The Pear Tree

There was something about the tree that mystified Hana, as it rightly would; a pear tree without pears. At least, most of the time it was said.

Her grandfather had often sat her on his knee when she was very little, with all the scent of pipe tobacco and warm coffee, fresh bread and cedar, in his little cottage in the old Czech village she would visit him at. Her family was from the city of Brno, but it was very often that people would go to the countryside on weekends and holidays. Her grandfather preferred the quieter life in his cottage, with his books and his radio, where he tended his garden. He would tell her many stories, but the one she liked best was about the pear tree.

He would tell her of the mystery, and of his own knowledge of the most amazing treasure he had seen in his life. As she would sit in his oversized arm chair, so large she could sleep in it, Hana would sip her milk with honey as he’d clean his glasses, take a sip of coffee from his large stone wear mug, then tell her the story, again and again at her insistence.

A child then, she would gaze at him with wonder, as only children can, with the most vivid of imagination. She would follow his finger with wide, bright eyes as he’d out into his back garden, its boarders lush with herbs and flowers, surrounding the fruit and hazel nut trees. And the single pear tree with the gnarled branches, twisted slightly to the right. Never did she see fruit when she was visiting him upon its branches.

The tale was, that once every twenty-five years it bore a single pear, one that was unlike any other, and it never arrived when expected, when other fruit grew ripe and fell in autumn around it. This single pear, he would tell her, would grow to perfection in the depth of winter, watered by snowflakes.

When Hana would ask her grandfather what it looked like, how it tasted, or what made it so wonderful, he would merely smile mysteriously at her, saying “You cannot ask me to betray its secret. One day, you will find out, I am sure of it. Then you will know why I cannot tell you. Then you will be the one to tell of it’s mystery.”

Hana was always very disappointed, and she tried many different ways to coax her grandfather into telling her more, but he always held his ground. He just told her to be patient for her own day to see the pear.

Years passed, and Hana became a young woman who sought to explore the world. Moving from Czechoslovakia, she came to Canada, where she married, and had a small child of her own. She became busy, learning a new language and working to provide for her child. Soon, the pear tree became a vague old story, with only her grandfather to connect it to her. All the intense belief in the magic pear was replaced by the adult understanding that stories like that were nothing more than fiction to thrill children.

However, shortly after her daughter’s third birthday, she received a letter from her sister. It told her that their grandfather had fallen ill, and they were not certain he had much longer. Her sister requested her to come quickly and see him, as he missed her. Hana was greatly saddened to learn this, and did not hesitate to assure her sister she would travel without delay. It made her realize how easily it had been that life and parenting was able to distract her from that missing part of her life in another part of the world. She longed to return and be with her family

She discussed it with her husband, who had work he could not leave, and it was decided that Hana would take their little daughter Slava back to visit her grandfather the next day on the first flight available. She knew a lot had changed in her home country since she’d left, now known as the Czech Republic. There was a certain anxiety about how much she would find different, but that night, speaking with her sister on a long distance call, she was assured that her grandfathers house at least had remained as she remembered it.

Mother and daughter boarded a flight, and arrived at the airport to a cold forlorn wind and heavy snow. Hana felt grateful that the flight had not been postponed, for she did not feel she could have bared to wait.

Slava clutched at her mothers hand, bundled in warm sweaters and a soft wool hat with little bear ears. Hana and her sister Vlasta, who had arrived to meet them, hugged tightly as soon as they battled their way over through the crowd leaving the airport. Vlasta bent down to greet her niece for the first time, giving her a bonbon and smiling with such warmth it made the child grin with all her current teeth.

It would have been a wonderful reunion had it not been for such a reason, and both sisters walked, talking sparsely and with evident exhaustion, Hana carrying the sleepy child and Vlasta helping with their suitcases to a waiting taxi.

It had been decided not to delay, as others of the family had already been coming and going from their grandfathers house and the uncertainty of their time left loomed overhead like a clouded sky. They piled into the cab, gave their address and went, Hana leaning against the window, her fingers against the cold glass.

She watched the darkening streets where she had lived and experienced so much sliding past, the old styles of buildings you just did not see in Canada. It stirred such a home sickness so very suddenly she cried, and cried more at the thought of her grandfather, so many years without her coming home to see him. A bitter regret curling within her heart, a longing to have the ability to turn back time. But she was too sensible now to know anything like that could happen. It made her feel upset with herself for putting off her intended visit so long, for letting her life distract her so efficiently. And further too, for she had not wanted her daughter to have missed the opportunity to know those she cared for like this. She had not wanted to have her first trip home to be to attend a family member on their deathbed.

After what felt like an eternity driving through the snow fall, the cab turned into a driveway and parked at the cottage she had known so well. Slava was fast asleep and they picked her up and carefully carried her to the door, where Vlasta knocked cautiously. A gruff voice responded, a strong voice that deceived them of how weak the man himself was. Hana’s tears had dried into long streaks down her cheeks through the minimal make up she wore.

They opened the door and entered, Vlasta taking Slava to the upstairs where a small bed with enormous feather blankets had been prepared by her in advance. She suggested Hana to go directly to their grandfather on her own. They needed their own time.

Hana found her grandfather, the once great Jirka, now laying in bed with several large feather pillows in striped cases propping him up, looking out of the window with a oil lamp on as well as a small desk light casting low golden glows. A old wooden horse marionette with crudely painted eyes and hooves hung off a hook by the corner. He looked tired, thinner, his grey hair pulled back in a pony tail. The realization that he was going to die struck Hana like a thunder bolt, and she couldn’t speak.

“Hanka, my darling girl, look at you all grown up,” he said turning to smile at her. She brushed her short red hair from her face, a tear pouring down her cheek. She walked over and sat on his bed, hugging him close. She could smell chamomile and linden, and something metallic.

“I missed you” Hana said, as he held a hand to her face, catching a tear with his finger.

“I know, I missed you too. Its been far too long. But you could not be the little girl on my knee listening to the tale of the pear tree forever, could you?”

He laughed, but it turned into a cough, and she eased him down onto his pillows.

“Dying is real garbage. It really does not suit me. But at least everyone comes rushing to sit at my bedside and I don’t have to bother going anywhere.” His eyes still held a mischievous glint. Humour was the best remedy for hardship, he always used to say.

Then he turned around, as though remembering something suddenly, and peered out of the window. He beckoned her close, then whispered to her.

“I need you to pick something from my garden. Would you be able to do that?”

Hana looked at him with some confusion. “But what do you need? Surely nothing is growing.”

He began to laugh, shaking his head.

“Now that is simply not true. You know there is only one thing that grows on a day such as this.”

He eyed her meaningfully, and Hana felt a bit unsure. But what could it hurt to go out into the garden, so she agreed and went to get her shoes.

“Now be absolutely careful, it is fragile. It grew off snowflakes after all.”

Hana went out into the garden, still in slight doubt of finding anything. But she knew what she was looking for – the pear tree at the far end of the garden stood as it always had. It looked desolate, but as she approached she noticed a slight glean in the upper branches.

And there it was. The mystical pear of her childhood, pure white and coated in fresh snow. Tentatively she reached up a gloved hand, and grasped it. A slight twist and then snap!

Hana stood in the gently falling snow, in the dark yet bright garden holding the pear she had imagined all those years. It truly existed!

She returned to the cottage, to her grandfather, who sat up on one elbow beaming as though he was not even ill. Hana could scarcely believe the story had been true, yet here it was – the pear built of ice. For that was how it was pure white. It looked almost glass as it was so delicate, so near translucent.

“How...” she began.

Her grandfather simply smiled. “Twenty-five years are up. It’s your turn to tell the story. Mind you, do not think that my illness has any relation to the time it grows. It does not mean you will become ill in the next time. This was just happy timing. You made it here in the nick of time, for me to pass you this gift. It will never spoil, it will never mold. But this one, this one is my gift to you, my darling Hana. The others I grew were gifted to those who needed something to inspire them, to ease something or revive their sense of mystery. This one goes to you, to soothe your heart. And to remind you, that this home will be as much yours as your sisters, and as much Slava’s.

I love you, my child. I have no doubt you bestow the same love to your little daughter. But may I suggest one thing?”

Hana sat still with the strange glass like pear in her lap.

“What is that grandfather?”

“I suggest you create a bit more mystery for your daughter to ponder over,” he said, smiling pointedly at the pear.

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