We decided not to return home and for a long time walked around a snow-covered vacant lot. Suddenly, my son anxiously tugged at my hand.
„Dad, and what if grandfather was left in his flat on his own? What if he doesn’t know anything?“
„No, that’s not possible,“ I assured him. „They always have the radio on, and the house is full of people. In any case, the neighbours would have warned them.“
We walked past three damaged telephone boxes but luckily the fourth was working. My son hurriedly dialled the number but all that we could hear was a long buzzing.
„They’re not at home. They’re outside,“ I said, but my son could not be appeased.
„Let’s go and see grandfather. What if something happened to him. He is old after all and he has had a shell shock“
We were lucky. We found a taxi immediately. My son kept impatiently hitting his knees with his fists. The journey from our district to the old part of the city seemed to take ages to him.
As soon as we reached the house we saw my father.
„Grandfather, grandfather!“ My son jumped headlong at him and my father turned around in surprise when he. heard his grandson’s voice. Father was in fact walking about, the yard with other tenants.
„Darkhan, my angel!“ He joyfully threw up his hands and smothered his grandson with kisses. „My little angel, my angel,“ he said and then became thoughtful. I tried to imagine myself a little boy again and my father young. I remembered that he rarely embarced or kissed me so lovingly and anxiously when I was small. But then times were different – harsh, compassionless, not favourable to TENDERNESS. And so he had preserved the unspent capacity to love a little being of his own and now that love and tenderness spilled over, wholly given over, to his ‘grandchildren. I do not know whether this is good or bad, I just do not know. There is a lot I still do not know about in this life of ours.
„Ata, we phoned you but there was no reply. We became worried and came over.“
„And I didn’t think of phoning you.“ Tears stood in my father’s eyes and he clasped Darkhan tightly.
I remember how he would often take his grandson home on-Saturdays and Sundays. They would take trips all over the place and return happy, excited and tired. They would visit the shepherds, relatives or father’s old war-time mates. He had many friends; he used to like helping his friends and people whom he had helped never forgot what he had done for them. He was a welcome guest at a Russian fisherman’s, at an Uygur musician’s, at the home of a Korean who cultivated water-melons.
