Memoirs and Short Stories
AUNT LUBITSA

"Mom, I never realized how much you and Great Aunt Lubitsa had in common and how much you looked alike," exclaimed Maja in amazement, tossing a wild cascade of blond curls, with her hazel eyes open widely. In the summer of 1989 Aunt Lubitsa had shown Maja some photos of herself as a young woman, and Maja took them for pictures of me.

It is summer of 1991. Sitting in Maja's kitchen, in Boston, sunshine lavishly pouring through the large windows, my eyes are resting on the lush leaves of her tropical garden, clean calico curtains, and the neatly arranged jars with herbs and spices.

"Her eyes and eyebrows, especially her massive, black hair against that pearly complexion. Now I know where your rounded hips came from," continued Maja teasingly, emphatically outlining the shape of the hips richer than hers. "And those famous knees," she added mischievously, alluding to one of our secrets. I had told her a long time ago how my knees had been the object of some admiration, in my youth, while I knew they were imperfect and preferred to keep them covered.

Maja is right: I have always looked more like my paternal aunt than like my mother, but I never fully realized how much Aunt Lubitsa and I had in common till she died and a large part of me left with her. Although taller and more athletically built, I have always looked so much like her that, when seen together, we were taken for mother and daughter. People often commented that our likeness was deeper than merely physical. With a smile, Aunt Lubitsa admitted that I shared her quick temperament, extreme independence unusual for a woman, pride and strong-mindedness. I also inherited many of her talents, I am afraid in a much milder form: her sensitivity to the animal and plant worlds, with a keen interest in herbs; love of the traditional arts and crafts and all kinds of handiwork; acute intuition in male-female relationships, love of nature and life in all manifestations.

My aunt Lubitsa was a real survivor. When she died at age ninety two, she was still lively, with an ageless, fascinating spirit. I think of her often and know I am not the only one.

As always, when visiting Maja, we had taken long walks through parks, had eaten in fancy restaurants and bought earrings from the street vendors, while chatting and laughing together, sharing some woman-to-woman secrets and, naturally, talking about Aunt Lubitsa.

"Mom, how would you like a cup of tea?" Maja interrupted my thoughts. "Now would be the time to drink Baka's (Grandma's, Great Aunt's) tea. She had given me a bag of herbs last time I'd visited her." And she jumped readily to bring a bag full of different herbs, all neatly tied with yarn in vivid colors. The yarn brought a warm tide of memories: those were the remnants from our favorite sweaters, blouses and booties that Aunt Lubitsa had made for us through the years.

"I haven't opened this bag since then," Maja continued in a soft voice, her eyes growing gray and cloudy with memories, "waiting for a special occasion. You know, Mom, after she died, I realized she'd known she was going to die and that it was our last visit. It is all so clear now. All she'd said or done then was one big, loving good-bye." Maja's voice grew softer till it almost turned into a whisper.

Then, she smiled a big, warm smile, her eyes still grave, and added with pride, "Yet, she was not scared or sad. She was at peace, as serene as ever." Changing the tone, Maja resolutely added: "And now, let's have that tea."

The herbs spread on the kitchen table, both of us lost in the search for the times gone by, caressing the familiar, soft shapes, inhaling the subtle, aromatic odors, we surf on the high tide of warm memories, engulfed by that huge wave, gentle like mother's touch. A smile grows within me, as I realize that those same herbs have been a part of Maja's childhood just as they have of mine. She readily recognizes the camomile delicate daisy-like heads, faded with time, their white petals falling off, the yellow center turning into a golden dust. She does not remember the Serbian name for the honied, slender-leaved linden, all withered and brittle, still powerfully awakening the images of the childhood coughs, sore throats and feverish nights comforted with soft lullabies. And while I rapturously repeat its name "lipa, lipa, lipa," to awaken her recollection, the sound combined with the delicious fragrance opens the magic doors of reminiscence and I see the big, old linden trees in our churchyard next to my highschool, with our family home just down the street -- that small, quiet street filled with the heavy, intoxicating aroma of the blooming linden -- and the nocturnal quietude broken only by the deep, sonorous toll of the church bells.

Linden tea is humming on the stove, filling the air with its familiar, fruity fragrance, bringing in the same loving image: my aunt, Maja's great aunt, Lubitsa, raising us, in turn, with those same friendly, soothing, cure-all herbs, remedies for all our childhood ailments. Like ours, she had touched many other lives in a lasting way and taught us, indirectly, some of life's arcana. She played an important role throughout my whole life, but our relationship in the later years became more complex. Now, writing this down is the only tomb-stone, the only memorial I am giving her, since her frail body has been laid next to my father's and their parents' in the small, crowded cemetery of her native Futog, in Yugoslavia.

My daughter will, naturally, marry an American and, hopefully, have children. My grandchildren! They will not be able to read books published in Yugoslavia about our past, the books that meant so much to me, my brother, my parents. I want my grandchildren to know their roots. Now, at my age, I feel this is important. I did not understand it earlier, when my father expressed concern.

My daughter is very supportive of my writing, especially since "Baka Lubitsa" was her favorite great aunt and admittedly a great role model. For me, my daughter is the best inspiration: her wish is law for me, or as they say in Serbian "Ona okom, a ja skokom" (no sooner said than done) -- her mere glance is enough to make me jump and do it! Just like a Serbian mother. Just like any mother. She jokingly tells me that I am like a Jewish mother. Like an Italian mother, in short, too much of a mother, a real pain. At times I can be too protective, too compulsive, too obsessive, too everything. She feels about me just as I felt about my mother. What she cannot know yet is that the memory of my mother and her love is still keeping me happy and alive. That is where my sanity and integrity come from. As for my own motherhood... well, that is the best part of my femininity and has always been so. Now, it is the strongest source of my personal happiness. The saying goes that Serbian wives are first mothers and sisters then lovers. I know this is true of me, my mother and, I believe, my grandmother. When it comes to Aunt Lubitsa, she had no children of her own, but raised and helped to raise more than her fair share.

It is a pity that I never asked my aunt more about her life. My knowledge of her consists of sporadic pieces of information, often unconnected and floating in oblivion like the icebergs in the North Sea. Of course, there are my own experiences and impressions of her, incomplete too, covered with the golden dust of time and nostalgia mixed with awareness that I will never again be able to ask her for a recipe or advice in "the matters of the heart." She was an unusually good and resourceful cook, a woman of experience and wisdom in matters of love. Those were just two of her many areas of expertise. She was so much more, a rich and vibrant human being and an intriguing woman. She was a Jane-of-all-trades, for whom cooking and baking were just additional aspects of nurturing that we freely enjoyed, but also took for granted. Actually, having both her and my mother (my grandmother, too) as exceptionally good homemakers, I myself always felt intimidated and less-than-satisfactory. Therefore, through the years, when complimented on my cooking and baking, I would gratefully accept the compliment, but never quite believe it, knowing how easily I can burn a steak while studying or writing a poem.

My Aunt Lubitsa, as I remember from my childhood, made the most delicious crepes filled with cottage cheese and raisins, dipped in milk and baked in the oven. It was a ritual, a family tradition, on special occasions, like Christmas, to gorge on them after a full dinner. My aunt enjoyed making those crepes especially for me, and I enjoyed eating them because they were made with love more than with cottage cheese and raisins. "Would you like some more?" Aunt Lubitsa would ask with a teasing twinkle in her dark eyes, while already placing the steaming hot, bubbly crepes on my plate. She knew to pick the palest and the softest for me, slightly browned, and the crisp ones for my father.

I remember the dessert plates we used at the time. Around the edges they had selected fruits in relief, painted in pastel colors: pears, apples, peaches and cherries. I grew to love those plates through the years of memorable family dinners, and enjoyed tracing the embossed contours of my favorite fruits so realistically and invitingly shaped. Later, as a homemaker myself, I saw Franciscan china patterns. They vaguely reminded me of my Aunt's dessert plates that were more subtle in color and pattern.

Another specialty of my Aunt's was her poppy-seed strudel, as thick as her thigh, as the saying goes among the fun-loving people of the province of Vojvodina. In her recipes she used only fresh, home-made lard, no butter, margarine or oil. Vegetable oil came later, when we, the new generation, invented health food, calorie counting, low cholesterol diets and other ways of saving mankind. I remember my aunt's omelets being so delicious that nothing will ever come close in comparison. My brother claims that Aunt Lubitsa's bean-soup (typical Serbian traditional dish) was absolutely divine. Better than any army cook could make. (Serbian men do not pass an occasion to inform their wives that the best bean soup they ever tasted had been the one cooked by the army cook. I could never figure out why. Does it taste better if cooked in large quantities, or does the harsh exercise have something to do with their appetite?)

When I grew up and was married, living in Belgrade, the capital of Yugoslavia, Aunt Lubitsa liked to come and spend the winter months with us. She was the best baby sitter my little daughter could possibly have had. She knew hundreds of nursery rhymes, folk songs, and fairy tales, and I believe that Maja started talking early and in full phrases (actually turned out to be a real chatter-box right from the start) because my aunt constantly talked and sang to her. At that time Maja had a tiny replica of a hand-made basket that she carried around like a Little Red Riding Hood, while singing quite an impressive repertoire of the children's nursery rhymes that Great Aunt Lubitsa had taught her.

While staying with us, Aunt Lubitsa would naturally take over cooking, baking, sewing, knitting and crocheting, making beautiful, intricate doilies and table-cloths that I still cherish as my family heirloom, together with my mother's and my grandmother's embroideries and lace-inlaid curtains and pillow-cases. As a girl I was not really interested in all that, but my mother used to smile knowingly saying she knew I would start caring about it once she was gone, just as it had been the case with her and her mother. And she was right. Now the history is being repeated with Maja and me.

Aunt Lubitsa liked to sit in a specific biedermeier armchair in our living room. I had spotted that chair in our neighbor's shed in Futog, chickens sleeping on it, all stained with droppings. They had thrown away their antique furniture to replace it with new, more modern versions. I could not stand the sacrilege and offered to buy the armchair. They thought I was joking, and willingly gave it to me. But it felt better to pay for it, load it on the top of my car and bring it to Belgrade, have it cleaned and finished, then upholstered with genuine biedermeier material of my choice. After all this, I felt sure the chair was, naturally, mine. But, no. My husband, who never asked for anything to be his, this time absolutely wanted that chair to be "papa's chair." He would not be dissuaded. He was always in it watching TV, napping, reading the newspaper or Churchill's Memoirs, while I was working in the kitchen. So it naturally became his, except when Aunt Lubitsa was staying with us. I can still see her sitting, slightly bent over her crocheting or a newspaper, her glasses low on her small, still pretty nose.

If we had visitors, Aunt Lubitsa would immediately withdraw to her room or into the kitchen, claiming that she was too old for our company, just to surprise us in no time with freshly baked cheese biscuits or some other delicacy of hers. Only now I realize what great help she was and how much easier life was for all of us when she was around. Although she did not want to sit with us, she actually loved to hear our little gossip about the love affairs of the popular singers and politicians, especially about the forsaken lovers ("dumped" or "ditched" - as Maja put it in her teenage jargon). Aunt Lubitsa always had an air of not listening, still there was an omniscient smile around her mouth. If asked for her opinion, she had ready advice, usually much wiser than we could understand at the time.

My friends loved Aunt Lubitsa. They always asked her for advice and wanted to know when she was going to come again. When Maja reached that special age from twelve through fifteen, her friends too confided in "Baka" and received a free consultation on how to attract and keep a boyfriend, how to make sure he stays faithful, and other important matters. "Be yourself at all times. Nobody and nothing is worth giving up your personality. If you don't appreciate yourself, who will?" "Make your man feel good about himself, too. Be supportive and loyal in times of crises. Do things with him. Share interests." "Learn to cook foods his mother prepares, but never compete with her. Do not criticize her, even if he does." "Be clean and neat, so that he doesn't have to look elsewhere." "Never show possessiveness or jealousy. That will quickly drive him away." "Be ready to listen, and ask his opinion. Make him feel important. You will have to make the decisions in the end, anyway."

Since she did not have a life of her own, as we often put it, Aunt Lubitsa always found the time and patience for other people's needs and problems. If there was an illness in a family, a sudden death or, better, a wedding, Aunt Lubitsa was the first to be called for help. She could cook for any number of people and always knew what was proper in any situation. She was level-headed and nothing was impossible for her. A widow since an early age, she had patience and hope in times of crises, cautious appreciation of good times. A real survivalist, she always had a cheerful disposition and the positive spirit of those who know what life is really like.

Some nations specialize in widowhood. The Serbian, for one. Each community has always had a whole line of widows: all looking alike, a type, a status rather than an individual, all dressed in black, with a clean, starched head scarf on their head, moving noiselessly through the house, efficiently fixing all the problems, meeting all the needs. There has always been a large supply of the younger widow generation, too. In my aunt's life-time, for instance, there have been two world wars and numerous calamities; therefore men have always been scarce, either away at war, in concentration camps, exiled, or just dead. Women are strong in our nation, because they have to be strong. My aunt was no exception.

She was first married when she was sixteen, to an attractive, wealthy, but -- as it turned out -- absolutely spoiled man who liked to drink and gamble. He would go to the local tavern, drink to oblivion, and throw money on gypsy girls whose dancing and singing made him forget he was a married man. He would spend nights there and at dawn, when the tavern closed, he would reel home, followed by the musicians, gypsy girls, and their drunken racket. My aunt would be awakened, if she was asleep, to help him take off his boots, to bring food and drinks for them all... and the party would start all over again, if they were not too tired.

Later in the day he would wake up with a headache, blurred memories, and promises to never drink again. He would beg to be forgiven, swear he loved her. But, he would do it again. Once, he bought her a set of heavy, gold chains en vogue at the time, in order to soften her heart after one of his drinking binges. The gift was cynically appropriate. It finally opened her eyes.

Standing in front of their home, on the lawn that she had neatly planted with colorful, fragrant flowers, hot, blazing sun gleaming on the chains clenched tightly in her fist, her dark eyes ablaze but her voice strangely calm, Lubitsa stood tall, addressing her husband," Listen to me, Aco. Don't spend your dirty money on me. You will need it for the gypsy girls. They will not love you without it. Our marriage is over. This is final."

She hurled the chains away -- symbolically and literally -- and they landed on the tile roof with a weak yelp. She did not turn to look back, as she left that house never to return.

After leaving her husband, Lubitsa returned to her native village, a small farming community next to the city of Novi Sad. It must have been a desperate but nonetheless courageous step. Divorce, at that time, meant shame, especially for a woman, a woman too beautiful for her own good. (A folk saying teaches "A beautiful woman is seldom a happy one.")

Hard-working, honest folks of Vojvodina believed that a decent woman should be married, and once married should be able to keep her husband, no matter what. In human nature there is always room for jealousy and envy, and that is the first step to gossip. My father, a patriarchal authority for his younger sister, knew what a small community was like. He warned his sister not to offer any reason for gossip. There was no need to remind her of that again.

Rudely awakened to the reality of life, her naivete gone for ever, Lubitsa lost trust in men. With trust, she lost interest in them. That only made her more irresistible. Men did everything to attract her attention. She was so different from other women. Real enigma. They found it a challenge to solve it, to find the key. But there was none. Or, perhaps, she threw it away together with the golden chains. The persistence of men (and their constant marriage proposals till her old age) Lubitsa found annoying and offensive rather than flattering.

After the first shock, people got used to Lubitsa's being back home with her parents, especially as she went seriously about her business. Barely eighteen, she was as mature as a proud, disillusioned woman can be. She assumed the responsibility for the family cooking, cleaning, washing, raising chickens and other small animals, working in the garden and in the field. That was her share in helping the family and justifying her living at home in those hard times of the Austro-Hungarian occupation and The First World War. When all men were drafted, including her father and her only brother, she was left with her mother and her older sister to take care of the household. They did their best to survive, waiting for their men to safely return home and resume normal life in better times.

My Grandma Lenka, short for Jelena (Helen), was a proud, authoritative woman, better at men's work than many men, yet with all the prerequisites of femininity: beauty, laconic speech, wisdom and high moral standards. She was known to handle any situation with dignity and prudence. Often, an attractive woman, who is always busy, with no time for gossip around the neighborhood, intimidates and antagonizes those who have more time and who like to compare themselves to others, but cannot stand the outcome of the comparison. And so, one day, as the story goes, a good neighbor asked my grandma: "Say, Lenka, do you know where your husband is right now?" After waiting long enough for my grandmother to show curiosity, which she never did, the neighbor freely offered the answer anyway by mentioning the name of the local, rather popular enchantress.

My proud and discreet Grandma - an ancestor, whose blood I am carrying but wisdom cannot match - laughed and answered, "That will have to be somebody else's husband, because my Milan is in the back-room fixing the door. The hinges have gotten loose." She leisurely talked with the neighbor some more and then calmly went home.

Needless to say, there were no loose hinges in their household.

My Grandma Lenka, a woman without too much formal education but with an infinitely natural, folk wisdom, knew -- when necessary -- how to protect the dignity of her family name and the integrity of her marriage. Silently patient in times of adversity, she was a valiant fighter in her own way and an admirable survivor. That was my aunt's mother and her role model.

After the divorce, my aunt, a stubborn survivor, too proud to show grief, sang while working. That she could do better than anyone! She had an outstanding voice for which she was widely known. A man from America was visiting his relatives in Futog, an educated, wealthy man. Hearing my aunt sing and recognizing her unusual talent, he offered to take her with him to America and pay for her music education. He was sure she could sing in the Metropolitan Opera. My grandparents thanked him, but refused. No explanation offered.

Much later, at the end of her life, my aunt received another invitation to visit America. That time from me. I was already living in the United States with my daughter. My brother and his family preceded me by seventeen years. Aunt Lubitsa declined: it was too late for her.

She did not get to see America. And if her parents were, seemingly, the reason for that, in the case of my daughter it was the other way round. Life brought Maja to America through her mother's decision. She was too young to have a say. However, that opened up a brilliant opportunity for education and career, nothing less than the one promised to her great aunt a whole life-time arlier.

While she was staying at home, after the divorce, Lubitsa had something happen to her that she could not confide in anyone. She shared that secret with me much later, when I was old enough to understand. We were talking about life and I, always interested in women's share, exclaimed:" Auntie, it seems so unfair that you should not have experienced true, happy love. You, more beautiful and talented than many a woman! You deserved love, marriage and motherhood." She smiled her enigmatic smile, replying : " Well, as you know, I had my share of marriages." And she smiled again, not at all bitterly. "I have raised more children than the majority of women. I didn't even have to go through pregnancies." Her voice didn't reveal whether she considered it a loss or a gain. Then she started a bit more seriously:" There has been only one man in my life..." and she paused to add, with a touch of bitterness: "Your mother has always thought -- quite wrongly -- that my life's path has been paved with men." She stopped, again, and I didn't dare to prompt her. Her joking mood seemed to have gone.

I sat silently, my head lowered. All my life I have been caught in that triangle with two loving -- and loved -- women, my mother and my aunt, involved in a conflict, their conflict, that I could not quite understand, but a conflict that seriously affected my life. My aunt was talking now, as if thinking aloud: " I loved Aca, of course, but I was very young when I married him. He killed that emotion before it fully developed."

She was silent again. Suddenly, I realized she had never talked to me like that before. It dawned on me how little I knew about the intimate lives of my closest relatives: my mother, my father, my aunt. I had never stopped to think of them as people of flesh and blood, as if in life they were assigned only the roles of my relatives.

I glanced at my aunt. She was gazing at a distance, as if looking at the gallery of familiar portraits. "The man I loved, as a woman loves a man, was a doctor in Futog. It was during the First World War. All men were drafted, and so were my brother, Nikola, and my father, Bata. Somewhere in 1918 Bata unexpectedly came home for an 'urlaub,' as they called a leave in the Austro-Hungarian army. Naturally, we were happy to have him home, but also very worried: nobody got an 'urlaub' unless terminally ill and practically useless as a soldier. And, certainly, Bata was changed. He looked like a living corpse: skin and bones, slow in motion and lifeless. My quick-tempered, always busy Bata, now was just silently sitting in the sun, not talking to anyone, refusing to eat or drink. I took him to the best doctor I could find, Dr. Steiger. He examined Bata with care, and said:' There is nothing seriously wrong with him. He is not ill, only terribly exhausted, physically and emotionally. He will be all right, I promise you. It happens to the soldiers who are under too much stress.'

I was relieved to hear that, but not sure whether Dr. Steiger could be completely trusted. Was my father really well or did the doctor, an officer himself, want him back in combat? After all, Dr. Steiger was a Hungarian Jew, and we, the Serbs, were the occupied people; probably just a worthless mob for him. What did he care? Our men were drafted. They left their homes, their families, and the fields that lay barren, uncultivated, while they were expected to fight for the foreign empire that wanted more land, somebody else's land. Just as the Austro-Hungarians occupied our country, now they wanted Russia as well, and our men were supposed to go fight. It was twice unfair, because the Russians were Slavs, like the Serbs, of the same religion, and mostly farmers, too.

I was watching Dr. Steiger's face while having all those thoughts, trying to find something in that face that would help me understand the man's real motives. There was nothing there that would help me. He was a young, handsome man, with perfect manners, very professional in dealing with the patients: Serbs and Hungarians alike.

While I was watching him, he was watching me, too. In his eyes I saw admiration like in all men's eyes that ever observed me, but there was something different too. That admiration did not include the will to possess, and I did not feel diminished by it. No, I felt strong and beautiful, in control of my decisions.

'I will do anything for you,' he blurted out in excitement. 'Anything, to help your father,' he corrected himself readily. 'He needs more time at home with his family, good home-made food and care, and he will be fine. He is a strong, healthy man. In the meantime, I would like to observe him closely.'

Hot blood rushed into my face. Oh, I heard him and I didn't like what I heard. He wanted to see me again, that is what "observing closely" really meant. What did he care about my father? Yet, I was so happy to know that Bata was not ill and going to die. There was hope, there was life. I looked at Dr. Steiger gratefully, not finding words good enough to thank him.

When we were getting ready to depart, Dr. Steiger saw us to the exit. He told Bata to take plenty of rest and eat well, then he shook hands with him. While Bata was leaving, he looked deeply into my eyes, then bowed his head and gently kissed my hand. The look he gave me erased all doubts if there were any. I was in trouble.

Confused, I wanted to be out of his office and left alone to think. Returning home I was silently rehearsing all that had happened. It was clear to me that my father's welfare was in my hands. Naturally, I was ready to do anything for him. But, did it have to be so difficult, so dirty? Men! Oh, yes, they would do anything for me. How many times have I heard it. How familiar that sounded. But, what a price! Aca, my husband, appeared to be a lamb, before he got me. Then he turned into a wolf.

All the suffering and humiliation of the past experience came back to me vividly. No. I will not be dragged through mud again.

I was running in a circle, like a dog catching the tip of his tail. Sometimes I would think: maybe Steiger is a decent man. Maybe he means what he is saying. But then, I would remember how sweet Aca was before we got married. No. I could not trust anyone anymore.

If men would just leave me alone. My beauty, of which they all talk, is a curse, not a gift. Women hate me for it, men harass. I don't need it. I didn't ask for it.

The days were passing and I had not reached a decision. Unexpectedly, a black limousine stopped in front of our home and Dr. Steiger himself came to visit his patient, as he put it. While everybody was raving about his professional dedication and humane care, I felt like a hunted animal. All the children in the neighborhood gathered around the car to inspect it, because a limousine in the time of the First World War in a small Serbian village was not a common sight. We certainly got the attention I didn't enjoy," concluded Aunt Lubitsa sarcastically.

She was quiet for a long time and I didn't know what to think. I wanted to know how the dilemma was resolved. As if hearing my thoughts, she added, "In short, Dr. Steiger treated my Bata, and gave him papers certifying his inability to return to the front." The tone of her voice was changed when she added curtly, "I became Dr. Steiger's lover."

I could tell, there was something that still bothered her in that age-old story. I felt compelled to ease her. "But, Auntie, there is nothing wrong with it. That man loved you. As if it were difficult. You were young, beautiful, full of life. So was he, probably. What's wrong with that? You didn't have much of a life, anyway. I am glad that happened."

She smiled a sad smile and looked through me as only she could do. Then, still smiling, added. "When I got to know him better, I fell in love too. Yes, he was a fine man. And he made me happy as no one else ever tried. We had great times together. I was seeing him so often, my poor mother thought I was going through a lengthy treatment. Naturally, he became our family physician, too.

I remember, one day we drove to Backa Palanka to a wedding. Stopping at an inn for a quick refreshment, we saw my ex-husband Aca. As always, he was drunk, and throwing money on the gypsy band asking them to play and celebrate his freedom from a lousy marriage. Steiger, who was in his uniform of an Austro-Hungarian officer, called the owner of the inn and ordered the inn to be closed because of the public disturbance. The order was immediately taken care of, and we saw Aca like a defeated dog, tail between his legs, leave the premises. I never saw Steiger as mad and disgusted as then."

"You see, he really loved you, Auntie," I said, always ready for a happy end. "And how did it all end?" She went on: "Steiger insisted on engagements, because I felt dirty having to lie about our relationship. He would carry me through his offices calling me 'my beautiful Serbian wife' with such a funny accent, that I could not resist laughing, while he was actually proposing. We would have been married, I suppose, if he didn't end the way he did."

"How? What happened?" I insisted impatiently.

"He left for Budapest to visit his parents and never came back. Died of ruptured appendix."

What irony: a physician to die of appendicitis. But, it was a long time ago, a war time, and medicine was not what it is now.

After my aunt spent some more time at home with her parents, a very decent widower with two little daughters started coming from another town, where my aunt's family had relatives, asking for her hand. He was very patient, because my aunt did not encourage him in any way. He was also very persistent. Because of his perfect reputation, everybody thought they would make an excellent match. Everybody, but my aunt. Each time Nikola came to visit, aunt Lubitsa meant to tell him to stop coming. But, for some reason, she could not make herself do it. Finally, she took the courage and confessed," Nikola, you must stop coming. Don't waste your time on me. I... I don't... I cannot love you the way you deserve. I don't think I will ever love again."

He smiled his gentle smile and answered, "Don't think about it. Just be yourself. It will all come with time. In the meantime, I think I have enough love for both of us to make it work."

And so they got married and Lubitsa moved to Irig, a quiet little town in the Srem region. A lover of nature, my aunt must have enjoyed that environment full of greenery, surrounded by beautiful vineyards and orchards. Situated atop the Fruska Gora Mountains, Iriski Venac was known for its health resorts and sightseeing spots of unequaled natural beauty.

With enthusiasm, my aunt started putting her new home in order, working long hours. She was a good wife to Nikola and a good mother to his daughters, always keeping in mind old folk tales and sayings about heartless stepmothers. Their house, a spacious, beautiful home, came to life with a new, young, and dedicated wife. Bright and clean, always freshly painted, the house had two large gardens. One faced the street, next to the house, full of trees, bushes and fragrant flowers; the larger one, in the back, always had fresh vegetables and fruits: sweet strawberries and raspberries, juicy apples, and plums. In the front garden, among the delicately fragrant orange-headed nasturtiums and bell-headed lilies-of-the-valley, Easter bunnies laid their eggs of bright red, yellow, or light blue. In the nests made of fresh-cut grass, there were also cookies, chocolate bunnies, chickens and some other little trinkets that make children happy. Our Easter egg hunts in my aunt's Eden-like garden still represent my fondest memories. Aunt and uncle watched our egg hunt with genuine interest, amazed -- it seemed -- as much as we were at the little bunnies' curious knowledge of what we had wished for.

In my mind I still see the idyllic beauty of my aunt's home in Irig, the good-natured, red-haired Irish setter that patiently suffered my attemptsr to ride him, and the luscious, fragrant garden with so many places to hide. I still see the smiling face of my Uncle Nikola, bending to embrace me before leaving for work and upon return. He always had time for children stories, always enough room in his lap for me, while I was excitedly listing all the fascinating events he had missed while at work. Uncle Nikola reminded me of my father: they both had the same name and the same thick mustache, the strength and masculinity combined with good nature and kindness radiating to the world around them, so typical of men in the province of Vojvodina.

Life was good. We did not even know how good. And our aunt seemed to have been happy. There was only one thing that never changed, she later told me. Late in the evening, she would stay in the kitchen scrubbing the dishes, preparing the dough for the early morning bread, washing and cleaning, watering the garden, doing absolutely everything to delay going to bed. The nights were beautiful, as they could only be in a small town filled with sweet, natural fragrances and almost perfect serenity occasionally broken by a solitary bird's call or a distant dog's bark. Everybody was asleep, only Nikola was patiently waiting for his young wife, not understanding why she had to work so late.

But life has a way of teaching a lesson in appreciation. The Second World War broke out and Uncle Nikola was among the first to be taken by the "ustashi" and killed with many other quiet citizens. Still a young woman, my aunt became a widow, like many, many others. She remained one till the end of her life. As it always happens, she realized what a good man and a good life had been lost forever.

In more than one way I feel my aunt's life story resembles mine. Many a night I spent doing research, working on my doctoral dissertation, or writing poetry and short stories, while my husband waited for me to come to bed. Both he and I were hoping that, when I finished my graduate studies, my book, or any other on-going project, we would have more time together. He started building a small weekend-house for our old age, when I could finally dedicate myself to writing only, and he could enjoy gardening. Before the weekend-house was finished, however, he died of cancer, and my life changed forever. It was a lesson in life's priorities.

Forty years earlier, at the beginning of the German occupation in Yugoslavia, historical circumstances turned around not only my aunt's but many other lives as well, including my own childhood.

When the War broke out, my brother and I were hiking through the woods with our aunt at the top of Fruska Gora and Iriski Venac, a walking distance from our aunt's home. Going there we passed through the clean streets with the row of mulberry and linden trees in front of the white, freshly painted homes. Going further up the hill, the streets turned into small fields, vineyards, and orchards with people working in them. From time to time our aunt would stop to talk to some, and we would play around. The people knew our aunt and enjoyed talking to her, thus getting a little break from work too.

In no time, it seemed, we reached the forest at the top of Iriski Venac with a popular large hotel and a sanitarium for tuberculosis recuperants. The day was bright and sunny and the forest smelled fresh. We were just about to sit down for a rest in that place of calm serenity and beauty, when suddenly silence was broken by a powerful, not too distant explosion. Our aunt took our hands in hers and we practically ran down the hill all the way home. The orchards and vineyards were almost deserted, with only a few remaining people gathering their children and belongings and leaving in silent panic.

Later, we were told that the bridge over the Danube at Novi Sad had been destroyed in order to stop the enemy. Even as we were returning home, the airplanes flew over, and the air fight started. Our father, like all men, was drafted immediately. The German army occupied Yugoslavia in a blitz and divided the country between their allies. Srem (where our aunt and other relatives lived), became a part of Free State of Croatia, where "ustashi" (a volunteer army formed of native Croats) helped Nazis exterminate the Serbs, Jews, Gypsies and all who did not qualify for the pure Aryan race. The rest of Vojvodina province was given to Hungarians to rule over as the German Allies. That is where our family lived.

Life-threatening conditions became an everyday fact of life, with bombing, lack of food and other necessities, and -- worst of all -- persecution of peaceful citizens and their families. One human life, no matter whose, became a small, insignificant detail in the large, tragic panorama of suffering. Food was rationed and we waited long, long hours to get a small piece of lard, sugar, or a piece of the poorest quality soap. We cut mom's and dad's clothes to make clothing for us children. There was no leather and there were no shoes during the War and even afterwards. My aunt made some comfortable footwear called "espadrilles," with the soles of braided ropes and the uppers from cloth. All we needed was to stay away from water and rain, and they were fine. Another option, of course, was wearing the wooden-sole slippers. I loved mine, although they created painful blisters all over my feet. But, they had red soles and black straps and they made a wonderful clunk-clunk noise when I walked or jumped!

Nowadays, "espadrilles," huaraches, or sandals imported from Mexico and Latin American countries bring a smile with a rush of warm memories, because my childhood was happy, although it took place during the harsh times of the War and Occupation. This was so only because of the loving care of my family who did everything to make their children's lives endurable, even beautiful. The part my aunt played in that effort has always been significant.

My aunt had a specific talent that still brings fond smiles to my face. She had amazing healing powers, though she lacked formal medical education. The healing was exercised on humans, plants, and animals. She was known to successfully operate on chicken's eyelids (actually sew them), and fix their broken legs or wings.

I remember seeing animals of all kinds gather around her and watch her while she talked to them, and not only the animals that knew her, but any animals, anywhere.

Some may consider me strange, because -- like my aunt --I like to talk to squirrels in my yard, and they stop and listen. I feel so proud when they do not scurry away, but look at me with their beady, sharp eyes, listen to me and come a few step closer. They want that communication just as much as I do! Dogs follow me in the streets till I stop and caress them. They sense I am eager to do that anyway. Plants grow abundantly around me as if nurtured by my mere presence and an unspoken love for them.

A long time ago, when I was much younger, busy with my life and career, I entered my mother's room unexpectedly. I caught her talking gently to her plants. Poor Mom, how lonely she must be to do something like that - I thought. I am not surprised anymore, however, for I do it myself now. Not only out of loneliness; I have another reason, too. I enjoy both animals and plants, because they are beautiful. We share this planet, and I want to share it in peace. Not only humans need love to flourish, plants and animals do too. That is why I collect dried and dying plants and revive them with love and care. We both gain in the process.

Once my daughter caught me breathing on a sick plant. "Mom, you are an educated woman... Let's not go too far with it." When I told her that I do not know exactly why, but I have noticed that it helps them grow, she stopped and thought, then started thinking aloud. "Probably it is because you exhale CO 2 and that is what they need ... they give us oxygen, which we need... well, that is where we can have a successful co-operation, a symbiosis of a kind. There has to be a scientific explanation for your healing the plants by breathing on them, though. Let me think..." That is Maja. She has to understand everything. I do not need to know why. I don't even want to know. It is much more exciting and fascinating to find out unexpectedly, through life. But I am so proud of her scientific thinking, of her knowledge and education. I remember now how on similar occasions my aunt used to look at me with pride. She had no college education, but she was naturally much above average. I, her brother's daughter, and her extension, became an educated woman, traveled to the countries she had only read about; I could speak foreign languages and had my own books published. She felt happy and proud when she could not understand all that I was saying or writing.

My daughter now makes me proud in the same way. She is getting her Ph.D. at a much younger age than I received mine. From M.I.T., a highly reputable school, inaccessible to me, in my time. Her "artificial intelligence" does not make me feel intimidated but proud, and the little robots she makes inspire grandmotherly feelings in me.

Looking at the line of men and, even more women, in our family, I see the same driving force: a family tradition and a powerful thirst for knowledge; ambition and a desire for continuous progress. Each of us has made the best of life circumstances in order to climb upwards, in spite of historical, familial, and personal hardships: wars, deaths, calamities, big and small. The spirit of survival, so typical of our nation, our clan and family, and each of us individually, pervades us.

Aunt Lubitsa, more than other women predecessors of mine pushed the limits of the common mores and practices accepted for the women of that time with some outstanding achievement. Studying science today, Maja can remember how we laughed approvingly when, without any formal medical background, Aunt Lubitsa treated plants and animals, while plants grew exceptionally well, and animals followed her. It was so simple, so natural for her to heal them. It bothered me, at times, though, that she sometimes showed more unrestrained love for animals and plants than for human beings. With human beings she was patient and helpful, but it was obvious that she never treated them quite as equals, never trusted anyone completely, never lost herself emotionally. Only a few people were accepted in her world without any reservation. Maja was one.

Aunt Lubitsa was always in perfect control. Not only was she in perfect control, but she could easily control others, too. This was especially so with men. My father, my own husband, all men always did all she wanted them to do, without her asking. Women sensed that power in her and resented it bitterly. After a short while, they always wanted her to go away, because they never felt in control of their husbands, brothers or fathers in their own homes. I am not sure if Aunt Lubitsa was quite aware of that. I know men considered this "accusation" nonsense, pure imagination, one of those female irrational exaggerations where men were absolutely powerless.

But I know it is not pure imagination. I felt it myself, and know perfectly well what I am talking about. Exasperated, I even asked my aunt once," Well, whose aunt are you, anyway, my husband's or mine?"

For years my mother complained to me how Aunt Lubitsa found ways to get between her and my father. Whenever she was around, he changed and did everything my aunt wanted; made plans and decisions consulting his sister, not his wife. I heard this so many times, that it passed by without real consideration. However, when it happened to me, years later, in my own marriage, I remembered my mother's words. I wonder now what it really was. Was it just that Aunt Lubitsa understood men and their nature better than other women, including me? Was she just lonely and needed to feel that she still had some feminine powers left in her? Or did she have some old, deep wounds inflicted by women, and could not resist a piece of revenge, here and there, even with her own kin?

We will never know, but certainly it added to her powerful image and made her more intriguing. It does not matter anymore. All the mentioned loved ones are already gone and only I am left to tell the story. All of them are now free of any worldly passions, trailing in the glory of eternal peace and harmony. Now they can love each other without any rivalry or competition.

Recently, my dog died. Butterscotch was mine for seven years of unconditional love and loyalty. She was my only companion in a solitary widow's life. Is my aunt's life story being repeated through mine? When my dog died, I was shaken profoundly. Butterscotch had been my first and only dog. I had to wait fifty years till life allowed me to have one. She was given to me as a tiny, helpless, whining pup that grabbed my heart right from the start. No other pair of loving eyes has ever looked at me with such devotion as hers. When she died, I learned about the unconditional love of a dog, compared to the selfish love of human beings. Only then, maybe, I started understanding why my aunt showed unrestrained love for animals but was on guard with people. In the last ten years of my widowhood I have started to understand my aunt and finally to realize where I have been wrong.

My aunt and I had a special, although not quite simple relation- ship. As her brother's child, her flesh and blood, I was like her own daughter. Often, when my aunt and I went shopping or eating out (ice cream was our common weakness), people took us for mother and daughter. That made my aunt very proud, but saddened my mother. I can remember her blue eyes, darkening, while she asked:" Why? Why do they think you are hers? I am the one who bore you in pain, pain from a broken leg and from the childbirth at the same time!"

That is true. And now, as a mother myself I know she raised me with uncommon love and care.

In many ways my mother was diametrically opposed to Aunt Lubitsa. Mom was a soft, light-skinned, blue-eyed blonde with long, naturally curly hair and an angelic beauty. Aunt Lubitsa had the beauty of an archetypal seductress, with her dark eyes, voluptuous body and Siren-like, alluring voice. My mother was a refined, subdued, sophisticated lady - Aunt Lubitsa a natural Earth goddess, a free gypsy spirit. As if torn between the two, I had a bit of both in me. It was as if they fought over me, my body and my soul.

In my grandparents' home there were two large portraits hanging over the twin beds. Two women, both beautiful, one blonde, soft and vulnerable, the other a brunette, intriguing and powerfully alluring. Those two portraits had a powerful effect upon me. I wanted to decide which one was more beautiful, but I could not. They represented two different worlds, and I knew it was more than just a question of taste. I myself was torn between those two worlds, my aunt's nature and my mother's upbringing.

Mom was more vulnerable than my aunt. In their duels my aunt easily found ways to cause Mother heartache, while not letting herself be emotionally touched. If she was, she never let it be known. In later years, though, when they both grew older, with the usual aches and pains of age, Aunt Lubitsa proved to have been made of a sturdier material. My mother developed a heart condition rather early, and it was Aunt Lubitsa who came to help on many occasions. Often, my mother would call and ask her to come and help me with my child, when she, my mother, could not do it because of her poor health. They both knew that no one else could be trusted to do such a good job with Maja.

Many a long winter night they spent together, crocheting and chatting as two women-friends. The age brought them together, I thought. Also, love for me and my little daughter, the only grand child available, since the other two -- the daughters of the firstborn son, my brother -- were growing in the far-away America. My father, the object of their age-old rivalry, was a reconciling factor when it came to helping raise his favorite grand-daughter, as charming and talkative as he himself. He still was an absolute authority for both women, except that Aunt Lubitsa knew how to work around him. He was too naive for her female intricacies. He never could understand what women found to fight over, anyway.

But, life took care of it. At age 66, Mom died in her sleep, of a heart attack, and Dad was devastated. Although he had been a perfect lover of life who claimed he was going to live at least one hundred years, after Mom's death he changed drastically and was ready to join her within a year.

My mother's relationship with Aunt Lubitsa affected me profoundly, especially so after Mom's sudden death. It took long to accept the fact that she was not around anymore. A relative told me that she and Aunt Lubitsa had one of their major confrontations on that same day, and that this probably brought about Mom's heart attack. That information fell heavily upon my heart. Perhaps my mother would not have died so early, if she had been treated with more care. The thought was devastating, too terrible to express. Like secretly witnessing a murder, I could not confess it to anyone, yet felt guilty nonetheless.

Since then, for sixteen more years, I have coped with that dark secret, torn between the duty toward my living aunt and the loving memory of my dead mother. Outwardly, nothing changed. There were no doubts about what I owed to my aunt. Everything was done to make her feel appreciated. But I never completely relaxed, never trusted her as before. I could not forget that awful secret which like a dark shadow lived in my heart feeding on the sacred memories of my happy, innocent childhood in which both my mother and my aunt represented images of pure, immaculate love and unselfishness.

After I left Yugoslavia and moved to the United States, I went back almost every summer, primarily to visit Aunt Lubitsa. Yet I could not stay long with her. The shadow was still with me, tormenting me, splitting me in half. I was still not free of that tragic, purely "female" triangle including my dead mother.

I feel free now, because I know in the spiritual world Mother and Aunt Lubitsa are free from jealousy, competition and rivalry of any kind. Their souls float in the universe in complete peace and harmony and they share love for my father, instead of fighting over it. And I am still here, trying to understand and sort out what I can before I join them in the glory of infinite peace and harmony.

I remember my aunt mostly from the time of her widowhood -- that is, after the Second World War. A perfect image of a widow: dressed in a crispy, clean, starched calico dress - black with dainty white polka dots. She always wore calico. The dress had to be long and loose, with two large pockets for her glasses and a white, clean, starched handkerchief. The dress was usually made by a neighbor or my aunt herself. It had to be modest and practical, just right for her age, as she never failed to comment.

The funny thing is, if you opened my closet, you would find some calico dresses. Naturally, I have one black with white polka dots, too. I remember, my mother had one, also. The simpler, the better - both my mother and my aunt always said. And I believe this myself. (Maja commented once, "But, Mom, your dresses are fitted, feminine, not "old-ladyish.")

Talking about dresses, here is what happened once between my aunt and me, something that I cannot quite understand, because it did not sound like my aunt. After all, maybe I did not know her, either.

One summer, I was coming from America to visit my aunt. It was a hot day and I was wearing a cool, neat calico dress with a navy blue background and tiny purple flowers. Naturally, my aunt was overjoyed to see me and we talked about everything. But later in the day she whispered:" Couldn't you have worn something better? Coming all the way from America? The neighbors will want to see you. They will gossip. After all, America is a place of wealth, and you are wearing calico. They will think you are poor or in some kind of hardship."

I was so astounded, that I did not reply at all. The first thought, a bit bitter, was: Yes, I am suffering hardships. Being a widow by itself is a hardship. No one should know it better than my aunt. But I did not say that. I was analyzing my actions. Why did I wear that dress? Naturally, I did not travel in it all the way from America. I changed into that dress only for my bus trip to visit Aunt Lubitsa. For me, calico was appropriate for a trip to a village of my childhood. Something traditional. I had not seen it from the other angles.

"You know, Auntie, I don't pay attention to gossip. And I don't often let other people's opinions control my actions. My experience is that people will see others the way they want to see them and understand only what they can understand in them. I have more important things on my mind than the neighbors' gossip."

She listened carefully till I finished, then nodded without comment. That was the end of it. But, somehow, I was not happy with the whole thing. What I understand now is: my aunt wanted to be proud of me. She wanted her neighbors to see me in the best possible light. Since they wear calico every day, a woman coming from America is expected to wear something else. After all, these are simple folks. I should have worn my best silk dress, to "impress" the neighbors and make my aunt happy. But, that is the type of practical wisdom I am still lacking.

Always extremely clean and neat, my aunt insisted on doing her laundry herself, by hand. I did not understand why she made it so hard on herself, since we all had washers and dryers anyway.

I always thought it was one of her habits, a way to keep her "independence," or something of that nature. Now my daughter can- not understand why I wash a large part of my laundry by hand, and almost always (or at least whenever possible) dry it in the sun on the clothesline. It smells so fresh and good, and it reminds me of my mother. She used to say that the sun, or frost in winter, do the most hygienic job for one's clothes. And not only that. There is something beautiful in the colorful clothes happily swinging and swaying on the clothesline. It is a symbol of home, symbol of life and joy. My daughter tells me I am just making things more difficult, creating more work, sticking to the old, traditional ways. She says my mother had no choice, that this was the only way then, but with the new technology, I don't have to do it the hard way.

When my aunt's heavy, black hair turned silvery, she had it cut short and wore it simple and practical, without any styling.

She lived a simple, prudent lifestyle, eating healthy food, consisting mostly of fruits, vegetables and dairy products and drinking fresh lemonade, yogurt, and herbal teas.

She dressed simply. Often, at home, she would wear my sweater or a dressing robe I had given her. I thought she was being frugal without real need. On the other hand, my wardrobe, in those times, was quite elegant. First, I liked pretty things. Also, I often traveled abroad and always brought back some fine clothes and household items. I thought my aunt liked the touch of the extra- ordinary. Now I know better.

Now that I love to wear the clothes which my daughter "discontinues" for whatever reason, I think I know why my aunt did the same. I have too many clothes as it is, and definitely do not need "discontinued" ones. Unless they are my daughter's. Anything coming from her is accepted with love. Now I know why my father abandoned tons of his clothing to mostly wear one particular shirt which my brother had sent him from America. It was the same with my aunt. Values change with maturing. I know it now.

Call me strange, but I never loved my dresses while they were new. I may have liked them, but loved -- no. Dresses are like friends. It takes time to love anybody or anything. Time together. Shared memories. An old dress, with a small, unnoticeable stain from a memorable dinner for two is more valuable than the most expensive new dress. For that same reason my brand-new (still unused), beautiful, contemporary towels are sitting in the closet, while in my bathroom you will see some white, washed-out, old-fashioned, linen. For some this may look like a lack of taste, or money, but for me it means getting up in the morning to a soft embrace of my mother's and even grand-mother's linen, with all the warm memories included. Pretty soon my home is going to look more and more like a typical ol' ladies' house, with plenty of dusty family photographs, old but beloved furniture, washed-out but cherished linen, beat-up but favorite pans, and so on.

My aunt had a deteriorating spine and in order to slow down its calcification, she exercised regularly. She was as limber as Jane Fonda. Maja took a photo of her in a pose that Jane Fonda's students could hardly assume.

Aunt Lubitsa has always been a very good walker, too, always walking instead of riding, especially in the country. Naturally, she did not like the city life-style. Our huge sky-scrapers she called "chicken-pens." However, she must have found some excitement in the city. Or, perhaps, she just wanted to be with us during the long winter season. After her parents died, for many years she lived by herself. Only now, being in the same situation, I know how it must have felt.

In her last years, after my father died, she moved in with a friend's family. Being farmers, they lived in her native village Futog, which has grown into a fine, modernized suburb of the city of Novi Sad, where my childhood and youth had been spent. The home where she moved in was a spacious, antique building. During the Austro-Hungarian occupation it was used for the local landowner, Count Kotek's, employees. The house had high ceilings and large windows, and a spacious hall with plenty of exotic plants. There was a garden with roses in front of the house and a large back yard for the animals, another for the vegetables and fruits, just what our aunt was used to having all her life.

Our aunt was never quite satisfied with the treatment other people gave to animals and plants. She always had to check if they were given plenty of fresh water during the hot summer days. (I have been catching myself do the same lately). She would never drink a glass of water without spilling some on the nearest plant, too. The water she used to wash the vegetables for cooking would be given to the plants in the front garden. Aunt Lubitsa was always environmentally conscious. With her it was second nature, not a fad.

The family that she chose to live with could use all of her habits and expertise. They needed just that little help at home while they were at work in the fields. On the other hand, my aunt was happy to be needed. She had her garden, her animals to take care of, and plenty of neighbors that she had known since her youth. Within walking distance from the house was the village graveyard where her parents and her brother were resting eternally. She checked regularly whether the graves were cleaned and grass cut, then pointed out where she wanted to be buried, next to her brother.

My visits to her always included going to the cemetery together. Walking through the grass and wild flowers, she would point out, "This is 'bokvica' - good for cuts and wounds. It will clean them thoroughly, no need ever for a tetanus shot. And this is 'apta' - poor folks' fruit. Many a child has been raised on the marmalade made of this nature's free gift. It grows everywhere and is rich in vitamin C." In my mind's eye, I instantly saw how, during the War time, our neighbors' toddlers chewed on thick pieces of bread heavily layered with that purple marmalade, their ruddy faces richly stained and smeared by it. Another memory: during that same time, bread and butter sandwiches were substituted with bread and homemade lard sprinkled with paprika. I never knew it as poor people's food, it tasted so good!

Going to the cemetery, my aunt was walking fast. It was not easy to keep up with her, although every year her spine bent a bit more. Apparently, she knew all the graves and whom they belonged to. She was pleased with the ones that were well kept and cared for. If she saw a neglected one, she would mutter something about "the new generations not having anything sacred in their lives."

Like meeting a friend, Aunt Lubitsa smiled, spotting a small silvery-leafed tree, filled with heavily aromatic flowers attracting swarms of noisy bees. "This is 'dafina.' If you keep some of its cut branches in your home, you can be sure no insect will be around. No mosquitoes, no moths, and you don't need any chemicals or sprays, trust me," concluded Aunt Lubitsa, pointing to the plant known in America as the 'Russian olive tree.'

"And this herb here saved your father's life," gravely added Aunt Lubitsa, showing an insignificant-looking grass. "For days and months I had fixed him this 'outlaw's grass' tea mixed with camomile and linden, when he was seriously ill." She was talking about millefoil, known for its properties for hundreds of years through the Serbian history, the name "outlaw's grass" dating from the times of the five hundred year old Turkish occupation of the Balkans.

My father's illness took place when my mother was still living and Maja was about four or five years old. My father, always strong and exceptionally healthy, was not feeling well for quite some time. When he finally had a doctor examine him, he ended up in a hospital for respiratory ailments.

The diagnosis was so bad that we did not even want to use the right word for it. Dad had to stay in the hospital for a lengthy treatment. Finally, he was released, but not better. At that point my aunt took him in her hands. They both left for the family vineyard at Dumbovo, not far from Beocin in the Srem mountains. The area was beautiful, the air as fresh as it can be in the woodland. That family vineyard, owned by our family for generations, contained all the best memories of the family history for many years back. It was the place where my father spent memorable days of his youth, including - I believe - the rite of passage from the innocence of boyhood to the pleasures of manhood.

Our aunt knew some parts of it, because they were only two years apart and her girl friends were just the right age for him to be interested in (the same as with me and my brother, one generation after). My aunt knew much about her brother, naturally, but she was one of those rare women who knew how to keep quiet. Just like her mother, my Grandma Lenka. Aunt Lubitsa never talked about her brother's private life. She had that special loyalty of love and shared memories that creates a true bond of intimacy.

To that special place filled with significant memories my aunt so naturally and rightfully took my father to heal him. My mother never really liked our family vineyard. Perhaps she knew, or at least sensed, what it meant to my father and Aunt Lubitsa. She had spent many a summer there, however, especially when my brother and I were little. It was a good, healthy place to raise children, a good place for us to grow and learn about nature and life. However, our mother resented something in that place and she resented something in my father's and my aunt's bond of intimacy. I was too young to understand it at the time. Later on, when I was mature enough to understand, it was never discussed.

However, the family vineyard stayed a place of significance for each generation in our family. Later, my little daughter spent her summers there with both my father and my aunt, a city child getting her first hands-on education in living closely with nature. My father and my aunt enjoyed that fullheartedly, and there are many sweet family anecdotes preserved through oral tradition with Maja in the leading role.

My brother first, later I as well, had a dramatic role in becoming the ones who, through leaving the country, abandoned the family hearth, interrupted, cut and discontinued the line of precious family memories. I had to be the one who sold the vineyard to join my brother in America.

On her death-bed, our aunt expressed her wish about the vineyard. If it were to be sold, she wanted it to be offered to Dragana, the young girl who had been good to her, the older daughter of the family Stefanovic, where our aunt lived her last years. My brother and I agreed to give it to her, not sell it, because she was good to our aunt while we, her closest relatives, were far away.

However, it still felt painful to be the ones breaking the family tradition. The vineyard had been owned and enjoyed by many generations, including my brother and me as the last owners.

We were the ones who left our fatherland "in search of the greener pastures." In due course, life has taught us, among other things, that the greenest pastures are those remembered from the childhood.

As I have recently written:



"Things are almost never

what they seem to be:

those who have

actually have not;

and we must first lose

in order to find,

and go away

in order to return."



Now I am painfully aware that our family history has been drastically changed, and disrupted. My brother has no sons: thus, the family name does not live on. No more branches on this tree. Somebody else will have to continue the name. Somebody else will enjoy our vineyard.

When Aunt Lubitsa took my father there, after he had been released from the hospital, she fed him good, home-grown and home-made food, seasoned with sister's love and her desperate wish to heal him.

My father and Aunt Lubitsa took it easy. He had plenty of rest, plenty of communication with the familiar scenery around him, that same ageless scenery that lived before him, that shared his life span with him, creating a beautiful, magic background for his exaltations and moments of intense oneness with nature, when through intense ecstasies one flows with the River of Life, throbs with the pulse of the Universe. Aging and getting tired, but with a wiser eye, he was enjoying that same ageless nature, knowing that it was going to survive him, to live on, serving as a decor and a teacher to new generations of those eager to drink from the River of Life, impatient to learn from the Teacher.

And his Sister, that Sorceress, that Witch (as she half-jokingly called herself), that Earth-Goddess and Nurturer, only made him fresh lemonade with honey, and prepared herb teas of her choice (camomile, linden and millfoil, "the outlaw's grass"). She was only there when he needed her, sharing their mutual memories of the times, events, places and people they both knew and loved. At the same time, she gave him enough space to be alone with nature, alone with his thoughts and healing memories. And when the time came for him to have a check-up at the hospital, the doctors examined and examined him again, because there was something puzzling. They must have misdiagnosed him before, because his chest and the whole respiratory tract were absolutely clear and healthy.

We were so happy and relieved that nobody remembered to credit my aunt with any part of it. I suspect now that it must have been true throughout her whole life. Whatever my aunt did was always accepted as normal and taken for granted. She never made a big deal of any thing, so nobody else did.

On another occasion, when I was absent from home for four months on a scholarship in Sweden, Maja only four years old, Aunt Lubitsa came to stay with her and with my husband. It so happened that during that time Maja contracted mumps. She had a high fever, painful and swollen salivary glands, and was greatly suffering. My aunt did not take her to the doctor. She applied a slice of bacon on Maja's neck and kept massaging her little, burning body with the clean, strong, home-made plum-brandy (famous Serbian "rakija" slivovitz). The massage with alcohol reduced the temperature, and the bacon took care of the swelling. That night Maja slept well and the next day she did not need the doctor.

Jokingly, aunt Lubitsa called herself a "witch doctor" or just "a witch." Once, however, she got seriously worried about her "evil powers." We had to laugh, although the occasion was not a funny one. We had just moved to a new apartment building and people were still working on alterations. A young doctor and his wife lived in the apartment above ours. They were having some shelves fixed, so -- naturally -- there was plenty of noise going on. It was making my aunt really angry, because the noise was getting unbearable just at the time when she was trying to have Maja take her after-lunch nap. Maja was a restless tike, hard to settle down anyway. Aunt Lubitsa was grumbling, annoyed, and when the noise became worse, she exploded in a "folkloric," old-fashioned cuss, "Sanduk ti kovali, da Bog da," wishing for the noise-maker to get a coffin made instead of a shelf.

And what do you think happened? That young doctor got killed in a car accident. We saw his wife dressed in black, her eyes swollen from tears. My aunt was smitten with guilt. She swore never to wish evil on anyone, no matter what. That was our good, old Aunt Lubitsa.



When I visited my aunt in the summer of 1989, I did not know it was our last time together. She looked just like always, dressed in a clean, starched black calico dress with white polka dots, her glasses low on her little nose. She was reading something, and did not hear me enter. Family pictures were all around her: my brother and I as babies, our graduation portraits, wedding photos, family portraits with our children... The room was dark and cool, regardless of the heat outside. White laced curtains, crisp and clean, quivered in the breeze. Everywhere in the room doilies Aunt Lubitsa had crocheted covered the tables and night stands.

I recognized our family rug, bleached and worn with age, my mother's cushions on the sofa and my grand-mother's chest with Aunt Lubitsa's linen.

Time stood still. Coming from overseas, thousands of miles, from the United States to this small, cool room in a village in Yugoslavia, I felt at home, safe and secure, a child again, loved and protected, the sweet aroma of the blooming linden-trees outside lingering in the air, just like in my childhood. Oh, it was so good to embrace Aunt Lubitsa's frail body and see her all-knowing smile. Like always, she asked half jokingly-half seriously, "Shall I live long enough to see Maja, 'moje malo cure-pure, moje malo pace (little duckling, as she always called her). She was relieved to hear that, in fact, Maja was coming in a month, as soon as school was out.

I spent that day with my aunt. We visited the old cemetery, with its paths lost in high grass. We criticized the care-taker for not mowing the grass regularly, talked to some neighbors who obviously knew every detail about me and my life; we inspected all the plants and blooming roses, and checked to see if the chickens had enough fresh water. After talking long into the night, I went to bed, a soft, fresh-smelling bed that my aunt had made for me. She gave me my mother's towel to dry my face, and her pink silk night gown, soft like her lullaby, like baby's breath, the night gown I had grown to love on my mother, my aunt now gave me to sleep in.



As I was leaving the next day, my aunt started, reluctantly, "My child, I am ninety-one and will have to die... sometime..." I interrupted her hurriedly. "Auntie, don't talk about death. You will live long yet." And she left it at that.

I returned to America. The school year started and I was immediately grabbed by everyday life. Aunt Lubitsa was doing well.

Then, unexpectedly, a letter came from a relative announcing that my aunt had died November 23, after a short illness. She was clear-minded till the end. There were some pictures and other things she wanted me to have.

I have not returned to Yugoslavia since.

No doubt, after my aunt's death I have felt much lonelier. There is no day that I do not think of her with a new understanding and awareness. I think of her with love and pride, identifying with her more and more.

When this summer I visited my daughter in Boston, we took long walks through the park, laughed together, ate in fancy restaurants, shopped for silly, unnecessary things, shared some secrets and -- of course -- talked about Aunt Lubitsa.

I learned that where I had failed then, in the summer of 1989, my daughter came out as a winner. She did not interrupt her great aunt when she started:" My child, I will have to die... some time...may be soon..."

They had a long talk. My daughter has not really told me what about. I understand.

And now, in the summer of 1991, I am visiting Maja and drinking the linden tea that Aunt Lubitsa left us. Like a long time ago, we are all together again. Three women -- three generations -- bonded by love and by the same precious memories, raised on the same tradition, each a daughter of her own time.

The sweet aroma lingers around us like my childhood memories, like my aunt's all-knowing smile, and I hear the words she told Maja that last summer of 1989, the words that are as much mine as they are hers," When I die, do not cry. Laugh, sing and rejoice. Life never ends."

Memoirs and Short Stories
GRANDPA MILAN

"Don't you see how much you resemble our Grandpa Milan?" My brother is asking. "I have been watching you: it's almost as if, with age, you are coming closer to him," he was saying, his hazel eyes smiling teasingly.

"What do you mean?" I am asking, hoping to encourage him to say more, while actually thinking, "I know. I have been observing myself, too."

But, my brother Milan, named after our father's father -- according to the good old Serbian tradition -- is never quick to answer, just like our mother. It is so much like him to sit there watching me and smiling, knowing that, after a while -- a very short while -- I will explode telling him what I think. My brother is patient and quiet, like our Grandma Lenka (or our mother Milica); I am quick and explosive like our Grandpa Milan and our bubbly, jovial father Nikola.

As I am sitting here in the flat, bountiful Kansas, talking to my graying brother, I remember Grandpa from our childhood in that other flat, bountiful land of wheat and corn, the province of Voivodina in Yugoslavia. I remember our Grandpa mostly from the time when he was already old, but still tall, slender and erect, his gait unusually fast, a characteristic that both my father and I inherited, too. Even at an advanced age, Grandpa Milan was still attractive and distinguished looking, with his silvery hair and rich mustache, a traditional look for a Serbian man of his age. He, however, had a personal touch: always impeccably groomed. I have watched many a time how the village barber gave Grandpa a haircut and a shave. The ritual would open with Grandma's white, crisply starched and perfectly pressed linen towel brought from the squeaky chest that smelled of ripening quinces and was off limits for the children. Grandpa would wait; sitting still (which was in itself unusual for him), while "Chika Djoka Berberin" ("Uncle Joe, the Barber," as all the neighbor kids called him) took his razor out, checked its brilliant, sharp edge and laid it aside. Then he mixed soap in a small dish, all the while discussing world politics and high market prices.

When the leather was just right and all the political issues settled, the real ritual started. Chika Djoka had a variety of fast, magician-like strokes adapted to Grandpa's features with lines, furrows, hilly nose, bushy mustache and a grassy chin area.

Pirouetting around Grandpa, Chika Djoka shaved the cheeks off first, employing tiny strokes in all directions around the nose and the mouth, asking, "Shall we trim the mustache now, just a tiny little bit?"

Not able to say anything, Grandpa growled and moaned, making irritated gestures: Don't touch the mustache! His head was pushed far back to expose the neck, making him look like the chickens drinking water. I suppressed giggling, knowing this was not a laughing-time but a serious, adult, man-business: Grandpa's life was in Chika Djoka's hands.

Gradually, the strokes became longer, relaxed, carefully climbing upward over the protruding Adam's apple. By now the gray stubble, mixed with soap, had turned into a thick cream, quickly and professionally being wiped off with Grandma's clean linen towel. It was unusual to see Grandpa forced to sit without a word for so long, told to do this or that, turned around by Chika Djoka, a man younger than himself: our Grandpa, the pater familias telling everybody what to do in short, quick commands, always so impatient to see it done immediately and correctly. Our Grandpa Milan, an epitome of perfectionism!

With an aura of class and good taste, Grandpa had a vocabulary including an amazing number of dukes, archdukes, bishops and other high nobility. He was only too happy to tell, over and over again, about the time when he had served in the Austro-Hungarian army. It seems that the pomp and grandeur of the Empire captured my Grandpa's imagination and stayed imprinted there for ever. For a while, during his service, Grandpa had been assigned to the head gardener of some high military personage in Hungary. There, he must have learned about plants and gardening. I feel sure he also had a natural talent, love for the greenery and color, and a need to create beauty around him.

I remember him so often bent over some vines or tree limbs broken by the wind or children playing the ball. Embracing the plant with both hands, like a woman around her waist, a string of raffia in his mouth, he was getting ready to tie the plant's slender body to a home-made pole or some other kind of support. He would wrap the plant with a piece of soft cloth or rubber first, and then fasten it with the string very carefully, almost tenderly. Much later, I realized he had done that to avoid bruising the plant's tender tissue.

He never liked to cut flowers to arrange them in vases or give them away. My Grandma, on the other hand, easily gave them to anyone who would ask: for the weddings, hospital visits and funerals. Without thinking, I considered it a nicer gesture. It took me some time to realize: Grandpa was not stingy; he just didn't like to kill plants or to hurt them. He nurtured and grew them, and always successfully healed them when somebody else had broken them. (As Grandpa had done before, now I collect the broken, dying plants that other people throw away because they do not look beautiful anymore. Most of the time, I win the battle with decay and dying, successfully nursing them back to life and their natural beauty).

Grandpa watered his large, lush garden early in the morning or the evening, after the hot sun had set. It smelled so fresh after the watering, as if thanking him for the thirst quenching, cool blessing of the fresh water, so necessary for the survival and well being of each tiny member in that earthly Garden of Eden: the cactus, aloe, eucalyptus, iris, geranium, carnation, lily, chrysanthemum, calla, rosemary, peony, passion flower, jasmine, violet, daisy, marigold, hollyhock, calliopes, calendula, hyacinth, verbena, narcissus, nasturtium, pansy, and other unknown to me flowers offering their beauty so freely and so quietly, their deep, magic secret waiting to be opened. They grew, flourished, and reproduced as if by Grandpa's mere presence, as if to please him and thank him for his care. And he loved them dearly. Wherever he saw a plant that he did not have yet, he would bring it home and plant in his garden that was turning into a Noah's Arc. He knew all the plants by the name, like his own children or friends. The names he used were old-fashioned and pretty. No one else used them, it seems, and they still sound to me like the beautiful music of the times before me.

In the autumn Grandpa would go from one plant to another collecting the seeds and placing them in the dried gourds of all shapes and sizes hanging in the "vajat," the large storage room always so cool from the earth floor, with two separate stairways, one leading down, to the cellar, the other above, to the attic.

I loved that "vajat." It attracted me powerfully for no known reason, except that it actually was off limits for children. The reasons were not quite explained, and all adults were using it all the time, carefully closing the door behind them. There were too many risks there, I suppose. One could fall down the stairs, for instance. But even the sound of that unusual Turkish or Hungarian word held a magic secret for me, just like the place itself: cool and semi-dark, saturated with the concoction of scents emanating from the drying herbs hanging on the walls in bunches and various seeds in the finely shaped, small gourds. Naturally, the steps to both the cellar and the attic were to be taken with caution. They always reminded me I was young, three years younger than my brother (and "only a girl," as he sometimes added).

The cellar attracted me with its dark, musty smell of the unknown. Although scary, it did not keep me away. On the contrary, I had to find out what there was in it: my curiosity was insatiable. I had to know. That cellar, for some reason, became a mental picture of the secret "lagumi" (underground passages) people claimed existed under the River Danube from the old times. I found the same image in adventure stories for children, like Tom Sawyer's kind.

In our cellar, during the season, there were huge and heavy dark green watermelons waiting to be cooled enough for eating. I loved them. They sat there, like a hope, a promise, waiting to be picked when the time comes. Once, however, when the Danube over flooded, we had water in our cellar. It repulsed me, because it smelled bad and looked dangerous. The heavy door to the cellar was closed to shut it off for the children.

The attic, on the other hand, once I had secretly climbed there, revealed a spacious, warm, light and clean area full of neatly stacked old books and magazines with beautiful pictures of wild animals, exotic lands, and famous personages. That was something I have always craved for. Nobody could keep me away from reading! I had overheard that my father, as a young men, worked hard on their land with his father, my Grandpa. During the night, secretly, instead of sleeping and resting for the next day of work, he would read. He finished his high school and college that way. When he ended up as an outstanding student, his parents were proud, of course.

In this attic, I spent many hours reading (clandestinely, I believed) the stories of the exciting times and places before my era.

From time to time, Grandpa would send me to "vajat" to bring some of the gourds with the seeds he wanted to use. I felt very privileged and "adult" then. Perhaps, I believe now, he wanted to introduce to me the vast, bounteous and exciting universe of herbs, plants, flowers and trees. I was so proud when I was useful to him, getting exactly what he wanted. In the late fall many of the plants had to be potted and moved into the house. They spent the winter on the shelves and end-tables (made by Grandpa), window-sills and chests, while many of them "dozed" through the winter in the cozy semi-darkness of the vajat-storage with the rest of the seeds, big plant pots, and the garden tools waiting for their spring revival.

There is an anecdote about Grandpa, often repeated in the family. When he returned from World War I, after a long absence from home, the first thing he noticed on entering the front yard was that the big aloe plant was missing. "Bozic vas vas, di je aloj?" ("By George, where's the aloe?") He exclaimed, enraged, even before he embraced his wife and children. Poor plant had ended as one of the War victims, frozen during the long, severe winter.

Grandpa's gardening skills went further than his large, lush flower garden. Behind the house was "bashcha," a much larger plot, with a neat strawberry patch, lettuce, tomatoes, green beans, peas, melons, honeydews, cantaloupes, gourds and some grape-vines. Here, again, were colorful flowers neatly lined, like soldiers, all along the path. But that was not all.

There was a large vineyard, too, quite a distance from home, on the other side of the Danube River in the hilly Srem region, known for good wine. The vineyard had been in the family for generations, the acres of it spread down the slope of the hill, in Dumbovo, not far from the Beochin cement factory. Next to the road leading toward the forest was the old family-house, built many generations ago. It had thick sod walls that made it comfortably cool in the summer. The floor was dirt, always perfectly clean and so pleasant for walking barefoot. The whole three-room house smelled of herbs and drying fruits that our Aunt Lubitsa (Violet) had collected for the healing of all kinds of ailments: camomile flowers for calming the nerves and bringing sound sleep, linden flowers for colds and coughs, mint leaves for good digestion. She always had milfoil for the open wounds, rose petals for clearing the skin. Between her and our mother, with their "secret" recipes, we hardly ever needed a doctor.

Two old, huge walnut trees, erect like sentinels, offered deep shade for the whole area around the house, a rich harvest of delicious walnuts every fall, while the fresh, fragrant leaves, scattered under the beds kept insects away. Those same leaves, once dried and boiled in a dark-brown tea, offered an excellent rinse for my hair, making it lustrous and silky, accentuating the red, chestnut streaks in it, while smelling fresh and natural.

The broken limbs, turned into a rustic table with two benches, next to the open-fire stove (all Grandpa's handiwork), offered a favorite spot for the family meals and repose.

About one hundred feet or so, up the hill, led a path to the "upper quarters." That was another, simple but more contemporary house with a leveled roof for sunbathing. Always neatly whitewashed, it had been built by Grandpa after we children were born. That's where we spent many happy summers during our growing years. Our mother was there with us, while father would come through the weekends.

The path between "the lower" and "the upper quarters" looked like a rich tunnel created by the heavy mass of blooming wild roses, reminding me of the story "Sleeping Beauty." The whole area was enwrapped in heavy, intoxicating aroma of mixed flowers, herbs, and ripe fruits. The overpowering noise of the humming bees feeding on the sweet nectar, the chirping birds and the busy crickets joined in a natural orchestration added to the almost too-intense-to-be-real beauty of the place.

All that unusual beauty was a part of our everyday life. Now, when I go back in my memories, I can still smell my Grandpa's garden and the flowers whose petals my brother and I used to pick and dry. Making "cigarettes" was his idea, of course. We attempted to smoke clandestinely, behind the bush, I silently choking, coughing, tears in my eyes, sure I was going to die from smoking as well as from the guilt and shame. I never complained or told on my brother, though. I never admitted that smoking was not exciting at all; for fear that he would never share anything with me again. I already knew his opinion: I was "only a girl" and "younger." Not much of a playmate. He played with me only when there was nothing better to do, and no other boys around. Our games would often end in screams (on my part). While he strongly and masculinely squeezed my arm, I softly and femininely scratched his hands till they bled. The outcome was a tie, and we went our separate ways to heal the wounds till the next fight.

There was, however, a boy of Milan's age with whom he often played. The family of the engineer Dushan Shainovic had a spacious, modern weekend house half a mile from ours. His wife, just like our mother, spent the summer vacation there with two children: a boy and a girl, just a little bit older than Milan and I, while their father worked in the city and came over the weekends. Our mothers had plenty in common and were good friends, too. I especially loved their grandma, commonly called Kaka (baby talk for Baka, grandma). She was a kind, warm woman, with hairs where men were supposed to have mustache and with cookies and cakes always ready for the visiting children. It was still obvious that she must have been a ravishing, dark eyed, Slavic beauty in her younger days. I could almost feel the warm radiation enveloping everyone in her presence.

In the evening, after the day of hard work, our neighbors would call each other shouting from one hill to another (no telephones needed) to gather around the bonfire till late into the night baking the corn-on-the-cob, whole potatoes, and apples. Men boasted about their homemade wine and "rakija lozovacha" (brandy made of the grape pulp), its color, clarity and the bouquet. Women exchanged some recipes, complained about the children and mosquitoes, and gossiped. Children spent their time best: enjoying the freedom from having to go to

The whole street was lined with the mulberry trees, free food for the kids, chickens, ducks and geese, all of them eating this free nature's offering and leaving behind the inky liquid that was hard to wash off from the foot soles. A city child, as the natives of Futog often remarked, I had to wear sandals and eat bread and butter. That vaguely gave me a feeling that something must have been "wrong" with me, although people were kind not to mention it. I would have envied my playmates for their bare feet smeared with mulberries and the mouth red with paprika, but -- somehow -- there has never been enough time for that. Life in the country was too exciting and always full of new, fascinating things to experience and learn while we were there on our summer vacation.

One of my favorite things in the country was when the children acted out a real wedding. The bride was elected democratically: standing in the street, we would passionately shout the name of the prettiest girl till our voices left us and we got so tired that anyone seemed good enough. The bride got to wear her mother's, or her older sister's, real wedding gown or, at least, the headpiece and the veil. The mother would bake a real wedding cake and the preparations were long and exciting. The bridegroom was selected among the best looking and the most popular boys. My brother Milan was a bridegroom once and I was so proud. The bride was the youngest daughter of our neighbors, family Bugarski. Her name was Katherine, Katitsa (Katie, or "Little Katherine"). She really liked Milan very much, and spent long hours playing with me, although I was younger, just to be able to talk about him. She used to draw tall, beautiful women with large bust and tiny waist, on the ground in front of her house. I learned the skill from her. I just added a more urban touch: my beauties also wore high heels and had long, wild hair. So, Katitsa and I were the forerunners of the Serbian prototype of the Barbie Doll. No village girl looked like it, that's why we thought it was a "real" beauty.

I doubt that Milan ever noticed Katitsa's shy interest in him. Boys never notice anything. He was into the horses and horse riding then. And he was playing with the boys, of course. In spite of the differences, both Milan and I were very popular with the village kids. They admired our clothes, especially shoes, since they walked barefoot (except to church). On the other hand, we almost envied them: the feel of hot dust or cool mud was a memorable experience that we were not exposed to. Our mother was afraid that we might get a bad cut, so she insisted that we wear shoes or sandals.

We were fascinated by the country games and toys. They were so exciting. Our toys appeared so uncreative and we gladly replaced them with the homemade ones that we learned to make while in the country. There was a big stack of wood in our grandparent's home, used for heating in the summer as well as for cooking throughout the year. That was our favorite playing spot where we built homes made of mud, brick, and old, discarded pots and pans. Shoeboxes served as beds and baby prams, dolls made of candle wax with handmade clothes.

I will never forget the Halloween nights in the country. All the neighbors had large gardens with plenty of pumpkins and gourds to cut the Halloween masks. We would light a candle inside a carved face with big eye sockets and gaping jaws. Then, we would wrap white bed sheets around us and go around scaring people. I don't think we ever scared anyone so thoroughly as ourselves. A child's imagination is limitless and at work at all times: we never were quite sure if one of the apparitions was real, just mixed with us, kids.

The neighbor children never thought of coming to scare our Grandpa. They were in awe of him. He was different: ever so clean and neat, doing things other people didn't know how to do, and speaking about things others have never seen or heard. He had traveled in his younger days and has always been an avid reader.

The stack of old magazines kept in the attic went many years back before I was born. That is where I learned some of the exciting details of the Serbian history romanticized to the taste of the readers. How else would I have ever learned the love life and some scandalous details about King Alexander Obrenovich and his beautiful wife Draga Mashin? This was the first adult literature I put my hands on, and some details lingered in my mind for a long time. I never forgot the fact that Draga had been known to have applied fresh beef steaks on her skin and bathed in mare's milk to keep her skin soft and youthful, that she had more than one husband in her life (the second one made her a queen), and that the Queen and the King had reasons to doubt her morals!

To this day I remember another, more respected Serbian Queen, the Rumanian princess Maria, from her picture in the magazine "Illustrations." The stately portrait of the dark-eyed Queen Maria with a string of pearls around her forehead and her calm, motherly beauty touched some cord in me. Her three chubby little boys did not look any different from my brother and me except that they were princes. Later on, as a college student I found myself studying English in London, where the Serbian royal family had emigrated when World War II broke out. The three chubby little boys were grown adults, Peter (who would have been the King if it were not for the War and the political change), was often on the pages of the daily newspaper for his visits to the night clubs and bars and romancing a certain young lady. He later lived and died in the USA, much before I found myself in Kansas.

But then, when I secretly read my Grandpa's old magazines in the attic, all of this was not known to any of us yet. During the workdays our Grandpa worked and we played, on Sundays we went to church with him and Grandma stayed to cook the dinner for us.

Religion was not much discussed with the children. Grandma did teach us about right and wrong, proper and improper, though. While she was dressed in black calico, her gray hair always covered with a black headscarf, she wanted me to wear white dresses, especially to church. Somewhere in her chest of drawers she found a bolt of fine white linen that she had saved for a long, long time, only for special purposes. She had a village seamstress make me a dress with a matching white slip. She would look at me, love and pride in her eyes, dressed in white ("like an angel," she claimed) and ready to go to church.

Grandpa never missed a Sunday service. In the morning, he would take out his Sunday clothes, brushing and cleaning them to perfection. Sometimes he wore a pair of black gamaches over his shoes. I don't think anybody else wore them. People were not exactly elegant in that small village community.

My Grandpa had an unusually fast gait, but to church he went slowly, using his walking stick. That was part of the ritual, just like preparing his "Sunday clothes," or the greeting of the folks on our way.

I did not really like any of it. There was a reason, of course. Grandpa and the rest of our family, especially my mother and my grandmother, insisted that the children greet the adults with "Ljubim ruke" ("Kiss your hand") -- the proper greeting for the children "from the better homes," probably derived from the German "Küss die Hand." I had a feeling that, since the adults among themselves used "Good morning" and "Good day," the old-fashioned "Kiss your hand" was left for the little kids and other inferiors. I would usually mumble and mutter it so that nobody knew what I was saying. I thought I had found a smart solution, but it didn't work with Grandpa. He had me repeat it till it was clear and loud.

I found it so humiliating to declare the readiness to kiss people's hands (when I never sincerely meant it), that it made me very impatient to grow up and say "Hello" like everybody else. I simply detested going to church on Sunday mornings because of too many people whose hands I was supposed to kiss on my way there.

And that was not all. There was at least one more reason why I disliked going to church. First of all, it was a long, long walk from home, which was tiring in itself. Next, I had to stand still for over two hours and listen to the old Church-Slavic language of the service that I knew by heart but could not understand. All the while I was itching to talk and goof around with the rest of the children who were there nicely dressed, tightly combed and braided, washed, starched and ironed, stiff, awkward and bored, too.

My Grandpa was one of the distinguished elders with his seat first in the right row facing the altar. That was the best seat. That also was the seat that enabled him to see the area where the children stood. I knew he could see me among other kids whispering, giggling, moving around, and just showing plain impatience and boredom. I always thought the service was too long. Turning around, I would see the older folks in their seats praying or singing, the middle aged crowd standing in the middle of the church, married couples together, and the younger, single ones separated in two different corners. Nobody seemed to have had fun. I was not the only one. I would pray a little, sing a little, and still have too much time left for all the things I was not supposed to do. Grandpa, being just a little behind me, could see me whatever I attempted to do. Darn it!

Then, when the service was over, we would have to walk all the way back home greeting people left and right, I repeating my blasted "Kiss your hand," while my stomach was growling from hunger. And so it went every Sunday.

The best part of Sunday was the family dinner. It was a ritual, starting with the chicken-noodle soup, golden yellow, with big pools of chicken fat floating on the surface, steaming hot in Grandma's big tureen with a lid. Naturally, Grandpa would be served first. Without tasting the hot soup, he would add a lot of salt and pepper. Since nobody else used pepper, I understood it was a sign of male supremacy. Impatient to get to the other courses that included my favorite dishes, I would have liked to skip the soup, but it didn't work that way. Much later, I realized that my grandma's soup, as well as my mother-in-law's soup would become the best soups I have ever eaten in my life.

The chicken had been home grown, and the noodles always freshly made and cut by hand. The whole process of the noodle making was fascinating. First, Grandma would bring her large wooden board with the long pin, and clean its already perfectly clean surface, then sprinkle it with flour. She would take her bowl and mix flour and eggs with some water, then knead the dough and spread it very thinly with the wooden pin. It never broke while she wrapped it around the pin, and then sliced in quick gestures, ever so thinly, like the angel hair. Her nails were so close to the dough and the sharp knife that I did not dare to breathe, afraid that she might cut her fingers off! She would laugh and say, "Don't worry, it never happens anymore. Do you know how many times I have done it? I could almost do it in the dark." That would usually calm me down. After all, Grandma knew the best! I observed my grandma and my mother (later my mother-in-law, too), while they went through the whole process from making the dough to cutting it masterfully, always marveling at the skill resulting from years of practice. Grandma told me it was one of the talents that identified a really superior homemaker from the rest.

After the soup, on our Sunday menu, came the meat: cooked chicken with the vegetables from the soup, mainly carrots, celery, and potatoes. On some occasions there would be cooked beef as well. Everything was well cooked, tender and delicious, but I was still hard to contain, waiting for my favorite. The usual sauces served with the meat were tomato, white sauce, or horseradish. All of them -- naturally -- based on homegrown vegetables from the garden behind our back yard.

Following came fried chicken, fried potatoes, pork chops and schnitzels, "bechke i pariske," Vienna or Paris-style. Milan liked them breaded, crunchy on the outside, tender and juicy on the inside (Wiener Schnitzel); mine had to be tender and juicy altogether, therefore they were dipped in egg first, then fried, Parisian style. With this came coleslaw from Grandpa's garden. He was the one who cut the cabbage before lunch. Big cabbage heads, clean and healthy looking, would be stripped of their outer leaves, cut in half, first. Then Grandpa put a big clean towel in his lap and a large "vajndla" (German, for a metal bowl), and cut the cabbage manually, thin as Grandma's noodles. It was almost as if they competed in skills! Next, it was sprinkled with salt, vinegar, and oil for dressing, and was deliciously refreshing with the rest of food.

Grandma prepared more than just one chicken, because it was a ritual to get exactly what was known to be one's favorite part. I was a champion, since I loved it all, especially the legs, thighs, wings, and the neck. The white meat was my brother's. I considered it too dry. Often, when I saw my Grandma eat the head and feet, I thought, what a strange taste! Now, I am ashamed: I didn't recognize another act of love: Grandma gave us the first choice, she took the last. Years later, as a mother, I naturally left the best pieces for my daughter.

During W.W.II, people had to find creative ways of survival. All of a sudden, almost everyone had rabbits. Milan and I wanted a pet, too. We got two. In no time at all, we had to build more and more cages. There were more rabbits than in a zoo. There were silvery-gray ones, white angora, fluffy and red-eyed, white shorthaired, all kinds you could think of. The tiny little babies were so adorable. Milan and I regularly cut fresh grass to feed them. There were alfalfa fields, too, all around. That was their favorite feed.

We had to clean their cages, of course. I did not like that part. Grandma had warned us ahead of time, however. She also told us, one day, that we were getting dangerously overcrowded. That is when she started preparing them for food: cooked, broiled, baked, and fried... you name it. They tasted just like chicken, if you had not been told what they were. But, they were my pets, I knew them by their names, grew to love them, and could not eat them.

The same was with the baby-pigeon soup that Grandma cooked. When they didn't tell me what I ate, everything tasted much better. I cried and left the table a few times. "You'll be back when you are hungry," Grandma casually commented.

"We will see," was my stubborn, unpronounced response, but Grandma knew better. Hunger precedes and eliminates everything else. I was back, but they did not force me to eat what I found repulsive. I could not quite understand how my Grandma, that loving, good woman, could be so casual about killing for food. The neighbors were like that too. In the evening, sometimes, Grandma would plan the next-day meal and think aloud, "I suppose I will kill the old rooster for dinner tomorrow. He makes too much noise, and we already have two young ones." Grandpa would reply, "M-m-m," behind his newspaper, and that would be it. The next day, during the dinner, he would add salt and pepper to his soup, without checking it first, and eat with pleasure. The fine noodles would stick to his mustache and he would wipe them off in a casual, masculine gesture: left mustache with the left hand, right with the right hand, as if giving them the deserved respect.

The deserts in my grandparents' home were many and delicious: fruit compote; cherry, apple, poppy-seed strudels; schne-nockels (floating islands), crème pita (custard pie), and numerous kinds of cookies and small pastry. The real treat were cottage cheese crepes with raisins, baked in the oven, sprinkled with sugar and cinnamon. Nobody has ever made as delicious as my grandma or my aunt. It stays in my memory as a symbol of love and nurturing painfully missed.

After the Sunday dinner, all we could do was to crawl to the bedroom and take a nap. Since it was hard to even think, we never remembered that somebody had to clean after us.

Sunday dinners were memorable occasions, my favorite part of Sundays. That is, except when Grandpa had to tell everybody how it had been at church. Grandma would usually ask. She wanted to know who was there and who wasn't. That's when Grandpa remarked on my behavior, too. I dreaded that part as the only unpleasant thing in my whole "country experience" with my grandparents. The rest was pure, continuous joy.

One of the greatest funs were country fairs. Nobody wanted to miss them: there was something for everybody, from merry-go-rounds for children, to fortunetellers for women and horse-trading for men. I was fascinated with the ginger bread booths. Everything was so colorful! It was hard to take my eyes off the ginger bread horsemen, so proud and erect. I never saw them as colored pictures pasted on the shapes cut out of rather tasteless, cheap dough. There was no trace of ginger in them, either. Especially attractive were little slippers of all sizes, small and large red hearts with little mirrors in the middle, an appropriate gift for the village girls from the boys who didn't dare verbalize the symbol of their gift. The dolls resembled Egyptian mummies in shape, but the picture glued on the top of them showed ravishing beauties. The other side, pale, colorless and devoid of any taste, was almost like the belly of a dead frog I had seen once. I had to chew on the corner, just a tiny bit, and was quite disappointed.

"Why did you do that?" Grandma asked. "That's not for eating. You have better tasting cake at home. This is just an ornament." I didn't quite understand what she meant by "ornament," but could tell that there was a lesson about life in it. Grandma sounded upset, perhaps she didn't want me to find out about this other, colorless, tasteless, and wrinkled side of life. I didn't regret finding out. The fairs still stayed fascinating, anyway.

Nearly as exciting as the country fairs were village peddlers. In the days of my childhood they were quite rare, usually older men, often impaired at war or farm work. They traveled from village to village with a wooden box that opened into a showcase carried on the man's shoulders. That showcase contained a wonder-world of beads, ribbons, mirrors, combs, barrettes and cheap perfumes. It also contained laces, threads, needles and thimbles. Everything a village girl may want. When a peddler came to Futog, and that was not often (good things do not happen often), children would flock around him and watch in awe how his box turned into a display.

Whatever a girl, or a woman, could wish for, it would appear, not from that limited in size box but from a wonder world. The children followed the peddler mesmerized, from home to home, from street to street, forgetting their play, food, or time to go home. Often, they would wander off too far from home and get in trouble.

If the peddlers belonged to the women's world, the criers were part of the men's. They too were older men, unable to do heavy farm work, but capable of reading and memorizing the text of daily news and government regulations. They always had a little drum, which they beat to summon people to the street corners and squares. The official, bureaucratic jargon of the announcements sounded so fascinating, that I just had to follow the crier and hear him over and over again.

Once I got lost. That was not because of the village criers, however, but because of the gypsies. A group of them was passing through Futog once. They even had a big, shaggy bear tied with a heavy chain to the wagon full of chubby, dirty little gypsies. A skinny, old man was leading a bony horse, while a bunch of pretty, young gypsy girls in wide skirts and big earrings, scattered to tell the fortune and collect some food.

While the girls entertained the females, the old men untied the bear and took a tambourine. He was making some kind of noise that the old bear must have mistaken for music, because he started moving his old legs, stepping from one to another. It was interpreted as dancing, and the children cheered. Some men threw a few coins in the readily provided greasy hat. The old gypsy put more enthusiasm in his tambourine beating, but the bear couldn't move faster. He had no use for the coins, and nobody offered food or rest.

After a successful introduction, the old gypsy started pulling out of the wagon some popular products of the gypsy folklore: wooden bath tubs, dough pins, walking sticks. Men moved closer. Some of the older women approached, too, the younger ones still busy with the fortune telling. They were just at the point were a dark, tall men with mustache, rich and from a distant village, was going to propose, when an old local woman ran into the scene screeching that her best hen has disappeared and she knew whom to blame. In the overall pandemonium of the dogs barking, village girls nervously giggling, some babies crying and the women yelling at one another, the gypsies quickly packed their possessions and retrieved in somewhat challenged dignity, verbally still defending their positions, while moving away.

I was moving with them, still negotiating with a dark-eyed girl of my age. She was trying to trade her pumpkinseed necklace for my new sandals. I was quite ready for the transaction: I liked the necklace. The sandals were my mother's choice: always a bit larger ("You are still growing"), wide and comfortable ("Feet must have enough room. You are not a Japanese"). In short, although expensive, they were nothing to be proud of. (I didn't need shoes. No other child wore them in the country, except to church). I was disturbed, however, knowing that neither Mom nor Grandma would see my point. So, I offered two barrettes, even my favorite ring that left a dark circle on my finger. The gypsy girl was adamant: shoes or no trade!

We were out of the village when my Grandma appeared like Deus ex Machina and solved the problem.

She snatched my hand and dragged me from the scene, all along destroying my romantic dream about gypsy life-style. She told me how they have been known to kidnap children, cripple them, then have them beg for food and money, while they wouldn't feed or clothe them. She kept talking, scolding, and dragging me home, but -- in all the confusion -- forgot to spank me.

I was hoping it would stay that way, but life has a strange way of making it even in the end. I was not spanked, that is, my behind wasn't hot, and my head and neck were. Something itched, and burned, and I scratched and scratched, so that, in spite of her mood, Grandma noticed.

"A-ha, those dirty, lousy gypsies gave you something to remember them by," she fumed and fretted. "Don't worry. We'll fix it." As soon as we got home, she seated me on a chair, covering my shoulders with a big white linen towel. While I was waiting in silence and apprehension, she left in search of her best, strongest glasses. Now, that was unusual in itself, because Grandma had several spectacles, usually misplaced somewhere in the house. They all had something wrong with them, being either too weak, with one lens missing, falling off her nose, or broken. There was one pair, however, that was considered too special to be used. It was still intact. Grandma kept it in her chest of drawers. They have not been misplaced yet, since they have not been used at all.

The chest of drawers was special too. It contained Grandma's linen smelling of lavender and ripe quince, and it squeaked while being opened. There was a mirror on it, carved in wood (Grandpa's work) and it had a little drawer in it. I was dying to play with it, but it was off limits like the chest of drawers itself. I could play with anything in the house but that.

Here I was perched on the tall stool with a large clean towel around my shoulders and all kinds of worries in my head. I was waiting quietly for my Grandma, knowing I was in trouble. Not only because of the gypsies, but because I was aflame for an unknown reason, and Grandma was going to use her new glasses on me.

Suddenly, she came in, glasses and all, and in her hand there was something that I have never seen before. It looked like a comb, but it was made of wood and had very tight, dense teeth. I knew it was some kind of torture tool and it was going to hurt me.

My hair was always hard to untangle and combing it always hurt.

Grandma had told me that a woman's hair was her pride and mine was going to be, one day. I could tell: that day was not there yet. Grandma was not in good mood and she was getting ready to comb my hair!

"Now sit still. This comb has not been used since the War, but it will do a good job. Trust me," she said, and it sounded like a threat. Somehow, she was not talking to me. Did she talk to the gypsies? She didn't really like them, I knew. "They will steal, rather than do honest work," she had often repeated.

Right away, Grandma started savagely plowing through my already burnt scalp. I understood why she hadn't bothered to spank me. And what did she mean by the gypsies giving me the gift of "lice?" What's "lice?" They never gave me anything.

There was no arguing with Grandma, now. She was busy. Evidently, she hated the gypsies, the lice, and maybe me. She used to love me, though. But, it was before the gypsies. And, no, she didn't like my hair anymore. She's been treating it like an enemy.

Everything's changed, and I didn't understand it. I clenched my teeth, resolved not to show pain. But, I knew now: life is not fair. She could've just spanked me.

"A-ha. I knew it. A fat one," Grandma exclaimed, satisfied.

"Probably trying to raise a family," she added, and killed it. Whatever it was, she actually enjoyed killing it. My own Grandma!

When she applied a heavy coat of something greasy and stinky, it did feel better. "Kerosene," she called it. It certainly stank. But, no scratching anymore. No way I could go to play with the kids, however. I was punished all right.

But, as I always say, life has a way of making it even. The episode with the gypsies placed me automatically in the Hall of Fame in our community. Long after that children and women would be heard saying, "It was that summer when Grandma Lenka's Mira went with the gypsies." I marked the whole era. Became a landmark in my own time. The pain is easily forgotten when one is famous.

The summer was coming to an end, the crops and fruits harvested, and we had to go back to the city, to school. Like everything else, my glory tarnished and soon was forgotten.

Our grandparents had a very important role in our growth and development. I see now that they have been our role models much before we realized it. Other children, our friends, feared spanking. We didn't have to. Grandpa never disciplined us. Grandma broke her wooden mixing spoons on Milan's behind. She had a certain meaningful way of calling him when he was in trouble,"Mee-ee-lah--nay..." we knew unmistakably that she would break another mixing spoon on his shiny spot where the pants stretched to the bursting point. But, it was easy to forget, too.

Everything else outweighed those small, negligible inconveniences.

Grandpa died when I was fifteen. He lived seven years after Grandma had died. Only after her death it became obvious how much he needed her. He became so quiet and unnoticeable, weakening gradually. He was not tall and erect as before, and he walked slowly, carefully. My proud Grandpa Milan! Walking miles to the vineyard was too much for him anymore, and he could not carry the heavy load on his shoulders either. He wanted to go there, though. Even to just sit on the warm ground, supported by the house wall, basking in the sun and guarding the vineyard, always keeping busy, always fixing something. An old friend of his, the city commissioner's father, often came to visit.

"Have you been turned out of the house, too?" he would ask naively. "They are telling me I cough too much and bother the children. Oh, well, that's all right. I do cough too much, I know. But they give my son's clothing all the time. That helps. They feed me, too. Life is still good."

Grandpa always told us what they talked about. Quite a character, that old man. Reminded us vaguely of Balzac's "Father Goriot." We didn't mind if Grandpa gave him food and shared some of our fruits. We had no time to think about it, then.

High school students, our heads full of significant formulas and famous quotations, we felt things were becoming serious and important. There was less time for Grandpa and the country. In the summer we started going to the student camps in Dalmatia.

Gradually, everything changed. Grandpa and his garden, too. He did not go to church anymore. It was too far. When Grandma died, our Aunt Lubitsa moved in with Grandpa to take care of him. She cooked for him, using the same old wooden spoons broken by Grandma disciplining Milan.

When Grandpa died, we sold his home, his garden, everything. No, not the vineyard. Grandpa used to say: "When I die, the weeds will take over." But, it did not happen. My father left his law office early on weekends and holidays to take care of the family vineyard. Like Grandpa, he always carried some baskets back and forth. He cleaned the bushes and the greenery growing wild. He replaced some old vines with the new, better sorts. But, the old family home, "the lower quarters," started falling apart. The plants and flowers deteriorated. The apples and pears did not grow so big and wholesome anymore. Even the spring of water shrank, dried up, and nearly lost in the lush greenery.

The forest had been partially cut down. There were rumors that the whole area would be turned into a resort. A large artificial lake would be built and a few modern hotels.

But, the road to the vineyard has never been built, as Grandpa and Dad hoped all their lives. It wore out so it could not be used for vehicles, especially after some rain. It was harder and harder for Dad to get there. He was not young anymore.

Returning from a long trip to USA, to see his son and his grandchildren, he went to the family vineyard. It was sunny and mild, in August of 1975. My husband and I, with our ten-year old daughter were at the Adriatic Coast on a vacation. A big storm came over the hilly Dumbovo area, while my father sat in his favorite wicker armchair to rest after hard work. "I'm like the old Forsythe watching his property with pride," he had often remarked. The rain was coming down heavily. Some neighbors, rushing home, called, "Get into the house, Chika Nikola." Everybody liked his sunny nature and sense of humor.

Hours later, after a big storm, when they came out, he was still sitting in his chair, smiling.

It saddens me to know that, after my father's death, I had to break the family tradition and sell the vineyard. There was no one left to take care of it. Like my brother, I too moved to the United States. I could take with me only the valuable memories and leave other possessions behind. Somebody else will enjoy them.

But my brother is right: with age, I do resemble my Grandpa Milan more and more. That, and my memories of my happy childhood with my grandparents, nobody can take away from me.

Memoirs and Short Stories
THE WAVES

A brilliant spring day in Belgrade. It could be any year, but it is 1950's. It could be any city, but it is my favorite one, during its lilac season. And, it is Sunday. The streets are full of teenage girls in flaunting skirts and flat, "ballerina" shoes, their pigtails bouncing joyfully. They laugh with no apparent reason, teasing boys with their fleece growing irregularly over the pimply faces, their voices hoarse and screechy. Ah, that "awkward age"... I remember, in my teenage days, I, too, would leave home with a pretext of going to the library to end up just walking through the streets, and laughing readily from a sheer happiness of being alive. It felt as if any minute something was going to happen unexpectedly, something big and beautiful, and I was ready for it. It is spring again, the fruit trees are blooming snow-whites and delicate pinks. The whole nature is excited, bursting with a rush of life juices in all its veins. Sunday. Parents walking in their best clothes with their children hopping and bouncing along. The warm sun radiating above a big smile of understanding over that peaceful, relaxed harmony. Everybody seems content in the family circle, only I don't know what to do with myself.

From my window on the fourth floor, I am watching the street below. Couples everywhere: boys and girls, husbands and wives. All of a sudden, I realize, I cannot read or write, study, or do anything that I usually do. All that feels futile and sickening on a day like this.

Luckily, I had promised to visit my colleague Vera and help her with the English Composition test that she is about to take. Vera is married and has a little baby boy. That is one more reason why I am eager to visit her. I am getting dressed slowly and with care. Why not, there is plenty of time, anyway.

When I get there, she is feeding the baby, getting ready for our work together. I am watching her routine movements. Everything is so calm and beautiful, almost like Madonna and the Child. The baby is playful, grabbing the spoon and messing his face with the food. That amuses him, so he gurgles and giggles like a million tiny crystal bells. Finally, he is finished and I get to hold him. His firm, little body emanates warmth and that indescribable scent of the dream world full of fuzzy stuffed animals, baby powder and something magic forever lost and forgotten by adults. He plays, pulling my hair, slapping my face, then -- tired -- calms down and falls asleep in my lap. Vera lays him down in his crib and we start to work. When we are finished, I leave, and Vera closes the big, heavy family door behind me.

While walking through the streets alone, I know Vera is setting the table for the family dinner, chirping with her husband about the work we have done together. Their baby is safely asleep in his little bed, and Vera's husband, hungrily picking on fried chicken still on the stove. Vera's scolding him, lovingly, to wait till it's served on the table. They laugh and kiss.

It is warm outside and the streets are empty. The windows are open and the curtains dance in the breeze. The enticing aroma of the fresh, homemade food is floating in the air on the waves of soft music from the radio. Something warm, languid and sleepy hangs in the air. Walking down the empty street, I cannot decide what to do next. Should I go to my apartment or to a restaurant? There is nobody in the apartment, of course. In the restaurant, on the other hand, there is the same menu, with the same waitresses asking the eternal "How are you today?" and never caring for the answer. The same old skinny spinsters, seated in the corner, in their outmoded dresses and old hats with faded flowers, chewing their food carefully, as if silently counting., then noiselessly disappearing like ghosts.

The same old men are eating their usual food, complaining of arthritis and low pensions. College students, drinking beer, are noisily discussing their test results and sports.

No. I can't face that today. Not on the day like this.

If I were at home, in Novi Sad, mom would fix my favorite dish: fried chicken with new potatoes and a lettuce salad, or a veal cutlet with peas and coleslaw. I would eat to the bursting point, then take a siesta with a good book. Dad would teasingly ask me always the same "tough" questions like whose words are "Noli me turbare circulos meos" (Do not disturb my circles) or when and where did the Thirty-Year-War take place. A-a-h, Sundays at home! How far away, warm and snug it all looks now.

The day passed, somehow. I went to a movie. The next week appeared short, because I worked hard and accomplished much. Then, in a happy mood, I changed my room: moved some furniture around, changed the drapes and added a few more cushions. I also prepared the test materials for Vera.

It is Sunday again. I will see Vera in the evening. Now, I am reading Virginia Woolf's novel The Waves and cannot quit. I am listening to the radio: Tchaikovsky's suite from The Swan Lake. My favorite. Looking around, I think; I like my room. All I love is here: a miniature cactus garden, a bowl with two gold fish, and Van Gogh's Starry Night with the mesmerizing silvery atmosphere drawing me into it. Surrealistic, yet familiar, like in a dream. I do not want to leave my room, but I have to go. I don't feel like dressing either. There is no time, anyway. I snatch the books and slam the door behind me, hoping to catch Vera giving her baby a bath.

But, I am late. She is already drying and powdering his pink, plump body. After greeting me, her husband leaves the room, casting a strange, sideways look at Vera. She doesn't return the glance. There is tension like a heavy cloud hanging in the air. Hardly waiting for Mika to close the door behind him, she starts complaining in a tired, monotonous voice: " I wonder if I'll be able to function tonight. I haven't had sleep for nights. Zoran is teething, crying day and night. Mika moved out of our bedroom, so he could get some sleep. He needs to sleep, I don't.

Women don't work. It never counts." She looks at me, her eyes like in a beaten dog, with heavy dark circles underneath.

"Living with a mother in-law doesn't help either. She always meddles in our business. Always protects her son like he is a baby, not a married man. That was her idea that he should sleep in another room while Zoran is teething. She always tells him that he is a provider and the rest is a woman's job. I believe she wants to see us divorced. She acts like a wife, not a mother."

"Is there anything I can do to help? At least now? We don't need to work tonight. Maybe you should get some rest first." I try, not quite knowing what to do. "I can leave the materials for you to look through it at your convenience." Uncomfortable, I start moving towards the door, expecting Vera to give me guidance in whether to stay or go. As if not hearing me at all, she goes on deliberately:

"Just don't rush into marriage," she adds in a final tone, covering with it a whole world of petty, every-day nuisances attacking marriage like a bunch of flies a rare steak. "Marriage is not what young girls dream about," she concluded with a sigh.

When she sees me to the door, she just smiles sadly and apologetically, closing the heavy door, keeping behind it all included in the folk saying "Don't wash your dirty linen in public."

Outside, it is a mild, pleasant evening. The stars are twinkling friendly and meaningfully. At home, my book is waiting where I had left it, and the starry night in Van Gogh's painting radiates a sublime message of love and beauty in spite of the ultimate loneliness of human condition.

Memoirs and Short Stories
A BUNCH OF FLOWERS

It happened in Yugoslavia, in 1961. I had just got married when with a group of librarians I was scheduled for a tour through Europe. "You are lucky," an older colleague was commenting. "Your Jozo will let you travel without him. My Steva is not interested in traveling but wouldn't let me go by myself either." Unaccustomed to married life; I was taken aback, but also relieved to know that I had missed at least one of the possible Scilas and Haribdas of marriage. Back at home, in our small, rented apartment, I excitedly shared it with my husband, and his quiet, understanding smile followed me on my way, warming my heart. From now on, there would be someone at home to come back to. Now, I too will have somebody to pick me up when we come back. In the past, I could only watch others being greeted by shiny faces and kisses. That new, warm feeling followed me all along the way.

The target of our trip were the libraries, museums, and galleries of the major European metropoles. At that time it was illegal to take more than a very small amount of Yugoslav currency out of the country and we had no foreign currency of any kind. Under those conditions even the modest restaurants seemed expensive, so we packed and took with us plenty of canned food, chocolate, and lemons.

The tour was exciting and enjoyable. The autumn weather, mild and sunny, made it possible to walk throughout the cities without having to take a bus or other transportation. Then, we believed that a new city could be seen, and the atmosphere felt, only by walking through it. After some time, though, our luggage started feeling heavier and heavier, in spite of the fact that the food from it was rapidly decreasing. I certainly missed the presence of my husband who always liked to exhibit his athletic strength in front of me. What was heavy for me would have been a toy for him! More and more, even the overnight sleep did not seem to bring enough rest for our tired feet.

Additionally, our limited resources did not allow us to visit some famous but expensive places that we had read about and longed to see for years. In cases like that, I would, at least, take a picture of the facade, fearful that the pictures may not be good enough. Jozo had been an instructor of photography during his high school years!

True, I could not dine at Chez Maxim (and didn't even wish to do that, all by myself), but I could take a fine shot of its entrance. As for the Follies Bergere and Moulin Rouge, to see them from the outside was all I wanted anyway, since there was no chance of meeting Toulouse Lautrec there anymore! I took a series of pictures of Notre Dame, Les ponts sur la Seine (where I thought about my husband, singing softly Under the Bridges of Paris). I visited Sorbonne and Louvre inside and out. The spell of the Impressionist paintings from Jeau de Paume lingered in my memories for a long, long time. So did the scenes of the shabby but content clochars on the city pavements, the bearded painters from the parks of Montmartre, and the streetwalkers (les dames de nuit) of Pigalle, the picturesque bouquinistes on the banks of the River Seine, and the overall beauty of the Paris streets and parks in the autumn glory. All these memories stayed with me, making me strangely sad and happy at the same time, while the tour constantly offered new and fresh attractions and excitements.

The reality of the aching feet, however, was with me constantly, the food running short, and the purse empty, while we headed toward Monaco and the French Riviera. No plans to gamble at the Casino in Monte Carlo, but we certainly peeped into its spacious hall and observed some "rich looking people"coming in and out. After that, we walked the stony streets of the tiny princedom of Monaco, expecting any minute to run into Grace Kelly or some other member of her family. That we did not.

I managed to add a personal touch to the Monaco memories by losing a brooch of a high sentimental (if modest monetary) value while studying the windows of what I felt sure was Grace's and Renier's bedroom. It may have happened while I was hungrily ogling windows of the elegant shops displaying gift boxes with candied fruit. Quite starved, I thought the fruit never seemed more enticing nor have I ever wanted something so badly!

It seems unbelievable to me now that we had ever been in a position like that. But times were different then, sixteen years after the WWII. However restricted in finances and luxury, that tour had been one of the most enjoyable ones. Our youth and enthusiasm made up for whatever else had been lacking, and it turned everything into an enchanted dream-come-true. I did not really want what I could not have had. Just to walk with my husband those same streets once walked by Victor Hugo or Cezanne. To see the bouquinistes selling their rare books and prints along the same old (but always young and ageless) River Seine, or the street artists drawing portraits on the pavements for a couple of sous; just to sit in the pretty little park by Notre Dame where Katherine Mansfield had watched toddlers play. To observe in awe the white, majestic dome of the Sacre Coeur cathedral was enough to make me feel richer than Rothschild. All those experiences have become precious possessions that no one can take away from me. And although I have been back to Paris many times since, nothing has ever threatened to surpass those first impressions. Sure, later the regulations changed and we were allowed to take out more money and to buy foreign currency, so I could stay in good hotels, eat in fine restaurants, or use local transportation, but the excitement of that first visit to Paris has never been reached again. I would not trade those golden memories for any luxuries of so-called "better times."

From Monaco and Monte Carlo we headed toward Italy. Venice greeted us majestically, blazing in the sun. Happy, loud music was heard from everywhere, white doves fluttered on the Piazza San Marco. People were humming or whistling, laughing loudly, or shouting greetings from across the piazzas, while opening their little shops displaying the Murano glass, jewelry, gifts, and knickknacks. Venice was full of tourists as it has always been and will be. We soon forgot about our aching feet, gnawing stomachs, and empty pockets, and joined the happy crowd enjoying the sunshine and music, the ever-present smell concocted of the sea, pizza, and spices. Black stately gondolas swayed dreamily on the murmuring waves of the Venetian street-canals, and all the garbage and food leftovers floating upon the surface could not mar the everlasting inexplicable beauty of the eternal Sinking City. The aroma of spicy pastas, spaghetti sauce, and what-not lingered in the hot air and joined the smell of leather goods hanging in front of the crammed little shops that sold everything imaginable from bottles of Chianti to corkscrews and mish-mash a la Italienne! There were so many little, charming things I craved to buy my newly married husband, yet at that point I, like everybody else, was literally penniless.

Although beautiful, Venice attacked all of our senses simultaneously and powerfully, draining us even more. Soon, full of exciting memories, our suitcases containing only dirty laundry and a few small gifts, we boarded the train for home. To our clean beds, to our home cooked meals. Home, sweet home!

At the railway station in Ljubljana, Slovenia, we had only about ten minutes of stay. There I was supposed to meet, if only briefly, my husband who had been there on a business trip. The train was due early in the morning. It was cold and foggy. The station looked deserted at that lonely hour. Tired and sleepless, several young women were clustered around the train window. I was there to look for my husband, they out of curiosity.

With a shrill whistle muffled by the heavy fog, the train was slowly approaching the empty platforms. My husband was already there, running along and smiling at me, holding a bouquet of chrysanthemums. I bent over the window and kissed him awkwardly, conscious of being watched. When he handed me the flowers, I stammered:

"I'm hungry. We are all starved. No money left. Spent a long time ago."

He did not wait for me to finish, but ran to the station buffet and brought back an armful of sandwiches, fruits, candies. Handing it happily to me, he just stood there watching me and smiling.

"I crave a cooked meal. I've dreamed of an omelet for over a week now." I blushed apologetically.

"Go to the wagon restaurant and have all you want," he said smiling, handing me some money. "Give some to your friends, too." Another shy kiss and the train are slowly pulling out of the station, accelerating. He is still standing there waving as long as I could see him.

Then, heartlessly, I left the flowers on the seat and headed toward the restaurant. I, who love flowers so much that feel pain if they are not put in water right away. What will starvation do to a human being! All I wanted was a restaurant and a huge omelet. I ordered it without looking at the menu.

Nothing ever tasted so good as that omelet in the dining car near Ljubljana in 1961. After that, happy and full, I returned to my seat and the rest of the trip was uneventful.

Years passed. My husband and I bought a fine home, and furnished it, as we have always wanted. We both worked and were well situated. Since we both love to travel, we took every chance that had presented to us. The times changed and there were hardly any restrictions on travel abroad. We had a foreign account, which made it easy to shop anywhere in the world. Travel agencies offered comfortable tours by air (no more train trips), luxurious accommodation and full board (no more canned food, no more walking through the big cities and soaking our feet in the hotel sink afterward). The store windows did not look so tempting anymore. The stores in Belgrade were just as luxurious as anywhere else, and Jozo brought me presents from his trips abroad. All I had to do was tell him what I wanted. But, soon enough, I did not want anything anymore.

That is when I noticed that something was missing in my life. With nostalgia, I remembered those days when he surprised me with a bunch of timid chrysanthemums and a smile of quiet pride and admiration.

Even more time passed, and I lost my husband of twenty years to brain cancer. Another twenty years, now, of a lonely, single life taught me that it would take much less to be happy now. If we could only, in our old age, be together, sharing those happy memories, saying from time to time to each other, "Remember when..."

But, I am alone, aging and remembering.

Memoirs and Short Stories
JUST AN ORDINARY DAY
A Sketch

I woke up abruptly. There was no transition between sleep and wakefulness. I did not, as usually, experience that slow, gradual ascending from the deep darkness of drowsiness into the full daylight. An explosion of blaze splashed over me, washing off the slumber, sobering me instantly. It must be late. What's the time?

I get up quickly, not stopping to find the slippers. The kitchen clock tells me it is not six yet. Oh, good. The day outside is fully awake and gloriously brilliant.

Back in the bedroom, for a second, I feel like going back to bed. Warm and crumpled, it is so inviting. But, a tiny, little noiseless stir from the crib is alerting me. I lean over the golden, curly head of my sixteen-month-old daughter, just awakening. "Mommy buy Maya a kitty-cat," she is murmuring. Then, a bit louder, and demanding: "Maya potty." I run to bring her potty, then lift her warm, dreamy little body onto it. Too late.

As usually, it is too late. She has asked for the potty "post actem." Too sleepy to call me on time. With her little plump body radiating warmth and drowsiness, she leans heavily upon me, smelling of a dream world of infancy, remote and downy. I wrap her in the pink, fuzzy blanket with a puppy, Tramp, embroidered in one corner. She wakes one step further, and starts tracing the puppy's contours with her little finger. "Doggie. Doggie. Maya's doggie." Still dreamy, she is occupied with talking to her dog, while I go to the kitchen to warm some milk.

Instantly, I rush back, remembering that she may get up and spill the pot. But, she is oblivious, sitting on it, still talking to the friendly dog on her blanket. Then, she notices her calico cat, and abandons the dog. She strokes and brushes the cat tenderly, against her cheek, talking to it sweetly. Meanwhile, I am putting tiny white socks on her chubby feet with little, swollen-like toes and miniature nails. Then, her little red shoes. She loves them! With her shoes on, she is ready to start the day. Now, she is running around, looking for her Baka (Grandma), on the way touching everything. She especially loves the books: "Bookies, bookies, mom's bookies."

Meanwhile, I am quickly slipping out of the nightgown, getting dressed.

"Mom has a navel," announces Maya solemnly. Nothing ever escapes her quick eyes.

I am rushing to the bathroom, she is following. If I don't let her in, she will scream. Finishing her glass of milk with great gusto, she gulps the last drop with a strange, absorbed yet absent look that always puzzles me. As if not quite here, not with me, not quite mine anymore. That same look I have seen many times on her father's face, at times of intense pleasure, and it almost scared me. I was with him, yet alone, saddened that we were not together in pleasure, if we agreed on being together "for better for worse, for richer for poorer."

I am giving Maya the rest of her breakfast, acknowledging her growing restlessness. She always senses my anxiety. How does it transmit to her? She knows when I am mentally getting ready to leave, even before I do anything about it. We are still tied by the umbilical cord.

I try to divert her attention to the toys, and then leave the room, while I hear Baka gently talking to her. I slip into my shoes, snatch the handbag, and softly close the door behind me. The next moment I am already outside, busily avoiding the bumps on the still unfinished pavement.

I like the suburb where we have just moved: nice family homes with large yards, people who regularly water their flowers and enjoy sitting outside in the late summer evenings, women talking to each other over the fence, everybody knowing all the neighbors.

Fortunately, it is also close to the bus stop.

I might be late today, though. The bus is not coming. A line is quickly forming: teenagers with pimply faces and elaborate hairstyles, chewing the gum and chatting loudly; women with short, practical haircuts, nervously checking the time; men reading the newspapers and discussing the politics and the sports.

The bus, already full, finally approaches, moaning and squeaking, swollen like a pregnant woman. Like every morning, it is passing by the same shops with windows full of tragically crucified pajamas and bored mannequins silently advertising oversized clothes hanging pathetically on their perfectly slim, lifeless bodies:" Buy it and look like me!"

Although early, the same elderly invalid is already standing on his corner of the Slavia Square with the scales. I wonder if anyone is ever getting weighed on it, especially in the early morning rush.

The street florists are chirping noisily in front of the Cafe London: peasant girls from the neighboring villages with bright, starched scarves on their heads, their ruddy faces aglow and smiling, so different from our sallow, tense "urban" faces.

I am reaching my office just in time. Many others are pouring in: Lula, walking slowly and with dignity, not because of her over-sized body, but because she does not believe in rush, a matronly woman, symbol of stability. Behind her, all flustered, nervously checking her watch, arrives Lucia, always worried about time and always late. Mira comes next, hopping on her high heels like a petite bird, her hair lifted in an elaborate, fluffy, nest-like chignon. She is non-chalante about work and careless about time.

Like every morning, I am opening my desk and starting to work. The day, like any other day, stretches endlessly. Work. Work. Work.

Pouring through the large windows, the warm autumn sun enters all my pores, making me heavy and languid. I am craving to be outside, to lie in the fresh, tall grass and think of nothing.

Finally, a shrill bell cuts the silence. The end of the workday.

We all rush outside, some to their cars, others to catch the first bus. In the little shop, by the bus stop, I hurriedly get some bread, milk, fruit and magazines. On the bus, too tired to talk, I dully stare in front of me, unable to make an effort to apologize for stepping on someone's feet, or agree with the old lady complaining about the bus driver's jerky driving.

Finally, I rush out of the bus, cross the street with a small park, pass by the daycare center, and arrive home greeted by the delighted screams of my little daughter. Baka says, she senses my coming before she can hear or see me. Her eyes, two flaming torches, are like fireworks of love and joy. I wash my hands and quickly embrace her warm, firm body. My child!

Again that same scent of the child-world, fresh and innocent: her hair fragrant like the wild flowers, her breath like the delicate chamomile. How good it feels to come home to her!

Now that I am here, she abandons Baka like an old doll, and I must change her clothes, take her for a walk, play with her toys. Then, I read to her: about the Little Prince and his favorite rose-friend on a tiny, far-away planet.

Soon, the sun is down and the evening approaches. I am closing the drapes, and turning the lights on. After giving Maya a bath, I put her to bed. She is murmuring, half asleep, and I am already fixing the supper, doing her laundry, ironing my husband's shirts.

Midnight. While opening the windows to get some fresh air, I briefly acknowledge the beauty of the twinkling stars on the velvety skies, then, with a sigh of relief, collapse into the bed. It seems, my each muscle is crying from pain, while invisible spirals emanate from my slowly relaxing body. Oh, how good it is to be in bed. This is, finally, my time. But, even then, through my mind, dulled by exhaustion, thoughts of tomorrow's chores flash: I must mail my manuscript first thing in the morning, I need to get Jozo's suits from the cleaner's.

A-a-ah. How good it is to be in bed. To rest. And I am already tumbling down the deep warm abysses of sleep. Till the next day.

Memoirs and Short Stories
THE ROMAN BOOTY

The day started sunny, bright and warm, even before I remembered it was the Eight of March, the International Women's Day. No one around me in Wichita, Kansas, knew about it.

In Yugoslavia, years ago, when I was young, it was a big deal. That day was celebrated nation-wide. Every year we would listen to the same story of the Women's Liberation Movement, Klara Zetkin and Rosa Luxemburg. Not that there was anything wrong with these two fine women.

On the contrary. They dedicated their lives to saying an important, long ignored truth about women's life. As a woman, I can only respect them and be grateful. As an educator, I have always searched for innovative, better, more effective ways of teaching. I have observed: a mere repetition of the same, a routine, kills the appeal. That does not lead to listening, not to mention learning. It is the duty of the educators to do something about it.

That day, Women's Day, our day, dedicated to us for a celebration, has often turned into one more disappointment in a woman's life. For instance, starting the celebration the same way every year. Each woman gets a flower, usually a squashed, wilted carnation, delivered in a huge container, for the whole collective. Mine, and many others, had a broken stem, and the petals were already falling off. The flowers would be handed to each of us with a congratulation, a handshake and a kiss by some high official. He was a man, of course, and he had to kiss all of the women workers in the institution, lined up and waiting. There are many women workers everywhere. To kiss them all means they are all equal and equally deserve to be thanked. That is true. But it also felt unpleasant. We knew he was assigned to kiss us. Maybe he did not enjoy it either. So it is not like when you select a special woman to kiss. No woman that I know ever enjoyed this part. Among other reasons, it reminded us of so many mothers, wives, sisters and friends through the history, kissed by special men in their lives, knowing full well that they were kissing other women too. It never felt right, it still doesn't but it still is happening. And women still cannot do much about it.

After being kissed by that official, that man, on that special day, we would all run to the bathroom, wash our faces and mouth with soap. A woman cannot risk taking additional germs home to her husband and children.

Years passed. Then, there was one that was not the same. I remember that one with a smile. I was teaching English at the university. The administration decided to give all women a free day, since the International Woman's Day was on a Friday. There was a bus tour organized for a three-day weekend in Rome for all the women in our department. Not all took the opportunity. I seized it, so I could take my twelve year-old daughter with me. Some of the women saw it as a shopping spree. Why not? Italy has always been known as a favorite shopping place for all the surrounding countries, full of variety and good bargains. I was not particularly interested in shopping, more in sightseeing, since it was Maja's first visit to Rome. I thought it would be interesting to see things through the eyes of a pre-teenager, excited about her first "women only" trip with her Mom.

The weather was as though chosen from a sales catalogue. Having left winter at home, in Rome we were greeted by brilliant sunshine kissing our faces and bare arms, the air already fragrant with spring. Our hotel, an old, respectable building with marble columns, balustrades and plush carpets, had tarnished gold on the Louis XIV furniture and huge, comfortable beds. The two of us were ready to have a ball. Maja, privileged and proud to be the only child in the group, felt an instant camaraderie with the rest, and a "we, women," type of spirit.

In the morning, especially when I travel, I get up early, impatient to start the day. Excitement stays with me on the trip. Everything is so new, so rich, so appealing. Maja, on the other hand, enjoys sleeping late, not having to go to school. Even the breakfast is a treat for her: A good-looking, young waiter with pomaded raven hair addresses her Signorina, ignoring or not noticing her age. She does not have to eat cereal, but has the same choice like everybody else: rolls with jam and butter, coffee or tea, omelet, and ham and cheese sandwich, followed by a variety of fruits. Crossing her long, childishly skinny legs (promising to be better in years to come) Maja slowly drinks her orange juice through a straw, secretly looking at the waiter and practicing tossing her hair as the movie stars do.

"I'm so eager to get out and look at some stores before they get too crowded. If there is time left, we might go to the Flea Market. It is unique and famous in the world. You have never seen anything like it. There is everything from a needle to a locomotive," I say nonchalantly, carefully avoiding my usual mother-to-daughter tone used on regular workdays at home.

Maja instantly forgets the waiter, quickly finishes her breakfast, ready to go.

Adjusting her stride to match mine, she marvels the stately buildings, store windows, and Italian youth dressed in jeans and T-shirts just like herself. The streets are already buzzing with people, different languages, and wide-open stores striving to please even the pickiest shoppers.

All of a sudden, in the window of an elegant shoe store, I spot a pair of beautiful white mid-calf Western boots, with leather soft like woman's skin. Mesmerized, I walk in, Maja happily following, always excited about shopping. "Prego, Signor," I smile at the salesman, pointing to the white boots. But, the largest size they have is a size smaller than mine. "Grazzie, niente." I reply, crestfallen, turning to leave. Oh, no. That is not going to happen. The curly Romanese, ready to please Signora estrangera, gestures for me to wait, while he runs behind the curtain. Puffing like a coal-engine, he comes out carrying the white boots and another pair of tall burgundy ones. They both seem too small, especially since I know that the Italian sizes run smaller than other European, or American. Smiling Marcello Mastroianni style, the salesman spills an arpeggio of fast, pleasant sounding but hard to understand words with sporadic bella...magnifica...and ellengatissima, while he pompously seats me in an armchair, gallantly taking off my London shoe with a small heel, to replace it with one of the white Western boots.

Neither he nor I know, at that point, that the experience is going to be glued in my memory for many years to come.

Immediately, he starts pushing with a surprising power only to be found in a determined salesman on commission, who-I imagine-must have at home a skinny wife with curlers in her hair and several little bambini in sagging diapers running around crying. I am pushing, too, as only a determined Serb can do, not needing those darn boots, but showing him the history of persistence that keeps us alive and kicking, not to be shamed by anyone, least a next-door neighbor just across the Adriatic.

I push and smile, he pushes and smiles. My foot has no way of getting into that little white boot. I have never been a Cinderella type, I realize once again. Looking down at my feet, the size of which I have always despised, I remember all the years of similar experiences.

As a high-school girl I daydreamed how, as soon as I started making my own money, I would go to a good surgeon and ask him to operate on my feet: just cut the toes off. They are too long, anyway. Without them, my feet would be just right, feminine size. I would be like everybody else, able to buy shoes of my choice, not the only pair left in the stupid size, looking like a child's grave, ugly and old-lady-like. If I only were born in China, maybe I would have had my feet bound at an early age. My mom, a practical Serb, always bought me larger sizes, so the feet would have enough room to grow naturally, without any constraint and deformation! Well, they did grow!

Minutes pass. On the salesman's proud Roman forehead drops of sweat, like the morning dew, start to form. He ignores them and smiles some more. Push... push... almost like childbirth. Push, Mira, push. I smile, too. But, I am not on commission, I don't need those boots: it's too warm, anyway, and I'm not a cowgirl. Who needs Western boots in the middle of Europe, anyway? I hate them, in fact. Honestly. I never wear boots. Wouldn't wear them if he gave them to me free. Even if they were my size.

"Mom, do you think the Flea Market is still there?" Maja is asking shyly, not really wanting to interrupt the process. She is a woman in miniature, ready to understand whatever there is to understand. She would just like to know if we still intend to see the Flea Market, especially if no one in her class has ever seen it. She can wait some more, if need be. Women are trained to wait all their lives, even not knowing if it will ever happen.

The man turns to her, pouring a cascade of allegro ma non-moderate Italian words. Smiling, naturalmente, so Maja smiles back her sweetest prepubescent smile, showing her charming, still uneven teeth and her dimples added to the bargain. Not knowing yet what working on commission means, she can sense that there is something desperate going on. Happy to be in Rome with her mom, while all of her friends are at school doing math or science or geography, she is willing to stay patient a little longer.

The salesman brings a bottle of baby powder and lavishly pours the content into the boot, as well as all over my feet, my stockings, the deep navy-blue carpet, and my open bag sitting next to the chair. A new hope grows in all of us, like a high tide. But, all of a sudden, I feel nauseated. It must be the breakfast. My girdle, too, is just a little bit too small for me. It is constraining like everything else in my life. I am probably tired. So what else is new? I am thirsty. So what? Have you noticed, women, especially mothers and wives are always thirsty? They have no time to remember to get water when they need it, till they are almost dying of dehydration? Have no time to feed their own needs, always getting a glass of water for the husband or a child, on the way fetching his slippers, newspaper or glasses? Women. Women. They don't even listen to their bodies, nor know what they need. Of course men think women are a weaker, sillier sex.

This store is too warm. Or, have I already started the hot flashes? I need to go to the bathroom, it seems. I forgot to do that at the hotel because I was looking for Maja's socks under the bed. Do they even have a lady's room here for the customers?

"Scusi Signor," I start... but he is gesturing that he understands, no need for words, it will take just a second. Oh, how do I just tell him, in plain Italian, to just forget it? I don't want those boots even if he gives them to me free. I need them like a hole in my head. I need something else in my life, but when I realize I cannot have it, I change a hairstyle, go shopping, or eat chocolate and ice cream.

"Mom, I need to go to the bathroom," Maja whines in her most urgent style. "I didn't want to interrupt you before, but..." I know the look. She really needs to go now. Why did I bring a child with me in the first place? This is a "woman's" day and a "woman's" trip, after all.

"Not now," I glare at her, my patience with the salesman (and the rest of the world, in fact) running out and catching Maja on the way. In the last, desperate attempt, the Romanese kneels in front of me as if proposing, and pushes with renewed force, with all his masculinity... pushes himself on me, with almost hateful violence. I look at him, shocked. What does he think he is doing? Is he living out some misplaced desires? I am not in the mood for that. This is not my regular day. This is My Day and it better be a break from the daily, sickening routine.

"Mom, may I have some water, ple-e-e-ase." At least she is not asking to go to some dirty public bathroom. I am relieved. Also, she is using her best manners for the occasion. My child. And a daughter. She understands already and is patient, asking only when she really needs something.

Stifling a raging tornado, I satisfy my urge by only kicking the boot, the salesman, the world, helpless to change the unfairness in life, inhibiting women out of buying a pair of boots on their holiday, painstakingly earned through the centuries of slavery to men... and children! But, oh miracle, my foot, the kicking one, has actually found its way into the darn boot! Finally, in the white Western boot!

The salesman, sitting on the floor, having lost the balance, smiles happily like the mother who has just delivered a big, healthy baby boy. Now he can wipe his sweaty Roman face and rest for a second.

Oh, no. No rest for a family breadwinner. He charges again with a flood of Italian sentences. I don't listen, quite sure I know what he is saying, what he could possibly be saying. But, then, all of a sudden, fear stabs me. A legitimate concern. How do I tell him that if he doesn't start immediately taking the boot off, they will have to amputate my foot, maybe the whole leg? He doesn't know me, of course, but I know myself. This is not my size and I will never be able to take the boot off, not to mention put it on again and ever wear it. Tired, I am not going to argue with him. Poor thing, Maja deserves a big Coke and a gift from the Flea Market.

Anything she wants, my dear loyal daughter. I don't care if we have to slash the boot to take it off. I am leaving. In the Babel Tower of enthusiastic pandemonium, all three of us "talking in tongues" at the same time, the salesman successfully takes off the boot. A-a-a-h. I put both boxes with boots together, smile tiredly, and without a question pay the amount written on the boxes.

The air of relief takes over the sweaty Romanese. His eyes shine from genuine satisfaction. I imagine his Italian wife taking her rollers off, the kids stopping crying, all of them going out for an ice cream or pizza. Papa's treat. He will tell his skinny wife how he had a woman customer, una estrangera con piccola bambina, and how he quickly and professionally sold two pairs of boots first thing in the morning. He will not mention the problem with the size, because his wife tends to be jealous of tall women.

Outside, the sun is still gently caressing the exposed skin, the day still young and promising. This is Rome, the Eternal City, for goodness sakes. Let's enjoy it!

The rest of the day stays exuberant. At the Flea Market a young man approaches, smiling and talking fast. He has a coil of copper wire in his hands and, while talking, quickly and skillfully makes little pins with any name you want. With a mixture of English and Italian we communicate that we don't need a pin, grazzie. I have already secured for myself two pairs of too small boots, but my daughter is actually dying to have a pin with her name on it. Her name is Maja. We pronounce that very slowly and loudly. He smiles and nods.

While I am still struggling, using my hands almost as much as the Italians do, smiling profusely (it usually helps), Maja's pin is done. It is misspelled, though. The Italian youth makes a sad face accompanied by dramatic gestures worthy of Marcel Marceau, and voila: Maja has a pin with her name correctly spelled this time. With a deep bow, the Italian youth announces that Maja may have the other, misspelled one free, no charge for the bella signorina. Maja is so charmed; she flashed one of her shyest, cutest smiles. Wait till we go back and show it to the class on Monday!

Next, we buy some sweaters in bright, spring colors that will be "in" the coming season, the woman ensures us. We don't really need any, but it is a lovely day and the woman is persistent. It can always make a good gift later. They are on sale! Then, tired and hot, we sit down at a sweet little bistro with umbrellas in vivid colors and eat a huge ice cream. They say that Roman gelato is the best in the world. I've been told the same about Stockholm, Moscow, and Amsterdam. In fact, ice cream in Belgrade is so far the best we have ever had.

Exhausted from the excitement and the shopping bags, we return to the hotel, rest a little and go to eat. Pizza, of course. It tastes especially good. The bus is already waiting to take us to Villa Borghese. The walk through the beautifully furnished rooms, and especially the lovely garden with the classical statues and the cool, splashing fountains lingers in our memory long after the day is over.

Returning home, on the bus, the radio blasting loud Italian music, while rehearsing still fresh memories of our Roman weekend, neither Maja nor I know that twenty years later, the most memorable part of that particular day will be the episode with the white Western boots and the chubby salesman. Who knows why. Human memory is like Gioconda's smile: forever intriguing and never understood. La Gioconda means "The Cheerful One," yet many critics say there is actually no smile at all. Mostly, men say: yes, there is an intriguing, feminine smile there. Women say: No, that woman is sad. I am a woman and have studied that portrait all my life. Trust me, that woman is sad. She has the expression my mother had. People say I have it too. Now, that my daughter is married and has a daughter, I have noticed: at times she has that same smile on her face. I call it "a smile of knowing," yet a riddle for the world. Even the artist, Leonardo da Vinci, who created the smile, did not understand it, or -may be- purposefully left us with a teasing riddle to wrestle with it till we resolve it, thus liberating poor Mona Lisa from it. Then, she may freely become "The Cheerful One," like her name. Nomen est omen, as the Latin saying goes: our name is the omen with which we live. We are that name.

But back to the story of my life: The cowboy boots were brought, with me, to Kansas, never worn, to be given to an American friend who was happy to have something from Italy (she has never seen), and hand-made of real leather. To each their own! We always want what we don't have or even cannot have.

Life writes stories, we only put them to paper. Strange to think that out of 35 years of Woman's Day celebrations I can remember only this one!

Memoirs and Short Stories
THE PARK
A Young Girl

I am sitting in the Students' Park, in Belgrade. Through the years, that park has so many times served as our meeting place, that it has become an integral part of our love. Each time I leave the city for a while, on my return I hurry to my park first. I am so eager to see it, as if I would be to meet any old friend of mine. The park meets me with open arms -- with its lush greenery and an abundance of shades and colors. Each time it is richer, more beautiful, more mine. I think I will never be able to pass through it without stirring strong memories. It will never be just an ordinary park to me, one among many, although I have seen the famous parks of the world.

From afar, coming closer, I spot its impressive entrance; the fence covered with rich, climbing ivy, tall -- now gold and balding -- tops of the trees. And I always feel the same joy and admiration. I am wondering if those hurrying through the park, as well as those sitting on its benches, resting, see how beautiful, how glorious it is in all seasons.

Now again, after a long time, I am back, sitting on one of the benches where you and I used to sit so often. I am admiring our park. My memories grow and swarm, the images in my mind replacing one another. The time is slipping by, and I do not know whether I am still waiting for you there, like a long time ago, or just sitting and remembering, admiring my park, our park, fastened to the seat by the magnitude of its beauty and the power of my memories.

The park has gradually emptied. Even cold and bare, it still is not dead for me. I am sitting there all by myself, quietly, while the time is passing by. The golden leaves are falling in showers.



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A Wife:

Twenty years have passed. I still often pass through the Students Park. In fact, every day, since I work in the National Library, across the street from Kalimegdan. There are many fine parks in Belgrade. The Students Park, I am noticing, is unkempt as nearly all of our parks are. People sit and eat in it and litter everywhere. The dogs relieve themselves on the grass. From time to time you can see a peasant woman visiting the city for shopping, taking her worn shoes off and airing her tired feet. Just an ordinary park. It does serve its purpose, though. But, it is not mine anymore. I pass through it like everybody else, hurrying to do some shopping before I can take the bus home. Conveniently, the buses stop and turn around here, headed to various parts of our city.

My husband's office is looming over the Park, right here. Next to his building is the home of my closest friend and mentor, Mrs. Bratic. The Park is still a very regularly used meeting spot, especially for me and my husband.

I see some young people in the Park daily. They sit and read, study, chat and giggle, or wait for each other between the classes at the nearby University. Perhaps, they wait for their dates here, too. It is their park now.



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A Widow:

Twenty more years have passed. I do not live in Belgrade anymore. When I come to the city of my youth, from America, wherever I go downtown, I have to pass by the Students Park. It is an old park, one can tell: sturdy and enduring, but the wall has cracked and the wrought-iron fence needs painting. Its greenery is still springing to life over and over again, every year. The park faithfully serves its purpose. The new generation of students sits and reads, studies for their classes, or waits for their dates. I watch them, while I take off my shoes to cool and relax my aching feet. Some senior citizens are playing chess next to my bench.

The park is full of memories for me.

I remember you, in this same park, smiling, and rushing toward me, so much in love, many, many years ago. And I remember you, later, coming from your office, to meet me, your pregnant wife, so we could go home together. I remember, even later, our little daughter playing in the sand, waiting for you to come out and join the two of us to go home together. And, each time I pass through the park, I remember something else. Christmas parties, every year, at your office, when our growing daughter performed in front of other parents and their children. Our pride, our happiness together!

Our daughter is a successful wife, mother, and a professional now. And I am alone, aged and tired. I will not sit down here to rest. I will not stop to remember, for memories can kill an aching heart.

The last yellow leaves are silently falling.

Memoirs and Short Stories
THE BITCH

It is a mild, mild morning in Wichita, Kansas, and the morning of Valentine's Day. Walking into the school, I see small groups of students watching a dog that, searching for human company, walked into the school hall and now wants to be petted. It is a large, honey-colored dog, with big, warm, intelligent eyes that steadily keep contact with the person close to him.

Dogs are not allowed in the building, of course, but from time to time they visit us from the neighboring homes. Students try to take them out, but they do that only because "they have to." So, it usually doesn't work. A dog usually senses our inner needs better than we ourselves do. A sensitive creature, it knows how much we want to forget everything and just for a moment, an uncontrollable moment, get down on our knees and play with that warm, playful ball of fur that shares our need for affection.

To successfully remove the beast from the premises, usually takes someone who has no sensitivity to dogs (or other living things), a "You-have-to-do-your-duty. Business-first" type of person. If a creature of that kind (or mood) approaches, the dog stops lingering and wagging its tail, puts it between his hind legs with a mixture of sadness and shame, but understanding nonetheless, and leaves on his own. Not a single dog has ever barked, made any noise, or caused disturbance in the school halls. They are smart animals. Not one has ever shown any animosity. They know when they are not on their turf, and they play fair.

This one visiting us on Valentine's morning is a beautiful, healthy creature. Very friendly. perhaps lonely. Definitely wanting our company. He has no concept of Valentine's Day, because dogs are always loving. He just wants to lick your hands, wag his tail, and follow you till you respond with some affection. If you do, he rolls over on his back, trustfully exposing the most vulnerable parts of his body, while watching you intently and invitingly to touch and pet him. Usually, we are happy to do so.

I wonder, when a human being has the same need and tries to communicate it, why people almost never notice, understand, or respond. Do we prefer animals to humans? That is possible. It is easier to love an animal. Humans are riskier: known to hurt worse than any animal.

Maybe humans do not know how to naturally and clearly communicate emotions and needs, shamelessly, with no concern about rejection. No matter what, humans definitely do not respond with such genuine affection and lasting loyalty as dogs do.

Whatever it is, right now I have no time for philosophical discourse, the dog is here to be petted.

I am a widow and live by myself. All my life I have wanted to have a dog and never could have one. When I was a child, my mother thought it was not "hygienic," then I lived in a large city on the tenth floor of a skyscraper, then I had a baby... always something. I got my first and only puppy in my mature age. Six years later, my faithful companion died for no known reason (just like my husband, before,) and I still miss her (or them). Through that relationship of mutual love, I have learned about life's arcana and some universal laws essential for happiness; learned it better than in any other way. Not having my own dog anymore, I scatter the love I have on each dog I encounter. My craving is still unfulfilled, though. I want a dog of my own. Better yet, I want to be loved, as only dogs know how.

With this beautiful honey-colored mess of warmth at my feet, in the hall of my school, I am engrossed in the raptures of mutual affection, oblivious to anything else. Suddenly, I realize: that dog has just turned this day into Valentine's Day for me.

Early in the day, I have already received my Valentine's gift. Instantly, I remember another encounter of a canine nature.

It took place many, many years ago. It almost feels like a lifetime ago, in a different life, and a different place: in Europe, now-torn-apart Yugoslavia, and city of Belgrade, at the University, where I taught English at the time. It was a winter, too. Very cold, unusually snowy winter. Thick, white, downy blanket was covering the bushes and flower beds in the park surrounding the old, architecturally beautiful University building and the unfinished skeleton of a much larger, modern one being built next to it. Plenty of building material, pipes, tiles, and lumber, lay around, covered with snow, the construction obviously interrupted by the severe weather conditions. And severe they were, so cold that the hand glued to the metal, if touched, and the hands, ears, and nose felt dangerously numb in minutes.

Walking through the park, taking a short cut through the deep snow without any visible path, I was oblivious to the surroundings, probably thinking of the test I have just finished grading, worried about my students' carelessness with the grammar, when -- all of a sudden -- I became aware of something pulling me back to my immediate reality. My instinct was warning me to stop, or proceed with more caution.

In front of a huge metal pipe in the middle of the deep snow, I saw a skinny, exhausted, starved looking dog. It was watching me intently, standing there with a strange, tense look. This is not how dogs usually greet me. There is something wrong here, my instinct tells me. Then, I notice, this exhausted skeleton of a dog is a mother. Her heavy, big breasts are full of milk. What a contrast to her lean, almost flat and glued together flanks. No stomach, and nothing in it. The whole sustaining life is in her breasts heavily sagging with milk. Now I understand why this bitch, a mother, devoted and self-sacrificing mother, is so intensely protective of her territory. Before I can ask myself where her pups could be, one chubby, fluffy ball of fur is already rolling and stumbling through the heavy snow towards me, or towards its mother, it cannot decide. It cannot even walk straight, it is so young.

Mesmerized by that warm, charming ball of new life in the middle of the vast, white wilderness, I cannot but want to embrace it, to hold it and protect it on my bosom from the piercing cold, and everything else. I am longing for its innocent, freely offered love and curiosity for the world. Yet, its mother is watching us, and her big, dark eyes are too expressive to be ignored. With the last bit of her exhausted being, she will protect her babies with her own life. I am a mother myself. I know. A mother who never had enough babies of her own and is always fascinated by babies of any species.

The bitch is watching me. Our eyes are locked. Two pairs of dark, penetrating eyes, searching for the response in each other. (I never doubted dogs' sensitivity to read our intentions without a mistake -- mistakes being a human prerogative). I am watching my canine sister with understanding and empathy. She must know how much I love her puppy and would not harm it. She must feel how careful I am to not add more worry and hardship to her already unbearable fight with the elements. We are watching each other, trying to communicate honestly, but carefully. We belong to two different worlds, we are taught. What are the rules in this other, not our world? And, do we really belong to two different worlds if we understand each other so clearly, with no words needed?

Not knowing how, but desperately wanting her to understand that I admire her self-sacrificing devotion, that I mean well both to her and to her babies, I start talking in a soft, soothing voice: "Do not worry. I am not going to hurt you. I will not hurt your babies. I may be able to help. You need some food, some warmth. I don't want you to die of cold and hunger. Trust me. Let me help you." Her eyes slowly soften, I carefully move to the little fluffy bundle, and place it next to my heart, under the coat. The other puppies are already approaching too, rolling towards me out of the dark, big pipe through the white, flurry snow. With an armful of joy I return to the school office, in a second surrounded by women bringing milk, warm scarves and sweaters, while asking me for the details about my discovery. They want the babies, to adopt and save them from a sure death. For a while nothing is important: classes, our work, our families at home. These tiny symbols of life have powerfully grabbed our hearts and changed their own destiny.

Sadly enough, many years later, I don't remember now what happened to the mother, and whether she received the same care as her babies. What we may have overlooked and what I understand now is: in spite of the fact that we wanted to help, in spite of the love and empathy, did we not do harm? Did we not separate the mother from her babies, by conveniently taking only one at a time, only one of our choice, causing her another, deeper pain than the childbirth and survival in that cold, snowy winter? And that is what we constantly do, when we are caring. That is what we do all the time. That is what we do when we have the best intentions. Tragically, we still are two worlds separated by the ignorance of each other's needs (mostly, it seems, human ignorance of the animals' needs).

Many years have passed, too many for a dog's span of life. I am far away, but still remember my canine sister who had taught me a valuable lesson. She cannot be living anymore. I wonder how she and her babies ended their lives. I still feel that same pang of love and empathy mixed with the feeling of inadequacy and awareness that there are too many cruelties between our worlds to abridge. I promised her not to hurt her, or her pups, but what did I actually cause? Did I save their lives by causing yet another, deeper pain, separating mother from her babies? Do we ever know how to successfully interfere with Life and Nature?

Life is a glorious amalgam of splendor and sadness, love and cruelty. Thank you for the lesson, sister.

Only those who love can teach.

Memoirs and Short Stories
POPLARS

Today the poplars in front of my window are strangely peaceful. Erect and quiet. Only at the top, the smallest, finest twigs passionately quiver. I have watched those trees ever since I had moved here. They are here for me to enjoy and learn.

Dressed in the autumn gold, the trees rustle and glitter in the sunshine. Some days, its vibration slowly spreads from the softest leaves to the tiny tender twigs, involving the larger branches, then the whole body of the fully developed trees.

The larger and stronger one is he. The softer, more restless, is she. In the days when the storm approaches, my trees are the first to sense it. She starts trembling and clinging to him, seeking protection. He stays calm much longer, but gradually becomes restless, too, till their joint trembling, swaying and swinging, turns into a passionate, desperate play full of restrained emotion, silent despair and a wild joy, in spite of everything.

Some days I watch my poplars with teary eyes, so it makes them quiver inwardly, as if sensing my agitation. Sometimes, though, they share my joy and vibrate in the same rhythm of my excitement.

Today the poplars are strangely peaceful. Erect and quiet. And my eyes are dry.