1. The Old Man

There are no more than ten clearly imprinted memories in my mind from the wedding day, on which I took the "lead male role": one was the moment I said “yes” to sharing the rest of my earthly walk with my wife, second was the kiss which took place in front of the cheering crowd of relatives and friends, third was the signing of our marriage certificate before the elderly lady, the state officiant, who was “politely” smiling, and several other encounters at the reception in the restaurant downtown.     

Our friends and family were enjoying the reception, quite evidently, while my new bride and I, with knots in our stomachs and dazed by the realness of the new step we had just taken in our lives, were smiling awkwardly, all the while putting a great amount of effort into acting naturally, despite the stress of being the center of attention. The DJ was slyly using the power of the microphone to force us into dancing time and again, song after song, putting us on the spot to the pleasure of everyone around.  

Despite the initial awkward feeling of being in the lead role of a bridegroom, and the animated artistic character that I was, I decided, after a few successful moves on the dance floor which produced a wave of wild applause, that I enjoyed the attention. I liked the role of a star “rising to prominence” in the so-called “modern ballet” genre. I gave my all on the “stage”, so much so that the audience soon became aware of who was “the leading voice” in this “industry”. My clumsy moves left the majority of the guests rolling on the floor laughing again and again. The after-party continued until two o’clock past midnight. It was an unforgettable wedding celebration. Judging by the feedback I was given afterwards, the reception was rated as the most entertaining event of the season.   

Everything on that day would have been perfect if it was not for an incident, which did not go unnoticed by my attentive self, and which did add a slightly bitter taste to the evening. During the first slow song, as my wife and I were gracefully swaying on the dance floor, resembling a scene from Beauty and the Beast, I stole a glance of my grandfather abruptly standing up from the table and swiftly exiting the salon. Even though my attention was consumed by attempting to avoid stepping on my bride’s dress or her white shoes, I still managed to catch a glimpse of Grandpa’s back. My grandpa was a member of the Alexandrov family line. As I watched him go, I suddenly became worried due to the fact that there was something evidently wrong with this strange, old man who was the father of my father.

I let go of my wife’s hand and pulled away from her embrace. Instead of going back to the table, I headed for the door. I went outside into the parking lot to check whether my grandfather had gone there. I noticed him at once. He was alone, bent over, and looked twice as small.

“What is going on, Grandpa?” I asked. 

“Nothing, Alex. Get back inside and have fun” he said gently with his hoarse voice, “Let me be. My time for dancing is long gone.

 

“Nonsense”, I protested as I hugged the old man, “you have many more dances to dance, Grandpa, even though I haven’t really seen you dance before.”

“Yeah, I can’t dance and I don’t want to either.” Grandpa said, gulped, and then continued, “Alex, we barely know each other and this saddens me greatly. It is not your fault; it’s just the way I am. I am sorry. If you can, please, forgive me. It’s just the way I am, but you have grown to be a fine man and this makes me very happy, my boy.”

 

Never before had I ever heard Grandpa utter so many words at once, and be so gentle at the same time. At first, I was taken aback by his kind words, but I blamed them on the atmosphere of the celebration that had brought us together. Usually, Grandpa was a quiet loner, though I supposed his heart pulsated somewhere within his old chest in spite of it bleeding in pain. Nonetheless, it was a good heart. The creases on his forehead, his erected figure, the shape of his eyes, and his face resembled those of a nobleman from a time past which caused me to be even fonder of him.

 

Grandpa had left me puzzled many times before with his behaviour, but there, on the parking lot that day, my curiosity was sparked in a new way. An idea sprang to life in my head - I was going to make it a point to find out the reason for the never-ending sorrow that had been accompanying him ever since I can remember. 

 

I have known him for a long time. I remembered him in my early childhood memories, but most vividly in that period of time, during which I was tirelessly working (under a strict parental pressure) to complete my elementary education. Grandpa would wait for me at the end of each school day. He was never late. There, at the back of the school yard near the gate, and away from the groups of other parents waiting for their kids, Grandpa would stand alone like a lonely tree in a field. At the sound of the last bell, I would bolt out of the building, usually with a wide grin on my face, to hug the old man. To me, back in those days, he symbolized the beauty and safety of life outside the “prison walls” of the school.

 

Grandpa did not smile. He would look at me with his sad eyes, lay hold of my backpack, take my little hand into his warm palm, and together, we silently would head towards home. After about twenty steps, he would ask how my day had been and I would answer him in one to thirty sentences. Then we would silently continue our hushed, homebound march. Strangely enough, I, the chatter box that I was, did not mind spending time in the quiet company of Grandpa.   

 

“Let’s go back inside” I said softly to the old man, “This is my night and I want you to be there.” I was about to embrace him when I noticed two big tears in Grandpa’s eyes. He cloddishly tried to hide them by craning his neck in the opposite direction.

“Grandpa, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing, Alex!” harshly replied the old man after which he softly added, “That dancing inside upset me a little.”

“The dancing upset you?", I asked, unable to believed that I had clearly heard what I had heard, “But why?” 

“It’s a long story that you do not have time to hear. You’re getting married and your wife is probably already looking for you.”

“It’s true I don’t really have time right now…”

“Go back to your wife, Alex” kindly commanded the old man in his hoarse voice, “I’ll go in a bit.”

“Grandpa” I said in a tone which would not tolerate any protest, “Right now I have to go back inside, but promise me when all this is over… I mean, when things kind of calm down around the wedding, that we will meet up and talk.”

“I promise.”

“We are leaving tomorrow, but when I come back you owe me a meeting. Did you hear me?”

“I heard.”

 “You are not going to back down.”

“You have my word.”

 

The old man tapped me on the shoulder, and then pushed me towards the restaurant where my wedding celebration was still going in full swing. Once in, the Maid of Honor, grabbed me by the hand and threw me onto the dance floor. There, around twenty of my friends and some of my wife’s relatives were waiting for me with a spark in their eyes, while violently moving their arms, legs, and hips to the rhythm. Engulfed, once again, in the heat of the party with all its noise, music, and emotions the thought of the suffering old man in the parking lot became lost.

 

***

On the following day, with two big luggage bags and quite a few additional items stuffed together in a small red car whose mileage was showing 225 302 kilometers, my wife and I set off to our romantic honeymoon. We left behind our relatives, friends, work, and our rented apartment and headed towards the sunrise which symbolized the new chapter in our lives. Objectively speaking, against any general romantic perception, we were in actuality en route to a small family hotel. It was supposed to have a view of the sea just as the tourist agency had enticingly claimed on their website. 

I shall skip the details around the trip, but will note that the honeymoon did not leave a taste of honey neither in our mouths nor in our souls due to the fact that we encountered our first two, serious marriage conflicts. Additionally, the duration of the honeymoon was far shorter than the standard one. After the ten-day vacation, we returned to our rented apartment, to the same town, relatives, work, and friends. We unlocked the front door, exhausted from the break, but pleased, as a newly married couple, with the first-hand experience we had gained in conflict-resolution and sweet reconciliation.

.

Mustering our last drop of strength, we dragged ourselves to bed, and without uttering the necessary “Good night, honey”, we both fell unconscious for an indefinite period of time. After getting a good amount of sleep, and enjoying a nutritious afternoon snack, we unpacked our luggage, and slowly went back into the old rhythm of daily life. The only difference was that now the woman of my dreams and I occupied the same living quarters.   

 

The charmingly monotonous days were filled with minor joys and pains. Every new sunrise brought the rise and fall of the usual feelings and emotions, and it was invitingly beckoning us to fulfil our pressing professional duties.  The sunsets turned out to be more desirable. I would come back from work at seven o’clock and would kiss my young bride. We would then exchange a few words and proceed to eat supper while holding hands. My wife usually talked more than I would have liked her to. I, however, would hypocritically gobble down everything on my plate, in an effort to conceal my displeasure at the fact that my wife’s cooking drastically differed from the culinary chef d’ouevres that my mom would create. Nevertheless, just like the old saying wisely points out: Love is sacrifice. At some point, throughout the evening, my wife and I would romantically set out to wash the dishes together, after which would head to the comfort and moral protection of our marriage bed.

 

***

 

One night at the dinner table, while I was preoccupied with trying to convince myself that there was an observable amount of improvement in the flavour of my wife’s dish, consisting of chicken and potatoes, I noticed her abruptly turn toward me with a guilty look on her face. 

“Alex”, she quietly pronounced my name and forcefully squeezed my hand, “I messed up.”

“What happened?” I asked tensely.

“Your grandpa called yesterday. He sounded very… gloomy. He asked about you, and, when I told him you weren’t home, he murmured something, which I could not understand, and then hung up.”

“Grandpa is not very talkative.” I tried to justify the old man, “I am supposed to meet with him so we could talk.”

“Is it serious?”

“Did I not mention to you what happened on our wedding?”

“No, you did not.” my wife responded in a way which led me to believe that it was not difficult for any woman to quickly turn the feeling of guilt into blame. 

“I was meaning to tell you, but I have apparently forgotten” I took my wife’s hand into mine and lovingly looked at her; “Grandpa was behaving very strangely at the wedding. He got upset when the dancing began. We agreed on meeting up after our honeymoon. He owes me an explanation. Maybe that’s why he was calling.

“Call him!” squarely stated my wife as she shoved the phone in my hands.

 

Without making a sound, influenced by the insisting invitation, I dialled Grandpa’s number. Before long, I heard the rarely-used voice of the old man on the other side of the line.

“Hello?”

“It’s Alex, Grandpa.”

“Hello?” repeated Grandpa which led me to believe that he had not clearly heard me the first time.

“It’s Alex. You called yesterday.” 

“Ah, Alex, is this you? I called you yesterday.”

“I know.”

“We had an agreement” Grandpa reminded me, “Would you like to meet with me? I think I am ready.”

 

“Ready for what?”, if the old man’s point was to spark my interest, I could honestly say that he accomplished it, “Ready for what, Grandpa? We are only gonna talk; I am not gonna torture you.”

It became awkwardly quiet on the other side of the line, and then the realization that this conversation would turn out to be far more worth-while than what I had expected hit me.

“Tomorrow’s Saturday” I said, “I will be at your place at ten. How’s that?”

“Ten is fine”, said Grandpa with his voice changed and then added, “Let’s meet in the park. I feel suffocated here, inside these walls. I want to be in open space.”

“I have an idea,” I did not give up wanting to set the conditions, “Wanna go fishing?”

 

Without giving it much thought, I decided that the offer was worth-while. I was aware that the old man liked to visit the banks of the Danube river to fish, and to further isolate himself from the surrounding world. On my end, I also enjoyed this kind of activities. I’ve enjoyed them since I was a young child who would accompany Father to rivers and swamps with my kid, fishing rod, and enthusiasm which could be likened to that of Captain Ahab from Moby Dick.  

“That’s fine.” Judging on the mood change in his voice I could tell, as much as his mysterious self would allow, that he was showing symptoms typical of people with fishing fever, “I’ll go early. Come to the sunken ship.”

I gave the phone back to my wife, but, instead of going back to the romantic scene of washing the dishes with her, I set out to get my fishing equipment ready for the following day.

It took me about an hour and a half to bring the fishing rods out from the closet, tie the lures, calculate whether I had enough lead sinkers, and search the web to find out at what time fishing shops usually opened, so I could go and buy white worm bait in the morning.  

 

***

 

On the following morning, a little before the sunrise immersed the river in its ethereal beauty, I arrived at the place we had arranged to meet. There was no one around except for the old white-haired man �" my Grandpa. We greeted each other and I did all I can so the lead, lure, and bait were in place, in the deep water, for the fish to run into them, before it had the chance to find its food elsewhere.  Then I approached the silent, old man.

“Has the fish nibbled at the bait yet?” I asked the important question that would typically be asked by a member of a fishing guild.

“No, it hasn’t.” my colleague laconically replied, “It’s not biting on it, at all. The weather is pleasant, regardless, so it doesn’t really matter. At least we can soak in some sun.”

“It won’t be the first time that I go home empty-handed”, I added with a grin to the pessimistic predictions of my companion, “I enjoy coming here by the river. It is not important whether I catch anything or not. I’m glad that we are here, together.

“It’s pretty here. It’s quiet. And the important thing is that we are far from the world”, said Grandpa and waved with his hand, as if trying to point at something behind him that he had been trying to run away from, “That’s why I come here… to escape.”

 

It became clear to both of us that the silence which followed Grandpa’s last words was the necessary introduction to our anticipated conversation. I studied the bent-over figure next to me, and it seemed as if, just like at the parking lot of the restaurant, Grandpa was half smaller. I put my hand on his shoulder, and moved directly to the question which had been gnawing at me since the last time we saw each other:

“What’s the matter, Grandpa? You seem sad. You always have but now… it’s concerning me. What’s eating you?

The old man responded, but, when he did, his voice sounded different �" it lacked emotion. A dull voice: “You know nothing about me. No one knows what… what kind of a burden it was for me to carry, by keeping quiet until now. Even your Father does not know me. I don’t blame you. I simply closed myself off, and, for a long time, could not talk about what had happened then.

 

“Why, Grandpa?” I asked as an invisible hand was gripping me by the throat, “I have always loved you despite the fact that you were never very talkative, and would often close yourself off, and would look so sad as if you were carrying the burden of the whole world. What happened to you? Why are you sad and why… why did the dancing on my wedding upset you?

 

Up until this point, the old man was distractedly looking at the water in front. My last words, however, caused him to slowly turn his gaze and look into my eyes. I was speechless. I froze. I experienced something I had not seen before. I saw what nothingness looked like. It had settled in Grandpa’s soul. It is hard to explain it and I do not perceive I have enough words in my vocabulary to describe it: Desert, fog, empty space, no signs of life. It’s all that, but not really. It’s nothingness. Before me was standing the mere frame of a body, but the substance was gone. Right when I was starting to question what would become of our meeting on the bank of the Danube River, I caught a glimmer of light in the gaze of the old man, it spread quickly, and suddenly the man was brought back into the frame of the body in front me.    

 

“On that day, a part of me died”, Grandpa said hoarsely, “It’s gone. I’ve been looking for it for the past years since, but I could not find it.

“What are you talking about, Grandpa? Tell me.”

“Do you want me to, really? You want me to tell you? Even your Father does not know this story. I have not mentioned it to anybody. I kept quiet, thinking I would protect him. I thought I’d protect him, and all the rest of my close ones. That’s what I was thinking then, but now I’m starting to doubt it was the right thing to do.”

“I’m here and I’m willing to listen to you, Grandpa.” I said as I laid my hand on the old man’s shoulder. He held his breath and then slowly, but clearly, began talking, as if he was communicating to a foreigner who had no clue of what the Bulgarian language was.

“I was in a camp, Alex. A Communist Concentration Camp.” He said and became silent once more.   

 

This time the silence that came over was different. He was quiet because he was looking for the right words in order to continue the story, whereas I was silent because I had nothing to say. I was angry at myself. In the span of a few short minutes, I found myself at a loss for words once again. I had been in this situation before, when I had wished to speak, but had also been aware that anything said would have been empty talk - hot air coming out of my mouth.

 

“They are worse than the Nazi ones” the old man quietly continued after a short pause, “I was a prisoner, Alex. Actually not even a prisoner. Worse. It turned out I was captured by killing machines, and not humans. They were executioners who had the power to kill somebody, even if they left him alive. They shoved me in there without a trial or a sentence, and they turned me into a nobody. At least, that’s who I was when I left.

“Why did they put you in a camp?” I asked, with a dry mouth and eyes wide open, waiting to become a witness of the uncovering of the biggest secret in our family line. “I’ve heard horrifying things about the conditions there, but I’m afraid I know too little. Nobody talks about them, as if they’ve never existed in Bulgaria.”    

“Yes, Alex. I’ve always wondered why that side of history was buried just like we were buried back there. Some don’t want to know what was happening there, at all, and others do not wish to dare to find out.”

 

“I had no idea that you went through something as horrifying as this” I could not control neither my voice nor my mind, but I did not give up allowing space for Grandpa to talk, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Would you tell me what happened there?

 

The old man stood up, removed the bell from the tip of the fishing rod, and, with slow movements, began rolling up the reel. He changed the bait, and, after the lead weight had sunk to the bottom of the river at about ten meter offshore, he sat back down on his fishing stall. That’s when he began telling the story.