Ciril Kosmač: A Symphony for Kras. A Fairytale for Christmas

Ciril Kosmač

A Symphony for Kras. A Fairy-Tale for Christmas

David Denton: Translator

- I -

Many, many years ago, wonderfully beautiful winters adorned God’s good Earth. At that time I was still a child. God sent snow from the heavens and uncle Wind blew over the hills. Pallid Hunger was still but an infant and did not roam about this world. As I said, I was still a small child during that time. I sat at home at a Tolmin stove and cuddled up to mother because I was afraid of the darkness which came from all corners. Mother took me in her calloused hands and whispered in my ear an endless fairy-tale about a mother who set out onto the world to seek her lost children. She did not find them. he met her death in the snow.

The fairytale was a very long one and it filled me with fear.

Today there are no picturesque winters in this land. A cold child has scattered the snow and with it has come hunger. And I am no longer a small child. I am a grown-up child and far away in the world. I no longer have a mother and even before I became a lost child she had left, never to return. Nor do I have a good Tolmin stove. Only mother’s fairytale has remained at the bottom of my soul, death in the snow… and fear.

And today when I describe one such death I am still afraid.

- II –

“A letter is going to come today…” the mother said to herself.

She stepped toward the door to see whether the postman was perhaps coming already. Faded, dried-up eyes at the winter landscape. The fire that remained in the old woman’s burnt through the darkness, but lit up nothing. The road wound despairingly through the meadows and hills, and it was empty, hostile and cold. For a son’s letter to come along such a road was impossible.

“Nothing” muttered the old woman and returned to the kitchen. She warmed herself by the fire and then gazed through the window.

For the past two years Marija Luksa had lived only for letters. Her husband had served in the army and had been killed at Doberdob. Tilka, her only daughter, had disappeared four years ago. She had been having sex with an Italian brigadier. She had run off with him and god only knew where she was today. The mother had sworn to forget her, but every evening her heart remembered and tears slid down her wrinkled face. Marija had two sons, Albin and Vladimir, merry lads and both born musicians. They used to play in Trieste until Albin had to flee across the border and Vladimir had been arrested.

And so the mother remained alone in a run-down Kras cottage, alone with her thoughts and suffering, alone with her letter-writing and her longing for a reply.

A month ago she had written to Albin and he still had not answered. What if he had completely forgotten her… But that was not possible. Albin forgotten? Albin, her eldest, her own child conceived and born from love. That really was impossible. For he was all of her own flesh. He had her deep eyes. he was just like her, coarse – and god knows how coarse – yet soft and sensitive. And he wept just like her. And he had not replied. And how beautifully she had written to him. She had given Lovricka the letter to read and she had cried, so beautifully was it written. And he, Albin, had not answered. Yesterday she had received a letter from Vladimir. A week before she had written not him and already he had answered. Vladimir had written that everything was fine, that he went about the island fishing, read books and constantly thought about her. And he begged her on Christmas Eve to place a little crib in the corner by the table just like she did every year, and to set and light a candle for him.

“Poor Vladimir!” the mother sighed and a tear ran down her faded face and fell on to the floor. Marija knew the value of writing, she knew what it meant to write well. Even when her late husband was on the brink of death he had sent her shout comforting letters from the front.

She shook her head with such despair that her grey hair fell sadly to rest on her forehead. The fire crackled. And her eyes gazed once more though the pane of the window.

“Albin!” she cried half aloud, yearning, longing. Why should they confiscate the letter at the border? No! She had not written anything of that sort. Only about Kras, about Vladimir, about herself, about Spring. No, nothing of that sort, nothing, not even that she went hungry.

She sighed again. Perhaps he was writing something, a story, perhaps. Yes, he was writing something and so did not have the time to reply. When he had finished it he would write to her to surprise her, to cheer her up, perhaps for Christmas.

“To cheer me up…” she murmured and her wide lips formed a small smile. Her eyes sparkled and through the wrinkles on her cheeks and through her furrowed brow there faded for but an instant a look of joy.

Outside a storm howled. Its roar whistled across the landscape. It made its dent in the tops of pines and junipers it brought to the ground. The mother was overcome by this wild dance and it seemed to her as if the storm were shaking the whole of Kras, and as if with unknown speed it were pulling and dragging if far away to unknown parts.

The mother’s eyes were motionless like two small icy ponds. They fit the weather and her feelings. On their surface was the reflection of a world which spread without end, infinite, a grey eternity. From the cottage it spread beyond the meadows, beyond the hills scattered with pines, mute before the cliffs like a flock of fluttering birds. It spread beyond the grape trellises where in autumn red juicy Teran matured. Beyond the noisy quarry where once – until the Lachs had driven them away – Kras masons hewed Kras stone in tears and laughter, every day from birth to youth, from manhood to fading old age. Over the entire grey landscape there rolled a vast road like a long, coarse woolen sheet. The mother’s memories roamed along this road as far as Doberdob and crossed the mountains to Trieste.

Trieste, thought the old woman. Trieste was noisy there behind the mountains, full of hunger, prostitution and the anxiety of yearning hearts. There was Trieste, master of the sea, far, wide, endless. There was Trieste, the seat of hunger across the entire land, the seat of the whip across the entire country.

In her youth Marija Luksa had been to Trieste several times. It seemed merry, alive and limitless, house by house, hour by hour. Later she had travelled to Trieste when her two sons were playing there. She had seen Rossetti and Verdi. She had seen much of great beauty. Even now she remembered Tristan and Isolde. Most of all she remembered the music, since it had been for her wo sons who were playing. Those two had been chosen by god to put tears into people’s eyes with their music and merriment. All that had been at the beginning of the war. Later they had both been sent to the front, each had sacrificed two years, returned weary and weak, sick of everything. They did not know for what they had been fighting. A foreign flag still flattered in Trieste, a flag much more cruel than the one before.

Such thoughts overwhelmed Marija Luksa when suddenly she glimpsed a vague figure approaching from the edge of the road.

“He’s coming!”

Marija shuddered. She leaned against the windowsill and stared at the distant figure which came closer and closer. If it’s the postman and he’s bringing me a letter I’ll give him half a litre of red wine and I’ll make him some black coffee, she decided. The vague figure drew nearer and nearer; slowly it became the postman. He approached the cottage. He entered and gave her the letter. In an instant the mother forgot about the wine and coffee, neigher did she hear the postman bang the door as he left, a routinary event that would have usually annoyed her.

Eagerly she tore the envelope and read the letter:

Dear Mother!

Forgive me that I haven’t answered your last letter before now. It aroused in me such great yearning for home that I sad down and poured my innermost thought on to paper as a kind of story in music. I have written a composition which I have entitled A Symphony for Kras. This symphony will become our song, it will be our song. And it was you who gave me the idea.

I have divided A Symphony for Kras into four parts. Kras Storm, Kras Prisoner, Kras Mother and Kras Spring. Thank you, my dear mother, you can’t imagine what you have given me and what you always give me. I shall not write a long letter. I beg you, mother, get as passport and come to see me. I would like you to be with me on Christmas Eve when my symphony will be performed for the first time.

I will be waiting for you.

Your dear son, Albin.

“Thank you for your letter, mother, thank you for your idea. You do not know what you have given me…” she uttered.

Her hand trembled and she put the letter into her apron pocket. Her eyes were full of life. All at once the fire of a beautiful woman in them. She listened to the melody of the storm which whistled in the rafters outside.

“He writes that I should go to see him. That I should be there on Christmas Eve when his work is played for the first time… Oh, surely I have always said that my Albin, my child because of whom I have suffered so, is something special. I knew it. I knew it. but that I have given him the idea, me a poor old woman, who has not been called for two years because her sons and daughter are away, who lives alone in her seventies, isolated from everyone in a run-down cottage!”

Her eyes were shining. It seemed to her then that outside roses were blooming. So vividly did she picture those roses that she scalded herself:

“Oh, you stupid thing!” You old fool! how could roses bloom a week before Christmas?!”

She got up and as if in a dream began to gather things to take with her. She put them on the table and when the table was heaped up she looked around the room. and there from the wall Vladimir’s portrait stared at her.

“Vladimir!” she cried and covered her eyes with her hands. “No, no, Vladimir, I am going nowhere. I cannot leave you alone. I thought of going…” Her heart raced with horror. “It’s easier for Albin than it is for you. they have taken away your violin and now you can weep on it no more.”

That night Marija Luksa fell int only half-sleep. Albin, Vladimir and Tilka roamed in her thoughts all night long. She was with Albin. He held his violin on his chest and made it sing. In the theatre everyone bowed to him and when he stepped on to the stage everyone applauded. She, too, applauded and beside her, Vladimir applauded with passion. They sat on a cliff by the sea on a wild island while Albin was playing. Behind Vladimir stood a savage head. She pulled herself to him, covered him with her frail body and begged.

“No, not him, better me. don’t you see that he is already covered in blood?” behind a rock Tilka appeared.

“No, not my mother! Strike me! It’s me who’s the sinner! Don’t hit my mother! Let her daughter take all the blows, for I have already been a great blow to her!”

The club whistled through the freezing air, it whistled loudly, as loud as a Kras storm, that storm that it was being represented in a musical piece composed so far away…. And somebody was accompanying its melody on the violin. She looked around. On the cliff stood Albin, all dressed up in a black suit, his hair all shaggy, and he played, played, played, and behind him were many people clapping and shouting: “Long live the symphony for Kras!” The faces of the audience was enraptured in the force of the symphony. So many adoring faces enthralled by the sound!

The old woman woke and rubbed her eyes, peering from behind the window. She thought that she really would see her three children in front of her. But she saw nothing. Only the storm whistled, raged and howled outside. There was nobody outside. Who would go out to her old cottage in such a storm? There was no Albin playing the violin nor audience to his symphony.

“I shall go!” she told to herself when it was day.

She got up feeling young and alive. She did not kindle the fire but went straight into the village.

She returned about midday. She had sold everything it was possible to sell. Her wine was bought by the swindling Italian landlord, Francovich. Her goat was bought by Lovricka for 20 lire. Poor goat. The cottage. The cottage remained hers. Nobody wanted to buy it. they said it was too old, in ruins, almost derelict, directly in the wind. And who needed such a house? nobody. It was too small for a barracks. Why should she cry if she could not sell it? When Spring came they would be able to come to her home, all of them, even Tilka. Home to Kras and for a few days between those walls they would live the old way of life in Kras.

In the afternoon she go a cart and loaded on it all her clothes, her old rags and everything else. She would pay for a passport, she decided. She had been considering the idea of getting a passport for a long time, but now they would issue one because she would pay whatever it was needed and bribe them. she had been asking for a passport for a long time, but had not wanted to bribe the officials at the administrative office.

She went into the cottage once more, and stopped herself. In her mind, she said goodbye to the place. She looked for the bottle of vintage red wine which she had kept specially for her son and placed it on the cart. Then she locked the door and hid the key by the entrance as if she intended to return in the evening. For the last time she stroked the wall with her calloused hands, crossed herself and said goodbye.

At Leutenberg’s in the Old Town she sold everything including the dart. There remained only the bottle of wine and her own small bundle of clothes. She set off to the Magistrate’s office.

“I’ve come for a travel permit,” she said, with force.

“Permit? Where to? For whom?” The people at the other side of the counter were astonished.

“For me, Marija Luksa.” She said.

“We cannot give you one straightaway. We must aske the priest, the police and so on. We need to get recommendations.”

“But I’ve sold everything!” cried the old woman. “I’ll pay for it,” she asked.

“Sold everything?” laughed the main official. “First get a permit, then sell everything, not the other way around.”

“I’m going to see my song.”

“Yes, you son. We know him well. They’ll soon erect a monument to him in Lhubljana, eh? He’s become famous, hasn’t’ here? We all compare him to Mozart.”

The officials were all mocking her.

“But where can I go now? I want to travel and visit my son!”

“Out!” retorted the main official. “We can put you out. If we are being patient, it is out of respect for your old age.”

The old woman had no other option to leave. She left with tears in her eyes.

The first lights were being lit in the streets as Marija Luksa came out into the street. She set off home towards Kras. She held the bottle of wine firmly to her breast, the bottle which was going to be a present for her son, and her bundle dragged on the floor. It seemed to her that the faces of passers-by looked with greedy staring eyes, as if they wanted to take the bottle from her. No, they would not take that from her, her gift for her son.

The sea. The town. Loneliness. Trieste fled away from the sea, escaping from Kras, to which it alone could bring salvation.

Lights. Lights.

The old woman left the town. The storm battered and beat against her. She began to mutter she thought of her own son’s symphony in four parts. First: Kras Storm. Inspired by Kras. Inspired by her mother, who has given him the idea.

Kras Storm

With a strange merriment and inner fire the mother threw herself against the storm. She stood straight so that the wind could embrace all of her. The pine-trees swayed. Snow fell all around. She stroke into the storm repeated to herself:

“In a week I’ll get a passport. I’ll set off straightaway. From the train straight to the theatre.”

The way was long. The path started to feel endless, and her legs weary.

“Cottage, where are you?” murmured the old woman. “Oh, I’d like to rest!”

She accelerated her steps. She hurried herself. She started to run. Her legs became like lead.

“God wants to punish me because I deserted and abandoned Vladimir. Oh, I’m so weary and tired.”

She collapsed on the white path. She reached out toward ad juniper bush.

“In a week… Albin. Vladimir. Tilka.”

She stretched out and clasped the bottle to her breast.

“Kras Symphony. Kras Storm. In a week I shall hear it again and the cold will be no more. The music will make me remember the bad times, but I won’t be cold anymore. The first part is the Kras Storm which thunders across Kras, across our land… bending pines and junipers, blinding with its slanting snow. Kras mother, oh, Kras… Mother who suffers everyghing for her children and gives everything. The groans of prisoners. The children go out in the world, take their own decisions. Vla-di-mir. Vla-di-mir. Spring. Spring is approaching. Spr-ing…”

She opened the bottle and had some wine.

“Spring will come. The day after tomorrow.”

Her head drooped. Weariness. Her hand trembled and gave way. And with a hollow gurgling the red wine poured out on to the snow

- III -

The fairytale is infinitely long, Vladimir wrote. Albin wrote. Even Tilka sent her greetings at Christmas. The postman did not know what to do with the letters; he gave them to children. No longer were they for the mother’s eyes, because death had met her in the snow.