The Dog

 

“Comr…. Sir, let us leave,” Matsa will never learn to address him right, Yura smiled at the thought of the interrupted Comrade. But Matsa’s an idiot just like his old man.

The others joined in. “Yea! Let us leave, we can get back on our own…” and “you can count on us…”

Yura had to smile again. Count on them. Uttered by Vicko, the biggest miscreant in class. But it was almost noon, the excursion took longer than expected and he’d have to drag them to school just to send them home from there. He looked at his watch.

“Alright, you scoundrels. But promise me…” The rest of his sentence was lost in the eruption of cheers and hoots. He waved his hand, waited for everyone to quiet down and continued: “Like I said. No messing around, no mischief, so I don’t have to save your asses again. Be good. And we’ll see each other tomorrow.” His eyes scanned the entire class one more time. A few girls and boys were already heading off toward the tram and Yura knew that he didn’t need to worry about them. As for the rest. One hooligan bigger than the next, the girls just as bad as the boys.

“We’re gonna go up over the hill, alright?” said Vicko, as if that was some sort of guarantee that they’re not gonna get into any trouble, and they all nodded. Bozha with Rudi were already rolling matches between their fingers so that they could light up the second Yura turned around. As if he didn’t know them.

„Don’t you dare set anything on fire…go on then.”

Yura was a little surprised that Martin headed for the hill together with the rest of the group but then he realized Martin has to walk because he doesn’t have enough for the tram fare. It’s not easy for these kids, he sighed and looked at them running towards the tracks, Vicko clowning around, kicking Borek in the ass, Borek running after him and trying to whack him with his gas mask cover. (…)

All of them got to the tracks right when the train whistled from around the bend. Milada, who got there first, counted the wagons breathlessly saying the old rhyme, loves me, loves me not, and thought she heard some other strange and frightening noise muffled under the roar of the train. She forgot about it the moment Souky gave her an affectionate slap on the back.

They waited for the train to disappear over the hill and set off, walking on the tracks against the direction of the train. Borek, who was first, froze and his arms shot up as if he was trying to stop everyone from walking any farther.

“What the fuck, dude?” Rudi hit him in the back to push him ahead but Borek just stood and stared ahead. They all looked in the same direction and saw it too. A tiny dog tied to the sleepers, crucified between the tracks so that the train would go over two of his four legs. A tiny ball of crushed bones and fur glued together with fresh blood. His doggy eyes bulging out in agony of silent pain, all the cruelty of the world tied up in one animal’s tiny body in one spring minute on a train track in Karlín.

They stood and stared. Milada started crying and Souky followed. Then they heard a snicker above the tracks.

Bozha turned around just in time to see them. “It was them…” he growled.

“What are we gonna do?” Rudi whispered. He suddenly felt that he should keep his voice down. “Do something for God’s sake, we can’t leave him like that…” Souky was sobbing like they’d never seen her do before.

“Get out of my way….”

They turned around and just now noticed that Martin was with them. He was holding a huge rock in his outstretched arms.

“What the hell do you wanna do? You can’t do that!” screamed Milada but Martin took no notice of her.

Vicko and Borek gave him room and without uttering a word, Martin let the rock drop on the dog’s head. The mangled body twitched and his tail rocked slowly from side to side in a wave good bye.

Vicko bent over and threw up into the bushes. Milada was crying and kept repeating: ‘Ohmygodohmygod,” over and over.

Martin turned to her: “Shut the fuck up, he doesn’t give two fucks about you…”

“Who?” Milada didn’t get it.

Martin was already talking to Bozha. “Who did you see?” he asked in a way that made it was clear he had no intention to ask the question again.

“It was the little fucks from the tunnel.”

“Gypsies?”

“Yeah, but Hejna’s brother was with them too. He’s a bastard just like them. They do it all the time, throw live mice into jars and toss them into a fire and shit like that…” As he was speaking, Bozha’s gaze kept wandering down to the rock in the middle of the tracks.

“Hmm, that’s enough…” Martin turned around to leave. No one tried to stop him and he was glad. He couldn’t keep it together any more. His teeth started chattering and he had to stick his hands into his pockets so that they didn’t see them start to shake. He felt their eyes in the back of his neck until he jumped down from the embankment to the path that ran to the tunnel.

 

They looked as Martin’s back disappeared over the tracks and none of them wanted to be there anymore. But they also didn’t know what to do. Souky broke the silence.

“Klíma’s a regular psycho. He just plain killed the poor thing…” she was still sniffling.

“You’re an idiot, he was the only one of us…” Borek was whispering just like Bozha but couldn’t finish what he started to say. They knew anyway. They were thinking the same thing, even though Souky was saying nonsense. Klíma was the only one with balls enough to end the mutt’s suffering.

Even Rudi felt the same way. Martin was the only one who had the guts to put an end to it. He himself couldn’t do it. He was pissed that he didn’t yell to Martin to wait. That he didn’t go with him.

“Where’d you think he went?” he turned to Vicko and Bozha but Borek answered.

“I’m thinkin’, you assholes, that he went to bash those little cunts’ heads in…”

“If he did then God help him. Little Hejna spends his whole day with his brother and those gypsies are real motherfuckers…” said Rudi and everyone felt like he must know ‘cuz he knows big Hejna the best.

They turned and looked at each other one more time as if in agreement. Then they looked at the dog’s little corpse, which started to get covered in flies. Milada bent down and picked a stem of chamomile. She tossed it towards the dog’s tail but missed.

Then they all set out across the tracks and up the hill towards Vítkov. None of them turned around.

When they got up the hill and crossed the main road that led to the monument, it was early afternoon and there was no one in sight. Just a weird guy sitting on the marble ledge in a greasy long sweater, his hat pushed back and eyes closed facing the sun. Rudi was already thinking that it must be some new weirdo and was looking for a rock to throw at him but Souky called out: “…Good day to you Mr. Hanibal!!!”

The guy shielded his eyes from the sun, smiled at them and his unshaved face folded into his wrinkles one at a time like a rolled up rag. He lifted his other arm lazily, gave them a short wave and turned towards the sun again.

“He’s from our building…he’s alright,” said Souky. “Too bad that he wasn’t down there, those little assholes wouldn’t have dared…”

“You’re full of shit. So they would have done it a mile up the track…” replied Borek and they all knew he was right.

“No adult gives a fuck about this kind of crap,” added Rudi. “Ya’ think that someone would bother saving a dirty old mutt?” He still felt like shit.

“You’re wrong about that, Hanibal’s cool. Once he was talking to Otto and Otto said that he was…cool…” said Souky. “He’s different, everyone in the building hates him…” she added.

“Oh ok…” said Bozha. Most adults hate the ones who are cool. Like when the others in their building hated his old man. When he was still alive that is.

They continued a little ways around the main path until they got halfway up the hill. They stopped there and sat under the chestnut trees. Vicko lit a cigarette and everyone was quiet. Borek thought about how glad he was that Simone wasn’t with them. He felt like a coward compared to Martin and didn’t want to feel that way in front of her on top of everything else.

“Gypsies are cunts,” Bozha couldn’t stand the silence anymore, “horrible cunts…”

“Little Hejna isn’t a gypsy and he’s a cunt just like his brother. It doesn’t matter. Gypsies or whities…” ruminated Rudi out loud.

“Old Durga isn’t a cunt,” said Vicko.

“Who the fuck is Durga?” Souky wasn’t crying anymore but her voice was still shaky.

Vicko wouldn’t give her the time of day under normal circumstances but he was in a forgiving mood, all things considered.

“Durga from our building. The one that makes paintings out of broken glass.”

“Huh? From broken glass?” Milada had never heard of anything like it.

“Yeah, he smashes up bottles and then glues the shards together. “Durga isn’t a cunt,” repeated Vicko.

“Maybe he isn’t a cunt, ‘cuz he’s old,” piped in Bozha and as soon as he said it, he knew how stupid he sounded.

“Durga was always cool, you asshole. Once he told me that only 50 percent of gypsies are cunts…”

“Well there ya’ go, asshole, if a gypsy tells you that….” Bozha couldn’t let it go.

“Yeah, but he also said that 50 percent of whities are cunts.” Vicko started to laugh. “We’re all half cunts.” He laughed on his own for a while but since no one joined him, he stopped.

(…)

 

The Tunnel

 

Meanwhile, Martin got back to the Karlín side of the tunnel. His hands were closing and opening into fists on their own and his mouth was like a desert. A short movie was playing in his head starring a bloody ball of fur and the cackle of Hejna’s gang on the hill. Something told him that this wasn’t their first time doing something like that and it scared him senseless knowing that tomorrow or the day after there’ll be another mutt or a cat which will fall prey to their sick game. The closer he got to the tunnel the weaker and lonelier he felt. Maybe he should have waited, maybe they would have come with him, at least Rudi would have. That didn’t matter now and he can take on a few little fucks, it wasn’t for nothin’ that his dad taught him to throw punches. Come on, asshole, pull it together. He glanced into the tunnel. It was empty all the way to the bend. Then we’ll see. To go at each other right inside wouldn’t be too good.

He walked halfway and felt relief. No one in sight, except for some kids’ voices near the exit. That’s them, for sure. There usually wasn’t anybody on the other side of the tunnel.

When Martin got near to the end, a little gypsy boy ran in followed by a skinny white kid with a stick in his hand. The gypsy was screaming while the other beat him over the back. Then they saw Martin and stopped.

“We’s saw ya’…saw ya’…staring at that mutt…hahaha,” cackled the one with the stick and Martin could see his rotten teeth. Martin got up close to him and reached out. The little fuck wanted to dodge him but Martin had him by the shirt. The other one ran up the hill over the tunnel and they could hear him screaming: “Come over here, come on, some gadžo¹gadjo, a person of non-Romani descent caught Milda…”

Martin had him in a choke hold and used his other hand to punch him wherever he could reach. The little fuck was writhing, screaming and kicking Martin in his shins. Martin slammed him to the ground and before Milda got away, Martin managed to give him a good kick in the ass. He looked around for the others but only two older dudes from Hejna’s gang were lying on the grass. They were half passed out, stoned out their minds from constantly sticking their heads into plastic bags filled with rags soaked in toluene.

Martin started to think that it was over but it wasn’t. Suddenly, Hejna ran towards him out of breath with a lackey on each side. Martin wanted to run back to Karlín but he heard someone jump down from the tunnel’s ledge behind him. It was Hejna’s right-hand man, a cross-eyed gypsy with tattoos from head to toe.

Then it was quick, bada bing, bada boom. The three of them got Martin in a hold and pushed him to the ground. Two of them stomped on his hands and the third one started kicking him. The little fuck with the stick was dancing around, laughing and cackling like mad.

“Go on, go on, go on…” Martin heard over and over, but the sound was getting farther and farther away. Lying on the tile crucified by dirty sneakers, he felt a thousand different types of pain, he was swallowing blood, closing his eyes to keep the loogies, they were spitting on him to spice shit up, out. Hejna was leaning on the stone ledge of the tunnel, smiling as he smoked his cigarette.

Then he put the butt out and said: “Alright boys, that’s enough… Let the little one have a turn too.” He pushed the idiot with the stick towards Martin. “Hit him, Milda, but give it all you got…”

“Milda raised his arm, the stick swooshed through the air and Martin felt as if someone had slammed him up against a wall. Then he just wanted to sleep and everything went dark. If only he weren’t so damn cold. And now, not even cold…. Martin didn’t want anything anymore. Not even the awful pinching pain in his nose and in his eyes. What the fuck is that, they’re pouring something over him and laughing? Yea, they’re laughing….Martin opened his eyes. They’re pissing on me…Fuck, shit, they’re pissing on me!!! Hejna and the two others who stuck him to the ground were holding their little dicks and were pissing on his face. He writhed with all his might but he was helpless. He was gagging and throwing up, tried to raise his head and the bloody puke was bubbling out of his mouth like milk out of a boiling pot. The gypsies freaked out, moved their legs and freed up his hands. Hejna gave him a stiff kick and said: “You dirty little pig, you fucking dick. This ought to teach ya’ to stay the fuck away…”

Then he turned to the others and barked: “Let’s go.”

Martin managed to sit himself up and leaned his back up against the rail. Hejna, white as chalk, was walking away, tiny and washed out, surrounded by tall lanky gypsies but still towering at least 3 feet over the rest of them. If Martin didn’t feel so sick he probably would have laughed. But now he was sitting in a pool of piss, desperately trying to breathe, but he couldn’t do it. His ribs stabbed like knives and his mouth and nose filled with a disgusting cocktail. Someone’s piss and his own puke. As soon as he thought about it, he threw up again. Woken up by the recent fight, the stoned gypsies on the grass were giggling like village idiots.

He realized he had to get away because Hejna could come back at any time. He carefully took off his sweater, which was hit the hardest, soaked in piss and puke. The T-shirt underneath wasn’t much better off but at least it didn’t stink as much. He wrapped his sweater into a knot to keep the worst of it inside, and wiped his face. The sweater got new bloody marks on it. He slowly tried to lean up against the rail and stand up. It worked. It hurt like hell but his legs were functional. He dragged himself along the rail and pulled himself along all the way to Koněvova Street. He leaned against a wall to take a rest. Then he crossed to the other side of the street. Some people gave him a look, some of them made a face but no one really took notice. Žižkov was used to seeing bashed up faces in the streets.

Martin limped to the bus stop, just as the 207 stopped by the crosswalk. He peeled himself off the wall of the butcher shop and slowly moved to where he thought the second doors would be. He was the only one getting on and tried to be invisible. Still, the old hag in the seat by the door started screaming: “What are you doing here, you dirty hooligan…Mr. Janda….Throw him out right now, he’s all bloody for God’s sake…” she yelled to the driver and the dog she had stuck in the bag in her lap.

Martin looked to the front and saw the driver give him a glance in the rearview mirror. He shivered. If he throws him out, it will take him three hours to drag himself home.

Janda turned his beer gut in their direction, took another look at Martin and yelled over his shoulder: “Calm down, woman….You watch that dirty mutt of yours, or I’ll throw you out. He stinks like shit…”

Two workmen coming home from their morning shifts were laughing and the hag squeezed her bag so hard the dog yelped. Janda closed the door, got the bus moving and motioned with his hand for Martin to come closer. Martin limped to the front and said” “…thanks…Mr. Janda…”

“Don’t thank me. I’ve been driving this route for 30 years and no old snitch is gonna tell me who I’m allowed to give a ride to.”

Martin laughed but it hurt. He grimaced.

“You got the shit beat out of ya’, huh?” laughed Janda.

“Yeah…”

“OK, just tell me if you want me to stop somewhere…”

“If I could get out right here by the park…”

“OK,” said Janda and stopped the bus on the corner in front of the school. Martin limped along the sidewalk and waved Janda goodbye. Janda thought to himself: Klíma, you were an awesome boxer but to leave your own kid here like that…that’s fucked up…he tipped his hat and disappeared around the corner.

Martin set off around the park and thought about how to get into the apartment once Nana is gone. The clock tower chimed 4 o’clock a while ago, which meant she would be heading to church soon. Martin had to hurry so he could hide in the courtyard and then get home once Nana leaves. He tried to speed up a little bit and kept up his pace until he got to the building though he felt worse and worse. The courtyard was deserted. How lucky, he thought. First Janda and now an empty house. That doesn’t happen often. I’m super lucky today, he thought sarcastically.

He climbed into the enclave under the balcony and closed his eyes. Nana, please go already, go, go… And as if his grandmother heard his pleas, she actually appeared and walked out the door. Martin heard her as she locked the door, rattled the handle to make sure it was closed and shuffled slowly down the stairs. When she stepped off the last step, she swung her bag into her other hand, lent on her walking stick and set out into the archway leading to the street. Martin looked in her direction and felt a huge lump in his throat at the thought of how terrified she’d be if she were to see him like this.

He quickly hobbled up the stairs and a flash of fear washed over him before he felt that his key was still safe and sound on the rope around his neck.

Finally home. He dragged the iron tub into the middle of the kitchen, poured in two buckets of cold water and one pot of hot water that his grandmother always had on the ready on the stove. He was glad he had brought the water in this morning and didn’t need to go out to the balcony for it now. He took off his clothes and slowly crouched down in the tub. He lathered up the sponge and washed off the piss, blood, puke and dirt. Everything still hurt like hell but he already felt much better.

He dried off, put on his sweats and a clean shirt and started brushing his teeth. Never in his life had he ever brushed his teeth for that long. He was staring at himself in the mirror as he did it. Milda’s gift in the form of a blue bruise ran across his forehead, his nose and both cheeks swollen, his lip torn. My face looks like a fucking pillow, he thought. What would dad say? Maybe he’d say: Good job, son, you’re a real tough guy now. But he wasn’t here. And neither was mom. They left him here, they don’t give a shit about him or grandma. Martin had to move it if he didn’t want her to see him like this. She has a weak heart. Too bad that Janda’s a stranger, ‘cuz he’s cool. Him and dad were friends but that was a long time ago. He kept brushing his teeth and suddenly, the image in front of him in the mirror was blurred by an invisible wall of tears.

 

Juvie

 

Yura thought about how Yura junior had asked him yesterday, unsure and quiet like; “Hey, dad, what would you say if I wanted to run away over the border?”

Fear hit him like a ton of bricks and he couldn’t move a muscle. Frightening images of bodies tangled up in barbed wires shot up like sieves raced through his mind.

“I mean when I’m older…like…”

That didn’t stop Yura’s mind form racing though.

“If it were that easy Yura, no one would stay here.”

They talked about it for a bit. Yura talked about how it used to be easier and how today it’s nearly impossible, and little Yura spoke about how great it must be, when someone’s able to do it because then that person can go wherever they want.

Then they had dinner and played a game of 21. They alternated at winning and losing and both of them thought about how shitty it was that in other places in the world, people just go back and forth and they’re the unlucky bastards who are stuck here.

Yura walked through the park and was so lost in his thoughts that he almost didn’t notice that a police car had stopped in front of the school. He jerked in reflex and got angry at himself for such a reaction. Way to go you pussy, you see a cop and you shit your pants…just like everybody else.

He relaxed right away remembering that the car had been standing there often lately. Yeah, started right about the time when they moved part of the gypsy school to ours, once they closed down the Komensky School. He still slowed down his pace because he had no interest in seeing the prick in uniform from the youth division. He’s an ass who always smiles like an idiot and is hard to shake off. (…) He was about to walk into the park when the police car rocked as if they were pulling an ox out of it.

It was the STB agent, Kulina’s agent. Yura recognized him right away, and when old Sivka got out with him, the only gypsy on the force, he knew without a doubt that this time, it was different. He gave them a head start to give the fat cop enough time to climb into the principal’s office and then walked quickly up the stairs and slid into the teacher’s cabinet. His first lesson was in the 7th grade, laws of motion, he can do that with his eyes closed. He started getting ready but couldn’t concentrate. Something was happening in the principal’s office one floor below him and Yura really hated those kinds of things.

There was a knock on the door, more of a bang, and before Yura could react, Vicko stormed in.

“Sir, sir… They took Klíma!”

Yura had never seen Vicko this terrified and didn’t want to add fuel to the fire by being frightened as well.

“Slow down and tell me what happened?” The sound of the bell interrupted his question as Vicko jumped.

Yura grabbed him by the shoulders.

“Calm down. Do you know what happened?”

He had enough experience to notice Vicko’ eyes avoiding his, which meant that there was more to the story than Vicko was letting on.

“OK. Go back to the classroom… I’ll come see you during the break.”

He stopped by the 7th grade class, gave them work sheets and prayed they wouldn’t start pushing each other out the windows.

He ran down to the second floor, hoping that Ms. Krulišová would be gossiping with the janitor and the route to the principal’s office would be clear. He was in luck. Head gossip Krulišová was gone.

He knocked on the principal’s door and didn’t wait for Žebráková’s “come in” because that might have never come.

He walked in and the first thing he saw was the STB agent’s butt overflowing from the chair on each side.

Žebráková frowned and wanted to show the room who’s boss: “What can I do for you, comrade? As you can see, we have an important…eehh…meeting here.”

Yura quickly scanned the room. Three cops, the principal and “behavioral” battle-axe Řeháková. Klíma was cowering between them. He was staring at his hands stuck between his knees and his hair was like a curtain hanging over his face. It was clear to Yura that Klíma was in big trouble.

“I’m Klíma’s homeroom teacher so I’d like to know what happened…”

Žebráková glanced at the fat cop as if asking for permission and he nodded. “Well, comrade, since you’re here…you’re here…so…then…take a seat.”

Yura sat down next to Martin and bumped his knee with his own, Martin looked at him and Yura gave him a faint smile.

The fat cop leaned back in his chair. “So, comrade, to bring you up to speed. Your little student here, is going around crippling little kids…”

The principal and Řeháková nodded in unison.

“Well explain it to him, comrade, so I’m not overstepping here…” The cop started laughing and his lackeys joined in.

“Look, comrade… We’ve received a complaint here, from comrade gypsy, I mean…. officer comrade…I mean….” Řeháková’s eyes darted from one to the other in panic looking for them to save her, when the uniformed officer from the youth division threw her a bone.

“Comrade Sivka here,” he waved his head to make sure everyone understood who he was talking about, “filed a report yesterday, that Martin Klíma here, attacked a group of much younger kids without reason yesterday and brutally, and I repeat, brutally, beat the sh…I mean, beat them up…”

Klíma lifted his head and Yura saw his face now. And it wasn’t a pretty sight. One eye swollen shut, lips torn up and a green bruise across his entire forehead as if someone much bigger hit him with a stick.

“Yes, so that’s what happened and we want to make sure this is taken seriously. You must admit, comrade, that it’s unthinkable that this…ehm defective youth…” she looked around to look for support… “to be attacking our…younger…youth…”

If it weren’t for the bruises all over Martin’s face, Yura probably would have laughed. What a motley crew this was. Comrade gypsy, defective youth…. He turned to face Martin.

“So, Martin, I’d like to hear what happened…from you…”

Martin bowed his head down.

“Well, it’s all clear anyway, comrade, here comrade Sivka filed a report and witnesses confirmed it, that the accused here attacked some kids, who were playing near the Karlín tunnel, and kicked here comrade Sivka’s nephew in the…well he kicked him and then also attacked Miloš Hejna, whose arm he nearly broke.”

So, this is the story. He turned to Martin again.

“And can you tell us where your injuries come from?” he smiled in encouragement.

Martin lifted his eyes a little. “They tied a dog to the train tracks and let him get run over…on purpose…”

Žebráková interrupted him. „Oh Klíma, that has nothing to do with it…We don’t care about some dog, you can tell that story to someone who cares…what we’re dealing with here is your defective behavior.”

She turned to the police and Řeháková and ignored Yura altogether.

“But as long as you, comrades, don’t need to know anything else from Klíma, I recommend we…ehm…send him back…to the classroom, for now.”

Yura wanted to say something in protest but he saw that Martin checked out, as the class would say in unison every time he gave him a test. So instead he said: “Martin, go on, and we’ll talk about it later,” and gave him a pat on the hand under the table.

Klíma left and Yura prayed that he really would go back to the classroom. “Classroom,” he smirked in his head. That’s how Žebráková talks when she’s scared shitless. And now she was shitting herself silly. He took a deep breath.

“I really think we don’t need to make a big deal out of this. Did you see Klíma’s face? I think it was a fair fight, don’t you think?” he turned to Sivka hoping that at least he’d be reasonable. But Sivka didn’t get many chances to shine. Now he was feeling important and he was lapping it up.

“Comrade, you’re his homeroom teacher? So you approve of his behavior? I certainly don’t. And I’m gonna ask for an exempl…well…the highest punishment possible.”

Yura turned to Žebráková. “Mari…”

Žebráková frowned and Yura quickly swallowed the rest of “Maria.” He started again.

“As Klíma’s homeroom teacher, I would like to propose that we deal with this on the school level. A reprimand or something like it. To prevent it from getting out of a hand, you know?” His eyes stopped on the fat cop and wondered why he was even here.

As if the cop read his mind, he turned to Yura. His voice had the tone of a friendly neighbor but his eyes were cold and piercing like a fine-tuned microscope, Jura thought and smiled to himself. The friendly neighbor’s voice began lightly: “So, comrades, just to sum things up. I’m here on behalf of the Commission for Defective Youth and I would like to thank Comrade Klekanec here, for informing me about the matter. Our goal is to prevent this sort of behavior, see?” He turned to Yura, his smile like a tetanus shot. “So, we’re not gonna beat around the bush here and enter in the minutes,” he nodded to Žebráková who looked down at the paper in front of her obligingly, the pen poised ready in her hand, “that we recommend for Martin Klíma to be placed in a juvenile detention center since evidence shows, that his closest relative Patáková isn’t able to ensure that a similar such incident won’t happen again. Besides, and this is off the record…” he nodded and Žebráková stopped writing, “we all know that his parents are EMIGRANTS! – they’ve repeatedly filed a request for his release to the Red Cross. As if we’re hurting him here, right?” He laughed and the resident behavior specialist Řeháková joined in. “We’re aware that Patáková is taking the boy around to church all the time and look what that leads to.”

The uniforms nodded, Řeháková shifted in her seat in satisfaction and Yura started to lose all hope.

“I can’t agree to any of this…I propose then, that it is also added into the minutes that Klíma was punished by the school…. And as his homeroom teacher, I refuse to sign off on this…”

“If you still will be his homeroom teacher, comrade…” the cop threw another tetanus stare in his direction. Žebráková made a face, looking like a scared bunny as if the whole thing was about her and nodded vigorously just to make sure. Yura thought she would for sure start jumping up and down and quacking but he didn’t feel like laughing.

If they remove him as homeroom teacher, Klíma will be in juvie within days and Yura suddenly realized that Kulina’s warning was completely pointless because as of today, he’s fucked things up for Yura junior as well. He felt pathetic and useless, exhausted and old.

 

Sample Translation by Alžběta Belánová