Mária Lendelová

"She hadn't slept all night, braiding the strings for folk costumes. The gajo women wore nice skirts, costumes with roses, lined sleeves with aprons - she made that in color. Red, blue, various colors. She'd bring it to the village and return with meat or other food to cook from. She went there every day. At night, she did't sleap because she was braiding the strings. She'd always tell me: 'Sleep, girl, I don't have to. I have to finish all of this. What would you eat, otherwise? There is nothing to cook.' She used to tell me that. I laid down, she sat by and braided the strings."

"My daddy couldn't even count to ten. Just one, two, three, four, five. They were illiterate people - not knowing to read or to write, or even to make their signature. I would take his hand holding a pencil... 'Look, I can write now,' he'd say. I controlled his hand, writing J-U-L; his name was Julius. We tried it three or four times but he couldn't even do a single letter. He told me: 'Let go, girl. I can't do it.' - 'Yes, you can. If you learn this, you'll know to write.' I drew lines for him - straight and skew, so that he'd learn. He could write the letter J but nothing more. He waved his hand and said: 'I'm no good, girl. Let it be. I won't know to write. I hadn't learned when I was small, so not even now.' I replied: 'But you can learn even at your age. So that you at least know to write your name, when necessary.' - 'I'll just write three crosses and that's it.' That always made me laugh."