Milena Angeleska

A hand that changed a life The memories of my childhood are only half-torn pictures where my mother and I work at the oil refinery and the tobacco fields near our village. No dad, only a young Aunt Rose, and a little grave in the churchyard that belonged to my baby brother. She had never mentioned anything about my father. Mother was a woman whose loud voice startled those who saw her as the skinny, short village woman that she appeared to be. After a few years on our own, mother got married and I got myself a stepfather and three stepsisters. Stepfather was good to me, but my stepsisters didnt like me. Once, one of them tried to poison me with some cheese that had been kept in a copper bowl. Mother and stepfather had three more children. I felt as if I was forgotten, except for the moments when my stepfather used to wake me up in two in the morning to go to the fields. None of the other children worked on the fields. Only I worked. I took care of the animals, I worked in the fields, I chopped the firewood, and I was selling the fruits and vegetables of our land. When we moved to the town near-by, stepfather sent me to a school for teachers. I was the best in my generation, won a scholarship and a teaching position right after I graduated. I was persistent, strong and happy. As I was the educated educator in the family, I taught all my brothers and sisters. Eventually, all of them graduated at the University and became teachers themselves. Still, I never rested from taking care of them. It the autumn of 1955, my aunt Rose got ill. She had cancer and didnt want to see anyone. We stood outside her room and

only got in when we would hear her ask for something. One evening, she was in very bad condition. We expected her to pass any moment then. Late in the night, she called my name. I got in the room and sat beside her. She started whispering: I dont believe in God and I have no forgiveness to beg from him, but I have done to you something that wouldnt let me rest. You must forgive me, for it was for your own good. Your father His name was Ivan. He was a communist spy. They were looking for him constantly and all of you were in danger, so one day he took all the photos he and your mother had and cut out his face from them. Then, he disappeared. We thought they caught him and killed him. Your mother loved him so profoundly, that when she faced the fact that he was gone, she lost his second child, your little brother. But you two eventually moved on. Do you remember when we were sitting under the birches near our old tobacco fields and I sent you to buy some walnuts down at the village? A man came, and I was white from fear when I saw him. That is when I sent you away That man was your father. He had come back looking for your mother and you. He asked me where you were I didnt know what to say, since my sister had remarried and had a baby, and a bunch of other children to take care of. And I committed this sin scratches my heart and wont let me go. I told him the two of you had had an accident in the refinery and died. He was destroyed. He left without saying a word. I was sure I did the right thing. Your mother used to be mad about him. His appearance would have been a shock. She would have left her new family, her children, all she had made these years if she saw him. I was sure he had another family where he had been those years. I was sure that it would be destructive for both of them to see each other. Now I dont know. I cant say. I just wanted to tell you this and die in peace. Here, take this She said and gave me a photo. On the photo, there was a beautiful, black haired woman with a baby in her arms. Next to her, there was a man in a nice suit

whose head had been cut out. The only thing I could see from my father was his arm around me.