Crossings

When my children were very young, in the 1990’s, I decided to go back to school. I studied art and graphic design.

One of the first classes I took was three dimensional design. We made architectural models, clay sculptures and worked with power tools.  It was all very new to me.

The professor, a man in his early 70’s, teaching his last class before retirement, treated every mediocre project we produced as though it were an exalted work of art.

I was afraid to use power tools. He encouraged me, and showed me how. I mentioned that he reminded me of my grandfather Nikola.

We started talking.

He wanted to know about my grandfather, so I told him.

My grandfather and I - summer, 1983

I told the old professor that my grandfather was a farmer in Serbia, famous for his vineyards and for grafting exceptional types of grape vines. I told him that my grandfather had been a POW in Germany during WWII, and that he walked back to Serbia after being released from the military camp.

I related that my grandfather was a masterful storyteller, a man who could recite hours and hours of Serbian epic poetry by heart. I told him that I had learned to love words, stories and language from my grandfather.

I told him that my grandfather was dying.

My grandfather was 95 years old that spring and very sick with prostate cancer. He was not in a hospital. He was at home, taken care of by my mother, my aunt and grandmother.

Yugoslavia was in the grips of a brutal, bloody civil war. There was a shortage of everything, especially medicine. All morphine and painkillers were needed for the soldiers. None could be spared for old people.

So, my grandfather was dying without morphine, without much medicine, with hardly any painkillers.

Every morning, and noon, and evening, and night, I wondered how my grandfather was feeling. I tried to imagine his pain.

Every morning, and noon, and evening, and night, I thought about the war, the fear, the pain, the suffering.

My professor seemed to understand my state of mind. Every time our class met, he made time to talk to me. I told him about the war. I talked to him about my grandfather.

He confided in me about his daughter.

His daughter, the light and pride of his life, had died the year before. An accomplished young lawyer, she was suddenly diagnosed with ovarian cancer and died within a year.

When he told me about her death, he broke into tears. I hugged him.

My grandfather died before the class ended and I told my professor of my relief that my grandfather’s suffering was over. But the war raged on.

The old professor retired when our class ended. I saw him only one more time.

I was walking downtown one morning when I noticed a confused, vacant looking old man standing in the middle of the street, surrounded by cars, unsure how to cross from one side to the other. I walked up to him, took hold of his arm and helped him cross.

I recognized my old professor. He didn’t remember me.

Special thanks to my husband Jeff for the photograph he took of my grandfather and me during our first visit together to Yugoslavia.

Tagged as: language, my grandfather, old professor, prostate cancer, Serbian epic poetry, stories, words, Yugoslavian civil war