VREBAC STORIES – Summer in Vrebac (2)

We would usually arrive in Vrebac by train in the morning, still somewhat chilled by the lingering night cold and the fresh dew glistening on the branches and leaves of the surrounding trees and bushes, spreading like a shimmer across the vast fields that accompanied and surrounded us.

Watching the shadows and images created by the sun on the austere cliffs of Velebit, which cut deeply into the clear blue sky across which a few clouds drifted, pale and chilled just as we were, unable to penetrate the dark, shadowy forests beneath the cliffs, whose lower reaches were still disappearing into the remnants of night, waiting for the rays that would once again breathe life into the sleeping, still drowsy inhabitants of those mysterious depths, I eagerly and impatiently awaited our arrival in the village and my grandfather’s yard.

Žuja also sensed that we were getting close and quickened her trot, knowing that a well-deserved rest awaited her in the warm stable, with a full manger of hay—a reward, it seemed to her, after setting out to meet us at the train in the early dawn, when it was still impossible to tell what time of day it was.

Already in the distance I could see the white walls of the Vrebac school, which looked as though it had been planted right on the dusty road, and my heart leapt.

I was no longer cold. The excitement had risen to my chest and throat.

There we were, passing the cistern, which had remained unchanged since last year. We passed a flock of sheep and cattle happily making their way to the morning pasture. Gradina was ahead of us, the final ascent, Žuja’s cheerful trot, and we entered a road bordered by old stone walls overgrown with bushes and hazel shrubs. Behind them stood rows of plum and ash trees, creating a half-light and bringing back the coolness and freshness.

There we were in the yard.

I could hardly wait to get down from the cart, trying to take in everything around me at once, wondering how different it looked from the previous summer.

But everything was the same.

Everything was there: the house, the stable, the threshing floor, the hayrack, the underground storage pit, the long, straight field enclosed by a fence, the yard full of chickens and two roosters competing with each other.

Beside the hayrack stood Garov, tied up and greeting us with warning barks, not recognizing us at first. Down in the meadow, the tethered cows, hearing the unfamiliar sounds, curiously raised their heads toward us, watched us for a moment, and then calmly continued grazing.

The cheerful, animated conversation in the yard and Žuja’s neighing brought Grandma Koka out of the house.

Crossing the threshold, she stepped onto the broad, flat stone that served as a step at the entrance. Wiping her hands on her black apron, she looked at us sharply over the hooked nose that protruded beneath her broad black headscarf and said: “Here are my guests!”

She came over, greeted and kissed my parents, then swept her eyes over us and headed toward my brother and me, saying: “Look at my boys! How much they’ve grown. Come and let Grandma kiss you.”

Grandma, small and stooped, not much taller than I was, would hug me and kiss me, leaving on me traces of strange, pungent smells of milk, the stable and various other things whose origins I could not immediately identify. Unaccustomed to them, I would instinctively draw back.

As we unpacked and carried our things inside, I kept looking toward the doorway of the modest Lika house, wondering whether someone would appear on the doorstep, hoping to see Stevo or Marica, Uncle Slavko, or perhaps Aunt Dušanka.

We entered the house, smoke rising from the chimney, and stepped into the dim central room where most of life took place.

In the left corner stood the “koza” stove, and later the “Goran” stove as well, with bundles of branches stacked nearby for fuel. On the wall stood the same old-fashioned cupboard with its massive, thick cups and “firanjge”—curtains that prevented the swarm of flies from settling on absolutely everything inside the cupboard.

In front of the cupboard, on the right, were a table and chairs. In the front left corner stood the “škale”, the ladder leading up to the pod, the attic, with two of Grandpa’s axes hanging from it.

In the corners, one could find several three-legged Lika “stočići”, little stools, with one leg wedged here and there into the freshly swept earthen floor.

We sat down, the conversation continuing, accompanied by the gentle crackling of the fire that relaxed us and drove the last traces of the morning chill from our cheeks and still somewhat stiff fingers.

From the stove came the sound of water that was just about to boil, and soon the house was filled with the warm, pleasant and soothing aroma of “cikorija”, chicory coffee.

Summer had begun in Vrebac.

Željko Narančić