From The Tunnel

miñona 7 Tommasz Miñona (trans. Tomasz Mirkowicz) From The Tunnel "They're coming! They're coming!" I'm standing close to the gate, but the thick crowd outside the mine blocks my view. "Tanks! Tanks and trucks!" Suddenly I'm afraid. It's begun! It's begun! What will happen now? These are my only thoughts. Nothing else comes to my mind. I feel as if a huge spider were crouching on my shoulder, sticking its long tongue into my ear, licking my brain clean. A total void . . . Then I hear the loudspeaker: "Everyone move away from the gate! We can't see what's happening!" There's a commotion in front of the mine, the crowd splits and moves to the sides. Now I can see the advancing tanks— there's four of them, followed by armored personnel carriers and trucks. They take up the whole width of the street and are only a few hundred yards away from the gate . . . "All miners are to back down to the yard next to the office building and wait for instructions. Do not engage in any action!" The voice is perfectly calm. Despite the distortions I recognize it as Jerzy 's. Christ, how can he think at all at a time like this! I follow the miners backing away from the gate through the slushy snow, the metal rod MaIy gave me last night clutched tight in my hand. I avoid looking anyone in the eye and bow my head to hide my face. I can't understand my own reactions. I've never been in such a spot before and my feelings aren't what I would have expected. Am I simply afraid? Of getting hurt? If I was, I wouldn't have stuck around in the mine— but how else explain this sudden stupor? I raise my head slightly and look at the tanks. They're closer now, no more than sixty yards from the gate. Then they stop. Two tanks in front, side by side, the other two close behind, a few yards apart. Shit, I know better, I remember reading somewhere that tanks are of little use for city combat, that they're mainly a psychological weapon because of their awesome size. But reading about them and seeing them so close are two different things. They've stopped moving, but their roar grows louder and louder; my knees begin to shake, my whole body begins to tremble, everything around me seems to vibrate with the noise. The carriers and trucks stop behind the tanks, while water cannons 8 the minnesota review take up positions on both corners opposite the gate. Militiamen in black— the zomos—jump out of the trucks and surround the tanks and water cannons. Most carry long clubs and plastic shields; others have rifles with strange appendages on their barrels. Across the street from the zomos, along the mine's fence, stands the crowd: women, teenagers, old men and those workers who had decided to leave the mine. Suddenly the four tanks lower their great guns, aiming at the gate, Straight at us. My God, they won't shoot! They can't! But I know that's not true. They can do anything they like. It they could outlaw Solidarity, declare war against the whole nation, they can order tanks— which are moving again now, worming forward with their guns pointing at us— to shoot us dead. This is the end, I think, and begin to pray. Our father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name . . . But just then, somewhere close by, I hear someone begin to sing. At first it's only a solitary voice, but then another joins in, then another, then a dozen more, and then we all burst into song: Poland will never perish As long as we're alive! What the foreign power stole we'll recover, we'll survive! This song, our anthem, works miracles. I'm no longer afraid. The thundering tanks don't scare me anymore; our voices drown out the rumble of their engines. I take a deep breath and sing with all my might, as loud as I can. The crowd...