Almost every time I only chose to grumble... too tired of the lie told at almost every street corner by those waiting for a penny. Or perhaps it is precisely this thought that nurtures my indifference day after day. I'm still fighting.
But the Lord, the Most Good, had mercy and one good day placed an old man on the curb in front of my window. A constantly drunk beggar, who would sit swaying on the curb and wait. He would watch the people passing by him, sometimes falling asleep, overcome by drink. But never, absolutely never did I hear him ask for anything. I had jokingly called him "The Mute Beggar." I had started to get used to him. Now and then, I would look out the window and see him eating a piece of pretzel he had received or happily collecting the money given as alms. We had already become friends. Sometimes he would arrive before me, and I would find him watching the street as if he were waiting for me. I would bring him things from home, or perhaps I would discreetly slip a coin into his hand. One day, I asked him his name and why he ended up on the street. He looked at me for a long time, sighed, and began to tell his story. Old Vasile was once a teacher... but ever since he lost his wife, he chose the path of drink and, in a few years, ended up sleeping at a night shelter. The bank took his house, and he only had the clothes on his back. I asked him about children, if he had any... He fell silent. I fell silent too.
I felt in his silence that he spent his days on the streets waiting to go to her. To his Safta. He told me that life, anyway, was worth absolutely nothing anymore.
We started talking. We started sharing our stories. There were days when for minutes on end I fought to awaken in him the desire to live. Only once did I see him smile. And that was when I told him about our children. After each discussion, I made him promise that tomorrow would be different. Without drink, with the hope of a new beginning! I even suggested I talk somewhere, at a sheepfold, to have him hired as a shepherd, so he would have a bed and a warm meal secured.
The next day I would find him in the same spot, lying drunk on the curb.
After a period of struggles, I started to ignore him. I told myself: "I tried! You don't want to? Fine! That's it!". And I continued with my life. I felt I had done my Christian duty. (Lord, forgive me!)
Months passed, the rains began... Old Vasile was still waiting in front of my window for someone to cast him into the pool.
It was extremely cold, and I could almost feel his shivering through the window. Somewhat annoyed (I think it was just my conscience relentlessly nagging me!), I went out to him and said: "Hey, Old Vasile, why do you always stay here? Go somewhere else! Didn't I tell you I wouldn't give you anything anymore?" How much must my conscience have rebuked me for shouting like that at a man who uttered not a single word!
He raised his dull eyes to me and, for the first time, he asked... He said: "Father, I'm hungry."
I froze! In an instant, a feeling of pity flooded over me. Not for him, but for myself. I was ashamed. Ashamed of what I was. I was unable to utter a single word.
I turned on my heels and went back to the office, took the package I had prepared that morning, and came out with it in my hand. With the same anger stemming from a feeling of guilt, I told him: "Look, old man, this is my food for today, take it, and that's it!"
He looked at me for a long time, as if he wanted to penetrate into the most hidden and darkest corner of my soul, took the package, stood up, and left, swaying. Just like that, without a single word!
That was the last time I saw him. A period full of everything followed. Remorse, justifications, repentance, then remembering again. Three, or perhaps four months passed, and one day a woman, somewhere around 40 years old, entered the office. She dryly asked if a certain lady worked here and described me. I looked at her quite skeptically and replied: "Yes, she works here!"
I see her expression and face color change; she comes closer and whispers shyly: "You know, Vasile is my father. After we lost Mother, Dad fell into the vice of drunkenness and ended up sleeping on the streets. But a few months ago, he sought us out and asked us to take him to rehab. I asked him: 'But how is this, Dad? Why do you want this now?' He told me he was ashamed because of a woman who gave him her lunch package, remaining hungry at work. And that's how we ended up at your place. I told myself you would be happy..."
I don't know exactly what happened, but in a fraction of a second, the voice of Father Arsenie Papacioc resonated deep in my heart, telling me: "Give from your heart, from your being! Give something that hurts you, something from within you, not from what you no longer need!"
Was this the lesson I had to learn? Was Old Vasile my wound? Who healed whom...?
Jenica Gavrilă
Photography by Anca Stanciu