Born in 1913 in Tarnopol (modern-day Ukraine), Kornel Filipowicz grew up in Cieszyn but spent most of his life in Kraków. He debuted before the war, but it was only later that he developed his unique style, which has been characterized by ‘metaphysical realism’ and a predilection for detailed portrayal of the everyday ‘banal’ reality of provincial towns. In his private life, Filipowicz was the long-term partner of Wisława Szymborska, and his poems and stories certainly show similarities to that of the Nobel Prize winner. Filipowicz was an enthusiastic fisherman, which is also reflected in his writing. Written probably in 1979, “When They Come in Our Dreams” is widely considered one of Filipowicz’s greatest masterpieces. More recently, the story has been described as prophetic and symbolic in the ways that it depicts the imminent migrant crisis.
It was frosty outside, but there was no wind. Through the window, I could see snowflakes floating lazily through the still air and settling quietly onto the ground, the roofs, and trees. It was afternoon already, time passed imperceptibly, empty and inert.
I was reading a book that rather bored me, so from time to time I’d think of something else, or doze briefly, then I’d return to the interrupted sentence, go back to the beginning, and again I’d drop off for a moment. Without losing awareness of where I was, or of a blissful (if somewhat monotonous) sense of peace and safety, I floated just beneath the surface of wakefulness, always on the shore of that stretch where everything is still real, but hazy and muted, so only half distinct. I could have fallen fast asleep at any moment, but I didn’t try to resist. I had nothing urgent to do, I could sleep or not. Sleep is a state in which we immerse ourselves with the naïve trust of a creature to whom it seems that, wherever else, at least in sleep nothing evil threatens it. And why not. What harm could we possibly come to in our own absence?
I suddenly fell, then, into a sleep so sound, so deep, that when I resurfaced, it seemed to me a more intense reality than that in which I’d lived till then. I went on sitting in the chair in my room where ostensibly nothing had changed, except that everything around seemed somehow refreshed, dusted, cleansed. My senses had sharpened as though an obstacle separating me from objects, sounds and colours had suddenly been removed. I was completely conscious and aware of everything that was happening, as if more susceptible to emotions, and also somehow rejuvenated as though I’d recovered miraculously after a long illness.
The bell rang out in the hallway, so shrill and emphatic that, opening the door, I expected, I was even sure, that I would see the person who’d been delivering letters and money to me for twenty-five years. But there was no postman in the corridor, or even a messenger with a parcel or a telegram. In front of my door stood a woman carrying a child, dressed in dirty, grey, and patched clothing of the kind you might see worn by people living
