The wizard under my chalk
The wizard under my chalk
My first memory of my family was maybe when I was four years old.
I don’t know, maybe I was just told so.
That was the day when we lost our parents.
They were lying down on the floor of our house under the white
sheets. I was jumping over their bodies as if I were playing a
children's game.
The house was full of people, neighbors, and cousins.
My brother came into the house with a bucket of fresh milk.
He took me by the hand and found me a little chair.
I saw tears in his eyes and it was funny to me to see him like that.
A month after we lost our parents, our destiny began to resolve
Our relatives took the brother since he was already strong and
almost fifteen.
Cunning peasants.
Real connoisseurs needed someone to do the hard work on their
property.
And they also set their eyes on our father's
property. The peasant is greedy for the ground.
Nobody needed us, three sisters.
Imagine that nobody needs you, and everyone bypasses you.
Finally, the municipality decided to send the three of us to a
Home for Neglected Children.
They could say honestly: Children, we take you to an orphanage.
It would be easier for me to accept that, even though I didn’t
know the meaning of the word orphanage.
First, I was happy because I believed I was traveling somewhere with
my sisters
We traveled on an old army lorry down the bumpy roads.
The driver stopped by the road inn. He said we wait for another car.
We were seven in that lorry.
A small car arrived.
Lorry driver came and said: Come on little girl you have another car.
We were separated, and a long time after I realized that we had been
sent to three different orphanages.
Finally, we arrived.
An ugly old grey building near the river became my new home
Where no one notices you, no one needs you.
Occasionally they would yell calling for lunch or dinner.
70
Nastasimir Miško Franović ~ A Dream ~
In the morning, older kids would steal my milk jug or take my bread
and marmalade
I had nothing of my own except for a doll's head that could blink
her eyes, even if she was just a chopped head.
I cared for her and kept her under the pillow and when the lights were
switched off, I played mum and daughter.
In spring butterflies loved to land on my shoulder.
Little turtles helplessly turned on their backs and waited for me to turn
them.
I liked the morning dew, and the wet soil my sketchbook.
Wet soil was an open‐air gallery where all my dolls and animals lived,
like a happy family.
Confused ants and grasshoppers were my faithful gallery visitors.
I went to school and I started drawing in my notebooks.
I learned to write and read and books became my secret world, a
rescue rope, my secret window with a view to the horizon.
Time passed by but nobody noticed me.
Finally, in the fourth grade, somebody noticed me.
It was a rainy grey day.
The classroom was in semi‐darkness. Big green board shined
clean.
My teacher called me to come to the board.
She held up my drawing and asked:
"Who drew this doll for you, little one?"
I drew another even prettier doll on the board.
The teacher stared at my little hands in astonishment, as though she
had seen a wizard under my chalk. She couldn't believe it and said,
"Go back to your place, little one."
It was the first time; I had heard anything about my sisters since they
left The Home for Neglected Children that summer.
I celebrated my fourteenth birthday in that grey, ugly
home by the river.
That was the day my sisters visited me and took me to
their new home.