Martin wasn’t exactly sure how to get to the Slavonic Society, but he knew he would hit the wharf where it was located if he just headed downhill. It wasn’t long until the San Francisco Bay, glittering in the morning sunlight, came into view. Once he got to the waterfront, instinct told him to turn left and within five minutes, he was at his destination. People were starting to stream into the building so Martin just followed the leader, assuming he knew where he was going. And he did.
Martin signed his name on a sheet on the teacher’s desk and then took his place near the rear. He was hoping to go unnoticed so he would not be called upon. Martin looked around the classroom, taking stock of the other students, the vast majority of them young men like himself. Up in the front row his attention was drawn to a young girl with long chestnut hair full of curls but whose face he could not see. I guess I will have to wait until we leave and be surprised. Martin began counting the minutes for class to end.
The teacher was a severe-looking, middle-aged woman, thin as a rail, wearing a long dress in the dullest color of blue he had ever seen. By the look of her, this class was not going to be very enjoyable and again his instincts had been right. When she stood up to begin the class, Mrs. Vukovich put the fear of God in her students. “Please rise,” she said, “and face the flag. Now, repeat after me. ‘I pledge allegiance to the flag…’” Clearly, Mrs. Vukovich put discipline and order above all else. But when class ended, Martin realized he had learned something and that Mrs. Vukovich’s methods had been effective.
Martin hurried out of his seat and tried to catch up with the girl in the front row. She was walking with a couple of other students so he did not think he would have a chance to meet her today. But when he passed, he took a look at her face and he was momentarily stunned. She was a real beauty. Her high cheekbones set off her deep blue eyes and gave her face a sculpted look, which was so prized. Her bow-like lips were full, and she had just the hint of a dimple in her chin. Martin kept the picture of her face in his mind all the way to the restaurant.
The dreamlike state he was in came to a grinding halt when he entered the restaurant about to open for lunch and heard all the commotion going on. He quickly hung his hat and jacket on the hooks by the door and went to his station in the kitchen. It appeared that the assistant had not shown up, and Uncle Anton was in a frenzy as he tried to prep the food. “Martin, come here, I need help.” Then he handed him a chef’s knife and pointed at the onions lying on the carving block. “Chop those,” he said. Martin did not know the proper way to chop onions but he had watched his mother chop them a thousand times. So he started to do what just came naturally. Uncle Anton looked over and said, “Not bad for a novice. But when we have a break I will show you the chef’s way to do it, and you can practice until you become a master.” Martin’s eyes were starting to tear up from all the fumes the onions gave off but he persisted until he had finished the task.
“Now,” Uncle Anton said, “I want you to chop carrots, then celery. Those two vegetables along with onions make what the French call mirepoix used to create flavoring for sauces, stews and the like. A dish will be flat without it.”
Martin was beginning to feel like a real chef as he chopped and learned the secrets of the culinary tradition. But once dirty dishes began to arrive, it was back to dishwashing for him. That task was certainly a grind, one he had already mastered and would like to put behind him.
When lunch was over, Uncle Anton called him over. “Martin, you did a good job chopping vegetables today but I want to show you the right way. Watch me. If you practice, you will have knife skills which are so important in a kitchen. And, before you start, always sharpen your knife like this on a stone. A sharp knife is your best tool but a dull one is dangerous.”
“Why is that?” He always thought a too-sharp knife was risky.
“Because it can slip and then you will injure yourself possibly badly.”
Martin heeded his uncle’s advice and continued to practice the chopping technique.
The next day, the assistant again was missing. “I don’t know what happened to him, but I need you to help me again today.”
After Martin had made quick work of the vegetables, Uncle Anton poured some olive oil into a pan and added some of the mirepoix. “Now come over here, Martin. You are going to learn how to sauté.” Again, Martin had watched his mother do this from the time he was young so he tried to imitate what he had observed while listening to Uncle Anton’s directions.
After dinner was over, Uncle Anton pulled Martin aside. “I am giving you a promotion which you have earned. Tomorrow you will be a line cook.”
This took Martin by surprise since he thought it was too soon to have that responsibility. “What about the dishes? Who will wash them?”
“It’s always easy to find a dishwasher since there are new immigrants seeking employment. I’ll put out the word at the Slavonic Society and by tomorrow evening I feel certain the job will be filled.”
And the next day Stanislav showed up, a boy Martin recognized from his language class, one who was walking with the girl with the chestnut hair. What a coincidence. It must be fate that brought him here. Now I’ll be able to find out more about her and meet her, too. His heartbeat quickened just thinking about her lovely face framed by the chestnut curls.
Stanislav was Nevenka’s brother, it turned out. He, too, had chestnut-colored hair, though straight as a stick, and blue eyes overlooking a Roman nose. He was shorter than Martin and had a wiry but well-toned body. The family was fresh off the boat from Korcula along with their parents and three other siblings. Their father, too, had been a fisherman and had found work at the waterfront on one of the fishing boats.
The next day in class, Martin sat near Nevenka in the second row where he could admire her hair and get an occasional glimpse of her face if only in profile. When class ended, he caught up with Stanislav and his sister to get an introduction. Nevenka’s smile lit up her face, making her appear radiant when she said, “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
Martin was momentarily tongue-tied and then found his words to say, “Hello.” They walked in silence for a short time and then Martin and Stanislav had to change direction for the restaurant. On the way, Martin asked Stanislav if his family would be going to the Slavonic Society on Sunday.
“I suppose we will. I heard my father and mother making plans so they can meet more Croatians and become part of the community.”
“I’ll be there, too. My uncle’s family goes every week to have a bit of social life.”
Now, Martin could hardly wait for Sunday. That was all he thought about all week, even though he stared at Nevenka’s beautiful chestnut locks all throughout class. It was a wonder that he was picking up any English at all but, in fact, he was learning the language quickly. Even Mrs. Vukovich in her severe way complimented him on his progress. It certainly helped to spend all day in a restaurant where he often heard English spoken even if he did not speak it himself.
On Sunday, it would be the usual routine—church, the Slavonic Society, and a family dinner. After church services were over, Martin hurried ahead of the family to get to the Slavonic Society as soon as possible. He spotted Stanislav right away and made a beeline for him. Nevenka was standing nearby and offered a wide, welcoming smile. She introduced him to her parents and siblings just as the band struck up a kolo and partners moved to join the dance. Martin held out his hand to Nevenka and she took it, following him to the dance floor. They joined the circle, holding hands while their feet moved to the lively rhythm of the native sounds from the accordion, tamborica, and frula. Some of the dancers made very intricate and often syncopated steps, their feet wearing opanci, shoes made of pig skin that were molded to the feet. Martin was working up a sweat and thought the music would never end as he tried to keep up the pace. When they finally left the dance floor, Nevenka looked as fresh as ever while Martin’s heart was beating rapidly as he gulped air to recover. Maybe it wasn’t the dance.
Maybe it was being so close to Nevenka, touching her, that brought on his overly excited condition.
Martin and Nevenka sat down at a table to talk, but the band was still playing so loudly they could barely hear each other’s voices. Finally, Martin asked if she would like to take a walk, and after getting her parents’ permission, he led her out of the hall. “Do you know your way around the city, yet?” asked Martin.
“Not yet. Mostly I go from home to school and to a few shops nearby to do errands.”
“Let’s walk along the waterfront. It’s such beautiful day.” Martin pointed out the grocery store Paul and Katarina owned and told Nevenka what a good businessman Paul was and that he would be rich one day. “Many of the restaurants and coffee shops along here are owned by Croatians. They will all be rich one day, too.”
They walked another block or two and then Martin said, “Let’s get a coffee.” So, they entered a coffee house in the Austrian style with dark paneling, brass chandeliers, and paintings of Croatian sights on the walls. They took a table in a corner away from the piano, which was being played to the delight of most patrons. While the sounds of Mozart filled the room, Martin and Nevenka shared some stories about themselves. Both of them knew each other’s cities so they had that in common. By the time he finished his last sip of coffee, Martin was starting to fall in love. “Next week, I’d like to show you some of the sights around the city that my uncle has told me about. Would you like to do that?”
“Of course, but I have to ask my parents’ permission first.”
“Well, let’s go back to the Slavonic Society and ask them now so I have time to make plans.”
When Martin and Nevenka, arrived her family was about to leave. Mrs. Dukich said, “I’m glad you’re back. We were worried.”
“We only went for a coffee down the street,” Nevenka said, “so we could talk and hear each other. But Martin wants to ask you a question.”
“Mrs. Dukich, would it be possible for Nevenka to accompany me to the Golden Gate Park next Sunday. My uncle says it has beautiful flowers and even a Japanese Tea House where we could have tea.”
“If Nevenka would like to go with you she has my permission,” Mrs. Dukich said. “But you need to meet her here and bring her back here so you are not out too long.”
“That I will do. Thank you.”
Martin noticed his family had already left so he walked out with Nevenka and hers. Then he hurried uptown for the family dinner, looking forward to sharing his excitement about next Sunday.
Once they were all gathered around the table, plates filled with roast pork, fresh vegetables, and candied sweet potatoes, Uncle Anton opened the conversation, looking directly at Martin. “So, you appear to have a girlfriend. She’s quite pretty and knows how to dance the kolo well even without the benefit of opanci.”
Martin took a hard swallow, trying to clear his mouth so he could answer. “She’s Stanislav’s sister. Her name is Nevenka Dukich. She’s in my English class so that’s how I met her.”
“Well, she looked to be a very nice girl. You’ll have to bring her to dinner one Sunday.”
“Thank you for the offer, uncle. But next Sunday we are going to the Golden Gate Park you have talked so much about.”
“Oh, it should be so beautiful with so many flowers still in bloom,” Mirna said. “I haven’t been there in a long time. We used to take the children there for picnics, remember Anton?”
“How could I ever forget. Some of our best family times together were spent in Golden Gate Park.”
“I remember when Paul took me to Golden Gate Park the first time,” Katarina said. “It was so romantic—just the two of us having a lovely picnic surrounded by so much natural beauty. I think that’s when I fell in love with you, Paul.”
Martin glanced at Paul and saw a flush come over his face. He, too, would have felt embarrassed by this revelation in front of his in-laws. Then his gaze shifted, capturing Vlad just as he was rolling his eyes.
Chapter 8
The week began to fall into a routine—first English class, then the restaurant, and finally Sunday, a day of rest and entertainment, a day full of surprises. Martin was progressing quickly at the restaurant. “In a few of weeks,” Uncle Anton said, “you will be a sous chef. Do you know what that is?”
“Not exactly,” Martin said.
“Anton turned to face Martin, holding up his large chef knife as he spoke. “It is the under chef—the second in command in the kitchen. If you apply everything I teach you, that’s what you will become sooner rather than later. A great accomplishment.”
Martin was almost speechless; he could only nod agreement. Once he found his voice he said, “I want to honor the faith you have in me.”
When Sunday arrived, only the thought of spending the day with Nevenka revived him. After church, he went to the Slavonic Society where he met her and greeted her family. They stayed a short time to visit and dance a kolo before heading out. Since the distance to Golden Gate Park was more than four miles, about an hour and a half to cover on foot, Martin decided it would be best to take a trolley part of the way so they would have enough time to enjoy the park. When they finally arrived, they still had plenty of energy left to meander through the pathways, passing gardens and lakes and even men playing horseshoes. There were so many trees that the atmosphere never lacked birdsong, although spotting them was much more difficult as they hid themselves high above in the foliage. After walking for the better part of an hour, Martin and Nevenka came upon a sign pointing to the Japanese Tea Garden. Once they had crossed the stone path and bridge, Martin noticed a definite change in the garden—the way plants were arranged and shaped in such an artistic way but different from what he had ever seen. When they came to a pond, Nevenka pointed, “Look, there’s fish in it.”
“My uncle told me about them. They’re call koi, a type of carp considered good luck.”
“Maybe they will bring us luck.”
Up ahead they could see the Japanese Tea House, a small bamboo structure with open sides that had been built in 1894 for the international exposition. The only room of the tea house was nearly filled with people sipping tea and snacking on a variety of Japanese treats. But Martin and Nevenka had luck and were shown to a table overlooking a pond by a Japanese girl dressed in a kimono who took tiny steps, slowly moving across the floor. After they were seated, she handed them a menu and left. Martin took one look at the menu and felt his face flush with embarrassment—he couldn’t read a word. Nevenka looked up from her menu at Martin and laughed. She, too, had no idea what the menu had to offer. “Look,” she said pointing, “part in English, part in Japanese characters. It’s all Greek to me.” Those words relieved the tension for Martin so when the waitress returned he used international language—pointing and signs.
They were relieved when she returned with tea and snacks but were confused when she didn’t immediately pour the tea into cups. The waitress instead cleaned the tools to be used before preparing the tea. Then she poured the tea into a bowl to be passed and shared. Martin watched Nevenka as her lips touched the bowl before taking a sip. He so wanted his lips to touch hers, to feel their warmth and her breath. When the bowl was passed, he put his lips where hers had been and looking up into her eyes, took a sip. It was wonderful, this day was wonderful, Nevenka was why it was so wonderful. The waitress passed a plate of cookies, saying in broken English, “Fortune cookie. First made here. Bring good luck.” So much good luck in this place of exquisite beauty.
Martin would reflect on this over and over again throughout his life. The carp in the Dragon Gate story his uncle told had defeated all odds by swimming upstream in a swift current to leap over the falls and be turned into a dragon, the most auspicious creature. The carp symbolizes strength and perseverance, two important qualities that his uncle told him he would need for success.
After tea, both Martin and Nevenka had to hurry back to the Slavonic Society to meet their families for dinner. He held Nevenka’s h
and the whole way on the trolley but longed to kiss her, although he knew it was too soon. Instead, before they departed with their families, they gave each other the European-style kiss on each cheek and then turned to head in opposite directions.
Once they had finished dinner and were waiting for dessert, Uncle Anton said to Martin, “So, how was your afternoon with Nevenka in Golden Gate Park?”
It was an open-ended question leaving Martin to answer how he chose. Thinking about their lips meeting on the tea bowl, Martin said, “The tea ceremony was almost as beautiful as the gardens even though it was an unfamiliar ritual.”
Uncle Anton nodded. “Yes, so much about the Japanese is unfamiliar—they live here in a society that is closed to the rest of us. That’s one reason the tea house was built by a Japanese man—to let us have a glimpse of the culture we don’t see.”
Paul added, “The Chinese live in a more open way. Even though both are Asian, they take a very different approach to life here in America.”
So much to learn, Martin thought. America has so many different types of people from cultures he never encountered back home. In New York someone told him hundreds of dialects are spoken. How can people speaking so many different languages ever understand each other, ever learn to function together, ever share the same American dream? Or, on the other hand is there strength in diversity? He did not know. Right now, all he could do was ask questions.
Chapter 9
On Monday, Martin awoke early to get to English class and then to the restaurant for a full day of work. Aunt Mirna had breakfast waiting, which saved Martin some time. Then he flew out the door, headed toward the waterfront. Today fog had moved in to cover the bay, and it was creeping up toward the city, covering it in a thick blanket of gray.
The California Immigrant Page 4