Another Time

Irena Brzozowska Antonina

Description

Set in three continents, over an eighty-year span, this is a story of loss, guilt, shame, deception, love and the ultimate struggle for survival. Unable to accept his lot in life, in the midst of the desolate and desperate backdrop of Siberia, Stefan Jablonski plunges into a destructive spiral of betrayal and deceit. The silver pocket watch, given to him during his immigrant days in America, and always worn close to his heart, gives him comfort; but what secret link does it have with the past and why will it play such a prolific role in the life of his daughter, Magdallena, and that of future generations? How will the past, present and future interlink and how will time set the fate of generations?

Informations

• Publié par: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Date de parution: 31 juillet 2020
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781528967587
• Langue: English

Extrait

Another Time
Antonina Irena Brzozowska
Austin Macauley Publishers
2020-07-31
Another Time About the Author Dedication Copyright Information © Chapter One Lithuania 1952 Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Worcester, Massachusetts, America 1900 Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen October 1952 Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen Chapter Eighteen Chapter Nineteen Chapter Twenty Chapter Twenty-One Chapter Twenty-Two Chapter Twenty-Three Chapter Twenty-Four Chapter Twenty-Five Chapter Twenty-Six Chapter Twenty-Seven Chapter Twenty-Eight Chapter Twenty-Nine Chapter Thirty Chapter Thirty-One Chapter Thirty-Two Chapter Thirty-Three Chapter Thirty-Four Chapter Thirty-Five Chapter Thirty-Six Chapter Thirty-Seven Chapter Thirty-Eight Chapter Thirty-Nine Chapter Forty Chapter Forty-One Chapter Forty-Two Chapter Forty-Three Chapter Forty-Four Chapter Forty-Five Chapter Forty-Six Chapter Forty-Seven Chapter Forty-Eight Chapter Forty-Nine Chapter Fifty Chapter Fifty-One Chapter Fifty-Two Chapter Fifty-Three Siberia October 1981 Chapter Fifty-Four Chapter Fifty-Five Chapter Fifty-Six England Chapter Fifty-Seven Scunthorpe, England Chapter Fifty-Eight Chapter Fifty-Nine Chapter Sixty Chapter Sixty-One Chapter Sixty-Two Chapter Sixty-Three Worcester, Massachusetts, America 1986 Translation of Polish Words/Phrases
About the Author
Antonina Irena Brzozowska was born, grew up and was educated in the north of England. Coming from Polish extraction, she has a strong interest in the culture and traditions of Poland. Currently, a supply teacher she has taken immense pleasure in writing, reading and travelling.
Dedication
In memory of my beloved parents, Antoni and Maria Brzozowski.
Copyright Information ©
Antonina Irena Brzozowska (2020)
The right of Antonina Irena Brzozowska to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.
Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
ISBN 9781528933728 (Paperback)
ISBN 9781528967587 (ePub e-book)
www.austinmacauley.com
First Published (2020)
Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd
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London
E14 5LQ
Chapter One

Lithuania 1952
Hell was their night. In the formidable darkness elusive silhouettes were dragged from their homes and never seen or heard of again; neighbours cruelly snatched and hauled away to another distant hell where nobody wanted to go and from which no one ever returned; echoes of children’s stifled screams and muffled uncontrollable sobs haunting the eerie silence that followed their wake. Villagers were callously divided; those who were spared and those who were not.
Life for the Jabtonski family had become a never-ending expectancy of inescapable doom. Stefan’s old tired eyes stared out into the still, ominous blackness. They saw nothing. Jadwiga’s lips moved rapidly as small, wooden, rough beads passed through her gnarled fingers, her sore eyes prickling through lack of sleep; praying, constantly praying. Her only hope was her God. And, as far as Piotr was concerned, the only thought cramming and overpowering his conscious mind was how to confront, challenge and defeat the bastards when they arrived. He paced up and down the bare dusty floorboards — a young man of twenty with an old man’s tortured soul, his bloodshot eyes darting from window to door, finally resting on his father where they bore into the old man’s back: staring, hating; staring hard and hating harder.
His cold eyes shot to his mother. Her tired eyes were fixed on the small holy picture of the Sacred Heart of Jesus propped against a cracked vase containing a bunch of dried, faded red roses; her arthritic fingers laboriously allowing the beads to move on, occasionally turning over a flimsy, yellowed page of her tattered old prayer book as her soft voice penetrated the young man’s troubled thoughts. “Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee: blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners; now, and at the hour of our death. Amen.”
“Amen; bloody Amen!”
“Piotr!” Stefan boomed, a flush of red colouring his hollow cheeks as he banged his tightly clenched fist on the scuffed wooden table, sending the dried flowers awry “Apologise to your mother; immediately!”
A sneer played on Piotr’s curled lips as he stared contemptuously, daring the older man to challenge him. After long, cold seconds the younger man relented, his voice gruff and cold. “Dobrze, dobrze; calm down, old man.” Darting eyes flitted to the holy picture, now lying flat on the table. Staring hard with eyes of icy hatred he picked it up, spewed up a mouthful of spittle at the image and slew it on to the floor. “If you think He is going to help, you’re all crazy lunatics,” he snarled; his eyes darting from the picture to his parents, to his sister where two youngsters were burying their faces beneath their mother’s apron, not daring to catch their uncle’s eye. Piotr’s eyes flitted to his mother’s wan face. “You better start praying to Stalin. He is our God now, mother. Stalin!”
Jadwiga’s beads fell to the floor as she averted her eyes from her only son and stooped to pick up the holy picture, her only treasure; the only God in whom she placed all her trust. Fingers tightly clenching her beads, Jadwiga placed her hand on her husband’s shoulder. “He’s young; he doesn’t understand.”
“He understands, Jadwiga; he understands.”
Drenched to the skin, the hard rain lashed down relentlessly on Piotr’s patched shirt; his dirty trousers stuck to his limbs, brown sodden hair plastered on his head as he propped himself against the rough bark of an old apple tree, one foot tapping furiously, sending squirts of dirt gushing mud over his boots and trousers, his fingers clenched tightly in his wet pockets, his lips twisting as he said the same words over and over again: “They’ll see; they’ll all bloody well see who’s right in the end.” His fingers clenched tighter together in a vice-like grip as his thoughts turned to his father. “He’ll damn well get his come-uppance.” He seethed through clenched teeth, nodding vehemently. “I’ll make damn sure of that.” Roughly pulling a half-filled bottle of clear liquid out of his sodden pocket, he brought it up to his parched lips, his body trembling in eager anticipation of the substance as a clap of distant thunder and staccato flashes of silver lightning charged the black sky with sudden bursts of electricity, lighting up and giving an unexpected brilliance to the crooked branches of the old fruit trees. His body shook involuntarily as he took two gulps of the tasteless, fiery liquid, the potency of the substance mingled with the cold, pounding rain, giving his skinny body a grain of soothing mercy. Staring unflinchingly at the dark silhouetted boughs he snarled, his lips curled in a cold grin. “Just like the old man’s gnarled, rheumatic fingers … old and useless.” His dark eyes strayed across to the wooden hut as his sodden foot tapped vigorously, sending a fresh array of black slush onto his drenched trousers, as the heavy deluge continued to lash down in heavy sheets on the family home, Stefan’s beloved orchard and Piotr. As if attacked by a sudden bout of paralysis, his foot ceased moving and remained still in the sticky mud; his frantic eyes darted this way and that, he knew not where to rest them. There was something. Straining his ear to the right … nothing; and yet, there was something; a sound in the distance … silence. “It must be my cholerny imagination.” He swore between gritted teeth, his eyes wide open, his fists clenching and unclenching as he wobbled uncontrollably, one foot sliding, the other obediently following, as he slid into the murky mud. “Cholera jasna!” he roared, grabbing the nearest skeletal branch on his way down, forcing it to snap and sending him down on his backside, his vodka bottle following him like a faithful servant, the precious liquid seeping its way into the black slush. “Psiakrew!” he cursed, his black eyes staring wildly into the blackness surrounding him, his fingers frantically searching in the cold, sticky mud, trying to rescue the treasure he had lost. Chunks of black mud and cold slush caked his fingers, making them sticky and hard to move; slowly a smile rose to his lips as he felt the slimy hardness. Kneeling down in the slimy mess he brought the grimy bottle to his mouth and withdrew it. “Psiakrew!” he hissed, throwing the empty bottle to the black sludge below.
Five sets of eyes were upon him: young eyes; old eyes; knowing eyes; heartbroken eyes; innocent eyes. He stared at each in turn; finally, his eyes rested on his father’s cold stare. “Oh, what the hell do you want?” He hissed, turning abruptly, scrambling under his bed, his fingers running everywhere, desperately searching as his heart pounded in impatient anticipation.
“It’s gone, son.” Stefan stated in a clipped tone, his tired eyes staring down at the crumpled, sodden boy beneath his feet.
“What the hell do you mean it’s gone; gone where?” the young man demanded, his eyes rising to meet his father’