And I wish that people would not throw stones at the first moment, but would at least get to know the person they want to stone with such vindictive force. That would certainly make them richer in knowledge and poorer in prejudice.
I was in high school and it was spring. The village was bursting with youth and May greenery and flowers. The grass smelled before it rained. You know, it's that special smell of spring grass, when the air is so full of scents you could cut it, but it's also sultry, so there are too many smells... And I, oh I, was squatting behind my books with all the splendour that spring had to offer... It was May. Wondering and for the control were lined up like a conveyor belt, which made all the adults as known. In order not to be completely deprived of the abundance of May nature, I studied with the window open. In the heavy, saturated air, I heard the clopping of horses' hooves. Ah yes, the gypsies are migrating, as they always do before the rain, the thought flashed through my brain.
A fact that in my village Dolnja Prekopa we were used to as snow in winter. In nearby Kostanjevica na Krki lived a rather special old woman. We called her Kosova Tončka. Whenever you saw her wandering around the streets of Kostanjevica, you suspected that it would rain soon. And if you met gypsies on a cart, which was being pulled by their beloved hobby horse, whether with good or evil intentions, as you saw them travelling down the road with their luggage and their treasure of children in a direction and with a purpose known only to them, you knew for sure: It will rain, it will rain, it will rain. And 99% of the time it was.
But this time it was different. The hoofing stopped shortly after they passed our house. Soon there were moans and cries for help. Before I knew it ovedela, my mother was already rushing to the driveway. A minute later, she entered the house with a young Romani woman and her mother. The girl was bleeding profusely. Her mother immediately brought her lavor with warm water and soap and plenty of towels, and invited her and her mother into the bathroom.
It turned out that the girl had jumped from the cart, but in the process had accidentally got a sharp, broken-off wooden part of the cart stuck in her ..., in her ..., well, yes, in her crotch, near her vagina. Her mother helped her as much as she could, and Biljana, her mother Tatiana and the family soon went on their way. My mother Betka, worried, told her to go to the doctor if it got worse. As she was a bit shaken by the event, she shared the experience with me and my father over coffee, hoping that everything would be all right with the little girl.
The next morning, she had an unexpected visit. Tatjana came, and not alone; her husband Darko Brajdič and daughter Biljana were with her. They did not come empty-handed and they did not come begging, oh no! Darko brought a huge cula from the cart, almost half the size of a bed. Tatjana, slender and with raven black, shiny clean hair, with tears in her eyes, began to thank her daughter warmly for her help. Even Darko could hardly hold back his tears.
But what was in the cula? It was full of the most beautiful and largest elderflowers I have ever seen in my life. I swear, I have never seen such a beautiful and pure elderflower before or since. These people, who themselves had so little, who were so often despised by the rest of us, showed a deep and genuine gratitude that I have rarely seen even among friends. They had nothing great, but how much they knew how to give!
Of course, there was coffee and a long conversation, through which we got to know each other. Tatjana and Darko were at home in the village of Roje. They were very clean and tidy, but the age-old instinct to move before the rain and wander around the villages had not left them alone. Oto Pestner might have called it Gypsy blood ...
After that, Tatjana came to visit regularly, because she and Betka realised that they were very similar; they were both just mothers trying to give the best they could to their families. And over coffees, they shared the joys and worries of motherhood. Mum was invited to Tatjana's house and went to visit her. "Franja, if you could see how clean, tidy and organised Tatiana is. What a beautifully tended garden she has! And we call them gypsies! We are gypsies, we, not them." One after another, the two women wove years of friendship, which was unfortunately interrupted by Tatjana's cancer.
I don't know if Darko is still alive, but I know that one of his daughters was married in Gazice, and one of them, Darja, married Civilian. She even visited us once with a lovely boy. She called out to my mum in perfect form (i.e., you went, and not wrong you went and she said to her Ms, which many Slovenian Mullet not learned). She was also tidy and clean. She wore her long hair, dyed a light blonde, in a neat ponytail and was dressed in casual clothes. Unlike her daughter, Tatiana kept her richly coloured skirts; an heirloom of her lineage. I do not know where Biljana is, but I hope that she is well; that she is healthy and happy.
Unfortunately, I do not have any photos of Tatjana or her family, or a phone number or email address. I do not even know her exact address in Roja.
I am quite sorry that we have lost all contact, because it was a friendship that transcended prejudice and erased intolerance and hatred between us and our.
Remark: Our is what we colloquially call members of the Roma community.
Franja Jorga Arnšek, 31 Mar 2025
English (UK) 
Slovenščina 
Italiano 
Magyar