"FIVE STEPS"
A series of portraits of Ladislav Truban and his story of how he became homeless.
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I worked the mines for thirty years. The mines closed, my wife left me and took with her our little girl. I was alone and my pension left barely enough to make ends meet.
The village mayor convinced me that I would be much better off in a Red Cross shelter. I was stupid and said I would give it a try. Little did I know he just wanted me out, so he could give my flat to the church that needed to move out a family from the rectory, to make room for its youth club.
So I went to the Red Cross. I was assigned a bunk bed in the corner of a large room beneath a small window that was too high up to see anything out of except for the sky. There were twenty or so of us in that room. Families with kids fighting over the shared kitchen and bathroom.
At night I lay awake most of the time clenching on to my belongings hidden under the pillow. My shaver, toothbrush and a small radio wrapped in a spare shirt. I could not sleep. My ears twisted like that of an animal to any minute noise. My eyes wide open probing the depths of the darkness expecting to see a figure approach ready to slit my throat. I soon understood this would not work.
I went back to my flat only to find my key no longer fit the lock. I soon found all my stuff heaped up at the village dump. Everything was smashed up. There I stood a long time staring and thinking that I’m not going back to the Red Cross. I knew I would not get my flat back whatever I did or how much I screamed. I had just become homeless.
I remembered an old abandoned place in the woods on the edge of the village. One room still had four walls standing. I could make it home. There was a stream nearby and plenty of dry wood. I slowly fixed the place up. No electricity, no amenities but I had a bed and stove to cook on.
Summer came and the heat inside was unbearable. By autumn I reckoned inmates have it more comfortable. Winter came. The snow was so deep that it reached half way up the window.
Third Christmas in and I didn’t feel like eating. All sort of things came to mind, especially from my childhood. I got drunk. I thought of suicide, but I have a daughter. I want to see my angel again.
Once I was walking down the road to town. A snow plough headed my way hurling snow off to the side. He didn’t see me. I jumped out of the way down the embankment, hit my head and lost consciousness.
When I came to, my hand was cut open and frozen stiff. It got infectected so bad that I had to go to hospital. They told me it will need to be amputated. Hearing that I was straight out the door. I went to see an old woman I knew of being a healer. The old witch gave me some sort of homemade remedy and well, I still have my hand.
People know where I live. As remote as it is, I do get the odd visitor. Problem is sometimes they drop by when I’m not there. There was nothing to steal except for the wood pile I spent months preparing to take me through winter.
I scavenge the surrounding forest for dry wood, drag it home and chop it up ready for the wood stove. I sit, drink tea and smoke. I can’t read at night by candlelight. The kerosene lamp isn’t any better. So I listen to my radio. I’m going to need more batteries.
Three steps wide, five steps long, I have paced this room up and down for eight years now.
Sometimes the loneliness bites in so hard I cry. I feel I need to get up and go, but where to? You can’t run from yourself! I can’t escape my own shadow.
