Snow like that changes the world. For instance, when you walk through the woods among the trees all heaped with snow, you really feel like just lying down under one of the trees. Especially when it falls in big flakes, even if it were going to cover you up, you’d still lie down. Why not? Is it so difficult to imagine you’re lying there in bed, in the sheets, under a fluffy quilt, plus no one’s waking you up, while here over your head there’s, let say, a happy fir tree. That’s right, trees can be happy or unhappy too, it can happen. Like people, they’re not so different from us. I can see you don’t believe me. Let me tell you, when I was little I could tell at a glance which trees were happy and which ones weren’t. When I went berry-picking or mushrooming with mother, she’d be looking for berries or mushrooms, whereas me, I’d be looking at the trees and seeing which ones were happy and which were unhappy. Often I’d call her over to come take a look, she really had to see. She’d come away from her berries or mushrooms, thinking something must be wrong. But she never told me I was talking nonsense, that I’d taken her away from her berries or mushrooms for no reason. Try and imagine this: two oak trees next to each other, both of them just oaks, but one of them is happy, while the other one is kind of stock still in its distress. On the first tree the leaves are all atremble with the joy of life, on the other one they look like all they want to do is fall off.
These days I can’t tell which is which. I often walk a good ways through the woods, but I can’t figure it out. They all look the same to me, and whether a tree’s happy or unhappy, I can’t say. Often I’ll take the dogs out and watch to see if they know. But neither of them so much as sniffs at a tree. How can I get them to? What are they even supposed to sniff for — to see which trees are happy and which ones aren’t? You’d have to explain to them what that meant. The thing is, no one knows. Besides, the woods themselves may mean something different to dogs. In any case, for me they’re no longer the same woods.
When I got cold looking through the crack, I went back down to the bottom of the cellar. It was much warmer down there. I slept there, ate there. Oh, there was plenty to eat. Not just potatoes. Carrots, beets, cabbage, turnip. When I was thirsty, I drank snow. I managed to push the door open a tiny bit, just enough to reach out my hand and get a handful of snow.
I didn’t count on anyone finding me there. To be honest, I didn’t want anyone to find me. Besides, who could it have been? The whole place was deserted, silent, nothing but the snow. You’ll find this hard to believe, but I was actually beginning to feel comfortable there. I felt the way I did when I was lying in the bottom of the boat in the reeds, and they’d be calling me, father, mother, my sisters, and I’d pretend not to hear. I’d imagine them scolding me later, Where on earth were you? You’re nothing but trouble. We were calling and calling.
No animal came by, no bird flew over or perched on a tree. It was only some time later that I saw a hare, though even then I just caught a glimpse of it on top of the snow. Some time after that, I don’t know how long it could have been since I saw the hare, I wasn’t counting the days — I guess I could have put one potato aside each day, say, but what for? When you count, it means you’re counting on something. Whereas me, I wasn’t counting on anything, like I told you. Anyway, after a while a deer appeared. I didn’t think it was real. I stared and I couldn’t believe my eyes. I thought I must be dreaming, because it was standing more or less where the kitchen had been. Plus it was calm, tame, you rarely see deer that calm and trusting. It stood there like nothing could scare it away. It must have been hungry, it started grubbing in the snow with its muzzle. I thought about tossing it some potatoes, it might come even closer. But I couldn’t open the door any wider. Then suddenly, though nothing had startled it, it just vanished. You know, when you look at nothing but snow, and through a crack in a door at that, everything happens in a different way. And different things happen than when there’s no snow.
I’d glue my eye to that crack in the door, and it was like looking through a stereoscope at Christmas postcards. For instance, one time a Christmas tree decorated with candles appeared where our living room had been. The candles burned so brightly that everywhere else all around became dark as night, even though it was daytime. Or suddenly, beyond the woods a star began to fall from the sky, big and glowing, with a shining tail. I had to take my eye away from the crack, because I couldn’t stare at it for long. Then one day I looked out and the three kings were passing by. How did I know they were kings? They wore crowns. They looked lost, because they walked a ways, turned around and went off in a different direction.
One time father took me to market and we went into a store to buy notebooks. Under the glass counter top they had postcards like that, among other things the three kings walking across snow, and someone was pointing the way to them, not this way, that way. I couldn’t tear my eyes away. It was the first time I’d seen postcards. I even got up the courage to ask the clerk what you did with them.
“You send them,” he said.
I started badgering father:
“Daddy, let’s buy one and send it.”
“Who to?” He tugged me away impatiently. “We don’t have anyone to send it to. Everyone’s here.”
One time there was the sound of sleigh bells. I stuck my eye to the crack. It got louder and louder, it was clearly coming in my direction. Then, suddenly it started to move further away, till it faded completely. I never saw the sleigh, or who was driving it. Another time, carol singers appeared. They were walking in single file, one after another, they could barely lift their feet clear of the snow. In the lead was the Star, after him King Herod, the Marshal, the Jew, the Watchman, while the Devil brought up the rear. I was surprised Death wasn’t there. I thought to myself, who’s going to cut Herod’s head off? But maybe Death was there after all, it was just that Death is white, and against the snow you couldn’t tell if he was there. The way you sometimes can’t tell dreams from waking life.
Mr. Robert, ever since we first met, every Christmas he’d send me one of those cards, and I’d send one to him. We’d choose the kind I’m talking about, with Christmas trees, carolers, the three kings and so on. He’d often select one that he made fun of in what he wrote on the back. I’m sending you what’s left of our naivety, check out the other side.
One Christmas I was picking out a card for him when I saw one that was just like what I’d seen through the crack in the door. Exactly the same. A star was falling beyond some woods, and the world lay under a blanket of snow. I bought it, bought a stamp right away, addressed it almost without thinking and sent it. Not to Mr. Robert. To this place. With no message. I mean, what message could I have sent? Ever since then, every Christmas I would send a card like that. Without a message. One time only, I wondered about signing it: Yours. But what does that mean? Whose? They never came back. How could they, I never gave a return address. Pointless, you reckon? I thought so too. But Christmas would come around again and I’d send another one. You might not agree with me, but to my mind it’s only on postcards that the world is still the way we’d like it to be. That’s why we send them to one another.