In the Shadows of Vinohrady
This whole area around here used to look quite different when I was growing up. There were barely any buildings —instead, there were orchards and farmland, and, of course, the vineyards. Before they built Korunni Street, there was an old road lined with cherry trees. That was before my time, but they say city folk often came all the way down here during the spring to marvel at the blossoms. This road was more like a path connecting the vineyards to the city of Praha. It was shady during the summer, with high hedges on both sides.
My family's house was between the old Korunni road and the river. We ran a general store, the first of its kind in the area, and there was an endless stream of people coming in and out during the evening. You see, at the time, most people around here were farmers, and everyone was just too busy during the day tending the land. Everything else had to wait until after it got too dark to work in the fields: cooking, bathing, washing clothes, and also shopping. After sunset, people would run errands and visit friends carrying small paper lanterns. The countryside would light up; from a distance, they looked like fireflies.
Our store sold everything, from textiles to candles to medicine. Growing up, I often helped neighbours carry their bags home. After they had visited the shop, big bundles weighing up to 60 kilos were placed outside in the courtyard, and Konata and the other boys would fasten the packages to their backs and deliver them. On the way, the boys would tell stories to keep themselves going, often tales about spirits both good and bad that lived deep in the forest. Our lanterns cast shadows that would follow us wherever we went, fleeting images of shrubs, trees, and small leaves. We liked to think the lightest and warmest of shadows, which looked like tiny leaves flapping their wings, were the kindred spirits of our ancestors, fondly watching over us. I wonder if my father, who died in an accident when I was small, was there among them…
Many trees held a special meaning then. When there was a newborn in the family, fathers would plant a birch tree if the baby was a girl, an oak if a boy. Around the shop it was mostly birch trees, as we were all girls on my mother’s side of the family. After the area was redeveloped, all these trees were cut down, leaving many elderly people stunned. I guess it couldn’t be helped; there is no stopping time…
But we didn’t think about such things back then, in those summer evenings as we crossed the countryside carrying bundles on our backs. I remember this one night —it must have been soon after the spring festival— on the way back the boys collected willow branches carrying their first leaves and ran after me, Hana, Rika, and the other girls, gently whipping our legs whenever they caught up with any of us. When Konata and then Ura came to me, I felt a strange warmth swelling inside me. I must have been red as a tomato, and I was glad it was too dark for them to notice how discomposed I was. Hana, Rika, Konata, Ura… they are all shadows now. I feel their presence in passing whenever I happen to be out at night in Vinohrady and see the leaves trembling in the evening breeze. Maybe you don’t understand what I mean… Many traditions were different then; they have changed as much as this whole area…