An Old Black Marble

Part III : The Healing

35 An Old Black Marble

Prologue

I tossed it, then yanked on it, and she jumped. She was so funny. I pulled on it slowly, gently tugging at the yarn, and the bundled newspaper at the other end hopped a few inches with every tug. Paulina was focused. Her jaw was resting on her front paws while her rear end was up in the air. She shook it from side. I gently nudged the yarn. Her rear started shaking more. I knew the cat was ready to pounce, so I snapped the yarn back, just as she leaped forward. She missed the paper ball, but I didn't miss my mother’s calf, when I flung my arm back.

Darn it Cepi! Didn’t I tell you to go to sleep! If I have to say it again I’ll say it with this spoon across your back. My mother snarled from above shaking her big wooden spoon down at me. Saying nothing I inched closer to my nest a couple of feet away. My mother turned back to the stove where she was nursing a pot of boiling cabbage stew.

Paulina was on her side holding the paper ball with her front paws while kicking at it with her rear legs, and tearing at it with her teeth. What a funny cat this Paulina, I thought. I reached for the bundled newspaper and tried to take it from her, but she held on to it tight. I started tugging harder, and for a moment the cat and I were in a tug of war… but a sharp pain across my back snapped me up, and my body lurched backwards onto my butt. I stared up at my mother while my eyes moistened away.

What did I tell you? Now leave that cat alone and go to sleep. My eyes welled up with tears. I started dragging myself into my nest with no energy. A second later I heard my mother’s voice, high above, asking Mircea to get her a bundle of dried dill from the wall of our pantry. I was half-heartedly crawling into my nest. I stopped and watched my eldest brother Mircea step out of the room. The minute he disappeared behind the door’s frame I bolted behind him. I heard my mother’s voice yelling after me, but I paid no mind. I ran out into the darkness.

I ran past my brother, past the well, past our enclosed garden, and then slowed to a walk as I crossed the foot bridge over my favorite little stream. I walked up the foot path and through the fresh spring grass to my friend the cherry tree not far away. I sat against its trunk and that's when I realized I was scared. It was dark, and the nearly full moon was highlighting the night in a surreal black and white glow. It was still early spring so the tree hadn't sprouted its leaves yet. Its naked gnarled branches were casting claw-like shadows on the moonlit ground. I realized that my friend, the cherry tree, was not so friendly in the dark. My fear was growing. Maybe running there wasn't the best idea after all… but I was still mad!

I forced the fear out of my mind. I didn't care about it. I was mad and glad I was away from my mother, until I heard a sound. Someone, or something, was crossing the little foot bridge coming up my way. My heart jumped into my throat. Suddenly, every monster out of every fairytale I had ever heard came to life and I was terrified. I desperately wanted to run back to my nest, but how? My path was blocked by whatever was coming at me. I could feel a second round of tears welling up behind my eyes, this time from terror… but then I heard my brother’s voice calling out to me. It was Ovi, my youngest brother. My heart settled back into my chest.

What are you doing? I heard Ovi’s gentle voice as I watched his black silhouette approach. I didn't answer. He asked me to follow him back home, but I ignored him.

Ok, I’ll sit here with you. He said, then squatted by me against the tree. We sat quietly for a moment... but then Ovi broke the silence with excitement in his tone.

Did you see that! The energy in his voice startled me out of my stupor. He was looking up through the naked branches at the sky. I followed his eye line.

Just keep looking, and you will see real life magic.

What? I asked mostly annoyed, but a little curious.

Keep looking.

Although ten years older, Ovi was my only friend in the world, and even he was annoying me in that moment. I was sure he was trying to trick me. He always did when I was sad, to make me feel better, and I always fell for it but this time I would not. I decided to look away from the sky and resist being tricked again but my resistance, my anger, my annoyance, all of it vanished when I saw a streak of light shoot above the gnarly-naked branches, just before I could pull my gaze away.

What was that? I almost jumped from the surprise. Ovi smiled and said that it was a falling star.

No way! That’s only in fairytales! I responded excitedly. My brother then explained that not all fairytales were make believe, and that stars really did sometimes fall from the sky.

How? I asked, losing myself in his words.

Nobody knows. That’s why sometimes at night I come here to my favorite tree, and watch the sky. He paused holding my eyes with his gaze. Sometimes there is as much magic in the world as in the fanciest of fairytales. He finally broke the silence. We both looked up through the naked branches waiting for the world to show us its magic again.

I stared at that glittering night sky with peace in my heart. Any anger I may have felt before was carried away by that streak across the sky. My mind relished in the certainty that magic was real and I was witnessing it with my own eyes.

I jumped in excitement when I saw another streak of light shoot above the claw-like branches of the cherry tree.

Are they really stars? I asked eager and excited. Of course.

And where do they fall?

Nobody knows… but the story goes that if you find one… He interrupted his sentence and looked at me with focus in his eyes.

What? I snapped impatiently.

Any wish, any desire you have, will come true.

I squinted my eyes studying Ovi’s face to see if he was pulling my leg, but his face was as serious as could be. I knew it was just a fairytale, like the many others he used to tell me, but it didn't matter because I liked it.

Come on lets go home. He cut through my thoughts as he got up, but I refused. I insisted I wanted to remain. I wanted to see another falling star. In fact, I wanted to see where it would fall so that I could find it the next morning.

Ovi laughed at my suggestion. He said that finding a fallen star was harder than looking into the face of God, so I shouldn't bother with the idea. His statement annoyed me, and suddenly I was back being just as angry as before. I told him to go back alone because I was staying put.

I’ll make you a deal. Come with me and I’ll tell you your favorite story. Then tomorrow we’ll look for a fallen star.

I agreed. We headed for the house.

Part I : The Cut

Chapter 1 : A Little Cut or Scratch

I was a wind, or maybe I was running, I couldn't really tell. I was as light as the thoughts in my mind, yet I was real. Everything was real. I wasn't dreaming, even though my memories were dreamlike. They were ancient faded thoughts, so ancient and forgotten that they were new to me. They seemed almost unreal, well almost, but once the floodgates burst my past came crashing down on me with all the realness that my simple mind could muster.

I couldn't see myself in it, the memory, but I could see all around. Like a feather in the wind, it seemed I was flying, but then I remembered that in fact I was running. I was in the place where I felt most free. There I would run for what seemed like endless hours, while in my mind I was flying--flying like the birds and floating like the butterflies. It was the grassy field just behind our little homestead, across my favorite little stream.

It was about waist high, the grass, and all its flowery blades blended into a blur as they rushed past me in my haste. I remembered that I wasn't supposed to play there, but I just couldn't help myself. It was the breeze. It pushed me with its liveliness. Sometimes I would stop and watch in awe as the breeze caressed the tips of the grassy plain forcing the whole lot into a dance of whirling ripples like those on a pond. It made the hills shudder and sway like the hide of a living being. It made me think I was like a little flea living on the skin of the earth, whatever the earth was. I tried to imagine the earth, and since it seemed to be alive, and I was its flea, and the grasses its hair, then maybe the earth was like a big cow.

Oh well, that was one thought, there were so many others. Everything was so fascinating, so new. If people were the fleas, and plants the hair, then what were the animals, I wondered? What were all those mysterious little creatures; the grasshoppers, the beetles, and the crickets that made so much noise? How about all the nasty flies that irritated our cows, or those beautiful butterflies I loved so much? I would wonder, and then I would run.

The thoughts were fragmented, short, deep, and full of questions, but my body always won out. It was restless. I couldn't stand still. There was so much energy inside of me it was akin to madness. I had to move or I might explode. So I ran, until the crickets creaking would stop me in my tracks. I both hated and loved those little buggers. I hated that I couldn't catch them, but admired the power of their songs.

'How could such little beings make so much sound?' My mind mused. I wanted to discover their secret so I stalked them. I focused my attention on a song… then lunged, only to discover that the incessant music was coming from somewhere else entirely. Every time I moved, so did their song. How did they do that? Were they watching me? Did they know I was trying to catch them? They must have because I could never find them. It amazed me to think that I was outsmarted by a cricket. What a wonder this world!

The memory was as vivid as the day I lived it. I was about six I think, or maybe seven, I can't quite remember, but I was in my playground. The field where my father grew the grass that in the summer he would scythe down and pile into great mounds of hay. It was the food for our animals, and it had to last them through the winter. We had just enough, without a foot of land to spare, so it was an off-limits area for me in the spring. My father didn't want me trampling the fresh grasses ruining his hay crop, but I was too young for those concerns. I loved that place too much. It was full of butterflies and crickets, little beetles, and even all those nasty flies. They were my toys, but of course at the time I didn't call them that. I had never heard of toys. I only knew of trees that became castles, rocks that became tools, and sticks that became weapons or magical devices.

That was my life and those were my toys, sometimes even my friends, and I was happy. Growing up in the Maramureş region of Romania in the 1930s, we were as far away from the modern world as Timbuktu. I didn't know of automobiles, films, electricity, or any of the new technological wonders of the day. Mine was a simple but happy life, and with so much space and so much to do, I didn't have time to know sadness. The only pain I knew came from the little cuts and scratches I got from playing, and sometimes working, and boy did I cry every time I got a new one. The pain was so terrible, so unbearable. I would cry and cry and I would wonder: 'Why was pain so painful?' I just couldn't understand how anything could hurt that bad.

It was beautifully blue, the sky, fluffed with puffy clouds here, there, everywhere, and it was hot. I could feel it right through my old torn shirt. I was wearing the only outfit I had to wear, a little white hemp tunic and my little white hemp britches. Summertime meant going barefoot, and that day was no exception.

My face was pointed towards the sky, but my eyes were locked on the fluttering of a butterfly. I was waiting for it. I followed it with my eyes until the little creature landed on a flower. I cautiously approached, getting closer and closer, until my face was two feet from the little beast. I watched attentively, and noticed that where its mouth was supposed to be, instead, it had a long coiled hair which the little creature unwound and pushed into the flower’s center. I figured it was like a little arm, and it was collecting something it liked from the flower. I stared enthralled by the magic of this tiny being. Even so small it knew what it wanted and how to get it. I wanted to ask the butterfly what was in that flower that it seemed to like so much, but I knew I couldn’t… Pow!

I recoiled as an otherworldly noise shattered my attention. My eyes instinctively started scanning my surroundings. I wasn't used to loud noises, and this one was loud… so loud it sent my heart fluttering with dread. Something was wrong. The sound… it was strange, unnatural, out of place, unsettling. My little heart was racing from the stress of the strangeness.

I looked to what was familiar, the cherry tree up the gentle hill to the east, but the piercing sound came from the north, from over the hillcrest, from up wind. I stared in that direction frozen on the spot. Something about that sound frightened me at a level that my little six year old mind never felt before. My body was numb with fear, yet I wasn't scared, not the way I understood it. My mind was curious, in wonder, while my body shivered. Every part of my body told me to run, yet my mind was more interested in knowing than running. Then I remembered…

Ovi! He was there, on the other side of the crest, with his scythe cutting down the grass. That's where the sound came from. That thought rejuvenated me. I felt the pressure of fear leave my body and turn into energy. I bolted off the spot, heading toward the crest… Pow! Pow!

Two more rapid blasts stopped me frozen in fear again. 'What were those sounds?' They were piercingly loud, not heavy and strong like thunder, yet they echoed all across the valley like thunder in a storm.

Fueled by the strength of curiosity I moved forward in spite of my bodily fear, but this time with a more cautious stride. After a few steps I heard new sounds. Human voices, but they didn't seem to be saying anything at all. It sounded like someone trying to speak, but not really knowing how. The yells were aggressive, harsh, like someone was angry, yet incomprehensible.

The voices escalated my sense of fear, but my curiosity was overwhelming. I needed to see. I had to see what was going on, and I knew my brother was there. Ovi was the best brother anyone could have, and I knew I would be safe once I was with him.

I loved my brother Ovidiu more than anything else in the world. He was the fourth child in our family, five years younger than Mircea who was the oldest, and three years older than our sister Viorica who was the fifth child. My other two brothers, second oldest Nelu, and third oldest Dumitru, worked as indentured servants on far away farms since before I could remember, so I knew nothing of them.

Ovi was sixteen years old and somehow he got to escape doing his time. I was the youngest, and of my five siblings Ovi was the only one I could truly call family. He was the only one who found time to play with me. He was the one who told me stories, and he was the only one who had the patience to teach me the things I knew.

Mircea was aloof and distant, and only spoke when he was giving me orders. Viorica was a strange girl. She was morose and quiet, but Ovi, Ovi was funny and smart. If I had a problem he was the one with a solution. Ovi had patience, and he never shushed me away because I was a bother, nor ever snapped or yelled at me. Ovi was my world.

I crested the hill and I noticed someone running. It was Ovi! He was running through the tall grass… Ovi never ran through the tall grass. I was the only one who could get away with breaking that rule. Something was wrong. There was something wrong with the way he was running. He was hunched forward. I couldn't see his face--only the top of his head. He was awkward, struggling… Pow! …again… the shock of the unexpected sound made me jump in a shiver.

The loud ‘pop’ expanded my vision and I was no longer just seeing my brother, but the whole valley and forest in the distance. Between the forest and my brother I saw several men. They were running. They were running after Ovi and they were yelling, but their yells made no sense. Then I suddenly figured it out. They must be speaking Hungarian. I heard people speak Hungarian before, and it made no sense to me.

I focused on them. They did not look like any Hungarians I had ever seen. They were all wearing the same clothes. Then I saw one stop and raise something that looked like a Shepard's staff up to his shoulder and… Pow! …my body clenched once more. I stared confused at the staff. Smoke whiffed out of its pointy end. Without knowing exactly how I knew it was a weapon, and in that instant the reality of the scene struck me with a cold chill of horror. Those men were chasing my brother, and they were trying to hurt him. I stood atop of that hill petrified, unable to think or act in any way.

I moved my eyes to Ovi. He was hardly fifty feet away. His movements seemed heavy and hard, as if the air was thick and sticky making every step forward strained. He finally looked up and I saw his face, but when I saw his eyes… I hardly recognized him. The face was his, but the Ovi I knew was not there. I couldn't understand, but I could feel. His face had no life, no laughter, no strength, and all I could feel was fear. My brother was the strongest being I knew, but that creature struggling towards me had no strength at all.

His eyes locked onto mine and that instantly drew my tears. My mind couldn't understand what it was seeing, but my body felt it, and all it could feel was death. His eyes were still alive, but dying. I could feel his sadness, a sadness so deep that it cut me to pieces. I felt a surge of rage. It energized me. My body tensed and cocked ready to spring, to run forward and help my brother when… Pow! …another blast echoed just behind him. In front of my eyes I saw Ovi’s torso violently arch back, his head and arms flinging up towards the fluffy blue sky… then his body collapsed out of sight vanishing in an abyss of tall grass. Ovi was gone.

Past Ovi’s abyss, one of those men, who couldn't speak right, was standing with one of those staffs in front of his face. It was pointing to where Ovi used to be. Smoke was whiffing out of its pointy end. Before I could make sense of the image the man lowered his stick and started running towards the place where my brother fell while the other men followed from behind.

I wanted to run to my brother, but I couldn't. Time disappeared, and now all the men were gathered around the abyss. I saw them standing over… Pow! … my little body jerked. I noticed one man with his stick pointing down where my brother vanished. A light haze of smoke whiffed upwards from the abyss. He casually swung the stick and hooked it around his shoulder by a chord, and then they all started walking towards me. I had no feelings, no emotions. I was numb. I didn't move.

The men approached. I was no longer alive. I no longer felt the urgency or the need to run. I could no longer hear the crickets, or see the grasses sway in the breeze. I could see the sky, but it was no longer blue, and when I looked to where Ovi had been cutting grass, he was no longer there.

It was still pretty early, about ten in the morning, and the Northern California sky was crisp and clear. It was warm yet comfortable, and dry just the way I liked it. I stared at the cool blue sky, and I could hear my grandkids’ happy yells. I looked past the pool to where they were playing. I looked at them, and then past them, at my memory. But this wasn't just a memory, it was a visceral vision of something I had long ago forgotten. Now it was as fresh as if I just lived it, and my old mind felt ready to collapse under the pressure.

I squirmed in my lounge. My twelve hundred dollar chaise lounge was no longer comfortable. I turned right, then I turned left, but I knew. I knew I was trying to turn away from my thoughts. I had to. I tried once more to distract myself by looking at my playing grandchildren and their friends. It was futile. My thoughts rushed past my grandchildren, past my vineyards, past my northern California estate and back to those terrible soldiers. For the first time in sixty years of life I remembered what happened to my brother Ovi on that day so long ago. Now I understood that those men were Russian soldiers, out scavenging the countryside for food, alcohol, and sex.

I was no longer seeing my past in a vivid daydream, but my memory was clear. After killing my brother Ovi the soldiers dragged me back to the house which on that day was being tended by my oldest brother Mircea, and my sister Viorica. They beat up Mircea, raped my thirteen year old sister Viorica, and then took our pigs, chickens, and everything else they could hoard when they left.

My parents were away, but when they got back home… well, there is not much that I have to say is there? Let’s just say that it was the first time I saw my father cry. That evening everybody cried. The only person who didn't cry that evening was me. I was all cried out. After that day I never again cried from the simple pain of a little cut or scratch.

Chapter 2 : Left Behind as a Phantom

I woke up that morning without the neurosis of the days before. I felt good. I walked out of my bedroom onto my private balcony overlooking my grapevines and the valley below. I inhaled a deep breath and absorbed the view. Even after all these years it was still hard to accept that most of what was in front of my eyes was mine. A mansion in northern California with a vineyard on acres of land. When I thought back from where I started I couldn't help but feel proud of what I had achieved. I looked at it all, and drank in the horizon, and just as I was about to reach my climax of satisfaction, my thoughts were interrupted by that now familiar echo, resonating from that cancerous black hole, that started gouging the life out of my heart so many years ago.

In a flash I was gripped with fear. What if none of this was mine? What if I was still dreaming? Maybe I was still back there, a little boy, scared out of my mind, dreaming myself into a world that I could have never possibly achieved.

My chest was tightening. I could physically feel the hole. In fact is was more like a hard lump inside a hole. A dark mass of glassy shards cutting and constricting what was left of my soul. I looked into the horizon and my spirit sank. I was an old man. I lived a hard life, and in the end I did achieve something. In fact I had it all, so I couldn't understand. Why? Why after everything. After my long struggle. After all my wealth. After defeating my nemesis, in the end life rewarded me with… a cancer. I shuddered then forced those thoughts out with a hard exhalation. Today was Sunday. Today was not a day for such thoughts. I looked at the clear blue sky and saw a beautiful morning ahead. I reminded myself it was my day.

It was still pretty early, about ten in the morning, and the Northern California sky was crisp and clear. It was warm yet comfortable, and dry just the way I liked it. The sun’s rays were gentle on my skin, and when it seemed that its warmth was turning into heat, a swift cool breeze would whiz across the land bringing all things back into balance.

I had just laid out by the pool on my favorite lounge with a glass of fresh orange juice. It was my spot. From there I could see all that my wealth had given me in my old age. I was a king and I had a castle, and in that moment I felt good.

Mind faded into a random daydream until a shout snatched my gaze towards the kids. They were on the other side of the pool, by the house, concocting some new game with their creative little minds. I watched with a smile. I took a sip of my juice, and then gently placed it on the side table. A flicker next to the sun took my attention from the kids. I squinted my eyes to unveil the blackened flutter out of the glare of the sun’s light. It was a butterfly dancing in the air just a few feet away. The little creature was flailing, seemingly out of control, but it was clear that he was flying with purpose. I watched him hover for a while in roughly the same spot. The breeze nudged him, pushed him, but he quickly adjusted and found his place again.

I stared at the little creature and he quickly drew me into his hypnotic dance. A thought flashed through my mind, ‘He was dancing for me’, but quicker than I could think he seemed to change his intention, and gently landed on the edge of my glass of juice. I watched him closely, and I could see the hair like proboscis uncoiling before he dipped it into the orange drink.

His big cumbersome yellow wings flapped up and down once. A moment later he did it again. He seemed to be working on his balance while forcing his thin tube into the juice sucking out the sweet treat. Then it hit me--déjà vu--I had lived this moment before, but how? I could anticipate every movement that the butterfly was going to make. I knew exactly what it was going to do. I was certain I had already lived this moment in time, and for a second I could almost see that other moment…

Ahhhhhh …but a loud scream snapped me out of my reverie. It was my grandson, Nico. He was running, breaking away from his frenzied pack of friends with an ice cream cone in his hand and a face aglow with a smile larger than life itself. He was exuberant with joy, so much so, it seemed he was about to burst. He was running in my direction seemingly falling on his face, waddling on those little legs, yet somehow managing not to as if held up by the innocence of his laughter and joy. My eyes locked on him as he hobbled towards me, and that's when it struck me. His little angelic face. That smiling monster that was the expression of pure joy. It was desecrated under a slathering of gooey slimy melted ice cream. The cold cream concoction was dripping off the cone, all over his hand and forearm, and smudged from his face to his chest, yet little Nico was beyond oblivious of his messy state. He was too overjoyed to notice any sticky discomfort, but as he got closer my eyes lost the angel, and locked onto the grizzly goop that was his face and chest. I could no longer see a happy little boy, but a careless undisciplined mess stumbling towards me like an avalanche.

My muscles flexed, my stomach tensed, and I felt something ancient explode out to the surface. I rose on my seat with force. My eyes turned hard and without conscious volition I heard a strange voice erupt from somewhere deep beyond me. A hard angry voice bellowed out of my chest…

Nico Stop! Come here now! The little angel froze dead in his tracks. His smile vanished, and all that was left was the slather. His eyes turned round. He stood staring at me more confused than threatened by my aggressive tone. His little eyes were locked on mine. He was not afraid, rather bewildered by my inexplicable attack. The confusion on his little face turned the ripple of anger in my chest inward, and in an instant I lost myself into another world.

That day had not started good. It was summer, it was hot, and my head was twirling. I was in my late thirties, and in a state of chaos. I needed to escape, so when my neighbor invited me on an outing to a mountain lake I jumped at the chance. My wife and I packed the kids and we were off in a three car caravan with our neighbor, his brother, their families, and a few extra kids; friends of our kids from the neighborhood.

When we got to the lake we realized that everyone else had the same idea that weekend. There were people everywhere; even the little kiosks were open selling the meager snacks available in communist Romania at the time. The lake was small, and the beaches were mostly mud, but with nothing else for comparison, to us it was like being in San Trope.

Most of the day was lazy. We drank beer, laid out in the sun, and kept an eye on the kids. My mood improved. I was able to forget some of the frustrations of my days until a strange image caught my eye.

Like a bat out of hell I saw my little son, Liviu, running in my direction and the sight before my eyes infuriated me. He was running like a little fool, spilling and smudging melted ice cream everywhere. It was on his face, on his chest, on his belly, and even on his little legs. In a jolt I was on my seat. With a thundering voice I snapped at my little son freezing him in his tracks. His eyes fell towards the ground under the force of my verbal blow. He knew what was coming.

Liviu! Get over here now! I bellowed pointing at the ground in front of my feet once I was up. I was infuriated. How could a six year old boy be so careless, so disgusting? My son! I expected more from him. I educated him. He was mocking me, disregarding my teachings, disrespecting his father.

Is this how I thought you to eat? Is it? I yelled at the top of my lungs. The boy had no answer. He stood as sad as if he had just witnessed the end of the world. I grabbed what was left of the ice cream out of his hand and threw it to the ground. I looked at the sad little body and all I could feel was fury. I grabbed his left ear and then commanded him to follow as I dragged him to the edge of the lake.

Everyone was watching, my wife, my neighbor, my son’s little friends, even strangers who had no idea who I was. For a moment it was pure silence, and I felt like I was in the center of the world surrounded by an audience, but the silence was soon broken by the whimpering cries and squeals of my little son.

When we got to the edge of the water I released his little red ear and squatted down next to him. His crying eyes were red and swollen while the tears were streaming down his face. He was using his right forearm to wipe his eyes, and in the process smudging more ice cream, tears, and some snot all over his little cheeks. His torso was jolting from the spasms of his cries.

Clean yourself off. I ordered him in a calmer voice. He seemed to hesitate for a moment.

Now! I snapped harshly.

He squatted by the water and started cleaning up. When he finished I walked him back to our little spot on the beach. I asked him to stand by the blanket until I came back. I walked to the edge of the forest near by and after finding what I was looking for I came back.

My little son was still standing where I had ordered him. His eyes were locked onto the ground with his little face weighed down by a heavy grin. His crying subsided. Walking towards that sad little creature I was suddenly stricken by a powerful sense of sadness. I hated seeing my son like that. For a moment I started to reconsider my choices.

I looked around and I saw that most people were minding their own business, but a few were looking in my direction and they did not look happy. I knew they were judging me, and I knew I had to prove to them that I was a responsible father, that I knew how to handle my son. That little punk would not make a fool out of me.

As I got closer, his friends, who were hovering around him, scattered away clustering around my neighbor who was watching concerned. I dropped down to one knee in front of my son. His eyes started to redden and swell again as a new round of tears swept over them.

Put your palms out. I ordered. His crying intensified and he started squirming in place moaning whiny elongated No’s. I insisted. He knew he had no choice. I raised my right hand which was holding the switch. His little hand was shaking as he slowly rose and opened it. His cries started becoming louder and louder.

Let him be, he got the message. I heard my neighbor’s voice interrupt.

He needs to learn. …and with a quick flick of my wrist I brought the switch down upon his open palm. He squealed like a pig at the slaughter, but I was unwilling to relent. I had to teach him, to correct him. My neighbor bought him that ice cream, and he wasted it. I would have no son of mine behave in that way.

I lashed his palm five times in all. Each time he whisked his hand away bellowing out piercing screams while trotting in place. His little friends huddled around my neighbor watching frightened, some of them crying in solidarity with their suffering friend.

Once his lesson was over I laid back on my blanket in the sun knowing that the momentary discomfort I put my son through would serve to make him a better man. He needed discipline, he needed to learn right from wrong. He need to understand the consequences of his actions. Yet, I couldn't shake a strange feeling of disgust. I felt it like greasy oil in my veins. It was thick and nasty and it was making me noxious… but damn it! I knew I was right! Then why did I feel so sick over what I had done?

Those were the moments in life that I hated. Even doing the right thing sometimes made me feel horrific, so I had no choice but to subdue the discomfort, the disgust; all those strange feelings. I did the right thing! I kept telling myself over and over. I hated that I had to convince myself of what I already knew was true, but I understood why and I did not want to think about it.

It was my weakness. Most of my life I dreaded being weak, and it was in moments like that when I would be viciously reminded of my weakness. I decided that it was my weakness that was the source of my feelings of sickness and disgust. I was weak, and I had to be strong, for my son. For his sake I had to be a man and like a man I had to teach him, to discipline him, to make him understand. It was the only way he was to grow to be a strong man himself, a man of accomplishment, a man of self-control not a weak coward who would hide behind the belief that he was strong… like me.

What’s wrong grandpa? My grandson’s little voice snapped me out of my dream. I looked into his innocent eyes and in an instant my heart sank in guilt. In his eyes I saw my son’s eyes when he was the same age, but what I was feeling was something that took me much further back.

Uhhh, nothing… nothing’s wrong. Go on, go play with your friends. I managed to retort while in the process draining myself into a stupor. I watched him run off, but instead of seeing him fade away I felt myself slip into another abyss. In minutes my lounge became a torture chamber as hundreds of memories were clamoring to escape to the surface. I could stand it no longer. I got up and went for my usual walk.

Most of the grapes had been harvested, but there were still a few here and there. I tried focusing on the stems and roots, trying to gage their health, but nothing could pull me from the abyss I had fallen into, not even my grapes, so I jumped into my Mercedes and drove.

With every passing mile I fell further and further into that haunting abyss of guilt until I was drawn back into an old world, and into a being that I had long ago forgotten and ignored. A being I had left behind thinking he would never resurface again, yet while driving, among the sun scorched yellow hills, I was plunged back into that man I though I had long ago left behind as a phantom.

Chapter 3 : That Second Floor

It was still early, a few hours before noon, yet that morning still felt like an eternity. My parents had left before sunrise to make the three hour trip to market. I knew they would not be back till late at night. My sister Viorica and my oldest brother Mircea were helping out a neighbor, and with Ovi gone and my two older brothers away somewhere for so long I had forgotten they existed, I was left master of the homestead that day, all by myself. I was eight years old, all alone, and responsible for all the chores. I tried putting on a brave face, but it was the first time I was completely alone, and no matter how hard I tried I couldn't help but be a little scared.

I was used to feeding the animals on my own but on this day it was somehow different without another soul around. There were no voices, just the sounds of the world, and I had never noticed how eerie the world could be. I didn't feel as much scared as I felt naked, exposed, as if a blanket of security had been lifted. Through every chore, to every place I went, I was haunted by a nagging feeling that kept forcing me to look over my shoulder. It was a nervous discomfort, a sense that there was something just behind me, ready to pounce on me, yet every time I looked there was nothing… but I could feel it.

Morning turned to day and I kept busy. The chores kept my mind at ease… a bit. Boy was that day long. I kept going back and forth between the house and the barn, then to the chicken coop and the garden. I drew water from the well and poured it into the trough, just outside the barn, even though it was already full. I was spilling most of the water over the side. I had to keep busy. It was all I could do.

This was the time just before the second Great War even though at the time I had no idea there was a first one. Where I lived we had no newspapers, no news reels, in fact we had no electricity. The modern age bypassed that place entirely. Our lifestyle hadn't changed in a thousand years. We lived a simple life. We raised pigs, cows, a few chickens, and some ducks. We had a little vegetable garden, some fields to grow corn, potatoes, or wheat, and a well from which to drink our water. Much of Europe was by this time basking in the glow of electricity, traveling in cars, listening to recorded music and watching films in cinemas, but I knew of no such things. Those things did not exist in my universe. My world, like everyone else’s in that region was far simpler with no technological distraction or objects to desire. We lived off the land, at the mercy of the seasons, with nothing to disconnect us from the earth and God. We relied on our neighbors and they relied on us. We gave to the earth, and the earth gave back to us. It seems almost romantic, even idyllic, being part of a community. Giving our energy into the earth so that the earth can feed it back to us. It all seems so perfect, doesn’t it? Well, it just seems that way.

Calendars were another thing I wasn't aware of back then. Nineteen-thirty-nine had no meaning to my parents. They never spoke of years in terms of numbers so I never knew them as such. We spoke of growing seasons and we remembered past years by how good or bad the crop was, by whether we were plighted by floods or droughts, or threatened by wars and bad behavior from the boyars who owned the lands. That was our calendar.

That summer had been long and dry, just like the two summers before it, and the bad harvests made life difficult for the peasants like my family. The boyars, who were our masters, didn't help much. They didn't care about the weather or our hunger. There were quotas they needed met and whether we had enough grain or not we had to give them what they claimed. Why we had to give them what we grew I had no idea. I just knew that is the way it was, and that year was not a good year. We gave everything away, so we struggled just to survive, to survive the hunger, and boy was I hungry.

Without another soul to talk to, all I could think about was eating. Carrying all that water, bringing extra logs into the house, all the little extra chores I did to keep busy, that I did not need to do, had made me even hungrier.

Man, the day was hot. The sun was a few hours past midday. My skin was sticky from the drying sweat, and my stomach was rumbling and grumbling. That morning I ate breakfast with Mircea and Viorica before they left. We all ate the same thing we ate every day, a bit of polenta in milk, but that was the last of the polenta, and I already ate the piece of bread and onion that my parents left me for lunch.

Not knowing what else to do I headed down to one of my few friends, the little stream that with its shrubs made the back fence of our property. He was the only friend I had that talked back to me. In fact, he sang. He sang and was the conductor of a full symphony. The splash of the clear mountain water dancing over the rocks at the beat of the wind was my music. While my friend the stream held the tone, the crickets maintained the chorus, and the chirping birds provided the melody. Those were my friends and they entertained me, so much so, that at times I would lose myself for hours in the sounds of their music.

I was sitting under a huge mulberry tree on the edge of the stream inside our property and I quickly remembered how purple my feet got after playing under that tree just a few weeks earlier. I thought back to those days when the branches were heavy with the black and purple treats. Man was I suddenly craving mulberries, but the season had come and gone. I looked past the stream to my best friend the cherry three, but like the mulberries, their time had also passed.

I got up and strolled down by the stream collecting pebbles, wishing they were fruit. Man it was hot. I had to turn back and hide under the shade of the mulberry tree. I was enduring too much hunger to unnecessarily suffer the heat. I leaned against the tree with a fistful of pebbles. I looked at them, and then casually tossed one into a calm corner of the stream. I watched the pebble crack the water’s surface rippling it into a dance. My little friend not only sang, but danced, so I threw another pebble. Then another, and another, until my mind got lost in the dancing ripples, and for a moment I forgot my stomach. For a moment… yet it was in that moment when it happened. That is when the wretched thought lit up my mind... and then my stomach. It came so swiftly that I could have missed it, but I did not, and man I wish I had, but the thought, as gentle as it was, it stuck. I tried to forget it, but there seemed to be no way around it. The harder I tried, the more glued it became and it only took seconds before it overwhelmed my brain, then my body, and eventually my will.

In the spring of that year a neighbor came upon some good fortune and slaughtered a pig in celebration. As repayment for a debt he owed my father, he handed us a hulking slab of meat, an entire back leg. The cured reward was placed in our little smoke house in the attic of our home. My father made it crystal clear that the meat was to be portioned by him only, because it had to last the entire summer. It was the only meat we had to spare that year.

I can not remember which splash it was, maybe the sixth, or maybe the seventh, but as it hit, as the pebble cracked through the surface, as it disappeared under the splash, and as the ripples rolled away from the point of impact... my mind lit up with meat. It was a jolt. I felt it everywhere, but mostly in my stomach. I was hungry as hell, and just yards away there was a big hulking slab of smoked meat—a one hundred pound chunk of șuncȃ hanging in our smoke house.

I stared at the stream completely lost. I forgot I had been throwing stones. I snapped back but I was suffering, so I forced my gaze to a little yellow flower and then out into the distance. I kept looking at different things but hard as I tried I couldn't shake it. I was squirming in my skin. My hunger was now turmoil. I was getting angry. I was confused. A minute earlier I was just as hungry, so why was it all of a sudden so much worse? I tried to remember the games I liked to play. I tried to remember the butterflies, the crickets, and the bugs, anything... but my stubborn mind, that stubborn hungry mind, just would not concede.

I forced myself to remember the first time I successfully climbed that monster of a tree and the sense of conquest I experienced, but my mind, it didn't care. All it wanted was the sweet pungent smell of smoked meat. I tried focusing on the world, but my mind was cruising through a parade of flavors and intoxicating smells. While my body struggled in hunger and heat, my mind was circling like a vulture around the idea of that slab of smoked meat.

I do not know how long I withstood the conflict between my mind and my stomach but with the speed of a jumping grasshopper I was on my feet. My body started walking but somehow my mind was still by the stream, still trying to hold on, but fading, and then it just seemed to go away all together.

I can not remember the walk from the stream to the house. I just remember picking up the little knife, climbing up the little wooden latter into the attic, and staring at that hulking slab of sweet, smoked meat. The aroma of that slab of șuncȃ was richer than life itself. I took in a whiff and for a second I felt like I was in heaven. In fact in that moment I understood that heaven smelled like smoked meat.

I looked at the hanging ham. Then a thought, a faint alarm, a distant vestige of myself brought me back to my senses, for a moment. For a second the meat no longer smelled as good. I knew I wasn't supposed to do it. It was wrong, but it was just a memory of what I knew was right. A momentary lapse that faded as quickly as it had come.

I slowly stepped closer to the hanging meat. It was perfectly placed at the right height, as if waiting specifically for me this entire time. I had a moment’s hesitation, but then I knew it was all right. The meat was big and I would only slice off a small piece. I was a small kid. All I needed was a small piece. Just enough to make my stomach happy, and no one would ever notice. No one would be the wiser. So I sliced off a sliver.

The knife’s blade worked like an amplifier intensifying the rich aroma of the meat. I brought the piece to my mouth. My body shivered under the avalanche of pleasure. I couldn't believe the richness of the flavor. I never in my life experienced anything so intense. I had eaten from that ham before, but it was always with bread or polenta, with cheese and onions, peppers, or carrots. Usually my share was very small, more a condiment than a real treat. I had never before in my life chewed a decent size chunk of plain smoked meat.

The flavor was agonizing. I couldn't believe that anything could taste so good. I chewed and chewed until there was nothing left to chew. I almost didn't want to swallow the flavor was so intoxicating, so I held it for posterity but it quickly melted away, yet not my hunger. I stared at the hunk of ham. It was huge, almost as big as me. I peeled off a slice no bigger than a coin. It was nothing. I needed more. I was hungrier than ever. Without a thought I sliced another, and after relishing all I could from that piece, one more, and a little later another, and then another and another… and before I knew it, a whole chunk, a fistful of the meat was gone. It didn't matter. In fact, I really didn't notice. I didn't even care. My stomach was filled with food, and I was filled with peace. Hunger was a forgotten memory. My stomach was happy, and so was I.

I casually climbed down the ladder and placed the knife back on the table. I stepped outside and breathed in the beauty of that hot late afternoon. What a beautiful day it was. I was surprised