The Old Baby

by Kamran Nazirli
(translated by Aynura Huseinova and edited by Betty Blair)

It was nearly 7 o'clock in the evening. The sun was about to set though the
temperature was still hot. The stuffy weather exhausted the men, who were sitting on
the rocks nearby the ditch a few steps away from the tents. Now they were hoping that
the dark and ash-colored clouds that appeared in the sky would cool the oppressively
hot summer day - and give at least an hour's reprieve.

Everyone was expecting heavy rain. Every time the dark, ash-colored clouds
appeared in the sky, it would rain afterwards, and the elderly people had observed that
rain always followed. But this time there was no sign of rain. Nor did the stubborn clouds
let the people watch the sunset. Nor did the wind blow. It was impossible to predict such
weather.
One of the old men finally unbuttoned the two top buttons of his shirt. "It's
impossible to breathe. We're just melting here. What kind of weather is this?" he
grumbled, looking off into the distance at the ash-colored village at the foot of the small,
barren mountains about 30-35 kilometers away. "I bet the weather over there in the
village is wonderful. The wind always reaches to the region of the plane trees," he
continued.
Nobody heard what he was saying. Well, maybe they did, but they didn't take
him seriously because at that moment, it was not their concern that their village had
been forcefully occupied by Armenians in 1992. For example, 60-year old Abbas, who
was sitting beside the man wearing the light summer shirt, was smoking a "hookah"
(water pipe). He focused all his attention on the tent, straining to hear the birth cry of his
first grandchild. That was the only thing on his mind.
His daughter-in-law would soon be giving birth. But the young woman's
contractions were so strong and the pain so severe that she had lost control1. Her
screams were even causing the other women "to climb the walls" - the tarpaulin walls of
the tent.
From time to time, the hookah-smoking man cringed, hearing the mother - to be scream
in pain. It was as if he had aged years during those few minutes.

"My steel waist is bent because of the heat," he observed.

Ahmad, the bride's father, felt the same way - the only difference being that he was
cursing the weather as well. Squinting his eyes, he fixed his sad gaze on the village in
the far distance.

Kishilar2 had been born and lived in that Karabakh3 village: their fathers, grandfathers,
forefathers had been born, lived and died there. But in the end, Armenian troops with
the support of Russians had forced them to leave their village. They had moved, not so
far away, only about 30-35 kilometers down on the vast plain. But, enough about these
men. Let's move on.
Mammad, the bride's husband, elbowed his way onto
the mat next to a raspberry bush near the ditch. He
chatted with another man, unshaven like himself. For
sure, at that moment, he wasn't thinking about the
village either.

Mammad had already gotten used to the features of

these plains. Though he was about 30 years old, he
looked more like 60. This young man, who looked so
old, was about to become a father. He would soon
embrace his first child. The joy of becoming a father
would fill his heart, making him feel for that moment
the happiest man in the world.

Rafig, another young man sitting next to Mammad had

snow-white hair and was impulsively inhaling on a
cigarette. He was looking elsewhere; only God knew
what he was looking at and why. If you checked his
passport, you would see that his birth date was either
1971 or 1972, but he seemed much older.
Tragically, he had lost one of his legs during the war in 1993. This one-legged man was
the brother of the young woman, who was giving birth.

After losing his leg, others no longer referred to him as "a young person". His army
mates at the war's front had nicknamed him "Old Captain". In battles at Mughanli,
Shikhbabali and Chamanli, his mates said that he was exactly like their previous
commander Shirin. "From now on, we'll call you, 'Old Captain'.

Your hair is already white, isn't it?" And it was a true comparison. His appearance
matched his nickname. When he had returned "home", well, actually when he returned
to the plains, everyone had started calling him "Old Captain".

Old Captain Rafig would soon become an uncle. He didn't fret about the hot weather
and heavy clouds hanging above their village. Rafig was thinking about the sheer
happiness of becoming an uncle. He had been waiting for this joy for a long time. Now
this pleasure was blending with the cigarette smoke. The word "Amsterdam" was written
on the cigarette pack. After squishing the pack in his hand, he exhaled the smoke
through his nose and mouth. These cigarettes had been brought in yesterday as part of
the humanitarian aid. But who knew what had been mixed in with the tobacco to form
such crooked small puffs in the air. Rafig really didn't appear to be enjoying it.

Old Captain turned to his sister's husband: "It smells like spoiled milk," he said, pointing
to the cigarette. "The first time I smoked one like this, even Astra4 seemed much better.
You could feel it immediately right after the first puff. With these, you have to smoke a
whole pack to feel anything."

The brother-in-law didn't reply. He sat down on the ground, listening to the frogs in the
ditch. No, he wanted to hear something else in the water. There was something in there,
very different. He didn't even know himself what kind of sound he wanted to hear. Of
course, he had heard the croaking of these frogs night and day. He was already so
bored with it.

One of the women ran out of the tent and yelled at the little boy, sitting on a rock on the
side of a ditch who was dangling his legs in water: "Hey, Vidi, fill this pail with water and
bring it back to me. Hurry up!"

It was as if the little boy was expecting his mother to charge into him. He grabbed the
pail and ran towards the ditch.
Hookah-smoking Abbas got up from the rock and turned to his wife: "Hey Tarlan, how's
it going?"

"So bad. I don't know why the "mamatcha"5 doesn't come? Her contractions are much
stronger now. The poor girl is so exhausted."

Mammad suddenly turned to his mother and stopped listening to the sounds in the
ditch.

"Mom, Rizvan will bring a midwife soon. Ask her to have a little more patience."

Tarlan took the pail of water from the child and went into the tent. She didn't even pay
attention to her son's voice.
Vidadi, proud of being helpful to his grandmother, came back and sat back down on the
same rock.

One-legged Old Captain called the child: "Vidi, go buy a pack of cigarettes for me -
either Baku or Karabakh. Tell the store owner to put it on the my list and I'll pay him
later6."

The child ran up the grassy footpath along the ditch. That same moment Tarlan rushed
out of the tent again, looked around and shouted at her son: "Where did you send the
child?"

"I sent him for cigarettes", the one-legged man answered for his brother-in law.

"Who's going to fill this then?" Tarlan asked, pointing at the empty pail in her hands.

Mammad, the husband of the young woman giving birth, stood up and took the pail from
the woman and reluctantly crossed to the other side of the ditch. Old Captain stood up
as well and took his cane. He approached the woman: "Aunt
Tarlan, so how's it going now?"

"God help us! Let's see what happens! Inshallah7 she'll deliver safely by the night."
Tarlan answered in a consoling tone to the one-legged man, whose skin had turned
dark like coal.

She got angry when she saw the one-legged man smoking a cigarette so intently. "Hey,
what do you find in that damn thing? That poison almost killed you! Look at yourself to
see what it did to you! You're just skin and bones now!"
Old Captain smiled and said: "I'll quit right after the child is born."

Suddenly, lightning struck in the distance over the village at the foot of the small barren
mountains. The thunder sounded like the neigh of a horse. Ahmad kishi breathed,
"Thank God," and looked around at the people as if he were congratulating them with
his eyes. Abbas, who was standing next to him, didn't move. It was as if he wanted to
say that this was a false sign and not to believe it. Actually, he was right. There was
only one bolt of lightning: the sky neighed only once. Things turned out to be the same
again - same weather, same black heavy clouds, same water moving calmly in the ditch
accompanied by croaking frogs.

A scream was heard in the tent expressing such excruciating pain that everybody's hair
stood on end.

The young woman was not able to give birth. She was crying and screaming. One of the
women tried to calm her down.
"Pull yourself together, my dear, please, push with all your might! Once more,
darlingYes, yes. Don't be afraid, "light of my eyes". Don't be scared! God will help you!
Make one more push and you'll be free! Be patient, darling. God will pave your way!"

Everyone was waiting - relatives, neighbors and friends. Why were they waiting so
anxiously? What would change when the child was born? They had been wanting this
baby for seven years8. For seven long years, the young woman Manzar had not been
able to conceive. She had lived with her husband on the - sometimes wet, sometimes
frozen, and sometimes smelly - ground in a tent, taking care of her father-in-law and
mother-in-law, sister, brother and mother living in the same tent. All the while, inside,
she was screaming and crying.

Last winter she had said that she felt somewhat different. She was having headaches
and vomiting. Mammad, her husband, didn't take her seriously, but Sughra khala9,
Manzar's mother, understood right away. She didn't tell anyone and commented only
that it was probably because of the Sana10 butter or the corn oil brought in as part of
the humanitarian aid a couple of days ago11. Neighbor Sakina's family had also felt bad
after eating that corn oil. The children had vomited and drunk water until morning.
Nobody knew what that corn oil really had in it.

Day by day, Manzar began to feel the changes taking place in her body. It became
more and more evident that after waiting for seven years, she was finally pregnant. She
felt really pleased as her belly grew larger. Sometimes she cried or looked sadly
towards the village that lay snuggled in the foothills of those distant mountains.

Armenian soldiers were occupying their mountain village. Azerbaijani soldiers were
positioned about 10 kilometers from it down on the slopes. It wasn't difficult for the
Armenians to view the entire plains from that height and to target the people, and
officially now they couldn't shoot because of the ceasefire. However, shooting would
break out, and our soldiers returned the fire. Thus after one or two hours of shelling,
both sides would stop fighting and smoke would rise from the village. After someone's
building or haystacks burned, the smoke still floated in the sky. Eventually it would
disappear.

The people living in tents said the Armenians didn't care about these houses because it
wasn't their village. They didn't have to work so hard to build them, so why should they
feel bad when the houses burned down. Everyone knew if there were a fire in any of the
houses where the owner no longer lived, it would slowly burn all the way to the ground.
Old Captain said the Armenians were doing it on purpose, like "Hey Turks, look and see
how your homes are burning to ashes right in front of your eyes!"

Sometimes when the weather was hellish, Old Captain would suddenly become
infuriated. He would head off to the trench and reprimand the soldiers, accusing them of
not being "kishi" (courageous men): "Why are you waiting? Fight back!

You're not brave! Give me that gun, I'll go to the front myself!" Life here was like that.

When Manzar's family fled the village, they weren't able to take anything along with
them. They barely managed to flee. And what places hadn't they lived in during those
first months - a train boxcar, a tent, a cowshed, a half-dilapidated school building.
Finally, the elders of the village had made up their mind and settled on the plains.

Representatives from the State Refugee Committee came and said they couldn't live
there, as there was no communication facility in the area: it didn't matter that there was
an irrigation ditch nearby. Furthermore, they said this place was dangerous because it
was only 30 kilometers from the frontline. But Mammad's father, the hookah-smoking
man, took a stand and said that they could kill him and his family, because they wanted
to settle close to their old village. It was his hope that they would soon drive out the
Armenians and take back their native land. But all the "todays and tomorrows" had
stretched into nine long years.

Manzar, who was writhing in pain under the dim light of an oil lamp, could never have
imagined that she would give birth in a tent, with no medical aid or anesthesia, and not
even a midwife. Although she had waited seven years for this baby, and had had to
absorb all the pain, suffering, cold weather and painful expectations of these seven
years, she always held on to hope inside her that something would happen. Life couldn't
continue like this forever. It was because of this hope that she was able to bear all these
pains. Sometimes, they couldn't even find anything to eat. At those moments, she still
said it was God's will and that whatever He advised would be acceptable to them.

From time to time, Manzar's mother, her mother-in-law, and her husband's brother and
Vidadi had also joined them in this small tent. There was a curtain down the middle of
the single space: men slept on one side, women on the other.

For these seven years of marriage, Manzar had not been able to spend enough nights
with her husband. Sometimes the situation upset both of them so much that they
couldn't calm their nerves. Manzar didn't speak up because she couldn't, as she
couldn't get pregnant. Somehow, they felt that if they had had a child, the days would
pass easier.

They had consulted nearly all the fortunetellers from Aghjabadi to Ganja and had spent
so much money, but nothing had helped. One had said the wife's kidneys were sick;
another, that it was the husband's kidneys. In the end, each fortuneteller had found
different reasons for the infertility. Meanwhile, the young couple had grown much older
at such an early age.

Manzar's face had become wrinkled; her fingers, rough and her hair, white. How old
was she? Only 25! Her husband had aged as well. Mammad looked like an old man,
carrying the heaviest burden of the world on his shoulders. He always went around
unshaven. Just as Manzar and her husband appeared older than their age, close
relatives and others around them had also aged as well. Nearly everyone appeared
much older than they were.

These old men and old grannies didn't care about their homeland on this strange
summer night; nor were they concerned about the humid weather. They were waiting for
the birth of this child. This birth was much more important to them than anything else.

Manzar's mother, Sughra khala left the tent. She didn't scream at anybody this time.
Carrying a big round pan, she headed to the ditch. Having seen his mother-in-law
soaked in sweat, Mammad quickly jumped up. Suddenly, he didn't comprehend if she
was his mother-in-law or not. Oh God, at that moment, Manzar's 50-year old mother,
whose daughter was writhing in pain lying alone there in that tent, looked like a 90-year-
old granny. How she had aged during those few hours! Mammad thought for a minute
that she always looked like this; maybe he had not paid special attention to her; but no,
she was not! She was an active woman who still could wash clothes by hand and
skillfully build a fire and bake bread in the tandir oven12.

Again screams and sobs were coming from inside the tent: "God, I'm dying! Ayy!
Mother, help me, I'm dying! Off! God! God Ayy! Momma, help me! I'm really dying!"

"Don't be afraid, darling. Have more patience! May God pass your pain to me! May God
sacrifice me for you."
"Manzar, may all your troubles come to me, your sister, push once more, and you'll be
free!"

Manzar's mother hurriedly entered the tent again. The hookah-smoking man turned to
the man with the worn shirt: "I need some fresh air, Ahmad. Let's take a walk."

Both of them moved away from the tent. Dim light from oil lamps could be seen from
other tents in the distance. Night, looking like a black curtain hanging in the sky, had
arrived earlier than usual. Only a strong downpour could have torn down this curtain,
but that was not likely to happen - for the rain to pour down and save these people from
this hellish heat. As the two men got further away, light appeared like a cigarette glow,
but it was only the weak lamplight coming from inside the tents.

Abbas asked his son's father-in-law: "So you were saying Rizvan just came back from
the city, right?"

"Yesthey say it's damn hot over there, too. The heat is just melting people," said
Ahmad.

"It can't be anything like the weather we have here!"

"I'm saying we'll never be able to return to our village again"

"Don't say that, Ahmad, Don't say negative things. It isn't good. That OSCE13 or
whatever it's called - that damned organization has come again. They've even come
down here. Do you know what that Mushtaba's newspaper14 wrote again? They are
right here, close to us in Khankandi15...let's see what these dighas16 will say now,"
said Abbas.

"Hey, I'm telling you, if "The Man"17 doesn't take back the territories,18 nobody else will
ever be able to do it! Neither the OSCE, Russia nor America! All of them are nothing in
comparison to The Man. I know he's able to solve this problem in a minute. I bet he can
wipe out these Armenian dighas anyway. But why hasn't it happened yet. I don't
understand."

"It's not so easy to solve, Ahmad. There's stuff we don't know. God help us. I'm saying
we both will be grandfathers soon. Maybe our grandson's arrival will be a good sign.
Inshallah!"

"May God hear you. Hey, Abbas, I wish the radio would say that our army had liberated
Karabakh right after our grandson's birth. You know what I would do? I swear, I would
grab my grandson and walk to the village on foot, even barefoot. Thirty kilometers is
nothing. Then I would slaughter a ram in my yard."

"I would sacrifice a ram, too, I swear. You talked with so much confidence that I started
to feel good. Let's get back and see why this stubborn baby doesn't want to come to the
hearth. My throat is really dried up; I swear I'll drink till morning with you."

They walked back along the same path without saying a word. Again the same sounds
were coming from the tent.

"I beg you, my dear. A little more patience!" said Manzar's sister, Mahizar.

"God will help you! It's right on the edge. One more push. Good, good. I see its head."

"Azz,19 stand back a bit. Azz, bring the pan. Yes, God will help you."

"Azz, change the cloth. It's right there. Give me a clean one," ordered Sughra khala.

"Here it is finally, Mashallahjust like his grandpa!" said Tarlan.

The grandpas listened attentively. Both were pleased; though both were confused.
Which of them did Tarlan mean? At the same time, they both understood it was a boy.
Actually, after that no other sound came from the tent. Nobody wanted to break the
silence. The wife didn't scream any more, the women suddenly stopped talking. The
baby wasn't crying. What was happening?

Abbas lost his patience and called his son: "Hey son, where's Vidi?"

"He hasn't returned from Latif's shop yet," answered Mammad.

"But where did Rafig go?" said Ahmad.

"He went to find Vidi."

"Hey son, Mammad, what's happening over there? Why don't they come out of the
tent?" asked Abbas kishi, wiping the sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief.

Aunt Tarlan rushed out of the tent and hurried to the ditch with the empty pail. Mammad
didn't let her. He grabbed the pail himself, understanding that something serious was
happening inside. He ran towards the ditch. The woman was so frantic; she couldn't talk
and almost stumbled.

"Hey woman, what's happening, why don't you speak?"

"God help us. What was that?"

"Congratulations! We'll keep our word now. We'll have to drink till the morning, right?"
happily Abbas interrupted the woman.

"Just wait, the girl's health is in danger. What happened to Rizvan?"

The grandparents became anxious again. Sughra khala came out of the tent now.

"Azz, Tarlan come herewhat kind of child is this?" she shouted.

Both grandmothers ran towards the tent. Again some sounds started to come from
inside the tent.

"Azz, how are you now? You're finished with the help of God!"

The grandparents smiled.

"Azz, Tarlan, what kind of child is this? It doesn't even cry! Azz, bring that lamp little
closer! Azz, get out, ask Mammad to call Sakina and bring their lamp as well," Aunt
Sughra told her younger daughter Mahizar.

Mammad immediately ran towards the tent of neighbor Sakina who soon came with a
lamp in her hands.

"Azz, thank God.azz, why isn't this child crying?"

The grandparents again got worried.

The baby didn't ever cry. But he was alive, his eyes were closed, they were wiping him
clean. It didn't cry. Suddenly one of the women cried out: "Azz! Bismillah!20 What kind
of child is this, really?"

"By God, what is it?"

The grandparents and the young father couldn't stand by quietly any more. This
conversation of the women inside the tent really shocked them.

"Azz, Tarlan, Why is his forehead so strange?"

"Allah, Allah, Why are his fingers so unusual, azz?"
"Bismillah, azz, the hair on his head is white. Azz, what is this? Hey, Abbas, hey
Mammad!"

The men immediately rushed into the tent. Everyone was stunned by the women's
words. They had wrapped the baby in a white cloth. His hair looked white in the light of
the lamp. He had deep wrinkles on his face and forehead, just like an old man.

Abbas kishi remained calm: "Azz, what's up with this child? He's just marvelous!" he
said, as if he wanted to console his daughter-in-law, who was lying down on the other
side of the tent, that things were fine and that she had no need to worry.

But the women didn't seem to understand what the man was trying to do. They were
gazing at the baby in astonishment.
The grandfathers left the tent. Mammad didn't know what to do. He had never seen any
baby who had just been born. He thought that all babies in the world looked like that. He
thought of a name for the baby. Well, probably not its real name, but at least, an
appropriate nickname: "Old Baby!"

Mammad came out of the tent as well and saw that people from the neighboring tents
had gathered. Those who entered the tent came out with a look of shock on their faces.

"It's a miracle of God!" they said.

"The child looks like an old man!"

"God help us. This child doesn't even cry!"

But on that summer day, Ahmad's nephew Rizvan came without a midwife. He said that
"Mamatcha" Susan had gone to another refugee tent in Saatli. Someone else was
giving birth there as well!

Old Captain and Vidadi also came. The relatives had all gathered in the tent. They didn't
know whether to congratulate or console one another. It could be seen from their faces
that this was the first time that they had even seen or heard of a baby being born,
looking like an old person.

It didn't rain that morning. There was no relief from the hot, stuffy air. It was even worse
inside the tent. Manzar woke up. She held the baby to her breast, swollen with milk. But
the child made no effort to suckle.

When the child woke up, he would probably suck and so vigorously that the wrinkles on
his forehead would disappear. Last night Manzar herself had heard neighbor Sakina talk
about it. Sakina, who had some medical knowledge, said that the only remedy for the
baby would be its mother's milk.

End Notes:

1 Often in such situations, women have no choice but to give birth

without access to pain killers and anaesthesia. It's a very common
situation in the refugee camps.
2 Kishilar means "men" in Azeri, but implies brave men who have dignity
and who always keep their promises.

3 Karabakh is a mountainous region located in Western Azerbaijan, which

has been occupied by Armenian military forces since 1992.

4 Astra cigarettes were the cheapest and lowest grade of cigarettes

available during Soviet times.
5 «Mamatcha" means "midwife". As it is difficult to find a professional
doctor in rural areas or refugee camps, women
often rely on midwives when they give birth.

6 Storeowner's list. It's a usual practice in refugee camps for

customers and the countryside for people who only get a small stipend
from the government and who don't have work to charge their accounts and
pay them off gradually as they can.

7 Inshallah means «If God permits» or «If God wills».

8 They waited for seven years. Traditionally, Azerbaijani couples have

a baby the first year of marriage.

9 «Khala» means aunt - mother's sister.

10 Sana Butter is really margarine, which is widely used in Azerbaijan

and, in this case was sent as part of the meager rations that refugees
receive as humanitarian aid.

11 This story, written in 2003, is one of the first to admit that

refugees were often disgruntled about the poor quality of humanitarian
aid that they received.

12 A tandir is a round clay oven built into the ground. These ovens are
open at the top. A fire is built inside from twigs or branches. When the
clay walls become hot, the flattened dough is slapped up against the
inside walls and bakes in a few minutes.

13 The OSCE (Organization of Security and Cooperation in Europe) is

comprised of 52 member states. The OSCE Minsk Group has been charged
with the responsibility of finding a peaceful and permanent resolution
to Nagorno-Karabakh problem between Armenia and Azerbaijan. This
international committee began its work in 1992. Russia, France and the
U.S. co-chair this committee. Eleven years later when this story was
written, no significant progress had been made to bring an end to the
Karabakh war.

14 Mushtaba is the name of the owner of a newspaper.

15 Khankandi is the main governmental center in Nagorno-Karabakh.

Armenians, who presently hold this town under occupation, refer to it as
Stepanakert. The Azeri name «Khankandi» dates back centuries.
16 In Armenian, «digha» simply means «man or fellow». But in Azeri, the
term is used negatively to refer to an Armenian.

17 "The Man" refers to the late President Heydar Aliyev, who worked
hard to try to bring a resolution to the Nagorno-Karabakh conflict.
Since this story was written, he has since passed away (December 2003).

18 Territories refers to Nagorno-Karabakh and the seven regions

surrounding Karabakh which are currently held militarily by Armenians.
This area comprises about 15 percent of all of Azerbaijan's territory.

19 Azz means "Hey girl!" is a term used only among women who are close
to each other. It is very informal. It would not be considered polite to
call a girl by this term if did not know her well.

20 "Bismillah" is an expression of surprise, it literraly means «In the

name of God."
 It’s a Night Job
By Joanita Male

You have to understand, I did not to choose this life - it chose me. My childhood had
somehow prepared me for this job – if you can call it a job that is. My mother had the
same job and her mother as well. I guess I couldn’t escape it.

It’s a cold evening, and it's around 7 pm. I’m sure it will not rain today. The rain cuts
business down almost to zero. You see, the street side is not a place to be during a
downpour. The sky is a dark blue with a few stars spread out, that’s how I know it will
not rain. I’ve been told stars are a sure sign that the skies will hold back. Thank God!

I’m wearing the white dress, the stretchy one that shows the curve of my hips clearly.
White is a good colour when you’re trying to be noticed among several other girls,
especially when your complexion is as dark as mine. My make-up has been applied. My
mum taught me how to wear make-up. Maroon lipstick (red was for the light skinned
ones) and a bit of eye shadow. I’m wearing six inch heels, not so much for fashion but
more to be noticed easier. At 5’ 1”, I am one of the shorter girls here. I’m not wearing
any underwear; I have learnt that sometimes the only way to get customers is to give a
preview of what’s to come.

I’m standing on Burton Street, the small stretch before the roundabout to Yusuf Lule
road. Most of the girls are already there. This street has no lights at all. I like that about
it, any sign of lights means we have a potential client. The buildings on this street are
homes that were turned into offices. They have domineering gates with large signposts
at the entrance. There isn’t a sound from them at this time.

Lights. I quickly bend over, enough to give the driver a glimpse of what he will be getting
if they choose me. I manage to bend yet still twist my body so they can see a bit of my
face. I’m smiling. I’m good at that now. It comes with practice; I don’t have to be happy
to smile. I can conjure up a smile at your slightest bidding…it’s one of the requirements
of the job. A white corona slows down next to me, I can tell by the car that this client
might not pay as handsomely as I would like, but I learnt a long time ago not to pass up
any offers, you might go hungry if you do.
A dark face is staring at me all I see are wide eyes and sparkling teeth.

“Get in,” he shouts with impatience. He has to drive off before anyone sees him. I jump
in, still smiling, I’m not sure where we are going, but I have to be clear on my prices.

“Long or short?” I ask loudly, with my eyebrows raised, it’s something I always do.

“Long, how much?” he shouts out.

This might be a difficult one, I think to myself. “Fifty thousand,” I say.

“Okay,” he blurts out as we drive off to what I assume is Ntinda. Getting home won’t be
too expensive, I stay in Naalya and that’s pretty close to where we’re going. We pull up
at Max’s motel. Everyone that stays in Ntinda uses this spot. We come out of the car
and he rushes out. I follow after him like an unwanted puppy. They always act this way
at first, like they’re doing you a favour. I hate this part!

We get to the room and he wastes no time taking off his clothes. He lays there on the
double bed covered with a thick brown blanket. Everything about this motel is dull. Ugly
brown curtains to match the blankets, cream walls and basic furniture, everything looks
as if they were dragged out of the nearby primary school.

Everything about this motel is dull apart from the people. The different clients that is.
They range from the boda-boda rider who decides to pleasure himself with the day’s
earnings to the city tycoon who tries to remain inconspicuous on his visits.

I look down at him and he is well built, much better than most of my usual clients. He
looks at me waiting. I hate this part too. The beginning. I pull up my dress. Even though
he’s paying for ‘long’ I am determined to give him ‘short’. I’m not in the mood to do too
much today. I’ll please him enough to the point where he can’t tell the difference. We
are at it now; this is the part that I don’t hate so much, the satisfaction I give them. All of
them. We rock away as the motel bed creaks. I can partly hear the beds in the
neighbouring rooms making the same sound; it’s like a song matching rhythms,
matching beats. His face is twisted almost as if he is in pain. I know that means I am
doing a good job.

He’s a first timer. I’m sure of it. He asked the price. No one ever asks the price. It’s over
now. I’m thinking about it and I am pretty sure this is the part I actually hate the most.
The self-loathing. The moment I start to blame all of this on my mother, the point where
I am flooded with memories of listening to my mother cry every night when they left. The
different men she brought home, that is. I always wondered what made her so unhappy.
She had enough money to look after us on her own and she was a good mother. It’s
only now that I am older that I understand.
“Pay up,” I shout.

I am not smiling any more. When it’s time to get paid it helps not to smile.

“But, you’re expensive,” Of course now that it’s over, he realizes. I don’t say anything,
arguing never works, I just look at him, stare actually. He pulls out a crumpled fifty
thousand shilling note. The old notes, the ones that are larger and much paler. I grab it
and stick it in my bra before he changes his mind. He goes to the tiny bathroom to wash
off. He really is a first timer.

I waste no time rummaging through his trousers. Nothing. I check his shirt, there’s a
wallet, a few crumpled ten thousands, I grab them and then I’m gone.

Max’s motel is conveniently or should I say inconveniently situated away from the main
road. This means I have to call my boda-boda guy. Great!

I’m home now. I throw on pair of leggings before I got home; I wonder what girls did
before leggings were in vogue. Mother opens the door. She is smiling at me; she knows
I have some money for her. She stopped bringing the men home a long time ago; there
isn’t a large market for hookers over fifty. How did I get myself into this? I can’t even
explain to myself. Maybe it was because of the several daddies I had or watching my
mother apply make-up every day and somehow look after us. Or maybe it’s the fact that
I was raised on the words “Look after your body, you never know when you’ll need it to
make a living.” Maybe that’s it.

It’s the receptionist job I have, that’s where I get the money. This is what I tell her, this is
what she pretends to believe. Maybe she does believe it, I don’t really know. Mother
sticks out her small hand, waiting. Even at fifty she’s still in great shape even though
she isn’t as beautiful as she used to be. The job took its toll on her. There’s a shadow of
regret behind every smile she wears, maybe this is the effect of the night job. That’s
why I’m going to stop, seriously. Soon, someday. I greet her and hand over the fifty
thousand note, she’s still smiling as she goes on about how much I make her proud.
Okay, I’m certain now, this really is actually the part I hate the most, my mother’s
adoration.

I walk to my room, I have a long day tomorrow, my university class has a sociology test
to sit.
 God Sees the Truth, But Waits
by Leo Tolstoy

In the town of Vladimir lived a young merchant named Ivan Dmitrich Aksionov. He had
two shops and a house of his own. Aksionov was a handsome, fair-haired, curly-headed
fellow, full of fun, and very fond of singing. When quite a young man he had been given
to drink, and was riotous when he had had too much; but after he married he gave up
drinking, except now and then.

One summer Aksionov was going to the Nizhny Fair, and as he bade good-bye to his
family, his wife said to him, "Ivan Dmitrich, do not start to-day; I have had a bad dream
about you. "Aksionov laughed, and said, "You are afraid that when I get to the fair I shall
go on a spree."

His wife replied: "I do not know what I am afraid of; all I know is that I had a bad dream.
I dreamt you returned from the town, and when you took off your cap I saw that your
hair was quite grey."

Aksionov laughed. "That's a lucky sign," said he. "See if I don't sell out all my goods,
and bring you some presents from the fair."So he said good-bye to his family, and drove
away.When he had travelled half-way, he met a merchant whom he knew, and they put
up at the same inn for the night. They had some tea together, and then went to bed in
adjoining rooms.

It was not Aksionov's habit to sleep late, and, wishing to travel while it was still cool, he
aroused his driver before dawn, and told him to put in the horses.

Then he made his way across to the landlord of the inn (who lived in a cottage at the
back), paid his bill, and continued his journey.
When he had gone about twenty-five miles, he stopped for the horses to be fed.
Aksionov rested awhile in the passage of the inn, then he stepped out into the porch,
and, ordering a samovar to be heated, got out his guitar and began to play.

Suddenly a troika drove up with tinkling bells and an official alighted, followed by two
soldiers. He came to Aksionov and began to question him, asking him who he was and
whence he came. Aksionov answered him fully, and said, "Won't you have some tea
with me?" But the official went on cross-questioning him and asking him. "Where did
you spend last night? Were you alone, or with a fellow-merchant? Did you see the other
merchant this morning? Why did you leave the inn before dawn?"

Aksionov wondered why he was asked all these questions, but he described all that had
happened, and then added, "Why do you cross-question me as if I were a thief or a
robber? I am travelling on business of my own, and there is no need to question me."

Then the official, calling the soldiers, said, "I am the police-officer of this district, and I
question you because the merchant with whom you spent last night has been found with
his throat cut. We must search your things."

They entered the house. The soldiers and the police-officer unstrapped Aksionov's
luggage and searched it. Suddenly the officer drew a knife out of a bag, crying, "Whose
knife is this?" Aksionov looked, and seeing a blood-stained knife taken from his bag, he
was frightened."How is it there is blood on this knife?"

Aksionov tried to answer, but could hardly utter a word, and only stammered: "I--don't
know--not mine." Then the police-officer said:

"This morning the merchant was found in bed with his throat cut. You are the only
person who could have done it. The house was locked from inside, and no one else was
there. Here is this blood-stained knife in your bag and your face and manner betray you!
Tell me how you killed him, and how much money you stole?"

Aksionov swore he had not done it; that he had not seen the merchant after they had
had tea together; that he had no money except eight thousand rubles of his own, and
that the knife was not his. But his voice was broken, his face pale, and he trembled with
fear as though he went guilty.

The police-officer ordered the soldiers to bind Aksionov and to put him in the cart. As
they tied his feet together and flung him into the cart, Aksionov crossed himself and
wept. His money and goods were taken from him, and he was sent to the nearest town
and imprisoned there. Enquiries as to his character were made in Vladimir. The
merchants and other inhabitants of that town said that in former days he used to drink
and waste his time, but that he was a good man. Then the trial came on: he was
charged with murdering a merchant from Ryazan, and robbing him of twenty thousand
rubles.

His wife was in despair, and did not know what to believe. Her children were all quite
small; one was a baby at her breast. Taking them all with her, she went to the town
where her husband was in jail. At first she was not allowed to see him; but after much
begging, she obtained permission from the officials, and was taken to him. When she
saw her husband in prison-dress and in chains, shut up with thieves and criminals, she
fell down, and did not come to her senses for a long time. Then she drew her children to
her, and sat down near him. She told him of things at home, and asked about what had
happened to him. He told her all, and she asked, "What can we do now?"

"We must petition the Czar not to let an innocent man perish."

His wife told him that she had sent a petition to the Czar, but it had not been accepted.

Aksionov did not reply, but only looked downcast.

Then his wife said, "It was not for nothing I dreamt your hair had turned grey. You
remember? You should not have started that day." And passing her fingers through his
hair, she said: "Vanya dearest, tell your wife the truth; was it not you who did it?"

"So you, too, suspect me!" said Aksionov, and, hiding his face in his hands, he began to
weep. Then a soldier came to say that the wife and children must go away; and
Aksionov said good-bye to his family for the last time.

When they were gone, Aksionov recalled what had been said, and when he
remembered that his wife also had suspected him, he said to himself, "It seems that
only God can know the truth; it is to Him alone we must appeal, and from Him alone
expect mercy."

And Aksionov wrote no more petitions; gave up all hope, and only prayed to God.

Aksionov was condemned to be flogged and sent to the mines. So he was flogged with
a knot, and when the wounds made by the knot were healed, he was driven to Siberia
with other convicts.

For twenty-six years Aksionov lived as a convict in Siberia. His hair turned white as
snow, and his beard grew long, thin, and grey. All his mirth went; he stooped; he walked
slowly, spoke little, and never laughed, but he often prayed.

In prison Aksionov learnt to make boots, and earned a little money, with which he
bought The Lives of the Saints. He read this book when there was light enough in the
prison; and on Sundays in the prison-church he read the lessons and sang in the choir;
for his voice was still good.
The prison authorities liked Aksionov for his meekness, and his fellow-prisoners
respected him: they called him "Grandfather," and "The Saint." When they wanted to
petition the prison authorities about anything, they always made Aksionov their
spokesman, and when there were quarrels among the prisoners they came to him to put
things right, and to judge the matter.

No news reached Aksionov from his home, and he did not even know if his wife and
children were still alive.

One day a fresh gang of convicts came to the prison. In the evening the old prisoners
collected round the new ones and asked them what towns or villages they came from,
and what they were sentenced for. Among the rest Aksionov sat down near the
newcomers, and listened with downcast air to what was said.

One of the new convicts, a tall, strong man of sixty, with a closely-cropped grey beard,
was telling the others what he had been arrested for.

"Well, friends," he said, "I only took a horse that was tied to a sledge, and I was arrested
and accused of stealing. I said I had only taken it to get home quicker, and had then let
it go; besides, the driver was a personal friend of mine. So I said, 'It's all right.' 'No,' said
they, 'you stole it.' But how or where I stole it they could not say. I once really did
something wrong, and ought by rights to have come here long ago, but that time I was
not found out. Now I have been sent here for nothing at all... Eh, but it's lies I'm telling
you; I've been to Siberia before, but I did not stay long."

"Where are you from?" asked some one.

"From Vladimir. My family are of that town. My name is Makar, and they also call me
Semyonich."

Aksionov raised his head and said: "Tell me, Semyonich, do you know anything of the
merchants Aksionov of Vladimir? Are they still alive?"

"Know them? Of course I do. The Aksionovs are rich, though their father is in Siberia: a
sinner like ourselves, it seems! As for you, Gran'dad, how did you come here?"

Aksionov did not like to speak of his misfortune. He only sighed, and said, "For my sins I
have been in prison these twenty-six years."

"What sins?" asked Makar Semyonich.

But Aksionov only said, "Well, well--I must have deserved it!" He would have said no
more, but his companions told the newcomers how Aksionov came to be in Siberia; how
some one had killed a merchant, and had put the knife among Aksionov's things, and
Aksionov had been unjustly condemned.
When Makar Semyonich heard this, he looked at Aksionov, slapped his own knee, and
exclaimed, "Well, this is wonderful! Really wonderful! But how old you've grown,
Gran'dad!"

The others asked him why he was so surprised, and where he had seen Aksionov
before; but Makar Semyonich did not reply. He only said: "It's wonderful that we should
meet here, lads!"

These words made Aksionov wonder whether this man knew who had killed the
merchant; so he said, "Perhaps, Semyonich, you have heard of that affair, or maybe
you've seen me before?"

"How could I help hearing? The world's full of rumours. But it's a long time ago, and I've
forgotten what I heard."

"Perhaps you heard who killed the merchant?" asked Aksionov.

Makar Semyonich laughed, and replied: "It must have been him in whose bag the knife
was found! If some one else hid the knife there, 'He's not a thief till he's caught,' as the
saying is. How could any one put a knife into your bag while it was under your head? It
would surely have woke you up."

When Aksionov heard these words, he felt sure this was the man who had killed the
merchant. He rose and went away. All that night Aksionov lay awake. He felt terribly
unhappy, and all sorts of images rose in his mind. There was the image of his wife as
she was when he parted from her to go to the fair. He saw her as if she were present;
her face and her eyes rose before him; he heard her speak and laugh. Then he saw his
children, quite little, as they: were at that time: one with a little cloak on, another at his
mother's breast. And then he remembered himself as he used to be-young and merry.
He remembered how he sat playing the guitar in the porch of the inn where he was
arrested, and how free from care he had been. He saw, in his mind, the place where he
was flogged, the executioner, and the people standing around; the chains, the convicts,
all the twenty-six years of his prison life, and his premature old age. The thought of it all
made him so wretched that he was ready to kill himself.

"And it's all that villain's doing!" thought Aksionov. And his anger was so great against
Makar Semyonich that he longed for vengeance, even if he himself should perish for it.
He kept repeating prayers all night, but could get no peace. During the day he did not
go near Makar Semyonich, nor even look at him.

A fortnight passed in this way. Aksionov could not sleep at night, and was so miserable
that he did not know what to do.
One night as he was walking about the prison he noticed some earth that came rolling
out from under one of the shelves on which the prisoners slept. He stopped to see what
it was. Suddenly Makar Semyonich crept out from under the shelf, and looked up at
Aksionov with frightened face. Aksionov tried to pass without looking at him, but Makar
seized his hand and told him that he had dug a hole under the wall, getting rid of the
earth by putting it into his high-boots, and emptying it out every day on the road when
the prisoners were driven to their work.

"Just you keep quiet, old man, and you shall get out too. If you blab, they'll flog the life
out of me, but I will kill you first."

Aksionov trembled with anger as he looked at his enemy. He drew his hand away,
saying, "I have no wish to escape, and you have no need to kill me; you killed me long
ago! As to telling of you--I may do so or not, as God shall direct."

Next day, when the convicts were led out to work, the convoy soldiers noticed that one
or other of the prisoners emptied some earth out of his boots. The prison was searched
and the tunnel found. The Governor came and questioned all the prisoners to find out
who had dug the hole. They all denied any knowledge of it. Those who knew would not
betray Makar Semyonich, knowing he would be flogged almost to death. At last the
Governor turned to Aksionov whom he knew to be a just man, and said:

"You are a truthful old man; tell me, before God, who dug the hole?"

Makar Semyonich stood as if he were quite unconcerned, looking at the Governor and
not so much as glancing at Aksionov. Aksionov's lips and hands trembled, and for a
long time he could not utter a word. He thought, "Why should I screen him who ruined
my life? Let him pay for what I have suffered. But if I tell, they will probably flog the life
out of him, and maybe I suspect him wrongly. And, after all, what good would it be to
me?"

"Well, old man," repeated the Governor, "tell me the truth: who has been digging under
the wall?"

Aksionov glanced at Makar Semyonich, and said, "I cannot say, your honour. It is not
God's will that I should tell! Do what you like with me; I am your hands."

However much the Governor! tried, Aksionov would say no more, and so the matter had
to be left.

That night, when Aksionov was lying on his bed and just beginning to doze, some one
came quietly and sat down on his bed. He peered through the darkness and recognised
Makar.
"What more do you want of me?" asked Aksionov. "Why have you come here?"

Makar Semyonich was silent. So Aksionov sat up and said, "What do you want? Go
away, or I will call the guard!"

Makar Semyonich bent close over Aksionov, and whispered, "Ivan Dmitrich, forgive
me!"

"What for?" asked Aksionov.

"It was I who killed the merchant and hid the knife among your things. I meant to kill you
too, but I heard a noise outside, so I hid the knife in your bag and escaped out of the
window."

Aksionov was silent, and did not know what to say. Makar Semyonich slid off the bed-
shelf and knelt upon the ground. "Ivan Dmitrich," said he, "forgive me! For the love of
God, forgive me! I will confess that it was I who killed the merchant, and you will be
released and can go to your home."

"It is easy for you to talk," said Aksionov, "but I have suffered for you these twenty-six
years. Where could I go to now?... My wife is dead, and my children have forgotten me.
I have nowhere to go..."

Makar Semyonich did not rise, but beat his head on the floor. "Ivan Dmitrich, forgive
me!" he cried. "When they flogged me with the knot it was not so hard to bear as it is to
see you now ... yet you had pity on me, and did not tell. For Christ's sake forgive me,
wretch that I am!" And he began to sob.

When Aksionov heard him sobbing he, too, began to weep. "God will forgive you!" said
he. "Maybe I am a hundred times worse than you." And at these words his heart grew
light, and the longing for home left him. He no longer had any desire to leave the prison,
but only hoped for his last hour to come.

In spite of what Aksionov had said, Makar Semyonich confessed, his guilt. But when the
order for his release came, Aksionov was already dead.
 The Queen of Spades
By Alexander Pushkin

SUMMARY OF THE BOOK

The Game and the Story

A group of men play cards through a long winter night at the house of Naroumov, a
Russian cavalry officer. At 5 a.m. they break for breakfast. Still a little drunk, they start
talking about general topics. One player asks Herman why he has sat all night with
them but hasn't played cards. Herman says he likes playing games but doesn't like the
risk involved in betting. This provides the opportunity for Pavel Tomsky, one of the
gamblers, to tell a story about his 80-year-old grandmother, the Countess Anna
Fedorovna.

When Tomsky's grandmother was just 20 years old, she visited Paris, where she was
very popular. People crowded the streets just to see her. However, she lost a lot of
money playing cards with the Duke of Orleans, and her husband refused to pay the
debt. She became increasingly frantic about her situation until she remembered the
story she had heard about her friend, the Count Saint–Germain. He was supposed to
know many marvelous things and to be able to do magic. The count was willing to help
but decided simply loaning her money really wouldn't help since she still would be in
debt. Instead he told her a secret about how to win at cards. The next night, she played
cards again. She won over and over, until she was out of debt.

The card players had listened to the story thus far, but at this point they express their
disbelief, suggesting it is just a "fable." Tomsky admits he does not know the secret.
However, he tells how his grandmother had helped someone, a man named
Tchaplitsky, who'd gotten himself in tremendous debt by gambling. She shared her
secret with Tchaplitsky, and he won back all the money he had lost. After Tomsky tells
the story, the gambling party breaks up. The players go their own way.
Seeking the Secret

Sometime later, Tomsky approaches his grandmother, the Countess, while she is
preparing for the day. Her ward, who is Lisaveta Ivanovna, and several maids are
helping her get ready. Tomsky says he has someone he wants to introduce to her. The
Countess agrees to meet Tomsky's friend at an upcoming ball, on Tuesday night.
Lisaveta asks who Tomsky's friend is. Tomsky says it is his friend Naroumov and then
asks why she wants to know, but she doesn't answer him. Lisaveta is thinking of
someone else.

Once Tomsky leaves, Lisaveta sees a young man through her window. This same man,
the one she had just been thinking about, has been appearing at her window for the
past several days. She doesn't know why he's there, but since he has been returning
day after day, she thinks he is romantically interested in her. The man is Herman, and
he's been coming to Lisaveta's window in hopes of learning the Countess's secret for
winning at cards. His plan is to charm Lisaveta and, by doing so, create an opportunity
for himself to learn the Countess's secret.

A few days later, Herman gives Lisaveta a love letter, though not an original one. He
copied it from a novel, but Lisaveta is too innocent to know this. She drops a brief note
out the window for him to read, with the intent of discouraging him. However, Herman
continues to send her notes until Lisaveta agrees to meet him secretly. The morning of
the ambassador's ball, Lisaveta gives Herman a letter with instructions to sneak into the
Countess's house at 11:30 p.m while they are at the ball. She explains how to find her
chambers—which happen to include going past the Countess's rooms. Herman is very
excited and follows Lisaveta's instructions. However, he doesn't go to the young girl's
sitting room. Instead he hides in the Countess's room to wait for her return from the ball.
Eventually, the Countess comes home and gets ready for bed. Exhausted after the ball,
she doesn't seem to be aware of what's around her. When he sees that, Herman comes
out of hiding. The Countess stares at him.

Herman reassures her he means no harm and only wants the secret of winning at
cards. The Countess doesn't answer at first, and when Herman insists, she claims it
was just a joke. Herman reminds her of the story of the man Tchaplitzky, whom she
helped get out of debt. The Countess still doesn't answer, so Herman threatens her with
a pistol. She raises her hands and then lets them drop. Herman is about to threaten her
again but realizes the Countess is dead.

While this has been happening, Lisaveta has been sitting alone in her room—and
thinking. While they were at the ball earlier in the evening, she and Tomsky had talked
about Herman. Tomsky, who had brought up the subject, had noticed Herman's had
taken an interest in Lisaveta. She had been afraid Tomsky knew about her secret plans
with Herman. However, Tomsky had not and instead wanted to warn her about
Herman's dubious character. Their conversation was interrupted, but she had thought
about it all evening. As she's thinking about how unwisely she had been acting, Herman
enters and tells her the Countess is dead. Lisaveta immediately thinks about what
Tomsky had said about Herman's character.

Herman then tells her what he'd been trying to do and that he had not been in love with
her but had only been trying to get the secret of winning at cards. Lisaveta weeps and
calls him a monster. He asks for her help getting out of the house unnoticed. Lisaveta is
reluctant, but she gives Herman directions to a secret staircase and a key to the door
that opens onto the street, and he leaves.

No one is surprised that the Countess has died, since she had been so old. Everyone
who is socially important attends the funeral. After everyone else has viewed the body,
Herman goes to the coffin and lies down flat on the floor before it for a long time. He
then gets up and gives one more long look into the casket. The Countess seems to wink
at him. He turns away and falls down. People rush to help Herman up, and Lisaveta
faints.

The Visitation

That night, Herman wakes up. He sees someone look in the window and then quickly
disappear. Herman then hears the outer door open and thinks it's his servant but
doesn't recognize the step. The door to his room opens. It is the Countess, dressed in
white. She says she doesn't want to do it but has been "commanded" to give him the
secret of winning at cards. She explains which three cards he must play to win and how
he must play them. She leaves. Herman follows, but there's no sign of her. There's just
his servant, asleep on the floor. Herman writes down everything she has told him.

Herman's Victory and Defeat

The thought of the secret drives all other thoughts from Herman's mind. When
Naroumov invites Herman to go with him to a popular gambling club in Saint
Petersburg, he is excited. The club is full of gamblers playing, eating, and smoking. In
the main room 20 men are playing faro, a card game. The host is running the game,
keeping track of everyone's wins and losses and maintaining a pleasant atmosphere
throughout.

Herman joins the game and writes his bet on his card. The banker apologizes for his
poor eyesight and asks Herman how much he bet. Herman tells him "40,000 rubles."
Everyone stares at him, and Naroumov thinks Herman's gone crazy. The host remains
calm and just says he'll need to see the funds to cover such a high bet. Herman shows
him a check, and the host deals. Herman wins with a three, the first of the magical
cards. His host frowns briefly but pays him off.

The next night, Herman returns, and the host once again greets him. Herman once
again bets and immediately wins, this time with a seven, the second of the magic cards.
The host is now very upset, but he pays Herman the 94,000 rubles he won. Herman
leaves.

The next night, Herman goes back to the club. Everyone stops what they're doing to
watch. Herman chooses his card, and the host deals. Herman turns up his card,
assuming he's won for the third time. However, the host gently informs him that he
hasn't gotten the ace, as he thought, but rather the queen of spades. This seems
impossible, as Herman was sure he had played the third magic card. As Herman stares
at the queen on the card, she seems to wink at him. He immediately thinks of the
Countess. Herman stares, stunned, while his money is taken away. He leaves. The
gambling resumes.

Herman goes crazy and is locked up in a mental institution. He doesn't talk to anybody
but himself. He continually repeats the three cards that were the secret to winning and
the three that made him lose and destroyed his life, saying again and again: "The tray,
seven, ace! The tray, seven, queen!"
 The Story of an Hour
By Kate Chopin

Knowing that Mrs. Mallard was afflicted with a heart trouble, great care was taken to
break to her as gently as possible the news of her husband's death.

It was her sister Josephine who told her, in broken sentences; veiled hints that revealed
in half concealing. Her husband's friend Richards was there, too, near her. It was he
who had been in the newspaper office when intelligence of the railroad disaster was
received, with Brently Mallard's name leading the list of "killed." He had only taken the
time to assure himself of its truth by a second telegram, and had hastened to forestall
any less careful, less tender friend in bearing the sad message.

She did not hear the story as many women have heard the same, with a paralyzed
inability to accept its significance. She wept at once, with sudden, wild abandonment, in
her sister's arms. When the storm of grief had spent itself she went away to her room
alone. She would have no one follow her.

There stood, facing the open window, a comfortable, roomy armchair. Into this she
sank, pressed down by a physical exhaustion that haunted her body and seemed to
reach into her soul.

She could see in the open square before her house the tops of trees that were all
aquiver with the new spring life. The delicious breath of rain was in the air. In the street
below a peddler was crying his wares. The notes of a distant song which some one was
singing reached her faintly, and countless sparrows were twittering in the eaves. There
were patches of blue sky showing here and there through the clouds that had met and
piled one above the other in the west facing her window.

She sat with her head thrown back upon the cushion of the chair, quite motionless,
except when a sob came up into her throat and shook her, as a child who has cried
itself to sleep continues to sob in its dreams.

She was young, with a fair, calm face, whose lines bespoke repression and even a
certain strength. But now there was a dull stare in her eyes, whose gaze was fixed away
off yonder on one of those patches of blue sky. It was not a glance of reflection, but
rather indicated a suspension of intelligent thought.
There was something coming to her and she was waiting for it, fearfully. What was
it? She did not know; it was too subtle and elusive to name. But she felt it, creeping out
of the sky, reaching toward her through the sounds, the scents, the color that filled the
air.

Now her bosom rose and fell tumultuously. She was beginning to recognize this thing
that was approaching to possess her, and she was striving to beat it back with her will
— as powerless as her two white slender hands would have been. When she
abandoned herself a little whispered word escaped her slightly parted lips. She said it
over and over under her breath: "free, free, free!" The vacant stare and the look of terror
that had followed it went from her eyes. They stayed keen and bright. Her pulses beat
fast, and the coursing blood warmed and relaxed every inch of her body. She did not
stop to ask if it were or were not a monstrous joy that held her. A clear
and exalted perception enabled her to dismiss the suggestion as trivial.

She knew that she would weep again when she saw the kind, tender hands folded in
death; the face that had never looked save with love upon her, fixed and gray and dead.
But she saw beyond that bitter moment a long procession of years to come that would
belong to her absolutely. And she opened and spread her arms out to them in
welcome. There would be no one to live for her during those coming years; she would
live for herself. There would be no powerful will bending hers in that blind persistence
with which men and women believe they have a right to impose a private will upon a
fellow-creature. A kind intention or a cruel intention made the act seem no less a crime
as she looked upon it in that brief moment of illumination.

And yet she had loved him — sometimes. Often she had not. What did it matter! What
could love, the unsolved mystery, count for in face of this possession of self-assertion
which she suddenly recognized as the strongest impulse of her being!

"Free! Body and soul free!" she kept whispering.

Josephine was kneeling before the closed door with her lips to the keyhole, imploring for
admission. "Louise, open the door! I beg, open the door — you will make yourself ill.
What are you doing, Louise? For heaven's sake open the door."

"Go away. I am not making myself ill." No; she was drinking in a very elixir of life
through that open window. Her fancy was running riot along those days ahead of her.
Spring days, and summer days, and all sorts of days that would be her own. She
breathed a quick prayer that life might be long. It was only yesterday she had thought
with a shudder that life might be long.

She arose at length and opened the door to her sister's importunities. There was
a feverish triumph in her eyes, and she carried herself unwittingly like a goddess of
Victory. She clasped her sister's waist, and together they descended the stairs.
Richards stood waiting for them at the bottom.

Someone was opening the front door with a latchkey. It was Brently Mallard who
entered, a little travel-stained, composedly carrying his grip-sack and umbrella. He had
been far from the scene of the accident, and did not even know there had been one. He
stood amazed at Josephine's piercing cry; at Richards' quick motion to screen him from
the view of his wife.

But Richards was too late.

When the doctors came they said she had died of heart disease — of the joy that kills.
 DROWNING IN ASHES
By Adaeze Ibechukwu

‘How and where do I begin?’ I ask my younger brother as he opens to the middle page
of his long note exercise book and rips off two sheets of paper from the book.

‘Are you sure these will be enough?’ I ask again.

He replies, ‘If it isn’t, I will get more sheets of paper’.

Nodding in affirmative, I clear my throat and begin my tale.

‘My name is Hauwa Garuba, this year I would be sixteen years old. I am the tenth child
of a family of thirty-five children, I have twenty-two sisters and twelve brothers. My
father has four wives and my mother is his second wife, I come from a well respected
family. The community look up to us and other children are advised to follow our
footsteps. The story of my life began the day I was born which was the first day in
December in the year nineteen hundred and ninety-six. I am sure that it was after eight
days of my birth that I was named, there was nothing special about my birth because at
the time I was born, my father’s first wife had just had a daughter and so had the third
wife but hers was a son, thus there was nothing special about my birth because we
were three children born to one man at the same time.

By the time I was almost two years old, we were visited by strange people, I call them
strange because they were very different from the rest of us, they were a mixture of
different complexions, some shone like the sun while some others were dark and brown
skinned like us though a bit different from us, they were well dressed and slung on their
shoulders square shaped boxes and they spoke an unfamiliar language. The only
person that was familiar to us was our village local head. He came with them and
stopped at the front of our house calling out greetings. In my tradition, males do not
enter the house of a married man, they call out greetings and wait outside to be
attended to; at the sound of their voice a male member of the family they have come to
visit, go out to greet them and they tell the male member their mission and who they
want to see and he in turn goes back into the house to call the person they are looking
for, women don’t go through these formalities they come and go to family houses as
often as they like.

The men that call at our house come specifically to see my father as he is the man of
the house. When our village local head and the strangers arrived at our house, we knew
who they were looking for. My eldest brother Adamu runs to attend to them and gives
them a mat to sit on. The visitors are under our inquisitive scrutiny as we move from one
foot to the other and stare at them. Our village local head sits on the mat, and motions
to his strange companions to sit, they comply. Our local head signals to my elder sister
to fetch drinking water for himself and his companions and she runs off and returns
shortly with a small clay pot on her head and a small cup in her hands. As soon as she
sets the pot of water on the ground, our local head takes the cup of water from her and
removing the cover of the pot, he dips the cup into the pot and scoops water, he drinks
it hastily and offers the water to the strangers but they refuse.

Shortly, my father comes out with a grim expression on his face, he greets the local
head quietly and stares down at the strangers, he doesn’t greet them. Issuing a harsh
command he sends us into the house and we run as fast as our legs can carry us, even
I who had just started mastering the art of movement at the time almost fell in desperate
attempt to catch up with my siblings. After running from my father’s sight we waited for
barely two minutes before tiptoeing to the wall of the entrance inorder to eavesdrop on
the conversation amongst our local head, the strangers and my father. We hear
snatches of conversation but it isn’t clear to us, my father’s voice keeps rising till he
can’t contain himself anymore and he angrily orders the visitors out of his house. On
hearing the change in my father’s voice we scamper away, each and everyone of us
running to our mothers for cover.

Minutes later my father stands before all the members of his household and warns us
never to entertain such guests in his house and on no condition should we drink the
medicine the strangers carried about. We all stare at him in fear as he leaves for his hut;
then our mothers start whispering amongst themselves. I do not understand the topic of
discussion or why the strangers were sent away, tiring eventually of the issue I run to
play. Life moved on smoothly as I grew up, the strangers repeated their visit twice or
most times thrice a month but we always told them, that our father did not approve of
their medicine. I saw most of my friends strut around with the sweets and gift items they
received after being administered with the medicine of the strangers, they even showed
off the blue ink mark on their littlest finger.

I followed them about asking what the medicine tasted like, but they couldn’t describe it,
I envied them over the sweets and washing soaps that they were given and wished that
I could have some too but it was impossible. One day as I walked down the street on
my way to my brother’s kiosk, I saw one of the strangers, surprisingly she could speak
our language, she asked me my age and I happily told her that I was four years old, she
crouched before me and opening her bag, she retrieved the strange medicine, she also
brought out sweets too, I opened my mouth to receive the medicine when I heard a
familiar roar, It was my father and he was walking towards us, anger clearly written on
his face. I turned and ran back home as fast as my legs could carry me, later when he
came home that evening, I was given a sound beating for almost receiving the
stranger’s medicine. Two weeks after the incident with the stranger I fell ill, it started
with headaches and fever, native medicine was administered but the ailment seemed to
get much worse. A week later my limbs were loose and floppy, I lost reflexes in both my
hands and legs, I couldn’t walk, I dragged myself about, the fever left me but I was
paralyzed. I was taken to all native healers but there was no cure. I was massaged with
hot scalding water night and day to no avail. I was placed under the sun and moon but it
was not useful either. I remember dragging myself from place to place and bruising
myself in the process till I was provided with a knee and elbow pad to shield my body
from the incessant wounds.

I remember people calling me cursed, I recall the stones that my friends and most
children threw at me. I remember my cries of self pity and I still see my father’s worried
gaze in my mind’s eye. It was then that the truth set in, I was the example, the
scapegoat, the one who made the words of the strangers sound more like words of
wisdom than those of foolishness. My father’s stubbornness and male pride prevented
me and my siblings from being immunized against Poliomyelitis and unfortunately, I had
to pay the price. For eleven years I have crawled on the dust, I have watched my friends
and siblings grow, dance, play, walk about on their feet and go to school, I have seen
the look of pity on people’s faces when they look at me, I have watched my mates
prepare for marriage or better yet, education and I lie at the back ground and watch. I
can not remain this way, is there going to be a cure for Polio? Will I grow old with the
virus and die lame? Will I ever have children? Will I be able to someday sit and stand
upright? Should I hate my father or should I let it pass as a case of ignorance? To whom
do I pour out my anger? My father for being ignorant? My mother for not being brave
enough to go against her husband? The society for not making Oral Polio Vaccine
mandatory? Should I blame Polio for leaving every other child in my fathers house and
attacking me alone? Till date I still see and hear of parents making the same mistakes
my father made, I crawl to their houses in silent plea that they stop the disease from
gaining wings, even my father has joined the fight against Polio.

I see locally recruited women vaccinators pour away vaccine and go home to rest
instead of immunizing children and at the end of the day, give false reports of
vaccination rounds to Polio facilitators, I see supervisors falsify reports of the number of
children immunized against the number of Oral Polio Vaccine vials used and I sigh in
frustration and despair. I am not the only person affected by the Polio virus and I know
that every day, atleast one child in Africa is paralyzed by Poliomyelitis and no matter
how hard I try to make a change, I am just one crippled individual in the midst of a
walking generation. I need help because I fear that I am drowning in a heap of ashes.’
 Waiting

by Chika Unigwe
This is one of the reasons she does not like to shop at this time of the year: too many
people. Her hands are full and she when she remembers how difficult it was for her to
make a choice, she thinks, The tyranny of choice. Not in those exact words of course,
because these days, she finds it very difficult to find the words she needs. In that way,
she has become a more visceral being. She feels what she means even when she
cannot articulate it. She wishes she were an octopus. Many more hands would be
useful, she thinks, struggling to hang on to the huge racecar with one hand while she
picks up the plastic bag with the transformer, which has somehow slipped from her
hands.

Clumsy. That’s what Gunter would have murmured. Clumsy, Oge. Clumsy. Clicking his
tongue and shaking his head like a father scolding a child. She hates it when he talks to
her like that. As if she were his child, not his wife. When he does that, she feels a
burning in her throat and then she says things and then he says things and then they
both fall silent. But the burning in her throat remains for a long time, hurting her like an
open wound with pepper rubbed in it. It is an ulcer of the throat. She is amazed at the
miracle of the word that has come to her. Out of nowhere. But such is the nature of
miracles, is it not? They come out of nowhere, presented to you because you believe.
And she believes. If you had faith as little as a mustard seed, you would say to this
mountain Move and it shall move! The mountain would pick up and run! How many
times has the pastor said this? Ministering to her over and over again. Faith is free he
says. All you have to do is accept it! And she has. She has. Oh yes she has.

She knows she should have bought something else but she can no longer recall what.
She thought of it this morning but now she has forgotten what. She hopes Jordi would
like what she has chosen, his presents from Sinterklaas, but it is only now that she
remembers that what she had also wanted to get him was a pack of cards. Something
they could do together as a family. Like in the old days. There is no way she is going
back now to pick it up. She does not have the strength to stand in queue again in an
overheated toyshop just for a pack of cards. Still, it would have been nice. She. Gunter.
Jordi. One happy family. The way they used to be.

She should have made a list. She is always forgetting things and Gunter used to find it
endearing. My little forgetful wife, he used to say, laughing. My little forgetful wife. One
day you’d forget your head. And then where would we all be? And she had laughed with
him too. Now, when he laughs it is because there is something funny on TV. She never
watches TV with him, especially not when there is a comedy on because they do not
find the same things funny. She finds his humour dry. It had never mattered before: this
difference but now, like all the other ways in which they are different, it bothers her and
she wonders why she ever married him in the first place.

There were others she could have married. Tony. They had met at the University of
Lagos, and had dated for a long time. She had had to let him go because every time
she went to visit him at home, his mother wore her down with her questions. So, what
are you doing this summer? This summer, Tony and his brother are going to New York
on holiday. Have you been to New York? When are you flying down to the east? Which
airline? Why would you travel by road and not by air? Oge always felt insulted by the
disingenuity of the questions, designed not to get responses but to let Oge know that
she, Tony’s mother knew, that Oge did not come from a home as affluent as theirs
where the long vacation was “summer” spent shopping in London or New York and you
never did long distance travel by bus when you could fly. The questions- like every
conversation she had with the women- were designed to remind her of her place and
hint at how unwelcome she really was. She was not prepared to enter into a marriage
where she had to start by fighting a determined mother-in-law. Tony is married now to
an ambassador’s daughter and Oge was sent a newspaper clipping of the couple,
carefully cut out from a glamour magazine by her best friend who had written "Miss
Piggy" under the bride’s photograph and given her a snout for a nose. Oge had laughed
when she received it.

And before Tony, there was Jide. Jide’s problem was not his mother but his constantly
roving eyes. He loved Oge, he constantly assured her, but it wasn’t because a man had
ordered that he could not peruse the menu, right? Wrong, she told him. It was
humiliating sitting beside a man in a car and having him gawk at every female that
passed by.

Gunter had come wonderfully uncomplicated. No roving eyes. No snobbish mother.

They had met at a club on Zik’s Avenue, the year she graduated. She was out with
Angel and her boyfriend, Kene and while they were having a drink, Kene said, Ah ah,
see this oyibo wey dey dance like black man ooo and she and Angel had turned to see
the white man dancing like a black man and the white man’s eyes locked with hers. He
gave her a smile she returned it and he walked over to their table to introduce himself.

Good dance steps you’ve got, Kene said and the man smiled and said thanks but his
eyes stayed on Oge.
May I get you something to drink? He addressed all three.

When he brought the drinks over, he sat down beside Oge as if the empty chair there
had been waiting for him. They had talked a lot that night and Oge was struck by how
such a huge man could have such a soft voice.

Her parents had not minded that their daughter had a white friend but when Oge told
the mother that the man was talking marriage, her mother had asked with which mouth
she would tell her friends that her daughter was marrying a man who was
uncircumcised.
Mother! Oge said, embarrassed. Why should that be any concern of theirs?

Oge’s father had wondered if she had thought of it carefully. Moving so far away,
marrying a stranger. Was she sure?

She had known him for two years; he was not a stranger anymore.

You know what I mean, her father said.

Yes, Oge said. "I love him.

Then tell him to come and talk to me.

For the time of year, the weather is rather mild. Were it any colder, she would have
certainly regretted not bringing her gloves. Miss Forgetful, she chides herself. She had
brought out the gloves but left them on the bed. What is the use of having things if you
never use them because you forget? She can hear Gunter’s voice asking.

She hopes she has not gone overboard with the presents. That is another worry. Gunter
has always scolded her for spoiling Jordi. Buying him expensive presents. Children
don’t need expensive presents. He will certainly be upset when he finds out that the
race car alone costs over a hundred euro. You know how many mouths that can feed in
Africa?
Gunter has a social conscience, translating every excess of hers into how many lives it
would save in Africa. Before, she would argue with him. Tell him the only people with a
social conscience are those who were brought up on plenty. I want my son to have
everything I never had.

But that doesn’t have to be expensive? Think about how much that is in Naira.

No. I won’t do that conversion because it doesn’t make sense. Are you going to stop
buying beer because whenever you convert how much you pay for it comes to lots of
Naira? Or your fancy wine?

But today, she knows she would have no strength to argue with him. There are more
important things on her mind. Like how to hide the presents from an inquisitive six year
old until Saturday when good old Sint is supposed to come down chimneys dropping
presents for good boys and girls.

And Jordi has been a good boy. He was the best boy. The thought of him makes her
smile. Gunter used to joke at the beginning that he was jealous of Jordi. My son has
taken over and now you only have eyes for him. And to prove that that was definitely not
true, she would make love to him and later they would both stand over his crib and
marvel at this beautiful creature they had made. They delighted in sharing tidbits of what
he had done, what he had said. Jordi smiled. Did you see that? He just smiled at me!

I don’t think so. I think that was gas.

No, it was definitely a smile. You’re just jealous

Jordi said dada dada today!

No he said ma ma!

No way. Da da. I heard him loud and clear. Da Da.

There was a synthesis to their conversation. These days, things have changed. They
say things to each other, words to fill the air but their words have no meaning. It is not
intended as a conversation. And mainly, Oge thinks, trying not to give in to self-pity
(Self-pity is an enemy to Faith!) when Gunter talks, it is to find fault with her. His voice
dogs her every step, telling her where she has gone wrong.

Why don’t you dress up? It’s afternoon already. You can’t be walking around in your
bathrobe.

Oge, wake up. You’ve been in bed the whole day.

Oge, you shouldn’t be drinking alone. It’s dangerous.

It is as if she can no longer do anything right. She must be watched. It is eating her up.
Ulcer of the throat. The only salve is Jordi. But all these started because of Jordi too.
Jordi. Her only child. Their only child. Never mind that these days, Gunter acts as if
Jordi was not his.

By the time she climbs up the thirty steps to their front door on the second floor, Oge is
worn out. She should have taken the lift but she has a fear of enclosed spaces. You
must fight that fear, Gunter tells her often and she just glowers at him. You are good at
telling me what to do, she screams at him sometimes.

Gunter is in the house when she gets in. He is in the kitchen, doing dishes. She stands
by the dining table and says a reluctant hello. She is not in the mood to quarrel over the
presents with Gunter. It would have been better, she thinks, were he not around. When
he sees her, sees the toys in her hands, he drops the newspaper he is reading and lets
out a long sigh. Now she is sure a complaint will follow. The fact that she is expecting it
does not stop her heart from sinking. She has been hoping that today, it would be
different. This hope, is it not faith too? Faith as small as a mustard seed. And a mustard
seed is small. The pastor says it is as small as a pinhead. Her faith is bigger than that.
She feels the weight of it in her stomach. Your faith must be perfect, the pastor says.
Perfect faith works miracles. But her faith is perfect: round and smooth. It sits in the pit
of her stomach and fills her up so that she hardly ever has any appetite. That is how big
her faith is. That is how perfect it is. So, she has a right to hope but Gunter’s sigh
betrays the unfulfillment of that hope. Even before he speaks, the burning begins in her
throat in anticipation of what he will say. It will be nothing she wants to hear. She sees it
already in the way his eyes slit, in the way he holds a massive palm over his forehead
as if her were checking his temperature.

For Jordi, she says. For something to say. To stop him from saying whatever it is he
wants to say. She knows that she does not have to tell him for whom it is. He knows it is
for Jordi. He must know. He is the only child in the house. For whom else would she
buying presents for two days before Sinterklaas but for their precarious six year old with
skin the colour of toothpick. His voice high and questioning, Mama why are you brown?
Papa, what does this word mean? With that mind, Jordi will surely be a scientist, Gunter
announced once. Jordi’s hair is a mass of curls and invites you to bury your nose in it.
With that hair, he’d drive every woman crazy, Oge had replied.

She brings the race car out and holds it out to Gunter like a peace offering. Here, see.
You think he will like it? It’s remote controlled. Lights blink. Doors open. Everything. The
shop assistant told me that even the horn works. Oge laughs. Her laughter is wild. And
for a moment, it relieves the burning in her throat. It is as if someone is sprinkling water
on the fire , calming it, stopping it from spreading.

Gunter walks towards her. Every step measured, as if her were stepping on eggs and
trying hard not to crack them. He closes up the distance between them in his long steps.
He takes the present from her and puts it on the table, gently, like a porcelain piece. His
arms spread out like wings and engulf her. She is finding it difficult to breathe.

Oge, he says, his voice strained and tired as if he had been awake all day. Oge, Jordi
has been dead for six months. Is it not time to move on?

She wriggles away from his embrace and lets out a shriek to ease the burning in her
throat. The room is shrinking. Her throat is burning. The room is shrinking. Her throat is
burning.

The room is shrinking her throat is burning. The fire escapes her throat and starts to lick
at her breasts, then her hands and her legs. Her entire body is on fire. She is burning up
and then she starts to tumble, tumble, tumble. She is falling headlong into a tunnel and
it feels like death.
 The American’s Creed
By: William Tyler Page

I believe in the United States of America, as a

government of the people, by the people, for
the people; whose just powers are derived from
the consent of the governed; a democracy in a
republic; a sovereign Nation of many sovereign
States; a perfect union, one and inseparable;
established upon those principles of freedom,
equality, justice, and humanity for which
American patriots sacrificed their lives and
fortunes. I therefore believe it is my duty to my
country to love it, to support its Constitution, to
obey its laws, to respect its flag, and to defend
it against all enemies.

Abou Ben Adhem

 BY LEIGH HUNT
Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!)

Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace,

And saw, within the moonlight in his room,

Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom,

An angel writing in a book of gold:—

Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold,

And to the presence in the room he said,

"What writest thou?"—The vision raised its head,

And with a look made of all sweet accord,

Answered, "The names of those who love the Lord."

"And is mine one?" said Abou. "Nay, not so,"

Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low,

But cheerly still; and said, "I pray thee, then,

Write me as one that loves his fellow men."

The angel wrote, and vanished. The next night

It came again with a great wakening light,

And showed the names whom love of God had blest,

And lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest.

The Ox
 Giosuè Carducci (1835–1907)
From the Italian by Frank Sewall
From the “Poesie”

I LOVE thee, pious ox; a gentle feeling

Of vigor and of peace thou giv’st my heart.

How solemn, like a monument, thou art!

Over wide fertile fields thy calm gaze stealing,

Unto the yoke with grave contentment kneeling, 5

To man’s quick work thou dost thy strength impart.

He shouts and goads, and answering thy smart,

Thou turn’st on him thy patient eyes appealing.

From thy broad nostrils, black and wet, arise

Thy breath’s soft fumes; and on the still air swells, 10

Like happy hymn, thy lowing’s mellow strain.

In the grave sweetness of thy tranquil eyes

Of emerald, broad and still reflected dwells

All the divine green silence of the plain.

The Sower
By: Victor Marie Hugo
 Sitting in a porchway cool,

Fades the ruddy sunlight fast,

Twilight hastens on to rule--

Working hours are wellnigh past

Shadows shoot across the lands;

But one sower lingers still,

Old, in rags, he patient stands,--

Looking on, I feel a thrill.

Black and high his silhouette

Dominates the furrows deep!

Now to sow the task is set,

Soon shall come a time to reap.

Marches he along the plain,

To and fro, and scatters wide

From his hands the precious grain;

Moody, I, to see him stride.

Darkness deepens. Gone the light.

Now his gestures to mine eyes

Are august; and strange--his height

Seems to touch the starry skies.

The Soldier Boy

by Charles Wharton Stork
 My father was a soldier young, the finest you might see;

Took arms at fifteen, in two years he came to man's degree.

The field of honor he could hold,

He kept his station, gay and bold,

In blood, in fire, in hunger, cold, —

Ay, such a man was he.

I was a boy when peace was broke and he went forth to fight,

But still I mind his splendid stride, I mind him day and night;

His hat, his plume, his sunburnt hue,

The shadow of his eyebrows too,

His gallant form, so grand to view,

Will never leave my sight.

Then from our army in the north right soon were tidings brought

How fearless and how strong he was, how in each fight he fought.

He had a medal now to wear,

By next report he had a pair:

Ah me, how glorious to be there!

Within my heart I thought.

The winter passed, the snow was gone, the spring was blithe and brave,

When came the news: " Your father's dead, his life he nobly gave. "

Just how I felt I hardly ken,

 Was now distressed, now glad again;

But mother wept three days, and then

Was carried to her grave.

Close to the banner he was killed that day on Lappo plain,

They said he never blenched in fight but there when he was slain.

At Uttismalm, for Gustav's land,

My grandsire died with sword in hand,

His father fell at Willmanstrand,

That was in Charles's reign.

'T was so it went, 't was so they bled, their course was clear and straight;

How glorious in their life they lived, and in their death how great!

Oh, who would plod on sluggishly?

Nay, hot with youth in battle-glee

Die for your king and country, see

How manlier such a fate!

I'm but a beggar boy myself, who eats of others' bread,

I've neither home nor shelter now, with both my parents dead;

But I've no wish to go and cry,

For taller every day am I,

To be a soldier boy I try,

And have no care or dread.

 And if I live till I am big and reach fifteen some day,

To that same hunger, war, and death I'll go without dismay.

When whizzing bullets fill the air,

Whoever seeks may find me there,

For I in turn would follow where

My fathers led the way.

Author of original:

Johann Ludvig Runeberg

Song to Celia
 Ben Jonson - 1572-1637

Drinke to me, onely, with thine eyes,

And I will pledge with mine;

Or leave a kisse but in the cup,

And Ile not looke for wine.

The thirst, that from the soule doth rise,

Doth aske a drinke divine:

But might I of Jove's Nectar sup,

I would not change for thine.

I sent thee, late, a rosie wreath,

Not so much honoring thee,

As giving it a hope, that there

It could not withered bee.

But thou thereon did'st onely breath,

And sent'st it back to mee:

Since when it growes, and smells, I sweare,

Not of it selfe, but thee.

The Jar
by Luigi Pirandello
It had been a good year for olives, too, that year. The farm trees, loaded with buds the
year before, had all produced ripe fruit, despite the fog that had threatened their
blossoms.

Zirafa, who had a good number of them on his farm Le Quote at Primosole, foreseeing
that the five old glazed ceramic jars stored in his cellar wouldn't be enough to hold all
the olive oil from the new harvest, had already ordered a sixth bigger one from Santo
Stefano di Camastra, where they made them; it was almost tall as a man, beautifully
round-bellied and majestic, like a mother superior to the others.

Of course, he had picked a fight even with their kiln man over this jar. Was there anyone
Don Loll Zirafa didn't pick a fight with? He would pick a fight over every little thing, even
over a tiny stone fallen out of a border wall, even over a wisp of straw. And because of
this avalanche of summonses and legal fees, suing everyone in sight and always
ending up paying their legal costs, he had gone half bankrupt.

People said that his lawyer was so sick of seeing him ride up on his mule two or three
times a week that, to get rid of him, he had given him a precious booklet, tiny, tiny, like a
missal: the legal code, so he could waste his own time looking for a legal basis for his
lawsuits.

It used to be that everyone he was quarreling with, to make fun of him, would shout at
him, "Saddle the mule!" Now, instead, they would say to him, "Look it up in your
manual!"

And Don Loll would answer, "That's right, and I'll nail you, you sons of bitches!"

That new jar, expensive and costing four onze in hard cash, while waiting for room for it
to be found in the cellar, was set down for the time being in the grape-crushing shed. No
one had ever before seen such a jar: it must have been able to hold two hundred liters
at the very least. Set down there in the humid cave, stinking of must and of that sharp
and raw smell that lurks in airless, dark places, it was pitiful. Something really
unpleasant would come of it, everyone told him. But Don Loll, when warned, would just
shrug his shoulders.

They had been knocking the olives off the trees for two days, and he was furious,
because he didn't know what to do first, since the people with the fertilizer, which had to
be dropped in piles here and there for the new season's bean crop, had showed up with
their loaded mules. On the one hand, he wanted to help with the unloading of that
continuous procession of animals; on the other, he didn't want to leave the men who
were knocking down the olives; and he was cursing like a sailor and threatening to nail
first one guy and then another, if an olive, even one olive, went missing, as if he had
counted them all one by one on the trees, or if every pile of fertilizer wasn't the same
size as the other ones. With his beat-up white hat, in his shirt sleeves, his chest bare, all
red in the face and dripping with sweat, he was running here and there, rolling his
wolflike eyes and angrily rubbing his shaved cheeks, on which his heavy beard grew
back almost as soon as it was shaved off.

Now, by the end of the third day, three of the farmhands who had been knocking down
olives entered the grape crushing shed to store their ladders and poles, and froze like
three logs when they saw the beautiful new jar, broken almost in two. A large piece in
the front had broken off, all in one piece, as if someone-"whack!"-had split it with a
hatchet, right through the middle of its belly, all the way down.

"I'm dying! I'm dying! I'm dying!" exclaimed one of the three, almost in a whisper, while
beating his chest with one hand.

"Who did it?" asked the second one.

"Oh God!" said the third one. "What is Don Loll going to say? Who is going to tell him?
It's the new jar, after all! Oh boy, what a shame!"

The first man, the most scared of them all, suggested they immediately shut the door
and get away quietly, leaving the ladders and poles outside, leaning against the wall.
But the second man was strongly opposed:

"Are you nuts? We're talking about Don Loll! He's capable of thinking we broke it.
Nobody move!"

He went out, stood in front of the shed, and, cupping his mouth with his hands, called
out, "Don Loll! Hey, Don Loll!"

He was down at the bottom of the hillside with the men who were unloading the fertilizer
and as usual he was gesticulating furiously, every now and again using both hands to
tug down his beat-up white hat. Sometimes he tugged so hard that afterward he couldn't
yank the hat off his neck or forehead. The last flares of the twilight were already going
out, and in the quiet that was spreading over the countryside with the evening shadows
and the sweet breeze, the gestures of that always angry man were still going full blast.

"Don Loll! Hey, Don Loll!"

When he came up and saw the disaster, it looked like he was going to go crazy. First he
rushed toward the three men; he grabbed one of them by the throat and pinned him
against the wall, yelling, "God damn it, you'll pay for this!"

Then when grabbed by the other two, their despair overwhelming their earth-colored,
sun-scorched, beastlike faces, he turned his furious rage against himself, threw his
beat-up hat to the ground, punched himself repeatedly in the head and on the cheeks,
stamped his feet and howled like someone crying over a dead relative.

"The new jar! My expensive new jar! It was brand new!"

He wanted to know who broke it! Could it have broken by itself! Someone must have
broken it out of spite or jealousy! But when? But how? There were no signs of violence!
Could it have arrived broken from the factory? Impossible! It was sound as a bell!

As soon as the farmhands saw that his first flash of rage had subsided, they started to
beg him to calm down. The jar could be fixed. It wasn't too badly broken. Only one
piece. A good repairman could fix it, like new. The man for the job was Uncle Dima
Licasi, who had discovered a miraculous cement glue, a secret glue only he knew
about, a glue that not even a hammer could break once it had set. So there, if Don Loll
wanted, tomorrow, at the crack of dawn, Uncle Dima Licasi could come and in no time
the jar would be better than new.

Don Loll kept saying no to these suggestions; it was all useless; there was no fixing it;
but at the end he let them convince him, and the next day, at dawn, punctually, Uncle
Dima Licasi showed up at Primosole with his basket of tools on his back.

He was a twisted old man, with crippled and knotted joints, like an ancient Arab Saracen
olive tree. You needed a hook to get a word out of him. That keeping to himself was a
form of silence, it was a sadness rooted in his deformed body; it was also a lack of trust
that anyone could understand and correctly appreciate his value as an inventor even
though he didn't have any patents. That facts should speak for themselves is what
Uncle Dima Licasi wanted. This led him to be very circumspect because he feared
someone would steal the secret formula for that miraculous glue.

"Let me see it," was the first thing Don Loll said after having examined him at length,
with mistrust.

Uncle Dima shook his head, refusing to answer, full of dignity.

"You'll see when it's done."

"But will it work?"

Uncle Dima placed his basket of tools on the ground. He pulled out a raggedy, faded,
bunched up cotton handkerchief; he flattened it out, and from it he ceremoniously took
out a pair of glasses whose bridge and bars were broken and held together with string;
he hooked them on and began very carefully to examine the jar, which had been
brought out into the open, onto the threshing-floor.

"It will work," he said.

"But if you use only cement glue . . ." Zirafa laid down a condition. "I won't trust it. I want
wire stitches, too."

"Well then, I'm leaving," shot back Uncle Dima, loading his basket of tools on his back.

Don Loll grabbed him by an arm.

"Where are you going? You pig, is this how you behave? Look at him, he thinks he's
Emperor Charlemagne! You miserable deadbeat, you're just an ugly fix-it man, an ass,
and you should do what you're told! I've got to put oil in there, and oil leaks out, you
stupid animal! A crack a mile long, with only cement glue? I want stitches. Cement glue
and stitches. I'm the boss."

Uncle Dima closed his eyes, pursed his lips and shook his head. They're all alike! He
was being denied the pleasure of doing a proper job, executed conscientiously like a
work of art, and of proving the virtues of his cement glue.

"If the jar," he said, "isn't sound as a bell again . . ."

"No way, no way!" interrupted Don Loll. "Stitches! I will pay for cement glue and stitches.
How much do I owe you?"

"For cement only . . ."

"Shit, how stubborn can you be!" exclaimed Zirafa. "What did I say? I said I want
stitches. We'll settle up once the job's done: I don't have time to waste with you."

And he left to supervise his men.

Uncle Dima started working, full of rage and spite. And the rage and the spite grew with
every hole he drilled into the jar and into the broken-off piece to pass through the iron
wire for the stitching. He accompanied the whirring of the drill bit with increasingly
louder and more frequent grunts, and his face became increasingly green with bile and
his eyes kept getting sharper and blazed with anger. Having finished this first
procedure, he angrily threw his drill into his basket; he placed the broken piece on the
jar to see if the holes were spaced equally and matched up, then with his pincers he cut
the iron wire into as many little pieces as the stitches he had to make, and called for
help from one of the farmhands who were knocking down the olives.

"Courage, Uncle Dima," the farmhand said to him, seeing his distraught face.

Uncle Dima raised his hand in anger. He opened the tin box that contained the cement
and raised it to the sky, shaking it, as if he were offering it to God, since common men
would not recognize its value; then, using a finger, he began to spread it all around the
edges of the broken piece and along the crack; he took his pincers and the already
prepared little pieces of iron wire, and he stuck himself inside the open belly of the jar.

"From inside?" asked the farmhand to whom he had given the broken piece to hold.

He didn't answer. He motioned him to stick the broken piece on the jar, just as he had
done a little earlier, and he stayed inside. Before starting to stitch, he yelled, "Pull!" from
inside the jar to the farmhand, with a tearful voice. "Pull as strong as you can! See if it
comes off at all! Damn anyone who doesn't believe it! And hit it, hit it! Can you hear how
it sounds even with me here inside? Go tell your big boss."

"Who's on top commands, Uncle Dima," sighed the farmhand, "and who's on the bottom
is doomed! Keep stitching, keep stitching."

And Uncle Dima began passing each little piece of iron wire through the two side-by-
side holes, one on each side of the mend, and with his pincers he twisted their two
ends. It took him an hour to do them all. His sweat poured like a fountain inside the jar.
While working, he softly complained about his bad luck. And the farmhand, on the
outside, comforted him.

"Now help me get out," Uncle Dima finally said.

But wide as it was in the belly, that's how narrow the jar was at the neck. The farmhand
had warned it was going to happen. But Uncle Dima, in his rage, had not paid attention.
Now, try and try again, he couldn't find a way to get out. And the farmhand, instead of
helping him, stood there, doubled up with laughter. Imprisoned, he was imprisoned
there, in the jar he himself had repaired, and that now-there was no other solution-in
order to get him out, had to be broken all over again and for good.

The laughter and the yells brought over Don Loll. Uncle Dima, inside the jar, was like a
wild cat.

"Get me out!" he was screaming. "God damn it, I want out! Now! Help me!"

Don Loll at first was stunned. He couldn't believe it.

"What do you mean? Inside there? He's sewed himself up inside?"

He approached the jar and yelled at the old man:

"Help? How can I help you? You stupid old man, how? Didn't you measure first? Come
on, try, stick an arm out, like this! Now your head, come on . . . no, easy now! No way!
How did you do this? And what about the jar now? Keep your calm! Keep your calm!
Keep your calm!" he started to tell everyone around him, as if they were the ones who
were about to lose it and not he. " My head is exploding! Keep calm! This is a new
lawsuit! My mule!"

He tapped on the jar with his knuckles. It really did ring sound as a bell.

"Beautiful! Like new . . . Wait!" he said to the prisoner. "Go saddle up my mule," he
ordered the farmhand, and, scratching his forehead with his fingers, he mumbled to
himself, "Look at what just happened to me! This isn't a jar! It's a device from hell! Stop!
Stop it!"

And he ran over to steady the jar in which Uncle Dima, furious, was struggling like a
trapped animal.

"It's a new lawsuit, my friend, one that my lawyer will have to handle! I don't trust myself.
I'll go and be right back, hold on. For your own good . . . Meanwhile, stay still, keep your
calm! I'll do what I have to do. First of all, to protect my rights, I'll do my duty. Here: I'm
paying you for the job, one day's pay. Three lire. Is that enough?"

"I don't want anything!" yelled Uncle Dima. "I want to get out!"

"You'll get out. But meantime, I'm paying you. Here, take three lire."

He pulled them out of his vest pocket and threw them in the jar. Then he asked,
attentively, "Have you eaten? Give him something to eat, right away! You don't want it?
Give it to the dogs! What matters is that I gave it to you."

He ordered that the food be given, saddled up, and trotted off to town. Those who saw
him thought he was on his way to commit himself to an insane asylum, because he was
gesticulating so much and in such a strange way and was talking to himself.

Fortunately, he didn't have to cool his heels for long before seeing his lawyer, but he did
have to wait for quite a while for the lawyer to stop laughing once he had laid out his
case. He got upset at the laughter.

"What's so funny, excuse me? You haven't been gypped! It's my jar!"

But the lawyer couldn't stop laughing and wanted to hear the story again, how it had
happened, so he could keep on laughing. Inside, right? He had sewn himself up inside?
And, Don Loll, what did he expect? To keep . . . to keep him in there . . . ha ha ha . . . to
keep him in there so he wouldn't lose the jar?

"Do I have to lose it?" asked Zirafa with clenched fists. "What about damages and pain
and suffering?"

"Do you know what this is called?" asked the lawyer. "It's called unlawful imprisonment."
"Unlawful imprisonment? And who imprisoned him?" exclaimed Zirafa. "He imprisoned
himself! It's not my fault!"

The lawyer then explained to him that there were legal issues. On one hand, he, Don
Loll, had to free the prisoner immediately if he didn't want to be accused of unlawful
imprisonment; on the other hand, the repairman was responsible for the damages he
had caused due to his bungling or his stupidity.

"Aha!" Ziarafa signed with relief. "He has to reimburse me for the jar!"

"Hold on!" said the lawyer. "Not the same as for a new one, remember!"

"Why not?"

"Because it was broken!"

"No, sir!" contradicted Zirafa. "Now it's like new. Better than new, he says it himself! And
if I have to break it another time, it can't be fixed again. The jar would be lost for good!"

The lawyer reassured him that this would be taken into consideration by calculating its
worth based upon its current condition.

"In fact," he advised, "have him give you an estimate in advance."

"Thank you very much," said Don Loll as he hurried away.

When he returned, toward evening, he found all the farmhands having a party around
the lived-in jar. Even the watchdog was partying. Uncle Dima had calmed down to the
point that he had started to enjoy his strange adventure and was laughing with that
twisted kind of glee that sad people have.

Zirafa pushed everyone aside and leaned over to look into the jar.

"Well! You all right in there?"

"Great. In the cooler," he answered. "Better than at home.

"Nice to know. Meanwhile, I'm warning you that this jar cost me four onze, when new.
How much do you think it would cost now?"

"With me inside it?" asked Uncle Dima.

The farm workers laughed.

"Shut up!" yelled Zirafa. "You've got two choices: either your cement works, or it doesn't
work; if it doesn't work, you're a crook; if it does, the jar, as it is now, is worth something.
How much? You tell me."
Uncle Dima thought about it for a little while, then he said, "Here's my answer. If you
had let me fix it using only the cement, like I wanted to do, first of all, I wouldn't be stuck
in here, and the jar would be worth more or less what it was before. But all messed up
with these ugly stitches that I was forced to make from inside here, how much can it be
worth? More or less one third of what used to be worth."

"One third?" asked Zirafa. "One onza, thirty-three?"

"Maybe less, certainly not more."

"Well, then," said Don Loll, "I accept that, so give me seventeen lire."

"What?" asked Uncle Dima, as if he had not understood.

"I'm going to break the jar to get you out," said Don Loll, "and you, according to my
lawyer, have to reimburse me for what it's worth: one onza and thirty-three."

"Me, pay?" jeered Uncle Dima. "You've got to be kidding! I'd rather rot in here."

And, after managing to pull out his gunky little pipe, he lit it and started to smoke,
blowing the puffs out of the jar's neck.

Don Loll took it badly. This other possibility, that Uncle Dima would not want to get out
of the jar, was something neither he nor his lawyer had considered. Now what?

He was about to order, "Saddle the mule!" again but he stopped himself, realizing that it
was already dark.

"Is that it?" he said. "You want to live in my jar? Everyone here is a witness! He doesn't
want to get out because he doesn't want to pay for it, but I am ready to break it!
Therefore, since he wants to stay there, tomorrow I am going to sue him for squatting
because he won't let me use my jar!"

Uncle Dima blew out another puff of smoke, and then he calmly said, "No, sir. I don't
want to stop you from doing anything. Do you think I want to be here? Let me out, but I
won't pay anything! You've got to be kidding, mister!"

Don Loll, overcome with rage, raised his foot and was about to kick the jar, but he
stopped himself. Instead he grabbed it with both hands and shook it hard, while
trembling and yelling at the old man, "You should be in jail, who caused the problem,
you or me? You want me to pay? You can die of hunger in there! We'll see who wins!"

And he left, forgetting about the three lire he had thrown into the jar that morning. With
that money, to begin with, Uncle Dima decided to celebrate that evening with the
farmhands who, having stayed late because of the strange incident, were spending the
night camping out on the threshing yard. One of them went to buy provisions at the local
inn. On top of it all, the moon was so bright that it felt like daylight.

At some point Don Loll, who had gone to bed, was awakened by an infernal uproar. He
leaned over the balcony of the farmhouse and saw, on the threshing yard, under the
moonlight, a bunch of devils: the drunken farmhands, holding hands, were dancing
around the jar, and Uncle Dima, from inside, was singing at the top of his lungs.

This time Don Loll lost control of himself; he ran down like a mad bull and, before
anyone had a chance to block him, with a big push he sent the jar tumbling down the
hillside. Rolling, accompanied by the laughter of the drunken men, the jar ended up
smashing against an olive tree.

And that's how Uncle Dima won.

The Salt Song

By: Nikolay Nekrasov
God's will be done!
No food he'll try,
 The youngest son—
Look, he will die.

A crust I got,
Another bit—
He touched it not:
"Put salt on it!"

Of salt no shred,
No pinch I see!
"Take flour, instead,"
God whispered me.

Two bites, or one—

His mouth he pouts,
The little son.
"More salt!" he shouts.

The bit appears

Again all floured,
And wet with tears
It was devoured.

The mother said

She'd saved her dear. . . .
Salt was the bread—
How salt the tear!

Daffodils
by William Wordsworth
I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
 Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine

And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced, but they

Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not be but gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed'and gazed'but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie

In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.

At the grave of my father

By : Mathias Claudius
Let there be peace here at this gravestone!
The gentle peace of God!
Ah, you have buried a good man,
and to me he was much more;
 This man showered blessings on me,
like a star from a better world!
And I cannot repay
what he has given me.

He passed away, and they buried him here.

May gentle, sweet solace, given by God,
and the promise of eternal life
preserve his bones

until Jesus Christ, great and exalted,

kindly awakens him. Ah, they have buried him!
They have buried a good man,
and to me he was much more.