08. Granddad used to tell us how

Granddad used to tell us how once he’d been hiding for three days inside the belly of a horse, fighting from there, from inside the horse he’d received as a gift from great-granddad, with the cold and the hunger, with the wounds and, worst of it all, with the stench, until a Russian woman took pity on him and got him out of there. Ana did nurse him till he was back on his feet, though his knee bone would never recover its firmness. On winter days when there was no work for him to do, Granddad appeared entirely withdrawn. Could it be he was thinking of Ana, thinking back on her careworn-woman love, or was he just thinking of what he’d been through on the front? It’s hard to tell. Grandma would never quiz him, anyway. It had all happened way before they married, Granddad was just 19. Could be she even felt grateful to that far-away woman for having kept her husband alive.
   That story, however, would give me the notion that all of us there, Dad, Auntie, Mary and myself, all our cousins, had been born out of the belly of that horse, out there in the faraway wasteland.

08. Granddad used to tell us how

Opa vertelde ons hoe hij drie dagen in de buik van een paard had doorgebracht, worstelend met kou, honger en wonden vanuit de buik van het paard dat overgrootvader hem had gegeven, maar vooral met de stank, tot een barmhartige Russin hem eruit haalde. Anna heeft hem goed verzorgd, al is zijn knieschijf nooit helemaal gestremd. Op winterdagen, wanneer hij niets te doen had, leek opa totaal afwezig. Dacht hij werkelijk aan Anna en haar liefde als beproefde vrouw, of enkel aan alles wat hij aan het front heeft moeten lijden? Wie zal het zeggen? Hoe dan ook heeft oma hem nooit uitgehoord. Het gebeurde voor hun huwelijk, toen opa pas negentien was. Misschien was zij de al even afgesloofde vrouw in de verte wel dankbaar omdat ze haar vent had gered.
   Dit verhaal deed me er echter aan denken dat wij allen, vader, tante, ik en Mary, onze neven, eigenlijk zijn geboren uit de buik van dat paard in de witte woestijn.

Bunicul ne povestea cum zăcuse trei zile în burta unui cal, luptîndu-se, din burta calului dăruit de străbunicul, cu frigul, cu foamea, cu rănile, dar mai ales cu duhoarea, pînă l-a scos de acolo o rusoaică miloasă. Ana l-a făcut bine, chiar dacă rotula nu i s-a mai închegat niciodată. În zilele de iarnă, cînd nu avea nimic de făcut, bunicul părea cu totul absent. Se gîndea oare la Ana, la dragostea ei de femeie încercată sau numai la ceea ce pătimise pe front? Greu de spus. De altfel, bunica nu-l iscodea niciodată. Se întîmplase înainte de a se căsători, cînd bunicul avea numai 19 ani. Poate îi era chiar recunoscătoare femeii îndepărtate, la fel de muncită ca şi ea, pentru că-i salvase bărbatul.
   Povestea asta însă mă făcea să mă gîndesc întruna că, de fapt, noi toţi, tata, mătuşa, eu şi Mary, verii noştri, ne născusem din burta acelui cal în pustietatea albă.