chapter nineteen
For as long as anyone could remember, life in the Gorski Kotar revolved around drvo, or wood. The šuma, or forest, provided for the people of Mrkopalj through war and peace.
On any day in Mrkopalj, you could hear the sound of chopping wood. Whether they used the big communal wood splitter that made its rounds in the village, or a simple ax in the backyard, people stockpiled this essential fuel for the long winter ahead.
You could learn something about a person from the way he stacked wood. Meticulous types groomed a symmetrical stack with a little roof over the top to protect it from the elements. Some piled wood against the house, bookended by long supporting planks: casual, yet responsible. A dumpy heap of logs covered by a blue tarp hinted at a slacker at home. Others kept their wood entirely out of sight—secretive!
Robert’s woodpile was weird. He was a house stacker with an extra pile in the backyard, out of public view, edging the concrete slab. That’s the pile Jim and I used one time when we decided to make a fire out back after the kids went to bed. We ended up burning a Yugo-sized hole in the yard that Robert never did notice. The yard was sometimes a maze of drying laundry and firewood, giving it an air of a refugee camp, more so when Robert began sleeping outside on the swing, and a brown wool blanket and a pillow also appeared on the lawn and stayed there.
The finishing touch of Robert’s wood storage was the great pile inside the back barn portion of the house. There were no lights in there, so you had to scale it in darkness, seeking a good piece of kindling without rusty nails, praying you would be spared an attack by vermin or an injury that might bring on a case of lockjaw.
The whole system was discombobulated, and therefore I couldn’t easily psychoanalyze Robert based on his wood. He had so many styles—fairly tidy at the base of the house, sloppy on the concrete (not necessarily a bad thing, if you’re trying to let it dry), a heaping mess indoors. I concluded that there were just different degrees of Robert.
Jim asked Robert if he could help cut the yearly firewood, and Robert explained that he always hired a crew of young guys who worked for the national forest office up the street. But Jim persisted. He needed a solid dose of manliness in his new life.
With all the competitive drinking, steely-eyed smoking, and slaughter and roasting of barnyard animals, Jim felt as if he was going soft. His days were spent cooking for us, driving us around, and following the kids as they monkeyed through the spectacular mountain scenery of Mrkopalj. He began plowing through my books. When I’d return from whatever research mission I was on each day, a common sight was Jim perched on the yard swing, reading while the legs of our children dangled up in the trees.
It was mildly bothersome to him that people openly wondered why he was living the life of a Croatian woman.
One afternoon when I arrived home from writing at Stari Baća, Jim was sitting on the bench in front of 12 Novi Varoš trying to explain to Robert and Mario what he did for a living. The explanation was more for Mario’s sake. Robert thought every man’s life should be like Jim’s, sans the family duties. But Mario was a worker and a devoted family man, and it mattered to Jim that Mario understood his situation. Though Mario spoke no English to us, we were fairly certain he understood most of what we said.
“I am an architect,” Jim said. “I work on old buildings. I fix them when they are broken. I put back the wood and the stone the way it used to be.”
“So you are architect for the wood, like Mario?” Robert asked, swigging a gemišt. Mario perked up in his red lawn chair, hands tucked under his armpits.
“No, not really,” Jim said.
“You are architect for the stone?” Robert asked.
“Well, no,” Jim said. “In the States, we just call it an architect.”
“He builds stuff, too,” I said, joining the conversation. “We fixed up an old house together.”
“Oh Jeem,” Robert said, smirking. “You are architect for the wood, architect for the stone, and architect for the old house. You are a very important man. I have much work for you in Stari Baća.”
“I’m sure you do,” Jim said.
“Robert, we could be here for ten years and Jim wouldn’t be finished with the work in Stari Baća,” I said. He shrugged.
“Can I get you guys something to drink?” Jim asked. “I’m going upstairs to get a beer. Jen, do you want something?”
Robert looked at Mario and they shared a grin.
“What?” Jim asked.
“You are like woman,” Robert said. Then he and Mario guffawed.
And so Jim persisted with this wood-chopping thing. Wood and the stockpiling of it dominated the Mrkopalj male psyche, and Jim didn’t want to miss out. A few weeks into August, as Jim and I sat with the kids in the backyard, Robert approached him.
“We go to forest and make wood for fire,” he said. “You come. Tomorrow morning.”
My husband left the house in the morning, excited to be part of such tangible work, sure that he’d have a really fun day in the šuma.
He returned to me in late afternoon a defeated, soaking wet, sunburned pile of flesh who peeled off his jeans and left them in a pile of sawdust at the door.
“Sweet mother of God,” I heard him whimper in the shower.
Goranka had dinner for the crew down at Stari Baća, but Jim recapped the day before he joined them. They’d driven to Robert’s allotted plot of timber on an uneven grass field. Near some makeshift hunter’s cabins, they came upon a clearing littered with a great stack of felled trees. They were big trees. About 125 big trees. And on that day, a crew of six guys—two of them over forty—sawed those trees down to size.
“There were so many of them,” Jim said, dazed, eyes bloodshot. “It was like a battlefield out there.”
He was a little hazy on the details, what with the sunstroke and all, but as far as he could tell, four of the guys wielded chain saws and chunked the trunks down into manageable pieces, like segments in a full-sized Tootsie Roll. A few weeks later, after the wood dried some more, Robert’s crew would split these logs into stove-sized sticks.
Now, from what we’d seen, men in the Gorski Kotar owned three things: a slingblade, a cement mixer, and a chain saw. People did for themselves and their neighbors, and you could get a lot of surviving done with those three tools. A chain saw is a high-ticket item in a poor country, and the guys on Robert’s crew treated theirs with respect. Goranka’s soft-spoken brother sharpened and oiled his machine so tenderly that he could have been diapering a baby.
The young guys were methodical and bull-like in their work, tossing great chunks of drvo like balsa. Jim and Robert were the elderly shaggers, following directly behind to throw logs out of the way. Both were sunburned beyond recognition when they returned.
“This is Dream Team for Wood!” Robert said on the first of many pivo breaks.
Goranka packed an ample picnic of beer, homemade sausage, hard-boiled eggs, bread, and cold potatoes. “It wasn’t anything fancy, but it was the best picnic I’ve ever had,” Jim said.
“You should get down to Stari Baća,” I said. “You coming back after dinner?”
Jim, all but weeping from sore muscles and sun damage, said, “I won’t be out late tonight, if that’s what you’re asking.” Then he turned and trudged out the door. I’d never seen him trudge to any bar, much less Stari Baća, and that was when I knew for sure that he wasn’t faking his exhaustion.
I sent Sam to dustpan the sawdust that Jim left in his wake. “Why do I have to sweep the floor again?” Sam whined. “I do that work in the morning.”
“Sweep the sawdust, son,” I said. “And be thankful you weren’t on the work crew that produced it.”
Jim called me in an hour. “Why don’t you come down?” he asked. “The summer kids are all here. Let’s have just one drink and then we’ll go home together.”
“Like a date?” I asked.
“Sure, a date,” Jim said. “Robert says to send the kids to play wit
h the girls.”
We left the kids during the morning walk, but somehow leaving them to go to a bar felt trashy. However, when the bar was the only show in town, I could rationalize it. I herded Sam and Zadie downstairs, passing the second-floor rooms along the way.
“Mom, is Robert done with our rooms yet?” Sam asked.
“Considering the giant pile of rubble in the doorway, I’m thinking no,” I said.
“That’s okay, right?” he said. “I don’t want to move. I like it in the dorm.”
“Sam likes it because his Legos have their own corner,” Zadie said. “I want to move so we’re closer to the girls.”
“Consider the dorm home for now,” I said. “The girls can visit whenever they want.”
Robert’s girls were in the yard, preparing to walk Bobi. Ivana immediately picked up Zadie like a baby, even though Zadie was almost five. I left for Stari Baća, reveling in the naughtiness of it. What kind of mother leaves her kids to have a drink at a bar? Me! It felt kind of delicious. Judging from the squeals of laughter coming from Robert’s yard behind me, it felt delicious for the kids, too.
When I walked in, the Dream Team for Wood was finishing their meal. Stefanija cleared dishes as I bellied up to say hi and compliment her new short bangs. Stefanija and her sister, Marija, took turns cutting each other’s hair. Unlike the majority of women who tried home hair care, they both looked super cute at all times.
“Ooh, Jennifer, you are at the bar with your husband tonight,” Stefanija teased.
“I’m only here because I’m afraid I might have to shovel up Jim,” I said. “What should I drink?”
“It is warm outside,” she mused. “A Karlovačko would be nice.”
“Yes!” I said. “But make it a small one, not one of those big bottles.”
“A mali Karlovačko, then,” she said. “Jennifer, my grandmother says she would like to meet you.”
“Seriously? That’s awesome!” I said. “When?”
“Soon,” she answered. “I will call you. Now you must relax with your husband.”
I looked over at the men. Robert’s big nose was bright red with sunburn. Jim, slumped to one side, perked up slightly when I joined them at the table. He introduced me to the woodcutters, who nodded politely at my intrusion. The suave one leaned over to me and raised his eyebrows.
“I am Lepi,” he said. “I am a very beautiful man.”
“What does ‘lepi’ mean?” I asked Stefanija when she brought over my beer. She said nothing, but slapped Lepi in the top of his head.
“Oh, hey, Jenny!” Robert said. “Your husband! He is Architect for the Wood!”
“I am very proud,” I said, squeezing Jim’s arm.
“He is good, working!” Robert said. “Jim is good for wood.”
From that day forward, word got around that Jim was interested in the work of Mrkopalj. Mario picked him up with a tractor full of garbage to show him a typical trip to the dump, called the smećer, pronounced SMETCH-air. “Smećer” became part of the family lexicon, denoting all things negative. As in: “This coffee you made is for the smećer.” Or “I would very much like to take a smećer, but there’s no way to lock the bathroom door.”
But mostly, Jim stayed home for us. Jim was a peaceful homemaker and by far the better cook. It felt natural, despite our breaking so many stereotypes.
As we sat enjoying our date, a tall and gaunt man walked in. Within minutes, there was a great row at the bar. It was Robert. He and the man had gotten into an argument instantly. Robert stood and put his hand to his heart. “Komunista!” he cried.
Then the guy got up and saluted Robert. “Heil, Hitler!”
Jim headed over to investigate.
Stefanija sat down with me at the table, rolling her eyes.
“What the hell?” I said to her, incredulous.
“Robert’s family is Ustaše during the Second World War. That man, policeman for Mrkopalj, his family was Partisan. They come here every week to argue in this way.”
“Mrkopalj has a town cop?” I turned to her, astonished.
“Yes, of course,” Stefanija said. “You think we do not have police?”
“I guess I’ve never seen any police,” I said. “The way people drive, I just figured there weren’t any.”
Jim had once seen a guy driving home so drunk that he stopped in the middle of Stari Kraj to take a nap. People just drove around him.
We watched Robert and the cop fight for a while. Then the cop leaned over to Jim. “I have gun in my car!” he said. “You want, I go get, and you can shoot Robert.”
Jim stood back in surprise. “Shoot Robert? Why would I want to do that?”
“Shoot him! He is Nazi!” yelled the cop, pointing at Robert. “Shoot him, but not in head. In stomach! Stomach is more pain.”
Jim put up his hands. “No, no, no. I definitely don’t want to shoot Robert.”
The cop nudged at Jim’s chest with his index finger. “You want to shoot Robert! I will help you! We kill Nazis together!”
Then everyone at the bar erupted into laughter, as if this was the funniest thing they’d heard since Robert and the cop had their last arguing date. Everyone giggled except for Robert, who remained stone-faced, not so much because this odd humor failed to appeal to his sensibilities, but more because the joke had come from his adversary.
Jim stayed with Robert, who poured himself a halp-halp. I walked over.
“Robert, aren’t you even bothered that that guy wanted me to shoot you?” Jim asked.
Robert turned to Jim, took a long swig, and shrugged his Robert shrug. “Is joke,” he said. “Croatian joke.”
“Why do Croatian jokes always involve maiming another person?” I asked.
“Is not true,” Robert said. “I say to you about Obama when you come to Mrkopalj. You remember?”
“I remember what you called him,” I said.
“I kid,” Robert said. “Is Croatian joke.”
Stefanija, a true diplomat, stepped up behind the bar. “Jennifer,” she said, catching my attention before I reached over to smack Robert in a little Croatian joke of my own. “Mali Karlovačko?”
chapter twenty
On a lazy August morning, Jim and the kids swung by Stari Baća while I was writing. Zadie’s hair was a tangled mess, and both kids’ faces were smeared with ice cream. It struck me that my children had gone feral in Mrkopalj.
“We’re driving to Rijeka,” Jim said, pulling up a chair. The kids hung themselves on me, one on each side. Zadie picked up my pen and drew in my notebook.
“Voluntarily, you’re going to Rijeka?” I asked, incredulous.
Jim nodded.
“What on earth for?” I asked.
“Robert said there’s a store called Metro, like a Costco, for members only,” he said. “They’ve got more food than Konzum, and I’m making hamburgers!”
“Hamburgers?” I asked. My mouth began to water.
Robert popped his head out from the back kitchen, his mouth loaded with what appeared to be boiled potato. “Originale American hamburger!” he called.
Jim shot him double ones across the bar. “Robert gave me his Metro card so we could get in. It’s Burger Quest! You want anything?”
“I would love something like mustard on my hamburger,” I gushed.
“Dad says we can get junky cereal there,” Sam said.
“And maybe chicken nuggets!” Zadie added.
“They have both of those things,” Jim confirmed. “I asked Robert.”
“What else do they have?” I asked. “Peanut butter? Dr Pepper? Doritos?”
“I don’t know.” Jim laughed. “We’ll see!”
Late in the afternoon, I found Jim in the dorm, adrift in a sea of grocery bags. “Shopping took five hours,” he said. “Making hamburgers in Croatia is a daylong affair.”
The gardens in Croatia were going nuts, and every meal we had included fresh carrots, cucumbers, and lettuce from our neighbors, who knew we had
no garden of our own. I sliced onions, tomatoes, lettuce, and—here’s the miracle—hamburger buns. Jim had unearthed an acceptable facsimile at Metro.
Jim patted together discs of ground beef, and directed me to take a look in the dorm fridge. There, wedged into a side compartment, next to the homemade raspberry juice Anđelka made us, was a jar of yellowish brownish substance labeled “senf.”
“What’s that?” I asked.
“I’m not a hundred percent sure, but I’ve got a feeling that it’s mustard,” Jim said.
I unscrewed the lid and tasted. Indeed it was mustard. I did a happy dance.
We headed outside with the fixings. From old bricks and a grate that he found somewhere, Jim had built a makeshift grill in the area of the yard where we’d burned that huge hole. Mario and Jasminka came over, and Tomo pulled into the driveway.
Jim was in a frenzy, just like he was back home when he was preparing a meal for friends, trying to get everything perfect. I sat down next to Jasminka and chewed on an onion. When it came to food preparation, Jim and I traded personalities. Cooking hamburgers over natural flame was melting his brain—we’d forgotten to pack his Barbecue Bible, and Jim didn’t go for inexact science when it came to meat.
Tomo, Mario, and Robert shifted uncomfortably in their lawn chairs as they watched. Though I’m pretty sure they were critiquing Jim’s fire-building skills in Croatian, they didn’t say a word to him in English. I even saw Mario sit on his hands. It wasn’t until Jim grabbed the plate of buns—clearly with the intention of toasting them—that all three men stood and eased toward the fire ring, gently crowding out my sweating husband and nurturing his coals into a tiny heap, then a concentrated inferno, and then turning to Jim to hand back the reins with quiet nods. He toasted his buns to perfection.
“Originale American hamburger!” Robert declared as Jim put the finishing touches on the table. Everyone sat down to eat, and Jim modeled the ideal burger design—bun, patty, lettuce, tomato, onion, ketchup, mustard—for his guests.
Jasminka sneaked in a few cucumber slices, and I congratulated her instincts.
“Back home, we put pickles on them,” I said. “Jim couldn’t find pickles.”
Running Away to Home Page 21
