“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.