"The Pledge"

A story about a story about a story

Around the time, when in America, the two by fours were still two by fours, on the other side of the Atlantic Ocean, far, far away, the Kiev authorities decided to renovate Maidan (which was then called The Great October Revolution Square). 

Our communal flat looked right onto it -in general, I loved the previous version more, as it was greener and quainter.

On the other hand, now a new huge building rose right next to us -The House of the Unions, which sported a very cool clock tower. 

The clock was digital, and besides the hour, showed the date and the temperature outside, so I could just throw a glance and already know-what’s my chance of getting Mom to let me wear knee highs vs tights. Obviously wearing knee-highs was considered much more desirable as it hinted at one’s nonchalance and stronger ability to withstand both elements and parental influences.  

To tell the truth, tights we had were also usually of low quality, and became wrinkled at knees, which made one look like a slightly neglected preschooler. 

I was already in second grade, allowed to go to school all by myself, cross busy streets, take buses, not a subway though yet, which we called metro, -and the main metro station was precisely on the square. 

Among the new things that appeared during its refurbishing were a couple of new entrances to the metro, so one could shorten his way to the station. 

And when you already were inside, underground, -oh my god! There were several new kiosks, including a toy one! 

Soon, I knew every toy there by heart, which wasn’t difficult, as it wasn’t Harrods’ selection, to put it mildly.

Right in front of this kiosk, was a table, with some additional toys. At them, I was also gawking each time I went by.

And the table was manned by a man, strangely so, because usually women worked as salesladies. 

And the man himself was unlike men I saw before, as he reminded more a circus’s clown, a sad type.

 He was thin and quiet, usually smiling with a sad kind smile, and wore, instead of a normal tie, a big, dotted bowtie. 

And so, he sat there for hours, while kids were passing by the kiosk, and the table, and stared at toys, with dreamy greed, or greedy dream, in their sparkling eyes.  

As I was stopping there and staring almost every day, -he started recognizing me soon enough, and smiled at me a special smile, a bit wider. 

And so, one day, smiling, silent, he took my little hand, and kissed it gently, as if I was a princess. Kissed, -and gently, let go.

That incident made me very puzzled, as nobody around kissed anyone’s hands, except in movies. 

I was very talkative in those days, unlike now- now, when I’m talkative, it means that some medications give me some undesirable side effects. 

Then, it just meant I was being myself, even though of course I had been quiet a lot too.

But I was used to sharing everything about my days with my Mom. 

I did use to omit though how many precious minutes precisely were wasted on staring at toys, sweets (if there were sweets), and New Year decorations (if it was December). 

The episode with the man with the dotted bowtie kissing my hand left me somewhat unquiet though. I couldn’t understand it. 

Who was he, so vastly different from everybody I knew -and who was I, if he kissed my hand? Was it some fairy tale I lived in, a little princess dressed in rags, him being a wizard knowing of my real royal origin?

So soon afterwards, one night when Mom was already tucking me in, I told her of a strange kind man, a toy-seller with a dotted bowtie, and how he’s always looking at me kindly, and how he kissed my hand. 

Something inside whispered to me that I should omit that story too, -and that something was righter than it ever guessed to be, because Mom had the strongest reaction to that small episode. 

She got extremely upset and told me to never go past that kiosk and table and man again, and if I must -then never even think of stopping there. 

-But Mom, there are toys! - I protested, -and the man is kind, he doesn’t even say a word unless answering something about a price if asked, and his eyes are sad and he means no harm, I just don’t understand what he did mean. 

-Ah he’s kind? -Mom said.

-Listen then, I’ll tell you a story. Once there was a girl, a little girl around your age, and she met a kind man. A man was so kind he even gave her gifts-very cute and yummy chocolate hedgehogs….

Here, even though I had no idea what did happen after-I became very scared. I didn’t want to listen. I screamed:

-No, don’t tell me, I don’t want to hear it!

Mom tried to continue, but I pressed my hands onto my ears and shouted:

-No, no, please, please, I won’t stop and stand there anymore, just don’t tell me the rest! Please, please!

I kept my promise. 
And the man at whom I tried not to look, feeling a bit guilty -I could glimpse him staring at me, sadly, as if “you too, but I understand”, he also disappeared from there, along with the toys, after some time.

But two words, “chocolate hedgehogs”, continued to instill in me a sense of inexplicable horror.

I had repeat nightmares, with some vague silhouettes of chocolate hedgehogs. I never knew what they were going to do to me, because as happens with dreams, I woke up just in time, screaming. 

Many years passed and Maidan got renovated again, and again, seemed worse for it, even though grander and more fitting for the constantly growing city.

 We left though; and then, left again, and nobody asked me any of those times whether I wanted to go but just said how I had to, because of the family; and I was already a young mother of two when I picked another bunch of books to read, in a city library on the East Coast, on the other side of the Atlantic Ocean.

One book was called “The Pledge” by Friedrich Dürrenmatt. 

We had quite a big library at home in Kiev, suffice to say I am still not close to its size, -yet I’ve never read this one. 

And very soon, I understood -that’s where the chocolate hedgehogs came from.

I was sometimes angry at my Mom -less though than I could have been, as I was taught to suppress or tame whatever anger I might be feeling, towards anyone, but rather be mature and understanding. 

This time though I became furious at her. It was an imaginary story! It was not real. She made it sound like chocolate hedgehogs existed, a little girl existed, a seemingly kind man existed -while all that time, she was retelling a novella by Dürrenmatt. 

She had a good reason -she got scared for me and decided that the best way to go about it would be to scare me senseless too, which she achieved by just a couple sentences. 

And still, I was furious. 

Then, relieved. It was a story; maybe chocolate hedgehogs would stop haunting me now?

But it was a very brief relief, because the story was chilling.

Several days ago, I rewatched the movie based on “The Pledge”, the one with Jack Nicholson -they changed things a bit, expanded on some, shortened others, yet the main gnawing feeling, the dilemma remains: where and how one stops, when pursuing evil (or good, for that matter). 

How he stops, and what he becomes, after devoting all he’s got, all that he is, to the pledge given by him, maybe reluctantly, to others, and ultimately- to himself. 

And how much of the role he really plays, even if being brilliant, and sharp, and right in all he guesses to be, as close to a possible prophet a mere mortal can become -in a chaotic world that so often plays by rolling some dice, where our control over the events turns to be an illusion in a millisecond. 

I won’t retell Dürrenmatt’s novella, you know it, no doubt; I won’t retell the movie either or go about describing its merits or shortcomings.

But I recall my own pledge, a pledge I’ve given to myself. 

And the border of the country of solemn pledges starts and ends, so it seems, in some realm where others come too close; and the moment you try to trespass, you become insane.

And how does one choose if there are lives of others -and yet other lives of others? 

Was my Mom right, when she scared me for the years to come, with her chocolate hedgehogs’ story? Maybe. 

Was she right, when she chose other people’s potential sorrows over my existing ones, just a few short years after? 

Probably. 

It might have been a matter of life and death to them, -and I was alive, scarred but alive, and I’d lose them too, into the bargain.

It did make me broken, -but who can say I wouldn’t be as broken if not worse, had she decided differently? 

But how lonely she must have felt, making this choice; and how I hate myself for thinking, now, because somehow, it’s only recently that I understood, that she did choose, and that she had to:

“Once upon a time, I needed you, I needed you badly, and you chose others”.

Should every man that looks slightly different and behaves slightly different, be avoided, just in case he’s an abnormal horrendous “Wizard”? 

I made many mistakes in my life, trying not to offend people, some absurd, some led to small catastrophes (or they seem small now, next to big ones). 
Not to offend them because what if they’re just kind and sad, or just, you know, sad.

Would I be making them again? 
I don't know.

Why did I make a pledge to myself, that is driving me insane?

Or me being insane played into me giving the pledge in the first place? 

I hate to promise anything; I drive everybody crazy, because I refuse to promise, and then everyone is usually pleasantly surprised.

 How come then that I fell into this trap, a pit I dug myself, laboriously?

 Is the pit a real pit? Maybe it’s a mountain, and it all got reversed, and seems to be a pit only now, when I stand in the shadow of a pendulum.

Maybe I chose the same people my Mom chose, back then-only they were alive then, and are dead now. 
Shouldn’t one always choose those who are alive? 


Whom do we save, -if we can save somebody, at all?

Why am I writing this, and to whom? 
Even this, I don't know-and it's the simplest question of all.

Is this a letter to a little girl who wasn’t scared yet of any wizards? 
What do I want to say to her?

Will it be the same thing I told my son, when a young boy in our community was brutally murdered, by his own former classmate who lured him out of his house at night?

Was it: 

-Be very safe dear, be very careful; for I know you -if somebody knocks and asks for help -you’ll open the door. I’m scared for you, so scared -yet I’m not sure I want you to change. Stay yourself. 


-You’re a she-wolf, not a mother, -a friend told me once.

I was taken aback so much I didn’t even feel hurt.

Am I? A she-wolf? 
Who am I, at all? For I truly don’t know at times. 

When and how to decide to stop -or to continue walking, on a scary, lonely road one undertakes when he swears to do anything, just about anything to fulfil his promise? 

Did the truck leave already, and at what speed it’s coming at us, not visible yet? 

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