So our teachers might have been doing the smart thing by leaving us to our own devices. Because eventually we would have had to calm down of our own accord, since it wasn’t a fuse and there was no hope of the power being turned back on right away. It was just that, as often happens, chance intervened. The screen unexpectedly came away from the wall. You’re probably thinking, so what? But at a moment like that, the smallest thing can take on great power. Perhaps it had been carelessly hung. Or it might have come loose from all of our shouting, yelling, smashing everything, because the whole hut was shaking from it all. Everyone rushed up and started trampling on the screen. Like it was its fault for the lights going out. Then one of the boys picked it up from the floor and shouted:
“Guys, let’s make a noose! Let’s hang someone!”
Everyone else chimed in:
“A noose! A noose! Let’s have a hanging!”
The first boy explained later that his intentions had been good. He wanted to prevent any more instruments being damaged, because we wouldn’t have anything to learn to play on. They would have destroyed all of them. And as for hanging, they’d never have actually hanged anyone, because aside from us there wasn’t anyone left in the school. They started tearing the screen into strips and debating who they should pick. There were various candidates. From among the teachers, it goes without saying, because who else? In cases like that, teachers are always the best bet. Especially ours. But no one could agree on who it should be. They braided the rope as they argued. They were in the dark, so they weren’t doing that great of a job. The rope was plaited like a braid of hair, it was all loose. Besides, the screen wasn’t good material for a rope. It was made of cotton, like a bed sheet or a quilt cover. For rope, hemp is the only thing. Then you can be sure it won’t break.
When they had to take Uncle Jan down, the rope was hemp and it couldn’t be cut even with a kitchen knife, it was so tightly twined. They kept hacking away at it. In the end father had to take an ax and cut Uncle down along with the branch he was hanging from.
All of a sudden, one of the boys gave a triumphant shout:
“Let’s hang the commandant!”
The whole room whooped:
“Hurrah! The commandant! The commandant!”
It was as if only the commandant matched the scale of this revolt. In any case, he seemed the best choice. Above all, it was as if in his person he made it possible for us to cross a further boundary. The revolt, which had seemed about to turn from a disagreement into a fist fight, flared up all over again.
“Let’s get the commandant! Let’s hang the bastard!”
Someone sang:
“The executioners have spilled our blood so long!”
It goes without saying that by now the rec room was too small for the revolt. We swarmed out the door and through the windows into the parade ground, whether we were for or against hanging the commandant, it was all the same. We marched up to the teachers’ hut where the commandant’s office was. We started chanting:
“Commandant! Commandant! Come out, commandant!”
No, the commandant didn’t live at the school. He traveled to work each day. At that time he was nowhere to be found. We knew that, of course. But the revolt had blinded us so we forgot. Of course no one came out. The hut stood in darkness and silence. There wasn’t so much as a glimmer of light in any of the windows. It was like all the teachers were gone too. Maybe they’d run away, every last one of them, when the film stopped. Or they were sitting inside without making a sound.
We hammered on all of the doors, all of the walls. In the end we smashed all the windows. Nothing. There wasn’t a living soul. Someone brought up the idea of burning the hut down, since there had to be someone in there. There were always at least three teachers on duty at any given time. Someone else said we should burn all the huts, even the ones we lived in. Burn the whole school down. If there was going to be a fire, let there be a fire. We could go up on the hill and watch it all burn. At least that. Nero set Rome on fire the same way. I didn’t know what Rome was, I didn’t know who Nero was. But there were a few kids in the school who knew this and that. Then we’d run away. Good-bye, goddamn school!
One of them volunteered right away to do the Rome thing, he said he knew where they kept the cans of kerosene, he’d run and fetch them. Someone else said it was better to hang somebody. We had a rope made from the screen, and the film had been the cause of it all. Otherwise why had we bothered to braid it? We set off around the parade ground, attacking all the other huts, smashing windows everywhere in the hope that we’d draw someone out, bring them into the open, because it wasn’t possible we’d been left alone with our revolt. Our rage had reached its peak. It was a huge letdown that nobody was there. Some people started shouting that we should go back to the rec room and get the projectionist, maybe he’d have come round by now.
Then we heard someone coming. They seemed to be walking heavily, slowly, one step at a time. The square was paved with gravel, and you could hear it crunching louder and louder. Even when the steps paused, the gravel still sounded under the person’s feet, as if they were rocking on it. Can you guess who it was? That’s right, it was him, the music teacher. Who else. Only a drunk could have been so unaware of the danger. We recognized him from far off. We stood there and waited. He was well gone. He took one last step as he loomed out of the darkness, then suddenly staggered. One of the boys darted forward and caught him, otherwise he would probably have fallen.
“Thank you, thank you,” he mumbled. Though it seemed that it was only with his next step he could actually see us. “Why aren’t you in bed yet, boys?” he asked, half surprised and half not. “Don’t take me as your example. I hardly sleep at all anymore.”
“This is a revolt!” someone exclaimed.
“A revolt?” He hiccupped so hard his whole body swayed. “Good for you. I was in a revolt one time myself. You can see where that got me. But maybe you’ll do better out of it. All right, just let me through now. For some reason I feel like going to bed tonight.”
“It’s a real revolt!” another boy shouted virtually in his ear.
“We’ve smashed all the windows! Now we’re going to burn the school to the ground! All the huts!” They were yelling over one another across his nodding head, forming an ever tighter circle around him.
“I believe you that it’s real,” he murmured. “I believe everything nowadays, boys. All right, let me through. I want to sleep, to sleep.”
Then out of the middle of the crowd there came a shout, though afterwards no one fessed up to it:
“We should hang him! He’s so drunk he won’t even feel it!”
Someone else objected. But a third person screamed:
“A revolt’s a revolt! It’s all the same who we hang! There’s no better or worse choices! Put the noose on him!”
He’d been so drunk he could barely stand, but he sobered up at once:
“For what, boys? For what?”
“We have to. It’s a revolt.” Whoever said it, their voice cracked as they slippd the noose around his neck.
What do you think about that? I mean, he was the only one of them we actually liked. Of all the teachers. Whether you wanted to learn to play an instrument or not. Actually most boys didn’t, but still all of us really liked him. Maybe it was just that we didn’t know the rules of revolts, and we were bursting with rage. He on the other hand, he must have known, because he treated it like a joke.
“Hang away, boys, if you must. Just let me have a drink first.” He took out his bottle, from this pocket here. “Be a pity to leave even a little drop.” Though I think the bottle was probably empty, it kind of rang hollow when he lifted it to his lips. “Well, at least I’ll die like a true artist. At the hands of those dearest to me. That’s something.” At that point he checked the noose, which they’d already tied around his neck. “Are you sure this thing will hold, boys? It doesn’t seem that strong. I’d prefer not to have to come back.”