The California Immigrant

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by Barbara Anne King


  “So what does the doctor recommend you do?”

  “There’s a drug called streptomycin that’s been effective for some people.”

  “And if it’s not?”

  “They are also experimenting with a combination of drugs to keep the patient from developing drug resistance.”

  “So, what is the plan?”

  “Dr. Rosen is ordering the medication. Then I have to go to his office for an injection.”

  Martin and Lena sat on the sofa for quite awhile and hugged each other. Silence is better than words sometimes. They were embraced by the stillness as if God held them in his hands.

  Lena went to get injections on a regular basis but she only seemed to be getting weaker. They always knew that the tuberculosis could return and now it had made its appearance just when they were ready to reap life’s rewards. They had been through so much together—children, world wars, the depression, business challenges and worries. Finally, it seemed that life had been set on an even keel—that the seas promised smooth sailing ahead. But that was not to be.

  Lena took a turn for the worst in August and by September she was gone, Martin’s heart leaving with her. They had reached their 50th wedding anniversary which they celebrated the previous year with a family party and weekend at the Fairmont Hotel in San Francisco. But even as they celebrated, they both knew the end was drawing near. Four score and ten. That’s what the Bible says. And they both had exceeded it. They had been blessed and the blessing would continue throughout the generations to follow. That’s how life unfolds. Death is not something to fear…our faith tells us it is our reward at the end of a life well lived.

  The Mass took place at St. Patrick’s Church where they had belonged as long as anyone could remember and where their children were baptized, confirmed and married. The monsignor presided and since he knew Lena personally he had some very meaningful words that were a comfort to Martin. Frankie read the eulogy on behalf of the family. And afterwards, a friend of the family sang “Ave Maria”—Lena’s favorite song, a musical version of the Hail Mary prayer.

  Their three sons and three grandsons served as pallbearers. The hearse led the way to Our Lady Help of Christian Church on the outskirts of town where the cemetery was located. Martin and Lena had purchased a vault years ago and that’s where her mother and father were already entombed. There was a short graveside service before the casket was slid into its place. The plaque contained both their names but only Lena’s side had been completed with her date of death. Martin thought how odd it felt to be looking at his own marker as if trying to guess the date that would be written there. It’s written somewhere in that big book of His. But I hope it is still a ways off. There’s still more I want to do in life.

  Martin went back to work at the restaurant the following week. His old friend, Michael, stopped in for a late lunch and stayed on to visit, hoping to cheer up Martin. But, of course, politics was never far from their thoughts. “What did you think of that wall going up in Berlin last month?”

  “Stalin may have been an ally of sorts during the war but he has turned out to be a tyrant with his people and anyone else he has the ability to control.”

  “I hope this isn’t a precursor of things to come in Yugoslavia.”

  “Tito was smart not to align himself with Russia, even though he’s become a dictator himself.”

  “The people will never be better off until they have the ability to rule themselves.”

  “Freedom…that’s what it’s all about. Speaking of freedom, I am now free to do what I want.”

  “Oh, and what is it you want to do?”

  “My sister has invited me to visit and I’m thinking about going. Tom Paul can probably get me a cheap ticket.”

  “If you’re going to go, best go soon before anything else happens.”

  “I couldn’t possibly go until after the holidays. Clara would never forgive me if I missed Christmas with the family.”

  “It’s good to have something to look forward to. I once heard monsignor say that a person needs three things in life—something to do, someone to love, and something to look forward to.”

  “Ken told me a similar thing. Ikigai—a purpose in life.”

  “As long as you have a purpose, your life will be satisfying. And as long as I’ve known you, you’ve had a purpose…some sort of goal. Now in your twilight years, it should be no different. God’s gift of length of years should not be squandered. Wisdom should never be wasted.”

  Chapter 86

  On December 10, the Croatian community gathered to celebrate their countryman, Ivo Andric, winner of the Nobel Prize in Literature. Even though Andric considered himself Serbian, he was born to Croatian parents so there was no doubt that he was one of theirs. Michael spotted Martin and made a beeline for him. “Can you believe this? Croatians are now on the map. I thought they’d choose a writer like John Steinbeck instead. Certainly our neighbors were hoping for that, but the Nobel Prize Committee in its wisdom chose Andric.”

  “Grapes of Wrath was a masterful work with an ending that left me utterly stunned. But Andric wrote some interesting books about Bosnia and the various ethnic groups there—Serbs, Croatians and Muslims. You are right about the committee having wisdom; those Swedes promote world peace and understanding by choosing writers whose works speak to the human condition and highlight cultures that are often overlooked.”

  “He was a diplomat so he really understood things. Once he said, ‘If people would know how little brain is ruling the world, they would die of fear.’”

  “That’s a true Croatian speaking. You don’t have to be a diplomat to figure that out, but only watch what’s going on and share your findings with others.”

  “The Croatian pastime.”

  “You know, I read that Andric wrote a poem in his youth promoting Croatian-Serb unity. He often talked about bridges. About how differences amongst people could be bridged to better understanding. But he also believed that bridges, and here I can’t help but think of the Golden Gate, are more valuable than any other structure man builds because they belong to everyone. His book, The Bridge on the Drina, is a living example in that it bridges the east to the west. He believed that bridges are more durable than buildings and only serve what is good.”

  “That’s his diplomatic voice talking.”

  “Yes, I’m sure he also meant that when bridges are built between people, they stand up better than any policies, treaties, or anything else heads of state can conjure up.”

  “All I can say is, when I read his books, I’m glad I left Yugoslavia when I did.”

  “But we didn’t escape everything what with two World Wars to contend with and the Depression. And let’s not forget the earthquake that quashed all my dreams.”

  “Martin, you are made of a tough breed, one who perseveres until the end with the resilience to create new dreams until they’re realized.”

  “Ah, the program is starting. I don’t know what they can say that we haven’t already spoken of between us.”

  “Only that it’s one thing to read a book and quite another to live the story.”

  “And the families we left behind are still living that story but through history and blood we are connected to it.”

  “Let’s sit down and listen. It looks like bottles of sljivovica are open and waiting.”

  Chapter 87

  Sometimes Martin liked to listen to the radio when he prepped before opening his restaurant. As he was at his chopping block, he heard the announcer say that Tony Bennett was debuting a new song. Martin liked Tony Bennett so he turned an ear to listen.

  When Tony sang out the opening line, Martin thought that’s what happened to me after the earthquake; I left my heart in San Francisco. And again, remembering his engagement to Lena, he had lost his heart twice in that city. But it you changed the lyrics from cable cars to ramparts climb halfway to the stars, the song could be about Dubrovnik instead. That’s when he realized he had really left his hea
rt in the Old Town, a walled city that had stood for centuries and would probably remain until the end of time. He must go back before his own time runs out. Nowhere is the sun more golden than on the Adriatic Sea.

  So, he picked up the phone to call Tom Paul. “I’m going to take you up on your offer to fly me to Dubrovnik.”

  The family said their good byes to Martin on Palm Sunday, toasting him and wishing him bon voyage. The next day Martin paid visits to a few friends, Michael in particular, to say so long. He stopped in his restaurant to see the Croatian he had elevated from sous chef to chef and give him some last minute advice. But Martin could see that Ivan already knew what to do and would take good care of the restaurant until he got back. Then he could decide whether he wanted to keep it or sell it. But right now was not a time to make that type of business decision.

  So, Martin had tied up all the loose ends he needed to before leaving for Croatia. He planned to be gone a few months and certainly be home for Christmas. But you never really know how things will work out…how fate intervenes.

  Chapter 88

  On Tuesday, Frankie drove Martin to the airport where they were met by Tom Paul, looking every bit the pilot in his captain’s uniform. He was an impressive sight. A sight that gave Martin confidence he knew how to fly the plane and would get him to Rome in one piece. Since Pan Am didn’t fly to Dubrovnik, they would use another airline for the last leg of the trip. And not knowing who was at the controls would give Martin peace of mind. With Tom Paul, thoughts always entered his mind about how much of a screw up he had been at times growing up. Even his war record did little to erase those early impressions. An anonymous pilot was like a machine you could trust to always do the right thing.

  When it was near boarding time, Tom Paul led Martin onto the plane and guided him to his seat. He introduced him to the stewardesses and asked them to look after him on the flight since this was his maiden voyage by air.

  The flight stopped in New York to pick up more passengers but there was no time to get off the plane. Then it flew nonstop to Rome where they would spend Easter. Martin waited for all the passengers to leave before getting out of his seat, per Tom Paul’s instructions. It was actually a lot easier for him that way since he didn’t have to fight the crowds and could take his time. At his age, he was in no hurry. When he reached the cockpit, Tom Paul was waiting for him. “How was your first flight?”

  “Much better than that boat ride I took across the Atlantic years ago. The turbulence we experienced was nothing compared to an ocean’s fury. I still can’t get over how fast one can travel from one continent to the other these days. When I came to America, I was amazed there were trains.”

  “You’ve certainly witnessed a lot of changes in your lifetime.”

  “You can say that again.”

  Once they got their luggage they checked into a small hotel near the Vatican and settled down for a nap. When they awoke it was time for dinner. “Let’s find a restaurant and check out some sights on the way,” said Tom Paul. And he knew exactly where he wanted to go since Rome was a regular stop for him.

  After a dinner on the Piazza Navona where Bernini’s Fountain of the Four Rivers presides, they headed back to their hotel for the night.

  Chapter 89

  On Easter Sunday, they got up early, ate breakfast and headed to St. Peter’s Basilica for Mass. The crowd had already begun to assemble but it moved slowly together as if it were a single creature until it got through the doors and disbursed, each person taking his place in a pew, awestruck by the Basilica’s grandeur. The Mass was a glorious one with so many celebrants on the altar and so much incense filling the air that the devoted felt transported into a heavenly realm. After Mass was finished, Martin said, “I want to take a look around as long as we’re here. I’m interested in seeing more of Bernini’s work. That Fountain of the Four Rivers captivated me. I can’t imagine what he did in here.”

  “The brochure states that he created the Baldachin, the canopy that sits over the high altar and St. Peter’s tomb.”

  “Let’s start heading up front so we can see it.” They were taken with the intricacy of the design and marveled at how anyone could have created it out of bronze. “Only God could have inspired that,” Martin said. As he stood underneath and looked up, the image of the Holy Spirit met his eye and for a fraction of a second he felt overwhelmed by its power.

  “Over to the left above the exit door is one of Bernini’s last works entitled, Monument to Alexander VII. It depicts the four virtues that the pope practiced: charity, truth, justice and prudence.”

  Martin looked closely at each element of the sculpture. Death was lurking there, too, with an hourglass marking the sands of time. When he got to Charity holding a baby to her breast, his mind connected the image to the one Steinbeck had depicted at the end of his novel Grapes of Wrath. I never quite understood the ending until now. And no one was ever quite able to explain it to me. In Christianity, charity and justice are connected—themes in Steinbeck’s novel. And now that odd smile on Rose of Sharon’s face made sense—truth—the divine truth that charity is the highest virtue in life. She had reached perfection, become a rose of Sharon. No wonder Steinbeck had given her that unusual name. Martin was momentarily stunned. The divine truth had been revealed to him as well and it did not come in a whisper, more like a wallop. Oh, my God.

  Chapter 90

  Now Martin and Tom Paul were on the last leg of their journey, sitting together as they flew across the Adriatic Sea to Dubrovnik. Martin looked down to glimpse the sea he loved but they were so high up he couldn’t get much of an impression. They made a near perfect landing at Cilipi Airport, claimed their luggage, and picked up the rental car. The first thing that struck Martin was the stands of Italian Cypress that grow in the Eastern Mediterranean and are rarely seen elsewhere. Rising high toward the sky, they are a symbol of immortality. And to become immortal, Martin reflected, one needs to become perfect.

  The road to old town Dubrovnik was a coastal one set high on cliffs that provided a panoramic view of the Adriatic. “I have to admit, this is the most scenic route I’ve ever taken between an airport and town.”

  “And the best one you ever will take, too.” The ride into town took little more than half an hour. “The first thing I want to do even before I greet the relatives is to walk the ramparts.”

  “Alright, I’ll drop you off in front of the gate and find a parking space.” Martin headed for a bench, nearby the Yugoslavian flag proudly waving its red, white and blue stripes in the wind. In the center, a single red star stood out, a symbol of Communism, the five points representing the five fingers of a worker’s hand. He was reminded of what was happening with farmhands in Pajaro Valley through Cesar Chavez’s efforts. From what he knew, workers were no better off under Communism but maybe some hope for them lay with Chavez.

  When Tom Paul returned, he found Martin sitting in the square nearby the Pile Gate. Then they headed over the drawbridge into the walled city through the centuries old gate. Martin looked up as he entered, “That’s St. Blaise still presiding over the city and protecting it.” Then they passed through the inner gate that opened to the Stradun, the main pedestrian thoroughfare in the city. From here the town stretches out nearly a thousand feet along the limestone walkway, showcasing historic buildings, shops and monuments.

  As soon as they passed through the inner gate, they found stairs leading to the ramparts. But they also found a booth to purchase an entrance ticket. “I can’t believe we have to buy a ticket. Even though they’re Communist they’re taking on some capitalist ways.”

  Tom Paul offered his arm to his father and they took the steps slowly, resting along the way. The walls are 80 feet high so it took awhile to reach the top. “Let’s turn left and head in the direction of the Adriatic.” The walk toward the sea didn’t take long. “This is where I used to come when I was a young boy to watch for merchant ships. The view hasn’t changed a bit. There are some things man can cha
nge but some will remain forever as they are. Nature holds the trump card.”

  “I don’t know why you ever left this place. It’s so beautiful here.”

  “Opportunity…a chance to have a better life…to help relatives back home. Yugoslavia was dominated by the Habsburg Regime back them. The people had nothing. Now they’ve got a dictator and communism. They’re not much better off. It’s only the charity of relatives that have left and made good that have kept them going.”

  “It’s good that you were able to help your family.”

  “People from town who come to visit here leave with only the clothes on their back. They leave everything they brought with them for the relatives.

  “The brochure says it’s a mile and a half around the town on the ramparts. Are you up to it?”

  “My sisters’ home is only a little further down so let’s walk until we get nearby then take the closest stairs. Let me see if I can remember the way to get there. Veronika and Zara are living in my boyhood home. I believe this is where to turn. Again, little has changed.”

  Finally, they reached their destination and rang the bell. Veronika and Zara had been waiting for them to arrive. When they opened the door, the first thing they did was give Martin and Tom Paul kisses on both cheeks. Martin took one look at them and thought, they have changed. When he left they were young girls with the first blush of womanhood. Now they were old ladies, both plump with gray hair and wrinkled faces. They wore dirndl skirts with puffed sleeve blouses and sturdy black leather shoes, tied with laces. There was nothing fashionable about them and probably never had been.

 

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