The Big Water

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.

“If someone saw you,” I warned him, “it will be frightening. You know the penalty for hiding things and for stealing...” but he was not hearing me, he wasn’t there, he had already travelled away. It was a waste to speak to him, I saw, there wasn’t a word to describe his great happiness...

All of those days, during all of those bad, Winter days, however bad the weather was, it was all the same if a northern icy wind was blowing or if a great, dark southern snow storm fell, the son of Kejtin would sneak out of the Home and always with his piece of wood he would hide in some hole, in some darkness. Curse me, so that he could work uninterrupted, freely. It didn’t matter what the weather was like, it didn’t matter what the wind and snow were like, a thousand storms could start now, nothing could separate him from his work, he obstinately held on to his secret work. Even if I didn’t know what he was working on, I knew that he was working on something happy, that his whole being was full of that sweet light, I swear, at that time he was in another world, unimaginable, far from the Home, far away from all of those intrigues and ugliness. It was obvious that he was on the path to something beautiful, magical, unique. Curse me, unique. I was shaking with fear for his health, in general for his life. Curse me, if they don’t see him today, they’ll see him tomorrow, the day after, they are tireless in that, they will smell it. And he himself each day became less cautious, more carried away with his work.

“What are you working on, son of Kejtin?” I asked him once, softly, at his ear. In the same way, softly, at my ear, he answered me:

“I am working on something that cannot be understood just like that, quickly,” little Leme, “something that cannot be imagined in your wise little head, young man.”

He always returned frozen to the dormitory, his hands were frozen solid, red as a lobster. But he was happy, he wasn’t cold, curse me, it was as if whatever it was that he was working on was a justification for all the cold that he took in. He warmed them by breathing onto them, because his eyes were teary from the pain. He was laughing, curse me, he was laughing. What could it be, I thought about it for hours. Kejtin’s secret each day, more and more inflamed the curiosity of my young and inexperienced soul, what could make him so lose his mind? After that, every time I thought precisely about those days, I understood, there are so many things that cannot be quickly understood, they cannot be seen by a naked eye; things that are so beautiful they conceal themselves in objects around us, they are waiting on us to see them, but we blindly stomp on them, we destroy those small, subtle and unique things, cruelly we maim them. But we did not know until later about that as about every other happy, great thing in our lives, not until the end. Not until then did our eyes open, we said, oh, how we have been deceived, friend. Then there is no limit to our sorrow, too late, friend. Curse me, it was like that this time.

Finally, the son of Kejtin was caught in the act. Certainly, it would have been expected, his absence was obvious, dear God, how carried away he was with his work, in that piece of wood, you would think that there was nothing more important for him than that piece of wood. Certainly someone saw how he was slinking through the yard, had found his hiding place, had watched him day and night. But the strangest thing was something else, the content was the strangest thing, the details of that whole matter as they were set out in the report of Metodija Grishkoski. Curse me, report. With unbelievable pedantry, with details, with days, with dates, with a description of the weather conditions, very stylistically, artistically, as though in some novel, as though he had worked on it all of his life, he had prepared the report about the Kejtin “abuse”. I swear, everything had been noted, from the first day, from the moment when we were unloading the wood, our discussion, the little coat, the unstitched lining, the shirt front where he had hidden the piece of wood, the place where he had worked on it, the places where he had buried the shavings, the shavings as evidence, the knife with which he had carved the piece of wood, that report had everything, everything, every possible stupid thing. Curse me, the shavings.

“Beautiful, beautiful report!” the dear Headmaster was delighted, it was all comrade Olivera Srezoska could do not to burst into tears, from the heart, with flaming words she praised comrade Metodija Grishkoski. “That is a real report,” she said, “such a report would be something that some of our older comrades would be proud of. A hundred such reports and victory is ours,” exaltedly continued the dear Headmaster, as though he and comrade Olivera Srezoska were speaking in a duet. “That is a success in every aspect for the whole of our collective,” related the dear Headmaster, and in that moment Olivera Srezoska gave the sign for applause. Curse me, applause. We were saluting our outstanding comrade, Metodija Grishkoski. Monkey. Cursed monkeys, I wanted to shout.

Poor Kejtin! My poor friend Isaac Kejtin, son of Kejtin. He was guilty, he was separated from us, he was moved away from all of us into a little corner. He was waiting for his punishment, the humiliation which he in no way deserved. All of the months during which he had been exemplary and worthy went to waste.

“The mask has fallen,” said the dear Headmaster with a victorious tone as though he had been waiting only for this moment. “The mask has fallen,” he repeated, “camouflage does not last long, just like the face powder can be wiped from a fallen woman” (the dear Headmaster continued his comparison). “Like the powder that cannot conceal the face of a fallen woman,” he added somewhat delicately, with experience. “Each person who starts for a dishonest action will not get far,” he said that harshly, cruelly, familiarly. “Remember,” he said whacking him with two blows for a start. “The strength of the collective is huge. Remember that you evil boy,” and he whacked him a third time.

“What should I remember, Ariton Jakovleski?” asked the son of Kejtin as though he had not been hit at all; that was his biggest mistake. Curse me, he never restrained himself at similar injustices. Oh God, after so much study, after everything, he still dared to ask.

Ariton Jakovleski, Olivera Srezoska, the instructors and the teachers were agape in wonder. What a hide! As though they did not believe that that decisive, clear voice is coming from that corner, from that place where the son of Kejtin was. The Headmaster madly turned toward him. He asked:

“You still open your mouth, you dog,” he was barely able to mouth the words while holding back a million tonnes of rage.

But now it was as if the son of Kejtin had decided to go to the end. Curse me, the end. Totally calmly, but with his decisive, clear voice he answered:

“I want to know, Ariton Jakovleski,” the son of Kejtin said obstinately, lifting his head from the floor, bravely, daringly looking into the eyes of the powerful Headmaster.

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