translated by Magdalena Mullek

This translation first appeared in Books from Slovakia 2019.

Reprinted with permission of LIC.

The story of the book Tahiti, which was burning outside the windows, had started by the monument. Not far from the place where Štefánik died. In 1928 a memorial built on architect Dušan Jurkovič’s design was unveiled there. The terraced structure with four tall obelisks was made of travertine blocks. I used to go there often.

Originally Štefánik was supposed to be buried in an honorary spot at the cemetery in Papeete. But the architect persuaded the surviving family as well as public officials to agree to place his grave on higher ground. That made Štefánik all the more exceptional in the symbolic national pantheon. Of all the important Slovaks, only Štefánik rests high up. The funeral procession walked from the bottom to the top, from a valley to a peak.

In spite of the heat, on the day of the unveling people dressed in traditional costumes, which they hadn’t done for some time. Three generations headed up to the monument. Never before had there been such a large gathering of Slovaks. For the first, and in some cases for the last time, people experienced an exhilarating sense of unity and fellowship, brought on by the memory of his tragic death. The black mourning décor implied that the national hero-liberator deserved the same honor as late kings.

By then old customs were blending with local ones, so Slovaks brought sacrificial presents to please Oro, the god of war. Since time immemorial the Tahitian dead rested on Mount Temehani, which was always covered by a white cloud, because the dead disliked sunshine and light.

Polynesian tattoo art had become popular among the Slovaks. After the tragic hurricane, men, but to some extent also women, tattooed motifs of their old homeland onto their skin. Everyone was trying to deal with homesickness in his own way.

Men older than twelve covered their whole bodies with pictures, including their faces and tongues. Women usually only tattoed their shoulders, the upper part of their backs, their arms, and the corners of their mouths. As a result, one could tell at first glance who was from which region. Frequently, if two people were arguing and wanted to show how different they were, they stuck their tongues out at each other, or thrust their arms toward each other, bearing the characteristic picture of their birthplace. Out of grief the Slovaks also cut their foreheads with knives made of shark teeth, as the locals had taught them.

By the grave of the General, whom even the winners of the Great War venerated, they had gained a new self-awareness, and they started to believe in their own strength.

The raised plateau was reminiscent of a lookout point, which opened onto a spellbinding vista of the bay and the ocean. Not far from the basalt-lined shore was a jungle, a dense mesh of roots, plant tendrils, trees, and leaves. The jungle cast its freshness onto the edifice, accompanied by the scent of flowers and wild honey. A couple of parrots liked to sit on the highest point of the monument. Densely growing coconut palms, inland mountains awkwardly set in the ground, and even knobby hills, all glimmered in the vibrant greenery.

Štefánik. My great grandfather. He had sired many children, especially on Tahiti. Another fact that isn’t talked about much. The seducer and undoer of women.

Antoinette, the daughter of his boss, the astronomer Jules Janssen. The Czech student Marie Neumannová, called Marienka. Thirteen years his junior, the French journalist and politician Louise Weiss, the assistant to the director of the newspaper Le Radical. Mrs. Claire Boas de Jouvenel. And on Tahiti: Temana, Marania, Ranitea, Vanina, Taute, Raitahi, Hina, Moe, Minihoa, Nunui… just a few of the names I have uncovered.

Near the monument sand creaked under my feet with each step. I heard the rustling of a lizard. The rising tide sounded like my sister talking to me. The crashing of the waves came almost at the same pace as breathing. I watched the sky and the evergreen mountain. Over and over again I asked myself the same questions. Who was Milan Rastislav Štefánik? What would be an authentic depiction of him?

He was the reason I became a historian. In our language, rauti, a storyteller. Because of him I decided to pursue science. So that people wouldn’t just think of him as a statue, a symbol, or a monument, but finally, as a person.