“Certainly, that will be the most proper penalty. How could you stab him with that huge knife, you cursed good for nothing. You are taking his liver, his golden heart, his dear eyes, you are ripping off his skin.”
“Murderer,” echoed in the huge, northern hall.
“That’s no knife at all dear Headmaster, that’s a broom, a kitchen broom,” poor Metodija Grishkoski tried to defend himself.
“Quiet,” said Meteor to him wisely, “it’s your own fault. You went too far, you stupid boy.”
“Fascist!”
“Death!”
“You kill, slaughter, hang people!”
“Death!”
All of his character appraisal fell into the water at that moment. Curse me, into the water. Certainly he would never forgive him that. In pain, bloodied, like a wounded little beast, each day he growled, he followed the son of Kejtin in every place in the Home, he was preparing to exact the scariest revenge. Curse me, just that, revenge.
I waited for that revenge every night alongside the wall. Sometimes also when the children were in bed, I would steal away and like a shadow, like a beast I lingered along the wall. Not until late into the night would I at last return. With heavy feet as though I was returning from seeing someone in the administration, I dragged myself over the stairs as though broken. Curse me, through the dark, worn out stairs of the Home. To the third floor, in the northern section, to the cursed dormitory. How could they think up such crooked, high, dark steps for disabled people and thin children. For the first time I wanted to bellow out loud. Son of Kejtin, I wanted to shout, Kejtin friend, I wanted to wake him, escape from the Home, they are going to kill you.
The son of Kejtin, as though he had heard my breathless voice, was waiting for me on one of the upper stairs.
“Coo,” he made a sound like a bird, he frightened me and started to laugh out loud, in his own way.
“Get away,” I said to him, “go, go from this Home.”
“O, Leme, little Leme,” he said. “Why don’t you collect yourself, why don’t you sleep, Leme?”
“Sleep,” I said, “how can I sleep, friend?”
“Set your jaw, Leme, and dream,” he said laughing the whole time, unable not to laugh and, like always, he began to wipe his mouth with his hands, to reconsider, to move off with his thoughts, to travel.
As though mowed down, like someone had cut us off at the roots, we tumbled down the stairs. It was already late at night and the Home was sinking in that familiar deafness. You would think that death had been a guest here since a long time ago and that the last ray of life had been lost here. We are all dead, shadows.
I do not remember if, after that, for a whole century, we said even a single word to each other. We were quiet as though struck dumb, overwhelmed by the electricity of the Big Water. The Big Water strangely came back again like a distant echo, as if in a dream. Curse me, it was coming. I swear, nothing was changed in his heart, it was the same thing, it was Kejtin-like. Here were friendship and love and comradeship and the look of a friend and smiles, his smile, wishes and the belief in the Big Water, the truth about the Senterlev mountain. Curse me, that mountain existed after all, that mountain with a sun, with golden mists, with eternal mists. Good dreams came back, nothing could destroy the wish for freedom and the Senterlev mountain in our little hearts. In our hearts there was a lot of love, my friend. Curse me, love. The Big Water was all around, I swear that was the only thing that remained of life in the Home. What could we have that was bigger, better?
The coming of the Big Water
I cannot remember another place where childhood dies so quickly. Curse me, if there is some other place where childhood is so soullessly buried. Childhood, the most beautiful flower of life, disappeared like a faded flower. Curse me, no-one knew where the days of childhood went. For the two or three centuries that we were in the Home, for that short time, I felt that all of us aged many thousands of years. And it all came on in just one single day, the most frightening, the most beautiful day in the Home. Curse me, just one, single day.
We were living through the hard, long Winter of 1949. It was a chilly, cold day. A north wind was blowing, carrying angry, black snow flakes that bit like wasps. The weather sounded as if it was in pain that whole day like a woman in labour, the northern wind was screeching, most ferociously lifting the earth. It was strange that sometimes, there, in such a moment the weather and everything else had to be against your heart, just as in the fairy tales. We were moving wood, some chopped logs which were just ripped from the mountain; the life giving sap in them had turned to ice. Curse me, to save us from the cold, from the long, frightening Winter. The wind, as though mad, entered the Home and made a real wasteland of it. Sometimes, so that we could sleep, so we could get a little warm (we were afraid to get into our beds), before going to bed, we staged great battles, which not uncommonly became real and turned into bloody fights. The children, like little beasts, strangled one another. A person could, over nothing, end up without an eye or without a hand, sometimes, even without a head. To tell the truth, that day wasn’t really bad and unpleasant. We were occupied with something the whole day, as they say, we were working at something, we were running around, moving, it was warm. Curse me, that was happiness. My dear people, we were working. We were unloading wood, we were taking it from one place to another, we were cutting it, we were stacking it, we were making use of all sorts of skills. A big stove had been brought from somewhere for our dormitory. It was jolly, curse me, we were working at something real. Blood was running in our veins, it was some sort of feeling, at last we were working at something which made you think of life.
In carrying the wood and in the general murmur, the son of Kejtin managed to steal a piece of wood. He was very satisfied with this, his own bad action, he was very pleased, even happy. Curse me, he was shining. Certainly, he had thought of some magic spell, I thought to myself, otherwise I do not believe he would have dared to do something like that. For what other thing could the piece of wood be any good to him if not for some devilishness that sparked in his head.
“Someone could have seen you,” I trembled, someone might have seen that piece of wood as I had seen it.
“No, no, don’t worry, little one,” he said, happier, as though born again, I saw, the whole of the sky was in his eyes, he had something strong, great in him, I swear.
It was very dangerous to be caught stealing in the Home. Some could barely wait to see you before they went quickly to report you to the administration. Betrayal blossomed in the Home, more and more, betrayal became an exemplary character appraisal. Curse me, betrayal was a character appraisal. There was no other word for all this action except filth. They filled our young hearts with filth. Some of the children, Metodija Grishkoski, Sokole Efrutoski, Stojche Ivanoski, Mircheski, Stavreski, some child called Kamenoski, Ognenoski, a girl called Slobodanka, one that was called Dobrila, then Violeta Doneska; they all became real good-for-nothings. Denouncing became a part of their lives. They sniffed around everything like hungry dogs, in whatever they looked at, they made their own report and went straight to the dear Headmaster, to comrade Olivera Srezoska. It often happened that some of those devils would simply think up a game, to trap you, to catch you red-handed, on the spot, as they say, to betray you. The writing and presentation of reports of this type was particularly valued; do not forget, friend, it was preparation for life, for the future. Of everyone in the administration, if there was anything that held their attention, it was the character appraisals and these reports. Reports were full of blossoms but all around thorns were growing. Curse me, thorns. The submission of reports had priority over every other thing in every way. Whoever was most agile, who stood out the most, that was the one who could become the captain of the class, responsible for a group, on duty in the kitchen, a supervisor, he could be amongst the first to meals (which was not of little importance); with a word, those sorts of comrades were ahead in everything, they were awarded prizes, they were privileged. Even now I cannot state with certainty which was the worm that ate most into the children’s hearts. Was it hunger, fear, the penalties, the daily humiliations, the cold, maybe the grade for character appraisal, maybe the assembly line, and that cursed wall, or maybe everything together. But of all of that, one thing was clear as day, dobbing, cowardice and malice began to sprout in the Home like a rotten potato. Everyone was cautious about everyone else, everyone kept away from everyone else, closed up in himself. Curse me, closed up in himself.