Grandma Paulinka
Strecno - Slovakia
Mariela and her twin sister ask for the castle story. Like every night, Grandma Paulina sits at the foot of their bed and tells them about a faraway land called Strečno. There, a little girl lives among ogres and ghosts, near a castle she is forbidden to enter. It sounds like a fantasy world, but it is real. I know because I am here now. The castle is right in front of me, I see the hill, I am going to climb it. I promised Mariela I would go to her grandmother’s village in Slovakia, a place that had never felt real to her. This story is not just an homage; it is a tale that, after 100 years, needs to be completed.
Grandmother Paulina migrated to Argentina in 1926. She arrived as a child with her parents, Juraj Janeka and Johana Prielozna. Her granddaughter Mariela grew up with her, listening to stories of Strečno, her birthplace in Slovakia. Stories like that of the ghost Bonislav, a ghost who lived in the Váh River and had hair so long that he spent his days combing it in the water. Stories that frightened her but also intrigued her. Grandma didn’t do it on purpose; Paulina was scared too. She remained immersed in a land she had left 70 years earlier and never returned to. And I told her I would go, that I would pay tribute. I barely asked for any family information. Instead, I asked her to send me voice recordings of the songs her grandmother used to sing, the stories she used to tell. This tribute is different. I want to dive into the legends. To arrive in Strečno and walk through the town steeped in that magical world.
I take a train, make a stop, then a bus. I arrive on a Friday at noon in a tiny village of 2,000 people. The houses all have the mountain as part of their backyard.There is a river—the river of the ghost Bonislav, I think. And there is the castle, towering over everything from a hill. I send Mariela photos: Strečno exists, the castle is real. The same one little Paulinka saw, the girl from the story. The first thing I do is go to the town hall—I always go to the town hall first. At first, they are surprised, but then they bring out the records. I tell them about Grandmother Paulinka, I say we believe some of her family stayed in the village. In the registry, we find her great-grandfather. I ask about the Janekas and the Prieloznas. They tell me that some Prieloznas still live in Strečno. I celebrate—we found family. In a village of 2,000, they must be related. But when I say I want to meet them, the municipal workers’ faces change. “It’s complicated,” they say. This family has some issues. I don’t understand, but I can’t press further. Because they invite me into the mayor’s office, offer me food and coffee, and give me a book about the town. Then, as a courtesy, they take me to the village’s only little hotel. I go out walking, looking for more information. I want to run into people who might help or take an interest in Mariela and Paulina’s story. Because a tribute is no longer just leaving a broken plate; it is about making others part of the memory. And if there’s family, who better than them?
The weather shifts in minutes. A heavy rain starts, and the castle vanishes from sight. The cheerful, colorful village changes—everything now feels empty and distant. I step into a bar, soaked, and come across a group drinking beer. They ask me what I’m doing here. I tell them the story, say I am looking for the Prieloznas. When I mention the surname, one of them says his girlfriend is a Prielozna. But then he hesitates, unwilling to call her. There’s a mystery surrounding the Prieloznas. Everyone talks about them, but no one introduces me. It’s as if they don’t exist, yet they undeniably do. Maybe that’s not the right path, and I shouldn’t push it. But I don’t know how to carry out the tribute, because I always expect something special, something unique, to happen. And here in Strečno, nothing is happening. I’ll probably just wander the village aimlessly and leave the plate somewhere. Then it hits me—the castle. It has always been about the castle. The one that fueled Mariela’s imagination, the one place in town Paulinka never dared to go. That’s where I need to go. I announce it to the drunk group: Tomorrow, I’m going to the castle. We toast to that.
The next morning, Alena—a woman who hosted me in Žilina, the city I stopped in before Strečno—texts me. I tell her what I’m planning, and she says she’s coming with me. Because these journeys are always better with a companion. We prepare to cross the forest, to start the adventure. But Alena tells me about another castle—one not immediately visible. Because there’s the new castle, with a restaurant, open to tourists, but there’s another one, hidden, that requires a longer hike to reach. So we take a mountain path, Walking on slippery ground, the fresh earth and scattered stones, the scent of rain, the emerald green all around us. We follow the path Paulina never could. In the distance, we see a stone tower—the ruins. And at the very top, we find a group of people. “We are the restorers,” they say, as if they were a medieval order of knights. Except these knights have a cement mixer and a plastic table with coffee. They are volunteers working to restore the castle—locals who gather on weekends to repair the ruins. A woman named Maria offers to show me around. She leads me up a staircase they built, pointing out where to step and where not to. At times, wooden planks connect sections of the ruins, with nothing but a drop beneath them. The view is incredible. Through the windows, I see the mountains covered in trees and the Váh River.
I can’t believe where this grandmother’s story has taken me. Because this isn’t tourism—it’s another way of traveling. I reach places I would never have otherwise, discovering a 13th-century castle, After the tour, I tell the restorers the story of Paulinka and her granddaughter Mariela, about the broken plates. Maria gets emotional and calls others over. Soon, a small group surrounds me, and they suggest placing the plate on one of the castle walls. Everyone agrees. The person in charge examines the plate, holds it up to the tower. He explains the technique he’ll use to secure it between the stones. He takes me to a wall and points—When it’s done, everyone who visits the castle will see the plate here, like a historical plaque.It already feels surreal to me. That The Route of the Bobes has led to a castle, that the plate will remain here for posterity. And that it is a group of local people who are taking part in the tribute. People who work with memory and identity, recovering the town’s heritage. I hand the plate to Maria, who carefully wraps it and places it in her backpack. She promises to send me pictures as soon as they put it in place. I can already imagine Mariela’s face. Maybe we could add a note, something written, so that visitors to the castle know what it is. That in Strecno, there was once a little girl named Paulinka who emigrated to Argentina and became Grandma Paulina. A little girl who was afraid to go to the castle because an ogre lived there. A little girl who never returned, but carried the stories of Strecno with her and told them to her granddaughters until her last breath.
Grandma Olga
Klaipeda - Lithuania
I don’t know where to begin this story, so I’ll start with the box. Ten years ago, Karina received a box in the mail. It arrived from Lithuania, with the name of her grandmother, Olga, written on it—a grandmother she never met and knew nothing about. Karina is Argentine, but her grandmother never set foot in the country.That day, she opened the box and found photos, documents, even a diploma. She discovered that her grandmother, Olga, studied literature at a university in Riga, and at that moment, she felt an inexplicable connection, a story running through her veins—because she, too, is a writer, like her grandmother. And from that moment on, she couldn’t stop. She needed to know more.
Karina wrote to me and shared the photos. One shows two girls on the beach, another a little girl at a funeral, another a portrait. She has had these photos for ten years, but now time speeds up—Lithuania feels closer. Because I am here, and I am on my way to find her grandmother. The box is now my map. Olga was born in Klaipėda in 1937, but in the photos, she will always be young. She lived an uncommon life for her generation—she earned a university degree and raised her daughter alone. I look through the photos from the box: the two of them in the park, on the beach. Then, at some point, the photos of them together stop.When Olga turned 33, she fell ill and died. Death sweeps in like a gust of wind, collapsing an entire family. Because Olga left behind an eight-year-old girl. And now it is her daughter, Marina, who becomes the protagonist of our story. Marina was raised by her grandparents, growing up alongside Lena, her best friend, inseparable. That’s why Marina struggles to talk about her childhood today. That’s why Karina knows so little about her grandmother, Olga. And there is so much I don’t understand and want to know. How did Marina end up in Argentina? Who sent the box? What really happened to Olga? Because if she died in Lithuania, she should be here. They tell me yes, that Olga is buried in Klaipėda, but they don’t know exactly where. And I make them a promise—I tell them I will go to Klaipėda, find Olga’s grave, and pay tribute there. Both mother and daughter write letters to leave at her grave and send them to me.
I make the promise and immediately regret it. I take a train from Vilnius to Klaipėda, crossing the country to the Baltic Sea without knowing how I’m going to do it. A week ago, I developed a hernia, and walking hurts. And yet, the first thing I do in Klaipėda is explore the city. I need to immerse myself in the history, in the lineage of these three women. I search for traces of Olga and Marina in the streets, in Soviet and German buildings, in a Klaipėda that still looks like the 1970s, in the port city where I sit for a while, staring at the sea. Klaipėda is not a small town. It is the third-largest city in the country. I look at the map and see that there are many cemeteries, each with thousands of graves. Thanks to the box, we assume she is in one called Joniskes. But even if it is that one, finding Olga in such little time is nearly impossible.
Marina lived in Klaipėda until she was seventeen. She left to study in St. Petersburg, met an Argentine, packed her things, and in the 1980s, moved to Buenos Aires. She said goodbye to Lena and never returned to Lithuania. Karina tells me this, but I want to hear it from her mother. I ask her to add Marina to the chat, and now Marina tells me her memories herself—how her grandfather used to carry her on his back to the park, the corner in school where she would sit and chat with her friends. Marina is sixty, but in her voice notes, she sounds like an eight-year-old girl. She tells me she is deeply moved and decides to give me Lena’s contact. I write to her, but at first, she doesn’t reply. Then she says she’s busy. And I don’t know if it’s a lack of interest, if she doesn’t speak English, or if it’s the past she is avoiding. But in the end, she agrees to meet. When we meet, things start off awkwardly. The conversation is slow, distant, so I ask little. She takes me to the house where Marina grew up, to an inner courtyard. The same building, untouched by time. Then she suggests walking to the school—it’s closed for vacation, but we sneak in anyway. A woman scolds us, and Lena and I slip through a hallway. She laughs, and a kind of complicity is born. It’s like a switch that takes us back in time. From that moment on, she leads me through the Klaipeda of her childhood. We used to come here for dance classes. A friend of ours lived here. And I realize that this tribute is no longer just for Olga—it’s also for Marina. I walk through the childhood of a little girl who lost her mother, I visit the places she never returned to. And Marina is going to cry. She’ll tell me later, when I send her the pictures. I can’t stop crying.
Lena and I go from place to place. She calls me Danito, and says dabai. Danito Dabai. It makes me laugh because almost no one calls me Danito. That’s just how my name appears on WhatsApp, and I never changed it. Danito, in the middle of a sentence in Russian. I laugh but ask her to slow down because my hernia hurts. We arrive at the cemetery, and after a few minutes, in a maze of marble and granite, we find Olga. I see the photo on the tombstone—it’s the same as the one on the box. I read the name engraved in Cyrillic. I’m standing at the grave Marina never visited, in the city Karina never knew. For the first time, the grandmother at the heart of this tribute didn’t emigrate. The grandmother is here, right in front of me. And I would tell her: Olga, you don’t know me, but I can tell you what became of your little girl—how she grew up, how she made it to Argentina. And I would tell her that she has a granddaughter who studied literature, just like she did. But who am I to say that?
I take out the letters they sent me by email, the ones I transcribed by hand onto paper. Lena steps away—she doesn’t like cemeteries. She prefers to leave me alone. I read the letters out loud, and it feels like an immense responsibility. A letter from a daughter to her mother. A granddaughter to her grandmother. In her letter, Marina writes: Mama, I miss you so much. And that’s when I get emotional—because I visited her childhood home and stepped inside her school. And because her words belong at once to a sixty-year-old woman and an eight-year-old girl. And since no one else is here, I hear the sound of my own voice saying: Mama, I miss you.
Then I read Karina’s letter to babushka Olga. And it’s like tracing three lives in a single day, moving through the history of these three women. When I finish, I leave the letters next to the plate. Now it’s just Olga and me. And before I go, I spend a few seconds looking at her photo—the young grandmother, the grandmother who never emigrated.
Grandma Rosa
Kavarskas - Lithuania
When Mariana wrote to me, she told me she had never met anyone from her grandmother’s family. The little she knew, she found in a book. But what I have in front of me is a person, an 80-year-old woman. The only one from the Delechky family still living in Lithuania. And what is about to open is not a book—it’s a universe. Mariana’s mother passed away when she was very young. She had no information, never knew about her family until, a few years ago, someone in the United States contacted her. It was a relative, a man named Robert, who had traced and reconstructed the family history.
He wrote a book about the family in Lithuania, and it was he who discovered that there was still a Delechky living in Vilnius. Mariana now knew that Robert was in the United States and that in Lithuania, there was a woman named Taibe. With that information, she asked me to make the tribute and sent me a copy of the book. I skim through it quickly, understanding little but grasping something important: they were not from Vilnius, as Mariana had thought. I ask for her grandmother’s documents and confirm it—her grandmother, Rosa, was from a small village called Kavarskas. Mariana sends me Taibe’s WhatsApp number. “Write to her,” she asks.
And I do, but I’m not quite sure what to say. She is an elderly woman, and I don’t know if she speaks English or if she will even want to meet me. Taibe invites me to a building of the Jewish community in Vilnius. Thursday at 4. She has health issues and can’t meet before then. I go, feeling nervous because I don’t really know what I’m going for. I arrive at the place, a tiny art gallery, and in the center, there is a small table set up. Taibe is an 80-year-old woman, fully made up and dressed up for our meeting. She greets me and smiles at me like a grandmother to her grandson. And I clarify that I am not a relative, I just have a project. “I know,” she says. She came with a gray cart, a small shopping trolley, from which she takes out two boxes of chocolates and places them on the table. Then she offers me coffee, and another woman prepares it. She runs the gallery and sits with us to translate. Taibe takes out a folder and unfolds family photos, one by one. I ask her to tell me everything, to start from the beginning, because Mariana knows nothing about her life. And I pay close attention to every detail because everything I retain is what I will be able to share.
Taibe’s mother was named Minia. Minia was the sister of Rosa, Mariana’s grandmother. The connection is so close, the ties tighten. There were several siblings, but only three survived. One went to the U.S., Rosa moved to Buenos Aires, and Minia, the only survivor of those who stayed behind. So I want to know about her. “Tell me about your mother,” I ask. Minia was a communist activist, a revolutionary. In the 1920s, when Lithuania gained independence, nationalism surged violently. Everything that wasn’t Lithuanian was seen as a threat. Minia was imprisoned for six years. Then she was released. Then the Nazis arrived. Minia fled to Russia and stayed there until the war ended. When she returned to Kavarskas, she learned that her entire family had been executed. Her parents, her siblings, her nieces and nephews. No one was left. Taibe looks me in the eyes—it’s as if we are both there, in that forest. Minia investigated, found out who the Lithuanian in charge was, the one who gave the order, the one who killed all the Jews in Kavarskas. She took up arms, and with a friend, went after him. The man fled, a chase began, a hunt that lasted several months until they found him. Finally, Minia had him in front of her. The man who had killed her parents, her nephews. The murderer of her family, of Mariana’s family. But she didn’t pull the trigger. Minia handed him over to justice, and he was sentenced to 25 years in prison. The story ended many years later. When Minia was already an elderly woman, she saw him again in Vilnius. He recognized her and crossed the street. And then what happened? That’s when he realized he was just a pathetic man, not worth the trouble. He didn’t feel hatred anymore—only pity.
I listen to Taibe and wait for the translation. It’s been two hours already. I look through the family photos; by now, I recognize her mother and each of her siblings. We talk about Rosa, about the letters that were never sent again. About how cruel Minia and Rosa’s father was, about family secrets. Later, the woman translating will tell me that she has known Taibe her whole life, yet she had never heard these stories before. Taibe shows me each photo with ceremony and slowness. I sip my coffee, eat the sweets without shame, and ask questions. I say that I ask everything on Mariana’s behalf, but by now, it’s my own curiosity
driving me. I ask her if she ever went back to Kavarskas. She says yes—she went with her mother, but it was so many years ago that she barely remembers.So I gather my courage and say it. I ask this woman, who is almost 80 years old, if she wants to do the tribute together. To paint the plate, her and me. To travel to Kavarskas together.
Taibe said yes—she wanted to. And I told everyone. First Mariana, then my friends here, then the group of Argentinians in Vilnius. We’re going to do the tribute together. Taibe is going back to Kavarskas. I also told Jolita, my favorite artist in all of Lithuania. Jolita welcomed me into her studio and said she couldn’t believe everything that was happening in these stories. So I asked her to be the one to break the tribute plate. After breaking the plate, I had to organize the trip. Taking a bus or train was too much for Taibe. We needed a car, someone to drive us. People offered—Lithuanians and Argentinians who said they’d take us to Kavarskas. I text Taibe: We have a car. And we agree to meet again at the Jewish gallery to work on the plate. It’s Monday, and there’s an exhibition opening at the gallery. I arrive early, before it starts. I have the broken plates and markers. I assume Taibe will draw something because she’s an artist, like Jolita. But Taibe leaves the plate blank. She only writes: Delecky Seimos Atminimui. In memory of the Delecky family. Below, our names. I ask if that’s all, if she doesn’t want to add anything else. It’s a tribute, she says. You write the names, and that’s it. And I feel embarrassed for all the plates where I made drawings and decorations, thinking I had to do so much more than just write the names.
When we’re done, she tells me to get something to eat. The exhibition has food and drinks, a very traditional cake that I must try. There are people—people I could talk to. But I stay by Taibe’s side. We don’t separate. We stay in a corner until she gets bored and says we should go somewhere else, that she wants to show me something. We leave the gallery, walk through Vilnius’ old town, and I carry her gray shopping cart. I’m a foreigner strolling through the city with a market trolley. Taibe speaks to me in English as if we’ve always spoken in English. She takes me to a street corner I recognize. I’ve been here before, I tell her. I know downtown Vilnius by heart. I recognize the buildings, but now it’s different—the history behind them is revealing itself. Because we step into an inner courtyard, and she points to a window. I grew up here, she says. Taibe shows me her childhood home, and I follow her. Then she points to a spot on the street where there used to be a bar. This place used to be full of drunks—drunks and antisemites who yelled things at us. By now, it feels like we’re friends. Taibe tells me things she doesn’t tell anyone, and I carry her gray cart. I want to know more about her life, to ask if she has children, if she had a family. But instead, she tells me she was recently in the hospital, spent a week admitted. Something with her heart. So I ask how she manages with her health, if she has anyone to help her. And she says no. Sometimes a friend comes by, she says. And as she speaks, I imagine my life if I stayed in Lithuania. Because what I have now is neither a trip nor a life. It’s something in between that isn’t quite anything. I go to football matches and swing dance classes. I have bar and café friends—Lithuanians who already say we’ve known each other forever. And now, there’s Taibe. I picture myself visiting her on Saturdays, canceling plans. I can’t this weekend, I’m having lunch at Taibe’s. I need to help her move a piece of furniture.
I know that won’t happen. Because I’m always in places, but I always leave. And I know I’ll come back to Vilnius, but with Taibe, it’s different. What will happen to Taibe when I leave? For the first time, I see how fragile our coincidence is. Our connection is like a shoelace knot—so easy to tie, so quick to unravel. And I start thinking about things like who will empty her house? How will Mariana find out? What will happen to her things? What will happen to the gray cart? That will definitely go in the trash. And I would say, don’t throw it away—the gray cart is as much a part of Taibe as her furniture and her artwork. We walk slowly. I walk her to the bus stop. Before saying goodbye, Taibe takes out two cards she painted—two miniature works wrapped in plastic. One for you, she says. And the other for Mariana. I thank her. We agree to talk on Saturday. I say goodbye and watch her get on the bus. I watch the bus disappear down the street. And I leave, thinking about what will happen to the gray cart.
When Taibe told me she wasn’t coming, I thought I could still convince her. I’m not well either, I told her. I have a hernia. We’ll go slow. But it was the doctor who said that Kavarskas was too much for her. And I got angry at him. He knew nothing about the story. He knew nothing about life. I had already arranged a car and two friends to take us. I had already told everyone she was coming, and now I had to say, Taibe’s not coming. Without her, I thought, the tribute wouldn’t make sense. The first thing we did was go for lunch. You have to try Koldūnai, they told me. It’s a typical dish here, a must. And because remembering
those who are gone also means eating their food. I thought about all the afternoons Rosa and Minia must have sat down to eat Koldūnai. We stayed at the table for a while because the town was small, and the day was sunny. The only thing we had to do was find two flowers. That was Taibe’s request. With the broken plates, place two flowers. I wanted to know why two, not one or three, but I didn’t ask. We walked through the town—800 people and a synagogue that no longer
stands. Today, it’s just a brick building, still standing, but used as a junkyard and auto parts storage. We wandered through the town, looking at every house, imagining any of them could have been Rosa’s. And it didn’t matter that we didn’t know which one because every house here held a piece of the town’s history. I
knew that Mariana would see each one as if it were her grandmother’s home.
After circling the town several times, we took the road with two flowers and two broken plates. We went to the place where all the Jews of Kavarskas had been taken. We followed the path they had walked—thefamily of Taibe and Mariana, their grandparents and uncles, cousins and nephews. On one side of the road, there were fields. On the other, we saw a stone staircase leading down to a pit. The Delecky family and the Jews who stayed in Kavarskas are here, in a mass grave. That’s when I realized the stairs would have been impossible for Taibe. For her hip, for her heart. I walked down the steps slowly, as if I were guiding her. And I imagined helping her down the way I used to help my grandmother. When I was little, and my dad taught me how. “Don’t try to lift her. Just keep your arm steady so she can hold on. Don’t rush, don’t move her—let her move herself.” And I would go slow and wait. And it never felt like enough, that helping could be as simple as offering an arm and doing nothing else. The Kavarskas pit had a granite plaque, but what caught my attention were the trees—the forest surrounding the clearing. I wanted to know how old they were, if they had been witnesses to the massacre, or if they were planted afterward. Later, I would tell Jolita. There were trees, but I don’t know if they were the same ones. Then I placed the two plates and the two flowers. Mine, fully painted, and the one Taibe made—she’s an artist, and she only wrote the names. I placed the two flowers beside them. They could have been for her and Mariana, for Lithuania and Argentina, or for Rosa and Minia. But I didn’t know, because I chose not to ask.
The drive back was silent. I closed my eyes, thinking I wasn’t thinking about anything—but I was thinking about everything at once. The voice notes I would send to Mariana, the trees surrounding the clearing, and how it’s possible that helping could be as simple as offering an arm. I thought about Žalgiris’ game on Sunday. And how, as soon as I got back to Vilnius, I had to go grocery shopping I was thinking about all those things that made up my life in Lithuania when a message from Taibe came in. She wanted to know how Kavarskas had gone. She wanted me to tell her everything. And if, please, I could send her photos.
