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TWO LINDEN TREES
Exactly one year after I was born and to mark the birth of my sister, our father planted two small rods, two linden trees in the courtyard below our weekend house, eighteen kilometers north-east from Sarajevo in Bosnia and Herzegovina. The two linden, lime or basswood trees planted in harsh continental climate of deep snow and hot summers could not be seen in the tall grass for many years. Unnoticeable and near the fence they attentively assessed their neighbourhood for potential enemies or dangers. Small plants perish easily partly because of severe frost, grail or domestic animals, cows and sheep, that usually stroll up and down the slanted road past our house. Magnificent view opens up from the windows of our small house. There is this small village with hardly two or three shops to buy the food. A saw mill and a railway station at a foot of an enormous deep-blue fir forest mountain whose peaks are totally naked and almost eternally covered with ice. Around ten o'clock every morning and in the late afternoon the vast valley would regularly echo with the sound of narrow-gauge locomotive with three or four carriages that daily linked the village with near-by Sarajevo. But its long whistles stopped to serve as a public clock when the decision was passed to abolish this old and costly train due to financial difficulties. Many villagers regretted this picturesque little train built by Austro-Hungarian Monarchy in XIX century to conquer territories of the East. Ever since the village remained a calm and secluded corner of the world with nice and friendly people, plenty of cheese and fresh mountain milk.Then, one spring day, while walking our Irish setter my sister and I saw that the two trees grew considerably taller than ourselves.They were five or so meters apart and they looked determined to continue growing among other fir and birch trees thus protecting our house from violent early spring southern winds that regularly blow in our region when the snow begins to thaw. By the time I was fifteen the trees exceeded my and my sister's height by five or more times and we had to lean a ladder against them in order to pick up their fragrant yellowish flowers. They would blossom in June spreading their fragrance to announce the end of the school term and the definite arrival of a long and cosy summer. We would gather bundles of these flowers and dry them in the attick and in winter we would drink as fragrant tea to warm our poor souls. Gathered around this fine drink in winter afternoons we would talk of the sun and summer and our two relatives in the courtyard waiting for another spring to show their leaves and timid fragrance. It has been quite some time since I last saw my linden-trees. Are they still as fragrant in June? Do they now block the gorgeous panoramic view from the balcony onto the drowsy village? What story could they tell me? We grew together and yet we have different stories to tell. I cannot find answers to these questions but I am certain of one thing: our friendship and love still last. We all have our winters and springs and I am sure they would rustle their big green leaves sneering and saying HELLO when they see me climbing that north-bound hill slope of my native country.
Julija Jelacic