Everyone’s blood is red
by Oksana Vasilenko
Copyright Oksana Vasilenko 2011
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Part 1
Winter was coming and the nights were getting cold. She snuggled up against his warm body as close as she could—the bulging stomach was already getting in the way. The baby was due soon.
‘Ouch!’ she gasped and pressed his hand against her side. ‘It kicked me!’
He smiled.
‘I guess it’s getting a bit cramped inside.’ His hand stroked her stomach gently.
‘I’m scared,’ she whispered into his ear.
His fingers slid up her cheek and ruffled her hair.
‘For first-time mothers it’s natural to be scared. You’ll be okay,’ he whispered back, kissing her forehead.
‘I don’t mean that. I’m not scared for myself, I’m scared for the baby.’ Her voice broke and tears welled in her eyes.
His hand stroking her hair paused.
‘Are you not feeling well?’
‘No, it’s not that either. I’m feeling fine. But I’m having dreams. Or rather the same dream repeating night after night. The first time I had it, I didn’t even know I was already pregnant. Then it would return from time to time. And now it’s coming every night’
She hesitated, filled with superstitious dread, as if simply saying things out loud would make them come true She hid her face on his warm chest and continued very, very softly, while tears were creeping down her cheeks.
‘In the dream I’m rocking him in my arms. It’s our son. Only he’s not a baby, he’s a grown man. And he’s dead—his unseeing eyes are staring into the sky, rain’s beating on his face…’
She started sobbing quietly, and he pulled her closer as if trying to shield her in his arms.
Now he was concerned, too. They both knew that there is much more to this world than what a human eye can see, and dreams are a window into the undercurrents of the reality which are normally hidden from consciousness.
He hugged her and held her tight, stroking her cheek and wiping her tears away.
‘It’s too early to cry,’ he whispered gently. ‘The baby is not even born yet. And at least we know that he will grow up to be a man. Besides, all people die. The acorn has to die for an oak to be born. Your dream must be very significant, but we are powerless to change the currents of the Universe.’
She clung to him desperately and couldn’t stop crying.
‘I know. I feel that this dream foretells our son a great future. But I’m his mother. I don’t want my baby to die…’
Part 2. Fourteen years later
‘Sit, son.’ Father motions to the stool in front of me.
I sit down at the big family table.
Father looks at me silently, stroking his well-groomed beard.
I know what’s coming. I know what he wants to talk about. And I know what will come out of it.
Nothing.
Not because I am stubborn, but because I do what I think is right.
‘Yeshua, you were teaching those boys again, weren’t you?’ he asks, tapping his fingers on the smooth tabletop. His fingers are rather short and chubby, and you’d never believe how delicate a work they can do. Since I was a little boy, I have watched him work with wood, and I know that those chubby fingers are incredibly skillful. Appearances can be deceptive.
‘I was and I will,’ I say after a short pause.
Father sighs.
‘Why are you doing this? They are dek’hars and slaves at that.’
‘Why?’ This question seems stupid to me. And I hate the words ‘dek’hars’ and ‘slaves’. ‘I teach them to read and to write because everybody should be able to do it. We must share our knowledge instead of keeping it to ourselves. Sharing knowledge is like sowing seeds, it brings a rich harvest. Keeping it hidden will make it rot.’
For a few moments father looks at me with sad eyes.
‘Yeshua, you must realise that they’re incapable of understanding the higher truths. You know very well by now that people are different.’
This really gets me.
‘You keep saying it all the time! “People are different”, “we’re the chosen ones”—I’m sick of this!’
A vertical line creases his forehead, but he keeps his voice level.
‘Yeshua, a thirteen year old boy should know better than yell when talking to his father. You’re too emotional, and emotions cloud your judgement.’ He pauses for a moment, and I swallow hard. He is right, I’m making a fool of myself. Yelling never makes one’s arguments more convincing. ‘People are indeed different, this is a fact of life,’ father continues calmly. ‘In a way, they’re more animals than people. The ability to think is the characteristic of a human. They don’t want to think because they can’t.’
‘Is that so? Have you tried to teach them?’ With a great effort I manage to keep my voice down.
‘We have indeed,’ he nods. ‘It never worked. They don’t want to look for their own answers, they prefer to have them ready-made. They don’t want science, they want a religion.’ The words come out measured and quiet.
I hate this very calmness. I hate the absolute certainty of the elders. They always think that they know better. But do they?
‘So, that’s what you gave them, a religion?’ I’m all shaking inside, so I speak deliberately slowly.
‘That’s what they are willing to take. That’s what they want. Even when we give them science, they still manage to turn it into religion, for they enshrine the knowledge they’ve got instead of striving to expand it.’
I take a deep breath and fold my arms on my chest.
‘All right. If they want a religion, I’ll give them a religion. But it will be a good religion. I’ll do away with all that nonsense about superiority and how to sacrifice your goats and cut your hair. I’ll give them a religion that will encourage them to be kind to each other and to strive for understanding. Let there be God if they need him, but let there be one God for all. Because we are all human.’
Father closes his eyes for a moment. He is not convinced. He’s probably thinking that it’s all childish nonsense.
‘Young people always think that those who lived before them didn’t know a thing. Trust me, son, many wise people have pondered this problem for years. Before you attempt to improve something, make sure you know how it works. Religion can be a very dangerous weapon in the hands of fanatics. By creating a new religion you’ll create a potential for the conflict. A bloody conflict. Have you thought of that?’
I look at my fists, clenched under the table. They are bony hands of a boy. My arms are skinny, my legs are long and thin. I wiggle my toes. My bare feet are dirty, and my calves are scratched from running through thorny bushes of burnet. I’m an ordinary adolescent, still gangly and awkward. I definitely don’t look like a hero, capable of changing the world. But appearances can be deceptive.
I know my strengths. I have the rare ability to inspire people. They listen to me with respect, all of them: men and women, young and old, Jews and non-Jews. That’s because I treat everybody fairly. I believe that every person deserves respect simply for being human. And if you treat people with respect, they will do the same to you.
‘I want to bring peace, not war,’ I say quietly, but my voice still breaks. How I hate this sudden changes! It seems that even my body turns against me sometimes. ‘I want to find a way to unite all people. Doesn’t Torah say “Love thy neighbour like thyself”? If, instead of protecting their own selfish interests, people will care for our common good, there will be no wars, no crimes and no cruelty.’
‘
Yeshua, you want to attempt the impossible,’ father says tiredly.
‘But father, if something hasn’t been done before, it doesn’t mean that it’s impossible to do!’
‘Son, rules exist for a reason,’ he’s speaking to me slowly and patiently, as if explaining commonplace facts to a three year old. ‘Your rash actions and blatant disregard for the customs may have some dire consequences. Some things are kept secret because not everyone can comprehend them. If we hide something from children, it is not to punish them but to keep them safe. A truth half understood is worse than a lie.’
‘Truth is always truth. Lies are always lies. It’s either one or the other, for there can be nothing in between!’ My voice is trembling slightly with the effort to keep it level.
Oh, how I hate this self-righteousness! ‘We’re the only ones who know the truth! We’re the only ones who have the right to decide who is allowed to know the truth. Because we’re the chosen ones and all the others are too stupid and unworthy of our sacred knowledge.’
Bullshit!
I feel my cheeks flush. Father must have noticed my agitation and shakes his head disapprovingly.
‘You’re young and lack the experience. Your judgments are flawed, and your emotions get the better of you. Wisdom comes with age.’ His quiet voice is still steady.
Yeah, okay, I’m too young, but at least I’m sincere!
‘If wisdom means having a stone for the heart, then I’d rather be stupid!’
Father shakes his head again.
‘Yeshua, being stupid will only get you in trouble with Sanhedrin. If you start stepping on their toes, they won’t tolerate it. They have too much at stake.’
Oh, I have no doubt about that! Their own asses are at stake, and those, of course, are the most precious part of their organisms.
‘That bunch of liars and hypocrites!’ My self-control has its limits, and I’m not going to stretch them. Not on the account of those assholes, anyway. ‘They care about no one but themselves. I don’t give a damn about their opinion!’
The restraint finally lost, father speaks forcefully:
‘Son, if they decide that you’re dangerous to them, they’ll snap your head right off, literally—and won’t think twice about it!’
Do they expect me to cower in fear and give in? Then they don’t know me!
‘If my head is the price to pay for achieving my goal, then I’m willing to pay it!’ I jump up. This conversation is useless, like I knew it would be.
I turn on my heel and march out.
Mother is standing outside. She must have heard our heated exchange. Tears are streaming down her pale cheeks. The look on her face makes me stumble. I see the dark foreboding in her eyes, as if she knows beforehand that my venture is doomed. She covers her mouth with a corner of her blue scarf. Her long thin fingers are trembling slightly. I’ve got those fingers from her. I’ve got my very life from her. And now I’m causing her pain. She doesn’t say anything, but I’d rather she scolded me. This silent anguish makes my own heart break.
‘Forgive me, mother,’ I whisper, lowering my eyes. ‘Forgive me, mother, but I have no choice. I must stand up for what I believe in. And I believe that we’re all human and deserve to be treated like humans, not like dogs. Even dogs should be treated kindly, so how much more kindness should we show to people?’
I look up and see father standing in the doorway. He frowns in concern when he sees that mother is crying. Then he looks at me. His broad shoulders are now slumped; the head, usually held high, is down. For the first time in my life I realise that there are wrinkles of worry around his eyes and silver threads in his dark hair
In a split second something shifts inside me, and I suddenly see things with different eyes.
My parents used to protect and comfort me. They were the all-knowing and all-powerful beings in my life. But not anymore. Now I have to follow my own path, and my parents are powerless to either stop me or help me. It is my path, and I have to walk it, wherever it leads me. My cup is filled, and I must drink it.
I have no other choice.
I hold father’s gaze and speak slowly, hoping that he will finally get my point:
‘Yes, people are different, but everyone’s blood is red!’
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This story is the prologue of the coming novel Everyone’s Blood is Red.
The novel is coming out soon.
Meanwhile, if you liked this story, check out other stories here