Funded by the European Union. Views and opinions expressed are however those of the author(s) only and do not necessarily reflect those of the European Union or the European Education and Culture Executive Agency (EACEA). Neither the European Union nor EACEA can be held responsible for them.

Text © Andrea Gregušová, Barbora Babča Kardošová, Bogdan Cristian Tudose, Călin Torsan, Claudia Elena Peter, Cornel George Popa, Cristina Centea, Dorothea Ko., Veronika Gertheis, Zsolt Győrei, Bálint Halász, Hana Naglik, Ion Andrei Puican, Jana Bodnárová, Juraj Rayman, Juraj Šebesta, Letti Kátai, János Lackfi, Liviu Chifane, Nóra Majoros, Marek Hudec, Ágnes Mészöly, Oana Paler, Oana Gheorghiţă, Paulína Feriancová, Silvia Demovičová, Réka Zsuzsanna Simon, Anna Somfai, Anna Szabó T., Zuza Ferenczová

Ilustration © Adela Holdon, Alexandra Ciocan, Zsófi Almás, Lotte Budai, Diana Popescu, Elena Şteică, Emese Medvés, Eszter Godina, Ioana Sabău, Ira Shlyakhta, Iulia Cristina Tudosie, Zsuzsanna Iván, Juli Jásdi, Sára Kenyeres, Fruzsi Khor, Réka Korcsog, Lenka Šturmankinová, Maria Tender, Nikola Aronová, Oana Hajos, Oľga Trojaková, Paulína Pokryková, Rebeka Póth, Rucsandra Enache, Simona Streberová, Zsófi Szabó, Veronika Pažická, Žaneta Aradská, Zuzana Bartová, Zuzana Šebelová

Translation © Anna Bentley, David Ralph Lilley, Isabel Stainsby
English edition © Cerkabella Publishing, Editura Casa, Zelený Kocúr, 2024
Responsible publisher: Ágnes Nyulas
Responsible editor: Andrea Lovász
Reader editor: Tímea Balogh
E-book: Nagy Lajos
ISBN 978 615 663 036 0
www.cerkabella.hu

Circle Dance

3 countries – 30 writers – 30 illustrators – 12 translators

Circle Dance is the product of a joint creative effort. Three children’s publishers – CERKABELLA Publishing House from Hungary, EDITURA CASA from Romania and ZELENY KOCUR, from Slovakia – came together to work on a European project called ‘TIME – Together in the Middle of Europe.’ The result is the combined work of 10 writers, 10 illustrators, 4 translators, jury members, editorial boards and actors from each country.

Circle Dance is all about belonging together and co-operating with each other, about the joy and the great liberating energy that comes from tuning into each other and taking up each other’s rhythm.

What has come out of this collaboration is a richly illustrated anthology of writing for children published in five different languages and in two formats (e-book and audiobook) as well as a travelling exhibition.

Special thanks to the jury members:

HUNGARY

Andrea Csörgei, Zoltán Hermann, József Lapis, Evelin Márton, Erika Pauer, Templomdombi Általános Iskola, Szentendre Tibor Kárpáti, Barbara Nagy, Emese Révész, Kinga Rofusz, Mari Takács

ROMANIA

Sînziana Popescu, Mircea Pricăjan, Bianca Mereuţă, Colegiul Naţional „Mihai Eminescu” Oradea, Colegiul Naţional „Emanuil Gojdu” Oradea Cristiana Radu, Andreea-Anamaria Meza, Elena Corina Andor, Ramona Novicov, Nicolaie Ardelean

SZLOVAKIA

Eva Andrejčáková, Lucia Molnár Satinská, Vlado Janček Hana Križanová, Kristína Soboň, Peter Michalík

Maria Tender

Anna T. Szabó
The Great Whirling

“Oh Gran, I don’t know what to do!” cried Lili, running out into the garden.

Gran was taking the bird feeder down off the tree, as there was no need for it in the spring.

“What’s wrong, my love? What’s upset you so much?”

“Hanna doesn’t want to dance with me. She yelled at me and sent me out of our room. She says she wants to be alone and that I shouldn’t talk to her.”

“Oh, don’t let that get you down,” said Gran. She put down the bird feeder and stroked Lili’s head. “Hanna’s fourteen. She feels she’s been kicked out of the world, and she’s really cross about it. She doesn’t understand what’s happening to her. It’s like she’s got a storm raging inside her. She can’t find anything to hold onto.”

“Why doesn’t she hold onto my hand? We used to jump up and down together every morning!”

“If she danced, she’d do that crossly too. It’s really better to leave her in peace.”

“But how can I cheer her up?”

“I don’t know…”

Gran looked around the garden helplessly, but then suddenly perked up.

“Look! The first bee’s arrived! She’s already bringing pollen!”

And she was right: a bee had settled on the budding branch of the apple tree with a bright yellow clump of pollen on its leg.

Lili bent over the bee and started talking to it.

“Don’t be sad, little one. I’m here. I’ll look after you.”

“She’s not alone,” smiled Gran. “She’ll be heading back to the hive soon, where there are loads of bees waiting for her. She’s the first one to go scouting. Did you know she’s going to dance for the others?”

“Dance? Who with?”

“By herself, but all the other bees will be watching her. She’ll turn around and around, drawing a map with her dance, showing all the others what she’s gathered. That will tell the other bees they can set off in search of nectar. It looks like this, the bee dance, watch!”

And there was Gran, performing the bee waltz. Lili laughed, startling the bee, which flew off.

All this unexpected merriment brought Mikó the cat out from under the bushes, and when Gran finally stopped, he began to waltz in and out of her legs, rubbing himself against them and purring, demanding his breakfast.

“He’s dancing too!” cried Lili. “And even singing along!”

“Shall I dance the cat dance too?” said Gran, and got straight down to it, but she could only copy how the cat rubbed itself against her legs. Her attempts at purring had the two of them in stitches. A group of long-tailed tits had been watching what was happening to the bird feeder from the neighbour’s garden. Gran and Lili’s howls of laughter made them flap into the air in indignation.

“I know another one: the nest dance!” shrieked Lili. “When the long-tailed tit has finished building his house, he snuggles down into it, watch!”

Lili leapt into her Gran’s lap and snuggled herself well into it. When they saw how jealous Mikó looked they couldn’t help laughing even harder. They lay back on the grass and rolled to and fro.

Mikó turned his head away, and strutted off back to the house, his tail held high. This set them giggling and chuckling, chortling and guffawing all the more. Their insides were being tickled by spring fever.

By the time they managed to stop, their sides were aching. Only then did they realise how cold the ground was. They had their coats on, but it was still making them shiver. They got to their feet quickly and brushed themselves off.

“I’m cold. Let’s go in,” said Lili. “It’s getting windy!”

As they set off after Mikó, the branches over their heads began to sway, and the bamboo canes around the little garden pond started to rustle. Gran stopped in her tracks, gave a smile and began to bend and sway round and round and round, making shushing noises as she did so.

“Got it! That’s the bamboo dance,” grinned Lili. “But you need lots of people doing it. It doesn’t look so good with just one. One bamboo cane is not bamboo.”

“The bamboo dance… graceful grasses doing Tai Chi…” mused Gran, and her movements slowed down and became more flowing. She went quiet and solemn. She moved her arms ceremoniously and began to bend the way she had learned to at her Tai Chi classes.

“How beautiful!” sighed Lili.

She wasn’t surprised, because she’d already seen Gran moving like that with the others in the park, but she’d never thought that, together, all those old people were like a grove of bamboo bowing in the wind. She didn’t try to copy her: she knew she still had a lot to learn about it.

Gran finished her Tai Chi exercise routine with an elegant gesture.

Then she said, “If Hanna was to dance again, she wouldn’t be sad anymore. If she tuned into the world again.”

“I know that dance,” said Lili.

“But she doesn’t anymore, she’s forgotten it,” Gran said softly, as they got to the house.

She went to the sheltered porch and sat down on the wicker chair, in the place where she usually sat to tell a story. Lili settled at her feet on the low bench. For a while they sat in silence.

Then Gran said, “Yes, everything dances. You just need to pay attention to it. Everything sings, you just need to tune into it. The buzzing of the bees, the turring of the turtle doves, the way crows turn together in thermals. The way water twists in circles, and shadows sway under trees. The way the wind blows and dies down, the way it picks up again and runs round and round on the ground, the way rain drums down, and water rises as vapour, the way trees spring from seeds, and seeds from trees. Some things take their time, others skip to a quick beat, but we’re all together under the sky, listening together to the stars chirping on summer nights and the tiny sounds snowflakes make in the winter as they twirl down to the ground. And the sky turns too. The planets dance around the sun, we’re waltzing, all of us dancing together in the circle dance of space, the waltz of light. Nobody’s ever alone. Every person, every creature that exists on the Earth is whirling round with all the others in the fragile glass dome of the atmosphere. This great whirling is the loveliest circle dance in the world.”

“Let’s dance!” whispered Lili, but she didn’t move, just squeezed Gran’s hand.

Rebeka Póth

Ion Andrei Puican
I’d Like to Get to Know You

I look into your eyes and I get the impression that I’ve never known you.

“Yet I know you better than you know yourself, Ana”.

I’m trying to remember… the first time we met? Was it night-time? Or was it at the beginning of the year? No. It was hot, very hot. It must have been one summer.

“And you were afraid to say your name.”

Ana. Banana.

“You have to admit it’s funny.”

Now, yes. Now even I can laugh about it. But I’ve cried a lot over this fruit. And you know what the funny thing is? I like bananas; I’ve always liked them.

“You laughed so hard your sides split, like a banana split. I wonder what’s worse—to be compared to an exotic fruit or to be told you’re too fat? Ana
Barroson. Demijohn.”

Stop! I don’t want to talk about that period of my life. It makes me shiver. And now I feel the coldness of the toilet bowl on my forehead. I try to get everything out of me. I don’t want a single scrap of food to remain in me. Nothing. I want to disappear. I want to be so thin that I can’t even see myself. I don’t want anyone to be able to see me.

“Do you still hate yourself?”

Sometimes. Sometimes I remember.

“I’d sooner believe that you’ll forget about yourself. That’s how we end up hating ourselves when we forget who we are.”

I love to dance. But I’ve never really enjoyed dancing – I get the impression that everyone is watching me, eager to catch even the slightest mistake I make. The smallest step that isn’t in time. It’s as if I can hear the cries of joy when I stumble. Whether it’s during a dance or while I’m doing whatever other things I sometimes do in my life, with its many facets. It should be tattooed in our DNA, shouldn’t it? This dance should come to us naturally, shouldn’t it? A spiral of chromosomes for every dance style.

“Every dance has its own rhythm. You know that. Even you sometimes say: we stumble, we fall, we get out of rhythm, and we recover. Sometimes more easily, sometimes with greater difficulty. We all stumble, whether we’re laughing at others or not, whether we know this balancing act or have the impression that nothing like this will ever happen to us.”

Congratulations on your memory. But how does this help me now? In moments like this, when I’m feeling down, when stones are being thrown at me? Let he who is without sin cast the first rock. Let he who has never stumbled pick up the first stone! Harsh, cutting words, gestures or glances full of ill will, so much senseless hatred, without even the slightest explanation—these are some of the rocks that cover me haphazardly. There are days when I feel crushed. There are mornings when I wake up like today. All I want in these moments is to pull a blanket of stones over my head and fall back asleep again. Maybe I’ll dream of another world. Maybe I’ll manage to run there. Maybe I’ll dream of myself as someone else and will wake up as her.

“So, what do you in believe in?”

Now? In nothing. Absolutely nothing. In life as it is. Sometimes in myself, as I am. They tried to shove rituals, dogmas, God, and church down my throat. When I was small, I went to church at the same time every Sunday. They made me confess. Do you understand? But what sin can a five-year-old child commit? Or a six-year-old? What evil can you do when you’re just learning to write your first letters? A… B… C… DE… Forgive me, Father, that I joined up the letters. Let me kiss your hand. Is that the only way I have a chance of salvation?

“You’re angry. That’s understandable. But not even they knew any different. Nobody did. They needed to understand. And hurrying to fit in all their priestly duties, that was the simplest and most efficient way.”

Well, that’s their business! You can’t do that to a child! You can’t fill their heads with stupidity that they don’t even truly understand. You can tell them stories—any child understands a well-told story. You can show them the magic in the world, in everything, in people. You can give them the freedom to be themselves. To be children. Maybe, with a bit of luck you’ll manage to keep a tiny piece of the child for the rest of your life…

“Ana, so you don’t believe in anything anymore?”

Right now? It depends on the day. If you take me by surprise, I believe in the magic beyond us, beyond flesh, Earth or traffic—I believe in something above and beyond and more beautiful than what we can see, touch or smell. I believe in an energy that unites us, here on Earth and beyond the clouds. But it doesn’t make me call it God, Orthodox or some other God, or some other religion. It doesn’t make me give it a name or a representation. But I know that it exists.

“That’s enough. It’s more than enough. And now… it’s time.”

Yes. It’s strange, isn’t it? I wonder how many people talk to themselves? But to their own fears? To their own apprehensions? To their own panic? To that constant trembling in their thoughts, their being, in everything they do, to their anxiety. I wonder how many people have baptised their own anxiety? Do you know, Nana?

Anna dropped her toothbrush, which made a dry sound in the basin. She looked once again. She’d danced enough on each individual tooth. She’d danced enough on each individual thought. The mirror in front of her was steamed up. The whole bathroom was bathed in a warm and humid fog. Like her life. The fog of adolescence. She couldn’t imagine how she would get through this fog. But it would lift…

Nikola Aronová

Oana Gheorghiţă
Hold My Hand

“I’m Marius and I’m fourteen years old. I’m not a child anymore, but despite that, everyone looks at me with a sort of mistrust, as if I were standing on a barrel of gunpowder, ready to explode at any second. As if the sword of Damocles were hanging over my head.

Our parents have also been adolescents. It’s true that that was once upon a time, long ago, but goodness, now it’s as if they’re wearing blinders, as if they’ve forgotten everything or their brains have been washed.

Yesterday, when I got home from school, mum started questioning me: What do I do during break? Where have I been? My clothes smelt of cigarette smoke. She started coming up with arguments against smoking and tried to make me admit to something I hadn’t done. I told her that an older boy smokes during break in the school toilets. I started to talk to him and so naturally my clothes smelt of smoke. But she didn’t believe me. I assured her that I would never smoke, that I’m not tempted, but for nothing, in her mind I’m always guilty. She started to cry, and I angrily stormed off to my room.

I know that my parents mean well and would do anything for me, but I’d like them to trust me more and to stop trying to control my life.

“Hold my hand!” said a girl who was smiling shyly from the chair on his left.

I’m Elena and I’m thirteen. I feel lonely and misunderstood nearly all the time. I’m a shy girl who feels lost in large groups of people. Very often I feel invisible. I want to integrate and be like the others, confident and without worries, but there is always something that stops me, a wall I can’t seem to knock down. A transparent wall between me and others. Sometimes I feel they only respond to me or say ‘hi’ out of pity. I feel their stares, which sometimes seem to say how strange or different I am from their world, from the way they see life.

One day, a classmate walked past me smiling arrogantly and without saying a word to me. Straight away I heard her laughing with a group of other girls behind me, talking about me and the way I am. They were laughing and joking that I’m so quiet and shy, incapable of having fun like them.

On the one hand I know I have to accept my personality, but I want to gain more self-confidence, to fight for what I want and not to let myself be trampled on.

“Hold my hand!” said a boy, who was looking at her in a friendly way and assured her that everything would be okay.

I’m Edward and I’m fourteen. I’m a boy who’s considered to be cool and everyone wants to join my friend group. We’re considered the school rebels and you must realise that to start with I liked this label. But I feel that I’ve changed with time. I did things that I’m not proud of: I made other kids feel small and inferior to me, and I know that I acted wrong. I wanted to stand out, but not specifically by doing good things. I didn’t pay attention in class and distracted my classmates. As a result, I started getting bad marks, having my behaviour grades lowered, and my parents were often summoned to the headteacher’s office.

Everything has started to go wrong and although my friends are still there, I have suddenly felt that I’m not on the best path. I feel lost, lonely, and guilty.

Now I’m trying to change and be a better person.

“Hold my hand!” said a gentle voice, coming from beside him.

I’m Medeea and I’m twelve years old. Some children from school look at me as if I were a different species and not a person. Because I’m Romani. I dress normally, like them. I learn the same material and I try to do it as well as I can. But they don’t see the similarities between us, they don’t accept the differences that are normal, but only see the colour of my skin.

I was labelled from the start. At the start, nobody wanted to sit next to me in class and it seemed that everyone was trying to keep their distance, as if I had the plague. After a few days, one of the girls who was more withdrawn than the others smiled at me and asked if I wanted to sit with her. I was very happy and felt that maybe things were starting to get better. Now we are best friends.

I’m going to do everything I can to try and change everyone’s mentality and to make people look into the souls of others rather than judge them by the colour of their skin. I hope the others will be open to that.

“Hold my hand!” the same leitmotif of the game was heard again. Their hands were locked in harmony.

I’m Aura and I’m ten! My classmates laugh at me because I don’t wear nice designer clothes like them. When they say that to me, I start tearing up and I feel ashamed of my simple clothes; some are perhaps faded from being washed too many times. I know that I shouldn’t be ashamed or cry. There are other children who have less than me. I have a loving family and they mean everything to me. I often think my classmates are malicious because they themselves lack something.

My parents told me not to get upset and to try to ignore what they say, but that’s very difficult for me. Their words really hurt. I’m going to be grateful for what I have and am not going to let myself be affected by what they say. Maybe my different attitude will rub off on them.

“Hold my hand!” said Tamara, the woman who had organised this free workshop for children and adolescents, who could sign up and take part every Saturday. At the workshop called Hold My Hand! Recognise, understand, and accept! children could talk openly, they could tell each other what they were going through, what emotions they were feeling or what they wanted. After the discussions in which they took advice from Tamara, but also from others in the group, they took part in creative activities such as drawing, painting, dance or reading lessons. Although at the beginning it hadn’t been easy to talk, they gradually understood that through communicating and supporting those around them they could overcome any fear.

Hold My Hand! was a change that worked miracles in their hearts, a harmonious circle that healed them.

Iulia Tudosie

Letti Kátai
Dancer

“There’s no need to worry, Mrs. Solymosi. Everything’s fine. Your daughter’s as fit as a fiddle. I recommend she takes some vitamins, though. Stehkahm Vitamin complex is a good one, so I’ve made her out a prescription for it. Be sure to fill it!” the doctor chuntered, tossing the words over his shoulder before pointedly turning back to his monitor.

When Janka and her mother were back out on the street, Janka put on her earphones. They walked along side by side, but like people in two different worlds. Janka’s mother didn’t say anything, and she didn’t shake her head. She knew teenagers had to be left to it, left to live in their own parallel worlds for as long as possible. This phase, too, would soon be over in any case, to be followed by ‘real life,’ more’s the pity.