The day the phone rang

Things were hard then. Seven years in peace. She could be glad her husband had not been called to serve. He was ill, a heart condition had made him survive the war. Ironic. A disease made him survive. And the healthy ones died.  Her brothers had gone to Russia. For good. There had not been any funeral. Sometimes she caught herself looking at the door, waiting for them to come home. Where could they be? Buried somewhere underneath layers of Siberian ice? Cut to pieces somewhere in Poland? Alive? Had they been tortured? Did they starve to death or were they shot by the Soviets? It felt so wrong.

Her wedding had been a very humble celebration. People smiled, remembering those who were not there to celebrate anymore. Remembering was bad. It hurt. So they stopped remembering.They had a little house and a little field. Her husband was a good man, docile and grateful. It was 6 o'clock and darkness had come to the tiny village. These days were dark, even the sun seemed dark. She loved her name, as it was the same name of her favourite Saint. She loved her two boys, too. They were crawling around. Of course they did not know it was the 23rd of December. They did not know, it was almost Christmas. She smiled when she opened her only drawer, where she had put his gift. It was nothing special, she thought. But she had knitted a long, warm scarf for her husband. He went working by bike and the winter would grip his neck. This scarf would protect him and keep him healthy. She smiled and remembered how she had chosen the wool: It had the same colour of the flowers he had given to her when he proposed. Yellow and white. Five years happily married. He was hard working and a patient father. Of course they were surprised, when the doctor said: There is one more! Two babies? At once? They didn't have enough diapers and clothes for the two little boys. Brave they were! Long time sick but never gave up fighting. Endless nights they had fought the fever and the coughs. Whenever their father looked at them, they smiled, as if they were saying: Don't worry, we'll be ok!
So she took the scarf and opened a little paper back to wrap it. She wanted to write a prayer on the back, his favourite prayer. The phone rang. The boys kept crawling around the polished wooden floor. It was stuffy inside the room, she had put some wood in the stove, so the boys wouldn't feel cold. They were healthy now and her biggest worry was to see them sick. The phone rang again. She never had gotten used to this thing! Why this ringing, black object at home? She was the only one in her family who had a phone, that's why they kept coming to her to use this modern device. At least she could be helpful, as she hadn't had much time to care about her father and her only surviving sister. Her father was a black smith before the first world war. After the second world war he had stopped talking. After losing his wife and four sons, he had given up. He ate, slept, sat in the kitchen and nodded if someone asked something. He had been a good father, strict but just. And this phone, again! Hello?
Ma'am?
Yes?
We're calling you to inform you.
Yes?
There has been an accident.
 Accident? What do you mean?
Yes, Ma'am. We're sorry. A car hit your husband. 
What do you mean?
He did not survive.
He? Did not? What?
Terrible darkness came to the tiny village.
The warm yellow scarf fell on the floor.
The healthy boys kept crawling around.
The stove got hotter and hotter.
She saw her favourite Saint winking and smiling.
She saw the wooden ceiling with the black hole in it coming down.
The war had damaged the house badly.
The Saint was coming close.
Endless darkness.


Maria? Are you still there?