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  HANSEN’S CHILDREN

  Ognjen Spahić was born in Podgorica, Montenegro in 1977, where he still lives and works as Cultural Correspondent for the independent newspaper Vijesti. He is one in a group of dynamic, award-winning new writers who have left behind the constraints of the old system and are putting down strong roots in their new democracies.

  Spahić has published two collections of short stories: All That, 2001 and Winter Search, 2007. Hansen’s Children won the prestigious Meša Selimović Prize upon its original publication in 2005, and went on to win the Ovid Festival Prize, 2011. Up till now, it has been published in seven European languages.

  First published in 2011 by

  Istros Books

  Conway Hall

  25 Red Lion Square

  London

  WC1R 4RL

  United Kingdom

  www.istrosbooks.com

  Printed in England by

  ImprintDigital, Exeter EX5 5HY

  Cover photo and design: Roxana Stere

  © Ognjen Spahić, 2011

  Translation © Will Firth, 2011

  The right of Ognjen Spahić to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988

  Second edition published May, 2012

  ISBN: 978-1-908236-01-2 (print edition)

  ISBN: 978-1-908236-94-4 (eBook)

  This edition has been made possible with the help of the Ministry of Culture of Montenegro

  Introduction

  Hansen’s children really do exist, but in a world much softened by the impact of the Romanian revolution: the small hamlet of Tichilesti in the Danube Delta. There, Vasile prunes his vines with fingers that feel almost nothing, but he remembers well what his legless father, calling to him from the edge of the vineyard, taught him when he was twelve years old. Vasile's vines and wines help the inmates of Europe's last lepers' colony stay sane – alongside the medication that doctors and nurses administer to them daily. Across the valley, Ioana is well into her 80s, and chops the grass to feed her hens with a little blunt axe gripped between the two stumps of wrists where her hands once were. She calls each of her hens by name; there is even one called Scumpa (‘the limper’). Ioana's simple pleasures, when I last visited in springtime, consisted of watching her tomato plants grow, each in its little yoghurt pot, and looking forward to nursing them to fruit in her little garden. ‘Everyone praises them,’ she told me, ‘as the sweetest in the whole colony!’

  Further down the valley, Costica is now completely blind. (Leprosy affects each of its victims in a different way.) His good eye exploded, he tells me matter-of-factly, during the 1989 revolution, and he humorously even suggests a link: so much was blowing up at that time, he seems to be saying, so why not his remaining eye as well? The radio next to his couch keeps him in touch with the outside world – more than that, it is his companion day and night, preventing him from sinking into total oblivion.

  Ognjen Spahić lifts the leprosarium – gently but firmly, and with a poet's sensitivity to ugliness as well as beauty – out of the present, placing it back in the nightmare world of Ceausescu's Romania only a few months before the Revolution that would change everything forever. In doing so, he transforms the lepers and their affliction into an allegory for the outcasts, the aliens, the afflicted throughout time. Leprosy might be AIDS, it might be the Black Death, or it might simply be what makes any minority different from – and hated by – the majority. But his is not a romantic view of an accursed group worthy of our respect. Rather, it is a nightmarish vision of the depths to which a community can sink when its members turn on one another. As such, it echoes William Golding's Lord of the Flies – but in this case, it is a grown-up world where all outside constraints are relaxed, not one of children.

  Spahić's bloodbath mirrors another: that of the Romanian revolution, and by extension, that of the French revolution or the Russian revolution. However, as a Montenegrin and a former inmate of the great leprosarium of Yugoslavia, Spahić's allegory – and his nightmare – venture much deeper. As a young author growing up in a country literally tearing itself apart limb from limb, he turns his imagination loose upon an east Balkan leprosarium to produce a Frankenstein worthy of the Kosovan war, the Macedonian or the Croatian, or (God forbid) even of the Bosnian war. But he has still not finished. The survivors of his leprosarium – all two of them – travel upriver to infect the rest of Europe in a deeply dark vision of the wickedness of both the majority and the minority. The novel is a worthy challenge for all of us to think differently about human nature.

  The real lepers of Tichilesti – the last 19 of them, from a population that once reached nearly 200 – stay there not because they have to, but because of the companionship they have come to feel for one another after a lifetime of living together. Many were born there to leper mothers and fathers, inheriting the disease (as Spahić has correctly chronicled). They grew up alongside one another; some dared to believe for a while that they were not infected. When the telltale signs emerged, however, they ended up at Tichilesti once again – and once they were trapped there, as Spahić relates, they could not leave. Yet here reality dissents from fiction. Nicolae Ceausescu, Romania's demented dictator from 1965 to 1989, didn't want the outside world to know of the existence of a disease that his peculiarly national breed of Communism was unable to cure – all the more strongly because his wife Elena owed her position in the Romanian Communist Party, and her own cult of personality as First Lady, to her carefully cultivated prestige as ‘the Scientist’: a title designed to appeal, no doubt, to those who might have been offended by the status of her clumsy husband, the son of a lowly cobbler.

  Like HIV/AIDS, leprosy is not an illness that can be contracted ‘casually’ with a simple shake of the hand, in vivid contrast to the fears expressed by Spahić's glove-wearing characters. The medicines distributed by the doctors and nurses of Tichilesti – themselves absent from Spahić's portrayal – turn the illness back on itself after a very brief period of infection. The medicines prevent leprosy’s contagion, but can only slow down its effects, unable to reverse its impact on the bodies of victims. Another strange fact about leprosy is that for decades, animals remained immune to the best efforts of scientists to infect them with it, though there has been slightly more success in the past few decades with the use of nude mice and nine-banded armadillos. It is now treated – in Romania, as throughout the world – with a combination of three drugs: rifampicin, dapsone, and clofazimine.

  There is no fertiliser factory next to the real leprosarium; anyway, it would not be visible from most of the individual houses in this protected valley where the last lepers while out their final years on Earth. However, there were plenty of fertiliser factories in Ceausescu's Romania, in Milosevic's Serbia, and in Honecker's German Democratic Republic. Spahić's brutal portrayals are not figments of a diseased imagination, but of a healthy one; they share much in common with the brutalities of Srebrenica, of Stolac, of Rwanda, of Abu Ghraib, of Darfur and of Homs.

  In the second decade of the twenty-first century, the last lepers stay in the colony at Tichilesti not because they have to, but because they want to: they grew up here, fell in love with each other here, fought one another here, and buried each other here. They would feel strange living anywhere else, although they cherish their brief trips to the outside world along with every gesture, every glance, every refusal to stare that suggests that they too are ordinary – are real, are as unblemished, are as equal as we all are in death. ‘Never forget,’ admonished the much underrated British writer and essayist Theodore Powys, ‘that Death, whenever it comes, to whomever it comes, is always a blessing.’

  Read Ognjen Spahić's remarkable, beauti
ful, horrible parody of Europe, your Europe, my Europe – and tremble.

  Nick Thorpe, Tbilisi, Georgia, April 2012

  Nick Thorpe is the BBC’s East and Central European Correspondent and has reported from the region since 1986.

  ‘With the slow snow the lepers descend’

  René Char, in his poem ‘Victory Lightning’

  Europe’s last home for lepers, or leprosarium, is located in south-eastern Romania amidst the leprous landscapes of dark, barren soil, scarred by the smokestacks of power stations and the remnants of once mighty forests. Long have the fertile clods disappeared that recalled the heavy footsteps of Burebista and Decebalus, the Dacian princes ever ready to sink iron into the glistening flanks of Roman horses and the bellies of Trajan’s strapping, well-fed legionaries. Later Vlad III, the Impaler, Prince Mircea the Old, Stephen the Great of Moldavia, the ‘Athlete of Christ’, and Michael the Brave (all devoted apostles of the word of God) were like stars in the black night that Christendom looked up to with hope when Ottoman scimitars spilt rivers of young blood.

  Throughout history, as people like to recall, this country has been torn apart by the claws of evil old lions, their grizzled manes spattered with the gore of subjugated millions.

  But Romania has not forgotten the glory of the brave. Rivers flow past, but rocks remain, as a Romanian saying goes, and even today tales are told of the exploits of Prince Vlad’s heroic legions that devoted their last ounce of strength to their native land.

  My dear room-mate, Robert W. Duncan, has a habit of saying that history is the third eye of humanity and that it allows us to perceive more clearly the pitfalls of our melancholic age. I always reply by citing Emil Cioran who wrote, ‘if there were no such thing as melancholy, people would roast and eat nightingales’. Robert says he is horrified by the very thought of plucked nightingale garnished with mint and garlic, and begs me not to mention the painful notion again. I begin to chirp through my missing teeth, flap my arms and flutter around the room until Robert grabs his slippers and flings them at my head. He wants to sleep. I cannot.

  I like to stand at the window on dry summer evenings and feel the tiny fragments of history, only recently turned to dust, fall on my bare head in the fresh breeze from the Carpathians or the warmer one that blows steadily down the rocky slopes of the Transylvanian Alps. I smell the forests and the whortleberry, the breath of lush fields and the flower of the dwarf lilac bush; the taste of the stones, whose particles grit between my teeth and stab at the delicate veil of my cataract. When I close my right eye, which is healthy and full of life, a curtain of mist descends on the landscape; the moon becomes squashed chewing gum and my room-mate a dozing rat. The violet lights of the nearby fertiliser factory flicker like dying stars, while the bronze bust of King Alexander John I in the middle of the leprosarium courtyard hardly seems to be there. I open my right eye and close the left. I open and close them in turn, enjoying my own private dualism of the world.

  The pages that follow are written as seen through the right eye and with the involvement of all my rational, conscious being.

  The people I met and got to know on my road (you will appreciate that I cannot say anything first-hand about Burebista and Decebalus, or King John) will be described as my conscience dictates. Those I did not meet but who by design or chance have become an indelible part of my life, will be transformed into words to the best of my ability, and I shall take care that not one printed letter scar the full beauty of the truth.

  CHAPTER ONE

  On 16 April 1989, I got up before the others. I planned to pick some of the still unopened daffodils that grew along the southern wall of the leprosarium. I wanted them to flower in my room, so I went down the two sets of stairs from the second floor with a tin brim-full of water. The evening before, the tin had been full of pineapple rings which Robert and I had savoured. The tins of pineapple regularly escaped the attention of the customs officials and hungry Romanian villagers, who would flog any foodstuffs of value when aid packages came from the International Red Cross. Only the tins of this juicy tropical fruit would be left at the bottom of the boxes, presumably due to some food-related superstition like ‘coffee from South Africa is radioactive’ or ‘New Zealand apples are artificially coloured’.

  It was a pleasure to look out at the snowy slopes of the distant mountains and think of the hands of the Caribbean girls, which just a few months earlier had caressed the coarse skin of the fruit we were relishing the heart of. As we devoured our pineapple, in our thoughts we licked the palms of those tender hands, and I am not ashamed to say that I often ended up with a slight erection.

  Rays of the early sun were tenderly piercing the tall plume of smoke from the fertiliser factory. Daffodils are best picked before the sun rises: that way you catch them asleep, petals closed, and can shift them to a different bed. The cold water makes them stay fresh for several weeks and they open every morning. I picked them by breaking the stems a centimetre above the ground, taking care not to damage the large bulb that held many more yellow flowers for the years to come, for the graves that would hold the leprous bones of my friends.

  Since 1981 we had been confined to the leprosarium so as to reduce the costs of transport to the crematorium in Bucharest and avoid sending urns to families throughout Europe. This change did not prompt any great protest, I recall, because all of us lepers (now I’ve said it!) spent our days here due to those same relatives’ dread of our ancient illness. Leprosy most commonly conjures up two things in people’s minds: firstly, scenes from William Wyler’s Ben Hur, where a colony of lepers is shown roaming the earth as if punished by God, doomed to contempt and a painful death in lonely caves far from the city; and secondly, fear of a biological aberration that a fatal mistake of nature, or perhaps divine justice, had let blunder into our modern age.

  They believed that our pale gnarled flesh, the bulging growths on our backs, arms, and necks, contained spores of the disease just waiting to waft out and democratically disseminate this oldest of all diseases. Dull-witted Romanian villagers, their minds decayed by irrational fears and superstitions, considered us outcasts, pariahs of humanity, and also evil. They even forbade their ugly children from playing within hundreds of metres of the leprosarium fence.

  I always had the impression that our building and its immediate surroundings were seen more as a haunted graveyard teeming with evil spirits than as a medical institution. I suppose this was compounded by the long linen garments we wore: necessary protection from the sun and the gazes of other lepers. Of those who had eyes, at least.

  Every leper wants to know how the bodies of the others are disfigured. This is a standard topic of private conversation among them; a morbid show-and-tell of what they lack. The most sensitive spot are the male genitals, which in some stages of the disease closely resemble dried gentian root or an old man’s crooked and impotent fingers. The health of this body part tacitly determined a person’s status in the colony.

  I had the rare fortune that my masculinity remained untouched by the ‘marvels’ of Gerhard Armauer Hansen’s bacillus. Since I was endowed with quite decent dimensions before contracting the disease, soon after arrival your narrator was ascribed the status of leader - for what it was worth.

  Whenever it was time to share out the alms that the Catholic community had left for us at the gate, estimate the amount of firewood needed or divide a crop of potatoes or cherries into fair parts, I was called on to preside. Usually everything went off without any problems. Either there were no complaints, or no one had the strength to complain. Protest was limited to mutterings under linen hoods or minor squabbles in the dark corridors of the building. But sometimes things got out of hand and required radical measures in agreement with the other residents. One time Cion Eminescu clobbered Mstislaw Kasiewicz on the head with a large piece of firewood, all because of a misunderstanding about the size of the tomatoes they had been given. That demanded a swift and just reaction.

  Grudgingly I unlocked
the door to Room 42, a cellar which by consensus could be used as a lock-up to sanction unacceptable behaviour. It was only used four times in all my years at the leprosarium. Poor Cion spent the night he deserved in there, and the next morning too: being punished had offended him and he refused to come out. When Mstislaw generously offered to relinquish his share of the juicy red orbs, Cion came out sobbing; the former enemies fell into each other’s arms and everything returned to normal.

  Mstislaw’s and Cion’s warm embraces were later exchanged in the intimacy of high-ceilinged rooms, on mattresses filled with mouldy wool, in the bathrooms and dead-end corridors of the leprosarium. I never understood how they overcame the disfigurement of their disease-riddled bodies. Cion had no nose; instead there was a gaping hole, dark and mucousy, into which you could stick at least two fingers. Nor was the rest of him particularly attractive. His right leg, without the foot, dragged on the ground behind him like a corpse, while exceptionally large lumps of hardened flesh lifted the linen robe off his back.

  Mstislaw suffered from a different form of mutilation. His facial features were all intact, but the disease affected the joints of every limb. This gave him a gait reminiscent of the movements of a monstrous marionette from a child’s darkest nightmares. Whatever the sexual relationship of these two unfortunates was like, I am sure Mstislaw was never on his knees.

  The first complaints about their affair began for reasons that were exceedingly pragmatic and equally ridiculous. Issue 36 of the Medical Gazette (January 1984), published in Bucharest under the auspices of the United Nations, pompously announced ‘a new disease that would change the face of the earth’. In the next few days everyone read the pages about ‘Autoimmune Deficiency Syndrome’, some with a sneer, others with calm incomprehension. The advent of this new pestilence also instilled a degree of envy, I noted. You could tell that leprosy was held in strange awe by its victims. Bitter debates ensued in the courtyard, senseless statements were made, full of scorn and hatred; some claimed that AIDS was a medical farce designed to detract from the acknowledged scourges of humanity: the plague, cancer, syphilis, and of course leprosy. They loved their disease and respected it as a worthy opponent.