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Be-Kind-to-Animals Veterinary Home,” said a voice in the receiver. “Sorry, wrong number,” he muttered. In the end he managed to dial the right number; there was a continuous ringing—the busy signal. He hung up and leaned helplessly against the wall.
    “She was a fresh little piece,” the proprietor said. “Nowadays the eggs are smarter than the hens. You speak to her politely, and she opens a mouth that—oh, well.” He waved his hand. “I was brought up differently. Once …”
    Franciszek again dialed his number. When he heard the familiar voice of the switchboard operator, he breathed with relief.
    “This is Kowalski. Connect me with the party office, please.”
    Once again he heard the busy signal—this time it was a series of short rings.
    “It’s busy.”
    “I’ll wait.”
    He pulled a chair over to him with his foot, and sat down. The proprietor put down his newspaper. “Yes, sir, I had to kiss my father’s hands,” he said. “The old man would say tome, ‘Janek’—my name is Jan—’you must obey your father, so your children will obey you later …’ ”
    “Here’s your party,” the operator snapped. An instant later he heard a familiar voice: “Secretariat.”
    “This is Kowalski,” Franciszek cried joyfully. “Is it you, Pawlak?”
    “Yes. What’s on your mind?”
    “Listen, I’ve had a little trouble. I was detained.”
    “At the briefing?”
    “No. In a police station.”
    “In connection with our city-to-village campaign?”
    “No, just detained.”
    “Oh, I see—the deratization campaign.”
    “No, no—a supposed case of intoxication.”
    “But our delegate for the anti-drunkenness campaign is Cebulak. You are the city-to-village delegate.”
    “Listen to me; it had nothing to do with any campaign …” He leered at the proprietor, who kept staring at him with red-ringed eyes. “I—I—” he stammered. “It was personal …”
    The voice in the receiver rose a tone higher. “You can act on your own, Comrade Kowalski, after the campaign. You’re the city-to-village campaign delegate, and that’s that. This must not happen again.”
    “All right,” said Franciszek. “I’ll come right over and explain. Goodbye.”
    “Goodbye.”
    Franciszek was hot; he felt himself suddenly drenched with sweat from his shirt down to his socks. He counted out the coins for the call. “A bottle of orangeade,” he said.
    The proprietor smiled with good-natured irony, as though to say, “Brother, who do you think you’re kidding?”
    “I haven’t got any,” he said. “There may be some kvass—”
    “All right, make it kvass.”
    “I was saying there may be some kvass this afternoon. I have a bit of milk for my own personal use; I can let you have some.”
    “That’s even better.”
    The proprietor tittered.
    “What are you laughing about?”
    “Here’s your milk. I always try to understand everybody.” And while Franciszek drank, the proprietor went on: “Don’t take what happened to you too hard. They locked you up, and they let you go. I was locked up in 1945. I was in with a Russian major, a deserter, who had escaped dressed like a chimney sweep. ‘Don’t you ever get upset by anything, Vania,’ he said to me—for my name is Jan—‘don’t be upset. Whatever they ask you, say you don’t know. As for me, Vania’—my name is Jan—‘this is the twenty-third time I’ve been locked up …’ ”
    Franciszek put down his glass. “What do I owe you?”
    “Wait a minute, I’ll finish my story. ‘You see, Vania,’ he said, ‘that’s how many times I’ve been in jail.’ ”
    “I’m in a hurry,” Franciszek said. He glanced at the proprietor’s unshaven face, and realized only then that this was how he too must look. “What do I owe you?” he shouted.
    “Three-forty.”
    He paid and walked out.
    “Hey, mister.”
    He turned around. The proprietor was waving to him with a mysterious expression. His stare was so compelling that