The Time of the Goats

19

123 19 A­ pearly day ­ dawned above the for­ tress. We ­ parted from the dream we ­ shared with our goats. D-day had set in. The last day with the goats and ­ Changa. The end of the time of the goats. D-day was won­ drously beau­ ti­ ful. A gift of na­ ture. There had never been a more beau­ ti­ ful day. A day worth a whole life­ time. As usual, my­ mother woke early to put the house in order, even ­ though she had done so be­ fore going to bed. ­ That’s the way she ­ closed the cir­ cle of day and night. As al­ ways, she set out into the court­ yard to see the goats but gave a start when she re­ mem­ bered that the goats had been left with ­ Changa’s goats to share their com­ mon fate. She went to the court­ yard gate that ­ opened onto the ­ street, to­ ward the river, to­ ward the large pop­ lars, to­ ward the for­ tress. A large red fire en­ gine rac­ ing to­ ward the park ­ blocked her view. She saw hun­ dreds of po­ lice, sol­ diers ­ dressed in ­ strange, multi­ col­ ored cloth­ ing hold­ ing big clubs and ­ shields as they moved to the park. The peo­ ple whom she usu­ ally met at this time—the news­ paper­ man who stood on the cor­ ner 124 at the head of the ­ Wooden ­ Bridge, the milk­ man—­ weren’t in their cus­ to­ mary ­ places, nor were the other early ris­ ers. Only the chirp­ ing of birds re­ minded her of other, more or­ di­ nary days. “This does not look good,” my ­ mother mut­ tered and ­ headed back to­ ward the court­ yard and the ­ kitchen. We were all awake, just as dur­ ing the time of the goats. I, the sleepy­ head, was last to drag my­ self up. My ­ father was sit­ ting at the head of the table wait­ ing for his tea. Some­ thing had upset the usual order of ­ things. My ­ mother en­ tered the house, her face pale. It took all her ­ strength to sup­ press her con­ cern. The char­ ac­ ter of her soul was re­ flected in her eyes, and we chil­ dren ­ clearly read her mood. ­ Mother’s lan­ guage ra­ di­ ated from her eyes; here one could read what was writ­ ten. ­ Quietly, she told us what she had seen. She had never seen so many peo­ ple in uni­ form, even dur­ ing those times when she had been com­ pelled to greet dif­ fer­ ent sol­ diers at our house by the lake. These were dif­ fer­ ent times, times of free­ dom, but nev­ er­ the­ less there were so many sol­ diers and po­ lice with clubs and ­ shields. She could not under­ stand what was going on. If it had not in­ volved the fate of the goats, every­ thing would have un­ folded dif­ fer­ ently. My ­ father tried to calm her, to turn the ­ course of our anx­ ious­ thoughts: “It is ­ likely a mil­ i­ tary ex­ er­ cise. It will pass ­ quickly. What­ hasn’t ­ passed ­ through the Bal­ kans?”­ Father’s words did not ease our fear. My ­ mother ­ slowly ­ served the tea. She ­ wanted to bring back the usual order to the day. My ­ father then added that noth­ ing was going to hap­ pen to the goats. But we chil­ dren put two and two to­ gether. I ­ started to cry, and soon my broth­ ers were rush­ ing to the door. Of ­ course, they ­ planned to go to the park, to reach the goats, to get past the col­ umns of sol­ diers and po­ lice­ men, to warn­ Changa and take our goats as well. My ­ father ­ stopped them. “Wait, chil­ dren, calm down. Let us wait ­ awhile. Do not be the first to go out!” My ­ father ­ locked the court­ yard gate ­ tightly. We all re­ turned to our­ places. My ­ mother col­ lected the un­ touched food. We moved about the house and the court­ yard, ­ closed in and pow­ er­ less. We ­ didn’t have our 125 goats. We paced like an­ i­ mals in a cage. My ­ father did not even allow us to look out the win­ dow to­ ward the quay that...