eBook
Available on Compatible NOOK devices, the free NOOK App and in My Digital Library.
Related collections and offers
Overview
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781504979641 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | AuthorHouse |
| Publication date: | 02/12/2016 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 166 |
| File size: | 2 MB |
Read an Excerpt
Vuka
Destination Alaska
By Vladimir Radovic
AuthorHouse
Copyright © 2016 Vladimir RadovicAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-5049-7966-5
CHAPTER 1
Motel California
On a sunny and breezy day in October 1973, I finally met my greataunt Vuka. She was waiting for me under an oak tree at the San Jose Greyhound station. Just like in her photos, Vuka looked almost identical to my grandmother Jovanka: the same silver-gray hair neatly combed into a bun, almond-shaped turquoise eyes on a wide Slav face, and the same bounteous and upright stature.
She hugged me so long and hard that I almost choked. This was a big surprise since I thought Americans disliked physical contact. Vuka giggled like a teenager and — with a rich and melodious voice — pronounced her deeply accented dialect from the Gulf of Kotor, from whence she had eloped in 1928.
For a seventy-year-old, she exuded a sprightly demeanor and was completely at ease while driving her spacious station wagon. I couldn't help noticing a massive gold nugget ring on her right hand and a beautiful ruby-encrusted gold wedding ring on her left — symbols of her love for and life with Marko.
As we approached her home in Saratoga, she pressed a button on a tiny box clipped to the windshield visor and — surprise, surprise — the garage door started lifting. Noticing my astonishment, she said proudly, "Oh, you haven't seen this before? It is remote control, my sons' birthday present. They didn't want Mom to hurt her back by opening and closing the garage door."
"But how does the door open from such a distance? It's like Ali Baba saying: 'Open Sesame'."
"Oh, you remember Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves? In Risan I used to read One Thousand and One Night stories to your dad when he was a little boy. When we park inside, I'll show you how this modern Ali Baba works.
"You know, my children and grandchildren are my real treasure. Most of them will be here tonight. We are having a family reunion because I just came back from Alaska. Please don't let them scare you; they laugh very loudly and can be rowdy at times."
As we got out of the car, she pointed to the ceiling. There was a big gray box hanging like an operating lamp. It was connected to a track that led to the top of the garage door.
"You see that box? Inside there is a motor that slides a trolley along the ceiling track — like a tramway — and it opens and closes the door upon receiving command from my remote control. In the last twenty years there have been so many new products here that I call it our miracle time.
"Some of the companies, like Hewlett-Packard, started in a garage just like this one. Now they are selling calculators all over the world. I'm so sorry that my Marko did not live to see all these technological wonders. He would be thrilled as a child with new toys."
She added proudly, "My daughter Nada's husband works for a big engineering company. Next week, she is moving her family to New York. Her husband got a promotion and will work at the company's headquarters. And my youngest daughter, Ellen, is living in St. Paul because of her husband's work in Minnesota."
"Unlike for Europeans, it looks so easy for Americans to change place of residence!" I said excitedly.
"Oh ya, it's basically, 'Have work, will travel.' Now I'd like to show you the house and the guest room that is reserved for you."
"When did you move to California, my dear aunt?"
"Oh, it was after our house in Alaska burned down in June of 1942 — the same month that the Japanese attacked the Aleutian Islands. I never thought that another world war could come all the way to Alaska. And our government ordered closing down all private gold mining."
"So after living in Alaska for more than a decade, you moved here?" I asked. "I understand that Marko arrived in California as a teenager."
"Oh ya, fourteen unforgettable years in Alaska. My four children were born there. When Marko came to this country in 1892, his first work was in Fresno — in the San Joaquin Valley — not far from here. And now I am spending six months a year in Alaska. You have to visit me there one day."
"I promise I will, Aunt Vuka. But this is a very nice house and property," I said admiringly.
"It was much bigger when we first came. Marko bought it together with twenty-two acres of land. We had a farm and an orchard. After he died in 1944 and after the children went their own ways, I sold the farm."
"But it is still a big property. How do you manage to maintain it?"
"Oh, here you can always find people eager to make a few dollars by cutting lawns, house-cleaning, running errands, and so forth. Still, I am the one who works the most here. It keeps me young. For our family gathering tonight, I am preparing dinner, even though they are also bringing food and drinks.
"I like that everybody brings his part and shares in the expenditure. Remember the old country saying: 'Nobody knows who's drinking or who's paying for it'?
"When my children were attending college, this place was a Motel California. After studying hard during the week, practically all the fraternity and sorority members — up to a hundred youngsters, including some faculty members — were spending their Sunday afternoons at our big barn. I used to prepare sandwiches, cookies, and cakes, and they brought drinks for their dance parties."
"And you were not afraid of drunk driving afterward?"
"Precisely for that reason I was happy to have all of them at our place. You know, in Misho's and Alex's Delta Upsilon fraternity, there were young men who had returned from World War II. These GIs were older than my boys, and they drank and smoked a lot. To those who had too much drink, I used to say, 'Hand me your car keys! You will sleep here, and I will prepare breakfast for you in the morning.' And the bullies were not allowed to return."
"Your children must have fond memories from those years. But what are these sororities and fraternities?" I asked.
"Oh, I guess it is a very American way of organizing college life and studying. You know that Marko and I did not receive a good education, so I have dedicated my life to helping my children get a good one. When I realized that fraternities and sororities were serious about studying, I urged my children to join. By living and studying together, they obtained excellent grades and a sense of community and made lifelong friends. Alex met his wife, Sandy, because she was at the Delta Gamma sorority together with my Nada."
"And that sense of belonging, Aunt Vuka, must have been very important for second-generation immigrants. In Europe, it takes several generations for immigrants to feel at home."
"You know that America was made by immigrants. Yet our sense of community ran much deeper in Alaska. There, we went through all sorts of hardship. And here, I did not want to limit my children's friendships to our ethnic community. I wanted them to become real Americans."
During the next four days, Vuka's sons took me on a grand tour of San Francisco and the Bay Area, and we spent a weekend at Lake Tahoe. Misho and Alex, both dentists, thoroughly examined my teeth and taught me to floss. And most importantly, they made me feel their kith and kin.
CHAPTER 2Kastradina and the Old Place
On my last day, Vuka's best friend, Dosa — who lived in downtown San Francisco — invited us to dinner. Stout and energetic at eighty, Dosa prepared the traditional delicacy called kastradina. Vuka's lean and handsome brother, Nikola, with neatly combed hair and a white handkerchief in his chest pocket, steered the conversation in Serbo-Croatian to the Gulf of Kotor, or Boka. I was doing my best not to show anxiety in the two-generations-older company.
As we sipped the broth, Dosa explained that kastradina had been prepared the same way for centuries on the Adriatic coast. The main ingredient is the smoked leg of castrated goat, hence its name. Baby goats are castrated in order to ensure meat tenderness and absence of strong smell.
Dosa explained that the meat is cooked for several hours in a large pot of water; in parallel, cabbage is boiled in a smaller pot with garlic and rosemary. The mutton leg is then soaked overnight, and in the morning the greasy layer is removed. After the cabbage, pepper and cinnamon are added, and a second round of slow meat cooking is necessary before this delicacy is ready.
The boiling hot broth is served first, followed by the meat entrée with cabbage leaves. It tastes best if consumed in the same terra-cotta bowls. In the Gulf of Kotor, kastradina was the most popular winter dish because, according to Dosa, its broth "warmed the bones down to the tip-toes," as if sitting next to a fireplace.
Nikola explained that kastradina's fame goes back to the deadly bubonic plague and complete isolation of Venice in early 1630s. During eighteen months and at the risk of their lives, the loyal subjects from Dalmatia and the gulf were transporting this delicacy to Venice to feed its hapless citizens.
After losing a third of its population, La Serenissima was declared free of pestilence in November 1631, and as a delivery vow, the splendid basilica of Santa Maria della Salute was erected. In Venice, the tradition of eating kastradina on November 21 was established and is maintained to this day.
The rocky limestone hills above the Gulf of Kotor were ideal for goat grazing and producing high-quality mutton. Even though at time of the plague Risan belonged to the Ottoman Empire, Nikola was convinced that our families had participated in the free shipment of kastradina to Venice.
Surprised to hear that my hosts kept referring to the gulf as the Stari Kraj — or the Old Place — I asked why.
Nikola responded with a politician's touch: "Since the Gulf of Kotor belonged to many different masters, by calling it our Old Place, we avoid religious, ethnic, or other misunderstandings. Just like Bosnia or Macedonia, it is a geographic concept."
"But do you feel yourself to be Yugoslav, or Serb, or Montenegrin, or a Bocchese, as the Venetians used to call you?" I asked with tightness in my throat.
"Let me respond by telling you about our native Risan. The customs and mentality of this small Slavic Orthodox community were influenced by the centuries-old rivalry among foreign powers, and particularly between the Republic of Venice and the Ottoman Empire."
"But there are also many Catholics living in the Gulf of Kotor. Are they Croatian or Montenegrin?" I insisted.
"Nowadays, they all refer to themselves as Yugoslavs, but I am not sure how long that will last, because religion is a stubborn fact of life. It is the principal separation line between Croats and Serbs, for example. Ethnically and culturally, they are the same and speak the same language. Also, Bosnians and Herzegovinians are ethnically either Serb or Croat Slavs, but many have opted for Islam for reasons of convenience, ambition, or fear of losing their land."
After taking a long breath, he added quietly: "Essentially, Croats and Serbs are like two brothers who worked all their life as domestic servants for different masters and who, upon retirement, struggle, trying to live together. Let me show you what I mean."
We followed Nikola to Dosa's library. For a while, his eyes roamed up and down the bookshelves. He took out a massive leather-bound and gilt-edged art history book and gingerly started turning its glossy pages.
"Voilà!" he exclaimed triumphantly and lifted the heavy book to his chest.
He showed us a two-page print of Paolo Veronese's magnificent painting The Wedding Feast at Cana. He then placed it on a desk and started reading in a deliberate cadence.
"The Benedictine monks at San Giorgio Maggiore — located at a small island across Saint Mark's in Venice — commissioned this painting in 1562.
"In order to make sure that his enormous canvas could perfectly fit into the principal nave, Veronese worked closely with its architect Andrea Palladio.
"The painting adorned this Benedictine monastery for two more than two centuries until Napoleon snatched it away to the Louvre, where it is still hangs as the largest painting in that massive collection."
"Oh yes, I remember seeing it!" I said excitedly. "When my dad took us to the Louvre seven years ago."
Nikola looked at me approvingly and continued with a slower rhythm.
"The painting shows a total of one hundred and thirty persons, including the leading European monarchs; Jesus Christ, his apostles and Virgin Mary; Veronese himself and Titian as musicians; as well as Suleiman the Magnificent and his Serbian-born Grand Vizier, Sokollu Mehmed Pasha, sitting next to the bride and the groom.
The Wedding Feast at Cana depicts a miracle scene from the New Testament where Jesus changes water to wine under the trusting gaze of his loving mother. Mary was the first one to believe that her son could perform miracles."
After asking me to take a careful second glance at the reproduction, Nikola carefully returned the book to its exact location. Returning to his seat, he resumed.
"This painting is an enduring symbol of another miracle: the peaceful coexistence between different nations and religions. You noticed that the Ottoman rulers Suleiman and Sokollu are sharing the dining table — probably eating kastradina and drinking Jesus' wine — in a relaxed atmosphere with leading Christian monarchs and their ladies."
After adjusting his glasses, he fixed his eyes on me and asked: "But did you recognize us, the Old Place guys, in the painting?"
"The musicians?" I responded without conviction.
With squinting eyes, Nikola pronounced very slowly: "Butchers and waiters! If you look carefully, you will see us cutting and serving meat, filling glasses and serving wine. That was our role and predicament for most of our recorded history: to serve different powerful masters. It shaped our mentality and caused our divisions."
Vuka smiled with a touch of melancholy and added: "The Miracle at Cana reminds me of my own wedding feast, when my Marko also produced wine in San Francisco in 1928. It was Prohibition time, and I had trouble understanding what that word meant.
"There were many people in attendance, mostly from Dalmatia and the gulf, and several gold miners from Alaska. For me, a wedding dinner was inconceivable without a glass of wine. But the maitre informed us that only apple cider, tea, and coffee was served. So I ordered coffee.
"Anyhow, an elderly waiter with a white apron on his belly and a solemn look on his face brought an elegant silver-plated set. After I tasted wine, I broke into a loud laugh, and Marko, who was sitting across the table, lifted his glass and said simply: 'Thanks for believing in me!'"
Dosa and I roared with laughter, and Nikola — obviously for my benefit — continued with his impassive narration, but striking a more positive note.
"The Old Place is a bastion of ecumenic spirit in the Balkans. A good example is the Cathedral of St. Tryphon in Kotor."
He took out another history book from the shelf, showed us the photo of the Kotor Cathedral, and started reading:
"'Built in 1166, the oldest Catholic cathedral in this region is a precursor of the Gothic cathedrals like the Paris Notre Dame. With its medieval Romanesque style, St. Tryphon embodies a rare syncretism of ancient Roman and Byzantine architecture. This cathedral was built only two centuries after the pagan Slavs converted to Christianity and only a century after the great East-West Schism of 1054.'"
When I asked who St. Tryphon was, Nikola looked at me like a teacher waiting for that particular question. He explained that this patron saint was important to both Catholics and Orthodox simply because he protected two important activities of that and all times: of gardeners and wine growers.
While my great-uncle was folding and lighting his cigarette, Dosa conveniently refilled our glasses with wine. Nikola resumed:
"The Church split essentially because of a power struggle between Constantinople and the Vatican. The pope insisted on the use of Latin language and — thanks to Venice — Catholicism prevailed on the Adriatic coast. The Constantinople Orthodox variant was consolidated in the Balkan hinterland in spite of — or paradoxically thanks to — the Ottoman occupation."
With her cheeks warmed-up, Vuka interrupted. "Oh, I thought that they split because of the different way of making bread for the Mass."
I laughed loudly and Dosa looked at me with a Mona Lisa smile.
Vuka insisted that as an Alaskan "sourdough," she was the authority on baking bread. She turned to me with a solemn smile, cleared her throat, and started imitating her brother's professorial tone.
"A long, long time ago, in the eleventh century, the patriarch of Constantinople accused the pope in Rome of using flour without yeast to produce bread for Mass. This unleavened bread, meaning without sourdough or yeast, was much easier to make, but its quality depended on whether the dough left overnight would catch good wild yeast."
"Never learned that version in my history classes," I couldn't resist blurting out.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Vuka by Vladimir Radovic. Copyright © 2016 Vladimir Radovic. Excerpted by permission of AuthorHouse.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Table of Contents
Contents
Preface, xi,The Note, xiii,
Part One, 1,
Motel California, 3,
Kastradina and the Old Place, 7,
The Dual Heritage, 17,
The Families, 22,
Before They Met, 26,
An Unorthodox Match, 31,
The Journey, 35,
A Correspondence, 38,
The Scarsdale Conversations, 43,
California Dreaming, 49,
A Transit Corridor, 54,
Siempre Adelante, 60,
Gold Actually, 63,
Russian America, 68,
Part Two, 79,
At Her Villa, 81,
About Chilkoot, 89,
Kind of Alaska, 98,
At Forty Above Zero, 111,
An Officer and a Gentleman, 118,
The Power of Good, 121,
Alaska Revisited, 127,
Last Conversations, 140,
The Art of Living, 144,
Recommended Reading, 148,
Basic Family Tree, 150,
About the Author, 151,