They’d set up a gallows and on the gallows hung men and women, together.
“These here are partisan rebels,” said the police. “Communists we shot in the woods. Some are, no doubt, from your village, your sons and daughters. Give us their names and we might let you bury them in peace.”
We formed a line and, one by one, walked by the corpses. It made no sense to hang people already shot. But it made for a terrible display.
“You know this one? And how about this one, you know her?”
And then it was my turn to stand before the gallows. I held my eyes shut as hard as I could and there was nothing in the world then besides the sound of creaking rope.
•
It’s Saturday morning and Buryana begins to dress her mother.
“Let me do it,” I say. “I can’t skip a day.”
For lunch we eat chicken with rice, and Buryana tells me to ease up on the salt. For eight years nobody has told me such a thing and it feels strange, but I obey. For dessert we get yogurt with sugar and Pavel eats my cup as well. His mother tells him to ease up on the sugar and we laugh. It’s not really funny, but we laugh anyway. A nurse brings Pavel an apple and he thanks her, though I can see he’s disappointed.
We let him do his homework in our room and walk a few slow circles in the yard. Buryana keeps quiet, and I, too, have no idea what to say. We find Pavel reading from the book of letters. “Grandma,” he’s saying, “who did you love more? Grandpa or the komita?”
I catch myself waiting for her answer. It seems that Buryana, too, is waiting. Of course she loved the komita more — he must have been her sweetheart, her first big love. Most likely, I’ve come to think, they were engaged. Most likely, they made plans together, imagined a little house, a pair of children. She wouldn’t keep his diary for so many years otherwise. And then, with their love peaking, he was killed. I know that much without yet having read the end. At first she felt betrayed. He’d put some strange ideals, brotherhood and freedom, before his love for her. She hated him for that. But then one morning, almost a year after his death, the postman brought a package with foreign stamps. She read the diary, still hating him. She read it every day. She learned each letter by heart, and with the months her hatred thinned, and in the end his death turned their love ideal, doomed not to die. Yes, that’s what I’ve come to think now. Their love was foolish, childish, sugar-sweet, the kind of love that, if you are lucky to lose it, flares up like a thatched roof but burns as long as you live. While our love … I am her husband, she is my wife.
But then, as if to pull me out of my own mind, Nora takes my hand and holds it. I kiss her hand. “Let’s read,” I say. I almost shout it, suddenly with a light and empty head. I take the little book.
The komiti reach their meeting destination, the village of Crni Brod. The sun is already setting behind the mountains. The village is very quiet. A man comes forward to meet them. The komiti ask him, “Are the Voivodes here?” “Yes, the captains are here, the man answers, they’re waiting in my house.” “And you’re not lying?” the komiti ask. “I swear by my children,” the man says, and crosses himself three times. He leads them through the village. Black ropes of smoke unwind from the chimneys and the iced roofs blaze with dying sun. The snow crunches under their boots. Nothing stirs.
They arrive at the house. The man pushes the gates open and the Voivode along with two others follow inside. Then suddenly a shell hisses in the snow and Peyo falls, wounded in the thigh. Around him the komiti thrash about like fleas on a white sheet. They’ve been betrayed.
Somehow, without firing a single shot, Peyo limps away. His blood is gushing out. He collapses outside a house, conscious long enough to feel two hands pull him inside.
We sit. It seems that a long time passes without any sound. I go through my drawer until I find an old pack of Arda from the days when I still smoked. I push the window open and light a cigarette and once again no one protests. The taste is awful — stale and damp. When I’m finished I light a second. I watch my wife’s reflection in the glass. I wonder if I have brought up things that should be left buried. But I want to read the end. I know she wants to hear it.
The Turks have butchered all the komiti, some defiant peasants have sheltered Peyo, but his wound is going septic. I see him clearly now, in my own bed, writing hectically, trying to lock all these events onto paper while he still has some strength. His eyes are black, shiny with fever, and his lips glisten with the fat from the rooster soup the peasants have fed him. But no soup can help. He is kissing death in the mouth.
I turn the final page and read what appears to be a rebel song.I got no father, I got no mother,Father to scorn me,Mother to mourn me,My father — the mountain.My mother — the shotgun.
“That’s it,” I say, “there’s no more writing.”
Pavel jumps off his cot to grab his apple. He polishes it on his shirt and takes a bite. He offers some to his mother, to Nora, to me. But neither of us speaks.
Then a nurse knocks on the door. “You have a visitor,” she says.
•
Quiet, we sit, while out in the yard Buryana is talking to her husband, deciding their life. I can’t see them from here — they’ve moved away from the window, under the trees.
“Why can’t I talk to father?” Pavel asks. He sets the half-eaten apple on the ledge and picks up the booklet. “I’ll memorize this poem for school, then. I’m bored.”
“Pavka, stay with your grandma. I’ll be right back.”
I limp as fast as I can down the hallway and I’m close to the exit when Buryana walks in. She wipes her cheeks. “It’s finished,” she says. “He’s moved out of the apartment. Which is good news for you, I guess. Four in a room …” She fakes a laugh and I hold her in my arms, for the first time in many years. I kiss her forehead, eyes and nose.
“Go back to your child.”
Her husband is still sitting on a bench, face in his palms. I startle him, sitting down. I’m old, I think to myself. I’m ancient. When I speak, the young ones listen. But what do you say to a man whose love for a woman is stronger than the love for his own son, for his own blood? Nothing will make this man regret.
I lean back on the bench and cross my legs, regardless of how much pain this brings me. I smooth the creases of my pants.
“ ‘I got no father,’ ” I say, “ ‘I got no mother. Father to scorn me, Mother to mourn me. My father — the mountain. My mother — the shotgun.’ ” He’s puzzled, I can tell, biting his lip. Blood rushes to his face. These words make little sense to him, old rebel words of loyalty and courage, and yet they clasp his windpipe in a fist.
•
Once Buryana and Pavel are gone, I tell Nora all that’s happened. I spare her nothing. There should be no secrets between us now.
“She is a strong woman,” I say, “our daughter. She’ll be all right.” I don’t know what else to say. I look at the little booklet on my desk, while with effort Nora pushes herself off the bed. Her hip gives a pop, the springs a creak. I rush to help her, but she shakes her head. No, no, she wants to say. I can do this myself. Let me, myself. She picks the booklet up, and in an instant it is alive. Its dusty body trembles from the touch. A sparrow, which shakes its feathers free of dew. A man’s heart, which beats itself to life again. A hand she leads away, ungracious, horrible, horrific. I watch her drag her withered foot across the room and lay the booklet in its box. She lowers the box in a drawer and slides the drawer shut. Her face is calm. Farewell, old boy, it says, old love.