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Anataalie was hardly nineteen years old, yet so thoughtful, so caring
for her ageing father: she had knitted a tea pot cover in lavender wool.
And when she placed the tea tray dressed in lilac wool, on the desk of
her father, the old man felt warmth invading his tired heart.
"Thank you, my dear. What have you been up to today, we have not
seen much of you this afternoon?" The old man asked teasingly.
Anataalie blushed and looked at her father:
"Oh but, father, you know that I am taking violin classes. I want
to be the best, like you. I go every alternate day, have you forgotten?"
The old man frowned:
"No, I know that. It is I who asked you to study further as my fingers
are not apt anymore in vibrating the chords of any violin and teach you.
Of course, I am happy that you took up my advice, you are quite talented
Anataalie. As for me, well I am happy with running the school and doing
my sculpture projects."
"Yes, father, thank you. I do enjoy my class. But do take care of
your health, you look tired…"
The old man was reciting a text from a holy book, and Anataalie knew that
he was not going to take notice of her any longer and would continue his
meditations for a few hours more. She left, closing the door gently behind
her.
She went into the schoolyard to meet the children. They were all so overjoyed
with the snowman. She clapped her hands, and started to sing an old Polish
song. All the children started to accompany her, repeating words of which
they did not know the meaning but which sounded so pretty
Anataalie's cheeks were red with joy. She run into the storeroom of the
school building and came out with a box full with ice-skating shoes: she
distributed them to the children. She too fitted her shoes with the blades.
And she started swirling on the silvery ice without a care, like a swan,
intrepid and beautiful. The wind breathed like a gypsy violin and she
sang;
"Last night
I went ice skating
On the cold heart
Of the world. La, la lere…
And the children took her hand and from afar they looked like a multicolor
garland adorning the otherwise Grey American afternoon.
The old man had heard the song, he raised his head from the last living
room of the Lebensraum, the words of the soul and he stayed breathless.
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