The sun had already climbed well into the sky when I woke up. There was no one left in the room, but through the door I could hear the quiet voices of the household, the crackling of dry branches in the fire, and the turning of the pot on the stove in which polenta was cooking. A Lika breakfast.
Along with the polenta there was “varenika“ (fresh boiled milk), sour milk, and “basa”; sometimes eggs were fried, and there was always some Lika bacon on the table, completely white as snow, yet delicious, with an aroma that made you swallow hard and flare your nostrils.
Early in the morning, as she did every morning, Grandma had first milked the cows. The varenika was immediately boiled and set aside to make cheese and butter. What I loved most was the thick cream that formed on top of the varenika, together with white coffee in which it floated. Then there would be a few pieces of white bacon, and finally came the specialty: bacon skin roasted on the stove plate, pressed down with a knife so that it curled up. Father and I would share it equally, slurping it while it was still hot, fat running down our mouths, our faces betraying our delight in exaggerated grimaces.
During breakfast, one could often hear the cows mooing, although by that time they were usually already out grazing. But with the arrival of guests, the usual order of things had changed and everything was running late, so the cows made their presence known with their calls. Garov would sometimes join them, as would the chickens shut in one section of the barn with the cows and horses. They were all hungry, annoyed, and puzzled by this new routine to which they were not accustomed.
The chickens, once released, would burst out of the barn, run around and cluck noisily in the yard. The roosters would crow, and the fluttering of wings would raise clouds of dust behind the hens as they hurried to grab as much wheat and corn as possible, which Grandma scattered across the yard. Then everything would suddenly fall silent, and all that could be heard was the pecking of grain until the very last kernel had been eaten.
The cows knew that their turn had now come and that they had to repay us for the morning’s varenika and for all the things Grandma’s hardworking hands would make from it. Untied from the manger, they would slowly leave the barn and, already knowing exactly where to go, led by Mirova—the big, clever, and good-natured cow—would make their way at an easy pace toward the fence, where dewy, succulent grass awaited them.
Afterward, Grandpa would lead Žuja and Siva, the two mares, out of the barn. The first was lively, sometimes stubborn and headstrong; the other was calm and obedient. He would tether them in the meadow. Then it was Garov’s turn. Grandpa would sometimes let him go for a nighttime walk as well, but now, tired and patient, he waited on his chain for his turn, knowing that he was the last.
I often looked after the cows, which I did not particularly enjoy, being unaccustomed to it, but there was little choice. It was village life: there was work to be done, and work had to be done.
I dressed warmly. I can still remember my mother’s voice: “This is Lika—you have to dress properly.” On my feet were priglavci, knitted from homespun wool and reinforced underneath with thick black rubber cut from a car inner tube, their edges sewn with thick woollen thread, all in vivid colours. Over my thick, warm sweater I pulled on a sheepskin vest, carried a three-legged stool in one hand and a stick in the other, and wore a cap on my head. I looked as though it were the middle of winter—and that was exactly how I felt.
I shivered beneath several layers of clothing, with my priglavci and trouser legs covered in dew, searching around the bushes for patches of sunlight where I could warm myself. In some sheltered spot I would sit on the three-legged stool and surrender to the warmth of the sun as it slowly rose above Gradina.
The cows were peaceful. Grandpa had already dealt with the sheep early in the morning, and following the sun, step by step, they would make their way around the fence and sometimes across some of the surrounding meadows and patches of scrub where other livestock and shepherds could also be found. And so, as the morning sun climbed higher and traces of dew remained on my feet, I would return home, already quite tired, together with the well-fed cows.
On one occasion, although I had been warned to make sure the cows did not get into the clover, I became distracted by my thoughts, some game, or who knows what. Slowly, the cows made their way toward a nearby patch of clover and, taking advantage of the opportunity, ate their fill.
I realized what had happened too late. Frightened that the cows might bloat from the gases produced by clover during digestion—and that this could even prove fatal—I drove them toward home in fear of what would happen.
The dark expressions on Grandpa’s and Grandma’s faces told me enough. I felt miserable and dejected, knowing that I had done something very wrong.
Then they told me, “Take your stick and run them down the road. Make them defecate well, and they’ll be all right.”
I needed no further encouragement. I drove them along the road toward the village. Big, fat, and with stomachs full of grass, the cows ran ahead of my stick and, what else could they do, began defecating from the discomfort.
Cow dung splashed across the road, bounced up like fountains, and spread everywhere. I jumped over it as I ran after the cows, leaping into the air and sideways, but there was no escaping my fate. Before long my priglavci were black with dung I had stepped into, and my clothes were no better after I ran straight through those “fountains” before they had even settled on the road.
At that moment I wasn’t even aware of what was happening. I was thinking only about how to save the cows. But when I returned and saw the smiling faces of the family, heard their loud, infectious laughter, and looked at myself, splattered from head to toe and smelling none too pleasant, I could not help laughing myself. I was simply happy that the cows were safe.
Somewhere in the corner of my mind, I knew that this was also a fair punishment for my carelessness—and that nothing like it would ever happen to me again.
After the afternoon grazing, the cows had to be given water as well. I liked going to the watering place on the Jadova, along the road below the Dom. There could be an enormous amount of livestock both on the road and at the watering place, and sometimes you had to wait your turn.
At that spot, about a hundred metres downstream from Djakovac, the Jadova rarely dried up, which was a blessing because the village had no drinking water except for the cisterns that collected rainwater. Sometimes, when the rains failed, water had to be brought to the cisterns by tanker trucks.
I also liked going for water to the cistern near the school or below Gradina. Water was drawn with kalače, small tin buckets with a rope tied to the handle. You had to know how to zakalati—how to scoop the water properly.
The bucket was allowed to float on the water, tilted to one side, and then, with a sudden pull of the rope, it was turned over to the other side so that its open end plunged into the water. This was repeated until all the containers we had brought were full. It took me some time to learn the skill that came so naturally to Grandma and the others.
Although the water from the cisterns was also used for drinking, we nevertheless went to the nearby springs of Djakovac and Kapetanovac for drinking water, usually carrying several demijohns. We would either immerse them directly in the spring or, when the flow was already too low, fill them using a small ladle.
Larger quantities of water were brought from the čatrnja, a well-built spring that almost never dried up. Grandpa would load several large barrels onto the cart, harness Žuja, and head straight for the Čatrnja.
It took some time to draw enough water. If I wasn’t helping, I would wander along the Jadova, which was only a short distance from the Čatrnja, watch the fish swimming indifferently through the water, and try to catch a frog or a lizard, both of which were abundant there.
Željko Narančić