“Hi, Frederich,” said Ida.
Frederich looked up. He blinked once. Then twice. Was she really there? Wait, what was she doing there?
“Hey,” he said, his voice barely audible.
Ida had her hands in her pockets. She looked tense.
“I need to talk to you,” she said. “The League broke their promise.”
32
“Wait here,” said Kalakia before opening the back door of the SUV and stepping out.
He stood in place and sucked in the fresh country air while he studied the surroundings. Little had changed in the last thirty-five years, he noticed. The cows were still lazily grazing, and the nearby forest was as dense and green as he remembered it. He closed his eyes and tilted his head. It had been a long time since he had heard the sound of birds chirping.
In front of him stood his childhood home, to which time had not been as forgiving. The roof tiles had long been replaced, and the front porch now extended around the back. Otherwise the house remained untouched. The paint had mostly been stripped by the sun, and sections of wood had broken off from the walls and porch. The garden was gone, and in its place were wild weeds and grass.
The old car in the driveway looked even worse. It was rusted and filthy all over, and was standing on bricks and flanked on all sides by weeds.
It seemed like no one was around. He walked over the path which he had crossed thousands of times as a child and approached the front entrance. He pulled the handle, and was not surprised to find the door unlocked. He stepped inside, and the floorboards creaked beneath his feet. The air was musty and heavy. He looked into the living room. The old bookshelf was still there, filled from floor to ceiling. All the other furniture was different from what he remembered but nonetheless appeared years old. His eyes tracked up the stairs then to his right, to a pair of photo frames standing on the hallway table. He stepped forward and took hold of the first frame, which showed an old black and white portrait of his father, his stoic expression and tweed jacket a sign of the times. Looking at his dead father’s face, Kalakia felt nothing until he turned to the next photo. The emotions from that day came flooding back with surprising intensity. He felt heavy with sorrow and simultaneously fired up with rage. The event captured in the picture had changed his life forever. Standing dead straight in the middle was his father in his tweed suit, his hands by his side. Kalakia was to his father’s left, frowning at the camera with his chin lowered. At his father’s right hand was Kraas. He was in his military uniform, his posture impeccable. Twenty years of age, Kraas was leaving that day to begin his service with the Soviet Armed Forces. Kalakia had been beside himself when he found out. He had screamed, kicked, cried and wailed in protest. He did not want his older brother to leave. To him, it was the worst kind of betrayal. He was fifteen years of age.
He looked up and turned his attention outside. Someone was at the back of the house. The back door then opened, and a person came stomping inside accompanied by clanging sounds. He went toward the racket and halted when he reached the kitchen, having found her standing there in a brown dress. Unlike the house and the car, she had aged gracefully. She stared intently at him, carrying with both hands a metal pot filled with milk. Her wrinkled skin was glowing, along with her grey hair which she had tied into a tight bun. Kalakia was immediately drawn to her gentle grey eyes.
“Hello, mother,” he said.
The pot left her hands.
