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on a recording of a child screaming desperately for its mother. Smrtnik describes for Grandmother how it was when the Gestapo deported his family from Trögern. He couldn’t even cry, he says. I grab Grandmother’s hand because the child’s screams are upsetting. The screams cover everything there is to see like a blanket that cloaks what is visible and wrenches what is hidden to light. I don’t know how to let Grandmother know that I can’t bear the child’s screams but she keeps listening to Smrtnik and thinks I’m misbehaving. Terror rages inside me like a hurricane. When we finally step outside, it feels as if half of my head were missing and I were looking at it from outside like a house with its roof torn off by a storm.
    Bled enchants everyone. We absolutely have to visit the castle perched high above the lake and look down at the water from above, Smrtnik says. We park the car in a small wood and climb up to the castle grounds on foot. The smell of cooking wafts towards us from the doors and windows of the restaurant established in the castle. The pilgrims’ moods revive. Soon after we’ve sat down on the terrace and ordered drinks and slices of the local cream pastry, a group of musicians start unpacking their instruments behind us.
    For us? Smrtnik asks, that would be lovely!
    For a double wedding, one of the musicians calls over, there’s lots to celebrate!
    The music starts up with the arrival of the first wedding party. A cluster surrounds the first couple. Waiters circle the happy couple with trays of wine. The second couple is led into the courtyard by a group of folk dancers who urge them to dance with laughter and cheers.
    Grandmother stands up and toasts the wedding parties. Her kerchief has slipped back in the excitement and a strand of thin, white hair peaks out from under the cloth. Without a word, Grandmother sets her glass on the table and approaches the wedding guests. She tugs at a man’s sleeve and whispers something into his ear. He bows his head, puts his arm around her shoulders, and starts to dance with her.
    The elderly woman with round glasses dancing with a young man draws the photographers’ attention for a few seconds. They turn away from the bride and groom and take pictures of the unusual couple.
    In the breaks between the dances, Grandmother speaks animatedly with her partner and only after several dances does she allow him to lead her back to our table. Thank you for the dance and a lovely afternoon to all of you, the man says and winks at Grandmother. He’s from Dolenjsko, Grandmother says. All I said was that I’m from Carinthia. That pleased him and he pleased me, it’s as simple as that.
    The pilgrims stock up on wine and cigarettes for the ride home. They discuss how best to smuggle the goods across the border, and one of the men suggests stuffing cigarette cartons in my clothes, because there’splenty of room under my dirndl. Grandmother considers the idea and gives me a questioning look. What happens when the customs officer finds the cigarettes, will I be arrested? I ask irritably. The pilgrims laugh.
    The car bounces along the sparsely paved road towards Carinthia. We turn off into the Kokra Valley. One of the pilgrims becomes nauseous. Smrtnik pulls over on the side of the road and lets the man out. He throws up immediately. If he keeps vomiting at that rate, he’ll sober up quickly, one of the men says, then there’s no point drinking.
    Smrtnik stops abruptly a few kilometers from the border. A second pilgrim has to vomit and dives into the bushes next to the road. In the dark, we can hear him heaving and breathing heavily.
    Smrtnik asks the passengers to hide the wine and cigarettes, leaving only the authorized amounts visible on the seats so it doesn’t look like we’re bringing absolutely nothing back with us. A few bottles of wine and cases of cigarettes are stuck under the spare tire in the trunk, the rest are slipped into the sleeves of the men’s