It was said he was specifically appointed to the Home with the task of taking care of the orphans of the war. It was said it was his own request. Curse me, from love. How much could we find out; to the last moment Ariton Jakovleski and with all that darkness and ice in his soul, still, that good man planned a better end for himself, he even hoped, he had moments when he passionately believed in his work, meaning he had some deeper hope. Maybe at those times he thought he would be paid back for everything he had lost in his life. Poor man! And it was not hard to work out that life wasn’t set all that much in his favour, the marks of a definitely brutal and tragic life were as visible as a dagger’s scar on his face. What was that hope based on? What dream deceived him, what water splashed about in his hard, chiselled, manly head? He spent all his time in the Home alone. I think he chose to be alone; apart from his administrative duties, there was nothing that could tie him to the people in the Home. Even though he tolerated the instructors, he didn’t like them. His only friend was the strong and very loyal dog, Andrusha. You couldn’t say life had put them together because of an exercise of will, a great battle obviously, great memories were the agent of the friendship between Ariton Jakovleski and the dog. (A dog doesn’t easily become loyal to a man.) Curse me, there was something touching, tender, inexplicable. That man and that dog, some damned common destiny. For example, everyone in the Home knew something terrible was going to happen to Ariton Jakovleski. Some might even have known the exact time of the accident, and maybe some knew the details about the place and the way he would take his life, but no-one found it necessary to lift even a finger. Not that, because of his individual, strange, strict behaviour, no-one in the Home mourned his loss, at the end, it was a human life, regardless what kind — he was a person after all. Curse me, everything appeared helpless, every word, every comfort. That sort will live out the last remaining moments of their life more calmly, easier if no-one from outside stirs, if you leave them to themselves in their own peace. He analyses everything and then it ends, mercilessly he judges himself, he dies with some lightening of the soul, he is conscious, he punishes himself, his soul is Christian, repentant. He thought he’d saved himself, he washed his hands, everything is smoothed out and now enough, goodbye life! And in case something made him rethink, he couldn’t go back, everyone already knew, everyone was waiting for that death. Tragic, my friend, tragic when you are still alive and someone has written you off. Curse me, there’s no life for a person after that, no way, he has to die.
The dear Headmaster was a real devil. He still wore an army uniform with the red star. They called him the old partisan. God, he was strong, proud, then! Do you want me to describe him further? Excellent, I think you should pay attention to one other thing if by chance you bump into our dear Headmaster, comrade Ariton Jakovleski. Sometimes he acted like he was going blind, he would walk around acting blind when really, he could see like an eagle. When he hit, he never missed. The Headmaster was rare in that regard, he could see with his hands. With his left and with his right. Sometimes he was imaginative, more than once he hit out with both hands. You understand, that was on special occasions when he was in a good humour. To put it briefly, the Headmaster was one of those very wholesome, useful citizens who don’t have anything negative inside them. Let’s be honest, the dear Headmaster was like one of those people who put a lid on their life like you would on some ordinary object and then, go on, try to wipe that philosophy from their heads. If you make a drunk stop drinking, he’d be ready to die, he’d collapse. It was the same with Ariton Jakovleski. He would not yield, God forbid, from his positive ambitions (he loved to express himself that way) — he was no longer well. It was as though he got all of his strength from those stupid tasks. From day to day, as the tasks were lost, he lost his strength. But comrade Ariton Jakovleski did not permit such a thing, at least in the beginning. He knew his job, he trod his path perfectly. He had a firm step, army trained (curse me, the army changes a person in every way, in every single way). And I can see him now, my heart feels it deeply as if I am still in the Home. Curse me, I can see him and I remember his every movement. He’d put his hands behind, maybe these were the times of reflection, he would throw his head as high as it would go (it was rare to see his head bent toward the ground) and he circles around the yard like an eagle which has flown close to the ground to look for its prey. You could say he was unique in every way, and when he’d sing some battle song, then he became amazing. Everything in the yard, as if on command, fell silent. Curse me, a song.
The tortured and sick morning hung like the tom half of the Home’s tree. The morning rolled itself in the sharp glass fragments in the wall. What happened to Spring, to the sky, the birds, what happened to the migration of things, with the rain, what happened with the Big Water? All the kids stood like statues. Frozen. We thought something bad had happened in the Home. No-one knew what morning it was, curse me, what really happened with the Big Water. No-one looked at us, didn’t even glance. The Headmaster did another hundred circles around the tree, singing his little song the whole time, until at last he went as silent as a stone. Oh, how quiet it was. He began to look deeply at one child then another, like he was looking for a thief. He measured each child, as if saying “You bloody mice, mice, bandits, look into these two eyes, eyes of a man who wouldn’t feed his mother (he paused in front of me and Kejtin) — look and remember, learn what a line is, discipline. At your age we captured German soldiers, my word, living fascists — remember, either you will be people worthy of your fathers (but our fathers had already gone) or it is better you don’t exist at all,” curse me, and I wish we did not exist. After that, obviously not finishing his review, he turned toward us unexpectedly and — not even giving us the chance to open our mouths — he took our heads as with a magnet, you know, mine and Kejtin’s, and with all his strength, hit one into the other. Poor heads, how they sparked! The old guy, you could see, had experience, had worked it out to the last detail. One head against the other. Turning toward the son of Kejtin he said:
“Who are you, you devil?” and without waiting for an answer, he belted him across the ear. He thought with his right hand. “Who?” he repeated in case he hadn’t heard and at the same time, belted him with the left hand. The Headmaster hit so cleverly that everyone, each time, was surprised. Curse me, he hit like lightning from a cloudless sky.
The son of Kejtin, Isaac Kejtin, as though nothing had happened, as though he hadn’t received two violent blows, calmly replied to the Headmaster:
“I am the son of Kejtin,” he said, “Isaac Kejtin.”
“The son of Kejtin,” repeated the Headmaster in a very interested way, and gave him a regulation third whack. “Think further,” he said, “maybe you’ve forgotten something, little son of Kejtin,” curse me, he said “Maybe you’ve forgotten your name.” That’s what the Headmaster said and slowly, as if he was counting old cartridges, he turned toward me. Oh, the omnipotent comrade Ariton Jakovleski, I was lost in his shadow. For a whole decade we sized each other up like two devils, the dear Headmaster loved to play a little game beforehand. From above the dear Headmaster is glaring at me, he winks at me, and I look at him from below, shooting him a fiery look or two, thinking he will feel sorry for me. He’s looking at me and with a sort of loving voice he says to me “Do you like this little Home; just tell me what you’d like, and I’ll get it for you, my little eagle.” I thought he was saying something like that to me and I got a bit closer to him, like I was going to throw myself into his arms, I’d hug him like he’s my own father, but it was from fear I got closer so he wouldn’t get me from a distance, so he wouldn’t hit me from a distance, so he wouldn’t rip my head off, so I’d end up without a head. Curse me, fear can force a person to do anything. “It’s a good Home, Headmaster, naturally,” I answered him in my thoughts.