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In the mornings, I would sometimes go to the cooperative store to buy a few things for the household. The zadruga was a shop located in the village community centre, the first room on the left after entering.
There was almost always someone from the village there, having a beer and chatting with the shopkeeper, Milić—a bony, thin man with sharp features, bristly, light-yellow hair, and prominent yellow moustaches. They would discuss village business and the latest events.
I would walk in and say hello, feeling their curious eyes upon me, usually followed by the question:
“Whose boy is this?”
“Boželja’s grandson, Branko’s boy,” Milić would reply.
I would proudly look at them, knowing that Grandpa was well respected in the village.
“What have you come for?” Milić would ask.
“I’ve come for chicory, marmalade, salt, and one Voka.”
At the mention of Voka, the villagers would exchange glances and burst out laughing.
“What is a Voka? What kind of Voka?”
Seeing me in an awkward spot, Milić would scold them:
“What do you know, you devils! What are you snickering about?”
Then, turning to me, he would hand me what I had ordered and say:
“There’ll be Voka next time.”
Which meant that I might have to wait until the following summer before I could once again enjoy my favourite white coffee with a thick layer of cream made from the good varenika of Mirova, the cow.
Željko Narančić
