There was this one kid in school, I remember that almost every time he got it upright. No one would play with him. You knew right from the start that he’d never come last. You must admit there’s no way you can play with someone like that. You have to have equal amounts of hope and fear even in something like the matchbox game.
You wouldn’t want to have been in a school like that? I understand. It’s just that it didn’t depend on whether you wanted to be there or not. Your turn. Upright again. Now me. And again, there you go. At school I was far from being the worst. Quite the opposite. It was another matter that I’d practice almost every evening I stayed behind in the rec room. I’d often take a break from practicing the sax or some other instrument and flip the matchbox at least a bit. Yes, I spent time in the rec room almost every evening. Mostly late when no one else was there. Though sometimes the music teacher would come by. I never minded that he was drunk. He’d sit down and I knew he was listening to me play. Again you got it upright. You should drop everything and just play the matchbox game. If you played for money you could make a fortune.
How did I end up in that school? You remember how the sister died, I told you about that. Soon afterwards I fell ill. I had a high fever, they gave me some pills, I sweated, but the moment the fever dropped it would come back again. I got all pale and skinny. I could pull myself out of bed, but I didn’t have the strength to walk. The unit, though, had to move from the lake because they were beginning to be encircled. They took turns at carrying me, handing me from one to another for a time. We walked all night and all day, with short breaks. That is, I was carried. By evening they were out of the woods, they were planning to go into another woods, then all of a sudden they noticed a forester’s cottage. They waited till it got completely dark. A light came on in one window. Two of them went to check. It turned out that the only person in the place was the forester’s wife. They took me to her and left me in her care. She wrung her hands over me and said:
“Mother of God, if I’d only known you were so sick. Your forehead is burning up, you’re all on fire. But don’t die on me, I only just buried my man.”
Feverish as I was, she bathed me in a tub, lamenting all the while:
“You’re so skinny! Mother of God, skin and bone. Well, I’ll just have to fatten you up, but get out of the tub now.”
After that she cupped me. Then she rubbed me from head to foot with something that stung.
“Goodness, those cups left such dark marks. So dark,” she kept repeating as she worked the stuff into my skin. “I’ve never seen such dark marks. I’d leech you, but I don’t have any leeches.” She gave me something to drink. I remember it was awfully bitter. “Drink up, it’ll do you good.” Then she wrapped me in an eiderdown.
Apparently I slept three nights and two days. She roused me now and then just to give me more of the bitter drink. I finally woke up completely devoid of strength, I couldn’t even bring my hand out from under the eiderdown. But the fever was gone.
“I killed a chicken for you,” she said, as if she was welcoming me into the world, “so you can have some broth. After a sickness like that, broth is the best thing.” But she wouldn’t allow me out of bed. “You just lie there, you need to stay put awhile. I’m not going to let you get up just yet.” She fed me in bed, putting one spoonful after another into my mouth. A little broth, some noodles, a tiny piece of meat. “Come on, have some more, just a bit. One more spoonful at least. You have to put on some weight, otherwise you won’t get your strength back. You’re so skinny, mother of God but you’re skinny.”
She pulled the eiderdown back and looked at me. I was too weak even to be embarrassed. She was still young, as I remember her today. I just thought she was on the plump side. She might have been good-looking, I don’t remember. Her face was rather bland, her eyes were sad but kind. She had black hair, she used to let it down when she brushed it and it would cover her up completely. Her breasts were so full they’d sometimes spill over the top of her nightgown when she was getting out of bed.
She had no children, and the forester had died not long before. The Germans had been hunting partisans, it was sunrise, and he had run out of the cottage to chase off some wild boars that were rooting around in the potato patch. They thought someone was trying to escape from the place and there were shots. She ran out after him and found him lying dead right outside the cottage, at the edge of the field. She often wept for him. She’d be peeling potatoes or making dough for noodles and suddenly she’d burst into tears. I’d comfort her as best I could:
“Don’t cry, ma’am. Maybe he’s in heaven now and he can see you crying.”
“How did you get so wise?” And she’d stop. “Will you have something to eat? I’ll go see if the chickens have laid, I could make you some scrambled eggs. You need to eat. And dinner won’t be for a long while.” She’d keep telling me I was putting on weight before her eyes. “You know, you look better already. Much better, thank the Lord. Do you want something to eat?” That was the constant refrain: “At least have a slice of bread and butter. Maybe with some cheese? The butter’s homemade, the cheese too.”
She had two cows. I’d already gotten my strength back and I’d graze the cows on the pasture by the woods. Often it wouldn’t yet be sundown and she’d come bring me either a slice of bread and butter with cheese, or two or three hard-boiled eggs.
“It’s still aways to dinner. You must be hungry. Have this …” Sometimes she’d sit with me awhile. She’d watch me eating and keep saying: “Eat, eat. You’ve filled out even since yesterday.”
One time we were already in our beds, her in hers and me in mine, when I heard her crying. Very quietly, but ever since I was little my hearing has been good, I thought she was maybe having a bad dream. I raised my head and listened intently. I could hear she was weeping.
“Are you crying, ma’am?” I asked. “Why?”
“It’s nothing. There’s no point telling you. It’d be different if you were older. Go back to sleep.”
Winter came. She was still plying me with food, and as for me, I was helping with everything, whether she asked me to or not. She’d often say God had sent me to her, because how could she have managed on her own after he was gone. Meaning the forester. His hat lay on the dresser in the main room. It was sort of green, with a narrow brim, there was a cord twisted around it and tied in a figure-of-eight at the side. I might not have paid any attention to it, but one time she took it from the dresser, cleaned it with a brush, and hung it on a nail over their wedding photograph.
“It should go here,” she said. “Don’t ever touch it. It’s a sacred thing.”
As you know, though, sacred things are more tempting even than sin. One day she left to go to the store in the village. I took down the hat and studied the wedding photo. She wasn’t much older than in the picture. The forester just looked like a forester. I thought to myself, he’s dead, she’s at the store, who’s going to see if I try on the hat? So I did.
There was also one room that she kept locked up. She put the key behind a picture of Our Lady with the Infant Christ. But since she locked the room, that meant she didn’t want me to go in there. And I didn’t. But once she left the key in the door and didn’t turn it. I felt an itch, and I peeked in. All I could see was a bulging bed covered with a patterned bedspread. Next to the bed was a cradle and a large wall mirror. I knew about the mirror. Whenever she washed her hair she’d tell me to do this or that, keep an eye on something, while she was brushing her hair in front of the mirror. And she’d go into that room, lock herself in and brush her hair for the longest time.