The Transylvanian Saxon used to prefer staying among his own kind. This negatively impacted his gene pool. The realization that, for the purpose of reproduction, one should ideally look for a partner outside a 60-kilometer radius of one's home village only slowly gained traction in German-speaking Transylvania – unless, of course, one considered children with six fingers a welcome extra hand that could grip all the more effectively.
Even those who married into the family from the other side of the street in the same village—equally Saxon, but "wrong" side—were, so the story goes, only grumbledly welcomed into the family circle back then. That's how small and manageable the world was. The motto was: "We'll stay where we are!"
They were settlers beyond the forests, true, warlike hillbillies. The only other explanation needed here, for the time being, is that "Saxon" was once a collective term for daring individuals whom the then-powerful Hungarian kingdom recruited from the west in the early Middle Ages to colonize and defend the Carpathian lands beyond the forests.
In the Moselle Franconian region, and in other areas now considered German, including present-day Luxembourg, Flanders, and the northern Netherlands, intrepid individuals succumbed to this temptation, which, under the acknowledged benevolence of the Hungarian king, knew no other aristocratic rule and lured them with numerous privileges (among them: free election of judges and pastors, jurisdiction according to its own customary law, freedom from tolls, and free markets). These early settlers overwhelmingly did not come from present-day Leipzig, Chemnitz, Dresden, Zwickau, or even Hoyerswerda.
For further information on the origins of the Transylvanian Saxons, the unsuspecting Prussian chronicler, just to be on the safe side, continues to rely on the self-description of the Association of Transylvanian Saxons in Germany, since they should know best, shouldn't they?
"The settlement of the Transylvanian Saxons, the oldest German settlers in the territory of present-day Romania (sic), in the 'land beyond the forests' (terra ultrasilvana), took place in the 12th century as part of the German eastward expansion. The first 'German guests' who were settled in the Sibiu province followed the call of the Hungarian King Geysa II (1141-1161) to protect the borders against Mongol and Tatar invasions and to develop the country economically."
Let's leave aside for a moment what "German" or "Saxon" might actually have meant back then. The relevant literature indicates that anyone with mining expertise was once considered a "Saxon." Mining did indeed flourish early on in Saxony. And precious ores, the then-important salt, and metals could also be found in Transylvania; the ancient Romans knew this when they subjugated the Dacians, who were sitting on these treasures and gave their name to the Romanian car brand Dacia. In any case, among the early colonists in Transylvania, alongside farmers and craftsmen, there were indeed miners.
"Protection" is the key word here. Times and customs were harsh, and threats were manifold. The Saxons, wherever they may have come from, were clearly defensive settlers. Hence the rich and impressive architectural legacy of the Saxon fortified churches – sophisticated fortresses into which the village community could retreat when yet another invasion by the periodically marauding foreign hordes was imminent.
From the – hopefully – secure fortress, deliberate messages of fire and smoke spread far and wide. In the best-case scenario, they spread faster than the ruthless invaders themselves. In the worst-case scenario, however, the fortified church itself went up in flames and smoke because the besiegers piled up straw, wood, or whatever else was flammable, set it alight, and smoked out those trapped inside.
To ensure the survival of the community in times of peace and war, a rigid regime prevailed in the Saxon villages, to which everyone had to submit as best they could for the benefit of all, from the timely cultivation of the fields in a coordinated three-field system to the deployment of labor in the construction of new houses, one's own contribution to the survival provisions in the fortified church, and of course, regular church attendance.
All of this was prescribed, recorded, monitored, and punished if someone didn't toe the line, secretly siphoned off a side of bacon, or failed to help at a funeral. Social control was essential for survival. It guaranteed cohesion and neighborly assistance. Under the sign of the cross, at the foot of the fortified church.
It's not as if Transylvania, the geographical heart of present-day Romania, was only cultivated, developed, and defended by Saxons. Many peoples played a part. The Magyars, the Hungarian-speaking Szeklers. The Landler, too, once expelled to the southeast from Habsburg-Catholic Austria as unwanted Protestants. Then the Zipser, and all the other names they had and still have – it's easy to lose track.
Beyond Transylvania, north, south, west, and east of this region within the present-day borders, people worked diligently, often suffering and enduring hardship. And above all, Romanians have always lived and worked in present-day Romania, including, of course, in Transylvania, and in considerable numbers – even if they were sometimes kept on a tight leash there. In Sibiu (Hermannstadt) in Saxony, for example, they were not tolerated for a time, not even as servants.
Romanian national consciousness developed late, but all the more intensely. The "national awakening" of Romania since the 19th century, with all its lingering effects, including territorial claims, eludes the author's firm grasp. The fact is: approximately 90 percent of Romania's population are Romanians. This should come as no surprise. Of the remaining ten percent, the Saxons still residing within the blue-yellow-red borders of the Republic of Romania, following Soviet deportation and their exodus to the Federal Republic of Germany, constitute a negligible minority.
They are given disproportionate attention in this blog due to a niche perspective. The author, who is therefore not entirely unbiased, was struck by the topic of "mixed marriage": a Saxon marrying a Romanian woman, or vice versa. The other combinations, variations, and freely chosen sexual orientations or genders that are common today will not be discussed here. The Saxon flag shows seven towers and only the colors red and blue, no rainbow stripes.
Transylvania wasn't a "melting pot." Various nationalities—Romanians, Germans (not just Saxons), Hungarians (or Szeklers)—lived peacefully side by side, mostly refraining from fighting each other (with a few, admittedly extremely bloody, exceptions). Their cultures naturally permeated one another, linguistically speaking. A Saxon calls his father "Tata," a Romanian calls a mature woman "Tanti." None of this was explicitly desired; it simply evolved that way—people will be people. But the term "multiculturalism" was never really used.
Especially not when it comes to marriage. Many Romeo and Juliet dramas have likely remained unwritten in Transylvania. However, the story of how love triumphed in Kleingroßdorf and beyond deserves a place of honor here.
Ion Iliescu is still smiling. The first democratically elected president of Romania after the fall of communism, known for his broad grin, may have been dead since August 2025, but here and there in the country, people are still reminded of him. A few examples of the old Dacia 1310, which locals nicknamed "Iliescu's Smile," can still be found on Romanian roads.
One of these last models of Romanian production, but with a heavy Renault component, is often parked on a hill halfway between the originally German village of Kleingroßdorf and its always purely Romanian neighbor, Sus de Jos. Its two occupants then have plenty of reason to smile as they enjoy themselves in the back seat of the vintage car.
They chose a beautiful spot for themselves, not far from their two home villages, yet secluded, with a good view of both – a view the lovers, for obvious reasons, rarely indulge in. Only a few scattered hikers occasionally pass by, enjoying the vista – and then quicken their pace when they realize what kind of stress test the shock absorbers of the old vehicle are currently undergoing at the roadside. Otherwise, at most, a flock of sheep grazes up there, and the shepherd, like his otherwise so vigilant dogs, has grown accustomed to giving the ever-present old Dacia a discreet wide berth.
The car is usually parked in a meadow not far from a troita, a small chapel that graces the crossroads where the path leads down to either village or further into the mountains. Recently, a signpost has appeared there indicating a tourist circular route – a sign that these amorous encounters may soon be disturbed more and more frequently, both for the Cioban and the lovers, who are engaged in a clandestine affair.
Romeo is tired of all the secrecy anyway. That's not even his real name; it's Stefan. But Iulia always calls him "my Romeo." Stefan's family has deep roots in Kleingroßdorf, for generations. His grandfather lived there when the village was predominantly inhabited by Germans. Iulia's family comes from Sus de Jos, just a stone's throw away over the ridge. Yet, worlds separate her family and Stefan's.
He's from Saxony, Protestant; she's Romanian, Orthodox. That, and much else, is no problem for the two eighteen-year-olds, especially not when it comes to sex. They aren't particularly religious—or actually, they are, and absolutely are: they both believe in love. Theirs.
This is a pure, yet passionate love, the kind that can happen at that age of exploration, when one is lucky. And a Romeo finds a Julia. But this happiness must remain hidden for now, the couple thinks: that's why they meet in secret.
Stefan has had his driver's license for a few months now. His parents' Dacia 1310, carefully stored away, was back on the road. He got it running again and drives it, whenever he can do so discreetly, to Troita at the crossroads, along unpaved tracks. There, Iulia is waiting for him, but he's not allowed to drive up to her parents' house to pick her up.
In front of the Troita stands a bench. They sometimes rest there in the fresh air after emerging from the Dacia and their embraces. The bench is worn and patched many times. Four pillars support the chapel roof. It protects a gated memorial stone, on which a saint's image is clumsily painted.
"What might the saint's name be?" Julia asks her Romeo during a pause between ecstatic kisses under the full moon. Her lover hesitantly pulls away from her lips, taking the question seriously. "I'm not familiar with your Orthodox customs and saints," he replies. "Let me Google it."
He pulls out his smartphone, she does too. Her mother asks on WhatsApp when she'll finally be home, it's getting quite late. And what she's even doing. Iulia makes up a story about friends she's still hanging out with; quickly, repede, she'll come back.
Romeo has found what he's looking for. "There's quite a lot about Orthodox saints here," he says. "Because there are apparently a lot of them." He spares Iulia the details, including the fact that some saints of the Romanian Orthodox Church even date back to the 20th century, venerated for their unwavering faith and steadfastness in the face of persecution by the communist secret police, the Securitate.
Romeo leaves it at general information: "Some saints only slept sitting down, others never wore a rag on their body. Most fasted a lot, and often they died a rather bloody martyr's death."
Julia crossed herself in alarm. "The one behind us too?" she asked anxiously, glancing over her shoulder. "No idea," said Romeo, looking more closely and adding, "He looks well-fed. He's holding a spear. Maybe he's an archangel, Michael perhaps. That would make sense: the fortified church in Kleingroßdorf is dedicated to him."
Iulia snuggles up to him. "Yes," she says, "an angel. That would be wonderful. An angel watching over us." Stefan doesn't tell her that while Googling, he also came across the "Legion of Archangel Michael," a fascist, at times influential political movement from Romanian history in the 1930s, which fanatical, incorrigible individuals still associate with today.
It's time to go. The footpath to Sus de Jos is moonlit. Iulia's Romeo offers to accompany her. She declines. Light-footed and quick, she must now set off, after one last, fleeting kiss. With a heart all the fuller, a secret within, she takes to every path. Stefan watches her, loving every step.
Then he sits alone on the bench. It now seems hard to him. After gazing after Iulia for a long time, hoping in vain for a final wave back, he checks the results of his Google search on his phone for the saint venerated at the site of his intimate encounter with his secret love.
He finds only confusing results. It's probably not Saint Valentine, as Romanian Orthodox Christians don't venerate him as the patron saint of lovers. That's why Romanian men don't rush to flower shops in a panic on February 14th, but rather on March 8th. Which, in turn, has nothing to do with the church, but rather with International Women's Day, established under socialist rule.
On the subject of love, Romeo/Stefan notes, Orthodoxy has this to say: its most fundamental meaning is to do everything possible for the good of others. This is what he resolves to do. And his very personal "other" is named Julia. Forever. Therefore, he will ask for her hand in marriage. From her parents, who know nothing of him so far. He will also somehow convince his own parents of this decision beforehand. He hopes.
One week later:
Before Julia, Romeo had knelt in the presence of the angel Michael—they had by now agreed on whom to represent him—the next time his beloved sat on the crooked bench in front of the Troita. Despite his pounding heart, this had been the easiest thing to do, the quickest yes. She had lifted him with tender hands, looked into his eyes, straightened her shoulders, and said, "And now?"
“And now,” he had replied, “we will fight.” It had seemed to him as if Michael, Lord of the heavenly hosts, vanquisher of Satan, had raised his spear in the background, encouraging him.
But right now, in this crucial moment, Romeo feels more like the little Stefan he once was: very discouraged. He stands before his father and remembers his grandfather's 80th birthday.
In Kleingroßdorf, it had been a significant celebration. The grandfather was not just anyone, but a patriarch, a local dignitary, a long-established member of the Sachs family, and a church elder. The sheer number of the honoree's considerable descendants, including all his relatives and other family members connected to his distinguished family, necessitated renting the seminar room of the village's well-established Protestant community center, where many of the invited guests could also stay overnight.
There, on the first floor of the modern extension to the traditional Christian hostel, everyone gathered in a large hall. At the head of the table, of course, sat the spry celebrant, smiling kindly. In front of him, on either side, stretched two equally long sections of tables pushed together, occupied on both sides.
It was a truly grand celebration, the cacophony of voices enormous. On one side, Romanian was spoken strictly, on the other only German. Over the years, to ensure the continuation of future generations, "mixed marriages" between Romanians and Saxons had occurred, but Stefan hadn't found the party guests to be particularly diverse.
“Apartheid,” he blurted out. “Excuse me?” said his father, frowning, his mother standing beside him, looking at her son with a scrutinizing, worried expression, for the son had requested a meeting “regarding a serious matter of the heart.”
Stefan stammers: “I am… I have… I will…”
The mother places her hand on his forehead. "You're really hot, my boy." She exchanges a serious look with the father. Drugs?
Then Romeo speaks decisively and firmly from Stefan's mouth: "I am in love. I have a girlfriend. I will marry her. She is Romanian."
Now it's out. The mother breathes a sigh of relief: no drugs! The father smiles forcibly and says, "Yes, it's not uncommon in Romania to fall in love with a Romanian woman. The chances are good." He glances briefly at his wife. "But are you sure you have to marry her right away? Is there perhaps a little one on the way?"
Romeo and Stefan nod in response to the first part of the question and shake their heads in response to the second, both absolutely and decisively.
The mother raises her hands.
“Will you introduce her to us soon?” she asks. The father nods. “She’s Orthodox, of course,” he states, more as a fact than a question. “Well,” Stefan replies, “about as Orthodox as I am Protestant.” Hardly, he thinks to himself.
The mother is now wringing her hands.
"Oh boy," she sighed, "have you really thought this through? What about your nice classmate from the German Gymnasium, what was her name again... that, uh, Gertraud? A lovely girl. You two always got along so well, and you even went to a dance together."
Exactly, Stefan thinks to himself. That was in that folk dance group that cultivates Saxon traditions, but is 90 percent Romanian. Right there, at the "Dreher" (a type of folk dance), the pretty Iulia turned my head. The clumsy Gertraud was already out of breath.
“Well,” said the father, trying to sound mild, “this all seems rather half-baked to me. The best thing would probably be for us to think it all through again carefully, especially you.” With that, he opened his “Allgemeine Deutsche Zeitung” again, and the conversation ended.
For starters, Stefan tells himself, things weren't going too badly; at least it wasn't too loud. He listens to a lot of Radio Romania Cultural to perfect his Romanian. He speaks it quite well, of course, but every now and then, especially late in the evening, he finds the radio plays on this station overwhelming, with their many excited Romanian voices shouting all at once—it's like a real pub atmosphere—or perhaps a family argument in Sus de Jos, at Iulia's parents' house.
A quick WhatsApp exchange with Iulia: She's prepared her parents for a visitor. Him. Romeo. He'll initially introduce himself as Stefan and then reveal himself as Romeo. Tomorrow at noon. It will be a restless night for both of them, Stefan and Romeo. And for Iulia, too.
The next day in Sus de Jos, at exactly 1 p.m.:
A Dacia 1310 pulls up. Stefan gets out, but he looks like Romeo: dressed to the nines, gel in his hair, a bouquet of flowers in his hand. Not for Iulia, of course, but for her mother. He's been briefed: she likes cornflowers. For her father, he has a bottle of the finest Zuika, the traditional Romanian fruit brandy, homemade, of course, though not distilled at his own house, but acquired from his parents' Romanian neighbors.
Stefan's arrival was unexpected at one o'clock sharp; obsessive punctuality is rather unusual in these parts. He rings the bell twice in vain and berates himself: of course, the German, stiff-backed, clockwork – that's probably how he's perceived.
Iulia opens the door. She politely invites him in, like a stranger. He can see that she's been crying. This is a fine start.
The scent of onions wafts through the hallway. Iulia had helped her mother cook and chopped the onions. That explains the tears. Stefan allows himself a small sigh of relief. But his lover seems self-conscious in her own home; he's never seen her like this before.
"Please go into the living room to your father. Mother and I are still busy with the ciorba. Oh, the beautiful flowers! I'll take them to your mother right away."
Stefan nodded absently. So there would be soup, what else? And right away, a man-to-man conversation. He gripped the Zuika bottle more tightly and stepped into the living room.
It looks like his home, perhaps a touch more colorful, perhaps with more folklore. Above the sofa hangs vibrant handwoven fabric, along with a few icons. Beneath it sits Iulia's father, a broad-shouldered man with a stately mustache and a firm handshake.
“Bine ati venit!” he greets Stefan formally, rising to hold his right hand and looking inquisitively into the guest’s face. The visitor engages in a somewhat lengthy contest of vigorous handshake-knuckle-punching, not wanting to appear unmanly, and replies appropriately, if a bit flatly: “Bine v-am gasit, Domnule Domitru.”
A loose translation of these greeting phrases would be something like "It's great that we found each other," but Stefan is far from certain that they should be taken so literally in this case. A silence falls as the two men stand facing each other. Stefan's right hand aches. He extends his left, which he uses to clutch the Zuika bottle.
Iulia's father goes to a display case and takes out two shot glasses. He places them on the coffee table and sits down in the armchair in front of it. After returning to his usual spot on the couch, he fills both glasses to the brim. He raises his without spilling a drop. "Cheers!" Stefan's hand trembles. He still manages to bring his glass to his mouth without spilling a drop and empty it in one go.
Iulia's father holds his empty glass in front of him and examines it closely, swirling it this way and that. "This Zuika was distilled by Mihai from Kleingroßdorf, I know him, and his schnapps too, he always makes it too harsh. Is he your neighbor?"
Too scratchy. Bad start. But Iulia's father pours another glass. The stuff can't be that bad. "Mihai, yes, he lives next door to us," Stefan begins, wanting to say something complimentary about the Romanian neighbor and his family—fine people, generous, helpful…
“He’s a cutthroat crook,” Domnule Domitru interjects. “I think he was a security guard. How much did you pay for the bottle, kid? Oh well. Never mind.” He downs the second glass – Stefan quickly follows suit; the strong schnapps at midday is already starting to take effect.
Iulia's father goes back to the display case and takes out another bottle, placing it on the table with aplomb. "Palinka, from here," he says with three exclamation marks. "Pour us more, son!"
Stefan does as he's told, hoping that food will soon be on the table. But things aren't looking good. Iulia opens the living room door briefly and informs the men through the crack: it will be a while longer in the kitchen. She tells them to get to know each other well in the meantime, relaying the message from her mother, who sends her apologies. She's run out of bors, the sour soup base, and has to quickly ask the neighbor for more, because: without bors, there's no ciorba.
Stefan's glass is full again; his host doesn't want to be stingy. His visitor can't refuse, especially since it's the excellent palinka from the host's own cellar.
In Romania, only tourists buy Zuika or Palinka in retail stores. Both are fruit brandies, with Palinka being the slightly stronger version. Zuika is traditionally distilled from plums, while other fruits can be used in Palinka. What these two spirits have in common is that they are either distilled at home or one knows someone who possesses a proper copper still, the necessary alchemist's equipment, trustworthy expertise, and a clear conscience.
"Sanatate!" Iulia's father starts, Stefan follows suit. Wow! Gasping for air would be weak, so he pulls himself together. "Foarte bine," he manages to say, sinking deeper into the chair. "Very good!"
“I should say,” says Iulia’s father, “that’s my best! Another one?” He doesn’t wait for the answer.
Stefan bravely holds his own. But he's slowly beginning to doubt that he'll make it through this visit unscathed. He's getting hot. His throat is burning. Someone seems to be turning the dial on the living room wall. The mustache of the person opposite him is bobbing up and down. Stefan watches the movements of the man's adornment, fascinated, and struggles to concentrate on what's coming from the mouth below.
"Asa, asa. So, you're Iulia's dance partner. What kind of dancing do you do?"
“V-especially the turntable,” says Stefan, holding onto the armrests of the chair.
"Asa, asa. The turntable, then. A Saxon thing, isn't it?"
“S-as far as I know, it’s also danced in Bavaria and Austria,” Stefan replies, trying not to sound like a know-it-all. “But we also like the cross polka and the seven-step.”
"Seven-step, asa, asa." Julia's father pours more. "Do you also like our Romanian Muzica populara, my boy?"
"Certainly, with pleasure." Stefan has to join in again. Which number is that now, anyway? Oh well, never mind. "No problem!" Did he just say that? In German or Romanian? Stefan clutches his empty glass. Don't put it on the table! Otherwise, his mustache will tip over again! Where is it, anyway?
Behind Stefan's armchair, the homeowner turns up the stereo system.
The clarinet is a fine instrument. Its range spans four octaves. In the high register, it can sound shrill and piercing. Romanian popular music makes frequent use of this. The accordion also has a lot to offer when it's playing along to Romanian folk music. And the singing – pure joy of life!
Stefan carelessly put the glass back on the table, as he realizes when it's once again filled to the brim. Pure Palinka.
Iulia's father sits opposite him again, tapping his feet and saying something. Stefan only hears from the loudspeakers: "Sapte vai si o vale adanca," apparently the favorite song of the mustachioed man, who now seems to be spinning like a propeller.
"Sanatate!" calls Stefan, that always works, it can mean "Bless you," "Cheers," "Thank you," "All the best." Good stuff, this palinka! Any more? See you soon.
Three glasses later, the soup is finally ready, and Iulia wants to call the men to the dining room. As she pushes open the living room door, she sees her father and her lover, who are holding hands across the coffee table, pumping their arms up and down and singing at the top of their lungs: "Sapte vai si o vale adanca! – Seven valleys and a deep valley!"
Stefan wavered; if he weren't clinging to Iulia's father, he might have tumbled onto the carpet. But he was in high spirits and called out: "Do you have 'Over Seven Bridges You Have to Cross,' Ion?"
So they're already on a first-name basis. Iulia takes that as a good sign. And she removes the palinka bottle from the table.
Her mother enters. Iulia turns off the music. Stefan awkwardly lets go of Ion's hands, turns to the lady of the house, and says politely, "Sarut mana, doamna." He even hints at this "Kiss your hand, Madam" with a bow to the offered hand, but has to be careful not to lose his balance. Iulia jumps up, embraces him from behind to stabilize him, looks over his left shoulder into her mother's eyes, and says, "This is him, Mama: my Romeo."
“Asa, asa.” The mother is the foreshadowing of the daughter’s aging; the same beautiful, deep brown, almost black eyes, the energetic chin, the graceful posture – only everything a little wrinkled, of course, and with rings around the waist.
Before Doamna Domitru scrutinizes the visitor, she first glances sideways at her husband to assess what stage of advanced joie de vivre he might currently be in. Ten glasses, she estimates accurately; she knows the old man.
“Welcome,” she greets Stefan in German. And continues in Romanian: “My daughter has said many good things about you. But a bit late. Just now, in the kitchen. How long have you been courting her? But perhaps we should discuss that over dinner. After the ciorba, there will be sarmale. Please, come into the dining room! You too, Ion. And leave the bottle here.”
After the soup, Iulia and Stefan unwrap the delicious cabbage rolls and discuss their relationship. The father grumbles. The mother remains silent. Without her and without the food, it was more fun before, Stefan thinks. He already has his inevitable hangover.
After the meal, he says his goodbyes quickly. He thinks Ion winks at him as he walks him to the front door. But that could also be due to the dim hallway lighting and the palinka. He can't say a proper goodbye to Iulia. The shrill female voices from the dining room indicate that she's arguing with her mother.
Stefan leaves the Dacia parked. It will be a long, lonely walk home.
One week later:
The first meeting between the parents and future in-laws is a success. But only if you consider the absence of any physical altercations as a success. Stefan's father monologues about the illustrious historical achievements of the Transylvanian Saxons: "An indomitable people, bearers of culture!" Hardly anyone knows what he's talking about; about the Andreanum, Honterus, and Teutsch. He rolls his eyes meaningfully and makes sweeping gestures, as if he were preaching from a pulpit.
The two mothers remain silent. The conversation only becomes more lively when the food arrives. At the children's request, they have met on neutral ground, in an international restaurant in the big city. It offers neither Saxon nor Romanian cuisine. Most likely, all the parents are encountering kimchi on their plates for the first time in their lives. They don't quite know what to make of it.
As the two women eyed the spicy Korean cabbage with suspicion, a lively discussion ensued about whether Klausenburg cabbage was preferable to sarmale – or vice versa, depending on who was speaking. In any case, they agreed, gasping for breath after the first bite of kimchi, that both dishes were almost certainly more palatable than what they were being served today.
Stefan tirelessly wields his chopsticks, even though the unfamiliar balancing act demands his utmost concentration. Iulia watches in horror as he barely manages to juggle the precariously suspended bites up his pristine white shirt. Her father, Ion, on the other hand, observes Stefan's efforts with fascination. Ion has already arrived drunk. When he puts down his fork and spoon to emulate his future son-in-law, a considerable mess ensues.
The situation might have been salvaged if Stefan's father, Ion, hadn't handed him a napkin, saying: "Servetele, you surely know how to use one of these?"
“Sapte vai si o vale adanca” was not sung together that evening.
Three months later:
The two families couldn't agree on a church, so there was no church wedding. Stefan doesn't mind. Iulia thinks she doesn't need a wedding dress then, even though she would have liked to wear one. The simple suit suits her just fine; it's a little baggy over her stomach, but the wedding photographer will retouch that out of the pictures.
Neither set of parents attended the civil ceremony. It was a simple wedding; the witnesses were an uncle and an aunt, who couldn't care less about the whole Romanian-Saxon-Orthodox-Evangelical fuss.
It is nonetheless a special day, even a beautiful one. The sun shines brightly over the Great City, its Great and Small Rings, and the rings that Romeo and Juliet exchange are simple, yet sparkle. Even more brilliantly, their eyes shine as they take each other's hands and then share a kiss.
The celebration does take place after all, with both families. As a wedding gift, Iulia's father has provided five liters of Zuika, carefully sealed, even sealed, in elaborately crafted earthenware jugs with intricate decorations. "You may only open these for births or such, for very special occasions," he whispers to his daughter. His breath tells Iulia that he himself has already found another one today.
Romeo and Julia enter the wedding hall through birch arches. A few young men from both villages have cut down saplings and arranged the supple trunks according to tradition. The wedding table is set up just as Stefan remembers it from his grandfather's 80th birthday: the bride and groom, of course, sit at the head of the table. In front of them, two equally long sections of tables stretch out on either side, occupied on both sides. The cacophony of voices is tremendous. On one side, they speak strictly Romanian, on the other, only German.
There's ciorba, mici, and mamaliga (meat rolls with polenta); there's wedding soup with homemade noodles; boiled beef and chicken with gravy and mashed potatoes; there's goulash and paprika stew, because there are also a few Hungarians and Szeklers at the table; there's chimney cake and hanklich. And Saxon wine, Žuika, and pálinka are flowing.
One year later:
Little Michael is a screamer. He drives his parents crazy and robs them of all their sleep. No support or relief can be expected from the grandparents. They are utterly estranged and have withdrawn their blessing from the young marriage.
Iulia and Stefan have moved into a small apartment in a high-rise apartment block in the city, a housing estate dating back to the Ceausescu era. He drives a Dacia for Uber and studies Romance and German literature on the side. She has her hands full with their child; when she does have some free time, she translates nonfiction books from German into Romanian, with Stefan helping her.
Every now and then, an aunt looks after the little one. Then they drive to Troita, on the hill between Kleingroßdorf and Sus des Jos. They sit on the crooked bench and enjoy the view.
“Do you regret anything, Iulia?” Stefan asks one evening. “Nothing,” she says, taking his hand. “Absolutely nothing, Romeo.” “I only have one thing,” he says jokingly. “We haven’t even opened the first bottle of Zuika yet. We could be opening the second one soon.” He gently strokes his wife’s stomach. “My father should uncork that one,” Iulia replies, “and yours has to join in.” “Maybe,” Stefan says, “maybe.”
They have to go home early, at dusk; their aunt doesn't have all day, and the little one gets restless quickly. When night falls, a nightingale sometimes sits on the roof of the Troita and sings its song.