In earlier years I was rather frail, and my mother kept a close eye on me so that I would not drink anything cold. Since I also had little appetite, she was always trying to put something into my mouth. Worried about me, and unaccustomed to such occasions herself, my mother paid particular attention to me in Mogorić. My grandmother, who did not approve of this kind of care any more than I did, would sometimes secretly give me water to drink from the cave beneath the house, reproaching my mother: “Oh, let the child be, let him have a drink!”
Food was a story in itself. My aunt, only a few years older than me, would sometimes wait for her sister to give her something as well, but she was not lucky. Since I was such a reluctant eater, she would grab a spoonful and bring it toward Nada, saying, “Here, Nada, here, Nada!” And when Nada opened her mouth to eat, Mother would turn the spoon toward me. Nada never forgot that.
Beneath the house, at the foot of the rock on which my grandfather’s house stood, there is a cave. It is entered through a deep fissure by stone steps enclosed by walls. This is the Đaković Cave, the largest source of water in Mogorić. In autumn and winter, water bursts violently from underground, flooding the steps before rushing into the streambed and continuing its journey toward the Jadova.
It was terrifying for me to descend those steps. Even now I can feel the cold and dampness that, as I approached the water, seemed to seep into my bones and make my body tremble. During the dry summer season, the water would retreat deeper into the cave, and on a sunny summer day my eyes needed time to adjust to the darkness. But I never ventured farther or deeper than the daylight reached, feeling an indistinct fear of the unknown that might be waiting for me below.
It is hard to find a modest grandfather’s lunch like that today: roast lamb from the spit, bread baked on the hearth, škripavac cheese, basa and spring onions. Everything was homemade, and its appearance and aroma captivated both the eyes and the senses. Grandfather would make sure that nothing was missing and that the best pieces of meat were placed before us, taking heartfelt pleasure in watching us eat and sincerely regretting that the feast was not the equal of one in the city.
Oh, my grandfather! The warmth and love you and Grandmother gave us, the intimacy of that house, and the memories of those days still awaken nostalgia in me and a longing to return to that time. Only today do I understand the boundless selflessness with which you showered us.
The sun was already slowly losing its brightness and strength when we headed back, our hearts full and accompanied by tears that flowed down Grandmother’s and Mother’s cheeks beneath their sad smiles. The waving hands of my aunts, uncles and the children, old Grandfather Mile, bent over and leaning on his stick, and Grandfather Pekan—all remained behind us, sad and dejected, hoping, just as we did, that we would see one another again the following year.
As we returned to Vrebac, we knew that the end of the Vrebac summer was approaching. A few more swims in the Jadova, visits to people in the village, lying in the shade of the ash trees with Duško and Milan—and then it was time to return. We said goodbye to Grandmother and my aunts, climbed into the wagon, and set off for Gospić to catch the train.
As we departed, I absorbed the last images of Vrebac until, at last, even Stražbenica disappeared from the horizon. In the distance, only the clearings of Lisina could be seen, the final landmark of the Vrebac summer.
The train arrived, we said goodbye to Grandfather, and set off back home.
Željko Narančić