Every house had to have it, be it a town or a village one, be it a mansion or a shack. There could have been others, depending on the prosperity; there could have been others, but there need not have been. It was the only one as important as the walls or the roof. Without it the house was not a home.  It looked onto an alley, a street or a road. It was a kibitz, a look at life, at the world no matter how big or small, bare or overflowing with events. That window never protested; it knew how to appreciate an absolute, tired tranquillity of the summer heat or the dead silence of the first snow, when not a sound could be heard save for the imagined rustle of snowflakes, sleepily piling one onto the other.

It was self-sufficient; and yet it came alive with every look, even an unintentional one, cast through it by somebody in the room. However, its essential purpose lay in propping on one’s elbows. You know the thing: when a girl props herself up on her elbows against it. Actually, she would first look for her reflection in it, if need be she would even polish it a bit with her sleeve, fix her hair, try out a smile, bat her eyelashes, her hand straightening the blouse. Then, she would lift its lace curtain, squeeze underneath it, opening one wing of the window only, just enough to position herself as if in a picture frame, and just enough not to be noticed too soon by those in the house, and then, leaning on both her elbows, steal a  peep. She was not interested in the seasons of the year or in good or bad harvests passing down the road, or the elderly folk getting warm in the sun while sitting on backless benches and leaning against warm house walls, or the neighbours passing by busily. She was waiting for him, to see him for an instant, even if he should just walk by quickly. So, only he could see that she saw him while the others would think she never even noticed him. Telling him only by a bat of an eyelid and a smile in the corners of her lips, visible only to him, and without a word, that she would be right there that night as well. That she would wait for the dark and sleep to chase everyone home. Then she would lower her arm through the kibitz-fenster; otherwise, somebody might see her doing it. And so, as if by chance, she would drop her lace handkerchief, with the cross-stitch embroidered by that very hand. The handkerchief wearing her fragrance and that of a maiden’s soul. That is true, there were mothers and grandmothers, lady guests and cousins, married ones and spinsters, all of them propped on their elbows at that window. They watched weddings and parties go by, sorrows and wars, lean years and abundant harvests bending the carts with their opulence. It was before their eyes that the newly born and the newly baptised were carried, and those who remembered more than words could tell walked carefully, in bird-like, tiny steps. In front of the kibitz fenster quarrels between neighbours flared; there was love, hatred, laughter, suffering and happiness, doubts and worries. Freshly baked cookies were handed over through it, things were borrowed and given back, there was gossip hot with envy, the latest news from the alley and beyond was bartered for the rumour not yet heard, recipes were recommended, and general life advice was offered.

And it watched, listened, and remembered all of that, but waited for the ones, for the one, like those and like the one from the second paragraph – a maiden. It liked them best, since they were the ones who poured yearning through it, a desire for love unrivalled and unparalleled anywhere else in the whole wide world. She trembled under her skin, shivering with expectation, with dreams of the one and only. She waited believing in things better than everything else, blooming with confidence that there had never been better or that there never would be better than the life that could grow from a seed of love, if only he were to love her as much as she could not be without him. That longing, that desire, just a step ahead of anxiety, was what it loved the best.

It did not matter whether it was double-glazed, oozing prosperity, adorned by precious curtains, or small, covered by an old, faded rag. It did not matter whether it was supported by a thick, strong brick wall of a rich people’s house or a wall made of mud and straw. Love flickered in it, no matter the dowry, acres of land and money. It was love’s best ally; it believed everything the others doubted, helping to overcome the hurdles of bad memories, of everything that could not be forgotten but should have been. It offered courage a chance to win, propped up on the elbows, supported by the desire and faith in love never seen before. It lived by the rhythm of maiden’s heartbeat, soaking it in its wooden frame with it, trying to give her everything she wanted – a look, kibitz, of the one she chose. A kibitz from it – the kibitz-fenster.