last, the sole concern of every household was not to be the only villager to
miss this extraordinary event.
By early afternoon everyone was dancing on the village square. Johannes Baptiste strolled around, his face beaming with delight and his hand stretched out in benediction. He contributed a cask
of Lake Kaltern red from the rectory cellar and twenty bottles of fruit brandy he had brought with him from Austria on his diaspora. Only the Konstantin family cowered behind their curtains and
prayed the rosary until they were so hoarse they couldn’t anymore.
By midnight, when the last inhabitants were wending their way home unsteady in step but steadfast in faith and old Adamski shouted at the top of his voice that the Protestants could just piss
off, everyone in Baia Luna thought it was the best party the village had ever had. The Gypsies could stay.
To make sure the miraculous feast would never grow pale even in the most distant chambers of memory, Pater Johannes declared an annual and onerous day of penance for the preventive purification
of stubborn hearts. Moreover, he had them build a wooden chapel on the Mondberg to be the new home for the Virgin of Eternal Consolation whose statue had stood in the Baia Luna church for
generations. From then on, the Mother of God would not just remind us of the victory of Christendom over the Mussulmen but also preserve us from coldness of spirit. And nothing seemed to the priest
better suited to that purpose than a penitential hike into the mountains in the frosty midst of December, on the twenty-fourth, the day of Mary’s desperate search for shelter for her unborn
child.
T he reason I never knew my grandmother Agneta was a blow of fate that struck my grandfather in the winter of ’35. A week before Christmas he
hitched up his nag and drove to Kronauburg with Agneta and the two children: my aunt Antonia and my father-to-be Nicolai. While Ilja restocked his inventory, Agneta and the children visited some
distant relatives. Since the early dusk made a return trip on the same day difficult and, in addition, the first snow began to fall, they decided to spend the night in town and leave for Baia Luna
early the next morning.
By noon the next day their heavily loaded wagon had already reached Apoldasch. Following the road along the Tirnava upstream, the weary horse would have them home in an hour.
That’s exactly what the Gypsy Laszlo and his son Dimitru also were thinking. As luck would have it, they also had business in Kronauburg. They had ordered five hundred medicine bottles
with corks from György the druggist. Not until two decades later did I learn the purpose of those mysterious brown bottles. But I don’t want to get ahead of myself. At any rate, Laszlo
and Dimitru had packed their horses with the cases full of empty bottles and also started out for Baia Luna. Beyond Apoldasch they caught up with Grandfather’s family, and they all decided to
travel the rest of the way together.
As far as I know, the storm came from the southwest, out of the Fagaras Mountains. It was upon them in a matter of minutes, first as thick gray clouds, then high winds, and finally as a
blizzard. Laszlo and Dimitru sprang from their horses. The two Percherons immediately lay down on their sides with their backs to the wind. Grandmother Agneta, my twelve-year-old father-to-be, and
his six-year-old sister crept under their wool blankets in the back of the wagon while Granddad tried to quiet the skittish horse. Panicked, the animal reared up and thrashed his front hooves
against the oncoming storm. Grandfather was just calling for help from the two Gypsies when the nag took off into the gray wall of snow and straight into the icy river. At the last minute, Nicolai
succeeded in jumping out of the swaying wagon. Laszlo rushed toward the vehicle, but before he could get hold of Agneta and little Antonia, the iron-clad wagon wheel struck his forehead so hard
that blood spurted from
miss this extraordinary event.
By early afternoon everyone was dancing on the village square. Johannes Baptiste strolled around, his face beaming with delight and his hand stretched out in benediction. He contributed a cask
of Lake Kaltern red from the rectory cellar and twenty bottles of fruit brandy he had brought with him from Austria on his diaspora. Only the Konstantin family cowered behind their curtains and
prayed the rosary until they were so hoarse they couldn’t anymore.
By midnight, when the last inhabitants were wending their way home unsteady in step but steadfast in faith and old Adamski shouted at the top of his voice that the Protestants could just piss
off, everyone in Baia Luna thought it was the best party the village had ever had. The Gypsies could stay.
To make sure the miraculous feast would never grow pale even in the most distant chambers of memory, Pater Johannes declared an annual and onerous day of penance for the preventive purification
of stubborn hearts. Moreover, he had them build a wooden chapel on the Mondberg to be the new home for the Virgin of Eternal Consolation whose statue had stood in the Baia Luna church for
generations. From then on, the Mother of God would not just remind us of the victory of Christendom over the Mussulmen but also preserve us from coldness of spirit. And nothing seemed to the priest
better suited to that purpose than a penitential hike into the mountains in the frosty midst of December, on the twenty-fourth, the day of Mary’s desperate search for shelter for her unborn
child.
T he reason I never knew my grandmother Agneta was a blow of fate that struck my grandfather in the winter of ’35. A week before Christmas he
hitched up his nag and drove to Kronauburg with Agneta and the two children: my aunt Antonia and my father-to-be Nicolai. While Ilja restocked his inventory, Agneta and the children visited some
distant relatives. Since the early dusk made a return trip on the same day difficult and, in addition, the first snow began to fall, they decided to spend the night in town and leave for Baia Luna
early the next morning.
By noon the next day their heavily loaded wagon had already reached Apoldasch. Following the road along the Tirnava upstream, the weary horse would have them home in an hour.
That’s exactly what the Gypsy Laszlo and his son Dimitru also were thinking. As luck would have it, they also had business in Kronauburg. They had ordered five hundred medicine bottles
with corks from György the druggist. Not until two decades later did I learn the purpose of those mysterious brown bottles. But I don’t want to get ahead of myself. At any rate, Laszlo
and Dimitru had packed their horses with the cases full of empty bottles and also started out for Baia Luna. Beyond Apoldasch they caught up with Grandfather’s family, and they all decided to
travel the rest of the way together.
As far as I know, the storm came from the southwest, out of the Fagaras Mountains. It was upon them in a matter of minutes, first as thick gray clouds, then high winds, and finally as a
blizzard. Laszlo and Dimitru sprang from their horses. The two Percherons immediately lay down on their sides with their backs to the wind. Grandmother Agneta, my twelve-year-old father-to-be, and
his six-year-old sister crept under their wool blankets in the back of the wagon while Granddad tried to quiet the skittish horse. Panicked, the animal reared up and thrashed his front hooves
against the oncoming storm. Grandfather was just calling for help from the two Gypsies when the nag took off into the gray wall of snow and straight into the icy river. At the last minute, Nicolai
succeeded in jumping out of the swaying wagon. Laszlo rushed toward the vehicle, but before he could get hold of Agneta and little Antonia, the iron-clad wagon wheel struck his forehead so hard
that blood spurted from
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