“Tell them,” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, “that Dumitru Matcovschi said: ‘The one who drinks from his own well is never a stranger in his own land.’ ”
She looked at the book in his hands. The cover was faded, the spine cracked. Dumitru Matcovschi’s face, stern and kind, stared out from the back. Her grandfather had carried this book through the last years of the Soviet Union, through the reawakening of the language, through the dusty days of independence and the hungry winter that followed.
She found him sitting on the low stone wall, a worn volume of Dumitru Matcovschi open in his hands. He wasn’t reading. He was listening.
She drank. The water was cold and tasted of iron and stone and centuries.
Du hast Lust die Arbeit des Verbands aktiv mitzugestalten? Dann schau dir unsere aktuellen Stellenausschreibungen an.