My father was not quick to anger, but when his temper was aroused it could be fierce. Once it flared against me. We share a room with a man whom I remember only as Schwaba. One day I took a small bottle of his aftershave outside and sprinkled it on the ground to see if it would make anything grow. When Schwaba missed it he accused me without hesitation and without asking me whether I was guilty. My father demanded to know if I had taken the bottle. I said that I had not, no doubt unconvincingly, because he smacked me. I stuck to my denial and, because he believed me to be lying, my father smacked me even harder. Still I refused to confess, and his anger grew till he could barely speak.
Fortunately, Hora arrived. 'That's enough,' he shouted to my father, but my father would not listen. Hora then intervened physically, taking me away from my father and onto his knee. I was crying hysterically and Hora waited for some time for me to be able to speak between heaving sobs.
Curious to know whether I had taken the aftershave, he asked, 'Raimond, how big was the bottle?'
'Only so small.'
The gap between my fingers measured about five centimetres. I could not believe that the theft of such a small bottle could justify such a huge punishment.
No comments:
Post a Comment