One day I received a visit from Dunajski, he made it too, but I was not very glad he came around. Intoxicated with my new reputation I did not want to be seen with the least honourable of the soldiers, the one who decided not to fight, who stayed in the back lines, recording miserably the orders of the sergeants and the names of the deads. The memory of him sneaking out and approaching the fallen men, sitting next to them for hours disgusted me.
We had a glass of milk at the kitchen table, but he did not take off his coat, he came there with a purpose. At one point he said: ” ehi, remember that little obsession I had?”, “yeah, the name records” I said lowering my sight,” Exactly! I am so glad you remember- and smiled lovely- Look I know you are now very busy with all your meetings and conspirators planning, but I would like you to have a look at what I’ve wrote while we were at the front one year ago”. He handed my some papers, smooth as they were first taken out from a printing press, ” what is this Alexandre”?
He suddenly stared at me leaning his bold head towards me and he gave me a pitiful look, ” what a problematic person” I thought, “read them please, you are the only one I know who can make value out of this words”.
I panted, but his sorrowful eyes were still on me, so I had to start reading:
….of Bartolomjei whose pain is silent, but echoes trough the mountains,
you died screaming for their sake,
you beloved peaks, where you have never been
and never you will go.
Every step you followed, heavily breathing for the cold,
they brought you to this,
a glorious fate!
In me you met your creator, and from the soil you are now rebirth,
I will sing you your song
and the mountains will finally hear you name.