Friday, XXXX
I have never seen something such as this. We went to the school today, and stood at the doors of the one roomed school. The master sat at his rickety table, some book in his lap. I told you my understanding of the local language is shit, so I have no idea what the students were talking about, but the furtively disgusted glances they gave us was indication enough. When the time came to start, the master stood up from his seat and paced through the classroom, speaking softly, in a voice as sweet and lilting as your grandam's. It seemed to me he spoke to each one, and in all likeliness, he was probably turning them against us (not that I was in any position to complain after what we did), but I swear, dear one, no language had ever sounded so sweet, no words falling from lips tasted so honeyish, no voice was ever stronger than the fragile, reedy pitch of the old master's. And the students sat in rapturous silence, perhaps burdened by the realisation of their impending absence from school, and likely regretting all those times they went fishing and bird- watching instead of coming to school. I saw it there, in their eyes, the sorrow and grief for lost days spent playing hooky.
Outside, their parents stood in silent solidarity, ashamed perhaps of all the times they sent their kids to the fields to work instead of letting them come to study, of complaining about the price of books, pen and paper which had never seemed more important, and everyone was looking at me. I wish our Lieutenant had not left. Where is he, anyway? How far had he run? Unni came from somewhere and slipped his hand in mine, and my comrades looked at me in pain and horror, and dear one, I think something snapped in me. I remember wanting to say so many things, but the day had already ended, and the master, wet- faced with emotion, did not seem to know what to say. The children filed out in one disciplined line, like they had probably never done, and stepping out the master - the noble, honourable, invincible master – he said, "Viva l'Italia!" and the crowd, from eight to eighty, howled in agreement. I do not know Italian, but even I know what it meant. The people were chanting it while the master got his bags, and they were still chanting it when he was at the gate, and people fell at his feet and into his arms with tears, a civilization mourning and rising, a lion caged – but a lion still, and Unni's hand lingered in mine, and dear one, I made that one decision.
Sincerely yours,
The Soldier.
YOU ARE READING
At War
Roman d'amour"Revenge by young men is considered victory, but old men who stay at home in times of war, and mothers who have sons to lose know better." -Chief Seattle This is an anti- war epistolary novella written for ONC 2022. Prompts 5 and...
