Ez az oldal sütiket használ

A portál felületén sütiket (cookies) használ, vagyis a rendszer adatokat tárol az Ön böngészőjében. A sütik személyek azonosítására nem alkalmasak, szolgáltatásaink biztosításához szükségesek. Az oldal használatával Ön beleegyezik a sütik használatába.

Hírek

Ballek, Ladislav: The Berlin Waltzer (Berlínsky valčík Angol nyelven)

Ballek, Ladislav portréja

Berlínsky valčík (Szlovák)

Berlínsky valčík priletel v noci.
Ráno ho objavili na streche letnej kuchyne. Žia­ril oproti modrému májovému nebu ako medený čajník. Bol to urastený holub, dobre trénovaný ako poštár.
Obaja bratia pozorovali vtáka spod striešky studne. Stála uprostred veľkého dvora mestského dvojdomu. Dvor bol vysypaný bielym pieskom a v modrom jase tichého južného rána sa nádherne ligotal. Rozvoniavala káva, vinič, olej v súkolí studne a čerstvá voda. V stromoradí ulice sa ozý­vali hrdličky.
Chlapci mali vážne tváre, výrazne svetlé hlavič­ky a biele matrózky, mladší mal päť, starší sedem rokov, a keďže ich otec neohľuboval hypokoristiká, oslovovali ich: Ján a Pavol.
Ján bol mladší, choval holuby, o ktorých vedel práve len to
ľko, aby ho zaujímali najväčšmi zo všetkého, a Pavol zasa najradšej obchodoval. Žili v tomto južnom meste prvý rok, prechodne v dome po akomsi Jakabovi, čo sa hneď po vojne odobral za hranice. Zdedili po ňom červenú bričku s lu­cernou, vybielenú konskú maštaľ s rozmerným vi­dieckym lustrom a vyrezávané holubníky. V stajni teraz nocoval Vackov koník Radko, zelené holub­níky obývali tri páry obyčajných holubov.
Ján vzrušene zašepkal:
„Je červený,
žiari ako oheň! Pavol, to bude džin!“
Starší prevracal ve
ľke svetlé oči, lebo od počiat­ku myslel na svoj obchod v letnej kuchyni. Jed­nostaj kupčil a predával, kdesi musel prijať zo tri kvapky arménskej krvi, len bol svetlý ako pla­mienok sviečky.
Vyhlásil: „Takého nemá ani pán Csomó!”
Mladší prikývol. Inak sa vyznačoval pokojom a ve
ľkým detským smútkom. Od dospelých sa od­lišoval vzrastom a neschopnosťou pomenovať svoje starosti. Ocitol sa práve na te.j krátkej, ale prudko vystupujúcej krivke, čo sa zľahka dotkne stôp na­dania, aby už o rok-dva klesla nazad do určenej dráhy, v ktorej aj on poputuje do všednosti a prie­meru. Aj on tam poputuje, teraz však prežíva tie zázračné dni päťročného dieťaťa, za ktorými bude aj jemu smutno, a raz, keď dospeje a tieto dni po­minú, aj on s horkosťou prehovorí: Ďakujem ti, detstvo, že si bolo.
„Mohol by osta
ť,“ povedal Pavol.
„Tak sa mi vidí, že tu len zosadol, iste nesie poštu do Bagdadu.“
„Kde?“
„Možno je to džin, poštový holub bagdadského kalifa. Letel v noci nad mestom s d
ôležitou správou, ale poplietli ho plamene, v ktorých sa raz dávno narodil.”
„Si hlúpy ako bumerang, do Bagdadu plávajú poštové lode. Ke
ď sa vrátim zo školy, naviažeme kukuricu.”
„Nitka ho zadusí.“
„Neboj sa,” povedal starší; teraz ho dojímali len obchody, štyri ročné obdobia a vôňa lekváru.
„Je to džin.”
„Nevládzem to počúva
ť!”
Pavol odišiel do školy, Ján sa pobral za matkou.
Medzi dvojitými dverami do kuchyne sa opýtal:
„Som hlúpejší ako Pavol?”
Matka odložila šálku kávy kúsok od seba, pre­trela si čelo a vážne povedala:
„Nie. Myslím, že nie, ty len inakšie rozmýš
ľaš. Rozmýšľame všetci, len každý inakšie. A každý tak, aké má práve starosti.“
Chlapec prižmúril oči, lebo rád na
ňu hľadel.
„Kto má v
äčšie starosti? Ja? Nie? Pavol?”
„Všetky starosti sú ve
ľké.
„Ale kto z nás má väčšie?“
„Všetky deti sveta majú strašne ve
ľké starosti, preto aj všetci malí chlapci dobre rozmýšľajú.”
„Môže si Pavol myslie
ť, že som hlúpejší?”
Pokrútila hlavou.
„Povieš mu to?“
Krátko prikývla.
Preskúmal jej tvár a pobral sa pod vinič ve­randy, odkia
ľ pozoroval červeného vtáka.
Akonáhle slnko začalo nemilosrdnejšie pripeka
ť, holub ožil, nervózne póvyskočil, náhle sa odlepil od horúcej škridly, vzlietol do čírej oblohy a roz­krúžil sa v pomalých a čoraz širších oblúkoch vy­soko nad mestom ako kus plameňa.
Bál sa, aby holub nezmizol v oblohe, prosil ho, aby sa hne
ď vrátil, ale chvíľami mu odkazoval:
„Ule
ť, džin, lebo ťa predá za staré koliesko, on nemá rozum!“
Vták sa na ukamih zastavil, zletel z neba ako ho­riaci meteor, zosadol, povyskočil, zlostne odbehol do tieňa a tam akoby skamenel v pohybe.
Chlapec sa usmial a líhajúc si š
ťastne na chrbát, hlboko sa rozdýchal.
Ktosi vošiel do dvora, potom náhlivo do kuchy­ne. Tušil, že to bola žena: pohybovala sa ticho a rýchlo ako tie
ň koňa alebo vtáka. Rýchlo vyskočil, o matku sa bál. Cez okno vnútorných dverí zazrel v kuchyni ženu otcovho kolegu. Nemal Ku­ricovcov rád, on ho chytal za líce, ona okrikovala svojho manžela. Ak sedeli Kuricovci s rodičmi v chodbe alebo na verande, do izieb bolo počuť len ju. Otec počas ich návštevy neraz odišiel blú­diť po izbách, sadol si do hojdacieho kresla, roz­kolísal sa a zamračene hľadel do zeleného prítmia ulice.
Raz podráždene zašomral:
„Svet je prizložitý na to, aby ho posudzovala Kuricová.
Ján sedel za písacím stolom a zo Zoológie od­kres
ľoval holuby.
„Ani ja nemám Kuricovcov rád.“
Otec sa zvrtol a začudovane pozrel na syna.
„Mlč!” povedal dôrazne.
Chlapec sa strhol, odložil, kovovú ceruzu a za­díval sa na ciferník stolov
ých hodín.
„Páči sa mi tvoja úprimnosť,“ povedal otec vľúdnejšie, „ale nesmieš byť prísny. Musíš byť čestný, aby si dobre spával, ale prísny nebuď, lebo ťa nikto nebude mať rád. A nie je zlé, ak si človek zavše pripomenie, že aj dospelí boli maličkí. Nie je zlé hľadieť na dospclých aj takto. Čo povieš? Hm?“
„Hm,“ prisvedčil chlapce.
„Trocha som to prehnal,“ povedal otec, svižne vstal, udrel z
ľahka do stola a uľahčene vyšiel.
Matka stála pri sporáku, Kuricová sa u
ž hniezdila za stolom.
Začul ju:
„... a ak mi už nepomôže ani horúci kúpe
ľ, zmlátim ho pumpou od bicykla!“
Matka očervenela a priskočila k dverám.
„Vyzeraj otecka, príde na obed.“
Pošepol jej: „Prečo ti smie tyka
ť?!“
„Už príde, cho
ď,“ povedala nahlas.
Zišiel po schodišti pod klenbu brány. Stávala tu Jakabova brička. Sadol si do výklenku v múre pre petrolejovú lucernu, vyložil nohy na bričku a h
ľadel zamyslene do ruzžiareného neba, v kto­rom bol najvábnejší práve ten neznámy červený vták.
Odtlačil drevenú bránu a vyzrel na ulicu, husto porastenú prastarými javormi, gaštanmi a lipami. Aj za ve
ľkých dažďov premokla len po vytrvalom zmáčaní.
Šiel otec, v bledozelenom šere vyzeral veľmi vysoký a bledý, kráčal pomaly, takmer slávnostne.
Chlapec chodieval tichým šerom ulicc najradšej chvíľu pred úplným západom slnka, keď stromy zalialo červené svetlo západu. Nato sa zotmelo, náhle a rýchlo, na konci ulice zamihalo voskové svetlo jedného z tisícich mĺkvych, bolestivo krásnych a nezabudnuteľných večerov. Potom sa ozval večerný zvon, prišla tma, do ulíc vleteli komáre, rozsvietili sa pouličné lampy a ráno potlom prišlo azda už z iného sveta.
„Ty ma čakáš?“ za
čudoval sa otec.
„Máme nového holuba,“ povedal radšej hne
ď.
„Zasa?!“
„Priletel.“
„To poznám.“
„Je červeny ako ohe
ň. Bude to, tak sa mi vídi, džin.“
„Premenen
ý na holuba?“
„Máíš pravdu,“ prisvedčil.
„Krátke no
žičky...“
„Nie, ocko, nevymýš
ľam si. Letel, tak sa mi vidí, s tajnou poštou do Bagdadu... alebo z Bagdadu, lenže zablúdil.“
„Nedoletel,“ povedal otec a odtla
čil zelenú bránu.
„Oddychuje.“
„To som zvedav
ý, nakoľko zasa lakuješ svojho otca.“
„Ani za necht.”
„Vá
žna vec.“
Popod klenbu brány vošli do dvora a prešli po suchom piesku pod striešku studne, skadiaľ vychá­dzal sladkastý zápach odstátej vody. Ostala v kamennom žľabe, nedopil ju ráno Vackov koník Radko, žltý vysoký klusák.
„Lieta po nebi, ale medzi ostatné nejde.“
„Aristokrat?“
Otec prekvapene zastal, oprel sa o striešku stud­ne, druhú ruku položil na synovu hlavu, ako to mal vo zvyku. Chlapec nemal toto gesto rád, ne­mohol pokojne hovoriť.
„Vzácny holub...“
„Pá
čilo by sa mi, keby sme ho smeli volať Džin.“
„Džin? To sa na
ň hodí, dohodnite sa.“
„M
ôže ostať?“
„Ideme obedova
ť.“
Šiel nerád, obedova
ť s otcom znamenalo spô­sobne narábať s kompletnym príborom, sedieť vy­stretý a mlčať. Ale nič sa s tým nedalo robiť, utec to považoval za prirodzenú vec.
V priestrannej chodbe s kamennou podlahou, kde matka počas horúčav prestierala, otec povedal:
„Mne by sa zasa, Ján, ve
ľmi páčilo, keby ste už holuby nechovali. Znečisťujú verandu, ty ich rozmaznávaš... Čo povieš.“
Ozval sa zúfalo a náhle:
„Ocko, ale ke
ď ja ich mám rád! Musím ti povedať, že ja ich chcem!“
„Hm.“
„Ve
ľmi!“
„No dobre, počkám, kým z toho vyrastieš. Keby som ich vyhnal nemal by si ma rád.“
„Mám
ťa rád.“
„To mi nehovorievaš,“ povedal pomaly.
Vtom v kuchyni matke vypadol tanier.
Čo to padlo?“
„Kosa na kamen povedal otec za
čudovane. „No dobre, dohovorili sme sa, rozumiem, tie tvoje mláďatá nebeské nemôžeš ešte oželie, lebo nevieš o nich všetko. Holuby ospieval aj Homér, ale ja ich nemám rád. Pokým ich ľudia nespoznali, považovali holuby za symbol priateľstva, vernosti a lásky, ale už vieme o nich všetko. Alebo sa medzi ľuďmi zmenili ako psy. Dobre, Džinra nakŕm, mož­no neodletí.“
Potom ke
ď otec odišiel, chlapec medzi dverami kuchyne vyhlásil:
„Mám svojho otca rád. A vieme sa aj porozprá­va
ť.“
„A nehneval sa za holuba?“ opýtala sa matka od umývacieho stola.
„Nie. Správal som sa ako muž.“
Chví
ľu sa na matku ticho pousmieval, potom sa pobral za holubom.
Niekoľko dní pred príletom červeného vtáka odbehla matka na trh a on sám strážil dom. Jeho obľúbený holub Belohlávok priletel na ku­chynské dvere, vletel dnu, v šere kuchyne sa vystrašil, narazil zobákom do kachličiek nad sporá­kom a sklzol do vriacej paradajkovej polievky.
Celý deň preležal na streche, do rána zmizol.
Ráno veľmi nešľastne pobiehal po dvore, držal si hlavu, krútil sa od žiaľu v bokoch a rýchlo vyhlasoval: „Odletel umrieľ. Možno, tak sa mi vidí, odletel na ich cintorín na nebesiach, alebo sa prepadol od hanby.“
„Mačka ho zožrala!“ povedal brat opovržlivo.
„To nie, Pavol, to
ťažko, do mačky by sa ne­pomestil, pobiť sa ešte vládal, aj keď mal červené nožičky.“
„Holuby majú červené nohy!“
„No dobre, ale tento mal aj nechty červené.“
„Pazúry!“
„No dobre, tak aj pazúriky mal červené.“
„Ty si ich videl?“
„Ke
ď vyjdeš z vane, si červený.“
„Ve
ď počkaj, keď príde otec!“
Olec naozaj zapochyboval o holubníku:
„Nezabudni, Ján, že takto kruto skončil aj v
ďaka tvojmu rozmaznávaniu. Mal si strážiť dom, ale svoju prácu si si nekonal, takže si sa nesprával ako muž. Pavol, ty v najbližších dňoch do dna zu­žitkuješ svoje obchodné schopnosti, holuby roz­predáš! A ty, Mária, dones mi, prosím ťa, čistú košeľu, škvarím sa tu ako vo francúzskej Afrike. Doparoma, taká smrť zlomí aj dospelého človeka!“
Otec trval na svojich rozhodnutiach, mal dobrú pamä
ť. Chlapce už vedcl o otcovi rozmýšľať, vedel o ňom premýšľat slobodne, protichodne, a pre­to vedel o ňom aj hovoriť. Rozhovory s otcom boli preňho určitým druhom ťažkej práce, ktorá nadchýna. Otca zaujímal, ale najskôr vtedy, keď mlčal. Za svoj holubník mlčal.


KiadóJužná pošta, Slovenský spisovateľ 1974

The Berlin Waltzer (Angol)

The Berlin waltzer flew in at night.
He was discovered on the rooftop of a summer's kitchen in the next morning, glowing against the blue skies of May like a copper teapot. He was a sturdy pigeon, well-trained as a postman.
Both brothers were watching the bird from under a well top that stood amidst a large backyard attached to a town semi-detached house. Sprinkled with white sand, the house had a beautiful glitter in the bright blue-tinged Southern morning. There was a strong smell of coffee, vine, the oil in the well gear and fresh water. The tree-lined avenue reverberated with the sound of doves.
The boys had grave faces, markedly fair heads and white sailor' shirts. The younger one was five, the older was seven and as their father had no taste for diminutives everyone called them: Ján and Pavol.
Ján was the younger. He tended the pigeons and knew just much about them in order to interest him in them above all other things and Pavel liked to handle the business. They had lived ice this southern town for a year, in a house previously owned by a man call led Jakab who had skipped over the border soon after the war.
They'd got from him red pony trap with a lantern, a white-washed stable with a wide country-style chandelier and some carved pigeon coops. In the stable was Vacko's horse Radko and the green pigeon coops were inhabited by three pairs of ordinary pigeons.
Jan whispered excitedly.
"He is red, he glows Hike fire! Pavol, he's a genie!"
The older brother rolled his eyes because, from the outset, he had been thinking about his shop in the kitchen outhouse. He kept trading and selling things and might have had a drop or two of Armenian blood save that he was fair as a candle flame.
He announced. "This one beats even Mr. Csomó's !"
The younger one nodded. He was characteristically quiet and had a child's deep sadness. What was distinct from the grown-ups, was his height and inability to cope with his worries. He had just found himself on that short, yet abruptly increasing line of life that hints at a trace of talent and returns, in a year or two, back to a steady course of mediocrity and ordinariness. He, too, was bound to return there but at that moment was living through the miraculous days of a five-year-old that he would feel nostalgic about later, and one day, when he'd grown up and those days were gone, he'd say the bitter: Thank you childhood for happening.
"He could stay," said Pavol.
"The way I see it he's just stopped here for a break. I'm sure he’s delivering mail all the way to
Baghdad."
"Where?"
"Maybe he's a genie, you know, a postal pigeon from the Caliph of Baghdad. He was flying over the town at night with an important message to deliver and got confused by the flames in which he born a long time ago."
"...You're thick as a brick to think that. They have mail ships sailing to
Baghdad. When I come back from school, we'll have to tie up the corncobs."
"The thread will choke him."
"Don't worry," said the older boy; he was only concerned about sales, the four seasons and the smell of jam.
"He's a genie."
"I can't stand listening to this!"
Pavol left for school and Jan went to see his mother. On his way through the double doors of the kitchen he said.
"Am I more stupid than Pavol?"
Mother pushed her coffee an inch away, wiped her forehead and said, gravely.
"No, I don't think so. You just think differently. All of us can think, but differently. And everything depends on just what sort of worries you have."
The boy winked. He liked looking at her.
"Whose worries are bigger? Mine or Pavol's?"
”All worries are big."
"But who's got the bigger ones?"
"All the children in the world have awfully big things to worry about. That's why all you young boys are good thinkers."
"Can Pavol think that I am more stupid?"
She shook her head.
"Will you tell him?"
She gave a short nod.
He searched her face and set out under the vine of the verandah from where he watched the red bird.
With the sun growing more relentless the pigeon came to life. He gave a nervous jump off the hot tiles and flew up into the clear skies, in slow and ever-widening circles high above the town Hike a fragment of flame.
The boy was afraid of losing him in the sky, begged him to come back, but immediately he thought better of it.
"Fly, fly away, genie or he'll sell you for an old groat, he doesn't understand!"
The bird paused for a while, flew down from the skies like a burning meteor, alighted, hopped a little and angrily scuttled into the shade and stayed there like a statue captured in movement.
The boy smiled and lying happily on his back began to breathe deeply.
Someone came into the yard and then hurried into the kitchen. He sensed a woman: she was moving softly and quickly, Hike the shadow of a horse or a bird. He jumped to his feet quickly, worried about his mother. Through the window of the inside door lie caught a glimpse of the wife of his father's colleague. He didn't like the Kuric family, he would pinch his cheek , she would yell at her husband. When they were sitting with his parents in the hall or out on the verandah, she would be the only one heard inside. During their visits his father would often leave. He would roam through the rooms, take a seat in the rocking chair, rock the chair and gaze gloomily into the green twilight of the street.
Once he had murmured irritably.
"The world is too complex to be judged by Mrs. Kuricová."
Ján was sitting at his desk, re-drawing the pigeons in a zoology book.
"I don't like her either."
Father swung round astonished at his son.
"Quiet!" he said emphatically.
The boy gave a start, and putting away his metal pencil, focused on the dial of the table clock.
"I like your directness," said his father more gently, "but you mustn't be strict. You have to be sincere, so you can sleep well, but don't be strict for nobody will Hike you. Also, sometimes it's good to remember that grown-ups used to be small kids once. It's not a bad thing to see these in grown-ups. What do you say, eh?"
"Eh," the boy nodded.
"I went a bit too far," said his father. Standing up nimbly, he rattled his knuckles slightly against the table and left relieved.
His mother was standing by the stove while Kuricová was fidgeting at the table.
He overheard her.
"... and if a hot bath can't even help me, I'll beat him with the bicycle pump!"
Blushing, mother jumped to the door.
"Go and look out for Daddy, he's coming for lunch."
He whispered to her. "Why do you allow to call you Mária?"
"He's coming very soon, go," she said aloud.
He went down the stairs and stopped underneath the arch of the gate. Jakab's pony trap stood there. He sat down in the nook where the oil lantern was with his feet up on the pony trap, looking thoughtfully at the glowing sky and its for him most powerful attraction - the unknown red bird.
He pushed open the wooden gate and looked out on to the street thickly populated with ancient maples, chestnuts and lindens. Only after heavy rain would the street be soaked.
His father was on his way, looking very tall and pale in the light green shade. He was walking slowly, almost solemnly.
The boy liked most to walk through the silent twilight of the street just before nightfall, when the trees were awash with the red light of the setting sun. Then darkness would come, suddenly and quickly, with the wax light of one of these wordless, painfully beautiful and unforgettable evenings of the south flickering at the end of the street. The evening bell would ring, the darkness come, mosquitoes would be buzzing in the streets, lamps lighting up and the next morning would come as if from another world.
"You've been waiting for me?" said his father, wondering.
"We've got a new pigeon," the boy said before it was too late.
"Another one!"
"He just flew in."
"I know."
"He's red like a burning fire. It looks like a genie to
me."
"Turned into pigeon?"
"You're right," he agreed.
"These short legs..."
"No, Dad, I'm not making things up. He was flying, I'd say, carrying a secret message to
Baghdad... or from Baghdad, except he got lost."
"Didn't make it then," said his father, pushing the green gate open.
"He's taking a rest now."
"Well, I am curious if you're pulling your father's leg this time.”
"Not in the least."
"Oh, so it's serious thing then."
They walked under the arch to the courtyard and on through the dry sand ground to the well head with its sweet smell of standing water. The water was still in the stone trough, left undrunk by Vacko's horse Radko, a tall yellow trotter.
"He's flying up there in the sky, all alone."
"An aristocrat perhaps?"
Surprised, the father paused and, leaning against the well, put his other hand on his son's head as was his habit. The boy didn't like this gesture, he couldn't talk calmly.
"What a precious pigeon..."
"I'd like to call him Genie."
"Well, Genie suits him all right. Ask Pavol about it."
"Can he stay?"
"We're going to have lunch."
To have lunch with father meant to use all of the cutlery properly, sit upright and be silent. But there was nothing for it because father thought it natural.
In the spacious stone-floored hall where his mother used to set the table for hot summer lunches his father said.
"Well, I would prefer if you and your brother gave up those pigeons. They mess up the verandah. And you spoil them... What do you say?"
He replied suddenly and in a despairing voice.
"But, Dad, I like them! I have to tell you I want them!"
"Er."
"Very much!"
"All right then. I'll wait until you grow out of it. You wouldn't like me if I sent them away, would you?"
"I do like you, Dad."
"You don't say that to me," said father slowly.
Suddenly in the kitchen mother dropped a plate.
"What was that?"
"A scythe on stone," said father wonderingly. "All right, we've agreed, I understand you're not ready yet to give up those heavenly babies - because you don't know everything about them. You know, they've been praised ever since Homer; but I don't like them. Until they knew better people considered pigeons to be a symbol of friendship, faithfulness and love. But now we know everything about them. Or maybe the birds have changed by being with us in our company, the way dogs have. You can feed your Genie now. Maybe he won't fly away."
When father was gone the boy said on the kitchen doorway:
"...I like my father. And we know how to talk."
"And the wasn't upset because of that pigeon?" asked his mother from behind the sink.
"No. I behaved like a man."
He gave his mother a quiet smile for a moment and then went to see his pigeon.
Some days before the landing of the red bird mother had hurried for the market, leaving him alone to guard the house. White Head, his favourite pigeon, landed by the kitchen door and flew inside. The gloom of the room scared him and, crashing his beak against the tiles above the cooker, he flapped into the boiling tomato soup.
The bird spent the rest of the day lying on the roof and was gone by the next morning.
Wounded by this great misfortune he roamed the courtyard, hands on his head, twisting his hips and announcing readily. "He flew away to die. I think maybe he's off to their cemetery up in the sky or he's hiding from shame."
"The cat ate him!" said brother derisively.
"No, Pavol, I don't think the cat would be able to swallow him. Besides, he was still in a shape to fight back although his feet were red."
"Pigeons have red feet anyway!"
"They do but this one also had extra red nails."
"Claws!"
"Whatever you say. He had red claws then."
"Did you see them?"
"When you get out of bath you're red."
"Just wait till father comes!"
His father had had more than misgivings about the pigeon coop.
"Don't forget, Ján, that you're also to blame for his cruel death for you have spoilt him. Your job was to guard the house. You didn't do your job so you didn't behave like a man. Pavol, in the next couple of days you are going to make full use of your business talents by selling all the pigeons. And you Mária fetch me a clean shirt, will you? I've been boiling as if in French Africa. Heck! This death could break the heart of a grown man!"
Father was firm in his decisions; he had a good memory. The boy was able to think about his father now, freely, and contradict him, and so could talk about him. His conversations with father were for him the sort of hard work that inspires. Father was interested in him but mostly for his silence. His silence for his pigeon coop.


Az idézet forrásaOne Hundred Years of Slovak Literature

minimap