The Sunday

I take her face in my hands and look into her eyes, and say the words slowly and distinctly, so she knows that I mean it — Dušo moja!, you my very soul, the very core of my being, the most important thing in my life.

Once upon a time
old Amidža was seen
striding along a dusty road
proud as a hoary Mandarin.
Not far behind, there it was,
the reason of his pride and joy,
patting, running and hopping,
a heroic offspring, his youngest boy.

We bought Gidran together, my father and me. Father had just come from the prisoner of war camp, with some money, Kriegsgefangenen Lagergeld, and buying the horse was one of the first things he did. We had lost Zvezda, she was taken by the Germans towards the end of the war, and working the land with just one horse was nearly impossible — we were afraid it would break our last horse’s back, and without the horses, what were we to do without the horses?

So it was a short time after he came back, some days, perhaps a week, that he took me to the horse fair. He was back, I was happy, yet a bit weary of him, I barely knew him, I barely remembered him from before the war, but that Sunday morning, I remember the happiness, the expectation, the war was over, the father was back, everything was going to be as before! Although I didn’t quite remember how “before” really was.

We had just learned this poem at school, it was and old poem, written at the time of the wars against the Ottoman Empire, it was about an old distinguished warrior, and his not that heroic young son. But there was no berating in this poem, it was written with kind of a half-smile, I imagine. And it was also about a father and a son, and they were going to a fair too, to look at the horses, just like we were!

So I was patting, running, and hopping about my father too, reciting the poem to him, and he nodded and smiled a bit, well, not quite, “with half a mustache”, as he called it — I knew that smile, I thought I may have remembered it from before the war. It was an old poem, I’ve said that before, so it also meant it was full of words I didn’t understand, the father and son, they were going to look at Misirian horses, and I didn’t have a faintest idea what “Misirian“ meant. Actually, I don’t even think there is such a word in English, I think I’ve just made it up. I found out years later that Misir was — and still is — the Turkish name for Egypt, the old warrior and his son were looking at Arab horses, at noble Arab horses.

We looked at the horses most of the day, and my father asked seriously
for my opinion, and nodded when I’d comment on a horse’s eyes or teeth, his coat, his hoofs, in an authoritative, grown-up tone. We discussed the horses seriously, and I remember that Gidran was one of the horses I had argued for. I liked the fact he had asked me for an opinion, and listened to me. That he had taken me to the horse fair, and not Novak, although he was older. We talked a lot that morning, he asked me about the school, about the books I was reading, and it was then that I recited him that poem. I remember asking him, shyly, what kind of horses Misirian horses were. He smiled and said that he had always wondered about that, too. They must have been some mighty fine horses though, not like these here. His gaze grazed across the horses in front of us, it was just a year or so after the war, and both the men and horses were worse for wear. But Gidran is a fine horse, I said. Yes, he is. And he’s still young, he’ll make a fine horse, in time. I looked at the ground, ashamed. I miss Zvezda, I whispered. So do I, he said. I really loved that horse. I looked at him in surprise, it was so unlike him saying he loved someone, something, anything.

When we came home, right before the gathered family was to take over
Gidran’s reins, and shower us with questions and comments, he turned to me and said, seriously: If you find out what Misirian means, do let me know!

But it never happened again. That Sunday morning remained that one Sunday morning.

In the weeks that followed, I tried to keep close to my father, to talk to
him with an air of mutual understanding, between us, grown men, but I was soon pushed back into my role of the youngest one, getting the chores with least responsibility, the most tedious ones. I remembered bitterly that when Novak was my age, that he was having more responsibility, that he was shown trust and respect. I complained to my mother several times, she replied short and snappy, at the end she yelled at me “Do you think I enjoy everything I do, I’m breaking my back for you, you ungrateful brat!”, and she slapped me. I remember the tears of humiliation, it was not fair, I really hadn’t done anything wrong, and our mother slapped us really very seldom, and then only for much worse things.

She must have realised it herself, she called out to Novak and just thrust
into his hands whatever she was doing, I can’t now remember what it was, she answered short at his questions, almost wordlessly, almost growling, she took me by the elbow, and pulled me towards the house. I was terrified, she looked agitated, she looked furious, and I couldn’t understand why, nor what awaited me in the house. She took me to the sleeping room, that was always deserted during the daytime, and closed the door behind us. She sat on the bed and pulled me on her lap — I protested, I was a big boy, I was ten! — but one look from her broke all the resistance, and she held around me, hard, her hand on my hair, pressing my face to the base of her neck. I stopped resisting, I snuggled there, breathed in, feeling her smell. She smelled of soil, and hay, and bread, no matter what she had been working with, there was always this faint smell of bread around her. She smelled of mother. She whispered to me “It’s hard, we all have to learn to live together again, it’s hard for all of us. I’m sorry I hit you, it was unjust. It pains me more than it pains you.” And then she pressed me even harder towards her, and whispered into my hair “Dušo moja!” You, soul of mine!

Now in Serbian we often use dušo when we address somebody, like in you’d use darling or dear in English, and most of the time it doesn’t mean much, but the way she said it slowly and distinctly — Dušo moja! I knew she meant it, that I was her very soul, the very core of her being, the most important thing in her life.

And then my brother walked in, looking apprehensively, questioningly, at her, and she yelled at him “Get out this instant, or I’ll break all of your bones” — another very expressive and not very literal Serbian phrase. He hastily retreated, and we both realised the contrast of what she had just said to me, and what she yelled at him, and we burst out laughing. “I just can’t get it right, can I”, she said, still laughing. “Now, let’s get back to work.”

This memory came back to me only recently, when I started thinking more about my father and those first years after the war. Yet something of that day must have stayed with me, not as a memory of that conversation, but as a feeling of being sure of my mother’s love, of never doubting it, in spite of the occasional slaps and I’ll-break-all-of-your-bones that were hurled towards me sometimes, mostly well-deserved.

And those words, I carried them with me, too. I say them to my daughters, especially in times of quarrels and unrest. I bend down, so my face is level with theirs, I take their faces in my hands and look into their eyes, and say the words slowly and distinctly, so they know that I mean it — Dušo moja!, you’re my very soul, the very core of my being, the most important thing in my life.

After that day I retook my position as the family’s youngest without grumbling, and confined myself to the boring chores, and sometimes I’d look at my mother, and she’d give me a conspiring, appreciating look, silently thanking me for putting up with it.

But my father — we never again talked like we did that Sunday, he never again asked for my opinion as if I was a man grown. Well, actually he did, several times throughout the next months, but not in the earnest way he did that day, more like an echo of his genuine interest he then had, as something he felt he was obliged to do. I felt fake answering him, my voice was insecure, we both felt we were playing roles we felt uncomfortable with. That first year after his return, it was a year of trial and error, re-adjusting our relationships after his long absence, everyone was nervous and jumpy, and I think that me and Novak got yelled at and slapped more than we deserved, but by the end of the year, he returned to his hard, mute self, even harder and muter than before the war, and I started spending every free second immersed in books.

I came to resent Gidran. Because of his stupid name, that we didn’t even chose ourselves, because he was not Zvezda, because of that Sunday morning that remained just a single Sunday morning.

This is an excerpt from a novel I’m writing. I rewrote it a bit so it can work as a stand-alone story. The verses are the opening of “Otac i sin” (Father and Son) written in 1872 by Đura Jakšić, and translated by Daniela Stošić