Coffee Grinder - After years (4.)

With a golden key I lock...

a house with a burning red candle,

with a mermaid sleeping in tears

on a blue bed of mother-of-pearl

in the tender embrace of a prince

With a golden key I lock...

a palace dark as sin,

children's eyes, children's laughter,

eternal wishes, vain dreams

in an ocean of oblivion

With a golden key, I lock...

an anchor and a cross, my hope,

love perhaps forever unripe,

the memory of a tender voice,

the belief that it will return again

 

 

I stepped out onto the snow-covered square. Although, like every year, I couldn't get used to the fact that it was already getting dark around half past four, I couldn't help feeling happy about the first snow of the year. That pure white snow that crunches under your feet and tempts people to become little children again, who haven't forgotten how to play.

It had been three months since I started studying acting at the Hochschule für Musik und Theater in Munich. I wanted to specialize primarily in theater and cabaret. I was quite happy there and I can say that I made friends relatively quickly. That evening, however, I felt homesick for the first time. I was walking alone through the square, exhausted from an interesting but somewhat demanding lecture on the history of theater and circus. The smell of Christmas was in the air. And I missed home, my parents, Milena, and my kind grandmother, who found time every week to write me a letter to Munich about what was new at home. I must write to her and tell her that I will come home for Christmas to cheer her up a little, I thought as I browsed the goods on offer at the stalls of the traditional Christmas market that takes place in the square every year. My attention was caught by a small bell, green like a summer meadow and decorated with pictures of a snow-covered village.

 

I rang it, just for fun. And as I looked at the snow-covered plains, so similar to those at my grandmother's village, my heart sank. It was as if I were on another planet and someone was calling me home.

"Katka!"

I rang the bell again and the sound suddenly became more urgent. And it called another name. A name I had almost forgotten amid the worries of my studies and everyday life.

"Valérie!!!"

 

The next day, I was on pins and needles. I felt like someone was waiting for me somewhere far away. And I was stuck in Germany, where I alternated between acting in plays, studying, and going to cultural events with my boyfriend Martin. And I couldn't hear that familiar, urgent voice deep inside me. Or rather, I tried not to hear it.

My classmates, Martin, and my professors had started to take more interest in me over the last few days. They thought I looked sad and tried desperately to find out why. They offered me everything they thought would cheer me up. But I knew that only one thing would help me. A conversation with my grandmother.

So I took a month off from school and the theater, much to the dismay of the director. I wanted to go home and spend Christmas in the village with my parents and grandmother. I didn't know what was going on, but I felt that I needed her more than ever. And that she needed me.

When I wrote to my mother on the way, telling her that I was in the Czech Republic and would be back with them in a few hours, I received a short and clear reply. "COME AS SOON AS POSSIBLE, PLEASE. GRANDMA IS IN A BAD WAY, SHE KEEPS ASKING FOR YOU. MOM."

 

We all gathered in the village. When Milena heard that I had arrived, she came straight to us. The joy of seeing each other again after such a long time was overwhelming. The only thing that saddened me was my grandmother's health, which was deteriorating day by day. The doctors didn't give us much hope.

Despite all the physical discomfort and complications my grandmother was experiencing at the time, she was fully conscious. Shortly before Christmas, I decided to tell her about Valeria.

I didn't want to bother her with my ordinary childhood experience at a time when we were all dealing with far more serious matters. But if I didn't tell her, I would feel like I was hiding something important from her. I would feel like a traitor.

"Grandma," I began, still hesitating whether I should or shouldn't, "do you remember when I fainted that time?"

She nodded.

"Was it something to do with that coffee grinder?"

"I think so..."

"Tell me, child," she urged me with that kind smile she always gave me when I made her happy.

"You know, Grandma, I had a strange dream the other day. In the dream, I met lots of nice people. And the nicest person in the dream was a young girl named Valerie."

 

Despite all the clues that the friendly and somewhat mysterious beauty queen had given me, she was still a relative stranger to me. I didn't know who she was during her life here on earth, I wasn't even sure when or if she had ever lived in our world. I was all the more surprised by my grandmother's reaction. At the mention of Valerie, her eyes filled with tears.

"You... you spoke to her?" she asked emotionally, as if Valerie were someone she knew and loved.

I nodded.

"Kačenka," she whispered. "You couldn't have made me happier!"

 

She began to ask questions eagerly. She asked what Valerie was like, what she looked like, what she talked to me about. She was burning with curiosity. And so was I. I wondered who Valerie really was and, above all, how she was connected to our family.

"Who was Valérie, Grandma?"

"I'll tell you. But first tell me what Valérie was like in your dream," Grandma insisted. I could see she couldn't wait to hear about the girl. So I began to tell her.

I described Valérie as I remembered her. For several years after that strange experience, the memory of her warm smile calmed me in all difficult situations. Valérie must have been an incredibly kind and pleasant person in her lifetime.

 

"She was a beautiful horse rider in the circus," I added. "She rode a white mare named Corsica. And she rode beautifully."

My grandmother paused at the mention of Corsica.

"No," she shook her head in disbelief. "That's not possible!"

"What's not possible?"

"Here in this riding school, where you and Milena used to go from time to time when you were little, they really did have a mare called Corsica. We were expecting our first child at the time..."

"My mother," I interrupted her.

She smiled sadly and mysteriously, just like Valerie had once done.

"No, not your mother," she replied in a calm and composed tone, before continuing where she had left off. "We were expecting our first child at the time. Your grandfather had secretly gone to England to visit relatives.

 

I liked to walk around the neighborhood alone to pass the time. Several times, with my baby in my womb, I went to visit the horses, especially in Corsica. I brought them sugar. The lady who took care of the horses always exchanged a few kind words with me." Grandma paused. "Yes, it was a mild summer that year. I was there often. Even after your grandfather returned, we went there together."

It was beginning to dawn on me. I was starting to understand all the connections of that mysterious Good Friday afternoon, which was already beginning to fade from my memory like the outlines of buildings and trees in the December fog.

"And what happened to the baby, Grandma? Where is it now?"

Grandma looked sad.

"Valerie was stillborn."

We were both silent for a moment. Then Grandma added, "No one knows about her, Kačenka. Not even your parents."

 

I couldn't speak anymore, I couldn't even ask any more questions. I just sat on the edge of my grandmother's bed, holding her trembling hand gently, trying to come to terms with the weight of the long-held secret that had just been entrusted to me. "And as for the coffee set," my grandmother continued, "Grandpa brought it back from England. It was meant for Valerie.

We wanted to keep it a secret until she came of age, and then give it to her as a gift."

I remembered that cloudy afternoon in the unfamiliar meadow. Valérie had hinted to me that the mysterious coffee grinder was originally a gift for someone who, due to circumstances, was unable to accept it. That's why it doesn't work.

I was beginning to understand more deeply. "But after Valérie died, we couldn't even look at the set. So all those beautiful things ended up in the attic among the old junk.

When your mother was little, she used to explore the attic—you probably got that from her. And one day she found this set and wanted us to use it. She liked the cups. We promised her we'd take them to the kitchen. But the grinder suddenly stopped working. When we ground coffee, it didn't stay in there for a moment. It just disappeared, and to this day we don't know how or where. So we put it back in the attic. It will always remind me of our little girl Valerie."

 

Grandma was almost unable to speak through her tears. I hugged her. We sat there silently for a long time, while the frost drew ice flowers on the snow-covered windows as evening fell.

Grandma died that Christmas. I was extremely sad, but at the same time, that strange experience made me understand for the first time what Valerie had actually wanted to tell me back then. And deep down, I rejoiced at the reunion of mother and daughter, at their meeting after such a long period of silent separation and uncertainty.

I believe that they met there in that big meadow, and I believe that roses really did begin to bloom there.

The truth is not always what is objectively presented to us as truth. Truth requires love.