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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.