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A Short Story
The Little Cripple
By Lajos Kenderessy
An unbelievably dirty child ran across the field as fast as his small feet could carry him. Suddenly he made a sharp turn and headed for the large oak tree which stood beside the road. His knees were shaking so badly they could hardly support the frail little body. His left leg was bleeding, where he had scratched it climbing over the wooden fence which surrounded his boarding school.
He sank down beside the tree and for a few moments, just laid there with eyes closed, oblivious of the world around him. Then slowly his mind started functioning again, bringing him back to his miserable, lonely life. He could hear the school gong calling the boys to supper. He knew he had to be punctual, or...
He went to bed hungry that evening, but he was only dimly aware of it. He could think only of the summer vacation, which started next week. For the past two weeks, the other boys had talked of nothing except what they planned to do in the summer. Everybody was packing, laughing, planning for the two months ahead. Everybody, that is, but Frank.
Finally the big day arrived. Happy little boys were swarming out from the building with their parents or other relatives. Frank sat on the edge of the bed trying to fight back the tears which were burning his eyes, trying not to hear the excited shouts of farewell which rang through the school.
It had been like this ever since Frank first came to the school, six years ago. He would dream all year long about the happy prospect of going home to his parents: then, at the last minute, a letter would come, saying he couldn’t come home this summer, but, maybe next year. Why? Why couldn’t he go home like the other boys? Why didn’t his parents want him?
He couldn’t even remember his parents properly. Sometimes he had visions of a beautiful woman who once, very, very long ago, held him in her arms and spoke to him in a very soft voice. He remembered his father as a tall, dark man, but no matter how hard he tried, could not remember his face.
For two weeks he wandered aimlessly about the grounds, trying not to meet any of the few teachers who remained in the school for the summer.
Then one day he was called into the headmaster’s office and was handed a letter. Immediately he recognized his father’s writing on the envelope but he was afraid to open it. Why did his father write again?
Usually he waited until the end of July to send a letter. What happened? Maybe he had changed his mind and wanted him to come home? He tore the envelope open. The letter said: “Come home immediately. Your mother is ill and wishes to see you. Father.”