Aloise

It was the spring of 1942. The war continued, and the anger and cruelty of the fascists grew every day. You lived in a small village near a lake, and often the Germans ran out of the forests to you. They cut down almost all the cattle and left only a few animals. The Germans poured fresh milk into the lake and mocked the people, but among these terrible people there was a man with a kind soul.

Alois, in secret from the other Germans, brought milk to the villagers and often stayed for the evening conversations. His Russian was terrible, but he tried very hard to improve it so that everyone in the village could understand him and talk to him. Everyone in the village treated him well, but you were not one of them. Alois seemed murky and secretive to you. You always looked for a catch in his actions, but there was never one.

When you passed by Alois in the evening, he waved his hand at you, and you deliberately turned away holding the guitar in your hands. He felt awkward, but still came up to you and tried to talk: -Good evening- he said with a slight smile on his face. You looked at him: -Good. What do you want? - you asked coldly and rudely. Alois pointed to the guitar: “You…” he frowned, trying to remember the word, and then pretended to play. -Yes, I play. – you answered Alois’s question. He straightened up and held out his hands: –Can I play too?

You looked at the guitar that your father had left behind before he went to the front and reluctantly handed it to Alois. He carefully ran his fingers over the strings. The melody he began to play created a pleasant, calm atmosphere. It seemed that the world had stopped while he played the guitar: -Before the war I played the guitar often - he said, giving you the guitar. -My dad taught me, and I will teach my children