Читать книгу His Name is David - Jan Vantoortelboom - Страница 9

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I LEAVE THIS downtrodden life a young man: strong in body, clear in mind. It is not what I want, but I haven’t been asked. They’ve tied me to a post. A few metres behind me is a beech tree, massive on the verge of bloom. Looking through the frost-covered branches, I see blue sky, a trail of cloud slicing across it unhindered. The ground is cold. I feel a sense of timelessness I’ve never experienced before, as the morning dew slowly seeping into the fabric of my trousers grows tepid. By noon, I’ll be as cold as the earth, as the frost on the branches of the beech. As the air.

I lose control of my bladder, staining myself with the comforting warmth of my own body. I shall undoubtedly be forgiven the disgrace.

Spring is near. The days are lengthening already. Soon, the sun will mercilessly smother winter. Then man and beast will bow down expectantly, and new life bloom: butterflies emerging from cocoons, buds bursting into blossom. They will mate fluttering over my soldier’s grave, the butterflies.

The men in front of me are tossing crumbs to the squabbling magpies and jackdaws. In the field lies the carcass of a cow, one of its legs pointing stiffly at the sun. Then I see him. Galloping straight toward me, he jerks at the reins just metres away from the men. The stallion rears up, forelegs flailing in the air, spraying flecks of froth around. Clods of earth fly from its hooves. A soldier rushes up, grabs the reins and calms the horse with loving strokes over its muzzle. The officer dismounts, nods at his freezing men and turns to look at me. He is my executioner. I hope he’s a good man. A righteous human being. Not a monument to a murderous war. Looking up at him hurts my neck.

‘Is there anything you want to say, David? A last confession, perhaps? I can arrange it for you,’ he says.

He’s nice. He knows my name. Two frost-blue eyes in a weary face. I could say that I don’t believe in life after death, that I’ve never yearned for a god who is dead and buried, that my father taught me faith is a weakness of mankind, and that a confession, to me, would make as little sense as it would bring me salvation. I could also say that, though I honestly tried to make something of life, my mother’s forgiveness is the only thing I want from it now. Looking at him, I know my words would touch him. His hair looks like a wilted dandelion. He would make an effort to listen to me, to understand, and perhaps make a few meaningful remarks. Will his face be the last thing I see as the bullets cut through the tissue of my heart? I don’t know his name.

Or should I close my eyes when the rifles are shouldered and the black barrels aimed at me? Look to the inside? At my little brother, crawling through the garden on his knees; at my parents, standing in the small, sunlit kitchen together? Or at the class I used to teach, the boys of Year Six? Marcus in front. They would undoubtedly come to my rescue. Brandishing their wooden sabres and bows. Their hands, which must have grown even larger and coarser by now, unfastening the ropes around my wrists, cutting the strands with the pocket knives they aren’t allowed to carry.

I’d better not think about the two loves of my life.

A command rings out. The soldiers take up position behind a line. Standing closer now. I look at each of them in turn. They are strangers. I turn my face to the side, pitying the soldiers of my platoon who are forced to watch from a distance, and shake my head at the officer, who is still bent over to talk to me, asking if there is anything he can do. Then he suddenly falls silent. He has understood. He realises that at this stage, words would be nothing but a hindrance.

Am I afraid? They’re about to kill me, after all. Aiming at the white ribbon pinned to my uniform, on the spot behind which my heart is hammering away. So loud, I hear it thudding in my throat, in my temples. The heartbeat of the life they want to take from me.

I’m not afraid. I did my best.