The last one. On the Berlin Wall

by pascal dumont, Berlin Wall, close to East Side Gallery

Dear Henry Miller,

For some reason I recall as in my childhood, was six years old then, I hurt well a brave one who was elder than me. I with my mother, father and sister Nadia, four and a half years older than me, lived in the village Suyemtsi then. I'm from Ukraine originally. Lived at the old grandfather Tolik’s place, rented a room from him, he suffered from tuberculosis, often walked around the house and coughed. He often smoked in his workshop - he would craft something, people were saying he was not a bad craftsman and drank a lot. Others said that grandfather Tolik was a drinker, but he seemed to me as a good man. Once in a while, he hummed to me. One of these days of life at the old tubercular man I went out on rural road with the boys and girls, there was a yearling and my best friend Sasha Kuts, their house stood in front of the house of our grandfather Tolik. It seems there were a couple of young girls and handsome fourteen year old Bogdan from Kyiv, he visited his grandmother Helen in the summer every year, my sister Nadia adored him. But he did not pay any attention to her. Our cohort went to a rural stream, more like a little brook, it was located fifty meters from the village club and library with the statue of Lenin - a re-e-e-e-ally little bridge, under which streams were running but evil people throw there rubbish, glass, cast covers, garbage, lots of glass and sharp cans, stupid people. Bogdan was standing on the edge of the bridge; actually there was no edge as such, simply the passage from concrete, and as the cart or the car would go it jolted a little. He said: "I bet that nobody will push me." Little me, I stood and thought. No, at that moment I really did not think because even a moment has not flashed yet as Bogdan with his entire body and beautiful capital city face of his lay on the slain glass and chopped cans. He has not even looked around, as I ran and with my arms sent him from two-meter heights into unknown. I was afraid, turned white or red suddenly - I do not remember, but surely got dressed with some color, friends were around, someone shouted, and someone freezed right at that place because of what happened and I got my bearings and ran off. I ran as Comet, rash comet that did the damage and did not flee from punishment, but of shame for deeds. 

I ran in the middle of the road, towards the dust, toward slow cart and women on bicycles, they rode to pasture to milk the cows. How my foul hands could do this? Did he die or not? I ran for a long time, and I was thinking along the way. I saw my mother's eyes, she was not shouting, just stood and watched, thoroughly in my kid’s eyes, with her blue eyes, Mom, do not look at me so it was not me, it were them, they, my fingers. They did evil. Mom, cut off my fingers! Mom, cut off, I beg you! Came to the gate, barely in a rash open it and mince to the garden, our big apple garden that borders with the rural kinder garden; I was not going to kinder garden, because on my first day there I stole a small metal toy iron, I really liked the thing and little me of six years old  was accused of theft of the state property. In the right corner of the garden near the road ran into flimsy wooden toilet and hide there. Locked myself from inside, the sun sparkles-tickles through cracks, and my eyes sparkle, and I imagine as they are looking for me, like the entire village headed by my grandfather Tolik walk the streets and peeped into every crack, to find the small killer and bring to universal justice. I hear, as on the roof, on top, on the slate, slightly broken on both sides, sparrows are chirping. Shit, bitches, shut up! You will sell me out to rural community. Sparrows do not care. Stretch out in full growth, do not reach to the ceiling, start jumping to scare the chirpers. I could not reach them, pushed off the floor as hard as I could. Bucket with urine. In remote places we put buckets in the toilet. Chirpers are outside. Nerves are in the soul. If I just take dad’s air-rifle at home or just a good stick and kill this chirpers. Till the blood spurted I will beat them, sometimes missing, sometimes hitting them, anger will go off, sparrows getting scared of anger and giving themselves in captivity. But I would still smash them. Sparrows do not hear my internal threats and sparrows continue to chirp. It seems as even more. Like if they sing the song. I quietly, very quietly cease to compete, go down on the floor, sit down. Toilet, in fact, quite small, but it is still enough to lean on the one hand and stretch out in full length. My weight is 24 kg. Slender killer ...

Fantaisie Impromptu

All the best,
Sasha Shagi

translated by iryna solovey (ukr version)