Trafika Europe 3 - Latvian Sojourn

children squeezed together came into the room timidly, and sat on the very edge of the soft sofa and watched how the man with the dark complexion plodded with broad steps through the luxurious room – wall to wall, stopping for a moment near a window, then to the hallway, and back. He spoke energetically and quickly, talking about the school out towards Ērgļi, which had caught fire just the day before yesterday. All the writings had burned, but everything had been memorized, so it should be rewritten. His rough hand with the thick, yellowed nails once again caressed the pile of paper. The man talked about how, a year prior, during this period he was spending a lot of time in church, each day, attending a number of times a day, and that had saved him, that had taken him here, “back to his family,” he said. It reminded him of his father, who had died in spring - “So that would be your grandpa.” - and his mama, who waited for all of them at home. “We have our own mommy,” the oldest boy said, who clenched his hands into small fists and would have gotten in the old man’s way had he been a bit bigger. “Arvīds, you protect your owl.” The man stopped, looked at the children with a tilted head, then looked once more without talking. He sat on the desk with a sudden confusion, murmured, turned his back to the children, and stooped over the sheets of paper.

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