Jerman. Where?
Geni. Certainly not to paradise! By midnight he's packing; yet he questions where to. He would not get far through leaving as of tonight.
Jerman. Who says I'm going to Goličava?
Lojzka. Take a drink and wake up . . . It's been some time since you last slept.
Geni. Neither would I be having a sweet sleep, had they pushed me into mountains for Christmas. (Sits and drinks.) Bless me, given I've been made to work this sacred labor only for all other jobs are boredom and tiredness. Do you remember how we were scripting an essay on the holiness and highness of the teacher's workplace? I was applauded for having made the sweetest-most lie. Not a word on the hills and people from such places; not on the scrapped blouses; not on broken hill-shoes; not on the potatoes so deliciously shaped; not on big mouths; not on the conservative superintendent . . . That essay was truly useful; for now its purpose shines through: whoever failed to learn lies early on, will suffer lies until becoming the definitive lair . . . I've grown upset with this.
Lojzka. You've grown upset with it for you've got a stay. We shouldn't have. Happy you – you will step under a warm roof, shall you come to rule the path of life too and the weather all too stormy. We will fight on; at that end, we will be forbidden from sighing when wearied.
Jerman. Death is not disallowed.
Lojzka. A swift death only. What is an overlord to do with their sick Serfs?
Jerman. They've shaped it smartly – a swift death is a special gift by the god. How much ‘till Christmas?
Lojzka. By the time three more days pass, it will be the Eve.
70
