like anybody had the right to walk all over her
love the way you walked about the site, trampling it, even
tossing down your cigarette butt. All because she served in
the cafeteria.
No one said anymore, You look nice today Miss Basia, or
Basieńka, she couldn’t look nice with her eyes swollen.