Chapter 18: Razor

“Do your parents let you use this place? Do they know about us?” asked Tamara.

Razor laughed. “Oh my God, no! They’d kill me if they knew. You too, probably. Don’t worry, we’re safe.”

“What? How? You’ve never really explained that,” she replied.

He parked behind the bungalow and opened the door. “Let’s go inside and we can talk.”

She grinned. “We go inside, and we are going to do more than talk.”

Razor grinned back. “Maybe so. Okay, let’s sit down by the creek and hope the bugs don’t eat us alive.” He popped the trunk and pulled out an old blanket and then took her hand and led her over to the grass where they could see Springwater Crick. After they sat down, he said, “You know my folks are Polish, right? I mean you can tell by my name, Paulus Piotr Ryszard Rezorowitsky

“Yeah, you told me. That’s a real mouthful!” she said.

He laughed and nodded. “You can’t even fill out forms correctly; there’s not enough spaces! That’s why everybody calls me Razor.”

“Okay. So, what has that got to do with this place?” Tam asked, waving towards the bungalow. Razor’s parents owned Lakefront RV Park and Campground just outside of Springwater. In addition to RV sites, they also had campsites and a dozen small bungalows available for rent for those who wanted their camping to include a bed. There was also a thirteenth bungalow, though it was known as ‘Number Fourteen; Razor had explained to her that many skyscrapers and hotels didn’t use ‘thirteen’ because some people were superstitious. Bungalow Fourteen was used for storage, though it had heat and light and a bed. Rather than trying to fool around in the back seat of a car, he and Tamara would drive to the camp and use his pass key.

“It’s kind of my family history...”

“No matter what, we must stay together,” said Stefan Jacek Rezorowitsky.

“Yes, I know you and Uncle Tadeusz and Aunt Maria keep saying that. So what?” replied his sister, Maritsa Alexandra.

“It will be safer if we are not separated. We must stay together at all times.”

“You keep saying that, but why?” she asked. She was about to turn eighteen and was a beautiful young woman, and somewhat naïve.

Stefan, twenty, tried not to roll his eyes. “Because men and women are not allowed to be together. You will be apart from me. What if we get put on different planes or sent to different cities? How can I protect you if we aren’t together?”

“Oh.”

Life was hard in Poland, especially if you were young orphans. Their father had been part of the early Solidarity trade union when it was formed in Gdansk, protesting the communist government. Unsurprisingly, the communist government and their Soviet overlords were unhappy. Martial law was declared, and a tough general named Wojciech Jaruzelski was installed to crack down on the radicals. Shortly after Maritsa’s birth, their mother had joined their father in a march against the government. Troops were sent in, heads were cracked, bullets were fired, arrests were made. Neither parent came home; the two young children were taken in by an aunt and uncle.

It was agreed that the best thing the two could do was to leave Poland once they were old enough. The 1980s were very difficult in Poland. After the government collapsed and emigration became legal, it was just a matter of getting passports and visas and scraping up enough money to leave. In this they were helped by the fact that the Rezorowitsky family was devoutly Catholic - as was Pope John Paul II, a native-born Pole. Millions of US dollars flowed in from the Church in aid, and some was earmarked to help orphans like the Rezorowitskys.

“So, how do we stay together?” she asked her brother.

“I have it all worked out with Father Czapotitsa. It is unorthodox, but not completely illegal.” Father Czapotitsa was their priest and had an odd way of looking at things occasionally. “We won’t travel as brother and sister. We will travel as husband and wife.”

“WHAT?”

“Listen, nobody would ever force a husband apart from his wife. It’s not like we are going to get married. We simply say that on the immigration forms. Later, after we settle someplace, we get divorced. Since we were never married, it’s not illegal, not even in the eyes of God. That’s what Father Czapotitsa said.”

“This is the most insane thing I have ever heard you say, Stefan!” She shook her head. “What if we get caught?”

“Who is going to catch us? Nobody is going to call here asking about us. Who would they call, anyway? The priest who married us? You know, Father Czapotitsa?” he laughed.

“And where would we live?”

“We would live together.”

“In one bed?”

He shrugged. “So what? You have the bed and I have some blankets on the floor. We’ve lived like that here for years.”

“Not in the same room!”

“Maritsa, this is the best way I can figure out how to do this. We need to leave Poland. America is the best place we can go. I know some English. You can learn. We will work hard and become Americans. They let people become citizens there. You will see. It will be a good life. I promise!”

Though the ‘newlyweds’ didn’t know it, it was much simpler to emigrate to America in the 1990s than it would become a decade later, especially with the help of the Catholic Church. They found a sponsor in Saint Michael’s Church in East Springfield and were able to fly from Warsaw to London, and then New York, and then on to Raleigh-Durham, where a driver in a van picked them up. They took with them all they owned in two small suitcases. In East Springfield they could stay together in the same room; if they had been brother and sister they would have been split apart. As Stefan had told Maritsa she would sleep on the small bed while he put a blanket on the floor.

As millions of previous immigrants had discovered, America was not the land of milk and honey, and the streets were not paved with gold. However, as those same millions learned, it was a hell of a lot better than whatever nightmare they were leaving! Stefan was young and strong and was able to find work as a handyman at a nearby lumberyard. Nights he worked as a janitor. Maritsa began learning English and worked for Saint Michael’s cleaning the church and babysitting for parishioners. They scrimped and saved every penny they could. Eventually they moved out of the church sanctuary into a tiny one-bedroom apartment; the only difference in living arrangements was that Stefan could now sleep on their couch.

Then they had a chance to explore the area. It was a warm and sunny Sunday and for once they both had the day off. Their priest, Father Ryan, was concerned the young couple was burning out. Shortly after Mass, he loaned them a pair of bicycles and gave them a picnic lunch and pointed them down the road. They stopped in a small glade at the bottom of a large hill and laid out a blanket.

Maritsa looked around the glade for a few minutes, and when Stefan asked her what she was looking for, she answered, “I thought I saw somebody, a man.”

Stefan looked around. “I don’t see anybody.”

Maritsa smiled at him and shrugged. She sat down on the blanket and looked in the basket. “What did Father Ryan say to you before we left?”

Stefan grinned. “He was curious about when the parish could expect a baptism. Being good children of the church, I mean. He knew we were working hard to make our way in America but warned that it was necessary that we take the time to begin building our family. Something about all work and no play making Stefan a dull boy. Maritsa a dull girl, too, I guess.”

Maritsa blushed a deep red. “Oh my God! He thinks we’re...”

Stefan grinned even more. “Of course, he does! We’re husband and wife, remember? He expects us to be fruitful and begin multiplying!”

“And what did you tell him? This is so embarrassing!”

Stefan rolled onto his back and began laughing loudly. “I told him that it was hard to find the time, but that we understood our marital obligations and were pursuing them as best we could.”

“Stefan!”

“Then I asked him to pray for us so that we would be blessed with many children.”

“STEFAN!” squawked Maritsa. “You didn’t!”

Stefan didn’t respond other than by laughing even harder and louder. That angered Maritsa, who began punching her brother. Continuing to laugh, Stefan protected himself by grabbing his sister’s hands. Caught off balance, she fell on top of him.

Suddenly Maritsa felt warm, much warmer than could be accounted for by the weather. She was laying on top of Stefan and though she had stopped struggling he didn’t release her hands. He stared up into her eyes and whispered, “Maritsa...”

Then he stopped; he couldn’t speak with her lips on his. “Oh Stefan...”, she murmured as she writhed in his arms. “Stefan!” Her brother couldn’t understand what was happening, but it felt so natural. His hands roamed her body, holding her against him. She felt so soft and warm, and his body felt so hard. His eyes were open as she pulled back slightly and looked down into his eyes. Maritsa was crying. “Oh, Stefan, I am so scared, so lonely. What will I do when you find someone to love? What will happen when you leave me? Where will I go? What will I do? Oh, Stefan...”

Holding his sister tightly, Stefan rolled over, putting her on her back on the blanket and keeping her in his arms. “Maritsa, I will never leave you! I love you! I will always be with you!” Then his mouth was on hers again, as they consumed each other’s lips. Seconds later, his hands were on her shirt, pulling it up and over her head. Her bra strap was torn when he couldn’t unsnap it fast enough. Her shorts and panties were pushed down off her legs, and then Stefan was on top. He managed to undo his pants, and then he was inside her, tearing through the tissue of her maidenhead. She cried out, but not in pain. Her arms and legs wrapped around his body instinctively, and his frenzied thrusts drove her to a massive orgasm. It was much too soon before she felt his love blasting into her. She felt each spasm and jet, and was amazed that he never stopped his movements, he stayed hard and continued making love to her. No, it was beyond making love, they were making lust! She was thrusting back at him, and she cried out, urging him on, and Stefan’s cum surged forth a second time, filling her further.