by Di Morrissey
Lucien suggested they stop for lunch. He sensed Nina was running on euphoric overdrive. So much had happened to them in such a short time, he wanted her spirit to settle. They pulled into a township inn and ordered a lavish spread.
‘This is a huge meal, but so wonderful. I never used to eat lunch in New York or Australia – unless it was business. This meal is utter pleasure.’
Lucien poured her another glass of wine. ‘I’m glad, my sweet. So, as we’re setting off on this little adventure, tell me what you know about Grandfather Bubacic.’
Nina felt a warm glow rush through her. Maybe it was the wine, but seeing Lucien’s attentive and loving face across the table, sharing this companionship and knowing neither of them had to hurry away to another life, sent her head spinning. ‘I feel like telling you anything and everything, Lucien my darling. I can’t believe we’re here, that you’re part of my life again . . .’ She was about to add, ‘. . . for the moment, anyway,’ but bit her tongue. How did they know what was ahead for them? She took a deep breath, telling herself to be calm and take life day by day.
Nina had such an expressive face, he knew what she was feeling so reached for her hand and squeezed it. He didn’t speak, because he too felt suddenly emotional.
Nina sipped her wine and began, ‘The part of the journal I managed to understand made sense. My grandfather led a double life. One was as an eminent physician, who treated some very rich and influential people during the war years, in the other he was a hero who worked against the Nazis for the resistance movement. It’s also clear that my grandparents ran a safety house for resistance agents betrayed by Nazi collaborators. It was those collaborators’ names that Puskar and Molnar wanted suppressed.’
‘Clara and her mother must have known about it then.’
‘Yes, but my mother didn’t like to talk to me about these matters. Croatia seemed a long way away from the life she made for us in Sydney’s Double Bay. Now that I know about this, I think it’s rather fine that my grandparents helped people escape the Nazis.’
‘I wonder how he did that,’ mused Lucien.
‘In the journal I read about one case where he’d offered to treat a very important prisoner of the Nazis who’d become ill. He’d drugged the prisoner into such a comatose state that he was able to pronounce him dead. Then he’d ordered the guard to take the man to the morgue.’
‘Then what happened?’ Lucien was intrigued.
‘The mortician was a friend. He quickly administered a shot to restimulate the man’s heart, which had been beating very slowly, and within two hours friends were able to put him in a car to be smuggled out of the country. Apparently a lot of supposedly dead men were taken away in the middle of the night in a hearse that stopped somewhere to let the bodies run away. They buried the empty coffins.’
‘Your grandfather recorded all this detail in his journal?’
‘There were a stack of stories. That’s why I was so sorry to lose it.’
‘What happened to your grandparents? When was the house taken over and turned into those ugly flats?’
‘My mother told me that once the war was over, the new communist regime plundered what they could in the name of the state.’
‘So where did your grandparents go?’
‘Grandfather died soon after and Grandmama went to live with the housekeeper at their country house.’
‘Where?’ asked Lucien with sudden interest.
‘The estate is called Miljovec. Grandfather’s family built the house in the sixteenth century. His family was descended from the local Ban, or governor, who had built the original palace, which I believe is now in ruins. The village of Miljovec grew up around it.’
Lucien excused himself to pay the bill at the counter and sat back down as Nina finished her coffee. ‘As we have no formal itinerary . . . I just asked the owner and he says Miljovec is not far out of our way.’
Nina carefully put her cup back in its saucer, peering at the sticky sludge of coffee grounds patterning the bottom of the bowl. ‘Yesterday I would have said, no way – I’m just going to write a lovely scenic piece.’
‘And now?’
‘How far is Miljovec?’
They drove until they passed through tiny picturesque Sestne, a twelfth-century hamlet steeped in folklore. Nina looked at her map and pointed out the car window. ‘The trails to Sljeme start here and go up to the ski fields of Zagreb.’
They nosed into the shadows cast by the fortress Medvedgrad, the 750-year-old symbol of Croatian struggle for freedom, and within half an hour Lucien drove down a narrow street between crumbling walls and turned into a village. ‘Welcome to Miljovec.’
They stopped at a café and Lucien asked a man sweeping the sidewalk whether he knew any of the old families who used to live here before the war. The man looked at him blankly. Nina leaned from the car and repeated the question in Croatian. Still he shook his head, as he spoke a local dialect.
‘Bubacic . . . ?’
At this the man nodded knowingly and spoke with passion. Nina leaned back in her seat and rubbed her eyes. Lucien sat back in the car.
‘What did he say?’
‘I can’t believe it – I understood most of what he said. There are plans to turn Miljovec House, the old home of the Bubacic family, into a resort, a casino. For the tourists. It’s only an hour and a bit from Zagreb.’
Lucien let out a surprised whistle. ‘Well, that’s one scenario we didn’t consider.’
For the first time, Nina’s attitude changed from sanguine wait-and-see to a quiet fury. ‘How dare they! It was my family home. Stolen from my family. And now to be a damned casino! It’s outrageous.’
‘Sounds like something that would happen in the West,’ said Lucien dryly.
‘Why couldn’t they do something constructive with the place for the local people? A museum, an institute – anything but a place for international high-rollers.’
‘Stop gnashing your teeth, Nina darling. Let’s go to see it. Maybe there is a way you can prove family ownership and seek compensation. After all, they have acknowledged your family connection.’
Nina’s vehemence subsided. ‘You’re right. It’s not the money but the principle. My grandparents would be heartbroken.’
They drove through lush, neat fields where tiny stone cottages perched beside ancient rock terraces. In the distance, steep hills dense with majestic pines rose from the landscape. Soon there was a slash in the green blanket – a broad swathe was shaved into the hillside. A magnificent pastoral building was set in its centre. With turrets and wings surrounding a courtyard and lush grounds, it looked melancholy. Its upper storey of shuttered windows shunned the distant lake. Even at a distance it did not look inviting.
They reached the stone gates where the driveway swept between trees, bowing to each in greeting, as if dancing in line to a minuet, their leafy fingertips close to clasping. There was a bare patch on one stone pillar where a plaque had recently been removed.
Lucien stopped the car and Nina silently pointed at the rusting iron gates that hung open and Lucien saw a wrought-iron crest.
Nina showed him the small gold ring she wore. It had exactly the same crest. He smiled, patted her hand, then drove slowly towards the house.
‘I assume there’ll be someone around,’ said Lucien as the main entrance came into view.
Nina leaned forward with a sharp intake of breath, suddenly recognising the building she’d seen so often, years ago, in family photographs.
‘It looks terribly neglected,’ said Lucien, thinking shabby would be a better word. But his cameraman’s eye was alert and soaking up the setting, seeing it as a perfect movie location, almost as incredible as the true story of a family’s fall from fortune.
They parked and walked to the solid wooden front doors and tugged at the rusting bell chain. It tolled through the innards of the mansion but failed to stir a response.
‘Let’s try the back door,’ said Nina and set off briskly.
The rear of the old mansion was more welcoming. A vegetable garden was flourishing and fresh washing hung on a line by one of the courtyard wings. Smelling smoke, Lucien looked up to see a wisp rising from a big chimney close to one of the back doors. The kitchen, he guessed. Then he noticed beside the door a row of boots, several coats and jackets, pails for drawing water, bundles of twigs and firewood.
‘Looks like a barn and stables down there,’ said Nina, pointing to a few old stone buildings surrounded by a weathered fence. Nearby, several cows grazed contentedly.
Then they heard it. Sweet singing. They headed past the stables and came across a group of children scrubbing milking pails in the small river. An old woman was leading the singing. Younger children played on the grass. Lucien wished he had his camera.
At the sudden appearance of Nina and Lucien, the singing instantly stopped. Visitors were unusual – visitors like these surprised them. The smaller children gathered close to the old woman, who straightened and stared at them with a measure of hostility.
Nina lifted her arm and gave a friendly wave, calling out in Croatian. The woman eyed them curiously and the older children hurried forward. They looked to be aged between three and twelve years.
The oldest, a boy, came up to Nina and Lucien and pulled a woollen cap from his head. ‘Who are you? Who are you looking for please?’
‘We are just visiting,’ said Nina quickly in Croatian. ‘Tourists.’
The boy relayed this back to the others, who now ran to cluster around them. Nina waited for the woman to reach her as Lucien tried to find words in any language to make himself understood. Laughingly the children imitated him.
Nina greeted the woman and took her hand. It was the hand of a woman who did a man’s work in the fields as well her woman’s work in the kitchen, yet it had a tenderness for touching a child’s cheek or hair. In the moment of that clasp Nina looked into the kindly eyes of a woman who appeared to be so many years older than her, yet was possibly the same age. She saw shadows of sorrow and pain, yet strength and laughter too. They each felt they had much in common – instinctively they recognised something about the other in the softness of the eye, the honesty of the face, the unflinching gaze, the firmness of the grip. Their life circumstances had been very different, but their hearts matched.
Nina introduced herself simply as Nina. ‘And this is Lucien. He would like to take a few photographs of the old house. Are you living there?’
‘We live in the house. We all do. We manage. My name is Mara. So you are not here about the casino business?’
‘Indeed not. What a dreadful fate for the house. The café owner in the village told us.’
‘In that case, would you like something to drink? You can see inside the house if you want.’ The woman directed the older children to bring the young ones indoors and taking a silent little girl’s hand, she directed the boy to sprint ahead and perk up the fire. As they began walking to the house she confided in Nina, who in turn translated the words for Lucien.
‘Where are they from? Who are these children?’ he asked.
Mara gave Nina another penetrating look and, as she walked, she told the story of how she had been caring for orphan children, victims of the recent conflicts around Croatia’s borders.
‘How do they come to be here?’ asked Nina. ‘I realise there is a huge crisis in Bosnia, but you are far from all that.’
‘There is a network of people – priests, international aid workers mainly. It is all done very quietly. I was living and working on the estate and when the last people moved out of the house it seemed, well, sensible, to shelter children here. A few who have come here have been reunited with relatives, but there are always others needing a home. For the moment they go to the school in the village and we live on charity and what little government assistance we can scrape together.’
‘Who was living in the house these past years? How long have you been there, and what’s going to happen to you?’ asked Nina as she watched the children take off their boots and shoes before going into the house in their thick hand-knitted socks.
‘Ah, so many questions. Come, let us have a warm drink first.’
Inside the rear of the house, as Lucien had guessed, was a huge kitchen, pantry and storeroom. A table set for twelve ran almost the length of the kitchen.
Soon hot milk flavoured with vanilla, pieces of homemade cheese and slabs of bread were set before them and, slowly, Lucien was fed chunks of information digested by Nina from all the eager faces around the table.
Mara picked up her story again. ‘Some time after the widow who was living here died, this place was taken from the family. Over the years it was used as a country retreat for government officials. I was one of the cooks. Then it was closed up and there were many plans for it. But nothing happened. With the new government and a change in the old system, this place was forgotten.’ She gave a broad smile. ‘Fortunately. And, as I have lived here a long time, no one asked who I was, or if I had a right to be here.’ She winked at Nina. ‘I did rather give the idea I belonged here. I like to think the old family wouldn’t mind.’
Nina had difficulty in speaking. ‘I think you are quite right.’ She passed all this on to Lucien.
‘Are you going to tell her who you are?’
Nina gave him a conspiratorial wink. ‘In good time.’
‘So how long have you lived here?’ Nina’s head was reeling. This was almost too much to take in. Now she was under the roof of her grandparents’ home and it all seemed very close and personal. But she was unprepared for Mara’s reply.
‘I was born here. My mother was very close to the Bubacic family. She looked after Mrs Bubacic until she died.’
Nina’s hand flew to her mouth and Lucien looked at her in alarm.
‘What’s wrong?’ he asked.
‘Mara . . . is . . . like family.’ She reached out to her across the table, tears filling her eyes. The chatter amongst the children stilled. Slowly she said, ‘Mara. I must tell you who I am. I am Clara Bubacic’s daughter, Nina.’
Mara clutched at the front of her dress, but her shock was quickly replaced with a huge smile. ‘Clara went to Australia. With the little one. Little Nina. Once I was taken with my mother to Zagreb, to the big house, and I saw you before you left.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘We must be about the same age. I thought you were so brave going to the other side of the world with just your mama. I came back here and married a man from the village and we lived here in one of the cottages. He helped run the farm. My husband died a few years ago. Now young men in the village help us when they can.’
‘You have no family?’ asked Nina.
Mara waved an arm around the table. ‘These are my children!’ She explained to the children in more detail about who Nina was and Nina did the same for Lucien.
‘Now, you must see the house,’ exclaimed Mara. But added, ‘Please don’t feel sad. It is nothing like it was in your grandparents’ day. So elegant. So many beautiful pieces of furniture, ornaments, paintings. My mother sometimes let me help in the house. To me this was so wonderful – until I saw the town house in Zagreb. That was a palace. But I missed the gardens and the fields.’
They all rose from the table and Mara took Nina’s arm and linked it through hers.
Lucien stood back and let Nina walk through the doorway into a house of unknown family ghosts.
It was a house of grand proportions, expensive detail and expansive windows that were still partially framed in once costly brocade. Views from every window were picture postcard. Adapted now to house a family of ten children, it had the air of a happy, homely dormitory. Much of the furniture they had for the children was either homemade or second-hand and battered. But in each room Mara described to Nina how it had once looked, colouring the description with comments about her grandparents, bringing them to life for her. In the future, when she looked at Clara’s photo albums, these words would mean so much more to her.
They went into a s
tudy and Mara sighed, ‘There were so many books in this room, all along that wall. Your grandmother let me borrow them. She had a collection of nature books and art books. She painted too – did lovely watercolours. And up there on the wall was a stag’s head with antlers. It used to frighten me. Until one day I saw it with your grandfather’s walking hat hanging off one antler, his walking stick on the other and his pipe stuck in its mouth. I think he did it to make me laugh.’
In the last room they entered, Nina found a definite connection to her family. It was a small room, a sewing room perhaps. The window was in three sections, clear glass on either side of a brilliant work of stained glass. The leadlight design surrounded a central panel of pale blue background on which glittered an exquisite painted dragonfly. Nina was mesmerised. The sunlight, shining through the delicately inset picture made the translucent wings shimmer so that the dragonfly appeared to dance. The picture caught and captured the moment as the delicate insect alighted on a lily pad, its sheer rainbow-hued wings glistening in a sunray. Nina bit her lip and sat on a chair, staring at the wonderful glass picture.
Sensing her mood, Mara shooed the children away. ‘I’ll let you look around on your own for a bit.’
Lucien hovered in the doorway. ‘If I believed in ghosts, I’d say your grandfolks were still enjoying this house.’
‘I think they are too. They must be happy to hear children’s laughter and singing.’ She went to the window and gently touched the glass. ‘It’s exquisite. Clara told me how my grandmother loved dragonflies. She gave me that diamond pin . . . it’s why I chose it as the emblem for Blaze.’
Nina was close to tears. Lucien put an arm around her shoulders. ‘It’s meaningful for me too. Remember when I first met you, how you made me free the dragonfly . . . Nina, stay with me. Let’s you and me . . . dance through this last part of our lives. Be as free and light-hearted.’
Nina turned back to face him. They were alone. ‘Be your dancing partner? What does that mean?’