a half-chewed piece of cabbage. Once more he tried to stand up, but he wobbled and slid gently between the bench and the table. Making sure that there was no one else about, and trying in vain to stop trembling, I scurried out of the half-open door like a rat and ran to the barn.
In the dusk, village lads were grabbing girls and pulling them into the barn. On a pile of hay a man showing his buttocks had a woman spreadeagled on her back. Drunks stumbled across the threshing yard, cursing to each other and vomiting, harassing the lovers and waking the snorers. I pried off a board in the rear of the barn and squeezed through the opening. I ran to my farmer’s barn and quickly scrambled onto the heap of hay in the stable which was my sleeping quarters.
The body of the murdered man was not removed from the house immediately after the wedding. It was placed in one of the side rooms while the dead man’s family assembled in the main room. Meanwhile, one of the older village women had bared the left arm of the corpse and washed it with a brown mixture. The men and women suffering from goiter entered the room, one by one, the ugly sacks of inflated flesh hanging under their chins and spreading over their necks. The old woman brought each of them to the body, made some involved gestures over the afflicted part, and then lifted the lifeless hand to touch the swelling seven times. The patient, pale with fright, had to repeat with her, “Let the disease go where this hand will be going.”
After the treatment the patients paid the dead man’s family for the cure. The corpse remained in the room. The left hand rested on his chest; a holy candle had been placed in the stiff right hand. By the fourth day, when the odor in the room became stronger, a priest was summoned to the village and burial preparations started.
Long after the funeral, the farmer’s wife still refused to wash the bloodstains from the room of the murder. They were clearly visible on the floor and table, like a dark rust-colored fungus embedded in the wood forever. Everyone believed that these stains, testifying to the crime, would sooner or later draw the murderer back to the spot against his will and lead to his death.
However, the murderer, whose face I remembered very well, frequently dined in the same room where he had murdered, gorging himself on the ample meals served there. I could not understand how he could remain unafraid of these bloodstains. I often watched him with morbid fascination as he walked over them, imperturbably smoking his pipe or taking a bite of pickled cucumber after a glass of vodka downed in one gulp.
At such times I was as tense as a drawn slingshot. I awaited some shattering event: a dark chasm that would open under the bloodstains and swallow him without a trace, or a seizure of St. Vitus’s dance. But the murderer trod fearlessly over the stains. Sometimes at night I wondered if the stains had lost their power of vengeance. After all, they were somewhat faded now; kittens had dirtied them, and the woman herself, forgetting her resolution, had often mopped the floor.
On the other hand, I knew that the workings, of justice were often exceedingly slow. In the village I had heard a tale about a skull which tumbled out of a grave and proceeded to roll down an incline, in between the crosses, carefully avoiding beds of blooming flowers. The sexton tried to stop the skull with a spade, but it evaded him and headed toward the cemetery gate. A forester saw it and also tried to stop it by shooting at it with his rifle. The skull, quite undaunted by all the obstacles, rolled steadily down the road leading to the village. It waited for the opportune moment and then threw itself under the hooves of a local farmer’s horses. They bolted, overturned their cart, and killed the driver on the spot.
When people heard about the accident they were curious and investigated the matter further. They discovered that the skull had “jumped” out of the grave of the older brother of the accident victim. Ten years earlier, the older brother was about to inherit the father’s property. The younger brother and his wife were obviously envious of his good fortune. Then one night the older brother died suddenly. His brother and sister-in-law decided on a hasty burial, not even allowing the relatives of the deceased to visit the body.
Various rumors about the cause of such a sudden death circulated in the village, yet nothing definite was known. Gradually, the younger brother, who eventually took over the property, prospered in wealth and general esteem.
After the accident by the cemetery gate, the skull gave up its wandering and rested quietly in the road dust. Close inspection showed that a large rusty nail had been driven deep into the bone.
Thus, after many years, the victim punished the executioner, and justice prevailed. So it was believed that neither rain, nor fire, nor wind could ever wipe out the stain of a crime. For justice hangs over the world like a great sledgehammer lifted by a powerful arm, which has to stop for a while before coming down with terrible force on the unsuspecting anvil. As they used to say in the villages, even a speck of dust shows up in the sun.
While the adults usually left me alone, I had to watch out for the village boys. They were great hunters ; I was their game. Even my farmer warned me to keep out of their way. I took the cattle to the edge of the pasture, far away from the other boys. The grass was richer there, but one had to watch the cows constantly to keep them from straying into the adjoining fields and damaging crops. But here I was fairly safe from raids and not too conspicuous. Every now and then some herdsmen crept up on me and sprang a surprise attack. I usually got a beating and had to flee into the fields. I warned them loudly on such occasions that if the cows should damage any crops while I was away, my farmer would punish them. The threat often worked and they would return to their cows.
Still, I was afraid of such attacks and did not have a moment’s peace. Every movement of the herdsmen, every huddle, every sign of action toward me filled me with apprehension of some plot.
Their other games and schemes centered around military equipment found in the woods, mostly rifle cartridges and land mines, locally called “soap” because of their shape. To find a cache of ammunition, one had only to walk a few miles into the forest and forage in the underbrush. The weapons had been left by two detachments of partisans who had waged a drawn-out battle there some months earlier. “Soap” cakes were particularly plentiful. Some peasants said that they were left by the fleeing “white” partisans; others swore that they were booty taken from the “reds,” which the “whites” could not carry along with all their other equipment.
One could also find broken rifles in the forest. The boys would take out the barrels, cut them to shorter sections, and fashion them into pistols with handles whittled from branches. Such pistols used rifle ammunition, which was also easily found in the bush. The cartridge was detonated by a nail attached to a band of rubber.
Crude though they were, these pistols could be lethal. Two of the village boys were seriously injured when they quarreled and shot each other with such guns. Another homemade pistol exploded in a boy’s hand, tearing off all his fingers and an ear. The most pathetic was the paralyzed and crippled son of one of our neighbors. Someone played a practical joke on him by placing several rounds of rifle ammunition at the bottom of his comet. When the unsuspecting boy lit his comet in the morning and swung it between his legs, the cartridges went off.
There was also the “powder up” method of shooting. One took the bullet from the cartridge case and poured out some of the powder. The bullet was then pressed deep into the half-empty case and the rest of the powder was placed on top, covering the bullet. A cartridge doctored in this way was then placed in a slot in a board, or buried in the ground almost to the tip, and aimed in the direction of the target. The powder on top was lit. When the fire reached the primer, the bullet shot a distance of twenty feet or more. The “powder up” experts held contests and made bets on whose bullet would go farthest and on what proportion of powder on top and bottom would prove best. The bolder boys tried to impress girls by shooting the bullet while holding the cartridge. Often the cartridge case or detonator hit a boy or some bystander. The best-looking boy in the village had such a fuse imbedded in a part of his body the very mention of which started everyone laughing. He strolled around mostly alone, avoiding the glance or giggling women.
But such accidents never deterred anyone. Both adults and boys traded constantly in ammunition, “soap,” rifle barrels, and bolts, having spent many hours on an inch-by-inch search of the thick undergrowth.
A time fuse was a prize find. It could be traded for a homemade pistol with a wooden stock and twenty rounds of ammunition. A time fuse was necessary to make mines out of soap. All one had to do was stick the fuse into a cake of soap, light it, and quickly run away from the explosion, which would shake the windows of all the houses in the village. There was a big demand for fuses at the time of weddings and baptisms. The explosions were a great additional attraction, and the women shrieked in excitement waiting for the detonation of the mines.
No one knew that I had hidden a time fuse and three soaps in the barn. I had found it in the woods while picking wild thyme for the farmer’s wife. The fuse was almost new and had a very long wick.
Sometimes, when there was no one around, I would take out the soaps and the fuse and balance them in my hand. There was something quite extraordinary about these bits of strange substance. The soaps did not burn well by themselves; but when the fuse was placed inside and lit, it did not take long for the flame to crawl along the wick and produce an explosion that could wreck a whole farmhouse.
