Page:The Czechoslovak Review, vol4, 1920.pdf/101
in that town, I was very lonesome, and from the time my husband died I felt as forsaken as a pear tree in a grain field. (In Bohemia, one often sees a solitary pear tree in the field; so that the phrase “as lonely as a pear tree in a field” has become a common saying). I often thought I should be better off at home, and one day I broached the subject to Lehotsky. He discouraged the thought and assured me that I should certainly get a pension and that the King would care for my children. I was thankful, but finally decided to return home. The German language was a great obstacle to me. While we were at Glatz, I was better off, for there Bohemian was spoken more than German; but at Neisse, it was just the opposite, and I could not learn that language. Hardly had we made ourselves comfortable when the flood came. Water is a fearful element when it becomes angry; one can not escape it even on horseback.
“It came so suddenly that people barely escaped with their lives. I quickly picked up what I could, tied the bundle upon my back, took the youngest child in my arms, held the elder two by the hands, and so we fled, wading to our ankles in the water. Lehotsky came to our assistance, led us to the higher town, where good people received us kindly and gave us shelter.
“The report soon spread through the town that I had lost almost everything, and these good people at once came to my aid. The commander of the regiment sent for me, and told me that I should get several dollars a year and steady work that the boy would be taken into a military school, and I could place the girls in the Royal Institute for Women. This did not comfort me at all, and I begged them, if they wished to show me some kindness, to give me a little money so that I could return to Bohemia. I said I would not part with my children, that I should bring them up in my faith and language. This they would by no means permit, and told me that if I did not remain there, I should get nothing. ‘If nothing, then nothing’, thought I, ‘God will not leave us to perish from hunger,’ and so I thanked the King for all, and left.”
“I think your children would have been well provided for,” observed the Princess.
“Very likely, your Grace; but they would have become estranged. Who would have taught them to love their home and their mother tongue? Nobody. They would have learned a strange language, strange customs, and finally would have forgotten their own kin. How could I then justify myself before God? No, no, who is born of Bohemian blood, let him learn to speak the Bohemian tongue! I asked for permission to leave, picked up the little clothing I had left, took my children and bade farewell to the town where I had seen so many bitter, as well as happy days. The housekeeper loaded my children with as much food as they could carry and gave me several dollars for the journey, May God repay their children what good those people did to me! Poor Lehotsky went with us about six miles, carrying Johanna. He was sorry we were going away, for our house was always like a home to him. At parting we both wept. While he remained at Neisse, he went regularly to George’s grave to pray a Pater-noster; they loved each other as brothers. He lost his life in the French war. God grant his soul eternal rest!”
“And how did you get to Bohemia with those children?” asked the Princess.
“We suffered much on the journey, gracious lady. Not knowing the way, we wasted much time wandering about to no purpose. Our feet were covered with bloody blisters, and often we could find no habitation. We got safe to Kladrau Hills, and there I felt quite at home. I came from Olesnic near the borders of Silesia, but I suppose your Grace doesn’t know where that is. When I was near home, another burden began to weigh upon my heart. I wondered whether my parents were still living, and how they would receive me. When I left home they had given me a good outfit, and now I was returning with empty hands and bringing them three orphans. ‘What will they say to me?’ That question kept sounding in my ears. I feared, too, that some sad change might have taken place in the two years during which I had not heard from them.”
“And did you never write to them, at least your husband, if not you?” wondered the Princess.
“The custom of sending letters is not common among us. We think of each other, pray for each other, and as we have opportunity, we send word by some friend how each one is doing. A person doesn’t know where such a letter may go, and into whose hands it may fall. My father used to write letters to soldiers who went from our village and were somewhere far beyond the boundaries, so that their parents might find out whether they were alive or not, or when they wanted to send them a little money. But when they returned, they said they never got anything, and so it is, your Grace; when a letter comes from a person of the lower classes, it is very apt to remain here or there.”
“You are mistaken, my good woman,” quickly said the Princess, “every letter, let it come from whom it will, must come into the hands of the person to whom it is addressed. No one can keep it or open it, there is a severe penalty for this.”
“It is a proper thing, and I gladly believe it but after all, we prefer to confide in some good friend. Upon such a bit of paper one cannot put everything, and the reader would like to know this and that, and there is nobody there to ask; but when one of those good pilgrims or peddlers comes along, he tells everything word for word, I, too, should have heard more about my folks, but on account of those disturbances, there was very little travel.