People looked at me with disgust - I was used to these expressions of contempt, incomprehension, maybe even fear. In the 1980s, in the Soviet Yugoslavia, you were not allowed to stand out too much.
I was waiting for trolley number 6 when I saw a skinny middle-aged woman groping and chasing a light pole. Her pale cheeks and vacant eyes immediately gave me a feeling of anxiety. People looked at her with the same expression they looked at me - with mockery, with disbelief, as if she did not exist. Nobody moved.
In an instant, the thought of my father flashed through my mind. He had a heart attack at the bus stop, and people passed him by because they thought he was drunk and just lying on the ground. If it had not been for a colleague of his who came by and called the ambulance, I might have lost him. He had been lying there for a long time, eyewitnesses said. This memory pierced my heart.
I walked over and grabbed her under the armpits. "Ma'am, is everything all right?"
"I'm dizzy ... I have to go home ... To trolley number three ... I have medication there ..." Her words were weak, her voice barely audible.
"I'll call an ambulance," I said, looking towards the post office, where there were public telephones, because we had no other.
"No, please, just to the bus ..." Her hands were cold, her legs wobbly.
Bus number three pulled up and I almost had to carry her up the stairs to get her into the first available seat. People stared. It was as if they couldn't believe the scene - a rockstar youth helping a helpless lady. Some shook their heads, others pretended not to see.
"You can go now," she told me when we sat down.
"I'm not going anywhere," I replied firmly. "I'll take you home."
We drove in silence. The driver was watching everything in the rear-view mirror, as if checking if everything was OK. When he stopped, he even waited a little longer so that we could get out without hurrying. I almost carried her up the stairs until we got to her flat.
She immediately reached for her medication. Slowly, the colour returned to her face, her hands stopped shaking. She took a deep breath, as if she had regained life.
When I got up to go, she looked me straight in the eye. "I'm sorry, this may hurt, but... you look terrible. If I met you anywhere else, I'd say you'd rob me before you'd help me. How is it that you helped me? And no one else?"
I smiled. "I don't know... I was brought up that way. If I didn't help, I'd have a bad conscience."
She took some money out of her bag and offered it to me. "For your kindness."
I shook my head. "No, thank you. That wouldn't be any help."
She smiled, genuinely and warmly for the first time. When I left, I carried in my heart the feeling that I had done something right. Maybe the world doesn't understand me, maybe it judges me by my looks, but I knew who I was.
And that was enough.
Silva Požlep, 10. 2. 2025
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