The Big Water

A story about Olivera Srezoska and the girls, the incident with the shorts

A while ago I wanted to tell you about comrade Olivera Srezoska, our Assistant-Headmaster in the Home. It certainly would be in order, in the end, she deserved that; but you will understand that sometimes, a person wants to escape from the line. Just that, to escape from the line. Just that, to escape, to escape, I swear. And who didn’t guard themselves, who didn’t run from comrade Olivera Srezoska?

That being was odd; it had a female name but with certainty it could be said that nothing beautiful, nothing delicate sprang from that being. She was able, without limit, to devise things, to conduct things, to fulfil, to realise projects. Curse me, just that, projects. Frankly the way she was able to devise them, that was something unique, special. Not infrequently, her name was mentioned in essays, the wall newspapers and the local press. Comrade Olivera Srezoska was put forward as an example of classless society, I swear. Just that, an example of classless society.

The girls trembled before her like leaves on a branch. Curse me, like leaves on a branch. If she told them to crawl, they would lie on the ground without a word and would do what they had been ordered to. Just like that, as comrade Olivera Srezoska would command. She was a mistress of punishments, we must acknowledge that. Some sorts of punishments, cheap, ordinary, they already failed to satisfy her. She had caught on; it was not worth a person getting his hands dirty on small and meaningless things. Comrade Olivera Srezoska would either conduct an important action, or she would not be bothered at all. In all of that, Olivera Srezoska was searching for meaning. Her intensity was great, but at the same time, low, petty and so repulsive, that you couldn’t come to terms with it easily. She wove things like some skilful craftsman. She threw herself into it sincerely, with all her soul. Curse me, she believed. In just the first few months, she conducted six such actions of which two will certainly remain in the history of the Home.

The first situation was the one with the shorts. Comrade Olivera Srezoska had a pair of red cross-country shorts. After the photographs with the face of the General, the shorts were the most sacred thing to her in her life. Curse me, most sacred. I well remember that the red shorts belonging to Olivera Srezoska were talked about with much respect, with social, political and moral esteem (surely, such a thing cannot be thought about ordinary ones). They were sport shorts that she’d won from the committee for physical culture as the winner of the Autumn cross-country held to celebrate the liberation of the town. They were a dear souvenir to her, you could tell. She wore them only for national holidays and then, Oh God, she walked a little differently with them on than usual. It appeared as if she was in a rapture, as though they were a little inside her. Curse me, you could tell from a distance that that day was a significant holiday. But once the festivity passed, I swear, she would take them off the same minute and would hang them up straight away in the sun to air out a little. That was good, naturally. Curse me, after just one such holiday comrade Olivera Srezoska ended up without her favourite shorts. Curse me, without her red pants. It would’ve been better to have stripped her naked to have taken her soul. God, she was so crazy, she roared. We thought fate had selected someone that day, that she would tear someone to shreds.

Without a word, we all moved out of her way, like shadows we stuck ourselves to the wall. We were all next to the wall, males, females. Curse me, the fear was great. Without any command, the look of comrade Olivera Srezoska made us line up. It seemed to be we were holding up the cursed wall so that it wouldn’t fall. As never before that, it was desolate and soulless in the home. The only thing that could be seen in the yard was that tree split in two by thunder and that angry, dark Olivera Srezoska. She was pierced to her heart deeply, most deeply; poisoned. If you were to offer her jam in a golden teaspoon, in that moment she would have refused; everything, everything was poison to her. That tree and Olivera Srezoska; as though there was no-one and nothing anywhere around. Two short, mutilated shadows in the middle of the Home’s desolation, they measured its nothingness. It was hard to decide whether the tree or comrade Olivera Srezoska was the unhappier.

That moment of expectation lasted a whole lifetime. Curse me, a lifetime. At the end, she pulled out a whistle from her shirt, gave a signal for the girls to form a line. I feel as if I can still hear the severe screech of the whistle. Curse me, as though she split the whole Home in two.

Our poor girls. Maybe most of them went around wholly naked under their coarse gaberdine dresses. Curse me, they went around au naturel. And if one of them had underpants, they would have been so worn that they would be bare in the middle. Curse me, where would you get underpants for the girls! And almost all of them were at that age, they were just budding. When they sat on the ground they had to firmly keep their knees together so they would not reveal all. Who knows how hard it was for our girls, for those little buds that had just begun to blossom. Put sincerely the girls were also the only beauty in the home. Every day, every hour they made life more beautiful all around; you’d see one like a flower growing out from under the rock, they would surprise you with a strange wonder. Wonderfully they’d take you by surprise, they’d fill your heart with a warm breeze and already you’re someone else, you just see beautiful things. There, the mouth of one of them has become sweet, soft, you think it’s honey; another has surprised you with a long bright look, dear and warming to your heart, you’d think the sky had opened up above your head, a rainbow is caressing you, oh God; a third shyly bends her head toward the ground, she’s shy, gentle, like a lamb, you see her breasts have become more pointed. Curse me, all that was so beautiful, so wondrous in that wasteland, like a clean grain separated from the others. Our girls recalled something that was the purest, most beautiful; a little flower blooming on a delicate, thin blade of grass that waves in the sweet Spring breeze, recalled everything good that the heart may want. Curse me, at Olivera Srezoska’s signal, without a word, each tried to run in front of another, no-one wanted to be late. Confused, mute, at once they stood in line. Curse me, mute.

They waited. Olivera Srezoska still circled the tree, measured it; she was remeasuring her own shadow. Finally, somehow, controlling herself, through her clenched teeth she strained, she said:

“Who did it, girls?” she asked scarify, horribly. Curse me, she said it in a way that a person had to believe that she was suffering, suffering a lot, that her heart was bleeding.

The girls were silent as statures, cast. Curse me, cast.

“Who did that disgusting thing, girls?” she repeated at one after another, in order.

The girls silently bowed their heads. Not one of the girls raised her head.

“Even better,” said comrade Olivera Srezoska. “The punishment will be doubled if no-one confesses.”

“Forward,” she commanded. She led them to the dormitory. The search lasted a few centuries. She looked through everything that could be looked through, she turned over every bed, she pulled up everything which could be pulled up. And when she found nothing, she got even wilder. She commanded a circle to the left, in the washroom. She put all the girls in the washroom and she ordered them to undress, down to their bare skin. Dear mother, to undress down to bare skin. The washroom was an unbearable cellar, a veritable ice room. Summer and Winter, it was icy in there. No-one could spend any time in there without getting a serious illness. That was one of the most cursed places in the Home.

Curse me, the girls obediently completed the task. And Olivera Srezoska, without a word collected the clothes and moved away, locking up the girls.

“As soon as you decide to confess,” she said to them, “I’ll let you out.”

After that, calm, obviously calmed a little, she turned the key once, twice, three times in the lock.

Surely you’d say, that’s impossible, maybe you’d laugh at her. Sometimes I myself think and surely that doesn’t happen with just me, I think it was a dream, some ugly, unreal dream, apparition. But you must believe, I swear, didn’t so many impossible things happen, didn’t we believe, friend?

All of us remained stuck to the wall from that day, as though we were sharing the ice that was gnawing the hearts of our girls. God, how it pricked, how it hurt, how unthinkable it was, impossible. Some of them coughed up blood that Spring. Vera Nikolovska, Bosilka Kochoska the ballerina, Krstinka Kitanovska, Danica Stojanovska the artist, Rodna Trendafilovska... Curse me, they were immediately taken to the dispensary for chest diseases.

Where are they now our girls, our beauty, their bright looks, beautiful clear eyes, their little chests? What has happened to all of us, where are we, where are we all, is this a dream or real? Curse me, what has happened with the Big Water?

Later someone found the shorts. In the kitchen they’d used them as a mop...

The second event was something more general in character and it did not end with measures internal to the Home alone. Curse me, it widened out to a political issue. But in the beginning it was frighteningly funny to us, jolly. Curse me, jolly. We joked about it regally; it was really funny, it was funny! Some nice fellow, who knows how, snuck into comrade Olivera Srezoska’s little room and there you had a circus. Put simply he painted the left half of the moustache of the General with white paint, and put some other marks on the face. Dear God, how hard this event hit the young and pure heart of comrade Olivera Srezoska. Think of it, for that to happen to her, to her loved one, to her loved, favourite, most favourite, bright, brightest face. Curse me, if only you could have seen her from somewhere, if only you could have heard her. You’d think her father had died, the dearest person to her, just such a screech emerged from her breast. She screeched with alarm and, as if slain, she fell to the floor. Curse me, no-one knew what was going on; we played dumb. So, it hurts you, you bitch, the children said amongst themselves, quietly. She threw herself onto the floor like some slaughtered bird. Curse me, they just managed to bring her around with some water and a little sugar. Her young life was hanging by a thread, even the dear Headmaster was afraid, I swear, with his kindest voice he tried to encourage her, bring her around. He blew gently on her face, sweetly he said to her:

“Comrade Olivera Srezoska,” he was calling her with a voice as merciful and good natured as that, “Lift your head, gentle soul,” he whispered. “Don’t let down the political work, don’t die, don’t die, dear comrade, don’t let go the flower and flight of your young life, don’t let down the political work, as always, gather your strength, be brave,” sang the dear Headmaster, curse me, he opened up, he simply spoke as a poet, through his poem.

“Wake up, comrade Olivera Srezoska, our sister,” the poor girls were also waking her with tears in their eyes, curse me, they really started to cry, they pleaded from their hearts for Olivera Srezoska to get better. “Wake up, wake up, comrade Olivera Srezoska, it will be very difficult for us without her,” the poor girls were falling over themselves.

That cry, it seems, at last woke her. Her left eye opened, scary, bloody; she muttered:

“Criminal!” she screeched again, and again she fainted. Obviously the excitement wasn’t any good for her. Curse me, she stayed like that for a few centuries, troubled, in a trance, she would wake, she would faint, she rambled. At one time she even started to sing, like that, in her dream, curse me, her pain was great, her soul hurt.

The event, as it was shown later, was really very complicated, very serious, even delicate. No, it wasn’t just a young life hanging in the balance, the deed itself curse me, the deed itself was more than three hundred tonnes in weight. The investigation went on day and night — one after the other they called us into the Headmaster’s office. Curse me, one after the other, each one in order. Without distinction, starting with us, the residents, to the staff and the administration with all the teachers and instructors. Here there was nowhere to go and they lost their sleep; for suspicion to fall on you it was enough to draw attention to yourself in some stupid way or someone point at you with a finger, oh mother! Everyone, everyone was shaking and trembling, everyone in the Home fell sick during those days, from the first to the last person.

The investigation for the residents flowed through a few phases. At first, as if it were nothing, I swear, they forced us to recite the biography of Josif Bisarinovich Stalin. Where he was born, when, what his mother was like, his father — it’s understood he was from a family of poor parents, villagers, workers and while still young he experienced a difficult life, injustice, dark exploitation... He completed primary school with outstanding success in the small village in which he was born, he studied and at the same time he helped his poor parents with all of their work. In his early boyhood he stood out for his industriousness and benevolence and his great friendship. Apparently he helped the weaker students with reading and writing free compositions; books were his greatest friend. He stood out from his peers because of his great wisdom, unusual in someone of his young years, modesty, a solitary life, with a word, he was a real picture among his enslaved, unhappy people. But the thirst for a free life was greater in him than any other wish, freedom was imprinted into his heart from the earliest years. Somewhere in there, in the blossoming, luxuriant earth, grazing his horses in the middle of the endless fields... often in the middle of a game with his peers, in the greatest enthusiasm he would stop, and as though entrenched, would look into the setting sun. Curse me, as though entrenched. He was especially attracted to the heavy, bloody clouds in the evening sky...

I have to boast a little, I swear comrade Ariton Jakovleski, and not just him, all the members, even some of the investigators themselves, they were all so satisfied with my answers, they listened to me agape. And when I finished, they remained frozen like that for a while, open-mouthed. They looked at me with dear, grateful eyes, as though they were saying “Thank you Leme, live long, be healthy, may good fortune always follow you in life, may you become a great man, the greatest!” I acknowledge that at that hour, my heart was not very quiet, a strong excitement overtook me, somehow I couldn’t control myself, I was forced to call out “May he live!” and some other grand things. Curse me, I felt a bit easier, the fear left me a bit. The investigators then sincerely congratulated me, shook my hand, curse me, we shook hands.

“I am so pleased, Leme,” said the dear Headmaster and offered me his hand, he squeezed so hard I just about collapsed to the floor.

I answered, more from the excitement than from politeness “Same to you, dear Headmaster.”

To this he said to me “Call me comrade, my dear young man. And now, goodbye, a great task awaits us, we’ll discuss your future further.” And, I swear, he personally opened the door for me, and I was free.

The shaken children in the hallway who were waiting in line agape, their little fish eyes frozen. No-one knew what had happened. Curse me, as carefully as I could, I winked at Kejtin; that was our making-up. Oh God, when he saw me as that puffed up, haughty pretender, the biggest pretender, liar, without thinking he burst out laughing. He knew, he knew everything, curse me. Go on and try to stop the son of Kejtin laughing.

Just then, the closed door behind me was opened all of a sudden. The dear Headmaster came out again, pale as a sheet, without a drop of blood in his face, he barely managed to strain out:

“You’re laughing, Kejtin. Is there something funny, you beast! Come in!”

I saw, I swear, he went in still laughing. Who could now stop the son of Kejtin from laughing, curse me, he would laugh like the devil, for a hundred centuries.

“Son of Kejtin,” they commanded him, “stop laughing!”

“Why are you laughing, what is funny?”

“Nothing, nothing, honestly,” says Kejtin, but an even bigger laugh came out of him.

“Isaac Kejtin, sew up your repulsive mouth,” Olivera Srezoska screamed at him insanely, “sew it, you cursed wretch!”

“I can’t,” the son of Kejtin answered sincerely. “I couldn’t if my life depended on it, Olivera Srezoska,” he added that bit on his own.

But then, Kejtin had an opportunity to see the whitened moustache of Josif on the table and now, nothing could stop him. He laughed with all of his heart. He laughed like God, curse me, like God. Comrade Olivera Srezoska couldn’t tolerate it any more, her nerves were already ripped to shreds any way, she was not able to do anything. The laughter of the son of Kejtin pierced her in the deepest part of her heart. In all of the pain she suffered, curse me, this was the peak.

“Stop, you subversive element,” mouthed comrade Olivera Srezoska, God, the whole Home was echoing, “stop you cursed beast, beast, beast! Criminal!”

Just as the son of Kejtin wanted to stop his laugh, it faded away itself. But when he looked at the monstrous face of Olivera Srezoska he doubled in half again, without wanting to, wildly, the laugh came out of him on its own. Olivera Srezoska did not control herself. She hit him with whatever was in her hand, with the inkstand with which she was writing our answers. Curse me, with the inkstand. On his face, his eyes. She pierced his face and his hands which he tried to shield his eyes with.

“Dear mother,” said the son of Kejtin, defending just his eyes. “Dear mother, I have been left without eyes,” and his laugh stopped.

They took him out with his face all bloody, pierced all over.

“Dear mother,” the son of Kejtin repeated all the same, as though he couldn’t believe what had happened to him, as though he didn’t know where he was.

They shut him in the cellar with a group of other suspect boys.

“It’s him, him and no-one else,” the voice of Olivera Srezoska could be heard, she still couldn’t calm herself.

Not then and not since have I ever been able to hate a person. I was weak and I often hit my head into the wall, often I bled because of that, but I never carried ill feeling inside me, such a repulsive burden. I could forgive anyone for anything, I swear. But for the first time, I didn’t know how to look at Olivera Srezoska, our Assistant-Headmaster of the Home.

Kejtin, my friend, I searched for him everywhere, I couldn’t find him, “Kejtin,” I think I said it aloud, but the people were applauding. They were applauding Olivera Srezoska. Curse me, “Kejtin!” I called, but no-one heard my voice. Deaf, deaf people. Curse me, I was deadly afraid of that deafness.

The water had already entered into me, I swear, it was big, the biggest. In the first moment, just like that, unexpectedly, finding myself again free, near the bank, hearing the voice of the water, not looking at the waves as though I had lost my mind, hurried toward Her, curse me, not feeling the earth falling away beneath me, not feeling that I was entering something scary, deep, from which I could not return. I didn’t hear the voice which told me to go back “Stupid boy, unfortunate boy, where have you set off for, the waves will take you away, the water will swallow you up. Go back, go back, stupid fellow! You will regret it, you’ll regret it all your life, your child’s mind is taking you into a greater evil, unfortunate boy, little Leme!” Another voice was whispering to me “How will you live without Her, Leme, you’ll be blind, crippled, unhappy. There won’t be enough room in the world for you, not the smallest spot, they’ll persecute you all the same, endlessly persecute you like a small, abandoned puppy. “Go! Go!” Oh, my weak, childish mind, my sick, unhealable soul. For the first time, I found myself facing such an unthinkable, dark ruin. My own salvation, I owe my poor life only to one man, a dear man, unhappy Trifun Trifunoski. Curse me, someone had to die.