Safety Pin

Wanda put down the safety pin. It seemed like each time she tried to chafe the coal out from underneath her tattered nail beds, they became darker. She thought of Daniel. He had been staying with his babka ever since Wanda moved to the dormitories in Lublin to be closer to the mine. The last time she saw him, he shrieked “wiedźma!” at the sight of her weathered fingertips. A witch. She felt deserving of such a slur after leaving Daniel motherless. She keeps the safety pin in her pocket now. Always scraping, never clean. 

 

Stella barked, “Przestań! Put that thing away. We’re going dancing. No men to impress! Stop worrying about those nails for once.” Wanda laughed. When the Russians came, Stella welcomed them with open arms, unlike most Poles. Stella never wanted to be a wife. Now she could trade haughty remarks about her unwed status for unsexed uniforms and measly wages. 

 

Wanda struggled to understand Stella; she wished she stood on her own two feet like her roommate did so brazenly.

 

Regina’s eyes darted back and forth as Stella combed her own split ends, releasing the pernicious, yet all-too-familiar smell of black smoke. Regina graciously touched Wanda’s hand and they locked eyes: her stare spoke indiscernible heaps of words. You felt what Regina meant instead of hearing it. Wanda understood, and she handed Regina the safety pin, knowing she would hold onto it as if it were her own, her own Daniel. Regina always stayed quiet, never complaining. She was like a praying mantis, quiet and beautiful, but something about her grace was complex; she might bite someone’s head off if they hit the wrong nerve. She was gentle, but her stilted self control adequately measured her strength amidst bullshit. 

 

Wanda struggled to understand Regina; she wished she could garner Regina’s same empathy without losing her sense of self in those around her. 

 

Stella thrusted her hand under her bug-ridden mattress. Potato vodka with one strand of bison grass, the good stuff. Wanda’s heart rate began to increase. The omnipresent decision of whether to drink. She craved the potent elixir, equal parts burning and warmth. Yet, Wanda frequently finished the night with too much burning in her chest, which inevitably led to more burning on her cheeks, from the mix of warm tears and pore-embedded coal. Stella never cried after a night of dancing. Stella didn’t have a child.

 

But really it was the burning cheeks that Wanda hated the most. Her tears were never clear, always dusty grey. The coal never left. She wanted the coal to seep out of her pores and back into the mines where it belonged. Sometimes, she would enter the ladies’ room and scrub until her cheeks were raw. This made the stinging worse. Always scraping, never clean. She knew that even if she left, she would never be clean. She knew that Daniel wouldn’t look at her the same until she was clean. Wiedźma!

 

She sipped from the bottle. Polish vodka, the authentic kind, was earthier than Soviet vodka. The burn dissolved into a smoother, more ambient taste of nuts and flowers. Immediately, her heart rate slowed, and she took one more gulp, the strand of bison grass tickling the tip of her tongue. She was meager now. Two big gulps of Stella’s vodka and she felt light again. 

 

Wanda began to drift into stillness, but Stella’s barking never failed to snap her right out of it. She was rambling about this miner named Stephen, who certainly wanted more from Stella than she would ever give to a man. He ruthlessly taunted her and called her a cow. She thought he was an ass; Wanda thought he was enamored by her. 

 

But that’s how life was now: men didn’t court women, they didn’t dance with their brides. They resented women for taking care of what they thought was their job. They resented women for taking care of their babies, for cooking for them, and for working day and night to pay for them. With each new responsibility women were gifted, they were concurrently mocked and ridiculed.

 

That’s how they became friends. Stella, Regina, and Wanda were without men. For their respective reasons, they found themselves alone in Lubin, working for people and things that they couldn’t see. 

 

Regina rocked back and forth in her chair, shifting her eyes between Stella and Wanda. Never missing a moment, like she was perpetually ready to offer the most subtle form of empathy that would immediately placate them. She grabbed the brush and began to comb through Stella’s hair. For a moment, it was quiet. “Men. They’re all pieces of shit,” Stella murmured, and she took a sip.

 

Suddenly a loud bang reverberated through the room. Six punches heaved themselves against the door. The women buried the bison grass vodka and tied their hair back. Regina opened the door and stepped outside. Wanda and Stella were frozen, hand in hand. After a few minutes, Wanda’s heart began to race too quickly. Stella pressed her ear to the door and couldn’t hear Regina. 

 

“It’s safe, take another sip.”

 

Wanda grabbed the vodka and drank for seven seconds. As she wiped the fluid from her prickling lips, Regina slowly opened the door. She looked at Wanda with trembling eyes. 

 

Wanda’s vision became blurry. Was it the vodka?

 

Regina handed Wanda the safety pin. Daniel.

 

Wanda collapsed to the floor. Regina and Stella wiped her tears and whispered to her that she would be okay. But Wanda didn’t need comfort. She needed to get the coal off. 

 

Always scraping, never clean.