Running Away to Home

  For my sweetheart, Jim.

  Without all your steady love, support, and warm plates of food slid quietly onto my desk, none of this would be happening.

  acknowledgments

  Thanks to Sam, for putting up with the trip and reminding us (often) why we had to go back. Thank you to Zadie, for teaching us by example how to be open-minded, flexible, and joyful travelers. I love you both more than the sun and the moon.

  The list of people who helped create the perfect conditions of the petri dish that grew this book is quite long and includes the Jolly Fisherman in Waubon, Minnesota; David Granger; Ryan D’Agostino; William Elliott Whitmore; Michael Diver; the Croatian Tourism Board; Eddie Latovic; Amy Wilder; Sandra Petree; Sharon and Ron Reese; Tomo Cuculić; my grandmother, Kate Fiori; and Jim’s mother, Mary Hoff. My gratitude to all players.

  And then to Richard Pine and Kathy Huck, for believing in the whole journey before it even began. I can’t thank you both enough, though I hope the bootleg rakija will tide you over for a while.

  A few trustworthy people added insight to this story, and you can thank them along with me if you like the thing: Jeff Inman, Erich Ernst, Dr. Rob Shumaker, Chris Gosch, Terri Stanley, Nicki Saylor, Holli Hartman, Julie Roosa, and especially my first readers, Bil Hoff and Jill Philby—your input was invaluable.

  Thank you to Marcus Tanner, author of Croatia: A Nation Forged in War, which I referenced heavily for the historical portions of this book. Thanks also to Jason Vuic, author of The Yugo: The Rise and Fall of the Worst Car in History.

  To our life-support system of family and friends in America: thanks for the love and humanitarian aid.

  To our dear and new family in Mrkopalj: thank you for welcoming us home.

  contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Zlatko’s Map

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Ivana’s Map

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Robert’s House (diagram)

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Iskra Family Tree

  Radosevic Family Tree

  Glossary of Croatian People, Places, and Words

  Copyright

  chapter one

  October 2008

  Dawn had not yet broken as I wrestled my suitcase out of my room above the bar in Mrkopalj, a tiny Croatian village nestled in a low mountain range that looks like the Alps but with fewer people and more wild boars. I sweated my luggage down the creaky back stairway, careful to step quietly for fear that some of the rowdy drinkers whose noise had kept me up all night would now be snoozing somewhere among the empty bottles in the brown-on-brown murk of the bar.

  I crept across a quiet courtyard surrounded by weeds, my breath coming in icy puffs, and I threw my stuff into the trunk of my rented Volkswagen Polo. As I hurriedly rubbed the fog off the windshield with my coat sleeve, hungry bears were creeping down those mountains to rob the wilting gardens of the village. They wouldn’t find much. Most of the cabbages in Mrkopalj (pronounced MER-koe-pie by the locals) were fermenting in wooden barrels by now; potatoes were stacked in red net bags in root cellars. What the bears did not know (and I didn’t know yet, either) is that they would find more action at the local drinking establishment that was now in my rearview mirror, a place operated by a man who was, in spirit, one of them.

  The last shreds of night still cloaked Mrkopalj’s eight hundred residents and their yard chickens as I skidded past Jesus and the robbers on Calvary, the sheep near the post office, and the dark doorway of a drunken tourism director. This was the land of my maternal ancestors, the village my great-grandparents left behind when they immigrated to America a hundred years ago. From what I’d seen so far, it hadn’t changed much since they left. This, in theory, was a good thing, considering that my husband, Jim, and I were planning a back-to-basics family sabbatical abroad with our two little kids as America’s economy hit the skids.

  In the spirit of scouting possibilities, I planned to explore Mrkopalj for a week.

  I fled after thirty-six hours.

  The engine of my tiny Euro car whined as I floored it out of last century. One urgent thought pulsed continuously through my mind as the sun began to rise: Get me the hell out of here.

  I had come to Mrkopalj in search of home. A rustic, simple country home that I hoped to recognize on some deep and spiritual level. Preferably something that smelled like baking bread, or maybe hay. Though I knew so little about Mrkopalj when I set out on this scouting mission, I’d been to enough of my older relatives’ funerals to know that I look just like them, with knobby cheekbones and eyes so deep set that I’m pretty sure they’ll eventually emerge from the back of my head. In a way, Mrkopalj is an essential part of who I am. Unfortunately, I discovered, this revealed me to be isolated, mildly alcoholic, and dentally challenged.

  So that was disappointing. As I mentioned above, Jim and I had been working up the courage to do something we’d always dreamed about: escape to a place where we could live simply with our kids, Sam and Zadie. We’d shared the dream of living overseas ever since we’d met and married ten years before in Des Moines, Iowa. The dream faded as we built our careers—me as a moderately successful travel writer, he as an architect. It disappeared altogether when the kids came along. We dove blindly into the blur of the American family frenzy, with all its soccer practices and frivolous shopping trips to Target. We worked. We drove the kids around. We shopped.

  We were chest-deep in the fray when the escape fantasy began to revive in me. I wanted to get back to that essential kernel of connection that had brought Jim and me together in the first place. We’d worked hard and happily to carve out our own version of the American Dream. We renovated a house together in lieu of dating. When we married, we promised that above all, we’d provide each other with an interesting life. We raised two babies in our homemade house, where I planted big gardens under the open sky of the uncrowded state where we both grew up.

  Then, somewhere along the line, things got complicated. I worked during naptimes and at night while I stayed home with the kids, writing in my half sleep, parenting in the same manner—I was doing it all but none of it well. I found myself mindlessly rushing to school or to swimming lessons or to ballet or to work or making another trip to the store; anything to distract my mind from the endless needs of the kids and the longest single-syllable word in human history: Maaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahm. The manufactured schedule replaced a more tangible life. And really, Sam and Zadie just wanted to hang out at home and wrestle and play beauty shop with Dad, though the 6:00 to 7:30 P.M. window of time that Jim actually spent with his children was filled with the chaos of supper, baths, and bedtime. We ran because we couldn’t sit still. Neither of us knew why.

  As we were living this life of distraction, we began to accumulate things. At final count, Jim had bought three grills—the las
t one cost us four digits. “You can make naan in it!” he’d announced at the unveiling, stepping aside on the porch to reveal a large oval-shaped ceramic urn mounted on a wooden platform. It looked like an altar. But I wasn’t in any position to judge. My shoe collection closely resembled a DSW store in my closet. Restlessness circulated through our house like that one smell that happens when a mouse crawls into the ductwork and dies. Sort of vague. Faint. But pervasive and disturbing. I’m not lodging a complaint here; we were comfortable physically, and that’s more than I can say about three-quarters of the world. But for that very reason, it just didn’t seem like the right way to live anymore.

  Jim and I looked at each other across the shopping cart one Saturday afternoon, both of us holding the Starbucks that accounted for $150 of our monthly household budget, SUV idling in the parking lot, kids grousing that the Lego set they’d chosen was somehow lacking, and asked ourselves: Is this the American Dream? Because if it is, it sort of sucks.

  It was into this void that Mrkopalj came calling. In July 2008, my great-aunt died. Sister Mary Paula Radosevich was the last of the immigrant family. Because no one else was interested, the nuns gave me her personal papers, which she’d stored in a bronze-colored tin lockbox. To most of my family, the old relatives were old news. But I thought knowing more about them might help guide my own. My olive-skinned mom rarely mentioned that she was descended from thick-accented immigrants, full mustaches upon both the men and the women. I’d once asked her where our family came from, and she would only answer “Iowa.” I sensed some shame about these poor ancestors who’d toiled in coal mines, or maybe it was just her natural reticence.

  The night after Sister Paula’s funeral, when the kids were in bed, I nestled on the family room couch and sifted through that tin box. I dug out her modestly short autobiography. In shaky upright cursive, she had written that her parents, Valentin Radosevich and Jelena Eskra, had come to America from Mrkopalj, Croatia.

  Valentin and Jelena’s tale had been furtively tucked away as the Radosevich clan rose to middle-class prosperity. With my generation, their story had nearly vanished. I wished I had more to teach Sam and Zadie about our roots. I knew not one old recipe. Few Croatian words. No helpful bedtime stories in which the misbehaving child gets disemboweled by wolves. But this felt like a start.

  I read that Valentin and Jelena had had six children. I didn’t know the brothers. But the sisters meant the world to me when I was a girl. The elder Radosevich women, those chuckling old hens, short of stature and big of butt, doted on me, each in her own way.

  There was Mary, who became Sister Paula, the oldest, and the only one who went to college. She’d become the principal at a Catholic grade school in Des Moines, and at her funeral her former students told me she was strict but fair. I think that’s code for mean. But with me, Sister Paula was attentive and inquisitive. How was I doing in school? Was I making classwork my priority? Higher even than softball and boys? I grew up in Colfax, Iowa, where the only black person in town bagged groceries and lived at the dump, and Sister Paula urged me to broaden my understanding of the world, to consider travel a crucial part of my education. She was the one who after hearing that my parents wouldn’t let me see Grease, placed a call to my mother to tell her it was a defining movie of a generation and I must see it. And so I did.

  Annie was the middle sister, called Auntie by all the cousins. Auntie wore a girdle, a fascinating device of physics with levers and fulcrums, underneath her cotton housedress. I know about the girdle because Auntie would let me come into the bathroom during her morning constitutional so I could snap and unsnap her stockings from her garters. She died when I was a little girl, but not before she sewed an entire wardrobe for my Barbie dolls and ruined my palate by stirring butter and salt into my baby food.

  Katherine was the youngest. My Grandma Kate. My mother’s mother. I loved her above all others. Toni perms had burnt her jet-black hair until it was crisp and brittle, and her eyebrows were singed from lighting Misty menthols on the coil of her electric stove. Her oversized sweaters sparkled with sequins. She drove her metallic-blue Volare just a few notches below the speed of sound.

  I was lonely in my mother’s harsh and nervous universe. We seemed so mismatched as mother and daughter. An unhappy woman stranded in a small town, Mom was prone to days of angry silence. I was an intense and curious kid who seemed born to question. In Wednesday-night church school at Immaculate Conception, my classmates would pass me wadded-up notes bearing questions that they were too embarrassed to ask.

  “So if Jesus is real, will he catch this book if I drop it?” I asked a flustered fourth-grade teacher as I held the catechism above the floor.

  “If premarital sex is a sin, then how are you supposed to know if you’re going to like being married to someone? It seems like a bad idea not to test-drive the car before leaving the lot.” That one I floated out to our priest in high school, who responded with a stumped silence, but I’ll tell you that my parents were not pleased when he had a Why Premarital Sex Is a Sin pamphlet sent to us from the diocese.

  And just as I have always been a seeker, my mother has always seemed one to hide. I wish I could tell you why she spent so many days isolated from the children so eager to love her, lashing out in bitterness from an imagined slight from one of us, her anger often turning to taunting that she would encourage the others to join in on. Or she’d simply level a stunning silence that would last for days. I don’t know if this was depression, though later I know she struggled with alcoholism. I also don’t know why my dad never stopped it. When I worked up the courage or indignance, I demanded to know what we had done wrong, why she wasn’t like the other mothers, why she couldn’t offer the simple closeness and openness that we all craved. It created a friction among us all, a fear and a void. So many of my questions went unanswered. And so perhaps I was also looking for my mother in that tin box.

  From this odd home life as a kid, I found refuge at Grandma Kate’s house in Des Moines. Though her voice was manly and thick with a staccato Croatian accent, and she had a complete inability to cook anything flavorful, her unabashed love of my company built a foundation for my shaky confidence. She was widowed when I was young, having lost my Italian grandpa Gino to congestive heart failure, so I had Grandma Kate all to myself when I’d visit. We’d spend whole weekends chatting at her Formica kitchen table or calling her other daughter, my vivacious aunt Terri, on the phone, only moving every few hours to lie foot-to-foot on the couch and read romance novels.

  “Boy, Jenn’fer, I tell ya,” she’d rumble, “they sure make doing it with a man sound a lot better than it is.”

  I would pluck her chin hairs, or we’d head to her Saturday-night card party, where I’d give all the ladies bouffant hairdos. Around Grandma Kate, I was no longer the weepy kid obsessed with horror comics and the Little House on the Prairie box set. She thought I was smart and funny. With Grandma Kate, I was the best version of myself.

  She had a stroke when I was in my twenties. Uncle Howard found her on the bathroom floor, where she’d been lying for two days. She grabbed my hand when I walked into her hospital room and told me she’d just had a vision of my long-dead grandpa Gino.

  “I almost went, but Gino told me to come back,” she cried. “That big dummy.”

  She should’ve gone with him. She moved into a nursing home, where I’d find her with bruises on her arms and legs and, once, a goose egg on her forehead that the chief of staff couldn’t explain. I’d find her sitting in front of the blaring common-room television, tears streaming down her face.

  When she was in the hospital with some sort of complication, I came into her room to find two nurses cleaning her up for the day, one of them swabbing her mouth because she couldn’t swallow well anymore. Grandma Kate began choking on the mouth swab, which the nurse had dropped down her throat. They sent me out as she thrashed around in a panic. When I came back, she was dead. I sat by her side, holding her hand as her body went cold, whi
spering her childhood nickname over and over again: “Kata. Kata. Kata.” I have never stopped missing her.

  I dug through these memories on the couch until after midnight, pouring over pictures of Mrkopalj on my laptop, dreaming of the village where Grandma Kate’s parents had come from, this ghost-like place that was simply never mentioned. It seemed like something out of a storybook: a smattering of gnome houses among fields of spotted cattle and fat sheep, hemmed in by low wooded mountains, less than an hour from the sea. It appeared to have changed little over the centuries. As if it had been waiting for me all along.

  Maybe this simple and wide-open existence was just what my family needed. Travel had always renewed me. But could I run away from home—and bring my family, too? Was it even possible? As my wondering turned to obsession, it seemed as if Grandma Kate and Sister Paula and all the old relatives were answering: Maybe you can.

  The more I thought about transporting us back a century and across the globe, the more I thought it was a very good idea. Which, frankly, is crazy. So I figured I’d check with my human sanity barometer one night after I put the kids to bed. I had married a steady Midwestern man who spent his free time fine-tuning our Ameritrade accounts. If anyone could spot a dumb idea, it was Jim.

  “Let’s talk,” I began, plopping down in front of him as he was watching an ultimate fighting match.

  He turned to me. “We are not watching Rock of Love with Bret Michaels,” he said. “No matter what you promise me.”

  “This is better,” I said, grabbing the remote and clicking off the television.

  He sighed.

  “Remember how we used to dream about living overseas together?” I asked.

  “I remember,” said Jim.

  I smiled, trying very hard to look beguiling. “I’ve been dreaming about it again.”

  Surprisingly, Jim did not mock this.

  So I unveiled my proposal for a return to the old country, where we’d relearn the forgotten lessons of our ancestors and spend uninterrupted time together. It would be a reverse immigration of sorts—my own family starting over where Valentin and Jelena left off. There was a tidiness to the plan.