A Covenant of Poppies

Chapter 37

In a small house located in the town of Krdn, near Croatia's border with Serbia, Marjia Vrakuvic moved through the dim light of her mother-in-law’s bedroom. "Sofi?" she whispered. As she touched her mother-in-law’s arm the old woman’s eyes flew open.

As close as she was to death, Sofi Vrakuvic was a force to be reckoned with. Marjia smiled over the image that arose in her mind of the Grim Reaper racing through the woods being chased by her tiny mother-in-law.

Marjia held out a cup and saucer. They were fine bone china, one of the few items Sofi had managed to salvage from the war. They would be given to her oldest granddaughter on the day Ulrika married.

"What day is this, Marjia?" Two bright eyes stared out at her from amidst papery folds of flesh.

"Thursday." Marjia cleared her throat. "Do you know what?" She said as enthusiastically as she could, "The boy is coming. He’ll be here soon."

Sofi lifted her head. "Impostor! Not in my house!"

"No, mother, not an impostor. He’s real. How else would he know about Alec and Helene?"

"Someone told him who we are," the old woman fretted.

"And he’s come all this way to fool us?"

"He wants my land. Your boys' land." Sofi raised a thin arm in command. "Send him away before it’s too late."

"He wants to break his back tilling the soil here, when he can go into any business he likes in America?"

"You never did appreciate the value of land, Marjia, when your ancestors died for it. Hand me my notepad. Phillip must refuse him." She peered at Marjia with suspicion. "Unless you steal this away before he sees it."

"Why would I do that?"

"You want to tear the land out from under the noses of your sons."

"I’d sooner throw myself in the Sava. Besides, Phillip has already refused him."

"He has? Then why do you bring him here?" Sofi's expression was full of reproach. "What about Ulrika? She won’t make a good marriage if this boy wants a share."

The corners of Marjia’s eyes crinkled in humor. "It's Ulrika you always think about, isn't it Mother Sofi? You care about her more than any of us."

"She is a proud girl and I don't care for how you treat her. She must be pushed towards someth­ing great. She must be given the opportunities I never had, not cursed from the beginning."

"Ulrika is impertinent."

Sofi sniffed. "Some people call that strong."

Marjia peered at the unflinching face. "Okay, I'll give you that, Mother Sofi. She gets her strength from you."

It was, Marjia believed, nothing to brag about. Sofi was strong, but like Ulrika she was also as stubborn as a mule. As she reached for the teacup, Sofi's scrawny fingers shot out and clenched Marjia’s arm with surprising strength. "The land is our due and I will not see it taken away by Tito or anyone. Do you understand?"

"Marshall Tito is long dead, Mother Sofi." Marjia sighed. They were back in the familiar routine now. "Over ten years now," she added.

"And what killed him? Privatization, I tell you. We never would have had any problems if he left things alone. The Serbs are gone, and we are on our own..."

"The Serbs aren’t gone, Mother Sofi." Marjia knew this exchange by heart. "Not anymore."

"They came back? Tito! He had to go fixing things, that one. At least I don't have to wear that ridiculous scarf anymore."

Sofi was referring to the yellow neck scarves that young people used to wear on Patriots' Day in honor of Tito's birthday. The yearly celebration in Zagreb came complete with political songs, marching bands, flags, and always, matching yellow scarves on all of Tito’s little patriots. The last such demonstration occurred over a decade ago. As usual, the old woman was mixing things up.

Eleven years since Tito died. It was hard to imagine. How they feared that the comfortable way of life Josip Tito built for them would come crashing to an end. To his credit, Tito unified Yugoslavia, creating a strong nation, with the Croatian Krajina successfully reintegrated with the Serbs who had previously been driven away.

They were happy in the Tito years. They had a different life than that of their neighbors in the USSR. They came and went as they liked as long as they could afford to travel. Many of Marjia’s friends vacationed in Italy, Austria, and Germany. She herself had been to Austria and Hungary. Likewise, there was plentiful trade with other European countries. She even had her very own washing machine, made in Germany.

Marjia couldn’t remember when it happened exactly, but sometime after Tito’s death the yearly celebrations stopped. Pictures of the grinning Marshall, once displayed in every market, café, and tavern, began to disappear. Phillip had overridden her decision to remove Tito’s portrait from their own sitting room.

"He’s dead. What good does a picture do?" Marjia asked. She believed in moving forward. New politicians cropped up who spoke of things like reintegration and Westernization. They said Croats were good at ruling themselves. With direction, they could become part of Europe. What would happen to the Eastern half? She wondered. Yugoslavia was both.

"Marjia? Are you listening? Not only Ulrika, but Petra must have an adequate dowry. Don’t let that boy come."

As best Marjia could recall, Sofi had never displayed Tito's photograph. Nor could she envision her mother-in-law as ever having worn that yellow scarf. "Mother, you are mad at Alec," Marjia pointed out. "Your grandson wants to meet his family. Nothing more."

"He wants something. They always do."

Marjia shook her head.

"You are too sentimental, Marjia," Sofi said in response.

Marjia thought of Sofi’s middle boys, who were dead, as was Sofi's husband, Josip. Marjia's youngest son was named for him. What would she do if Phillip or her own children were taken from her? Who was to say she wouldn’t become as insufferable as her mother-in-law? Marjia really couldn’t blame Sofi for anything she had done in her life. She glanced at the cross that hung over her mother-in-law’s bed. Blood dripped from the naked Christ's feet where they were staked to the cross, his face a display of superhuman tolerance and unendurable pain. "Tomorrow we'll ask Father Stepic to bless our coming together with family," Marjia offered. "He misses you at church, by the way."

Sofi looked startled, as if Marjia had just come into the room. "Good Gracious Lord, Marjia. Are you standing there? Prepare for my grandson. Have a meal ready. My grandson from America!" Sofi tried to throw off the covers, but the effort was too much and she dropped back to the pillow. She pounded the bed, her eyes aglow with excitement.

"We will have lamb! Yes, tell Phillip to slaughter a lamb. And wine, from the cellar. You may use my china, Marjia, if you are very careful. Have my sons get the car; we will all be ready."

Marjia smiled. "Yes, Mother. They'll be on their way to Zagreb to get him any minute now." Marjia was used to these violent contradictions. It wasn’t just illness, it was Sofi’s way of keeping the upper hand.

"Marjia, you are wasting time!" she said. "I’ll need my silk, my best silk." Sofi’s arm shot up like Tito's on Patriot's Day.

"I'll look for it," Marjia answered.

"We will show him our best," the old woman continued, breathless. "I'll not give him cause to turn from us."

As Sofi’s voice faded, Marjia wondered if it was wrong to have finally taken Tito’s picture down. Would her nephew think they were ignorant peasants?

 Sofi’s voice drifted over from where she lay, her little voice hardly more than a murmur. "Alec wants us to feel guilty for things we have no control over. I can't regret what I've done in my life. What I did I did for my boys."

"He is not Alec, Mother," Marjia soothed. "Now relax. I'll take care of everything."