Devil's Workshop

5

Sara and I made it back to Terezín in under an hour. That time with Mr Hamáček in his beat-up Škoda, it had taken half the day.

Volunteers printed the T-shirts with Sara’s design, and as our revitalization movement grew in strength and more journalists and more bunk seekers began to seek us out in our broken little town, Sara and I went on more and more shopping trips to Prague. Our T-shirts, which the aunts peddled to tourists at the Monument, went like hot-cakes, and we sold other things too — pebbles from the riverbeds of the nearby Elbe and Eger, they made nice talismans. We numbered them in indelible ink, so every tourist who came to Terezín would know what number visitor they were.

And then Lea came to us.

It was Lebo himself who caught her, after she split away from her tourist group and wandered off the Monument’s designated trails and ended up in town. Almost six feet tall, with cropped red hair, even shorter than mine, she was staggering across Central Square in the midday sun, dazed by the heat, wearing nothing but green boxer shorts — she had torn off all her clothes and thrown them away, along with her backpack. Swaying and teetering, slowly, cautiously, she lifted her right hand, fumbling, groping in the air, eyes bulging. She smiled later as she explained that in her mind she had been trying to grab hold of the wires, to give herself an electric shock and put her out of her misery, to stop her marching, tortured brain that was trying so hard to understand. All those tours had driven her mad. She’d visited many sites in Poland, but the pivotal point, the place from which her family had set out for the wires of death way back when, was here in Terezín, and so here she was. With a fever. She felt awful.

Getting to know Sara helped the girl we sometimes called Lea the Great. For a whole day and night she slept on Sara’s bunk, and once she had pulled herself back together a bit, she listened to Lebo breathlessly. After reading so many encyclopaedias, tracking down her family and walking through museums and down educational trails, now all of a sudden she had a living witness, a witness who spoke healing words. And it was calming for her to share the objects left behind by the dead or disappeared. First with Sara, and later with Rolf and the others, she handled every little thing, every single item we’d found as kids in the tunnels under Terezín and brought back to Lebo. This sharing, along with Lebo’s strength, began to break up the black cloud in the heads of the seekers afflicted with the horror of the past. The well-travelled Lea meant a great deal to us. She gave our community a name.

And food. She copied the idea from the Kraków ghetto, so the tasty, crunchy pizza that Lea and the aunts began to bake in our kitchen became known as ghetto pizza. The secret ingredient was a light dusting of Terezín grass, a seasoning that didn’t exist anywhere else. And one day two girls showed up who Lea had met on a visit to Auschwitz — of course they were also from the second or third generation of victims and their minds were also shadowed with a black cloud. Lea had tipped them off to us, and after a few days our new students decided to stay. They looked after the tent on Central Square, which we called the Amusement Centre. A multicoloured T-shirt of Kafka flew above it and the delicious smell of ghetto pizza filled the inside. That alone was a sign of revitalization, since not only were the local people creeping out of the shells of their half-broken-down homes to experience the smells, the colours and all the movement in general, but more and more people were heading our way from the world outside. So we set up the Main Tent by our first stall on Central Square and during the day Lebo would talk to people inside. Sara and Lea were in there with him, protecting him from the new visitors. It’s true Lea provoked some amazement among the country folk, but children adored her, especially when the giant redhead made funny faces at them, and besides, towering in front of the tent, dressed as she usually was in a green track suit, she guaranteed no wise guys snuck in without paying. Sara collected the money at the entrance. There were people who came here just to get a glimpse of the famous Guardian of Terezín, and they had to put a coin in the dish. Now Sara would just shake her head when she saw me waiting for her to come out to herd the goats with me. In fact the day Lebo started talking to newcomers in the Main Tent on Central Square, Sara stopped coming to see me. I think that was one of the reasons why I said yes to Alex.

By then we were already calling ourselves the Comenium. Lea, who had come up with our name, thought we should offer instruction in the history of horror, as well as therapy for it, including dance. We agreed, since she had come to us from Holland, the country where Comenius had resided after his merciless expulsion from Bohemia.

The Happy Workshops were Sara’s idea.

*

I was out for a walk with Bojek and the other goats one day, strolling along, when one of the nanny goats squatted down, so we stopped to wait. Goats pee like girls, you see — not a lot of people know that — and it was a good thing we stopped, too, since all of a sudden I saw … Sara, in the grass down below us! Kamínek the mental case had knocked her down and was standing over her. I went tearing down there, screaming at him, and Kamínek grabbed his crutches and hobbled off, scuttling through the grass like some disgusting insect, rear end shining, clutching at his pants. Sara got up, her T-shirt torn across her chest. She was in shock, not even talking, so Bojek and I escorted her home. And that evening she came up with the Happy Workshops.

The mental cases stayed out of my way. I stopped by Mr Hamáček’s vegetable shop one day and Kamínek and this other bum took one look at me, got up and wobbled off, past the baskets of rotting potatoes, sacks of onions, and kohlrabi, crutches clattering, in those shabby army overcoats of theirs. They sure don’t want to talk to you! said Mr Hamáček. I hadn’t told a soul about my time in the slammer — why would I? — but the mental cases had somehow got wind of what I did there. Somebody from that loud-mouthed society in Pankrác Prison had recognized me, ratted on me, and passed it on. They may have been cripples, thieves, and losers, but they had feelers everywhere, they were all connected somehow.

Sara thought up, founded, and ran the Happy Workshops for them.

She even arranged it with the town, that is with the Monument, so they could work, which was unheard of.

The mental cases made brooms, then strolled around town with them, and along the Monument trails, and actually made some cash out of it.

And eventually they’ll gain some pride, Sara said.

She didn’t tell Kamínek off or anything. Instead she went and had her picture taken in a brand-new T-shirt, supervising the Happy Workshop that she set up on Central Square, next to the T-shirt stalls, not far from the ghetto pizza. All they needed for the first workshop was a wicker awning against the sun, and the mental cases sat on the ground, bearded, scarred, and scabbed, in their old scraps of uniform and tracksuits, whatever they’d managed to steal or beg, making brooms that instantly fell apart. That way they always had plenty of work. They nodded to Lebo respectfully whenever he strode by, and silently ogled the female students, especially Sara, but they didn’t pay any attention to me, and I ignored them too.

They strolled around the town with their brooms, sweeping stuff up into little heaps. None of them laid a paw on any of our students again, though I think it was less out of pride than because they were under supervision.

They need light, joy, and activity, Sara declared the evening I dragged her out from under the eager Kamínek, when she set out her plan for the Happy Workshops, and Lea the Great confirmed that, yes, a humane approach like this to human ruins was precisely in line with the thinking of John Amos, and so the project became part of the Comenium.

You can tell a society’s values by the way it treats those who are worst off, Sara explained when I marvelled at her reaction to having nearly been raped, perhaps even beaten to death or tortured in a lair under the ramparts, and the devil knows what else.

No one would’ve been surprised if you had gouged his eyes out. I would’ve held him down.

She gave me a look.

*

Then the summonses started arriving.

Lebo crumpled them up in little balls and tossed them on the ground. He had neither the time nor the inclination to answer some stupid questions from some stupid court, he was too busy teaching. Meanwhile I stood on Central Square, holding the goats by their tethers, watching as the court’s summonses disappeared in the dust, trampled to bits by tourists. We also had families come and visit us in Terezín, and to the delight of the children I sometimes brought my goats to Central Square. One day I placed the rope from around the neck of one of my last nanny goats into the age-and work-hardened palm of Aunt Fridrich, who led it away to the cookshop. I ran off to my office in the bunkroom. I couldn’t take care of the goats the way I used to any more — everything was in motion, things were going on.

Soon the first charges arrived from the Monument, claiming that the erection of the Main Tent on Central Square constituted a gross desecration of this sacred site, from which hundreds of thousands had gone to their death in the camps. All our hustle and bustle and selling was completely against the law, they said, and Lebo scrunched the charges up into little balls and tossed them on the ground. He never noticed that whenever I heard the word ‘charges’ I broke out in a hideous sweat. I was a former convict and didn’t want to go back to prison. I was pretty sure the prison directors couldn’t care less about me — they no longer needed my former speciality — but the rest of them in the slammer, especially the heartless gangsters, the bloodthirsty sickos and rapists, who nobody hung any more, had never forgiven me for running the Pankrác ropery. They all knew each other, and the world of bars and cells has a memory measured in decades.

I knew I didn’t want to go back to jail.

Nothing wrong with that, is there?

That was the other reason why I said yes to the Belarusians, why I went along with Alex.

I wanted to tell Lebo, after I had wiped the sweat of dread off my brow, but he was hurrying off to the evening sitting. Twilight was settling over the ramparts and the sittings were the most important thing for our society. Lebo didn’t pay as much attention to me as he used to, and no wonder! I wasn’t the only one whose shoulder he could lay his hand on any more. There were plenty of young people, younger than me, who called him Uncle Lebo now. And they kept coming, to the displeasure of the eggheads and the politicians from the Monument. More and more visitors were leaving the buses and heading straight to us, through the nettles and flattened fences, over piles of rubble, through Manege Gate. They found their way to Central Square and stuffed themselves with ghetto pizza, bought Kafka T-shirts, and took pictures of Lebo in his black suit bearing witness to the terrible times of long ago. And they also took pictures of Sara, of course, since she was a beauty, and of Lea the Great — they’d never seen anything like her before — and the girls at the stall always had a petition handy for visitors to sign, saying No to the Bulldozers!

That was when Rolf came and found us again. Rolf the journalist, who had set the whole revitalization of Terezín in motion, who had listened closely to Lebo, to all those horrible stories that ended somewhere in the black holes of Poland or Lithuania or maybe Belarus. Rolf came back and took pictures of the newcomers, the seekers of the bunks, who would turn up every now and then with a confused look on their face and head straight for the Main Tent. They’d already heard that nobody here could help them work out how all that horrible stuff could actually happen to people, but at least they could learn how to live with the knowledge of that horror, and Rolf’s pictures in the glossy magazines of the world — pretty pictures of pretty young people in T-shirts, shorts, ponchos, and capes of every colour, with alternative decorations, sporting shaved heads or dreads down to their waist — motivated other young people to come and see what was going on, and the battle to save the town felt absolutely right to them. In a world where everything’s relative, this is an ethically unambiguous issue, Rolf explained, and that means I’ve got a hit! he said, eyes smiling behind his glasses. Rolf walked around town rhapsodizing about the influx of young people and what fantastic material it was, since Lebo’s stories themselves wouldn’t captivate anyone, it was all too long ago. You’re in the heart of darkness here, touching the depths of horror, it’s irresistible! he assured us. The evening sittings with Lebo and the crowd filling up the Main Tent and our nightly dances in the grass below the ramparts — the newspaper world was enraptured by it all. Your energy is sending the world a powerful signal! Rolf said. He probably meant his memory of the world, since he lived with us too, drinking in the ordinary life of the town, helping old Aunt Fridrich lug the tubs of washing to the laundry at the station, which must’ve been pretty tough for a skinny guy like him. Then he’d stand around the crummy little station, lost in thought, while Aunt Fridrich washed and pressed and gossiped. Rolf would stand staring at the tracks, his eyes following the rusty rails to the point where they disappeared into Poland, just beyond the horizon, where all the trains from Terezín had gone. But the moment old Aunt Fridrich called him, Rolf was right there at her side, ready to lug the tubs again.

One day Rolf was walking me out to pasture with Bojek — we would do that together from time to time — and there, at the foot of a tall rampart, we ran into Alex, from Belarus. He had just arrived in Terezín, with Maruška, a redhead. Both of them had backpacks on. It was obvious she was with him.

We greeted the newcomers, shook hands, and Alex told us they had just chosen their names now, as they walked through Manege Gate. They sound Czech enough, don’t you think? he said.

Sure. I nodded. Rolf didn’t care, he didn’t speak Czech.

Alex explained that he had learned Czech as a soldier in the Soviet army that occupied our country after 1968. I kept Bojek on a rope. He didn’t mind Rolf any more, but I’m sure he would’ve been happy to butt Alex or Maruška.

While Alex stood there talking, waving his arms around, Rolf took out his camera — he often sold stories about newcomers to magazines so the world could see how the Comenium was growing — but at the sound of the first click Alex shot out his hand and Maruška twitched wildly. The next thing I knew they had Rolf boxed in and Alex was holding the camera, saying things were different in Belarus than in the rest of Europe and they weren’t too keen on any publicity, got it?

Got it! Rolf squeaked. Alex handed his camera back. I noticed his long, nervous fingers, which would really come in handy working at the computer, say, or using a scalpel — he had said he was a medic, worked at the Biochemical Institute at the Soviet base in Milovice. I think he told us that so we wouldn’t think he’d driven one of those tanks that shot people here in ’68, or even worse, that he was KGB. Are you kidding? A lowly medic? We kept the chatter moving so we could get acquainted, and also, I’m sure, to clear our minds of Alex’s brief act of violence. You’re from Belarus? And it’s different there? OK, we respect that. We nodded at each other, smiling.

Maruška stood with her hands folded across her chest, the smell of her body rising from her sweaty T-shirt. Horseflies, houseflies, and midges, baffled with bliss after flying through the zone of her aroma, were never the same again, I’m sure. Golden-red hair down to her shoulders, barefoot — which was a little bit reckless! — standing in the red grass like she had been here all along.

It was obvious the two of them weren’t your ordinary deranged bunk seekers, but they were extremely interested in our work to save the fortress town.

Then Rolf rolled an enormous joint — he’d tested the effects of the rust-coloured grass a while back, mixing it with tobacco — he rolled a joint for our little group and handed it to Alex. Lots of our students had taken a liking to the red grass. Nobody knew why it had such an uplifting effect.

Alex hadn’t come to heal, though. He was interested in our revitalization project and what he enjoyed most was coming to our little office, partitioned off from the rest of the bunkroom by boards, and standing beside my computer, stunned at some of the names we were working with in our campaign to save Terezín. He was truly in awe of our work to save the town of death. We had long since ceased writing only to former prisoners and relatives of the massacred. We were supplementing our contacts from the press and the Internet daily, and we didn’t hesitate to lean on captains of industry, coal barons, prime ministers, do-gooder fashion models, hockey stars, and giants of international politics. Sara or Rolf, depending on who had time, lent their excellent English to our appeals. Lebo was famous now, and as the Guardian of Terezín he knocked on nearly every door. He didn’t spare anyone. Many were glad to contribute, since they wanted to set the world’s memory straight, and some didn’t give a damn, but when Lebo himself made the appeal, it was easier for them just to throw some change his way than to go on ignoring him. Rolf and his journalist friends went on filling the pages of the world’s newspapers with confessions of the youthful bunk seekers, who described how they had sought therapy for their wounds, their derangement, how they wanted to be the same as their cheerful and happy peers, but couldn’t because of all the ghastly stories trapped in their minds, so they’d made a pilgrimage to the East, where there were still ruins that they could touch with their own hands, and how with Lebo they had found peace. And these confessions of second-and third-generation Holocaust victims were intermingled with the story of Lebo, and according to Rolf it was a tale that shook the world’s conscience, touching the depths of horror while at the same time offering hope. And then Rolf coordinated a couple of TV reports from our town, in which Lebo, standing tall and straight in his black suit, spoke about the horror of the world and how to live with it, to a crowd of tourists in the Main Tent on Central Square. The TV barely showed our sittings, because after Lebo’s evening lectures, after his teaching on the horror of the world, came play time, when we danced. We were also often happy just to sit around the ramparts, sipping red wine, smoking grass, gazing up at the stars or into the fires, acquiring peace of mind. What the TV broadcast to the world, of course, was the story of the bunk seekers, who had come to the town of death in search of the world’s most horrible mystery, namely, absolute evil. Dancing in our healing collective, yes, these victims of their own tortured thoughts cleansed themselves through dance. The healing force flowed visibly from dancer to dancer, bound to each other by burning sheaves and braids of sparks. The dances at the foot of the town’s steep red walls were led by the girls who sold our souvenirs, and by Sara and Lea the Great of course, who, as founders of the Comenium, sat on either side of Lebo during the evening sittings.

*

Yes, Rolf really pulled it off: there was some fabulous footage. The money just kept rolling in after that … and rolling and rolling — piles of cash.

Not only that, but our students came up with lots of ideas for grants and loans and subsidies to cover the costs of the launch of our educational centre, the only one of its kind in the world.

Sara, being practical, coordinated the operation.

The students started looking for money on their own, so their parents and relatives often ended up on our list, along with an impressive constellation of companies, firms, businesses, and other establishments.

That was the situation when me and Rolf and Bojek met the two Belarusians.

And from that moment on Alex didn’t let me out of his sight. As for Maruška, well, I would’ve loved to talk to her, to stroll around town with her or something. But she was with Alex constantly, like his shadow.

And one evening, during the dancing, Alex pulled the same move he had used against the camera, only this time against a person. Feita, one of the bunk seekers who had come out of his depression and landed back on his feet with us, was dancing, feeling no pain, and, emboldened by the red grass, he asked Maruška to join him. She of course declined — she never danced — but the blissed-out Feita tried to lift her up, and all of a sudden Alex was there and Feita was knocked to the ground.

Alex stood over him. Waiting to see what the other students would do? What I would do? We’d never had anything like that happen here before. Feita’s friends dragged him away, gave him something to drink. And went on dancing. The Belarusians walked around in a bit of a bubble after that. Maruška doesn’t dance, OK, now everybody knows.

*

We worked without rest, building a new life for the town on the ruins of its past.

And one day Lea remembered that before she went crazy with pain and confusion she had been an outstanding student of architecture, so I started riding around in taxis with her, lugging easels and drawing boards, all sorts of tools and supplies that smelled like the first day of school. We also bought a set of special erasers and some other stuff over the Internet. Lea and I never slept overnight in Prague.

At Lea’s urging, and under her supervision, many of our students left their computer games and blogs, or however they spent their free time, and cleared away some of the rubble, carting away fallen beams and piles of bricks, creating a clean and welcoming space for her studio.

In winter we’ll take over the barracks, Lea said, looking ahead.

And together with her fellow architects, and other artistically gifted students, she set to work.

We’ll rebuild anything in Terezín that has fallen or is falling down, she said. It goes without saying that we won’t look for guidance to the unresponsive Monument or the unwilling government. We’ll go our own way!

And when, one evening, Lea the Great laid out for Lebo her latest idea — namely, to team up with the eminent architects of the world, through her alma mater naturally, and launch a competition for the renewal and general beautification of the town — ahem, how about it?

Lebo beamed.

It’s going to cost some money of course, quite a bit in fact, said the slightly red-faced Lea.

Lebo laughed.

He walked happily among the easels as the students drew new versions of the fallen walls, collapsed homes, and flood barriers, boldly sketching the new, proud towers of an expansive town that up until now had existed only in our minds.

Lebo was central and crucial and indispensable to all of us, talking to the crowds in the Main Tent during the day and to us at the evening sittings. I often pounded away on the computer alone now, following his instructions and our previous efforts.

I had our contacts, the whole database, stored safely away in the Spider, and also on the computer, and I added to it constantly.

Alex sat with me at the computer in the bunkroom.

He must have had the plan in his head for a long time.

He quickly realized the only one with a full list of our lucrative network, from whales to minnows, was me.

Not all of the Comenium’s activities were suitable for television and the eyes of the world: the evening sittings in our squat were just for us.

Every evening the newcomers, as well as the old hands, would sit in a circle around Lebo.

Anyone could enter the Main Tent for a fee, but the evening sittings were just for the core of our community, the Comenium. Evenings were for the bunk seekers — we could always pick them out among the ordinary tourists and prying types, Sara and Lea the Great without fail, and even Rolf by now. They were the ones who brought the bunk seekers to Lebo. It was only truly worth it for the unhappy and ill. Here in the house of Comenius, in our squat, it was all for real. Lebo would sit on the bunk where his mother had given birth illegally and he had acquired his name and talk about the long-ago horrors of the town of evil, the death of tens of thousands within the walls where we now breathe, and all those who walked out of these walls to the trains that carried them to their death. Then he would pass around the objects, so we all had a chance to touch them, bringing his tale of the past so vividly to life that images of what had happened flashed before our eyes. Some would cry out, yes, many shed tears, but Lebo had a way out for even the most hopeless: It happened and it’s impossible to grasp, but despite all the horror you can live on. Look at me! I was born here and I’m still alive! Lebo’s words pierced the black clouds in the heads of those hypersensitive youths like a red-hot iron, and Sara got the idea of lighting the night with candles, so Lebo’s ideas would make even more of an impression. Lebo’s talk was more powerful than all the displays and textbook pages put together. Yes, the students loved his teaching, and during those long evenings in our squat, stoned on rampart grass, they trembled in their bunks, inserting their minds into Lebo’s like fingers in a wound.

But then something changed.

As our fame advanced around the world, as our fame increased, it happened.

The footage of our games, the images of dancing girls, flew around the world. We were famous. But a lot of journalists weren’t writing the same thing as Rolf and his friends. Newspapers still ran front-page photos of Lebo, proud and upright in his black suit, but surrounded by a group of girls in flowing dresses and skirts, adorned with blades of grass. ‘Hippie Commune in Town of Death’, read one caption. ‘Old Jew Operates Harem’, said another. And then they really started to write about us a lot, and we were getting too many people, and some of them were calling us names. According to our enemies, we were shamelessly milking people’s misery to pay for our orgies. They sent detectives and a taxman and the financial guard to investigate.

Naturally, accounting wasn’t our organization’s strong point.

Our strong point was enthusiasm.

Several investigations were opened. Inspectors raided our stalls and confiscated our goods, saying they wanted to ascertain if they were legally acquired. Hygiene officials, disguised as tourists, purchased large quantities of ghetto pizza and sent samples to a lab. We were forbidden to sell any more till the results came back. And more charges followed. There were summonses to interrogations crumpled up in little balls and tossed all over the place.

It wasn’t a good time for me.

I knew I couldn’t go to jail.

But where would I go?

Then I got a package. With a letter and a return address.

I thought maybe someone had spotted the picture of me as Lebo’s right-hand man, the way Sara had. No one had ever written to me before, let alone from America. I walked through the grass, taking Bojek with me, and opened the letter.

Dear co-worker,

I know your sentence is over. I found work in the US and I work in more than one state, so I’m confident that our profession has a future. The game that you once helped create has met with some success, so I’ve decided to pay you a small sum as a token of my gratitude. If you would like to continue our work, please let me know.

Sincerely,

It was signed Mr Mára. Bojek nuzzled the envelope. I pushed him away and grabbed it. A CD-ROM. Hidden and Dangerous Deluxe 5. Ha! That was the game the students at the Comenium played the most. Not me, I didn’t have time.

I didn’t read the letter again. I crumpled it into a little ball and threw it away. Let the wind take it, I thought.

I was sitting by the ramparts with Bojek, the only one left of my flock, blind and lame, poor thing, in his frayed collar.

All of a sudden Alex was standing there in front of me. With Maruška. She was smiling.

He offered me a job. In his country, Belarus. He said all I needed was the data from the Comenium, the contacts we had made with the generous financial world, tucked away inside my head and in the Spider, the flash drive, that tiny little piece of technology.

I’d get the details when I arrived.

Alex sat down in the grass and Maruška just stood, looking at me. I gazed up at her as Alex explained to me that the Comenium’s situation was untenable.

He talked about accusations of embezzlement, tax evasion, extortion, obstruction of government administration, contempt of court, occupation of public property, destruction of public property, disturbing the peace. He mentioned a section of the penal code on corruption of youth, and many other sections that would swoop down upon the normally tranquil surface of our lives in Terezín like gluttonous cormorants on a muddy pool swarming with fish.

He added that, according to his sources, it was already decided and the bulldozers were on their way.

How do you know? I said.

Alex motioned towards the ramparts, where a group of Happy Workshop workers were lounging around a sandy pit shaded by bushes, drinking and smoking, indulging their usual habits after calling it a day.

When?

Tomorrow.

Alex smiled and gestured towards the homeless group again.

I shut my eyes and believed him.

The mental cases were still shuffling back and forth between our damaged town and the state-sanctioned territory of the Monument. They had eyes and ears everywhere. If there was something in the offing, they would know.

When I opened my eyes I saw the beautiful face of Maruška. She held my gaze for an instant, then shut her eyes. I lingered in the gentle movement of her eyelids as long as I could, then nodded.

Alex handed me the key to a locker at the airport and described what was in it. He told me when and where to wait for my go-between, who would take me to their homeland.

I said to Alex I thought the best go-between would be Maruška.

We looked at each other. I had no idea what he was thinking.

Doesn’t bother me that you guys are going under, Alex said. You had a good plan. Didn’t work out. Authorities weren’t on your side. Where we live it’s different. You’ll see.

I was really wishing he’d walk away.

I made up mind to go to see Lebo before I left. Maybe Sara, too. I’d already told Alex yes, but still, what would Lebo say? I had to ask.

As soon as the two of them had gone, I grabbed Bojek and crossed the grass to the mental cases, a few dozen metres away.

As I came close, they stiffened. All of a sudden they shrank into a hushed knot of tattered blankets, limbs and rags, booze fumes, a mix of eyes, hair, beards. Now what?

One of them chuckled.

Dumped, huh, big man? I heard a voice hiss from the hole. Got used to marchin’ around like the big man, didn’t cha? And now it’s over, huh? What cha gonna do now, eh?

So Alex was right, it’s been decided, this is the end of the Comenium. Bojek was rubbing against my leg. I slapped him on the back to move along. But he stayed. To my surprise a hand reached out of the knot with a bottle.

Stop yer starin’ and come warm up, ya cunt, someone muttered. I took the bottle. Went and sat down on the edge of their hideout, swinging my legs. Bojek chomped grass, eyeballing me. I had brought this red wine here with Sara, she picked it out, seemed like ages ago. Huh, they must’ve swiped it from the Comenium. Well, what do I care now?

I wanted to go and see Lebo, get up and go rouse the Comenium. But instead I sank down into the pit. A layer of newspapers, rags, strips of blanket protected us from the cold ground. We breathed on each other.

Then someone uncorked a jug of alcohol. We didn’t talk much after that.

And the bulldozers came in the morning.