Most of the sky is filled with clouds as square and solid Inverse walls. What is the reason why it always feels the need to describe clouds, rain, the sky ... the things that are on top and that, even with an infinite number of variables remain basically always the same? It must be because of their power to influence the mood. Surprising though predictable every time. The gray walls run fast by running a sparse rain, sharp and penetrating. The site of the Hill of Crosses is preceded by a small amphitheater, composed of stalls set up in a masonry structure and a gift shop, the center opens a small tunnel leading into the long journey of devotion gray brick flanked by low lamps. The land around it, dark and soft, regurgitation of worms that are armed to writhe on the bricks. Whenever opens a hole in the wall up there, the light gets golden eyes sharp as a blade. Rain or shine, you have to walk with head bowed.
The hill is small, circumscribed, each aspires to cross an indefinable center crosses ... flock to join him, elements of a hypothetical mob. The multilingual brochure explains that sell in stalls in an Italian approximate that there is hope and the indomitable faith of the Lithuanian people. It is near the village of Jurgaiciai in the district of Siauliai. Place of myths and legends, is also considered archaeological monument, they say there arose an old wooden castle to defend the territory against phantom Lithuanian Knights Sword "(perhaps referring to the Teutonic knights who occupied the Samogitia). Hypothesis confirmed by the discovery of a path of lime stone, brass jewelry, weapons and pottery dating back underground to a period was from Mille to the XIV century. During the riots of 1831 and in 1863 began to appear the first crosses for the victims of the Russian rule of Tsar Nicholas I, died and buried on the spot. The Russians, the clearing at night and the Lithuanians to be replanted. The same thing happened after the Second World War, until in 1961 the Soviets cleared the hill for the first time. The crosses were not a sign of devotion, but the symbol of the affirmation of national identity of a people.
On September 7, 1993, Pope John Paul II came here and claimed the place for a religious, Christian and Catholic. But its atmosphere is different: the earth is alive, button, millions of crosses are a jumble of overlapping voices shouting requests, pain, despair ... anything that belongs to the delegation of a dogmatic religion such as Catholic.
Here is the hill with a narrow path through it. The crosses are climbing over one another and surround the visitor. There are crosses of all sizes: crosses hanging from crosses, crosses around the foot of the cross ... and some other di esse è incastrata una nicchia dove appare la rappresentazione locale del Cristo: seduto, le gambe rachitiche e una grande testa sorretta da una mano come il “Pensatore” di Rodin. È afflitto. Dicono che sia perché lo tormentano le preoccupazioni per le sorti dell’umanità.
Qui gli occhi vedono solo croci e nella mente riecheggia ossessivamente una sola parola: “croci”. Il legno, anche nel caso degli esemplari più commerciali, come di quelli lavorati con cura, preziosi, lucidati e argentati, finisce prima o poi spellato dagli agenti atmosferici che livella tutto a un’unica sostanza: il risultato della corrosione ha il colore grigio e opaco della ash. Assumes the consistency of a weakened stubble joke and then dried by the wind.
The crosses converge toward the visitor, hang on to him, shake him ... Millions of crosses, each linked to the action of a person who has slipped into the ground or hanging on to another larger or thrown directly in the middle of a bush than others. It is easy to imagine the small crash in the night silence of this desolate place, with crosses that fall unexpectedly. Resonates in my head the sound of continuous activity. The hill is alive, nourished by gestures that have little to do with devotion and with much hope and demands, swallows the crosses in loam and black, turned over by earthworms, which tirelessly and voracious, the rummage without stopping, until it his own. Amalgam wishes, pleas, dragging them into the dark warm and moist, falling in a universe where the hopes are charged randomly lose the essence of faith and take on a concrete and underground ore. Purgatory is a triumph, a shortcut to the dark forever.
A slow stream and closes the curved side of the hill opposite, establishing the borders, preventing it from going over, ready to swallow the crosses that are detached from the forest while compact with its water nourishes the roots.
Hill moves is still, shaken by a tremor invisible creeps in visitors with its emanations. Cross between the crosses.
timing: October 15, 2010 - photo: courtesy A. Ruchat
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