From the cappuccino to the wardrobe. From wardrobe to machine. It was not just a way to a job, it was a way to belong. It was a path that his father had already followed. When Lojze was a child, his father used to tell him, »Konus is not just about (good) work, Konus is about people.« He didn't understand it then, but he did later.
When he first put on a blue work suit at the age of 18, he felt like he was entering a world bigger than himself. A story that began before him and will continue when he is gone. He worked in the same department as his father. He was taught by older comrades and workers without being haughty, and respected by the younger ones. No one was more or less than the others; they were all part of the same pulse.
Years passed, machines changed, directors changed, but Lojze stayed. Always reliable, honest and ready to help. Work was not a burden to him, but a value to him. He took pride in creating something with his own hands that would go out into the world. But even more than the product itself, he was proud of the people around him. The fact that they stuck together. That they knew each other by names, not by numbers. That they knew when someone was tired, when someone had problems at home, when someone needed quiet and when someone needed a joke.
You were not alone in Konus. You weren't just a worker. You were a colleague, a friend, a neighbour, sometimes almost a family member. There you shared news of births and illnesses, of weddings and funerals, of credits and dreams. Bonds were forged between machines, a community was built between shifts.
Then came the disease. First quietly, like a body whispering that something was wrong, then with pain, scrutiny and fear. The rehabilitation was long, the days hard and the nights restless. What hurt him most was not being able to go to the factory, not being able to hear the morning greetings, not being able to stand by his machine and not being one of his own.
But Conus has not forgotten him.
Colleagues came, called and wrote. They asked how he was. They brought him homemade soup, left messages like »We miss you,« »hang in there,« »your place is waiting for you.« There was no obligation in these words. It was belonging. There was care. It was love wrapped up in simple sentences.
When the doctor told him he would not be able to return to work, Lojze sat in the kitchen for a long time. He had his work card and a photo of his father in front of him. He felt as if something had been torn out of his heart. Not a job, but a community; a part of himself. Then he walked slowly into the cloakroom one last time, touched his locker and looked at the familiar faces. Hugs. Tears. Jokes. On his locker, waiting for him, was a note: »You will always be ours.«
Today, he walks past the factory almost every day. He looks at the chapel, the chimney and the windows. He knows that he has left not only his years there, but also his belonging. And got it back. He knows that he was not just a worker, an employee of Konus. He was part of it.
Today, he taught me something he says no machine and no payroll has taught him. It was taught to him by the community or by the people. Yes a person is not worth what he makes or produces, but what he leaves in others. That work is not just a tool for survival, but a way to weave bonds. That belonging is not a reward for success, but a promise that you are not alone, even when you can't do it anymore. And if somewhere is only as good as how strong, fast and useful you are, it's not home. Home is a feeling and it is people. It is a market. For him, the Cone was not a market. It was a place where a man remains a man. And where they proved that a real community doesn't close its doors when someone can no longer walk through them, but leaves them open - forever.
Zala Krupljan, 19. 1. 2026
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