La classe morte

Tadeusz Kantor

In the farthest threshold of memory, in a small corner stand a few poor rows of wooden benches… dried books crumble into dust… in both corners, like geometric models chalked on the blackboard, lurks the remembrance of punishments endured… the school washrooms where we first tasted freedom… the students-old folks with one foot in the grave, the absent ones… they raise a finger in a familiar gesture, and remain immobile in that position… as if they were asking something irrevocable…