The darkness of autumn grows deeper every day and threatens to engulf us. Kamil believes this foul weather works to our advantage. The army won’t risk attacking us. And yet, to be on the safe side, we don’t stay long in one place. Movement in the muddy ground is heavy going, but we step quickly, as we were trained to do.
The summit is our destination. The summit sits high on a cliff, and the climb is steep. On a clear day it looks like a wide cone, its walls covered with thick moss. We’ll set up our base there and build bunkers. One squad went up to survey the summit and confirmed that the approach from all sides is difficult, but the panoramic view is clear and amazingly beautiful.
Kamil knows this mountaintop. In his youth he camped there with other students who dreamed of making a better world. Danzig was also supposed to join that group, but for some reason it didn’t work out.
It will take time for us to reach the summit. The rain, mud, and cold deaden the soul. But in daylight the visibility is good, and you feel you are doing your duty and even a bit more.
Michael comes and sits beside me. The boy and I haven’t yet had a conversation. He shows all the signs of an educated, privileged upbringing; even his tattered clothes fit well. Maxie, his tutor, doesn’t stop praising him for how quickly he learns; someday he will become a famous mathematician or physicist. I love to observe his unhurried gaze. He pays attention to detail, to the colors and contours of the landscape.
Does he comprehend our situation? “Without a doubt,” claims Maxie, yet Michael often says of his parents, “Immediately after the war they’ll come to get me.” These words always startle us and break our hearts.
Michael surprises me and asks, “What do you want to study at university?”
“I haven’t yet decided,” I say, though I should probably have mentioned that because of the war I hadn’t finished the gymnasium.
“And what do you want to study?” I turn the question back to him.
“I want to be a veterinarian, like Papa,” he says with delight.
“Do you have animals at home?”
“Lots of them,” he quickly replies. “Papa finds them in the street and brings them home, and whoever wants to adopt them comes to us.”
“And do you have a dog of your own?”
“I do. A collie; his name is Niko. I assume our neighbors are taking care of him. He’s a sweet and smart dog, and everyone loves him.”
“He sleeps in your room?”
“Yes, he wakes me up in the morning.”
I love the way Michael stands. Every time he mentions his father, his eyes light up. He recalls his mother in a different way. “Mama reads me bedtime stories. I love stories, and Mama loves to tell stories. Papa knows how to talk to animals, but telling bedtime stories is hard for him.”
“What does your mother do?”
“Mama is a teacher, and in the morning we go to school together. Mama doesn’t teach my class, but I see her during recess. Sometimes I go to her.”
As he speaks, I get the feeling he’s still there, with his father and mother, studying or playing with the animals in his yard. When he sits by my side, I am deeply touched.
Michael doesn’t speak about his parents in the past tense but like someone who went to summer camp and expects his parents to come and pick him up.
“It’s boring for you here with us,” I say, to goad him.
“No. Maxie teaches me arithmetic and geometry, and soon we’ll start learning French.”
I remember myself at Michael’s age, walking with Mama to the flower market or the clothing store to be outfitted for summer. Swimming in the River Prut has already begun. A fat sun sinks over the gazebo. This memory removes me for a moment from my routine and returns me to our house and its surrounding streets.
It is clear to me that I will not be forgiven for what I did to my parents in the past year. Will I ever be able to repair what I ruined?