The Dedalus Book of Slovak Literature E-Book

• Herausgeber: Dedalus
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2015

Beschreibung

The Dedalus Book of Slovak Literature offers a wide-ranging selection of fiction from the end of the nineteenth century until the present day, including work by Slovakia's classic and most important contemporary authors such as Rudolf Sloboda, Dominik Tatarka, Pavel Vilikovsky, Monika Kompanikova and Balla. This is the most important selection of Slovak fiction to have appeared in English and will be essential reading for anyone wanting to gain an idea of Slovak Literature.

Leseprobe

The Editor

Peter Karpinský teaches at the University of Prešov. He is a prize-winning author of books for both adults and children, and has written plays for radio and television. He is the editor of 5x5, an anthology of contemporary Slovak Literature which was published in 2012.

The Translators

Denis Dobrovoda

Denis Dobrovoda was born and educated in Bratislava. He went to university in England at Oxford and has a degree in Philosophy, Politics and Economics. He is currently living in France. He began translating when he was nineteen years old.

Janet Livingstone

Janet Livingstone was born in the USA in Brookline, Massachusetts but has lived in Slovakia for 14 years. She has been a translator since 2003 and specialises in film scripts. Her many translations include the novels The Best of All Worlds by Irena Brežná and Boat Number Five by Monika Kompanikova.

Magdalena Mullek

Magdalena Mullek is a Slovak translator who has studied at the University of Indiana where she is currently completing her doctorate in Slavic Languages and Literatures.

Contents

Title

The Editor

The Translators

Introduction: Literature – A Public Affair

Tinker’s Christmas – Martin Kukučín

Gajdoš’s War Horse – Jozef Cíger Hronský

Old Age – Milo Urban

Edita’s Eye – Gejza Vámoš

Wicker Chairs – Dominik Tatarka

With Rozarka – Vincent Šikula

A Collection Of Material – Rudolf Sloboda

Indecisive – Ján Johanides

Escalation of Feeling I – Pavel Vilikovský

A Breeze and the Others – Dušan Mitana

A Little Side Story about Bean Soup – Václav Pankovčín

Pregnancy – Balla

Escape – Monika Kompaníková

Editor’s Note

Copyright

Literature – A Public Affair

Slovak literature began to develop somewhat later than its European counterparts. Even though the first literary works written in the vernacular appeared around the 15th century, real literary development did not begin until the end of the 18th century, and most of it took place during the 19th and 20th centuries. This delay in literary production was closely tied in with the evolution of Slovak society. For a long time, no significant cultural or social centres existed in the territory of present-day Slovakia, which was part of the Austro-Hungarian Empire until 1918, and the area also lacked a literary language. The creation of cultural centres in Bratislava, Trnava, Martin, Liptovský Mikuláš, Levoča, Prešov and Kežmarok, combined with the first attempts at standardising the Slovak language and its subsequent standardisation by Ľudovít Štúr, provided the impetus for literary development.

Political and social changes in Slovakia had a huge impact on the development of Slovak literature. Slovak literature was not able to free itself from the influence of politics for a long time. The Austro-Hungarian Compromise of 1867 led to more autonomy for the Hungarians from Austria but put at a disadvantage other ethnic groups such as the Slovaks in Hungary. The Magyarization of Hungarian society made the protection of the Slovak identity the central focus of Slovak literature, although there were still echoes of previous themes focusing on pan-Slavic solidarity. After the abolition in 1875 of the Slovak Foundation (Matica Slovenská), which was an important cultural institution in this period, Slovak literature was in disarray.

During this period Realism replaced Romanticism with a new generation of writers emerging who became major figures. The old symbols of the eagle and the hawk, flight and fall, so redolent of nationalism, were replaced by the home, trees and roots, representing a permanent and unchanging reality, heralding revival and regeneration. Most of the fiction in this Realist period was set in a village. Among the major authors of this period were Svetozár Hurban-Vajanský, Martin Kukučín, Elena Maróthy-Šoltésová and Terézia Vansová. Despite the fact that Slovak Realist prose was a reaction against Romanticism, the period marked a turning point during which many important works of fiction were written.

Political conflicts in society are central to the fiction of Svetozár Hurban Vajanský (1847–1916), who juxtaposes the conservative, almost backwards, preceding generation with their more progressive successors. Responding to contemporary needs, Vajanský tackles the question of the ideal make-up of society, and his emphasis is on strong characters who can stand up to tradition. Martin Kukučín (1860–1928) is regarded as the epic poet of Slovak Realism. His good-natured humorous depiction of village life blends folklore, idiomatic expressions and the demotic into the narative. He was one of the first to use the language of the common people in literature

The authors of what is now termed late Realism preferred the shorter literary forms of the novella, short story or sketch. It was a period of fragmentation and more matter of fact writing.

Among the most prominent writers of the period are Božena Slančíková-Timrava (1867–1951), Jozef Gregor Tajovský (1874–1940) and Janko Jesenský (1874–1945). Božena Slančíková-Timrava’s writing fuses together the three fundamental pillars of Slovak life; the family, nature and homeland. Her prose is innovative and highly critical not only of the backwards, conservative elements of village society, but also of the contemporary intelligentsia. Jozef Gregor Tajovský carries on the tradition of Martin Kukučín in his depictions of the village, but he treats it as more than just an idyllic environment and deals with the issues of poverty and social inequality. Janko Jesenský is influenced by the authors of Slovak Modernism, and modernist tendencies permeate all of his works. He concentrates on psychological studies and on the theme of betrayal of one’s country. In addition to the traditional village setting, Jesenský introduces the setting of a small town.

The end of the First World War brought dramatic changes to Slovak society, and as a consequence, to Slovak literature. When the Austro-Hungarian Empire crumbled, the Czechoslovak Republic was formed. As a result, Slovak cultural and social life began to develop at a rapid pace – a university was founded, the Slovak Foundation (Matica Slovenská) was reinstated, various cultural and literary periodicals were published, theatrical productions took off and new publishing houses were established.

The formation of the republic also brought about a pronounced shift in literature. Writers began to confront and embrace European literature, absorbing the influence of other cultures. Unfortunately, a changing social structure resulted in a significant widening of the gap between the country’s rich and poor, which many authors sought to address in their work.

Although the last vestiges of Realism were still present during the 1920s, the works of many authors already reflected the new socio-political situation. Elements of Naturalism, which found their way from France, started to appear. That trend was especially pronounced in the writing of Ladislav Nadaši-Jége (1866–1940). His works feature faith in reason and rationalism, as well as a biological understanding of man (a person’s actions are influenced by instinct and passions, and only the strong individual is able to control them through reason). Scepticism, which was more typical of the following period, is also present in his writing.

Alongside the older generation, a new literary generation appeared, including Gejza Vámoš (1901–1956), whose work oscillates between the view of man as an imperfect being and man as the measure of all things; Ján Hrušovský (1892–1975), whose best-known novel deals with the main character’s loss of humanity and empathy for his fellow man brought about by the horrors of war; and Tido Jozef Gašpar (1893–1972), who is distinguished by his striking literary aestheticism.

Jozef Cíger Hronský (1896–1960) earned special distinction during this era. His early writing is dominated by the classical view of the village while his later works become more lyrical and Expressionistic. Milo Urban (1904–1982) is a similarly noteworthy author, who radically changes the image of the Slovak village and explores the nature of man in society.

The inclusion of lyrical passages in prose texts, such as impressionistic description of nature, was very typical of Slovak literature of the time. Authors began to discover the natural, instinctual nature of man, who is connected with the circle of life, natural laws and the elements. The village once again became a favourite setting, which is, in contrast to the city, more closely connected with nature.

The most outstanding representatives of the lyricised prose movement include: Ľudo Ondrejov (1901–1962), who especially in his early works accurately captures the basic tendencies of naturism – the interconnectedness of man and village, the opposition of village and city, love, family ties and biological determinism; Dobroslav Chrobák (1907–1951), whose short stories are the perfect example of naturist prose; Margita Figuli (1909–1995), who introduces into literature powerful love motifs and the associated demand for women’s right to freedom of emotional experience; and František Švantner (1912–1950), who is the major author of this period. Man in his work is often separated from civilisation but closely connected to nature and his own instincts.

The beginning of the Second World War was accompanied by the creation of an independent Slovak Republic, which was, however, controlled by Germany. This political situation was very apparent in Slovak literature. The end of the war brought an element of pluralism into Slovak literature and culture, but this was snuffed out soon after 1948, when the Communist Party came to power. The 1950s were a time of strict censorship. The government shut down many literary journals. The Czechoslovak Writers Union was formed, and it took control of publishing. Only writers who officially accepted Socialist Realism as the only valid creative approach were allowed to become members. The hallmark of this period was a class-based worldview and a division of society into ‘the good’ and ‘the bad’ as dictated by Marxist-Leninist propaganda.

It was only at the end of the 1950s and the beginning of the 1960s, once again stemming from political changes – the deaths of Stalin and the Czechoslovak president Klement Gottwald – that literature experienced a slight thaw. Works critical of the political establishment, such as those by Dominik Tatarka and Ladislav Mňačko, started to appear along with works indicating an interest in the literary scene abroad, especially in Western Europe. At the beginning of the 1960s a vibrant new generation of authors began to write, their works often appearing in the journal Mladá tvorba. Literary critics later named this group Generation 56, or the Mladá tvorba Generation.

On 21 August 1968 Warsaw Pact troops invaded Czechoslovakia under the guise of ‘protecting’ the country from a coup. In the ensuing years Slovak culture experienced a period of censorship and oppression with some authors fleeing abroad. Once again, many literary journals, including Mladá tvorba, were shut down. Writers who actively participated in the revolutionary movement of 1968, the so-called Prague Spring, were ousted from the Writers Union, and they were prevented from publishing. Despite the difficult climate, many good prose works were published in Slovakia during the 1970s and 1980s.

The next political change took place in 1989, transforming the face of Slovak literature to this day. The Velvet Revolution brought to a close the Communist Party’s leadership and the various prohibitions and mandates it enforced, and literature was once again allowed to follow a course of pluralistic development. Writers returned from exile, new publishing houses emerged, with some of them focusing on original Slovak writing, former literary journals were re-established and new ones started up, while nationwide literary competitions were organised. Established authors continued to write, but a new generation of authors began to influence Slovak literature.

The works of many of the representatives of that younger generation featured postmodern elements. In other works there was a return to traditional storytelling, enriched by elements of magical realism and mysticism. Much more so than in prior periods, female authors received literary acclaim, with some of their works having a feminist orientation.

Contemporary literature is very difficult to define from a thematic standpoint, but certain themes such as loneliness, lack of communication, the non-existence and impossibility of relationships, do arise repeatedly. On rare occasions there are works with a social theme, reflecting the state of contemporary society, or the history and development of Slovak and European society. Despite the fact that Slovak literature had a much weaker ‘starting position’ than other, stronger world literatures, we can now say with confidence that it has overcome its initial handicap and has become an equal partner with other European literatures.

Peter Karpinský

Tinker’s Christmas

Martin Kukučín, born Michal Bencúr

(17. 5. 1860 Jasenová – 21. 5. 1928 Pakrac pri Lipiku, Croatia)

Translated by Denis Dobrovoda

Martin Kukučín was born in Jasenová. After finishing secondary education, he trained to be a teacher. However, he decided to pursue a career in medicine and graduated from Charles University in Prague. He was unable to find employment in Slovakia and ended up working on the Croatian island of Brač, which was part of Hungary at the time. In 1908 he emigrated to Chile for political reasons. After the establishment of Czechoslovakia in 1918 he decided to return, and came back to Slovakia in 1922. In 1926 he relocated to a spa town in Croatia, mainly because of his wife’s ill-health. Two years later he died of pneumonia.

Kukučín wrote a number of novels, novellas, short stories and plays. His early work was strongly influenced by Hungarian and German Romanticism, but his later writing was strictly realist, with a notable focus on village and peasant themes. His writing oscillate between two extremes – on the one hand grotesque and didactic works (for example The Russet Heifer), and on the other hand serious, often tragic works about the difficult social and political situation of Slovaks in Hungary. Somewhere in between these extremes lie his tragicomic works, in which he used satire to emphasise the sad reality of contemporary life.

The Unawaken, perhaps Kukučín’s most famous work, is considered one of the best examples of realism in Slovak literature. The story describes a confrontation between a helpless, mentally-retarded young man, Ondráš, and the cruel and intolerant environment of the village he lives in.

In Tinker’s Christmas, a short story published in 1888, Kukučín dealt with the worsening position of Slovaks in contemporary Hungary. He described the phenomenon of forced relocation of Slovak children, which can be seen as a metaphor for the suffering of the whole nation. The relocation was in accordance with the government’s policy of Hungarisation, which was designed to increase the number of Hungarian speakers and suppress the usage of other languages that were spoken in the Austrian-Hungarian Empire.

Tinker’s Christmas

Martin Kukučín

The earth put on a white cloak, and the fresh snow glittered in the afternoon sun, blinding one’s eyes. The main road had lost its former liveliness; carriages were resting in their sheds. There was no reason to take them out into God’s light. Farmers had already finished working in their fields, and if they needed to do something in the city, they usually just walked there. All in all, carriages had lost their appeal because the nobles had discovered sleighs. It was clear that sleighs weren’t meant for farmers; they were meant for the nobility, so that they could be drawn down the road by their horses accompanied by the sound of jingling bells.

Well, winter had arrived with all its beauties. The green forests were sprinkled with snow and rime – a charming sight, which resembled a bride wearing a myrtle wreath covered with a fine white veil. The road and the fields were furrowed with banks of snow which hid the shy game from the weapons of cruel hunters. Yes, winter… I am not going to spend any more time describing it. He who has never experienced a winter in the mountains will not believe me, while he who has would be bored by my description. Hence my effort would be futile.

Ďurko Loboda was walking down the road cheerfully. His final destination was the village that stretched out in front of him. It lay on the bottom of a deep valley, like in a grave. Mountains, dressed in an exquisite robe of firs and rime, towered above it from all sides. Their bald tops, covered in heaps of snow, fearlessly rose towards the blue sky. A stream ran down the valley, fast and clear, like the minds of those that had built their modest houses around it. There weren’t many fields, but the whole horizon, and the vicinity of the village too, was covered with trees which were sighing under the weight of the snow. In the spring, when the valley bloomed and came to life thanks to the singing of its people, one would think it was a forgotten piece of paradise here on mother earth.

A small church, white and clean with a low tower, watched over the village. Ďurko Loboda was moved to tears at the sight of it. He crossed himself and his lips trembled with a prayer, which he had learnt as a child.

‘Thank God our village is still standing!’ Ďurko sighed, and his chest widened with incredible pleasure.

‘This Ďurko Loboda has to be some kind of buffoon,’ some of my readers might remark, ‘surely a village cannot just disappear in such a short period of time. Was he scared that Riečany would fall down?’

But Ďurko Loboda was not a buffoon. It was just that when he saw his village, he couldn’t help but shout: ‘Thank God our village is still standing!’

We shouldn’t be surprised by that. No one taught him to hide his emotions, to cry when he felt like laughing, or laugh when he felt like crying. He wore his heart on his sleeve. And when he once again saw the village he had left in the spring, he was joyous. Soon after the trees had turned green and the snow disappeared from the fields, he had put on his rucksack and left ‘to go out into the world’. His wife and his eight-year-old son walked with him to the neighbouring village, where they bade him farewell. He hadn’t seen them since; he just wandered from city to city and from village to village, only ever returning to them in his thoughts. Whenever he met some kind soul who could read and write he would ask him to write at least a few words on a postcard which he would then send to them.

Yes, even though Ďurko Loboda was just an ordinary tinker, he knew what hid in the corner under his thatch – and he could appreciate the pleasure of home. Everyone has seen a tinker before. Many of us have been shocked by their, often only apparent, raggedness. Ďurko Loboda did not have a pleasing appearance. His face was furrowed by premature wrinkles and many found it too harsh. Nevertheless, the man experienced the same emotions as the men who were considered more refined. Whatever he managed to earn by work, and sometimes by begging, he brought back home to his wife and child. He invariably drank just water and ate dry bread in order to save as much money as he could. But on the day of his return, the hardship would be over; he would see his wife and his son, and make sure that they wouldn’t have to suffer from further privation – what a joy that would be!

That was why he was happy. He wasn’t returning with empty pockets. Aside from money, he also had a new scarf for his wife, which would be admired by everyone. And as for Ondrej, he had bought him some new clothes and a hat; hopefully they would fit him. He went to a shop and chose them himself, but he only guessed the sizes. God knew whether they would suit him – children of Ondrej’s age grow quickly like blossoms; it is hard to pick the right size if one hasn’t seen them for a year. Ďurko imagined how joyous his old house would be. What a welcome he would receive!

Ďurko entered the village and strode towards his home. He didn’t look right or left; his eyes couldn’t stop looking at his house, the place that had been on his mind for almost a year. He stopped in front of it as if he were unsure about something. He couldn’t recognise it. It had gone through many important changes! The doors were new, and the stone walls were repaired. His wife had worked hard to make sure her husband would be surprised on his return. He looked through the windows, but he couldn’t see her.

He opened the creaking yard door and stopped to listen to see whether she wasn’t somewhere around the house. But the yard was calm and quiet like a church. After a few steps he stood in front of the door. His hand, trembling with excitement, grabbed the wooden handle, but the door wouldn’t open. It was locked. That meant his wife wasn’t at home – what an unpleasant surprise. Where was she? Why wasn’t she waiting for him? It was true that he didn’t let her know when he would come; he wanted to surprise her. At the same time, she had to know that her husband was about to return. Last year she spent days waiting for him, and she ran to the street when she saw him coming. What was the matter – wasn’t she looking forward to seeing him? Perhaps… suddenly he felt uneasy.

He stood in front of the door for a while, and then he went over to the window. He looked inside the chamber. He could hardly recognise it. Wherever he looked he could only see mess. The table wasn’t in its usual place, and it was surrounded with debri. The house looked like it hadn’t been cleaned for a long time. The bed was untidy, the covers just thrown over it; the floor was littered with dirty mugs, plates and wooden spoons.

Was this the welcome he had looked forward to for the whole journey back?

He sat down on the doorstep in front of the closed door, put his head in his hands and started deliberating. Everything seemed strange to him. This wasn’t the haven in which he wanted to find peace after enduring so much hardship. It wasn’t the house where he was born and where he experienced the most beautiful moments of his life. It missed something that gave it life, charm and warmth.

Someone put a hand on his shoulder. He started, like a man who wakes up from a bad dream, and looked up. It wasn’t his wife, but an old man, his father-in-law Adam Kučera.

‘We saw you walking through the village. I wanted to see you. Welcome!’

Ďurko didn’t react kindly to the old man’s words. He didn’t even shake his hand.

‘Where is Katrena? Why isn’t she waiting for me? What happened…?’

‘Calm down, come to our house.’

‘Where is Katrena? I want to know now. Where is my wife? I have spent enough time in strange houses. Now I want to sit down and rest in my own house.’

‘Do as you please. This is the key to your house; unlock the door if you want.’

The offended father-in-law left without a farewell. Ďurko opened the door and stepped inside the house. It was so cold he trembled. He wouldn’t have felt that cold even if he were stood in an empty field without shelter over his head. Emptiness gazed at him from all corners of the house.

He put his things on the chair, moved the mug and the plates to the stove, and walked over to the modest fireplace. It was unpainted, sooty, and without a fire burning. He hoped he would see at least a spark in the thick layer of ash. Even that was too much to ask for! Instead, wind blew down through the chimney and out through the hearth, playing with the ash and wailing sadly, as if it were singing Miserere… It was clear that it hadn’t been used for a long time. Where was Katrena? She probably wasn’t in the village.

It wasn’t ordinary unease that drove him out of the house, it was fear. He locked the door and hurried to see his father-in-law. He met a number of people on the way, but none of them greeted him with smiles. Instead they looked at him with sympathy which he did not understand.

‘Where is Katrena?’ he shouted as he entered the house.

‘Oh Lord, oh Lord: why did I have to live to see this!’ Ďurko’s mother-in-law lamented. The old woman stood up with great effort to greet him. ‘What kind of times have arrived in my old age? I have survived both serfdom and the revolution, but the kinds of things that are happening now have never happened before. Sit down.’

Ďurko didn’t hear his mother-in-law urging him to make himself comfortable. He examined the small house with a haggard look in his eyes. Not a single corner escaped his sight: but he couldn’t see his wife. Cold sweat appeared on his forehead.

‘Is she really dead then? Why am I asking: I can see it written on your face? I looked forward to coming back so much and…’

‘No, thank God she is alive. Don’t worry, she is alive.’

‘And where is Ondrej?’

‘Katrena went to find him…’ the old woman replied.

‘Where did he go? A child like him in such cold weather! Where did he go?’

‘Far away…’ the old woman sighed. The father-in-law waved his hand in dismay.

‘He is dead!’ the father cried. Unspeakable grief pierced his heart. ‘He has died, and she has followed him!’

‘He isn’t dead,’ the old woman assured him. ‘He is far away, very far away, but not dead. He is alive – they both went to Dolniaky.’1

‘To Dolniaky!’ Ďurko forgot to close his mouth in astonishment. He thought that both of them were dead, when in fact they had both gone to Dolniaky! That really was a big surprise. During the last hour he had gone through a lot, perhaps more than some other people go through in years. Destiny played with him as if he were a loose feather.

‘What are they doing there? It’s the winter; you can’t earn any money there this time of the year. And why did she bring Ondrej as well?’

‘She didn’t go there to earn money; she wouldn’t need it this year. The harvest was good. And you sent her a lot of money as well. She went to Dolniaky to find Ondrej. The nobles had sent him there with some orphans.’

Now Ďurko didn’t understand his mother-in-law at all. Everything seemed odd and barely believable on the day of his return. The nobles had sent his child somewhere with some orphans. What did they want to do with him?

‘It happened over the summer,’ the old woman told her son-in-law. ‘The nobles came to Riečany. The notary and the Slúžny2 made a list of all the orphans that lived in the village, and they put Ondrej on it as well. We didn’t know anything about it, I think all of us were working in the field that day. And then, after All Saint’s Day, they took him away. Katrena wasn’t at home; she went to the town market. When she came back the child was gone.’

‘My Ondrej, my Ondrej. Why did they take him away?’

‘Apparently he is an orphan.’

‘But both Katrena and I are here! Why didn’t you tell them?’

‘We told them everything! They told us he would be better off there. Apparently they will give him to a wealthy farmer, who will treat him like his own. They didn’t only take him; they took ten other boys from our village.’

‘And what about the mayor, was he not at home?’

‘He was with them; he was there when they took Ondrej.’

Ďurko didn’t know what to do. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing, that the nobles would just take someone’s child without the parents even knowing about it, and then, just like that, they would send that child out into the world! He had been to many places, and he had seen a lot, but he had never ever seen or heard about anything like this. Surely the nobles had enough trouble with their own children, why did they want to take care of the children of tinkers!

He decided to talk to the mayor about the matter. The mayor was old, experienced and reliable – he knew a lot about the nobility as well. He would tell him the truth.

The mayor listened to Ďurko with his head down. He didn’t even raise his eyes. He avoided looking Ďurko in the eyes, only too aware of what he had done.

‘You are right, you are right.’ That was all he said in reply to Ďurko’s reproaches.

But Ďurko wasn’t happy with such a response. What kind of a redress is it, when someone admits that he has transgressed, but cannot do anything to atone for his act? Ďurko pressed on:

‘What have I done to you? I have always regarded you as a friend; almost as family. When did I harm you? When others fought against you I stood by your side. I paid all my taxes. Even the municipality was satisfied with me, they gave me a passport when I asked for it. And for all that you took my Ondrej. You snatched him away! You stole him, like when a raven grabs a chicken from under its mother’s wings. What a sin that is. I am sure that when your last hour strikes, that misdeed will stand against you.’

‘You are right, Ďurko,’ the mayor sighed, ‘I am not denying it; I have committed a wrong, a terrible wrong. It weighs on my heart like a millstone. But others helped me with it. Listen to how it happened… Over the summer the notary and the Slúžny came to see me. The Slúžny didn’t even tell me what he wanted. Only when he was leaving did he tell me that they had received a letter that said the government in Pešť3 would send three thousand crowns for our orphans. Apparently the nobles found out that there were a lot of poor orphans in our municipality. That was why they wanted to give some support to them, and as for the poorest, they were supposed to take full care of them, so that they grow into proper people.

‘So we were supposed to make a list of all the orphans that live in the village for the Slúžny to know how much money to ask for. You know what it is like here before we can start working on the fields. Even those living in the best houses are oppressed by poverty and any help makes them happy. I wanted to give some support to your wife as well, so I put your child down as an orphan. The intent, as you can see, was good.

‘But the nobility lied to us. They didn’t give any money for the children; they took them to Dolniaky instead. They said that they would learn the right language there, because every boor can speak Slovak. Apparently we are supposed to learn Hungarian, so that we can talk to the nobles and understand what the state wants from us. So they took the children away to learn Hungarian.’

The mayor went silent, and the tinker felt incredible anger and deep resentment. Unfortunately, his anger was hopeless! Before, when he believed that it was the mayor who took his child, he could take solace in future revenge. Nonetheless, how could he take vengeance on a good man who was cheated, and whose guilt – if there was any – was admitted with such humility? ‘But why didn’t you tell them that Ondrej is not an orphan, that it was a mistake? Why am I talking to you though? What do you know? You can’t understand … You don’t have children! The suffering! Your dog knows better than you about the pain.’

‘I know, I understand. I had children, good children, but they died. I felt pain when it happened, incredible pain. But yours has to be worse, because I took solace from the Holy Scripture, from the book of Job, where it is said: “The Lord gave and the Lord hath taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord.” But your fate is worse. Your child has disappeared, but isn’t dead. God knows where they took him, and what he will turn into! After all, what can an orphan in a strange place become…? Well, it’s worse than death.

‘I begged the Slúžny to have mercy and to spare your family, I said that your wife will lose her mind. I told him to imagine what it would be like for the boy… I told him everything, I cried – and he just laughed. Apparently we are stupid to be frightened, because the world doesn’t end with our village. He told me we should be happy, that the children would be taken to a better land, away from this terrible poverty; there no one has heard of cabbage and potatoes. From what he said it seemed like bacon grows on trees there, and fences are made of sausages. Apparently, the nobles find it hard to look at the poverty we live in, so when they come here…’

Ďurko felt that blood was rushing into his head. His fists clenched. His right arm, the one that had only ever known work, rose up and was ready to strike. But who should he punch? The innocent mayor? No, he knew that wouldn’t be right. The Slúžny? The manor he lived in was mighty, and its walls could withstand even the hardest of blows. Punching them would only hurt him.

Weakness is a great misfortune, and it is even worse when one is aware of it. His heart almost broke. Ďurko took his hat and left. He didn’t say goodbye to the mayor or shake his hand. He walked to his father-in-law’s house, with his head bent low, as if he were sleeping.

There was a market in the city on the next day. It wasn’t a proper market, however, even though there were plenty of vendors, and they only sold trifles. Christmas was coming and people had to buy various things which they couldn’t get in their villages: honey, poppy, cheese, flour, candles, new spoons and mugs, and such like. There were so many women that they had to wait in long queues. They were merry and chatty, the Christmas mood was slipping into their hearts and their everyday troubles were becoming less important for a little while.

Ďurko Loboda wandered among the women. He had gone to the city, but it wasn’t the market that had brough him there, nor was the merry atmosphere having any effect on him. Quite the opposite in fact – wherever he appeared it vanished. He had gone into town to see the Slúžny. He tried to collect his disorganised thoughts in order that he might achieve his purpose. He had decided that he was going to try to convince the Slúžny to give him his child back.

As he entered the city, he turned towards the building with the symbol of the great Trenčín municipality, with its golden inscription that said: Szolgabírói hivatal (The Slúžny’s Office). I wrote the translation in brackets, because in reality there was no explanation of what the words meant. We know very well that only one nation rules Hungary, and it is this nation and its language and the famous ‘házi’, which means ‘indigenous’; the other nations, even though they have lived in Hungary since the dawn of history are called ‘idegen’, which translates as ‘foreign’ or ‘strange’. That’s why someone who doesn’t want to be a foreigner in Hungary will learn the ‘indigenous’ Hungarian language, and then he will understand the golden inscription without any problems. He who doesn’t know what it says is foreign, and as a foreigner he has no place in a state office.

The hall was full of people, which usually happened before Christmas. There were village mayors and other citizens, who wanted to complain, or in some cases pay their taxes. In spite of the inscription no one spoke to each other in the ‘indigenous’ language. Instead they all spoke Slovak, the ‘foreign’ language, even the municipal clerk. He stood in front of the door in a white faded coat, and he let people in according to a predetermined order, which was based on their connections. Only when he wanted to show that he was close to the nobles did he swear in the indigenous language, as they would.

Ďurko went straight to the door.

‘Are you a mayor?’ the clerk asked impatiently. He didn’t recognise Ďurko’s face, so he wasn’t planning on letting him in too quickly.

‘I am not.’

‘Why are you here then? This is not a tavern.’

‘I am looking for the honourable Slúžny.’

‘Hahahaha!’ the clerk laughed. ‘Not so quick! Look at all the mayors waiting to see him!’ He pushed him away from the door. But Ďurko was persistent. He knew the rules that applied in places like this one, so he went back to the door.

‘What do you want from the Slúžny?’ the clerk asked with more respect.

‘They took my child. I want him back.’

‘Who took it – tell me who would be interested in stealing such a commodity?’

‘The nobles did, they sent my child to Dolniaky.’

‘Oh, I see! Well no one is going to find it now, if it is already there. Was it a boy or a girl?’

‘It was Ondrej…’

‘Ondrej – haha!’ the clerk laughed again. ‘Ondrej, as if he were the only Ondrej in the whole world. May the devil take that name. Names don’t matter anyway.’

‘That name was given to him at his baptism, and it is a brave name, so it matters.’

‘He got it at his baptism – but what is it good for? Names aren’t permanent. I was baptised Ondrej as well: Ondrej Klanica. What was it good for? I was a beggar, building roads. Then I thought about it and I paid fifty kreutzers to get a better name. Now I am called Kélniczey Andor, and I am doing well. I have a job working for the great municipality, and I am suddenly a completely different person. It’s the same with your boy. If his name is Ondrej, he will have to toil like an animal for his whole life, and he will remain a beggar. But when the nobles call him Andor or Aladár he will do well. So what are these stupid names good for? If I am ever tired of my present name, I will pick a new one, like Andrássy or Esterházy, and I will be even more respected.’

The clerk looked at the men waiting in the hall to see whether they were impressed by his wisdom. But they were too stupid; they didn’t understand him.

When Andor saw that Ďurko wasn’t going to give up, he let him in the office without any further obstructions. There sat a very esteemed man who had become fatter during his loyal service for the great municipality. In other countries civil servants grow older and turn grey while serving their nation and their motherland. Only in Hungary do they get younger and fatter, until they end up incapable of working. The Slúžny sat on a sofa, his chubby hands resting on the arms. The room smelled of good cigars, which no one aside from the Slúžny could afford.

‘What do you want, my son, are you here to sue someone?’

Ďurko’s hopes rose after he heard those kind and sympathetic words.

‘They took my boy. He is still very small, only a couple of feet tall, and they sent him to Dolniaky with the orphans. I beg you, honourable…’

The Slúžny waved his hand to stop him.

‘What’s your name and where are you from?’

‘I am from Riečany, my name is Ďurko Loboda, and I am a tinker.’

The Slúžny waddled to the desk, which was covered with papers, and kept murmuring: ‘Loboda, Loboda…’ Finally, he took out a sheet of paper. He unfolded it and pointed his finger at one of the lines. Ďurko noticed his golden ring.

‘Ondrej Loboda – here it says he is an orphan.’

‘That’s not true. The mayor admitted to me, and apparently he said it to the honourable Slúžny as well, that he made a mistake.’

‘Well now it’s too late, my dear Ďurko: here it is written in black ink. What I wrote down, I wrote down: even a cat couldn’t lick it off. Your Ondrej is an orphan, no one provided for him: we had sent him over there so that good people would take care of him and bring him up in order for him to turn into a proper citizen. He won’t have to wander around the world like you, minding every piece of bread. When he is older, he will bless that family that took him away from this land of beggars and brought him up in the promised land. And you will be glad as well.’

‘But he is still small and slight – he will die there. And no one will take care of him like me, his own father. That’s why I would like to bring him up, and when he is grown up, the nobles can take him to Dolniaky, or make him join the army, or something similar. But you know that even a hen wouldn’t leave its young until they grow up.’

‘You are a good father, Ďurko, a very good father. But I cannot agree with you. You tell me you want to keep him until he grows up, and then you will give him to us. Maybe you would give him to us, perhaps. But would he want to leave home at that age? He would get used to poverty and he would only want to be a tinker. And even if he was willing to go to Dolniaky, would it be good for him there? He would never get used to the food, or the language, even though he would be much better off there. It is similar to oats. They can grow in poor soil, but when you plant them into good soil they will do better. This way your boy will get used to the land, he will learn Hungarian – and what an advantage that will be!’

‘But he will forget Slovak.’

‘Even if he does, he will never need the language anyway. So you should calm down; go home and thank our dear Lord for ridding you, a poor man, of the burdens of raising a child. You don’t even know how much trouble it is; it really is a heavy burden to carry.’

The Slúžny sighed. He remembered his own sons, both of whom were studying at a university in Pešť. It was taking them a long time, almost half a dozen years, because they were mostly spending their time in taverns and cafés.

‘I would rather carry that burden…’

‘You’re silly, you don’t know what you are saying. You toil so hard, your views will change shortly. And now go – farewell.’

‘I am begging you, please give him back to me. I can’t let him go like this.’

‘Well, well. You surprise me,’the Slúžny continued. ‘Listen carefully. I will explain it to you one more time. We civil servants are here to take care of the welfare of this country. Here everyone has to be happy, whether they like it or not. That’s why your son has to be happy as well, and that’s why he has to stay in Dolniaky.’

‘I want to take care of his welfare myself, that’s my duty as a father,’ Ďurko replied.

‘We will see. I don’t have more time. We will talk about it again. I will have you called in later.’

He sent Ďurko to the hall, where he sat down and hoped for good news. It was clear that the Slúžny didn’t have the strength to resist him, and had he not sent him away he would have capitulated. Just one more attempt and the child would be saved.

People kept entering and leaving the office, the bells had tolled twelve times, but Ďurko wasn’t called in. Finally the Slúžny appeared in the door wearing a warm fur coat. He went straight outside, where two impatient horses were waiting. Ďurko realised that the decisive moment had arrived. He stood up and forced the Slúžny to stop. He looked at him with astonishment; he forgot that he was supposed to speak to Ďurko again.

‘Well, Michal… or whatever your name is…’

‘Ďurko.’

‘Yes, Ďurko. Here, my dear Ďurko, all our efforts would be futile. Nothing can be done, nothing at all. I can’t return the boy to you because I don’t know where they sent him.’

‘But how is it possible that even the nobles don’t know?’

‘Well, I told you that I don’t know, and I really don’t know. No matter how hard I would try… In the end, it’s all the mayor’s fault. Why did he put him down as an orphan? Go see him, I don’t have time.’

The Slúžny sat down in the sleigh, and his servant wrapped a rug of bear fur around his feet so that they didn’t get cold. Then he lashed the horses, the bells jingled and the sleigh moved towards the casino, where an opulent lunch was waiting for the Slúžny. He certainly deserved it after all his efforts that day.

Ďurko didn’t think twice. He started walking towards the casino as well. Of course, there was no lunch waiting for him there, but he didn’t like the Slúžny’s office anyway. He wanted to take the last decisive step. He sat down on a frozen bench in front of the casino; he didn’t even feel the Christmas winter around him. In fact he was hot rather than cold. His head was burning and his senses were numbed by fever.

The sun finished its short journey, and the night started spreading its dark wings. Some stalls were still standing, but most had already been taken down. The streets were quiet and deserted. People had returned to their villages. But one could hear plenty of laughter, singing, toasts and the vibrant gypsy music through the windows of the casino. The horses of the Slúžny were standing in front of the doors, waiting to speed their master to his beautiful manor house outside the city. Ďurko stood up as well, because twilight brought severe frost that slid under his coat and forced him to move. The nobles were leaving the casino one after the other, and all of them trembled when they felt fresh air. But still, they were merry, even rapturous. One could see it on their faces. They sat down in their sleighs and moved towards their manor houses. The Slúžny was among the last ones to appear. He was merry too, even more than the others. He found Ďurko standing next to the sleigh. ‘You are still here! It must be late for you. Where are you from… I forgot, oh, I remember: from Riečany, yes, Riečany.

You can come with me. Stand here, behind the seats. Just stand here, I will gladly take you…’

‘I thank you with great humility. But instead, please, my Ondrej…’ He couldn’t continue; his voice trembled with cold, or grief, and his throat clenched.

‘Oh yes… your son… they took him… to the army, isn’t that right…’

‘Not the army. They took him to Dolniaky.’

‘Yes, Dolniaky… now I remember. Just leave him there… He will be happy there. There it’s not that cold and by now he has surely tasted bacon. Trust me, he would miss it.’

‘He will die there.’

‘He won’t die… Of course not, you silly man! That’s stupid! Move a bit, so I can sit down.’

‘I am begging you for mercy…’

‘Look at how he can beg, what a rascal! Now go…’

Ďurko shouted obdurately: ‘I won’t move until…’

‘Look at him! I am telling you again, move, I don’t want to spoil your Christmas…’

The Slúžny suddenly lost his good mood. He frowned, waited for a moment, but Ďurko didn’t move. The Slúžny grabbed his shoulder, pushed him to the side and sat down. When Ďurko saw he was being brushed aside, he jumped in front of the horses and grabbed their reins. The Slúžny wrapped his feet and shouted in a calm voice: ‘Jóži!’ But it wasn’t necessary, because Jóži had noticed that something strange was happening and he rushed to help his good master. He grabbed Ďurko, who kept clutching the reins. The Slúžny said something to Jóži, but it was in the indigenous language, so Ďurko didn’t understand it. Suddenly he felt burning pain on his face. Jóži had lashed him with a whip. The horses jerked, the bells jingled and the sleigh was gone.

Ďurko found himself lying in the snow. He stood up, but Jóži didn’t even allow him to clean his coat. He directed him to the building that said ‘Szolgabírói hivatal’.

They locked him up, but Slúžny’s threat wasn’t fulfilled. Ďurko’s Christmas was destroyed anyway; and there was no way things could have gotten worse.

The houses in Riečany were still awake. Joy and delight looked out of the windows into the gloomy night. ‘Peace on earth, and goodwill to all men,’ proclaimed the Angelic Hymn, which came true. Families gathered around dinner tables, indulging in the happiness which had arrived with Christmas Eve. Only one house in the heart of the village was sad and dark – sad like those who inhabited it. It remained empty, its fireplace cold. No one lit a Christmas candle on the dinner table.

The house of Ďurko’s father-in-law wasn’t any happier. God had blessed them with everything they needed; the table was ready, but those who were supposed to sit at it were missing. Two family members were away: one of them in prison, the other one only God knew where. The Slúžny promised to the old man that he would set Ďurko free for Christmas Eve, but as people say ‘the nobles’ love is tied to a hare’s tail’, and they are right, for Ďurko remained imprisoned.

Unexpectedly, Katrena had arrived, without the boy. Her father asked her why she hadn’t brought him.

‘The nobles don’t know where he is. They just sent me from one city to another. I went to almost all the places where he could have been, but I didn’t find my child.’

‘Why didn’t you tell them his name?’

‘There was no point, they don’t even know it. The orphans had to leave their names here, and they were sent to Dolniaky like calves, nameless. They will get new names there, different ones, so that they won’t find out which village they have come from. That way they won’t be able to return.’

‘But how could they tell those poor things from each other? Surely they had to have some names.’

‘Each one of them was given a number. Those numbers became their names, and that was how they could tell them from each other.’