time she’d no longer be welcome at home. My husband will reject me. I’m not the same person, she had thought to herself. I’ll have to ask him, she decided, so that things are clear right from the start. It was very dark in the forest and in some spots she had to feel her way forward. It was early September.
When we enter the forest, the path is still easy to make out. Behind us, the light on the meadow collapses, as if someone had turned off the lights when we left the Hrevelnik farm.
That evening in bed, Grandmother tells me the rest of the story of her return, how she entered our farm when she finally made it home. She saw a light on in the sitting room, went up to the window and looked in. Her husband was sitting on the bench next to the oven, brooding. He was just taking off his shoes. He had one off already and had put his bare foot on the floor. The other was still on but the laces were untied. Your grandfather was staring into space, Grandmother says, he looked so strange that I had to gather all my courage to knock on the door. Grandfather looked up quickly, but didn’t see her. Then she knocked again. He stood up slowly and went into the hallway. He opened the door and asked, who’s there? She answered from the dark, will you take me back, do you recognize me? Mitzi, you’re back, her husband shouted and hugged her so fiercely that her kerchief slipped off and fell to the ground. He hugged me so hard, the thing flew right off, Grandmother says and smiles. Then the boys, who were already in bed, got up. Mmm, I repeat after her, they got up, and I fall right asleep. Goodnight,
lahko noč
!
T HE time to tear down the old house approaches like an ineradicable evil. Father and Mother hectically discuss where to store the furniture and appliances from the old house during the construction. The outbuilding will be set up as temporary living quarters. The furniture that does not fit in the small rooms will be moved to the barn.
For days before the move, Grandmother paces through the old house. She touches the fixtures or sits on the oven bench and looks around the room.
She spent so many wonderful evenings here, she tells me, when the house was still full of life, when life had yet to become so sad. We danced and worked in this room, she says, we even put on plays and recited poetry when the girls still lived here. Katrca wrote poems and short plays. We learned them by heart and performed them.
I sit next to Grandmother and in my imagination I see blurry, faceless shadows flit past, their faces become distinct only later. I imagine a play that brings to life this passing parade of our family’s and neighbors’ghosts. All those who once existed have brought along their clothing and furniture and they sing and act for us. They show us how people amused themselves in earlier days and what made them laugh. They strike poses and spin in circles, they pack up their things and disappear into a wall of emptiness and echoes. A bit of life seems to slip from Grandmother’s frail body, like a puff of air rising to the ceiling. Her breath vibrates like a fleeting memory, a mere shadow of a breath, less than a sigh. The way she has begun to shrink makes me worry she might stiffen right there on the bench or dry up. Later, a hand could brush her slight body from the bench as easily as a dead bee.
Grandmother stands up and takes me by the hand. You know, I hate to give up this kitchen, your grandfather built it for me, she says. She’ll miss the stove but will keep the sideboard no matter what. I follow her parting look as it sweeps over the entrance hall with the wooden stairs that lead to the attic and takes in the attic with its carved and painted chests, the cabinets, in which she’s still hoarding provisions, the roof frame with rafters and beams, the laths and boards, the small skylight on the back wall of the house, the timbered balcony on the front of the house with bundles of herbs hung from nails to dry. I
When we enter the forest, the path is still easy to make out. Behind us, the light on the meadow collapses, as if someone had turned off the lights when we left the Hrevelnik farm.
That evening in bed, Grandmother tells me the rest of the story of her return, how she entered our farm when she finally made it home. She saw a light on in the sitting room, went up to the window and looked in. Her husband was sitting on the bench next to the oven, brooding. He was just taking off his shoes. He had one off already and had put his bare foot on the floor. The other was still on but the laces were untied. Your grandfather was staring into space, Grandmother says, he looked so strange that I had to gather all my courage to knock on the door. Grandfather looked up quickly, but didn’t see her. Then she knocked again. He stood up slowly and went into the hallway. He opened the door and asked, who’s there? She answered from the dark, will you take me back, do you recognize me? Mitzi, you’re back, her husband shouted and hugged her so fiercely that her kerchief slipped off and fell to the ground. He hugged me so hard, the thing flew right off, Grandmother says and smiles. Then the boys, who were already in bed, got up. Mmm, I repeat after her, they got up, and I fall right asleep. Goodnight,
lahko noč
!
T HE time to tear down the old house approaches like an ineradicable evil. Father and Mother hectically discuss where to store the furniture and appliances from the old house during the construction. The outbuilding will be set up as temporary living quarters. The furniture that does not fit in the small rooms will be moved to the barn.
For days before the move, Grandmother paces through the old house. She touches the fixtures or sits on the oven bench and looks around the room.
She spent so many wonderful evenings here, she tells me, when the house was still full of life, when life had yet to become so sad. We danced and worked in this room, she says, we even put on plays and recited poetry when the girls still lived here. Katrca wrote poems and short plays. We learned them by heart and performed them.
I sit next to Grandmother and in my imagination I see blurry, faceless shadows flit past, their faces become distinct only later. I imagine a play that brings to life this passing parade of our family’s and neighbors’ghosts. All those who once existed have brought along their clothing and furniture and they sing and act for us. They show us how people amused themselves in earlier days and what made them laugh. They strike poses and spin in circles, they pack up their things and disappear into a wall of emptiness and echoes. A bit of life seems to slip from Grandmother’s frail body, like a puff of air rising to the ceiling. Her breath vibrates like a fleeting memory, a mere shadow of a breath, less than a sigh. The way she has begun to shrink makes me worry she might stiffen right there on the bench or dry up. Later, a hand could brush her slight body from the bench as easily as a dead bee.
Grandmother stands up and takes me by the hand. You know, I hate to give up this kitchen, your grandfather built it for me, she says. She’ll miss the stove but will keep the sideboard no matter what. I follow her parting look as it sweeps over the entrance hall with the wooden stairs that lead to the attic and takes in the attic with its carved and painted chests, the cabinets, in which she’s still hoarding provisions, the roof frame with rafters and beams, the laths and boards, the small skylight on the back wall of the house, the timbered balcony on the front of the house with bundles of herbs hung from nails to dry. I
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