Our life in the Cold Trough culminated with an impressive experience, ingrained in memory, which for the soul of a five-year-old child had the hallmark of a tragic incident. It happened one dusk in the paved square of the village, in the eve of St John's Day, close to the summer solstice. Later in life, each time I was listening to a song from one of Greece’s popular singers, Hari Alexiou's, saying: ‘And fires were lit by the kids in the back streets // It was St John’s Day, I think’, my mind was brought back to that evening. Schools closed for summer a few days ago and our stay in the Cold Trough was nearing its end. Children from the village, mostly schoolmates, gathered in the square and started a fire with papers, dry tree branches and, also, plastic objects. I don't remember how I found myself amongst them, being relatively young for that sort of extravaganza. Along with them I was enjoying the freedom from the shackles of the school routine, longing for a summer vacation by the sea and, in that evening, I was attracted by the adventure the moments offered and the pleasure of the company of other children, left in their own world, to improvise games out of nothing. Kids are fascinated by fires and so was I -throughout my childhood, for that matter.
I was next in the
queue to jump over that makeshift fire from garbage, but I naturally hesitated
from fear and the awe from the unprecedented and daring undertaking. An older
boy behind me, fearless and with the experience of a few jumps already under
his belt pushed me, out of malice or, more likely, impatience and his eagerness
to repeat an exciting feat before the fire went out. With the push I fell into it.
‘A tramp! A bully!’, were the first thoughts of the culprit, although unspoken.
I got up from the fire terrified and realising that ‘bad’ boy had disappeared,
out of fear himself and cowardice. I was wearing shorts and both of legs and
arms were bare and after landing onto the fire my upper and lower left leg was covered
in black soot and ashes. Worse, pieces of a melted plastic materials were stuck
on the skin. I cried; the kind of refuge or line of defence for every child in
physical pain and a mental impasse -in despair, without knowing what to do and
fearing the worst. I began to run instinctively towards Mrs. Meli’s house and our
room, a little further down from the corner of the square, seeking the protection
and consolation of Mother. I was running crying: ‘I got burned! Mom, got
burned!’ The owner of the kiosk owner in the corner of the square stood bewildered
outside, and asked foolishly and rather jokingly: ‘What’s happened, boy? Have they
given you onions to eat and got burnt?’ A cruel and non-sensical joke that was,
hardly comforting for my physical and mental pain.
At an older age the
mind would pause and ponder for a few moments after the shock, before
externalizing any sensations and feelings. But when pain abruptly hits a
child's nervous system, it instinctively and vividly expressed with what we consider
a natural reaction: crying and, then, uncontrolled sobbing. A rational mature mind
would have moderated consequent feelings and emotions, no matter how an innate impulse
forced a reaction, before their intensity reached a peak; it would consider the
circumstances, pay heed to the surroundings. Containment mechanisms within
would have tamed the effects and outwards expressions of the shock, that is loud
crying in public; composure would have restrained from running in panic to some
harbour for solace. The reaction would not have been the instinctive of the spontaneous
child of that moment. Equanimity, however, presupposes the hardening of the
soul and a maturity of the spirit. And these, in turn, presuppose accumulation
of knowledge and the experiences life sows on our path. Aging and the years
weaken extreme tensions caused by sensations and emotions born out from impressions
of life events. Bravery and courage are not innate traits, but are cultivated. However,
that and other similar experiences were still unprecedented for a still immature
spirit and shook his world of emotions at that time, as triggered by that fall
in the fire on St. John’s Day.
The crying stopped
when I got home and the stinging from the burns, admittedly of relatively low
degree, was soothed thanks to Mother’s tender care who washed them with cold
water, and then the junior doctor of the village who removed the pieces of plastic
with tweezers, before smearing my skin with ointments. The pain subsided to give
way to anger, a tide of rage more like. A mood of vengeance flared up inside and
a desire for retribution against the ‘bully’ who pushed me into the fire. Even
this rage weakened with time, until a catharsis was provided from our visit to
the perpetrator's home. He wasn't there or, more likely, he was hiding and
didn't want to confront his victim and his mother. He was probably harbouring his
own fears, stemming from a subconscious guilt, but more from the fear of
punishment: at worst, a father’s hiding or a house detention in days that his
mates enjoyed playing in the open. The mothers exchanged a few words, apologies
were offered, and forgiveness was granted. As they say, the incident was
considered over and done with.
After the gathering of
the teachers and their families, at the customary farewell dinner at the end of
the school year in the village hall, paid for by parents’ donations as a token
of appreciation, we bade farewell and left the Cold Trough for good. A fellow
villager known to Mother drove us with our two suitcases, for the last time
through the road with the melancholy poplars on either side, forming like farewell
arches, and dropped us at the plane tree and the coach stop, outside the junction
canteen. The village and its winter were printed on the very first pages of the
very first chapter of the book of conscious life: the reading and writing I
learned, the first kick-abouts, the first TV program I watched at Mrs. Meli’s
and Mr. George’s living room, Mrs. Lola, the kind teacher with the genuine love
and interest in my learning she showed, the older girl who became my partner in
the gymnastics demonstrations, the melancholic evenings in Mrs. Meli’s cold
room and Mother’s tearful songs before going to bed, the bookstore of Mr. Avramides,
the slaughterhouse, the tall tobacco warehouses; all these were stored in the
mind and have been with me to the present day, along with the faded scars on
the burnt skin. Several other faces and events from that time were lost deep in
the subconscious and might have unknowingly resurfaced in night dreams.
In the Cold Trough I began developing consciousness and, ultimately, forming a personality. It was there that some of the first building stones of my ‘being-in-itself’ were laid from very first memory imprints. Early foundations, I have later discovered, obtain great significance in shaping one’s future, whatever walks of life he pursues. A slight change in the initial conditions of a chaotic process, like life in our world appears to be, can later lead to dramatically different behaviours and journeys.
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