A story of an unfulfilled love set against the backdrop of major historical events of the 20th century, a story about war, the division of families, and the expulsion of Germans.

Main characters: an older woman named Heda and an old man named Martin.
He is German, she is Czech. In 1945, at the age of nineteen, he, along with other Germans, had to leave his homeland, Czechoslovakia, while she was allowed to stay. What unites them throughout their lives is not only their shared childhood but also a deep connection.

​

 

Tulín – orchard, castle – day (1938)

​

Martin, only slightly older than in the previous memory, stands in the garden near the small house at the foot of the castle hill. On his hands. In a perfect handstand. Without the slightest wobble. He glances sideways at Heda. The girl is sitting in a tree, eating ripening cherries, staring into the distance. She doesn’t notice Martin. Martin raises one hand and shifts it a few centimeters forward. Then the other one. He walks slowly, carefully, in the handstand, without swinging. Suddenly, something taps his leg. He jerks slightly and looks suspiciously at Heda. The little girl still seems as dreamy as before. In her white summer dress, she somewhat resembles an angel who has briefly perched on a branch to rest its tired wings.
Martin turns his eyes away. He takes two more steps. Just then, he gets hit with a cherry right in the face.
"Hey, Heda!" he shouts. Instantly, he’s on his feet. "You’ll pay for that!"
He scrambles up the tree. When he’s at the top, Heda gracefully jumps down. She straightens up quickly and runs toward the house, where Martin’s father is just emerging.
"Where are you going, Father?" Heda asks, taking his hand.
She knows she’s safe from Martin when he’s near.
"To the castle," says her father. "Mr. Goldmann wants to speak with me."
"Can I come with you?"
"Come along."

They step out onto the dusty path and walk uphill. Martin jumps down from the cherry tree. He lingers behind them. By the time he reaches the castle, his father is already inside. Heda sits on a net swing in front of the window.
"You can push me," she generously offers.
Martin swings the swing. As wildly as possible. Then he sticks out his rear end. With gusto, he crashes into the seat. And again. He slams his backside, which, like most boys of his age, is hard and bony, into Heda.
Suddenly, he stops. He hears something. He sneaks toward the castle. He crouches down by the open window, where his father’s voice can be heard.

"I’ve been working for you for twelve years," he says, proudly. His father is proud of his work. "I think you’ve never had a better steward."
"That’s why I want it from you," replies Goldmann.
When Martin leans forward, he can see half of the room. A dark wooden grandfather clock. A piece of green upholstery. A round table with two armchairs. His father and Goldmann are sitting in the chairs.
"Here in Bohemia, it’ll go from bad to worse," Goldmann continues.
He has a classic Jewish profile. Bulging eyes.
"I’m not going to wait for that. My brother-in-law is inviting us to Canada. Esther has the whole family there. They’ll take care of us for a while. Until things clear up in Europe."
"If you lease the farm to me and something happens, we’ll both end up with our mouths shut," his father argues calmly. Behind his outward composure, Martin senses his nervousness. His father has a precise plan.
"Who would hesitate when it comes to the property of a Jew who’s off God knows where across the ocean, right? Especially when it’s the biggest farm and the best land for miles around!"
"Let’s grab it," Goldmann nods grimly.
His father leans slightly forward. His gaze fixed on Goldmann’s face.
"Sell it," he says quietly. Almost inaudibly.
But Goldmann has big, hairy ears. Also, he’s been aware for some time where his father is heading. He knows him. Their minds are very much alike.
He stands up, opens the top drawer of the secretary. Now Martin can only see half of his back. His elbow sticks out.

"Do you think he’ll sell?" Heda whispers. She’s crouching next to Martin by the window, her eyes wide with excitement.
"Shh!" Martin hisses, whispering. He looks back into the room.

Goldmann is pouring some kind of schnapps into two shot glasses. He carries them to the table. He hands one to Martin’s father. The father gets up. They clink their glasses. Both of them sniff. They empty the glasses in one go. They exhale.
"Sell, you say," Goldmann repeats. "And what if everything settles down?"
"It won’t settle down on its own," the father retorts. "It’s coming from Germany. The Germans have a tough backside. But once they raise it, they won’t sit down again easily."
"You must know that," Goldmann shrugs. "It’s your blood, Berthold."
"That’s why I say sell. It’s the most sensible thing you can do."
"And you’ll buy."
"I’ll buy. You know I never had much. After Lotti’s death, all I was left with were debts. Now I’ve inherited a distillery. I don’t want it. There are ten interested parties for every finger. But I want the land. This land. Because I know it. And this house. Because it has always represented success to me. Wealth. A life of quality."

Goldmann stares at him intently.
"And what if one day I want to come back?"
His father shakes his head. With deep conviction.
"People don’t come back from there," he says. As if he has rich experience in this regard. "Either you become a millionaire, or you go bankrupt and shoot yourself in the head."
Goldmann’s bulging eyes pop out even more. Then he suddenly bursts into laughter. Loudly and raspily.
"You’re honest!" he exclaims. "At least you say what you think!"
"It’s always paid off for me—so far."

The children sneak away from the window. Around the corner.
"What do you think, will he sell?" Heda asks.
Martin looks around. Suddenly, he sees the castle and the surroundings with new eyes. Through the eyes of a potential owner. It gives him a sense of confidence.
"If he sells," he says, spreading his legs and picking up a pebble from the ground, "I’ll climb up to the dovecote!"
He swings his arm and throws the stone toward the dovecote. The stone barely reaches the windows of the first floor. Above which the dovecote seems to loom at a terrifying height.
"It’s too high," Heda skeptically measures the dovecote with her eyes. "You won’t climb all the way up."
"I will. Bet on it!"
Martin’s confidence is boundless.
"On what?" Heda asks.
"A kiss," Martin blurts out quickly. "But a real one!"

Heda looks at the dovecote one more time. As if considering whether she has a chance of winning the bet. The dovecote is indeed high. Martin’s small figure below looks tiny. Heda shakes her head distrustfully.
"I’d have to see it with my own eyes," she says.

​

 

Tulín – Castle – Evening (1938)

​

An autumn night, a few months later.
Heda, in her nightgown, leans out of one of the castle windows. She gazes tensely at the roof of the opposite wing. Where Martin’s underpants are shining white. He has already climbed to the ridge. He pauses for a few seconds to rest. Then he stands up and runs to the base of the dovecote. It rises from the roof like a bell tower. The boy begins to climb nimbly up the slats and beams. The light sleep of the pigeons is instantly disturbed. They start to murmur. Their heads appear in the round holes. A few of them fly out, circling around Martin. They are friendly; they land on his shoulders, in his hair, brushing their wings against his face. A few times he has to wave them away. Once, he nearly loses his balance. At the last moment, he catches himself and climbs higher.
Heda watches each of his movements with extraordinary attention. Her eyes have already adjusted to the dark, and she can see even the movements of the bird’s wings and heads. Martin has only a meter left. He grabs a beam under the dovecote’s roof and slowly pulls himself up.
But Heda doesn’t wait for him to turn toward her triumphantly. She quietly closes the window. She slips into bed. With a smile, she closes her eyes. She is still awake when Martin knocks on her door.

"Heda!" she hears his quiet voice from the hallway.
"Mm...hmm," she pretends to wake up.
"What is it?"
"I made it up there!"
"Where?"
"To the dovecote!"
"Yeah?"
"We made a bet," Martin whispers, his mouth close to the keyhole.
"You know what for!"
"We made a bet that I had to see it with my own eyes," Heda corrects his mistake, matter-of-factly.
"You saw it!" Martin grumbles. Grumbling in whispers sounds ridiculous.
"Stop talking, you didn’t see me!"
"I was sleepy, I went to bed," Heda ends the conversation.
"And you go to bed too. Or you’ll wake up Dad," she adds piously.
The last remark has an effect. Martin lets go of the doorknob he had been twisting.
"You owe me one!" he whispers.

He leaves, defeated. He tries to clean the uncleanable underpants with his hand. Then something occurs to him, and he returns.
"I’m not begging you for your slobbery kiss anyway!" he triumphs at the door.
"I’d rather kiss the toilet seat than you!"

Only now does he leave, satisfied, with the feeling that he’s shown her.