The printer’s devil

Anyone who deals with the printed letter, either with its reproduction as an author or editor, or with its consumption as a reader, knows well the printer’s devil, at least from the scattered traces of his sacrificial and tireless activity. However, I met him in person yesterday in York.

The devil was sitting on top of the column of a Renaissance shop portal at the corner of Stonegate and Coffee Yard. He did not wear Prada on his red body, but only an elegant black iron chain around his waist. His spread legs showed the absence of his reproductive organs, as he sat up there before the soon-to-be-started witch trials denigrated him as the corruptor of the unfortunate women dragged into court. He wore a carefully trimmed humanist’s round beard, and he carefully scanned the passersby on the other side of the streets. They, however, did not look back at him, because in York even the child knows that whoever looks into the eyes of the red devil will be in trouble that day.

The shop at 33 Stonegate, when the devil sat upon its portal, was a print shop. Book printing took root in the important university and episcopal city of York in the 1500s, and most of the printing presses operated on Stonegate. And the presses had their own devils. Not only because book printing was considered somehow magical and in league with the devil, but also because the masters had young assistants to mix the printing ink, smear it on the lead letters, then took them apart and, if necessary, remelt them. These smudgy guys were called the devils of the printing press. And if there was a mistake in the typesetting, the master spread the blame on the printer’s devil. And since the assistants also swore that they did everything right, the printer’s devil gradually became a mysterious and elusive being, an invisible inhabitant of the printing house, who leaves his handprints even on the most carefully set and twice proofread text, precisely on the page where the reader first opens the book.

In that period there was no house numbering yet. The houses and shops were marked with colorful signs, as we still see today in the Old Town of Prague. Think about it, what self-irony and courage it took for the Stonegate master to choose the manufacturer of printing errors, considered as shameful anomalies, for the emblem of his craft. True, by doing so, he slipped aside from blame. Whoever orders a job from a workshop dedicated to the Printer’s Devil, should not be surprised at the result.

Bears are very good Turks

Mr. Zoltán Medve – in literal translation, Sultan Bear –, the Governor of Krassó-Szörény County was not the first bear to visit the island of Ada Kale. Even if we discount the medieval Hungarian and Vlach bear-leaders, whose animals appeared in the island’s market place not of their own will, we must not be silent about the renowned Maczkó Úr – Mr. Bear – who preceded his colleague only by a nose. That he preceded him is beyond doubt, for Mr. Medve paid his official visit to the island on 12 May 1913, but at that time the book about Mr. Bear’s visit to Ada Kale, from the pen of Zsigmond Sebők, was already for sale with great success throughout the whole of Hungary.

The book Dörmögő Dömötör utazása hegyen, völgyön és a nagy ládával (“Travels of Grunty Demeter – Mr. Bruin – through mountains and valleys with the great chest”), published in 1913, was the last volume in the series about the travels of Mr. Bruin from Maramureș – “Huszt Forest, Third Valley, Second Stream, Fourth Rock, Sixth Cave, not far from the rest place of the wolves, any of whom will willingly show you the way” – which had been published since 1883. It guided its large audience, the children of Hungary, to Budapest, the Tatras, and the Iron Gates on the Lower Danube. To many of them, this was the only source of knowledge about the most beautiful parts of pre-war Hungary.


Mr. Bruin and his two small cubs, Zebike and Pimpi visited Ada Kale on the way to the Iron Gates. To their credit, they did not get the annexation of the island ahead of their senior relative, but were satisfied with annexing some caviar, coffee and tobacco to their native Maramureș. A great stroke of luck, since seven years later an island under Czechoslovakian, and later Soviet, sovereignty would have caused much international complication on the Lower Danube between Serbia and Romania.

The only complication during his visit remained inner-Maramureșan, inasmuch as Uncle János Hörpentő (“John the Sipper”), the cousin and evil spirit of Mr. Bruin also took part in the journey uninvited, now traveling in the chest of Mr. Bruin, and now acting as an inhabitant of Ada Kale, dressed as a local Turk, Mustafa Herpendji, who keeps drinking and eating whatever and whenever possible ahead of the honourable bear and his cubs.

In the course of this short visit, the little readers only get to know the most important topoi about Ada Kale. That you can get there from Orsova on a boat. That Lajos Kossuth, MP of the lost war of independence of 1848-49, set off from here to exile in Turkey. That here you can already encounter the Orient, the bazaar, women wearing hijab, coffee and real Turkish delight. Mr. Bruin was not exactly an Ignác Kúnos. But this much was enough for a little schoolboy to whet his curiosity, and once he grows up, he will also set out to see this wonderful East, as did Sándor Kőrösi Csoma, Ármin Vámbéry, Aurél Stein, and many others.


“Orsova is a pretty town with some five thousand people. If you stop at the bank of the Danube, flanked by one- and two-story houses, you can see three countries. On the other bank is Serbia, to the left Romania, and on the Danube a small island shines in green, it is Ada Kale. This belongs to Turkey. […]

When the company was fed, Mr. Bruin asked:

– And now, what shall we do until evening?

– Come, my effendi, to Ada Kale, – said Mustafa, the Herpendji. – There you will get fine Turkish tobacco, fine Turkish coffee.

– Turkish tobacco? Turkish coffee? – happily asked Mr. Bruin. – That’s fine, my friend Mustafa Herpenji, I love Turkish tobacco, Turkish coffee, Turkish pipes, Turkish divans, Turkish comfort… Hehehe, bears are very good Turks. So, let’s go to Ada Kale.

The boat harbor was close, and an old Turk soon carried them over to Ada Kale. The Turk was a silent man – to the good luck of Mustafa-János Herpenji-Herpentő, because I don’t know how he would have replied to the questions of the Turks. The Turkish ferryman broke the silence only once. When the boat arrived under Orsova, they saw a creek flowing into the Danube. This was the Cserna. Then, a mountain observing himself in the river. This was the Cserna. And a mountain, which staring at itself in the Danube. This is called Alion Mountain. The old Turk pointed to the bottom of the mountain, where the Cserna runs into the Danube, and he said, in good Hungarian, although with a Turkish accent:

– Lajos Kossuth kissed the soil of Hungary there, when he had to say goodbye to it forever.”



“Ada Kale, or in Hungarian New Orsova, is a two-kilometer-long island. Most of it is occupied by the fortress, and inside the fortress, its streets, houses, and shops. It is inhabited by Turks, only the army is Hungarian, because, although the island belongs to Turkey, since Serbia gained its independence, it has nevertheless fallen so far away from the motherland, as a button that had been cut off the coat. So, Hungary undertook its defense.

This is an interesting little place. As Mr. Bruin entered the fortress gate, his mouth gaped in amazement. Here he found a world which was completely different from anything he had ever seen during his journeys. Here, the men wore not a hat, but a turban or a fez, and the women a long mantle that covered all their face, except for two holes for the two eyes. It looked like a masquerade. The merchants sold their goods not in glass-door shops, but in an open bazaar. There they were squatting, under tent-like carpets, on soft Oriental carpets. There they were selling all kinds of sweets, trinkets, beautiful Oriental rugs. It was a real Turkish world.

Mr. Bruin immediately stopped in front of a candy store, like a big bumble-bee on the sugar, and the two cubs like two little flies on the peach jam. They just foamed, sucked, swallowed, chewed, sipped the sugar, dates, dessert, Turkish honey, that even the serious Turk smiled.

– Well, never did I hear such noisy chewing, even when the Budapest students came to Ada Kale, and visited the candy bazaar!

But when it came to the payment, Mr. Bruin and the Turk did not understand each other.

– Where is that Mustafa Herpendji? – said Mr. Bruin. – He would speak in Turkish with this Turk. Look, he’s nowhere just now, when he would be most needed!

But Herpendji–Hörpentő was clever enough not to be there, where he would have had to speak in Turkish. Finally Mr. Bruin agreed with the merchant, and then he sat down at the breezy porch of the Turkish café.

– Bring me Turkish tobacco, Turkish coffee, Turkish pipe! – he shouted.”


“Soon the Turkish coffee and Turkish tobacco was on his table. Sitting in the Turkish way on a carpet, he smoked the latter from a pipe called nargile. The fragrant tobacco floated around his head, made him sleepy, and soon he fell asleep, forgetting even the black coffee. The cubs also bumped with him. The Turks of the island gathered in the street, and asked each other:

– What is this? They are shooting with mortars in the fortress?

Oh, no, they were not. It was just the three bears who were snoring in the café. But who is this figure silently approaching the sleeping ones, and sipping their coffees one after the other? Yes, it is Herpendji–Hörpentő. Then, just as he came, he left, in silence, unnoticed.”


Soon Mr. Bruin woke up.

– Oh, I sneaked a little. Well, the coffee will come the more in hand… But where did the coffee disappear to, from my cup?

– And from mine? – was upset Zebike.

– And from mine? – whimpered Pimpi.

Mr. Bruin cried out angrily:

– Where? Where? Why do we ask it? It went down the throat of my alter ego! He has a devil, that he is able to get to wherever I am. Hey, you Turk! – he shouted –, coffee!

The waiter brought the steaming cups.

– You, Turk! – shouted Mr. Bruin. – Pour the coffee right in my mouth! Dont put it down, because my alter ego will immediately sip it – let him be suffocated on his name day!

The waiter poured the coffee into the respectable traveler. Mr. Bruin coughed, cleared his throat, because the hot coffee burned it.

– No matter if it burns me, at least I drink it on my money, and not my alter ego – he comforted himself. Then he exclaimed: But it’s already getting dark! Cubs, let’s say good-bye to Ada Kale, and go back to Orsova. Where’s that Herpendji? Let him carry the luggage to the boat. Waiter, my dear friend, didn’t you see Mustafa Herpendji somewhere?


The coffee owner knew Hungarian. He wondered:

– Who is that Mustafa Herpendji?

– Don’t you know him? He is a Turkish porter from here.

– From here? No Turk of this name has ever lived in Ada Kale.

– It’s impossible, my friend. For he had such a great turban, that it even covered his nose… it never let me see his face. And he spoke so well in Turkish! He said: djin, djin, choje to, djin, djin, potjesem.

The coffee owner smiled:

– But this is in Slovak, not in Turkish! – he said

Mr. Bruin shuddered.

– Oh my, how this wasp stung me!… Or rather this idea, more stingy than a wasp. I start to believe, that this Mustafa Herpendji was my alter ego. That Mustafa drank my beer, he ate my caviar, he sipped my coffee. That’s why he pulled the turban in his face, so we could not see his face.

– Hehe, what a fooldji he has made of you! – laughed Zebike.

– You cub, if you don’t shut up, you’ll get a slapdji! – grunted Mr. Bruin.”



After Mr. Bruin’s visit, the island began to fade from the Hungarian children’s horizon. Seven years later it lay behind new borders, fifty-nine years later it was submerged under the new water level. Today even the oldest bears of Maramureș can not easily say where Mr. Bruin had sipped his Turkish coffee. But since then, his adventures have not faded.

“When on Rákóczi street we passed before Manó Vidor’s bookshop, my father asked me whether I want a new book. He knew that a book was the most precious gift to me (and still it is). We entered the bookshop, and my father asked me which book to buy. I looked around excitedly on the shelves of the novels for the youth, and I discovered a rather thick Mr. Bruin book, perhaps the most exquisite fable book of Zsigmond Sebők: The travels of Mr. Bruin to the Iron Gates. That’s what I asked for. My father bought it, and right there, in the shop he wrote in it these unforgettable lines: “To my son Géza, on the day of the proclamation of the Hungarian Republic, and of the rebirth of Hungarian freedom, in Nagyvárad, on 31 October 1918, from your father.” I had this book until the end of the Second World War. I kept it as one of the great historical documents of my life. But it also belonged amaong my first important readings. In fact, here I read about the evil alter ego of the benevolent Mr. Bruin, Uncle Hörpentő. Only decades later did I realize that this masterpiece for children is actually a parody of Dostoyevsky’s novel Likeness. And, to tell the truth, since then I cannot take seriously this masterpiece of Dostoyevsky. It always reminds me of Uncle Hörpentő, the wicked bear, for whose jokes always Mr. Bruin must pay. And in the course of my life, if any inconvenience fell on me because of others’ inhumanity or meanness, I always calmly realized that now I am Mr. Bruin, and the malevolent, the wicked souls, the shady characters, the parasites all are in some way Uncle Hörpentő.”

Géza Hegedüs remembers like this Mr. Bruin’s Ada Kale adventures in his memoirs Preludes to an autobiography. From this inspiration sprung the historical novels which meant to my generation what the wanderings of Zsigmond Sebők’s bear had meant to him. The island of Ada Kale, like Hrabal’s house on the Dam of Eternity, submerged deep and flew up high, and now forever

floats above us, like the clouds of the ideal buildings on a Baroque painting.

“– Mr. Bruin for President! – shouted the bears.”

Cra

“The following day they did go to the Valle Giulia. They saw the stone coffins, the sarcophagi, adorned with statues and terracotta reliefs showing the ancient Etruscan dead living merrily, eating, drinking, carousing, embracing their women, and spreading the Etruscan gospel, which in their great wisdom they had never written down, never pausing long enough to develop a literature to express their cultural singularity. Yet their way was unmistakably carved on their statues’ faces: only the moment counts, and the beauty of the moment shall never pass.

Waldheim showed him wide-lipped vessels. It was from these that the ancient Italians drank their wine, as the inscription said: Foied vinom pipafo, cra carefo.

“Today I drink wine, tomorrow I won’t have any,” Waldheim translated. “Now, tell me, can there be anything as short and sweet? This sentence in its archaic splendor is as definitive, as impregnable as polygonal city walls, as the erections of the Cyclops. Foied vinom pipafo, cra carefo.”


“I don’t get it,” Mihály pretended. “I always thought the Greeks were terrified of death. The Greeks of Homer were never consoled much by an after-life, if my memory of Rohde’s book is correct. And the Etruscans who lived for the moment were even more afraid of death.”

“All that is true. These people were probably a great deal more afraid of death than we are. Civilization gives us such ready-made psychological templates that most of our lives we’re able to forget that one of these days we’re going to die. Eventually we’ll put it out of minds as we have God’s existence. This is civilization. But for ancient man, nothing was more immediate than death and the dead, whose shrouded after-life, destiny, vengeance, continually obsessed them. They were immensely afraid of death and the dead, except their psyches were much more ambivalent than ours. The great contraries lay closer to each other then. Death-fear and death-wish were more than just neighbors, and many times the fear was a wish and the wish a fear.”

Antal Szerb: Traveler and moonlight, 1937

From the Etruscan collection of the Altes Museum of Berlin

The Armenian alphabet

In spite of his age – next year he will be eighty –, Andrei Bitov is a prominent figure in Russian postmodern literature. In 2006 his collection of surrealist short stories Дворец без царя (A Palace Without a Tsar) received the Ivan Bunin Award. However, his first major work was the Уроки Армении (Lessons about Armenia), published in 1978, at the age of forty-nine, in which he compiles a subjective encyclopedia of his everyday observations and reflections gathered during his Armenian journey. Last year, this book was awarded the Yasnaya Polyana Prize, a most prestigious Russian literary recognition. Below we translate a part of the entry “Alphabet”.


“If not the first, but at least the second question that had been asked of me after arriving on Armenian soil, was: ‘Well, how do you like our alphabet? Beautiful, isn’t it? Tell me, but really, which one you find prettier, yours or ours?’

“It is a great alphabet, in which the sound is perfectly matched by the graphical representation. The whole is directed to one purpose, the circle closes up. The stubborn sound of the Armenian speech (‘the Armenian language is a wild cat,’ writes Mandelstam), coincides with the forged iron shape of the Armenian letters, the words mounted in writing clank like a chain. I can clearly imagine how these letters were created in the smithy: The metal bends under the hammer blows, the slag burns out of it, and only the bluish luster remains, which for me is present in every Armenian letter. With these letters you could shoe a living horse. Or you could carve them out of stone, because in Armenia the stone is just as natural as the alphabet, and neither the hardness nor the malleability of the Armenian letters is in contrast to the stone. And the upper arch of the Armenian letters is just as similar to the shoulder or vault to the ancient Armenian churches, as this same arch appears in the outline of their mountains or the contours of the female breast. So, to the Armenians, this surprising merging of hardness and softness, rigidity and flexibility, male and female, both in the landscape and in the air, in the buildings and in the people, and, of course, in the sound of the language, is universal.

“This alphabet was created once for all, in an ever-valid perfect form by a brilliant man, who deeply felt the spirit of his birthplace. This man was the image of God in the moment of creation. After the creation of the alphabet, this was the first phrase he mounted in writing:

Ճանաչել զիմաստութիւն եւ զխրատ, իմանալ զբանս հանճարոյ

Čanačʿel zimastutʿiwn ew zxrat, imanal zbans hančaroy

“And this phrase exactly means what it includes:

For gaining wisdom and instruction; for understanding words of insight.

(Solomon’s Proverbs, 1:1-2)

“When he mounted in writing – not ‘wrote down’ or ‘drew’ – this sentence, he discovered that one letter was still missing. Then he created it. Since then, 405 A.D., the Armenian alphabet ‘stands.’

“To me, there can be no more compelling story. You can find out a man, and you can also find out a letter, but you cannot find out a man who has forgotten a letter. It could only happen like this. So, this man did exist. He is no legend, but just as historical a fact, as the alphabet itself. His name was Mesrop Mastots.

“If it were up to me, I would erect a monument to Mastots with a statue of this last letter as solid evidence that he was right.”

However, to the Armenians all letters are equally important. Therefore, they commemorate Mashtots with the statues of each letter, carved in the form of a khachkar (medieval Armenian stone cross) in Oshakan, in the monastery founded by him, where, since 440, his tomb has been a pilgrimage site to all the Armenian faithful, as well as in the nearby “Field of the Armenian alphabet”.

The other images are from Ganzasar monastery, Karabagh, where Mastots first established a monastic school for the teaching of the Armenian script

Hedayat

For weeks I have been planning this trip. Today I finally make up my mind, so I would not miss it before Iran. It’s twenty minutes from here by bike. Kantstraße 76, Hedayat Bookshop, named after the Persian Kafka. The door is closed, I have to wave through the window to the owner speaking on the phone inside, to let me in. A rich selection of Iranian books, both in Persian and in German. “In the Saless bookstore of Tehran they recommended that I come and look around.” “Oh yes, we are in constant contact. So this is the bookstore, there, to the right, our publisher, Gardoon Verlag. And here we have courses twice a week.” “A language course?” Oh no. A writing course, for Persians. A new generation of writers is being formed here in Berlin, some of their books are also published by us.” Thirty years ago, Abbas Maroufi was sentenced to twenty lashes in Iran, he left the country then, and settled permanently in Berlin. Many of his books are on display, including four in German. “Which on do you love most?” “Peykar-e Farhad, “Farhad’s mirror”, in German Die dunkle Seite. You know this famous writing of Hedayat, where the protagonist tells about how he tries to reach a woman. In this, the woman tells the same story from her viewpoint. But the readers love most the Symphonie der Toten. This is a Persian Cain and Abel story, in four symphonic movements, with an ouverture.” “I’ll take both. I’m curious about them.” I also add Nasser Kanani’s Traditionelle persische Kunstmusik, also edited by them. The cashier generously rounds down, and even gives me one more book. “This is a gift, my latest book. نامهای عاشقانه, Namehâye eshghâne, “Love letters”, all in verse, you see. The poems set in normal letters are the letters of the woman, those in bold of the man.” “Kheyli mamnum, khoda hâfez, thank you very much, God bless you.” “Khâkhesh mikonam, don’t mention it, the honor is mine.” As he accompanies me to the door, he cries out: “What luck! Professor Kanani is just coming in.” Such a meeting is not unusual in the fifty-thousand-strong Persian quarter of Berlin. The professor turns around. “This gentleman is interested in Persian music. He has just bought your book.” “Really?” The professor looks touched and somewhat incredulously at me. “Are you really interested in Persian classical music?” He reaches out his hand. “Viel Spaß.”

War

The Old Lion Publisher of Lviv has been in the market for a few years, and published some wonderful children’s books with the characteristic beautiful, surrealistic illustrations of contemporary Lviv books. The first one, which we will soon present, is about Lemberg’s heraldic animal, who gave its name to the publisher, the old lion, who receives exotic visitors in his loft, and while we accompany their way from the railway station to Lemberg’s main square, we also get to know the city’s enchanting small streets and houses.

The Old Lion also publishes other books related to Lemberg and to the Ukraine. Last year was published the picture book – which we will also present – that explains the Maidan to the children, with illustrations based on old Rusyn motifs. And this year the book that tells what is war, and how to counter it.

In 2015 the book received the special prize of the Bologna Ragazzi Award, and on this occasion the publisher interviewed the two authors, Romana Romanyshyn and Andrij Lesiv.

The war, as our previous post shows, is actual again in the Ukraine now, a hundred years after the great war that destroyed Galicia. However, acording to the authors, the book is not only about this war.

“We have many book ideas, that are constantly noted on this paper on the wall here, marking their priority by underlining, highlighting and with exclamatin marks. The theme of war has never been included on this paper. We heard about the war only from our grandparents, or from the news about other countries. All these horrors were far away, and seemed to never reach here. But things have changed in the Ukraine. Other kinds of priorities have emerged, we had to rethink the values. Suddenly, all the stories told by witnesses about other wars, have become reality in our own country. This book on the war naturally reflects the events happening now. But this book is not only about our war in the Ukraine, it contains no data or geographical reference to it. All is based on simple symbols, like light and darkness, flowers and weeds, thin paper and sharp metal. The language of symbols is a clear and universal language, independent of geography.”

The War that changed Rondo

The city called Rondo was special. The air was clean and transparent, as if it were of the finest light. And its inhabitants were also all special and fragile. They grew flowers, tended gardens and parks, built fantastic houses, talked with the birds and plants, loved to sing, draw and write poetry. And they were happy to live in Rondo. But the city was most loved by three friends: Darko, Zirka and Fabian. Everyone knew them in Rondo.



Danko’s body was thin and translucent, and bright as a candle. His heart shone the brightest. He often rambled the streets of the city on his penny-farthing, humming the melodies of his favorite movies. A basket hung on the handlebar, with a thick atlas in it, which contained the old engravings of plants, flowers and trees.


Mozart: Rondo alla turca. Fiona Vilnite’s transcript for string quartet

Fabian was a descendant of ancient treasure hunters, with sharp sense of smell and sight. He was so light, that even the slightest breeze could have lifted and taken him far away, had he not had a silver medal with a letter “F” in his neck. The medal was heavy and solid, and Fabian never took it off his neck, he was so stuck to the land and to Rondo.

Zvirka could fly. He soared high in the sky, and could even perform complex aerobatics. He flew high on his paper wings, and he wrote on them his travel sketches and notes. Because he loved to travel more than anything else.


Rondo was famous for its beautiful flowers. On the main square was the city’s pride and treasure, the greenhouse. Here they collected the rarest flowers and plants from the most remote corners of the planet. But what was most surprising: these flowers could sing.

They often staged concerts in the greenhouse, which always featured Mozart’s Rondo. They came together from every corner of the city to enjoy this incredible spectacle. And every morning, when the sun rose, the flowers sang the anthem of the city, proudly lifting up their heads into the light.


Danko cycled every morning before sunrise to the greenhouse, because he loved to start the day by singing. Together with the flowers. He understood the flowersr better than anyone else. He took care so they felt well, and always had enough water and light. He carefully studied the atlas with the Latin names, because he wanted to know, which flower what needs the most.

After lunch, Danko often met Fabian in the corner café, where they discussed the latest news. Then they went to see Zvirka. Although they were never sure whether they find him at home, because Zvirka often flew to distant voyages, and he was not seen for several days in the city.

This day was just like any other in Rondo. The inhabitants of the town rushed after their jobs. Danko was going to his friend, because he knew that Zvirka had just come back from a journey, and he brought lots of new stories and pictures with him. The sun was shining, the birds and flowers singing. Everything was like always…

Suddenly everything was quiet. The news swept through the town:

THERE IS WAR IN OUR CITY!

The inhabitants of Rondo did not know, who the War is. It came out of nowhere, black and terrible. Roaring and gnashing crept towards the city, leaving behind ruins, chaos and darkness. Everything it touched fell into an impenetrable darkness. But the most terrible was that it sowed black flowers, dry and thorny weeds, which had no smell and no sound. They instantly sprang out of the earth, and grew into a thick jungle, which hid the sun. And in the lack of light, the fragile and defenseless flowers of Rondo began to fade and wither. They had no more force to raise their heads towards the light. And worst of all, they did not sing any more.


Danko, Zirka and Fabian, though fragile, were brave. They went out against the War. First they wanted to speak to it, asking it to go away. But the War ignored them, stubbornly going further, and launched its terrible machinery into attack. It threw fiery sparks and sharp stones everywhere.


One of the stones hit Danko on the chest, just above the heart, and a huge crack arose on his body. The sparks reached Zirka, and burned through his paper wings. And a black flower grew out in front of Fabian, piercing his leg.

The War did not spare anyone.


Then the three friends tried to talk to War in its language. Zirka and Fabian collected the stones and nails flying over the city, and threw them back. But this did not stop the War. Danko thought that the War could be stopped if they made better its heart. But in vain, because the War had no heart.

The three friends watched in despair as the War was destroying their fragile world. The inhabitants of the city disappeared one after another. There was less and less hope that the War would ever leave. The once bright and bustling streets became empty. And there was less and less light.

It went on day after day. The War steadily advanced, spreading black flowers everywhere, and the three friends tried to defend the city as they could.


Danko continued to go to the greenhouse, whose windows were darkened, and where the few surviving flowers stood languidly and silently in the corner.

On one occasion, when darkness was already so thick, that Danko could barely find his way, he tried to save at least these last flowers with the light of his penny-farthing. He put it on a stand, directed its lamp on the flowers, and began to pedal.

As soon as the light fell on the flowers, they recovered, and their pale color became vivid. Danko pedaled more and more quickly. The light grew greater and greater. Then Danko started to sing the anthem of the city, which had not been heard for long in Rodno. As he arrived at the end of the first stanza, one of the flowers lifted its head, and sang wwith him. And then the second and the third. Then a dozen of them sang the anthem in choir.

And Danko understood: the War was terrified, because a dozen flowers kept on singing, in spite of everything, because even the thinnest beam of light weakened the darkness. So, to stop the War, the whole community has to build the great machinery of Light, which dispels darkness and saves the singing flowers!


The three friends immediately went to work. The other inhabitants of the city also come one after the other to help them, and the main square of Rondo became a bustling ant’s nest. All united in a common cause, they worked as well as they could. The city worked like a single coordinated clockwork.


Zirka carried out reconnaissance flights, and drew on his wings the location of the enemy camp, and the peered data. Fabian, as the best treasure hunter, collected parts to the light machine in construction. Danko acquired a large book on mechanics, and directed from it the construction of the machine.


When the machine was ready, they all took their places, and began to pedal on command. Hundreds of pedals, thousands of wheels started to spin at a rate – and the machine was launched. Light flooded the streets. Danko, Zvirka, Fabian and all the inhabitants of the city sang the anthem of Rondo together with the flowers.


Mozart: Rondo alla turca. Guitar transcription by Charlie Parra del Riego


The War stopped short, then it slowly began to dissipate in the light emitted by the machine. The stronger the light, the louder the anthem, the quicker the War disappeared, and together with it, the darkness and the thorny black flowers as well.

Rondo sang the anthem until the last black flower disappeared, and the last remnant of the darkness was dispelled.

It was a victory!


In place of the black flowers, red poppies grew out of the earth. Before the War, poppies of many colors grew in Rondo, pink, yellow, violet, purple, white, but not a single red one. Now, however, all the poppies were only red.


However, unfortunately, not everything could be restored. The cracks remained on Dankoʻs transparent body and heart, as well as the burn marks on Zirka’s wings, and Fabian was limping with his pierced leg.

The inhabitants of the city also became different. Everyone had sad memories about the War, which changed Rondo. And the city was covered with the multitude of the red poppies growing all over.*

(* Since 1914, the red poppy has been the symbol of the falle in the war.)


Mozart: Rondo alla turca. The original piano piece, performed by Daniel Barenboim