“Maaam… please, maaam, Abbe is very sick — you know, maaam… if you leave, who will look after us? If you go, maaam, who will care for Abbe?”
The child’s voice — not yet thirteen — came out cold and fragile, so weak that even if you weren’t told, and even if you didn’t look at his tear-soaked face or at his trembling hands holding the sick man who sat between his knees, you would still understand how deeply distressed and terrified he was.
His eyes were fixed on her, hoping to hear the precise words, “I’ve changed my mind about leaving,” fall from her mouth — even though there was nothing at all, not even the smallest sign, to show she might be swayed. Instead she readjusted the shawl over her head, bent down and tucked the remaining things that had no place into the black bag in front of her.
“Please, Mariya… not for me — for these children. Be merciful… stay and hold them. I am easy to replace; I know my days are few. They are the ones who need looking after…” The sick man — poverty and illness having taken over every part of his being — spoke with great difficulty, drawing each breath as if it might be wrenched from his chest.
He lifted his eyes from the face of the man who was his FATHER and turned them into his own heart, his compassion for them overwhelming him completely. His heartbeat quickened with a fierce mixture of anxiety and a different kind of pity that felt as if it would burst his chest. He had been longing to hear his father speak for many days — in fact for about ten days there had been almost no word from him. He had spent many sleepless nights, straining to hear anything from his father’s lips… and now the father’s mouth had opened — but opened not to speak the loving words he usually withheld, but because of the calamity and fear that threatened their lives.
His eyes filled with the hope that his father’s words would comfort him — even the single word “die,” mentioned in passing about himself, had become one of the reasons he had kept silent; he had not spoken although his heart was full of wishes and hopes to hear the words that would fill him. Caught between expectation and hope, he again heard his father’s dry, unanimated voice gather its strength and say,
“Mariya… if you leave, who will look after them?”
Irritated, she turned to him and shot him a look, hanging her bag on her shoulder.
“Look after them? I found them here and here I will leave them. Even if their mother dies at childbirth right now, they are alive and worth a million — let alone those who are already eighteen.” With that she stepped back from her feet and began to prepare to leave the room, leaving him certain she was serious!
She would not comfort him!
And nothing seemed likely to make her comfort him!
He did not know what to think; his mind became dull and unable to process any of these things, much less decide what was right or wrong. So he crouched before her, holding her feet, letting out a small cry with all the strength his years allowed.
She looked at him as if she might faint, then took his hand and raised him, seating him as she said,
“This is your fate — here you will live, whether in comfort or hardship. If I say I will continue to stay, we will all be born to misery: I lying down, you lying down, your father the same. Move a little over; perhaps your share is ahead.”
Her words struck his heart like a blow. His eyes saw his father with his eyelids closed. He took his own eyes off the father and turned them to the boy who crouched behind the door after she left.
A hoarse voice, aged beyond his years, rebuked him:
“Get up and sit! — we will live… we will live with our father!… we will live in hardship or comfort!… we will live in happiness or without it!… we now owe each other everything!… we have no one but our own heads and our father!” He finished speaking and breathed heavily, his chest rising and falling.
She paused and turned back; their eyes met and held the same place. He could not tell whether she had delayed for a year or two, or how many scolding words she had for him… he knew his habits, the manner of a man who had borne a long span of life or even a century in this world — habits that sometimes left her in wonder. Yet even in jest she had never expected such sharp, piercing words to come from him. The sentences came out smoothly! They carried a message as if he had long kept them in store — as if they had been written for him and he had taken a long time to try them out before speaking.
As she took her eyes away, he took his too. He poured all his efforts into calming his father so he might enjoy some peace. His body grew heavier and relaxed somewhat. Still, breaths escaped through his nostrils, and his thoughts barely held onto anything.
He had no more hope in her… yet his mind could not let go of her; he counted the steps of her shoes as she left the house. Even now the thought of her leaving would not leave his mind. Her leaving caused him sharp pain… that departure was tied to hardship and was the KEY to every kind of severity and pressure in life.
Description
The Child's Plea
“Maaam… please, maaam, Abbe is very sick — you know, maaam… if you leave, who will look after us? If you go, maaam, who will care for Abbe?”
The child’s voice — not yet thirteen — came out cold and fragile, so weak that even if you weren’t told, and even if you didn’t look at his tear-soaked face or at his trembling hands holding the sick man who sat between his knees, you would still understand how deeply distressed and terrified he was.
His eyes were fixed on her, hoping to hear the precise words, “I’ve changed my mind about leaving,” fall from her mouth — even though there was nothing at all, not even the smallest sign, to show she might be swayed. Instead she readjusted the shawl over her head, bent down and tucked the remaining things that had no place into the black bag in front of her.
“Please, Mariya… not for me — for these children. Be merciful… stay and hold them. I am easy to replace; I know my days are few. They are the ones who need looking after…” The sick man — poverty and illness having taken over every part of his being — spoke with great difficulty, drawing each breath as if it might be wrenched from his chest.
He lifted his eyes from the face of the man who was his FATHER and turned them into his own heart, his compassion for them overwhelming him completely. His heartbeat quickened with a fierce mixture of anxiety and a different kind of pity that felt as if it would burst his chest. He had been longing to hear his father speak for many days — in fact for about ten days there had been almost no word from him. He had spent many sleepless nights, straining to hear anything from his father’s lips… and now the father’s mouth had opened — but opened not to speak the loving words he usually withheld, but because of the calamity and fear that threatened their lives.
His eyes filled with the hope that his father’s words would comfort him — even the single word “die,” mentioned in passing about himself, had become one of the reasons he had kept silent; he had not spoken although his heart was full of wishes and hopes to hear the words that would fill him. Caught between expectation and hope, he again heard his father’s dry, unanimated voice gather its strength and say,
“Mariya… if you leave, who will look after them?”
Irritated, she turned to him and shot him a look, hanging her bag on her shoulder.
“Look after them? I found them here and here I will leave them. Even if their mother dies at childbirth right now, they are alive and worth a million — let alone those who are already eighteen.” With that she stepped back from her feet and began to prepare to leave the room, leaving him certain she was serious!
She would not comfort him!
And nothing seemed likely to make her comfort him!
He did not know what to think; his mind became dull and unable to process any of these things, much less decide what was right or wrong. So he crouched before her, holding her feet, letting out a small cry with all the strength his years allowed.
She looked at him as if she might faint, then took his hand and raised him, seating him as she said,
“This is your fate — here you will live, whether in comfort or hardship. If I say I will continue to stay, we will all be born to misery: I lying down, you lying down, your father the same. Move a little over; perhaps your share is ahead.”
Her words struck his heart like a blow. His eyes saw his father with his eyelids closed. He took his own eyes off the father and turned them to the boy who crouched behind the door after she left.
A hoarse voice, aged beyond his years, rebuked him:
“Get up and sit! — we will live… we will live with our father!… we will live in hardship or comfort!… we will live in happiness or without it!… we now owe each other everything!… we have no one but our own heads and our father!” He finished speaking and breathed heavily, his chest rising and falling.
She paused and turned back; their eyes met and held the same place. He could not tell whether she had delayed for a year or two, or how many scolding words she had for him… he knew his habits, the manner of a man who had borne a long span of life or even a century in this world — habits that sometimes left her in wonder. Yet even in jest she had never expected such sharp, piercing words to come from him. The sentences came out smoothly! They carried a message as if he had long kept them in store — as if they had been written for him and he had taken a long time to try them out before speaking.
As she took her eyes away, he took his too. He poured all his efforts into calming his father so he might enjoy some peace. His body grew heavier and relaxed somewhat. Still, breaths escaped through his nostrils, and his thoughts barely held onto anything.
He had no more hope in her… yet his mind could not let go of her; he counted the steps of her shoes as she left the house. Even now the thought of her leaving would not leave his mind. Her leaving caused him sharp pain… that departure was tied to hardship and was the KEY to every kind of severity and pressure in life.