Today I went to the Deutsches Historisches Museum in Berlin to see the First World War exhibition, heralded with great fanfare. It is vain to waste many words on the exhibition, when a single one describes it: boring. In the basement, in one large room, a turbulent installation tries to present the entire history of WWI. The attempt is a complete failure. Anyone who does not already know the progress of the war in detail will not be able to assemble into one coherent picture the objects exhibited in separate stalls, which are labeled with the names of various theatres of operation, and presented in an “ach, wie schrecklich, der Krieg!” way to maximize the emotional effect. And anyone who knows it will clearly see the random and commonplace character of the selections. I would have not even written about it, if, just before the exit, in the stall dedicated to the post-war developments, I had not caught sight of one last exhibition object.


The more or less one meter wide bronze plaque once adorned the building of the Croatian Parliament in Zagreb, while today it is preserved in the Croatian Historical Museum. According to its inscription – “narodno vijeće na spomen proglašenja slobodne nezavisne države slovenaca hrvata i srba u hrvatskome saboru, XXIX. X. MCMXVIII.” – it was raised by the national council to commemorate the proclamation of the free and independent state of the Slovenes, Croats and Serbs on 29 October 1918. The three female figures in classical dress, personifying the three peoples, hold hands. The figures on the left and right hold in their free hands the coats of arms of Greater Croatia and Greater Serbia, assembled from a wide variety of regions. The figure in the middle has both hands full, yet she is not left without a coat of arms either. She has it under her foot.


If the three South Slavic brother nations want to celebrate their union on the wall of the Croatian Parliament, let them do so, although the sincerity of the gesture is seriously questioned by the permanent fratricide against each other they have been committing ever since, both by the pen and the machine gun. But that on this occasion they found it necessary to immortalize, aere perennius, the treading on the (heraldically defective) coat of arms of Hungary, with which Croatia fought on the same side through WWI; which they did not win, but were separated from it by virtue of the treaty of peace; and with which they were for eight hundred years in personal union, and fought together against the Ottoman empire and its Balkan marauders, so that here they also tread on their own coat of arms and eight hundred years of history – this already belongs to the pathology of the newly created Eastern European small states. And it also illustrates, together with thousands of similar gestures, why that treaty of peace, of which today we commemorate the ninety-fourth anniversary, can remain a living psychological and emotional burden, beyond all historical considerations and necessity.

Ivo Kerdić, the sculptor, creator of several patriotic post-WWI sculptures and medals, seems to have thoroughly learned the principles of Roman classicism in his study trips. However, it seems that neither he nor his commissioners had ever heard about the most important principle of classical Rome, with which it could preserve its conquests and under which they would flourish, and which is summed up in four words as the art of government by Virgil in the famous verse 6.853 of Aeneis:


To learn the second half of the principle, they had plenty of time between 1991 and 2001. The first half, however, they seem never to have learned.

In Lublin, at the entrance of the parking lot established on the place of the Jewish quarter blown up by the Nazis and leveled by the Communist regime.

In 1944 there were almost two thousand yellow-star houses in Budapest, but the Open Society Archive managed to open only a few more than a hundred for the Midsummer Day presentation. The rest remained closed. The page of the OSA publishes their full list, asking the readers to tell their stories.

I also want to contribute with one house from the almost two thousand. But even if you manage to get in and to record the stage, on which many generations played their stories, what does the stage tell us about these stories? I cannot publish but pictures, into which everyone can imagine a hundred years of history – or add to the post what you know about it.


“My mother still had an entire drawer of these letters. They purchased land from the 1880s on, piece by piece, as they could, they run farms on them. In the 50s, after the land was taken away, they even feared to keep the papers, even they could cause trouble. They put them on the fire, piece by piece. Only these few were left to me.”

— Et pourquoi n’iriez-vous pas à La Mecque ?
Debout devant la large maquette de l’extension de la grande mosquée de La Mecque, je les regarde. Le couple qui se tient devant moi dans la pénombre de l’exposition « Hajj, le pèlerinage à La Mecque » à l’Institut du monde arabe, à Paris, me fait face en souriant.


— C’est une expérience extraordinaire, le pèlerinage, nous l’avons fait déjà trois fois et… ces gens venus des quatre coins du monde, toute cette fraternité, cette paix, c’est quelque chose qu’on ne rencontre nulle part ailleurs. Vraiment, vous devriez y aller, chacun peut y aller, vous savez…
Une image me traverse, cette autoroute dont les voies se séparent — La Mecque tout droit pour les musulmans, non-musulmans prochaine sortie à droite.
— Je ne crois pas pouvoir…
Ils hésitent. Et dans un soupir :
— Ah, c’est vrai, il faut être musulman…
La femme me sourit comme à un enfant ignorant avant que son mari ne tempère d’une voix douce :
— Mais vous savez, c’est très simple. Une simple formule à prononcer, rien de plus, pas d’études préalables, pas de cérémonie… Vous qui êtes historienne, dire que Mahomet est un prophète… c’est une vérité historique, non ? Ce ne serait pas difficile pour vous…
Une simple formule. Une formalité pour tout dire.
A moi de leur sourire. Je pense à Richard Burton visitant La Mecque en 1853 sous le déguisement d’un médecin afghan. Sans doute aucune époque n’est-elle simple, mais 2014 ne me semble pas l’année la plus simple pour prendre la route du pèlerinage.


Non, ce voyage n’a jamais été simple mais il y eut au cours des siècles des voyageurs européens pour visiter les lieux saints de l’islam et les décrire, les arpenter et les cartographier, les dessiner, les photographier.



Pour atteindre La Mecque, ces voyageurs ont dû ruser, déjouer les pièges, prétendre se convertir, parfois se travestir, comme Ali Bey el Abassi qui donna une conférence sur ses voyages à l’Institut de physique à Paris en 1807.


Domingo Badía y Leblich est né à Barcelone en 1767. Il a voyagé en Afrique et en Orient entre 1803 et 1807, puis en 1817-1818. Déguisé en musulman et sous le nom d’Ali Bey el Abassi, il s’est d’abord rendu au Maroc en 1803 avec le soutien du Secrétaire d’État espagnol Manuel Godoy dans l’objectif de conquérir le royaume au bénéfice de l’Espagne. Il parvint à tromper autant le sultan, Moulay Sliman, que des chefs de confréries religieuses. Alors qu’il estimait que sa popularité au Maroc était telle qu’il était en mesure de renverser le sultan et de s’emparer du pouvoir, Ali Bey perdit l’aval des autorités espagnoles. Il décida alors d’entreprendre pour son propre compte le pèlerinage de La Mecque.
Dans la ville sainte, la noble généalogie qu’il s’est inventée, le reliant directement à la prestigieuse dynastie des Abbassides, lui permit d’être accueilli avec honneur.


À son retour en Europe, alors que l’Espagne est occupée par la France et que Napoléon a placé sur le trône son frère Joseph Bonaparte, Ali Bey el Abassi redevenu Domingo Badía se mit au service des Français. En 1808, lors du retrait des armées de Napoléon, Badía, considéré désormais comme traître, fut contraint de s’exiler à Paris. C’est là qu’il publia en 1814 sous son nom d’emprunt le récit de son périple au Maroc et en Orient. Écrit en français et abondamment illustré, l’ouvrage fut rapidement traduit en anglais, en allemand et en italien — mais pas en espagnol.



Mais les Européens ont également joué un rôle particulier dans l’histoire du hajj, non plus comme participants de fortune mais comme dépositaires de l’autorité vis-à-vis des populations musulmanes, notamment en Afrique du nord pour les Français. Dès l’époque napoléonienne, les administrateurs français en Égypte cherchent tout à la fois à faciliter et à contrôler le pèlerinage afin de s’assurer la coopération des notables locaux.


Au cours du XIX^e siècle, la montée en puissance de l’impérialisme dans les régions peuplées de musulmans transforme profondément les enjeux liés au pèlerinage et place le territoire sacré de l’islam dans le domaine des préoccupations internationales. La France, par sa conquête de l’Algérie en 1830, est désormais dotée de « sujets musulmans », dont la vie religieuse va s’inscrire dans le cadre des politiques publiques. Après 1871, la tentation première des administrateurs coloniaux français serait d’interdire purement et simplement le pèlerinage ! Dans le climat d’anticléricalisme qui prévaut avec le retour de la République en France, les pratiques musulmanes apparaissent rétrogrades et superstitieuses. A défaut d’empêcher totalement le hajj, l’administration va réglementer les départs en pèlerinage par le principe des autorisations de voyager, par l’encadrement des déplacements sur terre comme sur mer et enfin par le renforcement des mesures de surveillance sanitaire touchant les pèlerins. Ainsi l’argument des épidémies au Hedjaz ou même en Inde (pandémie de choléra en 1865 puis entre 1883 et 1896, épidémie de peste en 1899) va permettre d’interdire le pèlerinage plusieurs années de suite, puis d’imposer des « carnets de pèlerinage » qui sont des sortes de passeports sanitaires.



Alors que traditionnellement le Coran place le départ en pèlerinage sous le signe d’une triple liberté, liberté de soi, liberté de ses déplacements et enfin indépendance financière liée à la possession des moyens matériels nécessaires, les autorités coloniales vont s’appuyer sur ces prescriptions pour poser des conditions à l’attribution des passeports. Il s’agit d’empêcher le déplacement des « indigents » qui iraient mendier sur la route du hajj, indigents souvent confondus avec des « clandestins » — nous dirions aujourd’hui en France des « sans-papiers ».
Le permis de voyager ci-dessous, accordée à une femme portant un « tatouage sur le  visage » en guise de signe distinctif, cite la solvabilité du chef de famille et son engagement à rembourser à la puissance coloniale d’éventuels frais de rapatriement.



Enfin, l’amélioration des moyens de transport qui accompagne la conquête coloniale bouleverse les conditions du voyage vers La Mecque. Le chemin de fer, implanté en Égypte dans les années 1850, permet l’accès à la mer Rouge où se développe la navigation à vapeur — accrue par l’ouverture du canal de Suez en 1869. Au tournant du siècle, en réponse à l’emprise économique croissante des occidentaux sur le voyage vers le Hedjaz, les autorités ottomanes décident la construction d’une ligne de chemin de fer reliant Damas à La Mecque. Financée exclusivement par des capitaux musulmans et réalisée par des ingénieurs allemands, la ligne est achevée en 1908, au moment de la révolution jeune-turque, et connaît aussitôt le succès.




Sur la mer, les compagnies de navigation britanniques ou françaises assurent des liaisons maritimes à partir de tous les ports d’Afrique du Nord, d’Asie mineure et de la côte syrienne, vers Alexandrie ou Port Saïd, d’où les pèlerins joignent par le canal ou par chemin de fer la ville de Suez, principal port d’embarquement pour Djeddah.


Le paradoxe de cet essor des transports bien contrôlé est qu’il favorise le flux des pèlerins vers un territoire interdit aux non-musulmans : les puissances coloniales ne peuvent donc y pénétrer et voient avec appréhension se refermer sur ces masses de pèlerins les portes d’un territoire sacré où circulent sans doute des idées hostiles à leur pouvoir et que les pèlerins rapporteront et diffuseront à leur retour.

Mais peut-être ne rapportaient-ils que des souvenirs, ces premiers produits de l’industrie touristique naissante ?

Lahvová pošta, a message in a bottle. It seems almost absurd that such a term has been also coined for it in a language where you can never meet such a thing. Nature has refused a sea to Czechia. So it was up to literature to bestow one upon her: Shakespeare in The Winter’s tale, and Radek Malý in his recently published children’s poetry book Moře slané vody, Sea of salty water.

Zavřete oči. Slyšíte, jak šumí? Nadechnĕte se té vůnĕ. Zašeptejte: Čechy leží u moře.

Close your eyes. Do you hear its sound? Inhale the scent. Whisper: Czechia lies on the sea.

As a native of another landlocked country, I can fully understand the desire towards the sea, as one tries to conceive on the basis of the blue sky that other infinite, dreams about shells, ships, islands, prepares to be a sailor in Kőbánya, and, finally, the first encounter.

První vzpomínka Oči mám plné veliké slané vody Objala zemi kolem pasu Plujeme

The first memory My eyes are filled with the great salty water It girds the earth at her waist We swim

Blessed shore, says Shakespeare about the Czech coast, and so should it verily be. But he also adds: unpathed waters, undreamed shores, which cannot be true, since it emerges so often in dreams, one travels across it time and again.

O cestĕ Zeptej se moře na cestu Řekne ti: všechny cesty jsou tu Vítr tĕ vezme do všech koutů a není snadné nalézt tu jednu která nevede ke dnu nekončí včera nevede k zemi lidožroutů Ale já ji najdu, tati najdu ji, a pak se vrátím

About the way Ask the sea about the way it will say: all ways are here the wind takes you to every corner however, it’s not easy to find the one that does not take you to the deep does not end yesterday does not lead to the land of man-eaters But, father, I will find it! I’ll find it, and then I’ll return

In these children’s poems what is beautiful, is that they are not pedestrian, not artificial, not affectedly funny, like most poems written by adults for children. They are spacious and personal and to be continued, like the sea, like a dream. And the two merge with one other on the Czech shore.

Velrybo velrybičko Vidĕl jsem velrybu bylo to ve snu byla jak ostrov Byla noc Dlouze se dívala až na dno klesnu pak připlula mi na pomoc Dokud jsou velryby nebudem sami na moři ani za noci Ale až nebudou co bude s námi? Kdo připluje nám pomoc?

Whale, little whale I saw a whale it was in a dream it was like an island. It was night it gazed long into the depths then it swam over to save me As long as there are whales we will not be alone on the sea, nor in the night But once they are gone what will come of us? Who will swim over to save us?

Even the illustrations, by Pavel Čech, are like dreams. Like children’s dreams: from a little salt, a little ink, a basin of water – the endless sea. And like Czech dreams. In front of the crumbling wall, the worn frame, who could fail to recognize Josef Sudek’s basin, and from now on, who will not see in Sudek’s basin and glasses the sea of Pavel Čech?

Pequeños guijarros sobre las tumbas.
Los juguetes de una niña, juguetes de piedra.
Un tren, un avión, un coche. Niza, fin de trayecto. Nice, Nizza, Nica, Nissa, Ніцца, Ηίκαια, Nicea, Nicaea, Nisa, Ницца. Soñaban con la Riviera, y luego un día les entregan el pasaporte, obtienen la visa, ya pueden comprar el billete y, sin más, agarrar a los niños, la niñera, la abuela, las tías solteras, el tío tísico, el perro, el loro, la criada. Se trasladan a Francia, mandan a los niños al colegio, trabajan, trabajan, consiguen la nacionalidad, hacen el servicio militar, mueren por Francia.

Mueren.
El cementerio judío de Niza se extiende desde hace casi un siglo y medio sobre la colina del castillo, justo delante del mar.
Sobre las tumbas, viejas fotos desvaídas por el sol, borrosas, lavadas, caras sonrientes o pensativas o serias u orgullosas.


Nacieron en Kiev, en Varsovia, en Kishinev, Mariupol, Kherson, Odesa o Nikolajev, en Kaunas,  Berlín, San Petersburgo, Leópolis, Radautz en Bucovina, hoy Rădăuți en Rumanía, tambien en Argelia, en Orán o en Costantino, en Taganrog, en Costantinopla y en Londres, también en Rangoon en Birmania, o en El Cairo. En Johannesburg.


Han muerto en Niza, o en Mentone, o más lejos, pero su familia los ha devuelto a su lugar. Al sol sobre el mar.


En los años negros, que aquí fueron menos negros que en otros sitios, algunos murieron muy lejos, en el Este. De ellos no quedan sino unas breves líneas en su memoria.



Algunas lápidas nos sorprenden con su tipografía arcaica. En efecto, se trajeron aquí las antiguas piedras del anterior cementerio judío que estaba al pie de la colina. La lápida más antigua data de 1540. Sobre otras, las letras de bronce verde reflejan la multitud de lenguas en otro tiempo vivas: francés, hebreo, polaco, italiano, ruso con la antigua ortografía previa a 1918, inglés, alemán. Y esculpidas en la piedra, letras borradas, palabras olvidadas.


Poco a poco las piedras desaparecen bajo los pies de los paseantes. Abajo, más allá de los árboles, el azul del mar.

I came to Maramureș for the sixth time, and instead of becoming an everyday experience, it seems always richer and more inexhaustible, the far-reaching misty highland, whose soft green slopes invite you to lie down, to set out, to get lost in them, the wooden churches and cemeteries, whose paintings and carvings preserve a fascinating visual world moulded from archaic roots, eastern and western iconography, and exuberant local imagination, the labyrinths of the villages built of wood, and the people, who with an admirable energy maintain from day to day the small worlds entrusted to them. The following reports and images, composed by the participants of our trip, prove that this land has such an impact not only on me.

And those who feel similarly by the end of the reports – or has already felt this way, but there was no space any more in the minibus –, are welcome to the repetition of the tour from 20 to 24 August.  With even richer experiences, because I also feel the need to go there previously, for the seventh time, to explore the highland alone and on foot. You can apply at wang@studiolum.com, and you can soon read the reports at río Wang.






Máramaros/Maramureș, Kárpátalja/Subcarpathia, Máramarossziget/Sighetu Marmației, Huszt/Khust, Nagyszőlős/Vinogradov, Técső/Techiv, Rahó/Rakhiv. Patchwork names of my paternal family. Collected family crumbs. Terrible stories, unspoken words. Random insights, conscious investigation. And, in the meantime, similar orgies of scents, sights and colors in the similar sites of my childhood: at the market of Keszthely, tomato heaps, mushroom wonders, Aunt Galic’s milk stall with cheese and cottage cheese, sold by kilo. Just like at the market of Sighetu Marmației. A sea of flowers in the open meadow around the garden. How great it was to lay down in it! Now, here, I did not lay down on the grass, I already regret it. The mountains around Keszthely, and the sweet landscape of Balaton Uplands beyond the mountains fits together in my imagination with the soft green waves of the mountains of Maramureș. The real memories with the imagined past, built up from fragments.










I close my eyes: I remember blue walls and graveposts, the fairy blues of the Voroneț monastery and the merry cemetery of Szaplonca/Sapânța. The Last Judgment on the external wall of the monastery is a huge comics, if we did not read it together, I would not understand half of it. Every soul is weighed in the balance, but the non-Orthodox should not even stand in the row, they have no chance. A wonderful work of art, but with a gloomy and frightening message: there is no forgiveness. On the graveposts of the merry cemetery, small still pictures on uneventful lives and tragic deaths. The inscriptions beneath do not spare with the virtues of the deceased, and do not conceal their frailties. The naive representations convey a reassuring message: anyone you were, you were one of us, you belong to us, we remember you.

I open my eyes, ouch, I am at home. I quickly close them again: I remember green slopes and meadows, the angry green of the fresh hayfields and the golden green of the late afternoon hills of Maramureș and Bukovina. The landscape is endless, there is no balancing, no passing away. I could watch it forever.










“I arrived on a spring day (…) at the Baba Rotunda Pass, from there I saw for the first time those proud peaks, in whose shadow I later almost forgot my previous life. The Sinistra Basin opened in front of me, in the orange light of the afternoon, with long, sharp shadows. Dark willows accompanied the river bends at the bottom of the valley, a sparse row of houses winded on the other bank, shingle roofs glittered on the far away sunny slopes, and in the background, over the black collars of pine forest shone the icy towers of Pop Ivan and Dobrin.

The peak just emerging from the pine forest already belonged to the Pop Ivan range, you could see from it far away, beyond the border, the consecutive blue ranges of the Rusyn forest land. A some emerged from behind the last hills, perhaps from the far away waste land. The eastern sky, as if night were approaching, was covered by purple curtain. As the sun rose, the remote colors became duller, (…) and the valleys were filled with the opalescent glow of the afternoon…”

We were already on the way, when I suddenly realized that we are going to the Sinistra Zone. That is to say, to the real place, which was transformed into the Sinistra Zone under the pen of Ádám Bodor. But in the real place I have felt nothing from the depressing, dark world of the Zone. A harmonious, peaceful countryside, with open and friendly people. Is there hope…?




A summer journey into the wild reaches of Europe takes us to a land of dense forests, golden sun rays, meadows spangled in wildflowers, and whispering rivulets; hemmed in by walls of mountains, as if willfully hiding itself from the outside, where today reigns. Once our modern conveyance has breached the mountain pass, we find this shrouded terrain teeming with crowing roosters, goats, barking dogs and livestock of all sorts; sheep and their keepers; horse-drawn wagons, and the human natives going about their business in their characteristic dress.

We look out over a sfumato landscape of fruit trees, tombstones and grassy mammoths of drying hay, wooden churches and painted monasteries, a verdant landscape of fertile rising land receding into the morning mist. The mountaintop hooks a cloud, and the high wind deforms it into a long white streak like a comet’s tail. Women in black, faces framed in gray hair and deeply scored with hard-earned wrinkles, sit and chat on outdoor benches along the roadside, smiling faintly or looking curiously as we pass.

During a pause in our journey, I and others sit in a bench next to a woman like this, who carries on chatting with us. She knows we cannot understand her, she cannot understand us, but her happy appreciation of the absurdity of the situation was evident as she repeated phrases, and commented to herself, it seemed, about our non-understanding, yet remained accepting and friendly in expression and gesture. This said more to me than any exchange of social pleasantries ever could.

Another day, a steam train on narrow-gauge rails huffs and pants up the mountain, alongside a transparent stream of mountain water. The asthmatic beast earns part of its keep in hauling timber; the other part in hauling tourists and train-fanciers up and down for a morning’s joy ride. For my part, the wheezing, lurching and clanking was an unfolding symphony composed collaboratively by those who engineered the train and its wagons, together with the steady wear of time and use, which, in loosening fittings and slowly rounding the sharp corners of formed metal, lent it a special character.

On our way back to Hungary, we pass through Bistriţa and cross the Borgo Pass. Those familiar with Dracula lore may recognize these as the sites of important narrative moments in the Bram Stoker novel. This Western story seems set more in Western hallucinations about the dark reaches of Europe than in any actual place called Transylvania. In confronting the real territory, the dread and darkness of a land where blood-parasites dwell give way to an appreciation for how rich and full is the life of this country.







The Maramureș–Bukovina trip was above all a dislocation into a very different world, about which I hitherto had only faint ideas and fantasises. They have now got forms, and very beautiful forms at that.

The whole region is so archaic, so much embedded into nature, it is imbued with spaciousness, colors and lights, a thousand shades of green, mountains, passes, valleys, lines, verticals and horizontals, golden hours with mountain chains, waterfall with horses, the geometry of the haystacks, the bright brown of the wooden churches, the turquoise blue of the monasteries.

And the other world within the other world: the spaces of transcendence and sacredness. Orthodox mass in the monastery of Putna (even a few minutes were of elementary force), churches, synagogues (and their places), the cemeteries. Intertwining of awe and humor, intimacy and perspective in the cemeteries, both in the Christian (the merry cemetery in Szaplonca/Sapânța and the sweetly naive one in Andrásfalva/Măneuți) and the archaic Hasidic ones (the dilapidated cemetery in Jód/Ieud and the one with stone lions and interwoven hands in Gura Humorului). In the garden of I already do not know which monastery (perhaps the last one, in Arbore) it was necessary to lie down a little bit in the grass, and it was not at all easy to get up.

And then the cities – the main squares of Szatmárnémeti/Satu Mare and Nagybánya/Baia Mare, the only surviving synagogue (out of the eight ones) of Máramarossziget/Sighetu Marmației, Elie Wiesel’s study room, the main square bookstore, the heavenly ciorba de burta soup at the market, on the way home the bustling main street of Beszterce/Bistrią. The unique atmosphere of the accommodations and breakfasts in Barcánfalva/Bârsana, Borsa/Borșa, Putna (how crispy the mere names are!), the fried doughs, jams, loaves with fresh sheep cheese, plum brandies. The kitten who joined us on the walk in the monastery complex of Bârsana.


Then the “vehicles” – here also, nature and technology, forestry and tourism are together. The trip with the little train of Felsővisó/Vișeu de Sus is one of the highlights. Like a fairy tale, in the beautiful scenery, while loading wood, and enjoying the cranberry brandy in the “buffet wagon”. Then the cable-car, now we can watch the landscape from above, with a small agoraphobia, but great admiration.

The confluence of the palettes of cultures and eras, their writing above each other (sometimes literally). Such unlikely coexistences, like the small café of the Elefant House in the last Jewish owner of the sawmill plant in Vișeu de Sus, with the best coffee of the journey (where the railway ticket collector now excels as a barista), and the room opening from it, which is a museum documenting the one-time life of the Jews of Vișeu in heartbreakingly beautiful photos. Or the 16th-century frescoes of the Moldovița monastery, with the already museal layers of graffitis on it, including the signs of the 19th-century law student Albert Blanc and of a certain Nussbaum (perhaps one of my matrilineal ancestors?)

And you cannot ignore how much more you see if you also know the layers and histories behind what you see. The way is intervowen with images, meanings, symbols. In the wake of the fascinating guiding, the icons of religion, history and art are enlivened within their own complex system, as a not merely lexical (although based on a huge material) knowledge about images, buildings, movements of populations, names, places and one-time places. And this in the atmosphere of general attention, humor, flexibility, and good (though sometimes slightly “time-optimistic”) daily rhythm, in a pleasant international company, with whom you can also talk, play and sing along. Five days of real inspiration.











Nagybánya, Baia Mare, Frauenbach/Neustadt, Rivulus Dominarum, in its old Hungarian name Asszonypataka (Women’s Creek), also suggested by the Latin name (but already forgotten by the times of the topographer Elek Fényes…). “It lies in a beautiful and healthy region”, he writes, and you cannot dispute that statement even today. It was not disputed by the Hungarian naturalist painters in the early 20th century either. It is probably not a coincidence that in 1896 the members of the Hollósy painters’ circle, returning from Munich, founded exactly here the artists’ colony which later became the cradle of modern Hungarian painting. The idyll of gentle mountains, turn-of-the-century plain air.




This was then shortly followed by several other artists’ colonies in Miskolc, Szentendre, or Budapest (the MIÉNK – Circle of Hungarian Impressionists and Naturalists). In Budapest even a café of the same name worked at the corner of József Boulevard and Bérkocsis Street. It is not known whether there was any connection between the artists’ group and the café; in any case, the latter far survived the former, whose members after two years already worked in other groups. But we left all this behind us, somewhere in the west, and now we are heading east.

Before becoming an artists’ colony, the city was a major gold mine for a long time, and also one of the most important mints of old Hungary, immediately after Körmöcbánya/Kremnica. Today it is the seat of Maramureș county, although the historical and geographic Maramureș begins only later, Baia Mare is just its entrance-hall. But Maramureș is not any more what it was: now the border runs along the Tisa river, once the source of life for the whole region, thus cutting in two halves this formerly undivided area.


Of course, Maramureș is still living on along the left-bank tributaries of Tisa, and the landscape, due to the relative closeness and to the domestic tourism, has retained its archaic features. Perhaps this is why, in spite of its apparent poverty – and in sharp contrast to the Ukrainian Maramureș – some kind of peace and harmony pervades the whole region, from Dióshalom/Șurdești to Felsővisó/Vișeu de Sus and further, beyond the Carpathians, in the former Moldavian province of Bukovina, which lost its capital city. Perhaps the only exception is the somewhat upset town of Máramarossziget/Sighetu Marmației, but then what should be a city like, of which the other half belongs to a different country?


By following the Ariadne’s thread of the painted wooden churches we try to orient ourselves in this labyrinth, divided by the tributaries of Tisa and bestudded with little villages. The wooden churches were painted on the model of the Bukovina monasteries. Now we move in a reverse chronological order, from the old to the older. This has always been a busy route in the history, the two regions were bound together with many ties. Once the first Vlach kenéz– tribal leaders – came from the other side of the Carpathian mountains with their mixed Slavic and Vlach people to populate the forest land of Maramures, and decades later the voivods Dragoș and Bogdan returned along the same way, on royal command, or guided by ambitions of independence, to establish the Moldavian principality. Dragoș’ descendants also lived on as Hungarian and Polish aristocratic families. Later Jews arrived from Galicia, first Orthodox, then Hasids. Their memories are now preserved only by the cemeteries – Jód/Ieud, Szaplonca/Sapânța, Gura Humorululi and others –, the orphaned synagogue in Sighetu Marmației, and some museums. Nevertheless, at the sight of the romantic Maramureș landscape one has the strong feeling that at any point a mountain Jew can pop up, even if Stanisław Vicenz wrote already in the 1910s on the other side of the mountain that “there has not been such species for many years either in Jaworowo nor in Jasienowo” – well, then today…



Bukovina, the peace of Orthodox monasteries, the sonorous liturgy. The end of the known world, at least if we think about the Last Judgment compositions on the external church walls. The ceasing of time, the last muster of the zodiacal signs. A detailed, highly captivating display of what somewhere deep troubles us all. And the blue of Bukovina might be a worthy pair of the Isfahan blue, for the time being admire only from afar by me.

The whole region is full of animals: animals along the roads and on the frescoes, the latter often exotic, and quite often enjoying the companionship of strange, hardly believable creatures in paradisiacal landscapes: lions, dragons, centaurs, whales, elephants. Among the latter, special mention deserves the one in Vișeu de Sus, at the terminal of the mocăniţa.






At the market of Máramarossziget/Sighetu Marmației we eat divine ciorba de burta. While waiting for the soup, we hurry out to the cheese market with Kati. Sheep cheese, goat cheese, cow cheese, cottage cheese, sour cream, bryndza, you can buy all. A burly Romanian lady cordially invites  us to taste. We explain that we are just looking around, and that we would come back after lunch. Although she knows a few words in Hungarian, which she eagerly lists to us, we cannot understand each other. She beckons to us to follow her. She accompanies us to a Hungarian saleswoman, who translates our message into Romanian. After the ciorba is over, we go back to the cheese stall, the lady is already waiting for us with a broad smile in the middle of the market. The business is done, we purchased one and half kilo of cheese for only twenty-four lei (less than seven euros). And there were not even the slightest traces of any Romanian-Hungarian antagonism.


While drinking kefir, Lloyd says he has never taken such a good kefir anywhere else. I tell him, it is probably because the meadows and pastures are full of wild flowers and herbs. I saw at least three types of thyme, there was mint, many types of sage, milk rennet, St John’s wort, bugloss, camomile, feverfew, thistle, blooming sally, and many other herbs unknown to me, not to mention the former Hungarian cemetery of Andrásfalva/Măneuți, where the wives of Gyuri, Laci and Dani peacefully rest under the thick green parsley.


We enter the Sephardic synagogue of Sighetu Marmației. The Sephards were Jews expelled from Spain, who preserved the living medieval Spanish language, the Ladino. During the Reconquista, Catholic Ferdinand and Isabel drove out those Jews who did not want to convert to the Catholic faith. Many of them found refuge in the Ottoman Empire, this is how they also arrived at the Balkans. They came to Maramureș probably during the Ottoman conquest. We may not know who of us has some drops of Spanish blood.


The sentence of my dear poet, Lorca is relevant here: “Yo creo que el ser de Granada me inclina a la comprensión simpática de los perseguidos. Del gitano, del negro, del judio, del morisco, que todos llevamos dentro.”– “I think that my Granada roots urge me to sympathize with the persecuted. With the black, the Gypsy, the Jew, the Moor we all carry inside.”





It was very interesting to see the narrow-gauge steam railway with wood-fired engine, the last working forest railway in Europe.

The water was refilled from a little pond by the side of the track and the points are changed manually. Engine 764.408 is quite new, built in 1986, but some of the other engines were built in the 1920’s.





Well, we left. Quite unprepared. We only had a look at Tamás’ road map, along with the photos, of course. We were curious of the company, and the painted monasteries of Moldva. Especially I, as I told it in my self-presentation.

I tried to conceal my superiority with which I told myself that I had already seen Gothic monasteries and frescoes, and I had also traveled by steamer in the beautiful valleys of the Austrian Alps.

The trip was long, but then we were happy to see the main square of Nagybánya/Baia Mare, the palace from where Erzsébet Szilágyi wrote her legendary letter to her son King Matthias Corvinus, and to greet the mountain where modern Hungarian painting was born.

Then we arrievd to the first wooden church built of giant logs (I think it was Dióshalom/Șurdești) with the tin Christs on its wall. And I suddenly forgot my pride of “I have already seen such a thing”. Christ on the cross, and the two little doves above, and the little angels below, and the half-worn off tiny flowers, exudes so much naive charm, that one could not but romantically gaze at it. And this was still nothing in comparison to the next two wooden churches. Of course, there was architecture and structure and great and well-worked timbers and beams in them, but I was caught again by the pictures. Because they beautifully told to my childlike soul, how Mary went to heaven, what happened to Jesus, how ugly evil men tortured him, and how little Adam and Eve played in the paradise garden. Is it not as a fairy tale told to children?

And then my soul cheered up, and from now on everything was fine.

On the other hand there I realized the only serious structural deficiency of the trip, which I am forced to throw in the face of Tamás, because I had not expect it: that YOU ALWAYS HAVE TO GO FURTHER!

So we went further even from Desze/Desești, and we had accommodation in the nuns’ monastery in Barcánfalva/Bârsana.

The next day it was raining sometimes, but Maramureș is even so beautiful.

For example, the wonderful garden of the monastery, where you could hear the loud munching of the vegetarians even in the rain. And the merry cemetery of Szaplonca/Sapânța, where it started to rain again always at the most beautiful graveposts, but at the bells it stopped. The merry cemetery is a strange thing. Of course, its funny inscriptions are more human than the usual pious epitaphs, which are the same everywhere, and the ones here help to think more times about the deceased, but I cannot imagine on my tomb an inscription like “Here lies Ferkó, the ugly old stranger, who was struck by a baby carriage while gazing at the frescoes.”

Then along a sparkling stream, before romantic tiny wooden houses we climbed a drenched grassy hill to the Hasidic cemetery, which was neither sparkling, nor romantic or merry.

Dilapidated, decaying stone, with barely visible writing. So we were wandering among the tombstones, and listening to the stories of Tamás, which made you think about many things. But they did not make you sad, for in this beautiful landscape one cannot be sad.

The rain also accompanied us to the cemetery of political prisoners, and to Sighetu Marmației itself.

We visited the former Communist prison, and the main square with the bookshop, we found the synagogue and we could even enter. But by then I already felt dizzy. Because Tamás told us about local history, how the Jews were deported and murdered, how the Hungarians were deported by the Romanians and the Romanians by the Hungarians, the Poles by the Ukrainians and everyone else by the Communists. It seems that during the past centuries this part of the world was a restful place only for a couple of weeks, and then always happened something. Now I’m sure to have mixed some details, but fortunately nobody knows this except for Tamás. The most surprising is that, in spite of all this, or perhaps exactly because of this, incredibly many different cultures have evolved and survived here. It was the relics of these many centuries, produced throughout centuries, which we watched for only four days, instead of watching them for four months or years.

The culture, of course, also included the market and the delicious ciorba soup, before we went further to Sajómező/Poienile Izei, the next wooden church, where not even Tamás had ever been. The advantage of this – and I really enjoyed it in the painted monastery of Arbore – that Tamás always takes a lot of pictures in the places where he had not been before, and during this you can gaze at the frescoes for a long time. But now we are only at Jód/Ieud, the oldest wooden church and the cemetery around it. Now we already felt at home among the old graveposts, many things seemed familiar, and so you could be even more happy for them.

Then we arrived at Borsa/Borșa, our accommodation, where we were received with wonderful plum brandy, as well as with a fine dinner.

Then came the hiking day, about which many beautiful photos will speak. My greatest impression was that, leaving the smoking train, we merrily entered a charming café, where in the next room there was a chillingly objective exhibition about the deportation of the Jews of Wischau. But even this could not spoil the beautiful day.

And on Saturday we finally arrived at the monasteries of Bukovina. The first among them was Voroneț, which was in the best condition among all. “Pars pro toto”, said Tamás, if you saw one of them, then you saw them all. Again he was right, but it is not worth noting, as one does not repeat noting that the snow is white or the rain falls down.

I fell into the trap that I began to deal with the details. Of course – since it cannot be my fault – it was the fault of Tamás, who spoke to us with an incredible knowledge about the meaning of the various scenes and images. Let it be said in my favor, that I was pleased to recognize some scenes, especially their differences with the Catholic iconography, with the help of Tamás, of course. And I adored the “Byzantine” style, strictly prescribed to the artist, as if they had been 13th-century frescoes, with tiny or local differences in the details.

But retrospectively I also regret a bit that I did not watch it all as a whole thing, by understanding the faith, and – why to deny – the demonstration of power inherent in it. I, Prince Stephen, the mighty and victorious, have built this church, remember me in eternity! Even if this is not a pecularity of Prince Stephen, for almost every castle, fortress and church speaks about this to some extent.

I do not exactly remember the order any more, but as far as I can recall, after this we visited another Hasidic cemetery. This was much more exciting than the previous one, with the several symbolic animals you could study and learn here, from the man-headed lions to the hawks which even Tamás did not know. It was really worth to spend some time here. I was particularly pleased to meet the cemetery supervisor, and old woman, who spoke in an excellent German about the cemetery, that the mother of Joseph Schmidt is also buried here, that the world famous singer was a child here, from here he went to Czernowitz, and from there to Vienna.

And the rest is even more mixed up in my memories. Because we were in Moldovița, where Constantinople is besieged with non-existent guns, and where the nun explained in a colorful German the scenes, colors, objects and their significance. This showed well, how much Christian symbolism can be read into the Old Testament. And we were in Arbore, where Saint John the Baptist is beheaded, and where I, despite of the presence of my wife, immediately fell in love with the painted Salome. And we were in Humor, where, according to the description, for a hundred and fifty years the roof was not big enough, thus some of the frescoes also faded.

That is a great loss, of course, but as the beautiful poem says:

„De ami egykor megidézte ami a kép törekedése a málló állagból kiválik a fej körül tovább világít.”

“But its one-time inspiration the picture’s final aspiration emerges from the crumbling plaster it keeps on shining as made by the master”

Then we arrived at Putna, the stern monastery, where we had dinner, and a beautiful Mass with enchanting music, and an evening walk, but all this belongs to the finale.

And here, as always on the bus, we had another, constant highlight of the trip. You could chat, make acquaintances, talk about the grandchildren and about your youth, and thereby make new frieds. This went on along all the way home, only sometimes we were amazed by the beauty of the landscape or had a hiccup at the castle of Dracula.

In Beszterce/Bistrița we stopped for a short while, a coffee, an ice cream, we also consumed a late Gothic church and a street fair, and then rush back to the bus.

And at ten and a half we arrived at the Heroes’ Square in Budapest. The Fine Arts Museum was unfortunately closed at that time, but that’s okay, because

we saw a lot many beautiful things!





Of course you could go into the Rumanian Maramureș and Bukovina areas on your own, and see the world heritage wooden and and painted churches with the comment of loud German speaking black nuns. We visited the area with Río Wang/Tamás Sajó, and Tamás makes for us the difference. His historical, political, cultural, religious backgrounds gave this trip a deeper meaning, you long for more.

Highlight for us was the explanation of The Last Judgement, painted upon the Voroneț church exterior, and how is was meant for the masses of simple people, who had to stay outside, to decide on a choice in life.

In 35 years of traveling we have never been “bus people”, but Tamás made the difference, now we are!





…in a mountainous region, where the meadow, forest and stream had been the treasure and livelihood of the people for several centuries, and where flocks and herds enjoy the freedom of grazing;
…on mountain passes, once crossed by brave traders and conquering armies;
…at centuries old rustic wooden churches, built in the collaboration of the whole village, painted by a skilful local or wandering painter, and which are still beautiful in their naivete and perfection;
…little towns, which a hundred years ago were the bustling places of the coexistence of dozens of nationalities, and which also had an important role in the far away corner of the Monarchy;
…to monasteries evoking history, where the clean tradition still lives on;
…to a mountain rail, which helps the ancient forest management to live on;
…to Hasidic cemeteries, which evoke the respectable culture and erudition of a lost people.

And what was a very pleasant surprise: people appreciating and preserving the past everywhere, because all what we saw, does not speak about destruction, but the surviving traditions, and the newly found opportunities.











Passing away, survival, recreation – these were the main topics in my mind along the way, and they structure also my memories…

The merry cemetery in Szaplonca/Sapânța, whose epitaphs so unusually recall the simple or very unique life and death of the ones resting there… Then, the abandoned Hasidic cemeteries, sunken in the past, evoking the opposite feeling with their impersonality sheding an infinite calmness…

The incredibly thick, long, dark, cracked beams…

The winding up of the creation, as the angels carry it out on the wall of the Orthodox churches…

The newly built monasteries, which might be re-creators, and certainly determinants of the existence of the neighborhood...

And as it is surrounded by the fifty shades of green, the landscape, with the illustrations of the past in it, like the shingle-roofed, sometimes dilapidated houses, the wood-fired little steam engine, the carriage crossing the ford, accompanied by a little dog… well, the mountains, the valleys, the meadow, the flowers, the streams, the rivers, the waterfalls. All whatever is, was and remains.





If I could completely freely write, I would first write about the landscape. Not only that there were mountains, valleys and forests, but I would try to describe that all this was together, at the same time; a gentle and strong and composite landscape, you could watch it for hours, as if you were reading it. And cheerful and spacious at the same time. Second, I would write, and it would be evoked by this compositeness and spaciousness, that this is like friendship, they were somehow linked in me. I did not open the book I took with myself, because everything I saw and in which I participated was much more exciting. You could read the wide variety of cultures and ways of life, past and present, which we were traveling through. Or perhaps only browse it. I do not understand it so much to become a reader of it. The Bible of the poor, this is what I recalled at the walls of the painted churches and monasteries, at the carved graveposts. Everything was filled with signs, so that those who understand the language of these pictures, could recognize the stories and read out their essence. Here perhaps past tense would be necessary. The ones who understood the language of these pictures. Where are they? It was good that we could quite freely ask. I sometimes asked as a child. I do not forget how well Ferkó asked. I read something strange on the window of the last synagogue of Máramarossziget/Sighetu Marmației, but then, as I have also forgotten the few Romanian I once knew, I thought I was surely wrong, the text on the sheet of paper is not what I guess. At home it turned out that reality was far more miserable. I got to know the content of that inscription from the essay of Zsolt Láng, illustrated by the photos of Noémi Kiss (Zsolt Láng is a great Transylvanian prose writer, Noémi Kiss is an excellent writer in Budapest, a fellow traveler of río Wang) “Dear compatriots! We ask you with respect and friendship to respect our synagogue just as you respect your churches. We have the same God, who is benevolent, but also ruthless with those who damage His sacred dwelling. The Jews did nothing bad to you. It is possible that when much more Jews lived here, you did not live worse than now. It would be uncomfortable if our town were considered a dwelling place of anti-Semites and drunkards. Thank you for your understanding!” I do not forget the face of the young man who opened to us the synagogue, it had something apologetic. Elephant– this place was a real surprise. True, a surprise which you could expect in any valley and at any corner of any village in that region. If they did not preserve the mountain railway, no tourists would go to Felsővisó/Vișeu de Sus. If they did not sell good beer and excellent coffee in the Elephant, nobody entered the museum. If there were no museum, then the memory of the Jews of Wischau would not survive. The last owner of the sawmill, Sándor Elefánt, in whose house the exhibit takes place, seems to have been a great person. “The other members of the community also exert valuable economic activity. Among them emerges Sándor Elefánt, member of the county’s committee, whose sawmill gives bread to 150 people. The mills of Mózes Steinmetz Mózes and Mechel Kratz employ 80 people. 60 people work in the sawmill of Lázár Fruchter Jr., and 70 in the mill of Wolf Léb. The Jewish community has an annual budget of about 600 thousand lei. Its registry area includes the villages of Középvisó, Alsóvisó, Leordina, Petrova, Bisztra, Majszin, Szacsal, Jend, Szelistye, Dragomérfalva, Konyha and Kisbocskó. Its population is about 5000, the number of families 900. It is interesting, that the community imposes no obligatory taxes on its members, thus the costs of its administration are covered from the voluntary donations of its members. The members of the community took part in a great number in WWI, 16 among them died a hero’s death. The present leadership of the community includes Wolf Léb, Sándor Elefánt and Fischel Fogel as presidents, treasurer Ferdinánd Silberherc, auditors Sámuel Teszlerand Eizik Illovits, Talmud Torah supervisor Littman Brettler, community counselor Sámuel Fliegelmann, economic supervisor Iczik Mojse Kora, charity supervisor Adolf Kann, superiors Mózes Steinmetz, Mózes Mármor, Hers Fruchter, Lázár Fischler, Hers Krátz Mechel, Ferenc Grünbaum, Ábrahám Weinberger, Salamon Meilich, Emánuel Niszel and Lázár Stein, chief rabbi Mendel Háger, assistant rabbi Dávid Weisz, cantors Bernát Horovitz and Hers Pollák, and recorder Izidor Fogel.” This is how it was in 1929. Tamás, what is the origin of the Jewish family name Elefánt? What is its history? *Finally I would again write about the landscape, in the most spacious way possible. It was quite beautiful.

Below: A four-side holy image column, characteristic of the Alps region, with missing pictures, surviving from the second half of the 15th century.

Above it: A “village radio”, * characteristic of the Eastern European region, with missing cable, surviving from the second half of the 20th century.

(Český Krumlov, Plešivecké Square, the center of the former poor neighborhood.)

Abajo: Columna para imágenes sagradas —le faltan las imágenes—, característica de la región de los Alpes. Superviviente de la segunda mitad del siglo XV.

Encima de la columna: «Radio del pueblo», * característica de la Europa del Este —le falta el cable—. Superviviente de la segunda mitad del siglo XX.

(Český Krumlov, Plaza de Plešivec, en el centro del antiguo barrio pobre.)

La familia más poderosa de la aristocracia bohemia durante el Renacimiento, los Rosenberg, asentó su poder a lo largo del curso superior del río Vltava, al sur del país. Desde Český Krumlov, una de sus residencias familiares, la carretera sube serpenteando hacia el sur en dirección al castillo de Rožmberk, la otra residencia de la familia, y desde allí llega a Vyšší Brod, el magnífico monasterio cisterciense que ellos fundaron. Entre las copas del espeso bosque de pinos que flanquea la carretera se adivina el río Vltava, aquí tan solo un estrecho torrente de montaña que salta ruidoso, brillando al sol y recogiendo al paso otros pequeños arroyos en los que rafters y canoas ponen a prueba su pericia.


Si el viajero busca variedad, justo pasado Krumlov, en Větřní, puede girar a la derecha, ya en la montaña, avanzar por unas carreteritas sinuosas y nada más dejar atrás el pueblo de Bohdalovice verá abrirse ante él una hermosa meseta. Trigales maduros y campos de flores con un aroma fuerte y cargado medran en las laderas amablemente onduladas, hileras de sauces en el valle que excava el arroyo, pinares en las colinas y, a lo lejos, más allá del Vltava, los 900 metros de altura de las cumbres de la cordillera de Poluška. Ni una aldea, ni una granja hasta donde alcanza la vista.




A trechos, las revueltas del camino entre los campos solo permiten el paso de de un coche pero no veremos ninguno hasta descender, en paralelo al arroyo Strážný, de nuevo al Vltava. Justo al otro lado del río, en la parte alta de una empinada colina, se alza una iglesia gótica blanca como la nieve: la iglesia parroquial de Zátoň, u Ottau en alemán, consagrada a san Juan Bautista.


El pueblo, hoy con solo nueve habitantes, lo describió el cisterciense Valentin Schmidt en su estudio de 1915, Die Benediktinerpropstei Ottau in Südböhmen, como el asentamiento más antiguo documentado al sur de Bohemia. Aquí, unos pocos cientos de metros más arriba de la iglesia, un cómodo paso permite cruzar el Vltava que ahora, con la actual sequía, se puede también vadear en coche. A su lado se instala hoy el último gran camping para los amantes del rafting antes de llegar al de Český Krumlov, con unos extraordinarios restaurantes de pescado. En la colina de la iglesia se edificó también un castillo que vigilaba el vado. En 1037 fue donado por el príncipe Břetislav I a los benedictinos de Ostrov. Antes de 1310 el castillo fue reemplazado por un priorato benedictino que, a su vez, fue destruido en 1430 durante las guerras husitas. Posteriormente el lugar fue adquirido –al parecer con documentos falsos– por los Rosenberg, quienes alrededor de 1510 construyeron sobre las ruinas del priorato la actual iglesia de estilo gótico tardío, con una hermosa bóveda lierne, así como la casa parroquial. Su divisa heráldica, la rosa de cinco pétalos, que se puede ver en casi todas las ciudades del sur de Bohemia, adorna el ábside de la iglesia.


Al ingresar en el patio del templo al viajero le sorprende un cementerio extraño. Unas piedras truncadas se alinean en filas bien disciplinadas pero sin inscripciones que las identifiquen. La parte superior de alguna está más o menos intacta, con un muñón de hierro que sobresale. Son los pedestales de las cruces que antes marcaban las tumbas. Las cruces de hierro con el paso del tiempo debieron reutilizarse como chatarra. Las pocas que están en pie sobre alguno de los bloques –claramente colocadas de nuevo más tarde– ostentan nombres alemanes.





Detrás de la iglesia y al otro lado, frente a la tapia del cementerio, varias cruces y lápidas han permanecido más o menos intactas. Probablemente esta parte quedó cubierta de matorrales al poco de la expulsión de la población alemana y, en consecuencia, no convirtieron las cruces en chatarra como ocurrió con las de la zona más accesible. Solo los esmaltes fotográficos que llevaban fueron eliminados durante los años siguientes.








Al extremo de las dos filas de peanas mutiladas ante la entrada, hay una placa de granito gris de nueva factura con una inscripción en checo y alemán.

Zum Gedenken an alle Menschen, die hier auf diesem Friedhof ihre letzte Ruhe fanden, und deren Gräber größtenteils nicht mer existieren. Bis zum Jahre 1946 lebten in der Pfarrei Ottau mit seinen damals 14 Pfarrorten mehrheitlich deutschsprachige Bewohner, denen der Böhmerwald seit Jahrhunderten Heimat war. Die 14 Pfarrorte waren:

En memoria de todos aquellos que encontraron su última morada en este cementerio, y cuyas tumbas en su mayor parte ya no existen. Hasta 1946 la parroquia de Ottau y los 14 asentamientos que se le adscribían tuvieron habitantes principalmente de habla alemana, para quienes el Bosque de Bohemia fue su patria por muchos siglos. Los 14 asentamientos de la parroquia eran:

Ottau – Zátoň, Schömern – Všeměry, Stubau – Dubova, Lobiesching – Lověšice, Lobieschinger Ruben – Lověšické Rovné, Stömnitz – Jistebník, Wieles – Běleň, Kropsdorf – Zábraní, Pramies – Branná, Hochdorf (teilweise) – Nahořany (část), Ebenau – Zátoňské Dvory, Hoschlowitz – Hašlovice, Zistl – Dobrné, Luschne – Lužná

Gestiftet im Jahre 2010 von der Pfarrgemeinschaft Ottau im Namen der ehemals 1400 Pfarrangehörigen.

Erigido en 2010 por la comunidad parroquial de Ottau, en nombre de los 1400 miembros de la antigua comunidad.

Según Reinhold Fink en Zerstörte Böhmerwaldorte (Los pueblos destruidos del Bosque de Bohemia, 2006), que incluye los datos de 801 pueblos alemanes del sur de Bohemia desaparecidos, en 1930 había en Ottau 48 alemanes y 9 checos; en 2005 quedaban 9 habitantes en total. En Schömern, en 1930, 71 alemanes y 9 checos; para el año 2005 el pueblo había desaparecido. En Stubau en 1930, 70 alemanes y 6 checos; en 2005, 7 habitantes y solo dos casas de la antigua aldea permanecían en pie. En Lobiesching, en 1930, desaparecieron 112 alemanes. En Ruben, en 1930, desaparecieron 69 alemanes. En Stömnitz, en 1930, 96 alemanes y 3 checos; en 2005, quedaban 8 habitantes, con sólo 5 casas en pie de las 25 que tenía. En Wieles, en 1930, 83 alemanes y 4 checos; en 2005, 8 habitantes y 3 de las 16 casas. En Kropsdorf, en 1930, 72 alemanes desaparecieron. En Pramies, en 1930, 42 alemanes. En Hochdorf, en 1930, 143 alemanes y 1 checo, de los que en en 2005 quedaban solo 21 habitantes y 10 de las 29 casas. En Hoschlowitz, en 1930, había 158 alemanes y 7 checos; en 2005, 38 habitantes y 13 de las 31 casas. En Luschne, en 1930, 122 alemanes y 22 checos; en 2005 quedaban 30 habitantes en las 7 casas de las 11 que hubo. En Zistl, en 1930, 94 alemanes y 1 checo; en 2005 se habían reducido a 50 habitantes y había 15 de las 17 casas. La población relativamente grande de los últimos cuatro asentamientos se puede explicar por el hecho de que se sitúan a la orilla del río Vltava, a lo largo de la carretera muy transitada que lleva a Český Krumlov y sus casas parecen haber sido construidas en gran parte en los últimos 15 o 20 años.

Los 14 nombres no incluyen las varias granjas y núcleos de casas con topónimo propio, como el Ziehensackmühle o el molino de Hauber (Haubermühle, Hauberův mlýn), dos kilómetros más abajo de Ottau, en la orilla del Vltava, cuyos habitantes también fueron deportados sin excepción en 1946 y sus asentamientos destruidos.


En Mapire, que proyecta sobre Google Maps los mapas de la tercera inspección militar austro-húngara (realizada en Bohemia entre 1877 y 1880), se ve claramente que en el siglo XIX aún había varias aldeas, granjas, capillas, y edificios solitarios que salpicaban la zona, de los que hoy se puede encontrar sólo Slubice / Schlumnitz con sus tres casas y cinco habitantes. Esta es la región montañosa, hermosa, fértil y desierta, sobre el cual sólo hemos estado de paso yendo a Zátoň.


En las montañas del sur de Bohemia, de población casi puramente alemana –llamadas en alemán Böhmerwald, en checo Šumava y en español Selva o Bosque de Bohemia–, solo en contados lugares hubo alrededor de 1945 el mismo tipo de pogromos sangrientos ejercidos más al norte contra los pobladores alemanes en zonas de población mixta. Fueron cometidos por el ejército checo y por las turbas alentadas por dos fervorosos discursos del presidente Beneš pronunciados en mayo de 1945, día 12 en Brno y día 16 en Praga. En ellos instaba a «la liquidación sin compromiso» de todos los alemanes y húngaros de Checoslovaquia. Aun así, hasta otoño de ese mismo año, unos ochocientos mil alemanes fueron «expulsados ​​súbitamente» («divoký odsun») de sus hogares. Los Decretos Beneš de 25 de octubre privaron a la población alemana de todas sus propiedades, y la Asamblea Nacional del 8 de mayo de 1946 proclamó una amnistía para cualquier delito perpetrado contra ellos hasta el 28 de octubre. Los alemanes que aún quedaban en Bohemia –hasta un total de tres millones de personas, junto con los expulsados ​​anteriormente– fueron reunidos sin previo aviso en enero de 1946 y deportados a Alemania y, en menor medida, a Austria. Durante los desplazamientos, más de doscientos mil alemanes perdieron la vida. Mientras que los pueblos alemanes del norte de Bohemia agonizaban a manos de campesinos checos sin tierra, de jornaleros forzosos húngaros y checos –como el protagonista de Yo serví al rey de Inglaterra, de Hrabal– o de gitanos asentados allí, los del sur de Bohemia fueron simplemente abandonados por el gobierno comunista debido a su proximidad al Telón de Acero, promoviendo así que se despoblaran o incluso, cuando se consideró necesario, enviando a los militares a que los arrasaran.


En la inscripción de la lápida conmemorativa, el término «Comunidad parroquial de Ottau» merece atención. No se refiere a la comunidad de la parroquia actual de Zátoň, donde los católicos han desaparecido hasta el punto de que, según la ficha de la diócesis de České Budějovice, ya ni se celebra misa en la iglesia parroquial. La «Pfarrgemeinschaft von Ottau» fue devuelta a la vida en 1984 en Hitzhofen de Baviera por Hans Puritscher, oriundo de la cercana Ruben, como una asociación de alemanes desplazados de todos los asentamientos de la antigua parroquia. La Kirta, como se le llama en el dialecto local, ya celebró una sesión festiva en la casa parroquial de Zátoň el 1 de septiembre de 1991, poco después de la Revolución de Terciopelo. Desde entonces han estado restaurando gradualmente la iglesia y el cementerio a su costa, al igual que hacen otras comunidades eclesiásticas expoliadas del Bosque de Bohemia –por ejemplo en la iglesia de peregrinación de Kájov / Gojau– que se recuperan financiadas en gran parte por los alemanes expulsados de los respectivos pueblos. La publicación y la página web del «Förderkreis St. Johannes Enthauptung, Ottau», abierta con este fin, proporciona información regular sobre la evolución de los trabajos.


Una tormenta se acerca desde el Vltava. Dejamos el cementerio a fin de llegar secos a Rosenberg a través de las montañas. Una última foto de la iglesia con las nubes de tormenta. Justo ahora me fijo en los dos edificios laterales abandonados. A la izquierda, la antigua casa parroquial, que fue adquirida y convertida en el «Hotel Fara» (Hotel de la Parroquia») de tres estrellas por un particular durante la fiebre de privatizaciones de 1990. En 1991 la Kirta celebró aquí su primer encuentro. Desde entonces está cerrado y solo sobrevive su sitio web en ruso (!).


El edificio de dos pisos y siete ventanas a la derecha parece haber desempeñado en algún tiempo un papel importante en la vida de la comunidad, tal vez como tienda, casa de un campesino rico o edificio administrativo. Ahora está completamente abandonado, implorando un comprador alemán.








Estamos sentados en Český Krumlov, donde el Vltava entra en la ciudad, en la terraza de madera del hostal ubicado sobre del río. Despunta el día. Mientras escribo, oigo a mis pies el bullir continuo del Vltava, el alboroto de las dos cascadas. Escucho con los auriculares el Vltava de Smetana. En mi mente las imágenes se conjuran con la música mientras el río vive enlazando las gotas de agua, los manantiales, los pequeños arroyos de montaña de la Böhmerwald, juntando el Vltava Frío y el Vltava Caliente. El motivo de Vltava resuena con las danzas de boda de los campesinos checos, las torres imponentes de los antiguos castillos de los caballeros y el río nos dan la bienvenida en la vieja Praga Dorada con el motivo sonando ahora en tono mayor antes de fundirse majestuosamente con el río Elba. El glorioso Vltava checo. Y en la pantalla del ordenador leo ahora el texto del deutschböhmisch Vltava, el himno no oficial de los alemanes expulsados​​.


Bendřich Smetana: Vltava (Mi país, 2º movimiento). Karajan & Orquesta Filarmónica de Berlín

Af d’Wulda, af d’Wulda scheint d’Sunn a so gulda geh i über d’Bruck. Furt schwimman die Scheida tolaus ullweil weida und koans kimmt mehr zruck.

Sobre el Vltava, sobre el Vltava el sol brilla como el oro mientras voy cruzando el puente Los troncos bajan flotando fuera del valle, cada vez más lejos, y ninguno vuelve nunca más.

The church of Boletice is the oldest standing Romanesque church in southern Bohemia. Its tower and nave was built in the late 12th century, its rectangular, cross vaulted presbitery was raised a century later in the place of the original semicircular apse. Between 1410 and 1420 a sacristy with a superb net vault was added to the northern side of the presbitery, certainly by the same Mason Hans from Prague – in the Czech literature, Jan Staněk–, who between 1407 and 1410 realized on the expenses of Henry III Rosenberg the net vault and sacristy of the Český Krumlov cathedral, both similar to that of Boletice. As a master from Prague, in both churches he followed the new, impressive style introduced by Peter Parler in the St. Vitus Cathedral and Charles Bridge in Prague, in the castle of Karlštejn, or in the St. Barbara Church in Kutná Hora. The village church of Boletice can be regarded as a cousin of such masterpieces.


This suggests, that the church of Boletice was no simple village church. And indeed, the church and the surrounding estates were donated in 1263 by the great patron of art King Ottokar II Přemysl to the Cistercian monastery of Zlatá Koruna, founded by him some kilometers under Český Krumlov, alng the Vltava. The new owners probably actively used the church, lying not far from their monastery. In addition to the superb sacristy, this is suggested by the enlargement of the choir, which thus became suitable for monastic use, and in which 14th-century frescoes were discovered during the restoration of 1991. The Christological cycle which follows the compositions of contemporary bibliae pauperum, begins on the northern wall with the Annunciation, and ends on the southern wall with the Last Judgment, in which the figure of a Cistercian monk can be seen among the blessed. At the same time, the spiral staircase leading in an external northern tower to the western gallery, as well as the Gothic sitting niches built on the gallery, also refer to a secular owner. This was probably Ulrich II Rosenberg, at whom in 1420 Emperor Sigismund put in pawn the monastery of Zlatá Koruna with all its possessions. The surviving pieces of the former Gothic altars, made between 1390 and 1450, also refer to generous patrons: the statue of St. Nicholas, patron saint of the church, that of St. Catherine, made in the style of the “beautiful Madonnas” of the International Gothic, the Madonna with the Child, and the crucifix, from which the image of Christ was removed after the Good Friday liturgy, and placed on the catafalque usually prepared at one of the altars of the church.


At the same time, the church also served as the parish church of the neighborhood. Its entrance opened on the northern side instead of the more usual southern one, because the village laid to the north. The southern wall of the nave was once covered by a huge fresco of St. Christopher, which, according to its inscription, “1623 hat Walburga Jungfrau aus Hörwitzl malen lassen”, was commissioned in 1623 by Walburga from the nearby Hörwitzl/Hořičky.


All this I know from the chapter on Boletice of the monography 750 let Kájova, published for the 750th anniversary of the nearby pilgrimage church of Kájov. In fact, Boletice is now part of the town of Kájov.


From Kájov no signpost points towards Boletice. In the map, only the name of the narrow Boletická Street suggests that we are on the right track. The road continues the same narrow beyond the village, and it soon ends, at least for us.


The successive signboards command to stop. We arrived at a closed military zone, at the border of the Boletice Military Area, where, according to the English and (bad) German text, entrance is prohibited, and according to the Czech inscription, it is subject to permission.

The Boletice Military Area was established with the decree of 1 July 1950 for the purpose of military exercises, or an eventual concentration of troops here, next to the Austrian and Bavarian borders. The creation of the 300 square kilometers large closed area, which embraces a significant part of the highland to the west of Krumlov, involved the liquidation of forty-eight villages. Their predominantly German population had been already expelled or deported in 1945-1946. During 1949 the few Czech inhabitants who remained here or moved in, were also displaced, and the settlements destroyed. The villages included Beníkovice (Penketitz), Bezděkov (Pösigl), Bílovice (Pilletitz), Bláto (Benetschlag), Boletice (Polletitz), Břevniště (Tussetschlag), Chlumany (Chumau), Dětochov (Tichtihöfen), Dolany (Dollern), Dolní Brzotice (Böhmdorf), Hořičky (Hörwitzl), Horní Brzotice (Perschetitz), Hostínov (Hossen), Hvozd (Hochwald), Jablonec (Ogfolderhaid), Kovářovice (Schmieding), Květná (Blumenau), Květušín (Quitosching), Lomek (Haidl), Loutka (Reith), Lštín (Irresdorf), Maňávka (Böhmisch Haidl), Míšňany (Meisetschlag), Mladoňov (Plattetschlag), Nová Víska (Neudörfel), Nový Špičák (Neu Spitzenberg), Ondřejov (Andreasberg), Osí (Schönfelden), Otice (Ottetstift), Petrov (Peterbach), Podvoří (Podwurst), Polečnice (Neustift), Polná na Šumavě (Stein im Böhmerwald), Pražačka (Pragerstift), Račín (Ratschin), Sádlno (Zodl),Šavlova Lhota (Schlagl), Skelná Huť (Glashütten), Stará Huť (Althütten), Starý Špičák (Alt Spitzenberg), Střemily (Richterhof), Strouhy (Graben), Svíba (Schwiegrub), Třebovice (Siebitz), Vitěšovice (Kriebaum), Vítěšovičtí Uhlíři (Kriebaumkollern), Vlčí Jámy (Wolfsgrub), Vražice (Proßnitz), Zadní Bor (Hinterhaid), Zlatá (Goldberg), as well as a number of farms, mills and other smaller settlements.



“How can one get to the Boletice church?” I ask the sister in the Kájov pilgrimage church. “Well… maybe you can get permission at the town council.” She accompanies me to the local government. However, they are already closed on Friday afternoon.

An hour later, we are at the Renaissance main square of the other neighbor town, Chvalšiny/Kalsching. This is a veritable city in comparison to Kájov, it even has a museum in an impressive Renaissance arcaded building, the native house of the engineer Joseph Rosenauer, designer of the Baroque timber-floating canal system, through which timber from the Czech Forest was floated, incredibly, over the Alps, to the Danube. Perhaps in the home of the Muses they know more about how they, whose photos on the church sometimes pop up on the net, get into the military zone. The ticket-selling aunt is pleased to help me. She searches for an e-mail in her Google mailbox, send around just a few weeks ago by the command of the military distict as a response to the attempts of illegal intrusion, on how to get legally into the area. On Saturday and Sunday the military exercises are suspended. Thus in these days one is permitted to enter into zone “A” of the district, only on foot on bike, free of any further permission.


The next morning at six I leave on foot from the border of Kájov. Three kilometers later I arrive at a barrier. The operator soldier, who looks like the brave robber Rumcajs, watches me curiously. “I’m an art historian, came to see the Boletice church.” He self-evidently lets me pass, obviously my kind of people is an everyday guest here.

In the zone, on the main road there are already some bicycle road signs for the Saturday and Sunday visitors, but it is prohibited to deviate on the side roads. Soon I get to the double building of the headquarters protected by anti-tank obstacles. Here stood the village of Dollern/Dolany, which in 1930 had 57 German inhabitants.


The road starts to rise to the former Boletice, offering more and more beautiful views on the hill country of Český Krumlov. A robbed chapel along the way. It was tidied after 1990, and its former holy image replaced with a copy of Neumann’s 1913 “St. Cyril and Methodius convert the Czechs”, a work of folk-inspired Czech national romanticism. At the border of the former village still there stands, albeit without inscription and cross, the chapel dedicated to St. Hubertus, the patron saint of forest people, particularly revered in the German mountains. And from here you can already see the tower of the church of St. Nicholas emerging from the woods.


A path marked in blue turns down from the asphalt road towards the church hill. A veritable Planet of the Apes feeling: the concrete road, which has not seen a car for seventy years, has been already reconquered by nature, overgrown with moss and shrubs, and partially absorbed by the marsh. It probably has not seen many hikers, either, because it is no beaten path. I advance in damp undergrowth to the knee, desperately flapping the horse-flies and mosquitoes.

A four-sided holy image column appears among the trees. I’m on the right way. The former road leads up the hill. Ruins of stone walls, former houses, school building, cemetery wall. The wood, still regularly cut until the 1990s, by now has overgrown everything. At the end of the road, in front of the church, anti-tank obstacles.


The date 1666 above the gate of the churchyard. Entering through the gate, a the base of a German tombstone to the right, with a small candle on it.  Several other tombstones are lying in the garden, but they have no inscription any more, only the date of 1918 on one, and the round holes of two former photographs, two empty eye sockets on the other. Apart from the few meters around the church, everything is overgrown with weeds to the waist. Among the weed, former garden plants run wild, daylily, small, delicate raspberries.


After the evacuation and destruction of the village, the church of Polletitz stood long intact in the strictly closed military zone. From the early 1960s, the beginning of the Czechoslovakian thaw, however, looters began to raid the zone. They repeatedly broke into the church, stole Gothic and Baroque works of art, and whatever they did not take away, they mostly broke. Therefore in 1964 the remaining works of art – the above statues and the rests of the Baroque altars, benches and furniture – were taken to four different museums, and the bell of the church was asked “in loan” by the parish priest of Lužnice. In 1967, the already empty church served for a scene of František Vláčil’s costume filmÚdoli včel (Valley of the Bees), which fills with an imaginary history, templar knights, fortress lords and hermits the Middle Ages of the Böhmerwald, emptied with the expulsion of the Germans. The fanatical ritter, Armin von Heide comes here to the local priest to let him know that his friend, Ondřej lives in sin with his own stepmother in the nearby fortress of Vlkov, that is, Wolf Castle (in the reality, the monastery of Kuklov, see the top edge of the map above). The film shows the already empty church interior for five minutes, until 1:23:42. The God-forsaken furniture with the crappy thorn wreaths and crappy rosaries, the crappy statues which try to imitate Catalan Romanesque statues, but rather resemble African totems on the crappy altars in the sacristy and at the two walls of the nave, where no altar could ever stand in a Romanesque church, are all film supplies. But the church itself is glatt kosher.


After the Soviet invasion in 1968, this part of the military zone, lying closest to the Austrian border, was appropriated by the Soviet army. Since then, the Czech authorities had no word in the fate of the church. In 1989, they took it over in a terrible state from the retreating Soviet troops. They started its renovation in fact in the twenty-fourth hour in 1991. The starting point of the renovation is well shown by the photos of Monudet (black and white) and gemaerz (color) from 1990, as well as by the pictures of a 2007 koncert from the interior, which was conserved in the state of 1989.




From the clearing in front of the church we look around one more time in the beautiful and desolate mountain landscape. We have a photo and a description in the hand, which helps to imagine, what would we have seen from the same point seventy years ago. The author, the theologian Engelbert Schwarzbauer (1877-1960), who was appreciated in his obituary by his fellow exiles as the greatest Catholic priest of the Czech Forest, was born in the neighboring village, Hörwitzl/Hořičky, and went to school in Polletitz/Boletice. In the twelfth year of his exile, and two years before his death he had an imaginary look around his native land, in one of his last articles written for the journal Glaube und Heimat of the displaced Bohemian Germans. In lack of the original German text, we translate it from Czech, from the siteKohoutí kříz / ’s Hohnakreiz / the Rooster Cross, devoted to the German literature of the Czech Forest.


“The photograph in front of me shows the church of Polletitz (Boletice), and a part of the village of Polletitz to the left. To the right, just five minutes away on foot, lays Dollern (Dolany), the hometown of Anton Feyrer, the teacher of religion of the municipal school in Bischofteinitz (Horšovský Týn). At the right edge you can see some houses of Krenau (Křenov): this already belongs to the parish of Gojau (Kájov). In the background stands the majestic Schöninger (Kleť) mountain with the Josefsturm (Josefská vež), a popular tourist location for the inhabitants of Krumau (Český Krumlov). Between Krenau and the Schöninger, in the valley lies Losnitz (Lazec), where the Christ of the Passion Plays of Höritz (Hořice), the schoolmaster Johann Bartl saw the light of day. Three kilomters further north is the once charming town of Kalsching (Chvalšin), the former seat of the since then unfortunately deceased Dean Ottomar Rausch. This workaholic father not only performed spiritual care with devotion, but he also passionately researched the history of the region, and collected every information connected with it. As his close friend, I know that he wanted to compile and publish in a volume the biographies of all the eminent personalities who contributed to the prosperity of his beloved Kalsching, or originated from there. He almost finished the biography of his predecessor, the highly respected Dean, Vicar and School-Inspector Gerschtenkorn, whose portrait was in the parish archive. About him they told, that on his inspector’s visits in the school of Polletitz he sometimes let a student write on the board the following poem:

Polletitz du bist ein wahrer Edelsitz Kalsching liegt zu deinen Füßen, von dort aus wir dich freundlich grüßen.

Polletitz/Boletice, you’re a really noble town, Kalsching lays at your feet, from where we warmly greet you.

Father Feigl from Kájov, the former parish priest of Polletitz praised very much this poem, and was able to recite it with extraordinary solemnity during his visitations. And Polletitz, the former royal possession was a really noble town, indeed.

Not only from Kalsching, but also from Germany is warmly greeted the today lonely and abandoned former Polletitz, all its former inhabitants, and also all the former inhabitants of Kalsching, by the former Dean, Schwarzbauer.”