Author's Note: Sorry for the long wait- a few things happened. Now I'm back and will try my best to do more. This chapter was going to be about the Chinese Labour Corps, but then it would have been too early. So, instead, here is a chapter on Poland.
I hope that you enjoy this chapter,
~Anonymous Lily
Chapter Ten: The Re-awakening of Feliks Łukasiewicz
He was in the midst of a ferocious battle. Somewhere behind him, an inexperienced officer bellowed orders in a language he only vaguely understood while shells flew through the smoke-filled air and crashed, shaking the earth. Most of his comrades had already left, running off to fulfil their duty.
The ground under his feet was slippery and wet from yesterday's rain, and the mud was beginning to seep into his boots. Still, he carried on, clutching a rifle for dear life, as he struggled to shift his lead-like feet towards their planned destination.
Suddenly, he felt pain bloom like a morbid flower and he was knocked off his feet. It was only when he kept on going did he realise that a piece of shrapnel had embedded itself in his shoulder.
Gritting his teeth, he ran on, the shrapnel tearing at his tender flesh. The trench was just up ahead, if only he could...
Feliks' eyes snapped open, his chest heaving with panic. Gone was the churned-up countryside, gone were the enemy's dirt-caked boots, gone was the pain.
Instead, he was staring at a desk, covered with layers of paperwork and dog-eared drawings. Old coffee and dust polluted the air around him, as well as something vaguely metallic that he could not recognise.
As his breathing slowed, Feliks began to recognise the familiar piles of paper and second-hand furniture as his own. Unfortunately, he also became aware of how he felt like a broken accordion whenever he breathed out.
"Damn it, how long have I been here?" Feliks hissed, propping himself up awkwardly on one elbow while he further inspected his surroundings.
In the closest drawing, two figures sat on a broken wall, clutching rifles and a tattered flag. One was slightly hunched over, their light hair framing a dirty face. The other figure sat regally upon their ruined throne with long, dark hair streaming from below an undersized hat. On the bottom, the label simply stated: Budapest, 1848.
Strange, I remember that happening, vaguely.
Groaning, he pulled his aching body up, almost tripping over on the various books that littered the carpeted floor. Luckily, he managed to steady himself on a chair before he hurt himself.
My god, I'm stiff as old bones.
A mirror by the door revealed a sallow, pale face with limp blond hair scraping at his chin, green eyes dull and cloudy- Feliks almost didn't recognise himself.
So, it was me in the picture. How times have changed since that day.
Outside, a gale hit him like a brick, forcing him to hold onto the door frame for support.
Have I really become this weak? Damn it, I used to be an empire!
However, as Feliks looked closer, he could see that he was not the only one struggling with the weather. People walking by clutched their hats and muttered irritably, wrapping their coats tighter around themselves. Feliks walked further out into the streets, scanning for any signal to tell him where he was. Every person felt distinctly familiar, their thoughts somehow springing into his brain. And yet Feliks felt like he was a world away from them, separated by some unknown wisdom.
Numb to the icy wind that whipped his face, he ambled the winding alleys, passing small clumps of people as he did. The streets opened up for him as if he had always known the place, despite the unfamiliar script that had been pasted onto every sign.
No, I do know this place, he corrected himself as he turned a corner, Next there will be a bookshop, owned by an old couple but fairly new.
Sure enough, small groups hung around a building, whose bricks had not been tarnished by the years of soot that was coughed up from factory furnaces nearby. Books of every size and genre were displayed in the sparkling window panes. Just in front of him, a man was hurriedly striding towards the shop entrance, his black greatcoat whisked by the wind. At the sight of Feliks, the man stopped, curious.
"Hello? Feliks, my old friend!" the shop owner exclaimed.
Feliks tensed, startled by the sudden noise.
"Who are you? What do you want?" he asked cautiously at the gentleman in front of him. A kind, wizened face frowned back, brown eyes framed with half-rimmed glasses.
"I do not mean to harm you, but you look awfully lost. It worries me." the gentleman replied, smiling softly. Clutched under his arm was a parcel that had the Russian stamp. Despite this, the address was most definitely not Russian.
I'm in Warsaw. That answers one question. But what happened?
Sighing, Feliks glanced around before leaning towards the man. "Seeing as how you seem to know me, um, can you give me an overview of what has been happening here? I can't remember anything."
"Yes, yes, of course. Come in quickly," the gentleman replied, unlocking the bookshop door and ushering him in. Then, leading him by the arm, he gently dragged Feliks through the countless aisles of books and into a back room.
"I will tell you everything you've missed."
%&%
"So," Feliks concluded, "Warsaw is now in Russian hands, my lands are now a battleground and my people are divided in who to support in order to gain independence."
"Yes," the gentleman, who Feliks now knew as Oskar, replied calmly, "Would you like another drink, Feliks?" He reached for Feliks' glass.
"No, thank you," he declined, "Wait, how do you know my name?"
Oskar muttered something under his breath, sitting back down. The gentleman sighed.
"I was only a young student when I met you, in the aftermath of that rebellion in '48." Oskar explained, "I was struck on the head with a stray brick and had collapsed in an alley when you found me and helped me get to a doctor."
He gestured to a lump on his forhead, barely visible in the dim candlelight.
"I've still got the scar from that day. Anyway, I didn't see you again for another, twenty years, was it?" Oskar looked to Feliks, expecting some form of reply.
"Honestly, I would not remember." Feliks explained, "I don't remember much of anything- it feels like I've been dreaming for the past... goodness knows how long. For all I know, I could have reappeared just to support the revolution and gone back to sleep."
"Really?" Oskar inquired, leaning forwards in his seat, " I would have thought that... your kind would know more about these sort of things. You die enough times."
"No." Feliks said, "A lot of people think that. But in the end, we're not really sure about much. You can die a thousand times but somehow still cannot describe what death feels like. I'm not even sure I died after the dissolution or if I was just muted."
"Ah, now I remember." Oskar realised, "The next time was when there was a big push for Russification after some protest somewhere. An army dragoon entered Warsaw in order to quell the unrest and I saw them hurt you."
"I certainly remember that," Feliks remarked with a snort, "I thought I had hid my abilities."
"You did, for the most part." Oskar admitted, staring at nothing in particular, "At first I thought you were some kind of demon, but then the soldiers had official orders to look for you. It was then that I realised what you were. You went away after that and I hadn't seen you since, until now."
There was silence for a few minutes as Feliks stared into the empty glass and Oskar drummed his fingers on his chair. Outside, the wind howled and battered everything in his path.
Ugh, I hate these silences! I need to do something, help my people. Not sit around making small talk with a man who knows more about me than I know myself.
"So," Feliks pondered, "What can I do now? Join the local Polish legion? I mean, I've died enough times to know how to patch people up but..."
"You don't have to go right now, Feliks," Oskar cautioned, "Not when you're like this. Give it a few days, maybe a week at least, before you go gallavanting off to find fellow Poles."
"Oskar, I need to do something now." Feliks said, preparing to get up.
"Feliks, please. Just a day." Oskar replied, also rising from his seat. Feliks walked past him.
"I appreciate your concern, Oskar. I really do. But I have made my decision."
"Now is not the time for blind heroics, Feliks." Oskar warned, raising his voice to the retreating Nation, "If you love your people as we love you, you will wait."
Feliks stopped, statue-like in the doorway.
Oskar carried on, his voice softening, "Think about it, as you remember who you are, so do the people of Poland. They need something to believe in, something solid."
Sighing, Feliks turned once more to face the old man, "It doesn't work that way. It is the spirit of the people that creates me, not the other way around."
"I see," Oskar replied, gingerly stepping forwards, "Then perhaps we can help you to get stronger. As you said, you only really woke up today- the rest feels like a daydream, a wisp of fog. Together, we can get you strong enough so that when this wretched war ends, Poland will return. Your choice."
Author's Note: Did Feliks stay or not? That is for you to decide...
By the way, if there are any Polish readers, feel free to correct me on things in this chapter, as there was a lot of confusion while writing this. (At one point, I thought that Warsaw was part of Prussian Poland.)
Thank you,
-Anonymous Lily