The Carpenter’s Name
He walked in and closed the door. On the other side of the door lay the street, the city, the Square that had been taken from him in recent days. On this side of the door lay his house – his property, created with his own hands and through suffering that only he had known. The corridor was in semi-darkness. He leaned on the door and took a deep breath, inhaling the smell—that special odor of his house—a mixture of the waxed floor, the flowers in the room, the kitchen, a barely traceable perfume, the sweat from his son’s shoes stuffed between the wardrobe and the wall, and so much more. He did not switch on the light as usual. He knew that his face was barely recognizable – from the stress, the inhuman tension in his nerves, the powerlessness he felt that bordered on a
