Chapter 7
In this way Marija slipped into unconsciousness (even before she reached her dormitory at the end of the corridor), under the cruel sign of those hands in motion and the frozen film; the last thing she heard was the bitter reproach directed at her by Ilonka Kutaj way back when, in the village school one day after Epiphany: “If nothing else they brought the nails.”
She recalled that summer in the village, and her own marveling eyes, the eyes of a city girl, although she was over ten years old at the time; she could also still remember the voice in which her father had spoken to her when she had come back home early, had left the village, so that his words would forever (and even now) remain in her mind, and the meadow under a blanket of flowers and the outing to the forest, but before that: the cornflower blooming in the mature rye and the sun high above their heads, and then the beckoning of the forest and the clearing and the promised shade and all the rest of it: the white linen on the green dining table and the thermos with its thick, cool milk — and then once more her mother’s voice (she’s sitting next to her in the grass, hugging her knees to herself and resting her beautiful head on them and Marija can still see the neat knot in her hair done up in a bun):
“What are we going to tell Father?” but first she let Marija (naturally) drink the milk from the thermos and eat the leg of goose and the poppy-seed pastry and only then did she ask: “What will you say to Father?” but Marija still couldn’t understand what was so important about all of this that it would make her mother cross and her mother sat there absorbed in thought and didn’t end up with even a crumb of anything at all to eat, not even a wee cup of milk, and why is it that one can’t simply say to Father: “I ran away from Ilonka Kutaj, who had offended me and who I will not talk to anymore and who I don’t ever want to see again,” and then, if Father should ask how Ilonka Kutaj had offended her, she would tell him in a simple and precise manner: and then he might well not be annoyed and not send her back to the village, but if he were to try to convince her to do so, she would say to him: she also insulted you; you and your great-great-great-grandfather; and back there in the forest before Mother had gathered up all the white napkins and strewn the crumbs on top of a tree stump for the birds and the ants, and even before she had said to her out of worry and fright:
“You may not tell your father that; we cannot tell him the real reason,” she was already firmly convinced that in the end she would have to tell him everything, even the part about the distant ancestor, and she enjoyed imagining him, that is to say her father, putting his rifle down in front of her, an insignificant little girl, and how he would stand there disarmed and dumbfounded with the short little pipe that he had just removed from his mouth, and she saw her words wash away that penetrating, severe look behind the steel-framed spectacles; exactly as it was, exactly the way she knew it would be; but she had already decided back then, in the forest, that she would only tell it if worse came to worse, even if she had promised her mother that she wouldn’t say anything under any circumstances, other than (naturally) what Mother would say, that is, that she didn’t like it in the village and that she had come down with diarrhea and had caught measles.