It is late spring. June is around the corner. Yuri Toje, now sixty nine, is contemplating what to share with his peers at their yearly gathering. It is going to be very different this year because it is the fiftieth anniversary of the end of Second World War, of which Toje and all his countryman have much to remember.
While eagerly anticipating this gathering, he is also getting moody and a little bewildered. What is he to say? Suddenly he is thrust into a state of awesome self-examination. Fifty years is more than a wink. It is a lifetime. May the kind heavens help him!
Detached from his platoon, Toje found himself at a great disadvantage in pursuing the enemy. He was in a forest, in a foreign soil, in his first combat duty ever.
But he promised his country to fulfill his utmost duty-to put into subjection those who rebel. Above all, he must uphold his country's honor and benign objectives.
Stealthily he moved.
Suddenly, out of nowhere, appeared a little boy of about three or four years of age, speechless, face drenched in tears, helpless, obviously lost, like Toje himself. Toje instinctively reached for his rifle and took aim. Engrossed by the sight of this small stranger, he relaxed his grip on his rifle. He nonetheless steadied his finger on the trigger.
Toje owned the world now, the world he and the boy shared. What should he do? Pull the trigger and get it over with? Glory should now be within reach for him. He could claim victory.
Momentarily he saw himself in this little boy, in front of him. He saw the short hair, the faded shirt, a pair of suspenders holding oversized pants, a pair of dirty socks and sneakers.
It was Toje himself, in the flesh! He froze. He could not think. His mind was drowned by the insanity that was enveloping him. Sweat inundated his body. The terror was becoming intolerable. All of a sudden the rifle turned heavier.
Not letting time move past him, he made a momentous decision-to forego the killing.
Almost close to this instant, he heard a scream, a long eerie sound that almost touched every single leaf of the forest.
"Shoot if you must. But shoot me, not my boy. He has not seen the world yet. Please let him grow."
The near hysterics was piercing, reeling Toje with fear and disbelief. The woman obviously was the mother of the boy, blurting in the language he knew too well-his own.
Shocked, but not blinded by the rapidly unfolding drama, he too cried out.
"Dear woman, your boy is safe. Please let me go. I am sorry for the intrusion. Let us part in peace."
Slowly he removed himself from the darkness of the woods, shamed by his crude interruption of lives.
And so Toje began to compose his story for presentation to his peers.
In the tranquility of his home, surrounded by gentle rice fields, Toje wondered why he did not end the life of that little boy-a sweet subjugation many of his fellow soldiers sought for. He disobeyed. He shredded all virtues required and imposed upon him. He was mandated.
But he held back.
That was his credo.
Today he wonders how many of his compatriots experienced what he went through.
Toje smiled, content, indeed, with his immortal decision to save a life-his own.
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