TRANSCRIPTION
BORIS: My father, outside in the garden. I can still remember it. On a chair in the snow. And only wearing his pyjamas. He had a big bowl of snow on his lap. He was eating little bits of it, as if carefully tasting it. He let the snow melt on his tongue and he swallowed the water with difficulty. He was sitting there, with bare feet, in the snow, and little drops of sweat on his forehead. I can remember that really well. It was quiet outside at last. And that was pleasant and the sun was shining. Because of the warmth you felt like it almost was spring. My father said that he felt good. He was only a little bit thirsty. Two days later he was dead.
For the rest, I want to forget it. It is all terrible. Such sadness. Nobody wants to hear such stories. Not even me.
PSYCHIATRIST: I'd like to hear them very much, Boris. I find it very moving the way you talk about your father.
PSYCHIATRIST: Boris, tell me what you're thinking. I have to know the details in order to help you.
[cut]
BORIS: It is twilight, the sun is still shining inside in one place. The room is dark in the back, it is a long room, the windows are high. There's a large rug on the floor. This is our house.
We all stand together in a half circle. I stand next to my mother. On the other side of her are my brother and my sister. We all have our coats on because it is cold, you can see our breath rising like plumes in the air. And my uncle is also there, he's blowing into his fists. No one says anything. Next to our half circle is a pile of mud against the wall. And we all look down, into the hole in the floor. That's where my father is lying. We tried to dig the hole as straight as possible. It's possibly a meter deep. He's lying on a bit of coconut mat. We didn't have a coffin. So we dressed him neatly in a dark blue suit and a tie and his best shoes. And then my mother calls out his name and his date of birth. And now we have to fill the hole.
And then my younger brother suddenly runs away, into the garden. He's screaming and shouting which is highly dangerous because there are snipers everywhere. Somebody should bring him back. My mother throws the first bit of mud into the hole. I take the shovel, the mud thuds onto my father's clothes. I don't want it to go into his face. So I start at the feet. A big shovelful falls onto his folded hands. His right arm slides away, pulling at the jacket. Now the mud goes between the jacket and the white shirt. And now my brother is helping me too. Another two shovelfuls and my father's neck disappears. A lump of mud gets stuck in his eye socket. His face is almost covered now. One more big shovelful. And then he's gone.