The battle for new character appraisals was even stronger, harder. Curse me, we got so many character appraisals, killing off so much that was human, we flew on slogans, shooting birds. Unexpectedly, the son of Kejtin got into that game. Curse me, the son of Kejtin’s character appraisal. The dear Headmaster was delighted with Kejtin’s conduct, he had the right to ascribe to himself the greatest merit. Not only once did he nod his head approvingly while looking at the reborn son, he would say, “That’s it, my eagle. I want to see you in the line with everyone else.” The son of Kejtin even managed to get a commendation, he was outstanding, I swear he triumphed.
What was happening with him, what did he think up, this thought was troubling me, day and night, there was no way to know what he was cooking up for them. Curse me, if he was behaving as he should, if he really was in the line with everyone else. He said he was planting some sort of cucumbers for the administration but he was using a different type of seed. It was difficult to work out.
Where did the son of Kejtin go, my friend, I looked for him more than once after that. I went back over every corner where I could to find him, but he lost himself in the same way that everything started to be lost from the earth. Again I started to check every part of the huge wall, that coldness which settled into the son of Kejtin and in my heart. I was listening for the Big Water, I waited for her voice.
It was as if everything in the Home was dead. Even in the hunting room it was dead. No-one traded with anyone any more, no one believed in anyone, the wall was higher than ever before. Curse me, everything was built in by a wall. No one knew where friendship went, the glances, human beauty, goodness, the Big Water, dreams, wishes. The Senterlev mountain, the birds, the sun, what sort of weather is this without any wind, without rain, why don’t the bright rains of Spring roar, what sort of weather is this, dry and infertile, this huge snow which closes our roads, this darkness through which we passed like shadows, unknown, this poisonous dust in our eyes, where did the golden brightness from the eyes of the son of Kejtin go, what is this lie which enslaves us, which separates us? He was behaving as though he did not notice me at all, as though he did not notice the wall and everything that surrounded us in the Home, at all. He acted like he really had been reborn, as though he really did find himself in paradise. Curse me, paradise. At the top of his voice I could hear him boasting in front of the other boys, acting the happy man.
I knew, I swear, he was saying all of those mindless words emptily, that this was his big game, and I did not like it. I was afraid of every coming day, I trembled at the sight of his acting like a reborn boy; I speculated with certainty he was acting like this while preparing himself for the future. But what kind of future could he have, our future? One thing was clear, clear as the Spring sun. That would be the last punishment for the son of Kejtin. They could kill him like a fly, the thought hit me in class and I fell silent. Dear God, even the children themselves could kill him, for revenge. And how much they tried, wore themselves out fighting with him over everything so that they did not fall behind. I swear, he was even better than the boys with the best character appraisals, he tormented their souls, he wore them out. Yes, they could kill him, it hit me, certainly they would kill him. In that, they were more cunning than him, shivers crawled through my veins, I lost all peace of mind, all my sleep.
Metodija Grishkoski and the others would never forget his presentation on the wounded partisan, extracted from the drama of the same name. Curse me, drama. Kejtin represented a partisan, a captured, wounded fighter, and Metodija represented a fascist, a prison guard. Metodija Grishkoski, who, in everything until then had been first and who had the most flattering character appraisal, in any other situation would not have taken the role even if you had killed him, but now he agreed from a mean motive. There was fighting, the role gave him the chance to beat the wounded partisan, the son of Kejtin, to death. The stupid fool had made himself keen even before then, he was boasting that he would put funeral oil on the son of Kejtin. There was no reason not to believe the dog. Would Kejtin just stand there with arms folded and be beaten, agitated others. All that gave to the play a particular artistic interest. Curse me, artistic. We were all waiting, we were all trembling in anticipation, the closer the day got, the more restless we were. That show-off Metodija Grishkoski, that great crawler, finally got up everyone’s nose. Curse me, it was a play about life and death. So many wounded, unfortunate souls awaited the fight. I swear, it seemed someone had to die that day.
The presentation started solemnly enough, in silence. In the semidarkness, in a tiny, poor light. A fascist soldier in front of the prison. He’s marching. Heavy, murderous steps. From time to time from the prison comes the thin, but brave, song of the wounded partisan. The song is getting louder, the light is getting brighter. It irritates the eyes of the fascist guard. He is getting angered, stomping with his boots, he says:
“Will you stop, you slippery bastard, or not!?”
The wounded partisan answers him in song.
“Cut my throat, if you want, or hang me, I will not stop and in my grave I will fight on, you can be sure. I will sing song,” he answers very bravely.
“You’ll sing, you’ll sing,” Metodija Grishkoski snarled at him. He dragged him out of the prison cell and in the most repulsive way, he started to stomp on the wounded partisan. Heartlessly, with his stick he started to hit his head, his arms, his legs, to poke out his eyes. At that moment, Comrade Olivera Srezoska who was responsible for the presentation from behind the curtain splashed a bucket of blood, watery red earth, and rivers ran on the whole of the stage from the wounded partisan. But that man sang again, curse me, all covered in blood, he sang. I swear, he set our hearts on fire. He was singing,
“Oh, fascists, cursed fascists.”
That was the peak. Then Metodija, the fool, with a heavy boot stepped on his throat and said to him:
“So, you are still singing? I will hang you.” And in a flash, he took a rope and threw it up to the ceiling. Curse me, he was going to hang him. He started to put his head in the noose. Oh, God, what poor Kejtin had to suffer through. Now there was nowhere to go, the rope was around his neck.
“No! No!” one of the children shouted wildly.
“No, no!” all of the children went mad.
“Cursed fascist!”
“Soulless monster!”
“Blood sucker!” the angriest protests possible flew from all around, pieces of wood and rocks were hurled at the head of Metodija Grishkoski. All of us in turn got up from our places with clenched fists. Curse me, with clenched fists.
Kejtin poured the last drop in his own, full glass. His eyes turned back, he went limp, oh, the devilish artiste, he reached his bloody hands towards us and softly, softly, weakly, he said:
“Comrades, I am dying. May sweet freedom live. May the Revolution live. Down with tyranny, death and the fascists!”
Oh, God, he said it in such a way that we had to believe him, we went wild. I swear, we were struck dumb when the dear Headmaster jumped up from his place in the front row, as though his burn was on fire with a revolver in his hand, and like the craziest bird cried:
“Cursed fascist dog, you will not hang him,” he aimed the loaded revolver straight at the luckless boy Metodija Grishkoski.
Fortunately, at that moment, the Meteor showed himself to be in control of himself and brave, may they rest in peace, all those strange, unnoticed heroes, downtrodden people, always on the edge, thrown out, I swear, in the middle of the fire he stood up and he grabbed Metodija Grishkoski in his arms. As if suffocating him he said: “Die, little fool, if you love your life. You must die, you fascist,” that quietened the dear Headmaster down a bit. He said: