LETO-YEAR 16/5 ČETRILETNIK POLETJE - SUMMER 1997/8 QUARTERLY Qvobodni Jglff razgovori cf ree CJ)iafogjues SL0VENIAN-AUSTRAtlANJl,0^pS-ÖF ARTS AND CULTURE (SALAC) Cetrtletnik-Quarterly Ustanoviteljica Pavla Gruden The Founder Urednica Pavla Gruden Editor Sourednik Leon Krek Co-Editor Urednišld odbor Editorial Committee: i. • • ■ ... IvanKobal (Sydney) Bert Pribac (Canberra) Lojze Košorok (Sydney) Ivanka Škof (Melbourne) Priprava strani Pavla Gruden Lay-out Tehnična urednica Judith Bell Technical Editor Snov za objavo pošiljajte na naslov: Contribution for publication address to: Pavla Gruden, C/o Svobodni Razgovori 8/39 Robin Place, Inglebum N.S.W. 2565 Tele. No.: (02) 9605 9763, Fax. No.: (02) 9605 0763 Naročnina: za člane SALUKa $28.00, za nečlane $30.00 na leto. Subscriptions: for members of SALUK $28.00, non members $30.00 per year. Dobrovoljni prispevki sprejeti.s hvaležnostjo. Donations gratefully accepted, Pošiljajte na naslov: send cheque to SALAC Louis Košorok C/o Svobodni Razgovori 25 Gould Ave., Petersham, N.S.W. 2049 Tele. No.: (02) 9560 81 49 Fax. No.: (02) 9560 8149 The views expressed in this publication do not represent the views of the editor or SALAC as a whole and the responsibility for them rests solely with their authors. Dopisov brez podpisa uredništvo ne sprejema. Correspondence without signature will not be accepted. K sodelovanju za kvaliteto Svobodnih Razgovorov ste prisrčno vabljeni vsi avstralski Slovenci prve, druge in tretje generacije. To vabilo velja tudi za vse ostale Slovence, ld so ljubitelji umetnosti in kulture, Torej ne samo umetniki. SALUK je odslej krog Slovensko-Avstralsiah Ljubiteljev Umetnosti in Kulture. SVOBODNI RAZGOVORI - FREE DIALOGUES is a BILINGUAL Publication: Slovene and English. Pisma dobrošla! Letters welcome! Printed at Cosmic-Link First Floor 39 Oxford Rd.,,ti»glebum 2565 PhJFax. (02) 9829-3227 SVOBODNI RAZGOVORI Kratek sprehod skozs vsebino Naslovnica: Otroka z božičnim dreveščkofn, avtor anon.; vir: katalog, Smithsonian institute 1. ANKA MAKOVEC: Črnemu pobratimu v slovo 2. ABORIGINAL TIWI designes, Bathurst Island, N.T. 3. BARNEY ROBERTS: Burnum Burnum 4. ERNIE DINGO: Poems 5. The Burnum Burnum Declaration 6. FRANC S. FINŽGAR: avtorjev rokopisni uvod h knjigi Leta mojega potovanja, kiji sledi pripoved o smrti Antona Medveda 10. SALUK: božično voščilo 11. FRANCE PREŠEREN župniku na Šmarni gori Pavla Gruden župniku na Brezjah 12. TORKMAN, Knjižni pregled: Diary of a submariner by John de Majnik 13. JANKO MAJNIK: The miracle of Christmas eve 15. CHRISTOPHER O'CALAGHAN: The gathering 16. PAVLA GRUDEN: Umrl je človek - živel umetnik! (v spomin slikarskemu mojstru Stanislavu Rapotcu) 17. ALEŠ DEBEL JAK: Meje jezika 18. JOSIP TAVČAR: introduction to Pregarc's anthology Nuclei, ALEKSIJ PREGARC: Chaos II 20 MATJAŽ JARC: Zgodovina - akrosant III. - : sliki na strani 20 in 21: Božidar Jakac (plačnik stroškov za tisk slike v barvah želi ostati neimenovan) 22 IVANKA ŠKOF: Šole v slovenski Istri 23 EDVARD KOCBEK: V požgani vasi 24 JOŽICA GERDEN: Whatever is in God's plan 28. DANNY O'ROURKE: A poem 29. SLOBODAN ŠEMBERA: Spomini nekega lorda 34. METKA ČUK: a history making leaflet announcing a history making event 35. SALUK: pismo Ministru za šolstvo in šport v RS 36. Spomini nekega lorda, nadalj. 43. LOJZE KOSSI: Lojzetov konjiček nam tokrat prinaša 1 .del zgodovine Filipinov 44. Iz delovnega kotička urednice 45. MARKO CRNKOVIČ: Butalci in Britanci (Principi, Delo 13.9.1997) Marketing večnega življenja (Fragmenti, Delo, 15.1.1996) STEVE HACKETT: Love is ... (on the back cover) ZAHVALA Za redno izhajanje Svobodnih razgovorov, ki s pričujočo številko stopajo v 16. Leto svojega izhajanja, gre tako naročnikom in darovalcem za sklad, kot sodelavcem v Avstraliji in Sloveniji, ki s svojo ustvarjalnostjo bogate strani te naše revije - glasila družine SALUK Iskreno, Uredništvo Svobodnih razgovorov Burnum Burnum 1937-1997 ČRNEMU POBRATIMU V SLOVO Zaletela sem se vanj pred dvanajstimi leti v Sydneyskem parku, kjer je, kot mu je bila navada, okoli sebe zbral publiko, staro in mlado. V senci košatih evkaliptov je z žametnim glasom in iskrivimi očmi pričaral slike zgodb iz "Časa sanj'. Ovit v mehek kožuh, s plapolajočo srebrnino dolgih las in brade, bi ga čisto lahko zamenjal s samim Mojzesom ali svetim Miklavžem... Ustavila sem se in poslušala kot ukopana. Ko je končal, sem se mu predstavila in ga zaprosila za pogovor. Rad je ustregel in namesto deset minut, kot sva se domenila, sva še po dveh urah sedela za mizo, srebala limonado in jedla sendviče, ter debatirala na dolgo in široko. Strinjala sva se, da je soglasje z Aborigini odvisno od potrpežljivega nabiranja znanja o njihovi kulturi, poučevanja le te po šolah in umetniških ustanovah. Skratka - zidati mostove prijateljstva, kjerkoli mogoče. Enoje neizpod bitno gotovo: na tem kontinentu bomo mi in naše bodoče generacije MORALI živeti drug poleg drugega! Izbira je jasna in preprosta: začeti novo, humano pot dobre volje in spoštovanja človeških pravic, ali pa nadaljevati belo oholost in ignoranco, ki je v pretekli zgodovini povzročila pravim lastnikom te zemlje toliko gorja. Rasisti dvigajo glave in politikiom se spreminja hrbtenica v želatino. Nismo krivi za grehe preteklosti, to je resnica. A kdor se pravičnosti danes ne postavi v bran dela to čemur se zdaj tako čudimo,ko spoznavamo preteklost. Pred leti mi je njihova pesnica Oodgeroo takole povedala: "Mladina je še naš up, starina je po večini že mentalno konstipirana." Burnum Burnum mi je priznal, daje bil tudi sam v dilemi, ko je na univerzi končal pravo. Odločil se je, da bo postal učitelj-pripovedovalec , da bo romal širom kontinenta, od šole do šole in poučeval 'belo, črno in mešano' [black, white and brindlej. Ideja,da se ukluči v kako firmo pravnikov, sedi v pisarni in kuje denar, mu ni nič dišala. Kupil si je velik kombi in vestno sledil svojim načrtom. V avtu si je kuhal, na majhnem pogradu spal, igral Mozartove kasete in sejal dobro voljo kamorkoli gaje zanesla pot. Oblubil mi je, da bo na svoj program ukljuČil tudi našo 'Bogu za hrbtom \Tasmanjico. Besedo je tudi po gentlemansko držal. Nas dom v Devonportu je postal njegov drugi dom, kjer sva sestavljala učne programe. Obiskala sva sole, vse od manjših gorskih vasic, pa do mestnih šolskih ustanov, državnih in privatnih. On je poučeval kulturojaz pa domorodno umetnost, ki jo globoko občudujem,.Staroste in umetniki na severu kontinenta so me preko let na tem polju do dobra 'zdresirali'. Plača je bila učiteljska, čeprav je bil on mojster, jaz pa pravzaprav student, je vse lepo dol po sredi razdelil- po bratovsko. Bila sva kar posrečen TEAM. Prijateljstva okoli naju so rastla kot prelep gozd in mnogim je zdaj hudo, da ga več ne bo in da je za njim ostala taka globoka vrzel. Mladini je vedno prikazoval veselo in humoristično plat življenja in Čeprav je imel vse razloge, da bi bil zagrenjen, tega ni hotel pogrevati. Znano je, da so ga oblasti, kot toliko tisoče v temnih otrok, odtrgale iz kroga družine in a ga dale v posebne zavode,kjer se je z ostalimi majhnimi dečki jokal nad usodo, ki je ni mogel razumeti. "Glavno je, da nisem uklonil, to je važno!" je večkrat na koncu svoje zgodbe dodal. Ko gledam njegovo zadnje darilo, ki mi gaje s prešernim nasmehom postavil na knjižno polico v dnevni sobi,se mi Še vedno zamegli v očeh. Na bližnjem rečnem produ je nabral kopico lepih, okroglih kamnov, belih in temnih v enakem Številu in jih SKUPAJ potopil v lepo, prozorno posodo. "Moja 3D umetnost! Ime sem ji dal Australia Felix. Tije všeč?" Splošno ga narod pozna po duhoviti potezi, ko je ob 200 letnici bele okupacije Australije, z letalom pristal v Veliki Britaniji in posnemajoč njihovega kapitana Cook-a, v Doverju na plaži zasadil zastavo Aboriginov in s tem aktom Anglijo proglasil za lastnino svojega ljudstva... Napisal je za to priložnost DEKLARACIJO, katero je pred množico reporterjev tudi slovesno prebral. Angleži so se potezi najprej nasmejali, a marsikomu so se potem orosile oČi;"Za Kriščevo voljo, saj to smo MI njim pred 200 leti resnično storili!" Tako je Še in Še miroljubno protestiral in povsod učil, daje Australija dovolj velika in bogata za vse, ki smo se k njej zatekli. Le drug drugega spoznajmo in po Človeško spoštujmo! Tega pravila seje do zadnjega diha tudi sam držal. Ko sem se ob pogrebni slovesnosti obrnila in malo pogledala okoli sebe, me je slika v srce presunila! Ogromna množica ljudi, ki seje prišla poslovit in poklonit njegovemu spominu, je bila odmev negovega darila na moji knjižni polici. Polovica belih in polovica črnih - v harmoniji... Australia Felix? Sanjajmo naprej! ©Barney Roberts Bush House Ftowerdale. 7325. Burnum Burnum. 26thJanuary 1988 Australian Aboriginal, Burnum Burnam pronounced his Declaration and took possession of England as ä Colonial Outpost. Statement on the Australian Environment (basedon Chief Seattle's Speech of 1854) Includes: The Earth does not belong to us. We belong to the Earth. Every part of this land is sacred. Every step is like a prayer. Burnum Burnum came'to Bush House, Flowerdale, Tasmania In April 1994.We walked in our bush. "You born here in this valley," Burnum Burnum said, "retired here, too, that day -beautiful and nods his head. Sitting late into the night cosy staring at the open fire beneath an overhang of brow absorbing the caresses lizard tongues of flame to warm those cold spots; that wide forehead white beard and hair; somewhere in there the Burnum Burnum Declaration was conceived. "Based on the 50,000 year heritage, we acknowledge the need to preserve the Caucasian race as of interest to antiquity - We pledge not to sterilize your women, nor to separate your children from their families -" It's written there for all to read. I have a picture on my desk the camera caught the figure of a fisherman standing in lake water knee to knee mirrored timeless, patient, waiting, waiting hours, years, a lifetime for what inevitably will be; his face, his rod, his line solid and as immovable as the crag which cuts the misted sky. Burnum Burnum purringly content before the flames re-living our bush walk Poetry CTY18 3 ©Barney Roberts Bush House Flowerdale. 7325. through overhang and manfern re-hearing water talk of Brandy Creek absorbing sight, touch, feel, the sound of birds, small winds as children scutterinq leaves the scuff of earth and all things real, displacing hurt, the chimera of lies, hard words of hate. Burnum Burnum you have brought with you (an old top-heavy bus your temporary home) and a quietness that seeps into the fabric of the place rests with the stone wall drifts with ancient spirits of your black sisters, brothers who were here before. I have a picture on my desk of a Bonfiglioli winching up a load of mussels no sound, no movement all is stationary against a background of sea, of hills and sky. Aquaculture is here to stay, I'm told. So too, the spirit of Burnum Burnum. This poem was the result of a weekend visit by Burnum Burnum and myself to the 'Bush House' (home of the novelist and poet Barney Roberts) - her reprinted with permission; previously this poem was published in England by Critical Survey vol. 71995 AM. Tasmania Poem 6 Ernie Dingo The tracks and the traces Are all that's behind, We are not Strangers In our own country Just Strangers To a European society And it is hard To be one When The law Is the other Yet I still see the people In the back of my mind. Aboriginal achievement Is like the dark side of the moon, For it is there But so little is known. wmim ojjumum ^nc//a/idf 26iPi oJanumpair$[clion to-unite peoptie, communities, religions and nations in a cothmon, productive, peacefui purpose. Smrt Antona Medoctla Preden napišem kaj o svojem književnem delu v Sori. moram ugotoviti nekatere dogodke o Medvedovi smrti. Na žalost sorodstva in vseli nas. njegovih prijateljev, so Medvedovo smrt zavlekli v politiko in trosili resnične in neresnične stvari po časopisju. Liberalci so si ga lasiiii za svojega, klerikalci spet po svoje odgovarjali. To.,je menda tisti naš izvirni greh. da si vedno izpoclmikamo naravni temelj vsakega naroda. Ta temelj — sodim — je vendarle iz narave izhajajoči imperativ, da je umetnik in učenjak last vsega naroda. Politika tvori stranke, ki se bijejo za oblast in tudi za nazore. Preko teh bojev pa bi moral vsak narod brez izbire ceniti narodnega delavca — umetnika, učenjaka,"naj je njegovo prepričanje .glede na politiko in svetovni nazor tako ali drugačno. Zmote se lahko mirno in stvarno ugotove, razbistrijo, popravijo in odpravijo, če so resnične zmote. Ce se pa razlike nazorov prenesejo v politično areno, kadar gre za skupne narodne interese, je hudo. Začne se osebno sovraštvo in preganjanje. Resnični katoličan ne sme in mu ni treba nikoli zatajiti načel ne pri umetniškem delu ne pri občevanju z ljudmi drugačnih nazorov. Toda sam mora ostati človek in priznati tudi drugim, da so ljudje. Pokojni Medved je imel mnogo prijateljev v liberalnih krogih. Je že tako. Priznajmo, da so ga ti kot pesnika zelo cenili, bolj kakor drugi krogi. Bili so mu tudi zelo dobri. Ali je kaj čudno, da je rad z njiini občeval, jih obiskoval? Prav vse te odlične družine so bile tudi ogorčene ob časopisnem pisarjenju, ki so ga povzročali ljudje brez takta, iz gole samopridnosti. Nočem razpravljati o posameznih izjavah. Nuj kdo kasneje o tem sodi. Imam vse izrezke iz tedanjega časopisja in tudi mnogo zasebnih pisem. Ugotovim naj le trdna dejstva. Konec januarja 1910 sem dobil v Soro pismo od Medvedove sestre Helene, ki mu je gospodinjila na Turjaku. Pisala mi je dokaj žalostno zaupno pismo. iTone se je spet splašil in pije neusmiljeno. — Pridi, z vso dušo visi na tebi.c Nisem slutil, kaj naj bi se bilo zgodilo. Saj je bil dlje časa na Turjaku abstinent. Zdi se mi, da sem ga na to vabilo šel obiskat ali pa sem mu pisal daljše pismo. Skoda je bila ta, ker sem bil v Sori preveč zaposlen in razdalja sicer ni velika, a nerodna. Za obi.sk sem potreboval dva dui. Kasneje sem zvedel, zakaj se je — :splašil<:. Medved ic bil pesnik. Bil pa je kot človek in duhovnik zares čisra, deviška duša. To naj velja za vse tiste, ki so kovali kakor koli zase dobiček, če so odkrili njegovo idealno simpatijo do kake deklice. Moral je imeii svoje Julije, Beatrice in Lavrc. Tako je pač bilo. A vse to je bilo čudoviio sublimirauo. To potrjujem z vsem prepričanjem, ko mi nikoli nt najmanjše skrivnosti srca prikrival. Ko je bil kaplan na Breznici, je bil ves čas abstinent. Bil pa je Že bolchen. Operiran je bil na slepiču. A mučil ura je želodec. Rad je tamkaj hodil po fari in obiskoval ljudi, ki so ga silno radi imeli. Tako je našel zalo kmečko deklico in mu je bila pač spet Julija. Imel pa je nesrečno lastnost, da je takim rad pisal pesmice ali pisma. Ženska pamet in seveda nečimrnost je vse to kazala drugim. In tako je bilo tudi s Katrico z Breznice. O tej zvezi je zvedel neki Premk, ki je bil v Žirovnici na počitnicah. Izbezal je iz dekleta vse mogoče reči in jih potem širil med ljudmi. Župnik Potočnik je za to zvedel in Medveda prijateljsko obvestil. Pri Potočniku je bil Medved pestovan kakor dete. Moja sestrična Katarina, ki je bila pri Potočniku za gospodinjo, ga je oskrbovala s hrano in z vsem, kakor bi ga nobena mati ne bila mogla bolje. Ko je Medved dobil opozorilo od Potočnika, je bil pač Medved. Vsaka taka zadeva ga je preveč potrla — idealista. Če je ob taki priložnosti imel koira poleg sebe. ki mu je zaupal, se je kmalu umiril in ohrabril. Če ga ni bilo, je segel po kozarcu in tako skušal pregnati bolečino. To torej je bil povod temu. kar mi je pisala sestra Helena o njem: da pije. Ker je občutil sam, kako mu pijača škoduje, in ga je Helena prosila, naj bo spet abstinent, je res februarja opustil pijačo. Marca pa so ga izpeljali v krčmo neki znanci. Ko je prelomil svoj sklep, je bil spet moralno potrt. Pil je tri dni. Pili so z njim drugi in pili so neizmerno kislo vino. Tedaj je nastopila katastrofa. Nič ni res, kakor je menda Jutro poročalo, da hi bil Slu j me r rekel: »To je posledica operacije in čreva so sc mu zmedla.: Sam sem govoril s Slajmerjeni. (Ta ni vedel, da so že drugi zdravniki ugotovili, ko je bljuval kri v Preski, da ima rano na želodcu.) Slajmer jo na brzojav takoj odšel na Turjak in mi razodel: »Imel je ulcus na želodcu. " • Prebilo mu je steno —■«■ ^ " ja gnoj se je razlil v trebušno duplino. Ko sem prišel, je imel trebuh silno napet in grozne bolečine. S seboj nisem imel drugega kakor buciko, s katero sem mu predrl nabrekli trebuh in mu olajšal. Ko bi ga bil imel ob napadu takoj na operacijski mizi. bi utegnil biti rešen. Tedaj pa ni bilo nobene pomoči več.« Predor stene pa je gotovo pospešila kisla pijača. To je resnica, vse drugo je izmišljeno. Ko bi bili Medveda prej operirali, kakor da-jUiS.ninoge, bi bil otet. Saj je bil sicer zelo zdrav in močne narave. Potočnika je na-pal celo Medvedov brat Ivan na postaji v Šiški. Žalosten mi je pisal ta vzorni duhovnik: >Poga-njal sem se za njegovo čast in ga branil. Zato sem umazan. oni pa. ki so ga mazali, so čisti!« O pogrebu ne bom pisaril. Toliko je časopisnega gradiva, da naj na temelju, kar sem povedal, moder literarni historik ;izbere, kar je pravično. Odhitel pa sem takoj, Pesnik Anton Medved kot župnik na Turjaku. ko so mi brzojavili. da je umrl. na Turjak. Dobil..sem že mrtvega. Ostal sem tam in pomagal, kar sem mogel. Bridka je bila noč, ko sem dolgo dolgo ponoči ostal čisto sam ob mrtvem Medvedu. Tako živo mi je vse stalo pred očmi, da sem v resnici občutil časih, kako je skušal odpreti mrtve oči in se mi nasmehniti. Povedal bi mi bil: France, sedaj sem našel mir v Bogu. ki sem ga vse življenje iskal. Nemirna duša se mi je umirila pri tako ljubljeni materi. Mnogo duhovnikov (menda 1") je prihitelo na Turjak, ko smo ga odpeljali na zadnjo pot v Kamnik. Na Turjaku sem se poslovil v imenu fare od njega. Tudi na grobu sem govoril po govoru dr. Iv. Grafenauerja — obakrat samo hipne misli. Saj se nisem mogel pripraviti, ko sem bil ves žalosten, utrujen in nenaspan. Kamnik je svojega rojaka in pesnika sprejel z vso častjo. Vse hiše so bile v črnili zastavah, ljudi iz Kamnika in okolicc silria množica. Po smrti smo takoj začeli misiiri na njegov nagrobni spomenik. Tudi o tem delu. ki sem ga pretežno opravil sam, je nekaj literature med mojimi pismi. Spomenik je delo kiparja prof. Peruzzija. Mesto Kamnik mu je hotelo po sinru prirediti korne-moracijo v čitalnici. Dohodek je bil namenjen za spomenik. Župan dr. Kraut mi je pisal in me prosil, naj prevzamem govor na tem večeru. Ker sem vedel, kako sta si liberalna in klerikalna stranka v boju, sem zahteval tole: Komemoracijo naj priredi\ mesto, ne stranka. Politika mora biti popolnoma izključena. Godba po sklepu ne sme igrati. Vse to je župan gladko sprejel. Za 17. april je bila določena komcmoracija. Kar dobim 15. aprila iz Kamnika pisanje, pod katerim so bile podpisane organizacijo liberalni nasprotne stranke, recimo kar katoliške organizacije. Pisali so mi: V Kamniku se pripravlja to in to. Na plakatih je tiskano, da bo govoril F. S. Finžgur. Ali ste vi ta človek? — In potem pouk. da ne smem govoriti. ker je komcmoracija v liberalni čitalnici! Tolika drzna nesramnost me je resnično pograbila. Sel sem, kakor sem obljubil. Večer je bil resen, zelo lep in nabita dvorana — med ljudmi seveda vse polno kleri- wmmmammaamammmmaaaBm wmmmsBaamamm kaleev. Prepričan sem, da velika večina le iz spoštovanja do Medveda, nekateri pa tudi. da bi me v besedah ujeli. Leia I()I4 so me povabili v Kamnik slomškovci in sem prav tako z veseljem, šel. Tudi tedaj je bila dvorana polna, kar je bil dokaz prej in slej, da je Kamnik Medveda ljubil in cenil brez razlike strank. O Medvedovi Saljivosti nekaj: V Bohinju so ga otroci posebno radi imeli. Nekoč si je najel dva krepka dečka; naredil jima je iz motvoza brzde. fanta sta se v p regia v majhen voziček (samotežni). sam je sedel vanj in se jima dal za dobro nagrado peljati v hotel pri Sv. Janezu. Polno gostov jc bilo na vrtu. ko je privozil do hotela s tako izvirno vprego. Ploskanje in veliko veselje med gosti ga je pozdravilo. Na Breznici je imel na vratih kaplani je podobo sv. Antona, pod njo pa črnega medveda. »Kaj pa ta razstava?« sem ga vprašal. — »Ali ne znaš brati biblije pauperum? To je moja vizitka.« Ko je nekoč obiskal kmečko družino, mu jc žena prinesla polič vina za pogostitev. Odklonil ga je. ker je bil tedaj abstinent. »Hvala lepa, vina ne pijem.« — »Tak tako.« se je začudila žena. »Oni koj samo žganje?: Na Breznici je urejal Gregorčičeve poezije za Mohorjevo. Mnogo te korespondence z Mohorjevo imam jaz. Hranim tudi lepo vezano, lastnoročno pisano knjigo raznih pesmi, njegovih in ruskih prevodov, ki jo je podaril Juliji Coršičevi, kasnejši ženi prof. Bartla. Tudi ta je bila njegova Julija — sorodnica, menda sestrična.1 Se enkrat naj poudarim, da so bile vse te njegove prijateljice samo to. kar je ugotov.il Prešeren: »One same nam ur'jo roke. one same nam glave vedre.« Medvedov zgrešeni poklic? Govekar je v Slovenskem narodu 19. junija 1943, ko je ocenjeval igro Stari in mladi, zapisal: »To je bil najlepši slovenski fant: rimski nos, črne oči, niehkobne ustnice. fin glas. Tako ga je označil Ivan Cankar. — Bil je izredno prikupen: plemenit, duhovit, široko izobražen, negovan, eleganten, družabno zelo prijeten človek. A zaradi zgrešenega poklica zelo nesrečen člooek.t — Ta trditev ne drži. Niii enkrat mi vse življenje, ko sva bila vendar tako zaupljiva med seboj, ni omenil, da mu je žal duhovniškega poklica ali da bi bila zanj to zgrešena pot. Nesreča je bila v tem. da ni dosegel Študija v Rimu, o čemer sem že pisal, in da mu je bila kal alkoholizma vrojena. Ni pa bilo v njem dovolj močne volje, da bi prebolel udarec, ko ga niso hoteli poslati v Rim. O pesmih drži: Res je v njih preveč svetožalja, so pa vendarle miselno duhovite, prava klasika. In najboljše so satirične — Trtje in povrije. Naprej in nazaj ird. Modra glava naj bi izbrala cvet njegovih pesmi, pa bi imeli knjigo, ki bi nikoli ne zastarela. Mahnič kot literarni kritik pa ni nanj prav nič vplival. Bil jc pač tak čas — preden niso Župančič. Kette. Cankar napeli novih strun. Medved ni mogel bili še tisti, ki bi bil pripravil novemu času novo gaz. Med sodobaiki je in ostane na vrhu. O zgrešenem poklicu naj zapišem tudi Tavčarjevo sodbo. Pri »Roži« smo govorili o Medvedu, ko je bil nekaj mcscev v pokoju. Dr. Hudnik je menil, da bi bil boljši za kak svetni poklic. Tavčar pa: »Ni res. V nobenem poklicu bi Medved ne bil zadovoljen, ker je pač tak. Pa ga ti vzemi v pisarno, da ga po več dni ne boš videl! To je bolezen in je ni noben sian nič kriv.« 1 Zavitek, kjer sem imel shranjene te spomine na Medveda, mi je 9.3.1915 skoraj vse uničila bomba. Maksim Gaspari tise Bolno ljubem na Hemljt Hto Jža besoljslu posta j t ža Požtč tu nastopajoče 1998 Želijo Valuti tu ^>lJot)obm ra^obort * &ll tlje best to tlje people on eartlj Hub tlje space station jf or Cljristmaö aub tlje coining 1998 Jfrorn ^alae aub Jftee dialogues i» France Preöereil, kl je rad zahajal k sLricu Jakobu, vikarju na Šmarni gori, in mu je bila Gora že zaLo pri srcu, je zložil vodiškemu župniku Jerneju Arku, vnetemu glasniku šmarnogor-ske božje poli, znano pesem o Šmarni gori (o vseh svelih 1043), kjer si je privoščil strogost kranjske duhovščine: Vi, ki hodite na sveto Šmarno goro, blagor vami Iwalit mater v nebo vzeto; al' gorje odlašavcam, ^ ki lak dušo svojo črt'jo, J da it' opus le pred smrtjo / roženkranc in litanije , molit, hvalo pet Marije. Vseh stanov so trume plašne, to se vidi 'z njih oblek; vidijo se stole masne, zida in hodnik vse vprek. »Kdo ste, romarji vi čudni, ki zdaj molile neutrudni roženkranc in litanije molit, hvalo pel Marije?« »Mi v duhovskem oblačili smo sejali seme zmot, slepci smo ljudem branili sem na sveto božjo pot; zdaj zato Iz vic sem hod'rno, žalostne proč es'je vod'm o roženkranc in litanije molil, hvalo pet Marije. Romarjev za nami truma, ki je ni mogoče štet', kristijani so brez uma, ki so hol'I i nam verjel'. V vicah delajo pokoro, z nami hodijo na goro roženkranc in litanije molit, hvalo f)et Marije! V noči, kadar ure svoje spolni Vseh svetnikov dan, dokler zjutraj ne zapoje v čast Marije zvon glasdn, gor' na goro - strašno res je -mrtvih hodijo proces'je roženkranc in litanije molit, hvalo pel Marije. Kdor odraščen gre iz sveta Kranjcev, da ni tukaj bil, v hiši večnega očeta se ne bo pred veselil, dokler ne dočaka dneva, da sem z nami pride reva roženkranc in litanije molit, hvalo pet Marije.« Naj tedaj odpre ušesa, kdor bo slišal pesem to, pred, ko duša od telesa v smrti se ločila ho, sam naj al' s proces'jo farno pride gor' na goro Šmarno roženkranc in litanije molit, hvulo pet Marije! Tega, ki na göro hodi, bo Marija var'vala, da ne bo peklenski zlodi v smrtni uri zmotil ga; on bo Šel v nebesa srečno — gori z angelci bo večno roženkrar\c in lita ni jo molil, hvalo pel Marije. * % Simpatičnemu patru Cirilu Bozic (O.F.M.) v spomin na Veselovo! Prelepa je b r e z j a n s k a f a r a , k r a s a n njen župnik frančiškan, , ✓ .. v , - naj bo mu božji zegen dan -vesel p,a je sam Vatikan! O.F.M. , PROSIM, BERI: "osvobodilna fronta moških"... Pavla Gr Diary of a Submariner The first hand story of the daring escape of a Yugoslav submarine and her crew from the Germans during World War II by John de Majnik Založba: Asgard Press, Inglewood, WA, Australia Janko Majnik jc doma iz Zirov. Leta 1936 seje pridružil Jugoslovanski Kraljevi Mornarici, kjer je postal oficir za komunikacije in meteorologijo. Kasneje seje specializiral za podmorsko telegrafijo in podmorniško službo. Knjiga se bere kot filmski skript. Opremljena je z mnogoterimi fotografijami. Postavni Janko Majnik iz leta 1936, pa zemljevid Jadranskega morja, ki se osredotoča na sledenje podmornice Nebojša od Kotorja v zalivu Boke Kotorske do Budve v južnem Jadranu. Dviganje torpedov leta 1940, pa cela vrsta skupinskih slik tovarišev s podmorniške posadke in drugih. Srž zgodbe, ki bi mimo prenesla filmsko upodobitev je pobeg posadke 18 podmorničarjev na grški otok Kreto in od tam v Egipt. Za svojo pot niso rabili letala, temveč podmornico, last starojugoslovanske vojske. Zgodba sledi dnevniškim zapisom Janka Majnika. Začne se na torek, 25 marca 1941 in konča 6 let kasneje na nedeljo 27 Aprila 1947. Tedaj je avtor prevzel mesto radijskega ofocirja za radijske komunikacije na britanski ladji SS LATHARNA. Ladja je vozila potnike iz egiptovske Aleksandrije v italijansko Genovo. Majnik je bil primoran poslati SOS signal, saj je razburkano Jonsko morje ogrozilo ladjo in življenja na njej. Italijanski vlačilec jih je odvlekel v mirne vode. Po letih vojne, kjer so mine in torpedi prizanašali, je moč narave postavila življenje na mokro nitko ... Odlični moment je tudi na mestu, ko bralec spozna, da seje avtor ponovno pravilno odločil, ko ni sprejel ameriške vstopne vize, ampak se je pridruži svojim tovarišem s podmornice Nebojša : 'ki so se pripravljali da odplujejo v deželo skrivnosti in novih priložnosti - Avstralijo. In te odločitve nisem nikoli obžaloval.' Janko Majnik živi s svojo družino v Coomi. Torkman Submarine 'Nebojša'. 12 THE MIRACLE OF THE CHRISTMAS EVE By Janko Majnik September of 1929 had arrived and with it two most unwelcome events. The end of the summer school holidays and the time for me to leave my home and friends as a completely new life was waiting for me at the 'Bishop's College near Ljubljana. The two factors that could have helped me to stay home had not eventuated, One of my grandfathers was a foundation member and my public school records were good enough to skip the entrance exam, I was doomed! At the college, as I was only eleven and a half years old, the monastic lift had not agreed with me. Up at half past five - I needed more sleep, wash, march to the chapel for morning Mass. The front pews where the first year students had to sit were constantly patrolled by prefects gently waking up the sleeping boys, pointing with their finger towards the altar whispering: "Concentrate on the Mass!" Breakfast. Back to the chapel. School. Chapel before lunch. Lunch, School. Playground activities, Dinner, Chapel, Study time, Bed time, There was a hike to the nearby river on some Wednesdays and Sundays. What a life. What a misfortune.. To leave my home, the forests and valleys, the rivers and creeks, the swimming, fishing, skiing, skating on the butcher' pond but above all to leave behind my parents', sisters' and brothers' love. The only time I looked forward to was the study period. The homework done I would dream about my home and freedom - but not always! The prefect pacing up and down the study room and reading the breviary made sure our heads were in the books. October came, Very slowly. The fortnightly visits from my parents, brothers and sisters only promoted the burning desire to gain back the lost freedom, My complaints about bad food, not enough sleep, the constant study periods and not enough play seemed to be falling on deaf ears. I decided to escape. The cast iron fence surrounding the college and its grounds had, in one place, a gap wide enough for me to squeeze through. I could reach the grounds and the gap after "lights out" and walk out into freedom. Home was only thirty kilometers away, Unfortunately the early rising and the full day's activities proved to be too exhausting, My plan to wait for the "lights out" worked fine. The half an hour wait after the "lights out" had not. I fell asleep, every time, and woke up in the usual surroundings. I gave up the idea of escape. Instead, I started to look forward towards the Christmas holiday break. School broke out on the day before Christmas Eve. Heavy snowfalls and blizzards, followed by a very heavy frost, brought the country's' rail and bus services to a stand still. Tonight more snow fell on top of the hardened snow making the clearing of reads and rail even more difficult. Snow, that I loved so much was against me tonight. The dreams of being home for Christmas vanished into the whiteness of the country side. At bed time, when the lights went out. I sobbed my heart out. Morning came, With it the confirmation of last night's notice that all leave is cancelled until the roads and rails are opened up again. I was called into the director's office at about ten o'clock. My brother Paul was there. Smiling. His eyes happy. He had skied from Ljubljana carrying spare skis and stocks. With the director's special permission we were off to spend Christmas at Pri oinočnici Paul's place. As we passed the railway station we found out that the rail to Vrhnika was open and the first train leaving at three o'clock. "You could ski from Vrhnika station to the mountain of the Three Kings. From there it is only a small hop home "said Paul. "You could be at the "Pines" by nine and home for the Midnight Mass." He was already buying the ticket. On arriving home Paul commenced to pack a small rucksack with presents for the family and food for me, while Paul's wife Minka was trying hard to persuade Paul to abandon the idea of my trip. "How do you expect him to find the way to the mountain of the Three Kings in the dark. You will never forgive yourself if he has a fall, hurts himself and cannot go on. You know he will freeze to death. He is too young for such a long trip at night, on his own!" I became concerned whether Paul would change his mind. He seemed to be too busy to hear a word of what Minka had to say. Minka was a "city" girl. We were born and bred in the mountains where skis were used for travel from place to place and in everyone of us there was an in-built compass. Paul knew from his personal experience how desperate I was to be home this Christmas. I checked and re-checked the poles, skis and bindings and for the second time rubbed fat into the leathery parts of the bindings. Just before we were ready to go to the station Paul threaded his hunting knife on my belt saying: "Take good care of this knife. Dad gave it to me long, long ago - and I want it back! There are wolves and bears in the deep forest of Zaplana and the Bear mountain! Although these places are far away from your line of travel it is better to be prepared as in this weather they could stray away from their territory. Just have your eyes open, will you!" I took the knife cut of the sheath stabbing an imaginative bear through the heart. "Not bad, not bad, said Paul with a smile, let's hope you do not have to use it," The parting this time was sweet, I was going home. I was so excited and knew deep in myself that I will be home in time for Midnight Mass. At the railway station of Vrhnika seven or eight passengers alighted from the train. There was still some daylight left. As I was adjusting the skis to my feet, the station master, looking on, wanted to know what the two planks of wood were for. He marveled at the way I was able to ski on top of the snow. Skis, it seemed, were not yet known on this side of the mountains. I asked him the way to Spica mountain and told him I was going home, to Diri. He started to cross himself saying: "You are not going up there tonight are you? In the dark of the night? On your own? You know that there are very deep snow drifts around from yesterday's blizzard? it is sixteen kilometers to the top of the mountains and another fourteen to 'Diri': How do you intend to know, in the dark, which way to go? How old are you? You may stay here, at the station till morning and then go, if you really have to go that way." I thanked him for the offer of overnight accommodation. As I started to glide off, he crossed himself once more. I aimed the skis towards the left side of Spica and I was on my way. It was easy going until I had reached the tree line. The trees and drifts slowed me down considerably as some drifts had to be bypassed as they were too deep and awkward to cross. Zig-zagging, I hardly noticed the fall of night. Even in the dark I could easily distinguish the drifts from the easy going ground. Somehow the dark had not frightened me. The bears and wolves never crossed my mind. I was too busy concentrating on the zig - zags, fallen trees, uneven ground, drifts and keeping on the imaginary bearing that must bring me near the 'Pines' or the 'Three Kings'. It was after hours of climbing that a patch of yellow light appeared, almost ahead of me. For a second I thought I was dreaming. A light - here, in the middle of nowhere! And the light frightened me. Yellow lights in the middle of the forest appear in children's stories only, I had to make my mind up whether to approach the light, bear the consequences or pass it by - and never find out what made it shine! After a few very cautious zig -zags I came to stand on top of a ridge. Looking down, the light penetrated through the window of what looked like a log cabin without a roof. I circled the hut once. It was completely snowed in. The high drift prevented the door and one of the windows to be snow bound, I stuck the skis and stocks into the drift and slid down on my behind. I knocked on the door once, then again. The door opened enough for me to see a man behind the one who opened the door. The man at the door reached above it and took down a small axe, I froze! In the dialect of people living in the hills around the town of Žiri a voice boomed out: "Who's are you?" I replied in the custom of the area: "I am John. Son of Urban," Urban from the town of Žiri?" he asked. "Oh yes, we know your father well. Come in out of the cold," The axe was placed back from where it came and the door opened enough for me to enter. Relieved that I was not "slaughtered" there and then I was eager to tell them where 1 came from and where 1 am going. They in turn could not believe that 1 came all the way from Vrhnika. They were eager to know how I had kept on top of the snow; why was I not sinking in it, They said they were snow bound since - they did not know when. But what they were asking over and over was how did I find their home. I did not. It just happened! Thinking back, I am now sure the Christmas angels had a hand in it. A plate of stew was placed in front of me and while I dunked the black bread into it and ate, they told me how they knew my father, lie was coming into this part of the country every year to offshoot any lame or disformed deer, He would then tell them where the carcass was and for days later venison was on the menu.. A wann feeling came into my heart - for my, father and these people who were now my hosts. When we came out of the hut the sky was full of stars and the moon was almost full. They all climbed on top of the drift to see the skis and how they were attached to my feet. I made a few steps and turns and came back to the drift. They wished me and mine a Merry Christmas and assured me to go straight up and ahead and in lliis light 1 should soon see the 'Three Kings' on the left and the 'Pines' on the right. No, they said, you could not miss either peak. I pointed the skis up the hill. I felt warm on the outside and ever warmer inside. Because they did not know the time, they thought it was pretty late, I started to wonder whether I would make home before midnight, It became easy to find the way among the trees in good moon light and I found myself in no time in the saddle of the 'Pines' and the 'Three Kings'. And now the running was all downhill. The snow deep but powdery, allowed me to produce just enough speed to be safe. I was now in the part of the country where the shape of hills were familiar to me. I knew, now, that home is another thirteen or fourteen kilometers away. My heart was singing and I let the skis run faster. I was a quarter way down the hill when the trees became sparse and the ground flattened out. looking into the valley a most beautiful spectacle opened up in front of my eyes. From all sides of the hills bobbing lantern lights descended into the valley, towards the church, towards Midnight Mass. Unlike the adults who sank in the deep snow up to their knees, my childish weight allowed me to skim across the surface as a water spider skims across a pond. I lengthened my step and started to pass many a lantern. Then -1 was on the main road and - home. I have met Mum, Dad and sister Zorica coming out of the gate, on the way to Midnight Mass. Amongst hugs, embraces and kisses, a hundred questions needed answers, Zorica relieved me of the rucksack and as 1 bent down to release the ski bindings, my legs folded up, 1 remember Dad gathering me up and carrying me to my bedroom. I was asleep before 1 hit the pillow - but not before I heard-the three of them repeating over and over the words » its a miracle! Yes. Today I am sure it was; The Gathering Christopher O'Callaghan Now these are the singers- Images shall be beaten To piecesl The ego prevails, We please ourselves... May they pronounce them happy. Face to the ground Hands threshing Cruel and great and strong-Gathering. Later at appointed times we replenish. UMRL JE ČLOVEK--ŽIVEL UMETNIK Stanislav Rapotec 1911 - 1997 Od ure, ko se je človek zavede! samega sebe in sebi lastnih sposobnosti pa do ubesedenja moje percepcije Rapotčeve Meditacije na Veliki petek, je minilo približno 50.000 let, jaz pa sem pred to njegovo umetnino stala, kot umsko podhranjen človek iz kamene dobe. Nisem in nisem mogla priti do besede. Dolgo časa sem stala pred njo, si jo ogledovala in se spraševala, kaj je Rapotec hotel z njo izpovedati. ---------------- Nekajkrat sem zapustila razstavne prostore, pa se vedno znova vračala SUnislw "Mk iz 'c,a ™83> pred njegovo z Blake nagrado ovekovečeno podobo. Osupla sem ob pomisli kako počasi se človek umsko, še bolj počasi pa duhovno, razvija. Vem, da sem počečkala kopico papirja, da sem izvlekla iz sebe, kar so mi dale občutiti barve in poteze, s katerimi je Rapotec ta ko rekoč v sveti jezi naslikal Meditacijo na Veliki petek. Dvaindvajset let pozneje, torej pred trinajstimi leti, mi je bila dana naloga, da napišem članek o mojstru Rapotcu in sicer za prvi Zbornik avstralskih Slovencev, ki ga je izdal SALU K. Zbornik je bil tiskan v Ljubljani, med drugim tudi s pomočjo Slovenske izseljenske matice. Danes pa za Svobodne razgovore stojim ta ko rekoč pred isto nalogo. Velike umetnine so kot resnica: nespremenljive, zato mi je tudi nemogoče z drugimi besedami opisati moje dojemanje Rapotčevega sloga, ki ga nikoli ni spremenil. Zato pred bralce Svobodnih razgovorov, ob tej priliki polagam le tisto, kar se mi je z razkopavanjem moje notranjosti ubesedovalo še dolgo po mojem srečanju z Rapotčevo umetnostjo ter zagledalo dan šele v omenjenem zborniku. Stanislav Rapotec, čeprav se telesno večne nahaja na tem svetu, pa še naprej živi v duhu, ki (si) ga je upodobil v svoje umetnine. Za gonijo fotografijo z nedavne retrospektivne razstave Rapotčevih del v Narodno galeriji pa se uredništvo Svobodnih razgovorovvv zahvaljuje Florjanu Auserju, direktorju in tehničnemu uredniku štirinajstdnevnika Glas Slovenije. Slikar in svetovni popotnik Stanislav Rapotec, katerega delo je visoko cenjeno v Avstraliji, Evropi, Ameriki, je v času, ko sem pisala ta sestavek o njem, razstavljal v Združenih državah Amerike. Razstava sledi razstavi — New York, Washington, Kalifornija Za intervju z njim smo se dogovarjali dalj časa in pristal je nanj, čeprav ne mara intervjujev, vendar pa je prav takrat, ko smo bili dogovorjeni za srečanje z njim, moral nenadno odpotovati v Ameriko. Od tam nam je v pismu sporočil, da bi mu bilo ljubše, ko bi o njem in o njegovih delih napisali kar sami, tako, kot jih občutimo. Življenjska pot mora umetnika, po besedah Stanislava Rapotca, pripeljati na rob med življenjem in smrtjo. Tudi v ljubezni moraš biti nesrečen. In moraš gojiti močno željo do lastnega izraza. Toda vse to nič ne pomaga, niti dober učitelj ne, če ni prisoten talent. Rapotec je prvi Slovenec, ki nas je v tujini navdal z upanjem, da naše ime ne bo zamrlo v malomeščanski puhlosti in apatiji do pravih kulturnih vrednot, ampak da se bo dvigalo na tisto višino, ki si jo želi vsak dober patriot, kjerkoli. Dolga leta smo se avstralski Slovenci naslanjali na Rapotčevo ime, ki je nadsijalo vse tukaj živeče Slovence. Naš ponos je. Leta 1961, ko število Slovencev v Avstraliji še ni bilo tako nizko kot danes, in nam je, zaradi oddaljenosti med posameznimi skupinami Slovencev, bolj kot kdajkoli prej, pretila nevarnost asimilacije, smo se vsi enodušno veselili uspeha našega rojaka Rapotca. Njegovo ime, že znano v Sydneyu, je zaslovelo po vsej Avstraliji. Za svojo »Meditacijo na veliki Petek« je prejel visoko cenjeno nagrado Blake. Navajena poplave pokrajinskih slik, »kuhinjskih« produkcij, vsemogočih portretov, slabih kopij in brezvrednega kiča sem pred njegovo »Meditacijo na veliki petek« obstala kot vkovana. Brez besed. Zgrabila me je vrtoglavica. Misli so se mi zavozljale. Onemela sem pred njegovo napadalnostjo, ki jo sedaj, ko to pišem, podoživljam. S svojo miselnostjo in umetniško zavestjo v morju tradicionalnih načinov slikanja, Rapotec na svole gigantske površine prenaša potenco, ki razburja, toda opazovalcu se ne vsiljuje. Vendar pa ga seeno izziva do skrajnosti. Svojo čustveno prizadetost Rapotec razliva kot hudournik. Pred njegovo »Meditacijo na veliki petek« sem doživela svoje prvo soočenje z vrsto ustvarjalnosti, ki je absolutno ni mogoče pozabili. V njej sem, človek pred človekom, občutila lastno majhnost. Iz Rapotca, kot ga jaz sprejemam, utripajo tako poudarjene emocije prvinske občutljivosti, da ga je nemogoče povsem dojeti. Iz zanosa njegovih močnih, skoraj jeznih potez, ki silijo v brezkončnost, sem lahko razbrala strašansko trpljenje in spoznanja, ki si jih je v življenju nabral, da ti zastane dih in da se ti porajajo vprašanja, na katera, če nisi izvedenec, ne najdeš odgovora. Napetost njegovega močnega, toda ne kričečega kolorita, izraža strastna čustva človeka, ki se jim predaja, vendar jih junaško premaga. Kompozicija pa gledalcu, kot sem jaz, predstavlja nekaj nedoumljivega. Čutiš, da rojstvo njegovih oblik izhaja iz kozmosa, ki ga doživlja v sebi. Še in še premišljuješ o transformacijah njegovih umetniških izkušenj do končnega umetniškega dela. Kljub temu da veš, da je to njegova lastna izpoved, imaš občutek, kot da se je slika sama iz sebe rodila, kol da seje trpljenje, ki iz njega utripa, samo od sebe prikazalo na platno. Najbolj pa me je prizadel občutek, da iz Rapotčeve »Meditacije na veliki petek«, v težkih, temnih, močnih barvah izžareva njegova ogromna, meni nerazumlj iva,umetniška moč. Pavla Gruden MEJE JEZIKA Aleš Debeljak Edvardu Kocbeku, kjer koli že si Statve so obmirovale. Mušnice diše in baročni zvon doni. Zamaknjenost obrazov gre, zdi se, onstran potne kože. Ti mirno poješ. Brez not in brez premorov. Apnen omet je razpokal na zidu te dvorane, ki se neskončno je povečal s svojo pesmijo. Kakor obok nevihtnega neba pred katastrofo. Po volčji poti in čez zmrzla jezera prišli so te poslušat. Na dvorišču so odložili kopja. Pod njimi se židka kri nabira v lužo. Ti mirno poješ. Plazovi in poplave in posmrtne, maske * pesnikov skoz tebe jim sporočajo skrivnost. V stekleni uri zastala je nit peska. Nekje daleč golobica se vrnila je in v neznano smer drsi počasi barka. Bledo sonce razširi prsi množicam, ko te poslušajo. Ti poješ. Magnetna igla drgeta: kot obroč kronične migrene. Še nosečnice in starci, ki so se jim ovlažila grla, s tabo pojejo in nihče jih ne ustavi. NUCLEI Of all forms of literature, poetry is certainly the one most bound to the magic of the words through which it expresses itself. As Rilke said, the experience of a whole lifetime can be presented in extremely concentrated form in just one text. It is not easy to transfer poetry from one language sphere to another, notwithstanding this, poetry has always been translated and always will be whilst different languages exist. A necessary evil, according to some. A matter of the need to broaden our horizons as sensed by us all. A common historical destiny bound the nations in our region of Europe but within it circumstances were such that coexistence could not be facilitated. Hence direct linguistic contacts were as difficult as cultural ones amidst the peoples of different nationalities living here and sometimes almost impossible, as, for example, upon the consolidation of bourgeois ideology. Nevertheless, though the wheel of history may sometimes slow down in its rotation, it cannot be stopped. Today's times demand that nations united by history unite culturally also. TTie initiative provided by Pregarc's anthology in all the languages spoken between the Danube and the Adriatic (other than the English, intended for other needs) is of course but a tiny, possibly even imperceptible step forward in the sense of coexistence in altered circumstances. We must welcome the fact that this stimulus is expressed precisely through the poetry of Aleksij Pregarc whose poetical world has been moulded between the Karst and the sea,-between both the Slavic and Latin spiritual traditions, without him distancing himself from his genuine Slovene roots. Mysticism and the need for a clear classical form blend harmoniously with the everyday and also with historical truths and with his love for his native earth and the fate of the Slovene people. Pregarc's poetry thus originated in the aesthetic conditions created either directly or indirectly by precisely those nations' cultures into the languages of which this book of poems is now translated. Josip Tavčar Aleksij Pregarc CHAOS Chaos - II I went mad and they numbered me pretty cunningly they cured me and I became a person SM (*) I went mad again from forced sobriety was entered into my file (*) SM = sine morbo aimlessly lying amidst the leaves of an evening in the twilight gloom ants in the blood a clang of caterpillars the Ave maria thinly drones - evening mystics wordlessly the bell dutifully chimes once again the day has outwitted me I would go wild I must go wild I shall find a magic guitar flay the strings within three months no I'm not drunk only two cognacs and imagination Weariness The living stubble wet from tearful calves' eyes Scorching heat agitated cicadas whiling away the time jumping on the meagre breasts of desirous dews Come Odew O solitude the bacillus of madness my route to revealing you led along the bed of a stream that stank of obscenity the mosquitoes were just preparing for our nuptial dance as 1 set off for the country fair of spawning schemes love bacillus of madness as you sang in my blood the gallows of liberty were already waiting for me the silken loop of perdition heavenly serpent where is your motion directing me? slithering over me penetrating the centre of my heart with the lance of grandfather's brigands I open up the tabernacle to you: within, you gnaw the final crystal crumbs licking up the drops of the Last Supper the sound of the cross groaned above us disturbing loving breaking passion the chill of conscience yet we rocked and swayed in acrobatic selfishness someone is knocking devoutly on the door barely discernibly I stare quietude wind al five an hour through the poplars the ten thousandth train moves down the lines of habitude loaded with rubble waggon coldly linked to waggon like you to me charming visitor, whilst waiting for our waggon to halt at some sumptuous station for the heap to be animated, begin to speak humanly the track is cold the lines parallel and persistent the pensioned points-man ekes out a miserable existence the cavities of your eyes contain the labyrinth and trashcan of love the corpse of my mother gone mad the home of the perpetual draught of doubts cover them with the lids of those hoodwinked eyes conceal them the trapdoor of death will tear me away from eternal dreams about the petrified partridge tremblingly safeguarding the fruit of egg-shaped spasms in the bush the trapdoor of death engulfs inescapably savagely but wife I know my sinking into your wonderfully formed nothingness will not be bitter the burnt-out setting of my suffering is a far flung filigree web of dry tears rank birds of love feed upon the remains of my saline stiffening To be continued ZGODOVINA -akrosant III.- Zarezana in pogubljena pod skladi časa, zakopana nad tiho večnost, izrojena, raztrgana nemoč spomina. Med galaksije razpršena nerazumljiva zgodovina. Podarjena in žrtvovana pozabe slast in bolečina, grozljivo slana, mrtva hrana. Grozljivo slana, mrtva hrana, vampirjeva žeja potesena, vesolju neskeleča rana. Med svetlim prahom izhlapela in med ozvezdji razmetana, razbeljena, okamenela, pod sončni ogenj odložena, kjer bo brez milosti gorela odpisana, nepotešena. Matjaž J are Odpisana, nepotešena, iz niča žge, iz niča vstane beseda neizgovorjena: ko smrt umira pod življenjem nad njim ljubezen je rojena in sreča ljubi se s trpljenjem; zaprta v kozmične dvorane, zastrta s praznim hrepenenjem, drsi pod čase razdivjane. Drsi pod čase razdivjane, doni brez zvoka, bez odzvena. In pije morja, oceane, drobi planete nad praznino, za sabo žrtve zamolčane zapušča pod neba gladino. Umira, sama nerojena, in trga lastno drobovino obsedena in zaslepljena. Obsedena in zaslepljena kaplja v človekove možgane in izhlapeva, razpršena, nažrta smrti nepreštetih, z morilskim vonjem prepojena. Pod luč spoznanj nerazodetih razseva misli nezaznane, iz njenih od bogov prekletih vekov zvenijo smrtne rane. Vekov zvenijo smrtne rane, neskončnost joče izigrana, in nerazumljena ostane globoko vtisnjena v spomine, pozabi večni darovane. A smrtna rana ne izgine, ne zaceli je moč neznana, ki vre iz mistične daljine, iz ust poeta, modrijana. Iz ust poeta, modrijana iz ust luči tema nastane, s sinjino smrti obsijana. In črna morja zagorijo, ječijo mesta razdeljena, jekleni svodi se talijo, poti, z okostji tlakovane med niti zvezd se izgubijo, nad dolga tisočletja tkane. Nad dolga tisočletja tkane usoda pot gre razorana; nad nas, trenutkom darovane, pretemna senca zgodovine. Prihodonosti nedokončane privid nejasni ne izgine; zveni, ko sila razigrana prši iz večnosti globine akorde sončnega vulkana.. Akorde sončnega vulkana, Nad dolga tisočletja tkane, Iz ust poeta, modrijana, Vekov zvenijo smrtne rane. Obsedena in zaslepljena Drsi pod case razdivjane Odpisana, nepotešena, Grozljivo slana, mrtva hrana, Zarezana in pogubljena. dec.93 IVANKA ŠKOF ŠOLE V SLOVENSKI ISTRI Pred seboj imam knjigo, v kateri so zbrana pričevanja slovenskih učiteljev iz prvega povojnega desetletja slovenske šole v Istri. Lahko bi ji rekli "Učiteljski zbornik'. Pobudo za to delo je dala g. N. Morato pref, zgod, v Kopru Knjigo je uredil Silvo Futur, izšla je 1.1977. v Kopru. "Knjigi na pot'* je napisal Mirko Zorman. Pesnik C.Zlobec pa je v uvodni besedi "Anonimni narodni junaki", povdaril, da so ti učitelji dajali skupnosti več, kot sodi k njihovemu poklicu. Dejal je, da je gotovo vojni partizanski in povojni slovenski učitelj v Slovenski Istri, kjer materialna opustošenost ob osvoboditvi, pa naj je bila še tako velika, ni bila večja in usodnejša od duhovne. Porušeno in požgano hišo pozidaš- človeka pa, ki so ga čas in razmere odrinili na rob in še čez ter tam pozabili, je treba na tem skrajnem robu, poiskati, ga vrniti na sam njegov začetek. Vrniti vnjegovo novo rojstvo, mu dati ime in zavest o sebi, mu odpreti pot v novo življenje skupnosti, ki ji pripada in ponos, ker ji zares pripada. Vsaka zapisovalka in zapisovalec the spominov je bila oz,je bil prepuščen-a sam-a sebi in svoji iznajdljivosti, od katere je bilo največkrat odvisno celo njegovo ali njeno življenje: kje bo jedel, kje bo spal, kako se bo branil mraza in nazadnje, kako bo iz nič, iz materialnih in človeških ruševin, postavil na noge šolo, ki bo v nemogočih razmerah obstajala, živela, opravila svoje poslanstvo. Vendar vse te učiteljske zgodbe v tem zborniku so prežarjene s skoraj neverjetno svetlobo, domala v spominu vseh so ostale zapisane kot "najlepši čas" njihovega življenja." Tako je med drugim povedal pesnik C.Zlobec, ki je v času vojne bil eden od številnih učiteljev, ki so skrbeh, da je naš otrok spoznal bogastvo slovenske besede in slovenske literature. Tako je pesnik odprl vrata v novo poglavje "junakov". Po navadi štejemo v to kategorijo le tiste, ki imajo močne mišice in se iskažejo pri premagovanju nasprotnika z močnim udarcem ah strelom. Premagati revščino in osiromašenje človeške notranjosti ne uspemo z močnem udarcem, z nožem ali s strelom iz puške, proces za to dosego je dosti bolj zahteven in dolgotrajen. Zmore ga le tisti, ki ga opravlja z veliko potrpe- žljivosljo, ljubeznijo in udaiio-stjo. Naj omenim, da je v tem zborniku tudi moj prispevek, saj je bilo moje prvo delovno mesto v Loki pri Črnem Kalu. Prišla sem v to vas, ko se še ni opomogla iz požganih vojnih ruševin. Nisem imela ne stanovanja niti male sobe, kjer bi bila miza, stol ali postelja, na kateri bi se odpočila od napornega dela, saj sem morala poučevati vseh pet razredov. Poleg tega opravljali dolžnost šolskega upravitelja. Poprave šolskih nalog sem opravljala pri petrolejki, prav tako zapisnike sestankov kmetijske zadruge, da ne govorim o priplavali na pouk za vse razrede, saj sem imela prosti čas le pozno ponoči. Pesnik Zlobec je povda-ril, da smo kljub takim problemom in razmeram osUili polni neke plemenite, etične svetlobe, ki še zmiroin sveti v naš čas. Mislim, da naši mladi bi morali seči po tej knjigi, ker bi najbrž našli v njej pravi smisel življenja in bi ne ob vsakem malem naporu obupali in segali po drogi, in nekateri celo po lastnem življenju. Vzgoja mladine je temelj države. Zgled popravlja mnogo bolje kot graja (Voltaire). EDVARD KOCBEK V POZGANI VASI Slonim ob zidu, še vedno je vroč od dolgega požara, nikjer ni človeka, nikjer zločinca, Üa se udirajo, vesolje razpada, zvezde poginjajo. Naenkrat zavalovi duh po vijolicah, začnem poslušati mile glasove, trava se vzdiguje za nove stopinje, pepel se objema za novo trdnost. Studenec šLropota v kamnito korito, mačka se vrača na ožgani prag, vedno bolj rastem, postajam velikan, že vidim grozi preko ramena. (Vir: Ljudska Modrost(Stanko Prek) WHATEVER IS IN GOD'S PLAN "Anna" Part 2. Jožica Gerden The time to leave home was approaching fast. I tried not to think about it, as I could not see myself able to go through the painful parting. The whole family stayed home on the day we were to leave. We hardly spoke; we just kept working and pretending we were all so busy. We were afraid to show each other our silent cries. The trip to Genoa, Italy, would take many hours by car, so we should leave really early in the morning, We kept delaying the departure, when suddenly my mother turned around and whispered: "Would you please leave soon? I can't stand it any Longer. I want to cry" "Mama, one more minute and I'll go". I ran into the family room and knelt down in front: of the cross in the corner of the room and prayed. "Dear God, please give me the strength to go. Please give me the strength not to cry". Like one reborn, 1 jumped up, covered my face with my brightest smile, and said: "Farewell, Mama and Father, sisters and brothers -1 am ready to go, Be happy and well!" When we passed over our village bridge, nothing could stop my tears any more. The trip to Australia lasted four weeks and it was not very pleasant at all. I was already pregnant: and felt sea-sick most of the time. What was even worse was that nobody spoke my language. The ship, "Narconi*, was Italian, and so were most of the people. The food was boring; the menu consisted of spaghetti, roast beef and potatoes, day after day for thirty long, long days. We stopped in Naples, Sicily and Athens, where we visited the majestic hills of the Acropolis. Along the African coast we stopped first at the Canary Islands, then Cape Town and Durban. We were informed that the trip would take another two weeks non-stop over a rough Indian Ocean before we would reach the shores of Australia and the port of Fremantle. Those two weeks were quite dramatic, I felt sea-sick almost every day, so I stayed in our cabin most of the time. My husband found a group of men playing chess and he joined them. I couldn't understand anybody, so I preferred to stay behind - mostly lying on the bed, staring at the ceiling and thinking: "This is supposed to be our extended honeymoon, and I feel so unhappy, What is the reason for running away? I love my family so much; I already miss them, especially my older sister who was like a spiritual mother to me. We shared everything. She taught me to count, read and write before I went to school. She even told me the facts of life, and she said: 'Because I am older and wiser, I'l 1 find a good husband for you'." Yes, I just realised, she had found a husband for me, and had sent me off. I felt so alone... I wished I could stop the ship and turn it around. I would even have run back if I could, but that would be impossible. "No, no. Why these negative thoughts? Just be positive - things will be better -.....!" After two of the longest weeks of my life, we were informed that the land of Australia was to be seen on the horizon. We all ran to the deck to catch the first sight. What a strange view it was! 1 imagined it would look green and rocky, just as in the movies, but now all we could see was the huge, brown, massive cloud hanging over the sky. Is this Australia? my heart sighed. Our German companion told us that we were seeing what is called a dust storm. When we got nearer, it would look better. No! It didn't look much better! All I remember of the first sight was an old fence of sheet-iron and some half-demolished barracks. The land was grey, dry and barren. My impression of my new homeland improved next morning when we boarded the bus and went on a day trip to Perth, I: liked the city of Perth. It was a fresh city with beautiful open, blue skies. "One more week of'ship life* and we will reach our final destination the port of Melbourne", my husband kept informing me. "You are telling me that from Europe to Perth takes three weeks, and from Perth to Melbourne one week ... one quarter of the way further?" I wished we had stayed in Perth. The trip to Mildura by car was incredibly long. I thought: "We will never make it! Perhaps we are lost!" My husband was very happy and he thought I was coping well. "Please tell me what our home is like", I enquired quietly. "Oh! Don't be too disappointed. It's not much, but it has four walls and a roof above our heads. It will have to do for a while until we build the new house". Actually, the house was much worse than I could have ever imagined. The walls were high, colourless and dirty. The floors had torn lino in bright colours. The kitchen, covered with smoke, had a broken wood stove and the house was made of a strange material - cement sheets. It was as hot as hell during the day and pretty cold at night. How I longed for a shady tree or some wild flowers to pick and decorate my kitchen table. There was not a single tree around the house and not one flower in the garden. The grass was dry and prickly. My husband said: "We are lucky to have as neighbours people of our countiy - a retired couple in their seventies". Well, that was the first good news. The next day I visited them, but I was a bit disappointed because we could hardly understand each other. My neighbours spoke a different language, coloured with a strong dialect. We all tried hard, and soon I learned their dialect. One day my husband brought me a bunch of colourful poppies which other neighbour sent me. They were just so lovely. At home I knew only red poppies that grew wild in the wheat fields. I wanted so much to thank my neighbour personally, but it would be too embarrassing as I only knew a few words of English. A few days later, a woman in the comer shop came to me, called my name and said "hello". I was pleasantly surprised, and just guessed who she was. "you, flowers?" "Yes, yes," she replied. "Oh, thank you very much." That was the end of our conversation, How I wished that I could talk to her much more! One day 1 had a visitor, another neighbour from across the road. AU I understood was that she had two sons: one was married, and another one was in the Vietnam war. She sounded very proud of them. I was tempted to tell her how I disapproved of foreign interference in the internal affairs of another country, but luckily I didn't know enough English to keep the discussion going. I would probably have lost my Australian friend I still have today! AH the neighbours were very good to me, and veiy supportive; I'll be grateful to them for ever. My neighbours told my husband that ladies wear hats in the church, so my husband jumped into the car at the last minute, and rushed to buy me a hat. The hat was so pretty - pink, with a veil, I put it on my not-too-fancy head and I looked just ridiculous, So I put it on the top of the wardrobe and never wore it again. My first Sunday here was a very special Sunday All Saints Day, followed by All Souls Day. In fact, it was a beautiful and sad time of the year, which we used to celebrate so differently: At home, the whole family went to the first morning mass at 5 a.m. The local church of St. Mariette would be peeping out of the snow, surrounded by the cemeteiy which glowed with thousands of lighted candles. Each grave bore baskets of fresh flowers, mostly giant, crisp chrysanthemums, Whole families would be gathered around the family graves, quietly praying for the souls of their beloved departed. The church choir would sing the songs of hope and sorrow - the Elegy. I expected a similar ceremony here, but nothing happened. No one even mentioned that it was All Saints' Day! "How ignorant!" I thought. My neighbours told my husband that I should visit a doctor regularly for my pregnancy check-up. My husband went with me as an interpreter. He talked to the doctor, but failed to tell me what the doctor said. I noticed the doctors worried face at each visit, and I wondered why. I forced my husband to explain his concern, and was very surprised to hear that I had to watch my diet. Every two weeks I gained double the normal weight! How could this be possible? I was hardly eating, just drinking to ease my thirst, Fruit was pleasant, but the rest of the food was tasteless and seemed different. The house was so hot. We had no air conditioner, not even a fan. It wasn't worth installing them; my husband was already building a new house. The vinyl chairs were hot and sticky, the bed was hot, cold water scalded me when I turned the tap on, and the humid, heavy air was suffocating me. My husband worked from five in the morning to ten at night I felt painfully lonely. I wished I had shade outside so that I could sit under a tree and watch the life on the street. Television wasn't much of a companion to me either, as I couldn't understand anything, so I just: watched the pictures. I was longing for the world news, but there was none. The world seemed to be standing still! Every week or two I wrote a letter to my parents and told them about every nice thing I could think of. I never complained, that would only make them sad, but I told them I missed them very much. I received back the most wonderful letters of support. My mother said that she could also read between the written lines, and she knew exactly what I needed to hear, She often said: "Whatever is in God's plan... Wherever you are, don't forget we all live under one's 'God cover*. After six months of pregnancy, my doctor became suspicious and ordered x-rays. "1 have wonderful news for you. You're having twins!" the doctor informed us. My husband was so happy and proud. He ran from house to house in the neighbourhood to spread the news. Everybody was delighted. One neighbour taught me Row to read English knitting patterns and I knitted my first two baby jackets - one in pink, and one in blue. Another friend taught me how to sew. The heat of April was still scorching, and I was so big and heavy; wider than I was tall! I was glad I didn't have a full-size mirror in the house to see myself and my alien body. One night at two a.m. my water broke and my husband took me to the hospital immediately. The doctor was quite relaxed in the morning as the babies were only one week premature, and were both of good size. But he warned me that labour would be difficult, as one baby was in the 'bridge" position and I had already lost all the water. My English had improved in six months, and I prayed that there would be no great problems, The sister who was attending me was a wonderful person. She talked to me, brought me fruit juice, rubbed my back, and did everything possible to make me feel more comfortable. After fourteen hours I had lost ail my strength and the doctor put me to sleep for the final delivery. When I awoke, sister put two little bundles into my lap - one in pink, and another one in a blue nappy. "How wonderful. Two perfect babies - one of each. How lucky I am. Thanks, God!" Sister is still one of my best friends today. Visiting time: My husband called and brought me a bunch of petunias from the neighbour's garden. He was so proud that he wouldn't be childless after all, as everybody had been worried about him only a year before. He made a quick inspection to see that everything was good and normal, and asked me to go back to sleep as he had to go back to work. The young mother in the bed next to mine had a tiny daughter that day, too. She had a room full of visitors, many cards and flowers and more flowers. Her parents came to see her too, and stayed with her for a long time, talking and laughing. How unfair! I would have liked so much to show my babies to my parents! I felt so proud of being a mother of twins, but I had no-one to share my happiness with. I hadn't even told my parents I was expecting twins, because they would have worried so much about me. But now, when the anxiety was all over, I wanted them next to me so badly. The pain of isolation and homesickness was too much to bear at that moment, and my heart exploded with grief. Part of me went to sleep at that moment so bitterly, that it's still numb today. Ten days later I was home with my babies. I noticed that we had night visitors in the house - rats and mice coming in from the fruit block. Each door was about ten inches from the floor, so mice and rats had fun. I was very worried for the babies, and often checked on them during the night to see if their limbs were still in place! I stuffed all the rags I would find under the doors, and caught many creatures in the mouse traps. After a couple of months we were very excited about shifting into the new house. Unfortunately we had no money for furniture, but again, it was not worthwhile buying any. The house and the block were for sale, and if they were sold, then we could go back home'. I stopped breast feeding my babies at three months, and expected to return to normal life. Strange... I felt morning sickness again, just tike a year ago on the boat! "Is it possible? Am I...?" "Yes, you are expecting a baby. Congratulations, said the doctor. My neighbours were shocked, but I calmed them down, explaining that it was okay. Two or three babies wouldn't make much difference! Early in July, one year later, my husband took me to the hospital, again early one evening. "Your doctor is away, and no doctor will be called until the delivery", an older sister informed me in her stern voice. "It will take hours, and I'm very busy. But you will be okay. You are a healthy mother". One of my neighbours came to see me and asked if she- could be with me. "No! You are not her husband or her mother! You can't sče her!", the sister yelled. Twelve hours was like an eternity for me. Nobody came to see me or to offer me comfort. Sister came at last in the morning, when I was screaming with labour pains, and my body felt as if it was turning inside out. When the baby was born, a doctor arrived to cut the cord. It was another daughter. She looked so, so tired and old, and her head was strangely long. "Darling, I'll try to make up to you for the horrible labour 1 put you through." When I went home I needed help, but my husband was so busy building a block of flats that he had no time to spare, or to help. "What's for dinner1? We haven't had a cooked meal for a week!", he said. I cooked the dinner, bathed the three babies, and there was still much more work to do. But my body wouldn't let me do it. I started shivering And couldn't stop shaking. I felt so cold. My neighbour came over and ordered me to go to bed. She covered me with all the blankets and anything else she could find. I thought 1 might be dying, but luckily, after a while I stopped shaking, and felt warm again. It was two years since I had arrived in Australia, and I still naively believed that we would be going home soon. I missed having a friend or a neighbour with a young family like mine. We would have had so much to sharer and my life would have been more interesting - not just merely washing, changing, hanging out nappies, cooking and washing dishes, cleaning the house... for ever, it seemed. Soon I noticed I had a new neighbour across the road, and that I knew her. I had met her a year ago in the hospital, when we were feeding our tiny babies in the separate room. I had liked her a lot, and had wished that she would be my neighbour, too. Did God send her to me? I visited her, and soon we became very close friends, I didn't drive, so she often took us out for picnics. My life was gradually becoming more pleasant. I often felt depressed and numb with tiredness. I stopped caring how I looked, or how tidy the house was. Only when I expected my friend to come over I found new strength to make the babies, myself, and the house look pretty. She was a perfect person, and I wished so badly that I could be just a little like her. She made me care again. My second daughter was a beautiful looking baby and she attracted much admiration from many people. I breast fed her for eight months, and we were very close - more so than the twins, who were quite independent from the beginning. I expected that my body would at last become norma) again ... but it wouldn't. Soon I realised that I was pregnant again. This realisation was an absolute shock to me, but my husband soon pulled me out with Iiis fatherly pride. That's good. This time it will be a boy - two of each!" Yes, I wanted and prayed for four children too, but not so soon. When my fourth baby was due, the twins would only be two and a half years old, How would I cope? You will! Die or survive! You will just do what you have to do!" My husband was optimistic. My neighbours were also shocked by the news, but I managed to convince them that it didn't matter much whether there were three or four babies! When I visited the doctor again, I begged him to perform a sterilisation on me as soon as baby was born. The doctor laughed at my impetuosity, but he was a very special person and understood my anxiety. He promised to give me special care, and he did give me a lot of attention and encouragement. My fourth baby was born on New Year's Day. The doctor arranged for a spinal injection, and a pleasant, painless labour. My new baby was ä very happy boy, and everybody just adored him. He had received more love and attention than the first three put together! The strain on my physical and mental condition was enormous. I had only two or three hours rest at night; I was a light sleeper, and my four babies hardly ever went to sleep at the same time. I developed skin problems, and many other health problems, and was becoming more and more homesick. I hadn't heard anyone speak my language for five years! My thoughts were 'home' most of the time. I tried to remember my parents' faces, but they were almost fading, even though I thought of them constantly. After five years my husband gave in. We packed our trunks, rented the house, and fled home. But home was not as homely as I had imagined. We were a family of six, and my parents' house, with four of my brothers and sisters still at: home and at school, could not accommodate us permanently. My husband and his parents insisted that we stay in their house with the empty apartment upstairs. For a couple of months everything went well until, one day, as 'out of the blue sky' I became guilty of everything possible! My mother-in-law could not accept me, but it was even more hurtful to see how she rejected her grandchildren, To live with her became impossible, and my nerves suffered badly. I decided to help myself. - The company where I used to work offered me my job back, and the children could stay in an all-day kindergarten. They provided a house, too. I packed the suitcases and arranged to shift the next day. Early in the morning I woke the children, but couldn't believe my eyes! All Four of them were feverish and had swollen glands on their necks. Mumps! All four of them at once! My plans were wrong, I realised. I asked my husband to return to Australia. My parents were sad, but Mama said once again: "Whatever is God's wish - IT MUST BE IN GOD'S PLAN!" A POEM By Danny O'Rourke To force a nightingale to sing like a kookaburra Would be a cruel, cruel twist of fate, To force a flamingo to dance like a duck Would change it to a thing of hate. And to force other cultures to be just like ours is a mindless thing, and so wrong. We should share and enjoy and allow other folks To dance and sing their own song. We should give and accept and exchange our ideas And take people just as they are. When we as a nation decide to do this, Our world will be better by far. From ("The Love That Brought Us Here -Multicultural Women s Association ofSunraysia. 1987) Slobodan Šembera SPOMINI NEKEGA LORDA tragikomočni polit-triler Osebe: Lord Badminton, šesti baron Badmintonski Dogaja se v Londonu v letih 1991-92 Skrivnostni uvod: V tihem in elegantnem okolju delovnega kabineta v vili'dvorcu londonske četrti Chelsea, med stenami, obloženimi s temnim mehagonijem, v varnem zavetju debelih angleških preprog, težkih zastorov in s tlečim ognjem v rdečkastem marmornem kaminu, za težlo pisalno mizo v chippendale stilu in zavaljen v globok usnjen fotelj, ob zamolkli svetlobi secesijske namizne luči z zelenim senčnikom iz stekla, v tem udobnem skrivališču, ki je bolj podobno skrivnostni pisarni kakšnega visokega uslužbenca KGB-a v tridesetih letih kot pa svetovljanskim navadam ob koncu dvajsetega stoletja, sedi, dela in vleče nitke junak naše zgodbe: Lord, pravi pravcati baron Badmintonski, tajni svetnik Njenega Veličanstva, nekdanji gojenec Sandhuista in pripadnik vojske, ki je nepremakljiva tradicija v vrsti veleva vzdrževanje časti in dane besede, nosilec Vojnega Kriča, vitez reda svetega Mihaela in svetega Jurija. Negibni mir tu in tam zmoti le poprstih stopajoči služabnik George, fant srednjih let in discipliniranega obnašanja, ki so ga rekrutirali iz angleško vzgojene bele manjšine nekdanje britanske Rodezije, posamezni zven telefona,katerega številke ni mogoče najti v londonskem telefonskem imeniku in seveda, tečko breme odgovorniosti večstoletnega nasledstva visokega plemstva. Noblesse oblige. Zgornjega vzdušja nažalost ni mogoče predstaviti v sodobni radijski obdelavi, vendar govori o vzdušju, v katerem nastajajo skrivni dnevniški zapiski našega junaka, spomini, pisani za zgodovino in za neke bodoče rodove, ki jih ' po mnenju stvarnika -itak ne bodo vredni. To, da ima popisovalec zgodovine navado, da svoje vrstice prebira naglas, govori le o prikriti zavesti lastne, nikdar izživete književne nadaijenosti, ki ni vredna visokega rodu državniškega poslanstva, pa tudi navadnega ljudstva ne, ki bi se z njo soočilo ob možni obliki tiskanega čtiva. Zato je ta dnevniški pisec hkrati tudi svoj najzvestejŠi in edini bralec, ki z dolžnim strahospoštovanjem in brez skrite zaljubljenosti prebira napisano. Prii tem so zanj sporočila orednosti lastnega blata prav tako pomembna kot podatek o številu mrtvih v neki daljni vojni, odpor proti mleku je izražen natanko tako, kot proti klanju nedolžnih, zemljepisni pojmi iz Afrike natako tako kot tisti evropski, ki so vezani na kraje izven Otoka. Pol milenija dedovano plemištvko steblo nalaga, da se o vsem govori izenačeno, odmerjeno in povzdignjeno. Brez čustvenih izlivov, zgražanj ali glasnih tonov. Jakost nekaterih reakcij, najpogosteje zaradi osebne prizadetosti in občutka zgodovinske krivičnosti, izhaja zato največ iz same vsebine stavka, njegove oblike in izbora besed. Na primer, če naš junak za nekega inozemskega ministra reče, da je tulipan, potem tega ne bo izgovoril z opaznim besom v glasu, temveč bo pojasnil to trditev tako, da bi se počutil prizadet človek, ki je mnogo manj pomemben, kot minister. Njegova zaskrbljenost, strah in trepen postanejo očiti šele v trenutku, ko se zave, da njegova svetovna misija nemara vendarle ne bo z zlatimi črkami vpisana v zgodovino in ko postane zaskrbljen za lastno zdravje. Toda,to se zgodi šele na koncu, kot tudi vse človeško pri takih tipih pride šele na koncu. Mili zven milega nam našega londonskega Big Bena. Mojim prednikom je zvonil in meni zvoni. Spominja me na neizbežni prehod časa, na zgodovino. Poglejte, seje že začelo prav tako neizbežno 1991. leto. Če samo pomislim, da seje šele pred dvesto leti ob tem času, nedaleč od nas, samo čez cesto Angleškega kanala, v tedanji Franciji, začela kuhati francoska revolucija. Na sreča smo mi, Angleži, uredili tudi to. Prav tako na srečo, so se skozi zgodovino take erupcije ljudskega besnila selile vse dlje od našega britanskega otoka, proti vzhodu in proti jugu, kar še ne pomeni, da nas niso motile in nam šle na živce. Naši kraljevski družini, to pa pomeni - vsem nam na britanskem otočju, gotovo ni bilo vseeno, ko je nek navadni vaški fotograf v imenu barbarske sovjetske oblasti leta 1919 pretresljivo pobil svojega ruskega carja in sorodnika Našega britanskega Veličanstva, pa vso njegovo družino. Tega se spominjamo. Niti en član kraljeve družine - torej niti moje lordstvo Badmintonsko, ni od tedaj stopilo na barbarska sovjetska tla. Kljub plodnemu sodelovanju med Drugo svetovno vojno, ko smo zaradi okoliščin morali skupaj premagati Hune. No, pa še tedaj je bil dogovor korekten in jasen: Mi dajemo teluiiko, vi date ljudi. In basta, kot bi rekli, zdi se mi, Finci. Zgodovina se. žal ponavlja. Zdi se mi, da so Portugalci tisti, ki pravijo: Repetitio est mater omnium studionim. No ja, tudi to bomo uredili. (Zven londonskega Big Bena) Danes spet pišem dnevnik. To, da ga cela dva mesca nisem pisal, ne pomeni, da sem se polenil. Nasprotno. Poleg dnevnih družbenih obveznosti, predvsem popoldnevnih čajank v klubu lordov, ob napornih razpravah o še vedno nerazumljivih razlogih za razpad britanskega imperija, o klimatskih pasteh, ki jih že stoletja vsakodnevno prireja nepredvidljivo angleško vreme in o vrhunski kakovosti britanskega tiska, sem v tem razdobju lastnoročno zabil žebelj, na katerem visi grb moje plemiške družine, materialni dokaz mojega lordstva v šestem kolenu, ki bi me z nehoteno ljudsko okornostjo naša sobarica domala tako zlalika spravila obenj. Medtem, ko je brisala prall, ji je padel na tla. Opozoril sem jo, naj se med čiščenjem grba strogo izogiba. Tudi vrtnice v rastlinjaku sem posul z žveplenim praškom proti zajedalcem. Zajedalcev v našem rastlinjaku seveda ni. A nikoli ne veš. Kot imamo mi diplomatje navado reči, je bolje zdraviti kot preprečiti. Pogosto tudi narobe. Opravil sem tudi neogibni pogovor z novim vrtnarjem in pojasnil, da so vrtnice izključno moja osebna skrb. Razložil sem, da so vrtnice občutljivejše in starejše od same človeške vrste, da predstavljajo simbol dvojnosti: cvetje in trnje, lepota in grdobija, ljubezen in mržnja, življenje in smrt, pa da je z vrtnicami treba znati. Dodal sem tudi, da vrtnice niso trava in naj se ukvarja s slednjo. Zdi se, daje razumel Dnevnika pa nisem pisal, ker ni bilo kaj pisati. Od Litve, Latvije in Estonije naprej se ni nič zgodilo. Kuvajt je uredil Veliki Jim, vRodeziji pa je mir. Kajti Rodezijo sem uredil jaz, brez Jima. V resnici je bilo dolgočasno. Toda danes so me poklicali iz Ministrstva za zunanje zadeve Vlade Njenega Veličanstva. Kaže, da me Evropejci prosijo za usluge, da se je zakuhalo v Evropi. Jasno. Čim se v Evropi kaj zakuha, pokličejo nas, Britance, da jim naredimo usluge. Kadar pa jim kuhanje uspeva, nas Britancev niti na kosilo ne povabijo. Kaj še, takrat bi hoteli, da jim ga se plačamo. Tako je to, če smo plemeniti. litavsko zlato smo Čuvali petdeset let. Zdaj pa, ko smo mi izvojevali njihovo svobodo, smo jim ga morali vrniti. Nihče ni vprašal, koliko nas je ■ ',r stalo čuvanje wive5 savj shortsighted exciteb bisrupting eAch For love overwhelms aH logicAl thought as things thAt once mAttereb aH crumble to nought Neither hell nor high WAter cam change love's resolve for Arovmb love's strong j>Assion aH thoughts how revolve Like a besert oAsis a hole in the snow contrasting compelling love beckons to know Like a fire aH consuming it quickens the heArt purg ing aH t>Arkness it brings a new stArt AmAZing the chAnges thAt love aIwavjs brings AttAching new beAUty to aH munt>Ane things But no love is purer or as Usting, I see AS Gob our Lorb Jesus who t>iet> there for me.... VtutCa- Lay-out S.U. % auf love A ßociH- Steve ItaxJiett —- .....I- . ... .:■ I ...............- • 46 • ■