A Kiss From Baka (an excerpt from a family journal, written to Luka)
Jelena Bruich October 27, 1928 -
Your great-grandmother is a dragon at the moat, ready to kill if anyone threatens to harm any one of her family. Inarguably the strongest character in our clan, she raised us with equal parts of fire and velvet. Even to this day, at the age of 81, the vigor of her heart and spirit make up for the legs that can’t carry her as far as they used to. She continues to be the strong one, the one we come to with all of our joys and sorrows just like we did when we were small children.
If our father was our heart, then your great-grandmother is our soul. I always compared the two of them as air and earth…your great-grandfather was the air we breathed, the visions we dreamed of and the romance we wove around our lives, while your great-grandmother was the earth we walked on, the reality we lived and the strength we fanned from her flames. Together they presented an omnipotent presence to us kids. They could not be separated nor cajoled...we could never play one against the other to get what we wanted. Although we constantly waited for the changing of the guard, alas, there were never any cracks in their armor, so joined were they in their quest to raise us in their vision of what was right.
Your great-grandmother was born in 1928 on her family's farm in Lika, a few kilometers from where your great-grandfather was born. Yet while they lived so close to one another in Yugoslavia, the distance was oceans apart at that time and they didn’t actually meet until the end of World War II. They did however briefly see each other from afar when your great-grandfather passed by her farm just before the close of the war. Neither could have imagined their destinies in that brief encounter although stories told later hinted at subtle sparks of interest on your great-grandfather's part.
Your great-grandmother was the second youngest of 4 living siblings; two other children had died as babies, one from pneumonia and the other by what probably was crib-death. Her mother and father were a bit atypical for those days with your great-great-grandfather leaving the family farm to live and work in Paris for months on end. He would return home to help with the harvest but the rest of the time, he worked at whatever jobs he could find in Paris to help supplement the family’s livelihood. As a child, while I thought this separation was strange when comparing it to my own family’s dynamics, I did however find it fascinating that someone in our family had the courage to venture out of the farm and into a cultural city of the world. It must have taken a lot of bravery on his part, and only now at my ripe age of 61 do I appreciate my grandfather’s courage and his will to progress.
But I digress. Your great-grandmother was only 13 years old when the war came to her homeland. As a child, she endured many horrors she couldn’t comprehend at that age, if indeed horrors can ever be comprehended. She roamed from forest to village, earth to sky, seeking safety from the war. Perhaps her own words describe the times best….
"I couldn't see my father or brother. They were all I had left. We were separated miles back when captured by a small company of German soldiers. They thought we were guerrilla fighters - part of the Resistance.
In truth, we were just a small band of pathetic, weary peasants trying to leave our country on foot. We were all sick of the war.
Everything was lost: our cows, sheep, corn, wheat, land. My mother, older sister and younger brother were left behind as my father and I left home on foot, seeking safety. . Our land was filled with enemies from within and without - the king's men from the north, Nazis from the east, and Communists everywhere.
Each party tempted the people of this miserable time with their own propaganda of a better life, yet everywhere around me, death leered from its empty skull, whitened into eternity by the dead souls before us.
Gone were the toys and animals of my childhood, replaced with the routine, frantic scrambling up to the hills and forests behind our home. Whenever the shooting sounded too close, we grabbed whatever food was on the table, whatever amounts of water we could carry, and we ran, like deer, for cover. Sometimes we spent days up there, praying we wouldn't freeze to death with just the clothes on our backs.
After a horrific battle where my father and I got caught up in the middle, we were separated from the rest of our family. That time marked the end of my family as I knew it. Part of them returned to the farm while my father, brother and I set off for an unknown destiny.
We roamed the countrywide and teamed with the Chetniks who were having an equally difficult time surviving the political landscape. I can’t explain to you exactly how complicated things were…no one knew exactly who was drinking and who was paying. All I know is that I ended up in an execution line as a traitor. I didn’t even know the meaning of the word, all I wanted was my mother and the life I knew. I was just a child.
The soldiers were getting into position. I knew the people in the execution line. They were neighbors and friends, comfortable faces I grew up with.
Like most of the girls of my time, the girls who learned to milk cows before they learned to read, I looked older. I looked like a woman. Yet, the child I really was sobbed uncontrollably in fear.
It was quiet, except for my horrible screams and pathetic baying. But I didn't care. I was too young to be proud. Not understanding God's nature, nor seeking His miracle, I cried out to my mother instead, beseeching her to part the clouds and carry me away in her arms, far away from this place.
The captain of the German squad sauntered up to direct his chosen murderers to begin the slaughter. Ice flowed in my veins.
I darted wildly out of the line. The young are brave in their ignorance. Falling at the captain's feet and grabbing his legs like a crazed animal, I screamed and begged for my life.
I didn't understand German, nor he my language, but the world stood still for a moment in time. Perhaps he was a father...an uncle...a brother. Whatever his inspiration was for compassion that day, I'll never know. He looked into my innocent face and proclaimed, “But this is just a child, not the enemy.”
He lifted me to my feet and walked me away from the execution line. A minute later, the shots rang out. My life was spared for another day and truth be known, I never thought to look back or wonder why I was saved.
War is funny like that…I didn't think about salvation or the reasoning behind anything.…I was just glad to be alive."
Your great-grandmother survived World War II but after many years of struggle, she wasn’t any closer to home than she was earlier. Now 17, she was placed in a displaced person camp in Italy along with thousands of her countrymen who had lost the war to communism. They couldn’t go back to their homeland for fear of reprisals and their only choice was to face an uncertain future. She didn't know it then but she was to stay in the refugee camp for six, long years with her father and oldest brother...the rest of her family were left behind on the ravaged farm.
It was in the camp in Italy that your great-grandmother and great-grandfather met. If you were to hear her tell the story of their courtship, you would think that it was a one-sided proposition with him the adamant pursuer and she the consummate averter, until she tells you in vivid detail the clothes he was wearing and the blueness of his eyes which she remembers to this very day. In truth, it appeared to be a remarkable love story that all of her three children aspired to experience. I have never doubted why we grew up to be such hopeless romantics.
Your great-grandmother has always held most of her cards close to her chest when talking about her past, but her actions define her better than anything she could have told us. She was only 17 years old when she defied her own father and married your great-grandfather, she raised one child in the refugee camp, gave birth to another only a month after she landed on American soil, and her last daughter was born years later when she had finally acclimated to her new life. In addition to raising a family and learning a new culture, she also worked full-time most of the years I can remember. The major events in her lifetime were not shared with a mother or sister; it was only her immediate family that witnessed all of the strength this woman mustered to not only survive, but to thrive in a foreign land.
Our houses were many, and each bore her mastery for turning them into a home. Somewhere from deep within her well of innate talents and never-ending resevoir of love, she became the consummate interior decorator...the fabulous cook...the marvelous baker whose tidbits would tempt the entire neighborhood with the aroma of freshly baked bread and pastries. My mother could host kings and while we didn't entertain royalty, our home was always filled to the rafters with neighbors, friends and other relatives joining us for dinners, drinks and laughter. She was the proverbial "set another plate" kind of person who always had enough to share with another.
Then there were the clothes for us children. You'd think she spent her shopping sprees in Paris with the way she dressed us. My mother thought nothing of spending $10 for an outfit for one of us when a loaf of bread, at that time, cost
.15 cents. We grew up with a sense of style that was far beyond our peasant roots, and right in line with the rest of America. While we may have been immigrants, she was damned if we were going to look like ones! We children didn't know she was working graveyard shifts at the steel mill until much later. All we knew was we lived without skipping a heartbeat in America, and we were loved beyond measure.
In the Tarot Deck of Cards, your great-grandmother is a cross between the Empress and the Queen of Swords...immeasurable strength and true to her family and purpose. She is the rock we built our lives upon. I hope she remembers the person she was when she looks into the mirror today as lines and furrows cross her pretty face.
Perhaps most importantly, I hope she knows we remember.
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