The daily worker. [volume] (Chicago, Ill.) 1924-1958, 1924-01-19

1 happened to 1--we alongside one of
those excellent ladies whose reputa-
ton is Of rather a transitory kind.
She was Pole and they called her
Heresa. She was tallish, power
tully-built woman, a brunette with
black, bushy eyebrows and a large
coarse face, the sort of face one
would imagine to have been carved
out with a Ratchet the bestial CLEAN
of her wicked eyes, her cabman-like
walk and the whole immense mus
cular vigour of her filled me with
horror and loathing. At that time /
lived on the top flight and her garrett
was directly opposite mine. Never
on any occasion would | leave my
door open if knew that she was at
home. But this, after all, was only
on very rare occasions, for she
seemed to spend all her time in cafes
and other places of the sort. Some
times | CHANGED to meet her on the
staircase or in the yard, and then
she would smile at me with sort of
leer that seemed to be cruel, sly and
cynical. Occasionally l saw her
drunk, with great bleary eyes,
tousled hair and a particularly hid
eous grin. On such occasions she
would speak to me.
How d'you do, Mr.. Student?" and
her stupid laugh would further ac-
centuate my intense dislike of her.
| should have liked to change my
my quarters in order to avoid such
encounters and greetings, but in
many ways my little chamber was
nice one; there was such charming
view from the window and the street
beneath was always quiet and orderly
so stayed on in spite of her.
One morning as l lay lazily enough
on my couch, trying to imagine some
excuse for not attending my Class,
the door opened and the loud voice
of Teresa the terrible came to my
ears.
"Good health to you, Mr.. Student. "
"What do you want now?" l said.
l saw that her face was confused and
supplicatory. A very unusual
sort of face for her, certainly.
"Sir, l want to beg favor of
you, yes, indeed / do. Will you
grant it,"
l lay quite silent and thought to
myself:
"Good heavens Come now,
courage my lad. What can she want
of me?"
II want to send a letter home. j.
That's what it is" she said, her voice
becoming beseeching and timid, like
the voice of frightened child al
most.
"Deuce take you," thought I, but
/ jumped up, sat down at the table,
and, taking up a sheet of paper, said:
"Come here. Sit down ans die
tate"
She came towards the table, sat
down rather gingerlv and looked at
me with a guilty look.
"WeIl, to whom do you want to
write?"
"To Boleslav Kashput, at the viii
lage of Svyeptsyana; on the Warsaw
Road"
"WeIl, fire awayl'
envy dear Boles :. My darling
Ny faithful lover. May the
Mother of God protect theel Thou
heart Of gold, why hast thou not
written for so many weeks to thy
sorrowing little dove Teresa?"
had great difficulty to keep from
laughing. "a sorrowing little dovew
More than five feet six inches tall,
with fists like, boxers, and as black
a face as if the dear little dove had
passed all its life in some coal-house
without ever washingl Restraining
myself somewhat. | asked:
"Who is this Bolest?"
"Boles. Mr.. STUDENT" she said,
with an almost offended air, as if she
resented nv having mispronounced
the name. "He is Boles, my lover
my young man.
"Young mani"
"Why yes. May not / have a
young man then? Surely l am a
girl after all, eh?"
"she. A young girl. Oh dear,
IL Jo-..