It was as if Ariton Jakovleski stopped a little, as though he did not understand, somehow confused his look ranged around the hall, but then hammered itself on that wall where the Home’s clock was hung.
The clock had stopped working long ago.
Everything around was silent, stopped. A great uncertainty and anticipation fell on every object.
“Ah, that’s it!” the dear Headmaster said through clenched teeth, he grabbed that piece of wood, and mute with anger, directed himself toward the son of Kejtin.
“Kejtin, son of Kejtin,” I called to him, I pleaded with him, I hid my head under the desk lid so that I would not see, so that I did not have to believe. “Goodbye Kejtin,” I whispered. “Goodbye, dear friend.” I thought that the time had come for us to part. Curse me, parting.
I will never understand what happened with our dear Headmaster, never, not so long as I live will I understand what wind it was that hit his heart. In place of the expected thunder, in place of the already familiar act, he just asked:
“Why did you steal, son of Kejtin?”
It was the first time that he referred to him by his name, son of Kejtin.
The son of Kejtin was also surprised, obviously confused. Softly he muttered:
“I did not steal,” he said, “I have not stolen anything, comrade Ariton.”
“What do you mean you have not stolen anything,” he said strictly. “Here, you have stolen something,” he showed him the piece of wood. Ah, if the son of Kejtin could only own up, if the son of Kejtin could acknowledge such a thing, the old man could forgive him. But the son of Kejtin did not acknowledge it, he said:
“I have never stolen,” he answered, swinging his head upwards, in his own way and I knew with certainty that he had never stolen and that he would not even try to.
“You have never stolen?!” that made the dear Headmaster go wild again. “You are a living thief, you were born a thief, a bandit.”
“It cannot be said that Rane ever stole anything from anyone,” said Kejtin, not without pride. Now for the first time since we had been together in the Home he mentioned the name of his father, Rane Kejtin. After that he added “It cannot be remembered that anyone from the Kejtin family had ever stolen anything, Ariton Jakovleski,” he was looking straight in his face, like a pure, just person.
“You are a problem, Kejtin,” muttered the dear Headmaster, “a big problem; then what did you want to do with this piece of wood?”
The son of Kejtin did not answer at once, as though caught in a trap he lowered his head, he went silent. We heard him quietly, painfully weeping. God, Kejtin was crying hard, he could hardly contain himself, as though he could not get enough air, he was suffocating. It lasted for some centuries. Curse me, a million centuries. With his head facing down to the floor the whole time, like a true thief, softly, weakly he answered:
“I wanted to make a mother,” the son of Kejtin whispered. Curse me, just that. A mother.
A strange silence came over the class room. In that moment all eyes turned toward the piece of wood that was in the hands of Ariton Jakovleski. Dear God, my dear God! It was no longer a piece of wood, curse me, it was a mother. For the first time the dear Headmaster stood nailed to the ground, confused, shaken, without an answer.
“I swear,” the son of Kejtin would not stop. Oh God, he had never been like that, “I swear, Ariton Jakovleski, it is a mother.”
As though under command, all the children stood up from their places. All eyes were thirstily turned toward that piece of wood.
“Mother,” said the dear Headmaster obviously confused. And my people, my dear people, curse me, he brought that piece of wood close to his own eyes so delicately, he started to somehow strangely look at it for a long while. My people, I swear, it was a mother, a real mother, we saw how the hands of the dear Headmaster relaxed, they shook. My people, I swear, the dear Headmaster’s hands were weak, we saw, the Water entered into him, it carried him away; not taking his eyes from that strange carved piece of wood, in half-tone as though to himself he repeated “Mother,” and he looked at Kejtin, at all of us. He did something that none of us could ever have thought of, something that cannot be told in its entirety, even with the most beautiful words, truth, but something which must exist, which keeps man from the greatest ice, something which can’t be uprooted must live in a person, in every person. He raised the piece of wood once again to his eyes, and with a voice which we had not until then heard, he mouthed “But so many hours in the snow, so many days in the cold, so much fear,” muttered Ariton Jakovleski. “Oh, devilish children, so much snow, so much cold,” the dear Headmaster repeated, over and over, as though he had lost his mind, as though he had been carried away. Curse me, carried away.
The son of Kejtin was quiet; we were all quiet. I swear, only our eyes, our looks also spoke softly “Yes, dear Headmaster, so much snow, so much fear, that’s nothing when you have a mother. It is not cold, dear Headmaster, it does not hurt when you have a mother...”
“Yes, yes,” he said understanding our looks, our hearts, and curse me, delicately, carefully, with trembling hands he handed the piece of wood to the son of Kejtin. “There you are, son of Kejtin,” he said to him with effort, with a weak, sickly smile, which after that quickly disappeared from his yellow moustache, “there, it is yours, Kejtin.”
Curse me, no one knew what had happened to the dear Headmaster. I swear no one knows what happens with a human heart. That day, all of the children in turn all of us aged many years, many centuries. The poor man, he blamed himself for everything in the Home. Oh, incomprehensible human heart. Curse me, we have never in our lives prayed for anyone like we did for our dear Headmaster, for our old Headmaster of the Home, Ariton Jakovleski.
In Ohrid, 1966-1971