Excerpt

How High the Heaven

How Dark the Night

Part I

Gottschee (Go-chay)

1938

Chapter 1

The dusk clung to my skin and to all of Gottschee—our ruined castle, our deep primeval forest,

our overgrown farms now studded with beech trees and fern. All the land tinged blue, giving off

a kind of glow. Even the men’s voices rumbling out from my father’s inn couldn’t detract from

what Mama called the “lovely of the moment.” Remember this, I told myself. Though I believed

back then that it was something I could never forget.

     Far in the distance a wolf padded out from the Stimpfl’s barn, raising her snout in the now

nearly violet air. The men’s voices boomed louder with Matthias’ voice loudest of all, “We must

unite!” The cheers that followed disintegrated within the darkness edging outward from the

forest and into me.

     Matthias sensed my discomfort when we rendezvoused later in the orchard. “Don’t worry,” he

murmured, his breath a whisper against my ear.

     “What happened?” I said.

      A nearly full moon had crested the horizon, sending lanky shadows sprawling at our feet and

casting his face an eerie shade. Ghost light, I thought and clutched my wool shawl tighter.

      For several moments he stared off toward the inn before meeting my eyes and saying,

“Resnik has been convinced to vote in our favor.”

     “Convinced?”

     He grunted a laugh and said, “I told you Resnik could be easily bribed.” Clasping my hand,

he switched from German, his native tongue, to mine of Gottscheerisch. “And I keep telling you,

Stefanie, Gottschee will survive. We will fight the Yugoslavian State. I promise.”

     His words were as fiery as his earlier declaration to unite, reassuring me that if anyone could

get the different political parties of Gottschee to work together it would be him. On tiptoe I

raised my face to his, putting me in mind of the wolf raising hers to the moon. “There are

wolves,” I said.

     “There always are.”

     We kissed and his mouth tasted of the cider pressed from that very orchard as well as

something else I couldn’t name, yet it was familiar. I continued to seek that taste with the tip of

my tongue until we heard a sound and broke apart.

     “Papa,” I whispered, not daring to turn, fearing the force of his disapproval.

     “Sir?” Matthias said.

     But it wasn’t Papa who stepped onto the path visible between the trees. It was one of the

peddlers back from selling his wares all winter in Germany.

     “Excuse me,” the peddler said, tipping his hat. I recognized him as one of the Pfeifers, a

family from the neighboring village. For generations they’d worked the mill owned by the

Austrian royal family. But years ago the mill had been taken over by the State and now our

beloved royalty were all gone.

     “Good evening,” the man said before again tipping his hat and continuing on his way.

                                                                               ***

The next morning, I awoke early. Dampness in the air brought out the sweet smell of hay from

the mattress. I breathed it in, imagining Matthias in bed with me, the weight of him bearing down

upon my heart.

      “Be careful,” Katja had warned when she’d spied us embracing in the orchard. “Every little

bit you give, they want more.”

      From down below in the kitchen of the inn came the sounds of Mama stoking the stove. She’d

be humming a hymn, waiting for me and Katja to come down and help get breakfast started.

Papa would demand our best efforts, as the newly appointed ambassador for Gottschee was

coming for lunch.

      Quietly I padded down to the kitchen where I made as if to kiss Mama’s cheek, but instead I

swiped one of the donuts set out on the counter beside her. Scampering away I smiled at her

wagging finger. Mama loved me loving her food, and the fact that we had plenty when so many

didn’t flavored each delicious morsel with a pinch of guilt.

      “What first, Mama?” I asked, licking the sugar from my lips.

       Like so many Gottscheers Mama was part Slovene. This early in the morning her narrow

Slavic eyes appeared sunken in the creases of her face, which were still swollen from sleep. Her

hands were veiny, her back, hunched. Mama was only forty-five but with her babushka tied

under her chin she looked like one of the old ladies, dressed in black, who spent half their days

praying in church, pestering the priest with their daily confessions about nothing.

      “I need the water and the eggs first, Fonnie. We’ll leave the milking for Katja.”

      I did as she asked, crossing the yard and peering into the well where over a hundred years

ago a family matriarch had foreseen the death of the Empress Maria Theresa in its depths. But I saw 

only pooling darkness and felt only the warmth of a morning already graced with blue sky

and birdsong. Humming, I then left to collect the eggs, the chickens squawking at my feet.

“Come now, come now,” I soothed. “You know you’ll lay more soon.”

      Generally, it was my job to help with meals and clean the rooms while Katja served the

guests, but that day Katja awoke poorly. By the time the ambassador arrived, the line on her

forehead had deepened from pain. She found me in the kitchen readying lunch.

      “Little sister,” Katja started, something she tended to call me when she needed a favor. “I’ve

been sick all morning.”

      My brother Tomas had married Katja less than three years ago, but she’d already had two

miscarriages. I tried to hide my thoughts but my expression must have given them away because

she then said, “And don’t tell me to go see that old cow.”

      Mrs. Petschaur was the midwife for our village of Stockdorf, but Katja didn’t trust her.

      “Fine,” I said. “I won’t.”

      “But would you please do the tea?” she pleaded. “The councilmen are with the ambassador

now. I’ll do lunch later. And for God’s sakes remember, you’re there to serve, not to be seen or

heard.”

      “How can I serve if I can’t be seen or heard?” I quipped.

      Groaning, Katja gripped her belly. A long wisp of strawberry hair had escaped her bun. I

swept it back behind her ear and said, “Don’t worry. I can handle it.”

      Quickly I changed into my best dirndl and pinned my braids up, excited to serve the

ambassador and Papa’s fellow Gottscheer councilmen. The meeting had taken months for Papa

to arrange and the hopes of all of Gottschee hinged on it. In a few weeks the entire Council

would vote on whether we could publicly speak German and Gottscheerisch. I was excited about

the meeting and eager to witness even a small part of it. For the first time I felt I was gaining

admittance, however small, into Papa’s and Matthias’ political world.

     The ambassador had been given the inn’s best room, which had a sitting area with an

adjoining bedroom. When I entered, tray in hand, Papa’s brow stiffened in surprise. I avoided his

gaze, intent on impressing him and the new ambassador with my discretion.

      The men were seated in armchairs around a long low table. The two open windows gave a

glimpse of the Dinaric Alps and I’d swear the breeze tasted of the Adriatic Sea. Every so often a

whiff of it blew through the villages of Gottschee, which was where the name Gottschee was

said to have come—God’s sea. A name I loved even though the sea was nearly fifty kilometers

away and most of us had never seen it.

      Ambassador Krajnc sat nearest the fireplace, which was lit and crackling despite the warm

afternoon, and a sheen of perspiration glistened on his forehead. He looked nothing like I’d

expected. He was short and bulbous with slicked back thinning hair and eyes as blue as the

Adriatic was rumored to be. The style of his suit suggested some foreign fashion. Paris, maybe,

or Prague. His cufflinks were gold, his fingernails polished. The brandy that he’d brought as a

gift for Papa was the finest Zagreb had to offer. All of him spoke of a man who enjoyed excess

and pleasure and my heart plummeted. This was not the kind of man to help us. His aide who sat

beside him also didn’t seem the type. The aide was handsome but there was a sharpness to his

features that reminded me of a bird and inspired immediate distrust. As if sensing my thought,

the aide turned, his glance shaving the length of me. Instantly I regretted wearing my most

attractive dirndl and shawl.

     As Papa explained the need for allowing German to be spoken in our towns, I poured tea,

mortified when I spilled a drop on the ambassador’s saucer. Fortunately, everyone’s attention

was on Papa.

      “As you know, Ambassador,” Papa said, “most Gottscheers aren’t fluent in Slovenian and

only a few can afford a translator. So for most it’s practically impossible to defend ourselves in

court. And did you know that two homes burned to the ground this month? All because our

firemen couldn’t think of the Slovenian commands fast enough. A tragedy, Ambassador, which

could easily have been avoided.”

      The other councilmen agreed and Councilman Witter said, “Ambassador, we’ve lived with

our Slovene neighbors peacefully for centuries. For all that time we’ve spoken both German and

Gottscheerisch, but in these past twenty years, not only have we begun losing our languages, but

also the stories we’ve told for generations, the songs we’ve sung. It’s not only our culture, but

our way of life that is threatened.”

      The Councilman went on to recount how most of our educated people left to Austria when

Austrian citizenship was offered after the Great War. He paused as I poured his tea, then said,

“But of course a farmer can’t take his land with him so only those with the means to go could.

Yet still we survived. Even without our professors and our doctors and our scientists. Even with

our young people leaving for America.”

     Councilman Kneier added, “It’s our youth who have suffered the most. Since their classes are

taught in Slovenian, but they’re not actually taught the Slovenian language, they learn precious

little. And since they’re not taught to read or write in German or Gottscheerisch either, they’re

illiterate in three languages.”I sensed Councilman Kneier glance at me but didn’t meet his eye. I was 

one of those young people but Papa had made sure I was fluent in all three. Mama had taught us 

Slovenian and Papa had given Tomas and me nightly German and Gottscheerisch lessons in secret.

Councilman Kneier had been speaking a broken Slovenian, as had Councilman Witter, but

after some moments Ambassador Krajnc responded in perfect German. “Gentlemen, I believe in

this next vote we can sway enough of our Slavic Councilmen to reinstate German in at least

some of the schools. I am hopeful we can also reinstate it in the courts. However, Councilman

Resnik’s vote is key. Tomorrow I meet with him and will do my best to sway his point of view.”

       Papa cleared his throat. I’d forgotten myself and had simply stood, mesmerized, listening. I

needed to tell them that Councilman Resnik had already been swayed. They already had his vote.

But if I told would that cause trouble for Matthias?

     “Papa can I—”

     “No!” Papa’s expression could have been forged in steel. And his eyes. His eyes were so

black that you could believe the family suspicion that Papa’s great-grandmother had had Gypsy

in her blood. He ordered, “Go and send Katja back.”

      I found poor Katja folded up on her and Tomas’ bed. She didn’t even glance at me. “Did you

say something or do something?”

      I helped her to her feet. “Both.”

      She said a nasty Slovenian curse that invoked the devil and we both made the sign of the

Cross.

      Out of guilt, I spent the rest of that afternoon finishing Katja’s chores. After, I left word with

Matthias’ landlady that he needed to come see me immediately. He’d be glad to know that the

ambassador’s sympathies were with the Gottscheers, a cause remarkably close to Matthias’ heart.

Matthias was one of the visiting linguistic students from Germany and his initial interest in

Gottschee had been merely in the study of our Medieval German dialect. But his interest in his

studies waned once he got involved in Gottschee’s politics.

     When I returned to the ambassador’s room to clean up and leave a tray of cheese and wine, I

discovered a note on the pillow. I paused to listen, making certain that the guests were still in the

dining room, before snatching it up and reading it. Scrawled in a tiny German script were the

words, You must leave now.

      I heard a noise and sensed someone standing behind me. My breathing stifled. I turned. In the

entrance to the bedroom was the ambassador’s aide.

      “What does it say?” he said in Slovenian.

       The breath left my mouth in a rapid whoosh. “I don’t know, sir. I think it’s written in

German.”

      "Think?”

      “I was never taught German, sir. I can’t read the script.” My nerves vibrated yet I was

amazed that my voice came steady.

       “Yes, what a shame that is,” he said, his words greased with sarcasm. His hawkish face,

which I’d found handsome earlier, now seemed predatory. He added, “Aren’t you Stalzer’s

daughter?”

       I nodded, my glance darting to the bed which was covered with the afghan my grandmother

had crocheted the year she’d died.

     “Your mama is a Slovene, no?”

      “Half, sir. Her mother was Slovenian. Her father, Gottscheerisch.” I thought of Papa’s advice:

When confronted by an enemy speak loudly and with confidence. Meeting the aide’s stare, I

impolitely raised my voice and asked a direct question. “So many of us are part this or that. Our

people have been intermarrying for so many years, perhaps you’re even part Gottscheerisch? Do

you think that’s possible, sir?” It felt like I was giving him a light slap. I couldn’t wait to repeat

my words to Matthias.

      Again, as when I’d served the tea, the aide appeared to guess my thoughts. “And Matthias

Hoffmann?” he said. “You know him?”

       The scrap of paper in my hand felt like it was melting; it was so damp from sweat. I could

always scream. Finally, I said the only response that came to mind, “Maybe.”

        In three steps he crossed the room, grabbed the twist of braid pinned to the back of my head

and whispered fiercely, “This is not a game, little girl.” He pried the note from my hand, read it,

then strode into the sitting room where he tossed the paper into the fire. For a few moments he

stood, watching it burn, and I had the feeling that he wished he could throw me in there as well.

       I eyed the door, wondering if it was worth the risk of sneaking past him, but he spared me the

decision. “Don’t play in deep water,” he growled, his gaze shifting toward me as he walked into

the hall. I looked away.

      Within minutes the aide and the ambassador were in their car, speeding off. I found Papa out

by the stable, shading his eyes to scan the length of road where they’d disappeared. The stable

shone warmly with lantern light. Through its open door I could see Tomas brushing down one of

the mares.

      “Papa? I’m sorry I interrupted the meeting but there’s something you must know.”

       He didn’t respond and I put my hand on his arm. “There was a note on the ambassador’s

pillow. In German. It told him he must leave now.”

       Papa turned to me but said nothing.

       “Then his aide came in. He saw me with the note.”

        The black of Papa’s eyes softened. “My God,” he said. “What happened?”

       “He asked if I was your daughter. If Mama was a Slovene. And he asked if I knew Matthias.”

        Before Papa could say anything bad about Matthias, I hurtled on. “You should know that

Matthias already swayed Councilman Resnik. That’s what I wanted to tell you during the tea.

See, Papa, I told you Matthias is good. He’s on our side. You should like him better.” The rest of

what the aide had said about playing in deep water sat, unspoken, in my mouth.

        “So did the aide ask anything else?”

        I shook my head.

      “Then there’s probably nothing to worry about. I don’t think he’s a bad man. But his

sympathies aren’t as aligned with the ambassador’s as we would have wished.”

        Papa put his arm around me and I leaned my cheek against his shoulder. In the distance, at

the point in the road where it was swallowed by woods, I saw something flicker. I continued to

stare at that spot, seeing only the dark collecting between the tree trunks, which put me in mind

of the witches said to live within the forest’s ancient depths.

        “Do you think someone is coming here to kill the ambassador?” I asked. “Do you think its

Tito’s thugs?” I tried to sound calm, but there was an edge to my voice. There always was

whenever I thought of Tito or the bands of men who did his bidding.

     “Tito wants to kill anyone who doesn’t support the Communist Party. No doubt, the

ambassador is one of his enemies.” Papa’s shoulder tensed. “But as to his thugs coming

here—they probably already know the ambassador has left. They seem to have eyes in all

places.”

      Surreptitiously I shifted mine toward the inn, wondering if we might have a guest who was a

spy for the Communist Party. At a whisper I told Papa that last week Matthias had had lunch

with the mayor of Ljubljana. “The mayor has met Tito several times,” I said. “He thinks Tito will

use his thugs to take over all of Yugoslavia. They’ll simply get rid of anyone who stands in their

way.”

      Papa nodded. He didn’t seem surprised by this information, but I could tell it made him

nervous. “Papa, who would have written the note warning the ambassador?”

      Papa shook his head. “I can’t be sure.”

      “It makes me afraid for Matthias.”

      “For Matthias? Oh, Fonnie, you should be afraid of the trouble Matthias causes. You should

be afraid for Mama, and Tomas, and Katja and yourself.”

      “Matthias is not the problem, Papa.”

       “No, indeed, my child, if only he were.”

        “I wish if you’d at least try and like him. Mama already does.”

       “It’s that Radical Party he’s involved with that I dislike. Like him, they’re inexperienced and

impulsive. Just because he thinks he swayed Resnik doesn’t mean he actually did. Hopefully he

didn’t wind up antagonizing the man instead.”

       “Mama says you were like him once, impulsive and wild.”

        I smiled up at him, but he didn’t tease back. He appeared to study the forest, his gaze

sweeping east, then north, then west before settling back on the road that curved scythe-like to

the south. He didn’t need to speak for me to know what he meant. “We are pressed on all sides,

child. All sides are the problem.”