ANTHOLOGY OF

SLOVENIAN AMERICAN LITERATURE

ANTHOLOGY OF

SLOVENIAN AMERICAN LITERATURE

with sixty reproductions of Slovenian ethnic art

Edited by

GILES EDWARD GOBETZ
Kent State University
and

ADELE DONCHENKO
University of Minnesota

Slovenski Ameriski Institut
Slovenian Research Center of America, Inc.

•i <f

288828

SLOVENIAN HERITAGE LITERATURE SERIES
©  Copyright 1977
by

Slovenski Ameriski Institut
Slovenian Research Center of America, Inc.
29227 Eddy Road

Willoughby Hills, Ohio 44092 U.S.A.

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 77-77856

19 .

/ '*Y

3^^000251

This book is gratefully dedicated to
Slovenian American writers and poets whose
love and works have enriched the Slovenian
heritage and contributed to the richness
and beauty of the American mosaic

Ivan Zorman (1889-1957), by Bozidar Jakac

America, after alt, is a composite
whole of many nationalities that have been
brought together by a common lot—that of
seeking better opportunities, greater happi¬
ness. Each of these peoples has contributed
something to American greatness. American¬
ism, therefore, does not mean the whitewash
of uniqueness; it does not mean a mold from
which all shall come looking alike, feeling
alike, thinking alike. Vie may appropriately
think of America as a mosaic made up of many
stones and many colors blended into a rich
harmony.

— Ivan Zorman, "Our Great Problem,"
in Zarja,  the Official Organ of the Slo¬
venian Women's Union, July, 1929.

Slovenian pioneers, by France Gorse

PREFACE

It is with mixed emotions of joy and trepidation that we
present this very first anthology of Slovenian American litera¬
ture. We are happy at the thought that this volume, long over¬
due, is now available to English-speaking readers. At the same
time, we are painfully aware that no single volume can possibly
do justice to the rich but still relatively unexplored area of
Slovenian ethnic literature in the New World.

Writers included in this anthology are either immigrants
from Slovenia or descendants of Slovenian immigrants. They
have their historic and, frequently, their literary roots in
Slovenia, the northernmost republic of Yugoslavia. Slovenia is
a small, picturesque Alpine country which measures slightly
less than eight thousand square miles—this is, approximately,
half the size of Switzerland or about the size of Massachusetts.

Currently, somewhat over 1,800,000 Slovenians live in the
Republic of Slovenia, in northernmost Yugoslavia. Yet, as
pointed out by the English scholar R.G.A. De Bray, in his Guide
to the Slavonia Languages  (1951, p. 363), "all who know the
Slovenes regret the fact that even after the 1914-18 war, this
small people was far from entirely united within the frontiers
of Yugoslavia." At the present time, there are still some
fifty thousand to eighty thousand Slovenians under Austria, in
Carinthia, once a completely Slovenian land which has been sub¬
jected to centuries of systematic Germanization and where the
remaining Slovenians are currently struggling for their national
and civic rights against the renewed and intensified genocidal
fury of neo-Nazi elements. About 125,000 Slovenians remain
under Italy and a small Slovenian minority survives in Hungary.
The total number of Slovenian immigrants and their descendants
on all continents of the world has been variously estimated
between 600,000 and over a million, including some 500,000 Slo¬
venian Americans in the United States. Thus, all Slovenians in
the entire world number some two and a half million to three
million souls.

IX

A numerically small people located at one of the cross¬
roads of Europe where Germanic, Italian, and Slavic nations
have, throughout history, struggled for political and cultural
supremacy, the Slovenians have endured and survived over a mil-
lenium of subjugation to incomparably stronger neighbors. Their
very survival as a distinct Slovenian nationality group has
never ceased to amaze foreign observers; it is, according to
Bernard Newnan, a British writer, "a miracle almost without
parallel" ( Unknown Yugoslavia,  1960, p. 199).

But the Slovenians have  survived and, as the American
author R.H. Markham put it, they "made their little country a
model for Central Europe" and "moved forward to a distinguished
place among the most advanced nations" ( Tito's Imperial Commun¬
ism,  1947, p. 11).

Literacy in Slovenia reaches almost one hundred percent and
the general level of urban, rural and domestic culture is
high even by West European standards. . . . Slovenian is
the language of one of the oldest documents written in any
Slavic language, the Freising Leaves (Brizinski spomeniki),
a manuscript written in Latin characters and containing
prayers, confessions and homilies, believed to date from
the eleventh century (R.G.A. De Bray, Guide to the Slavonia
Languages,  1951, p. 363).

"The Slovenes used to share with the Scandinavians the reputa¬
tion of being the best-read people in the world—the number of
books read per head of the population was four times the Brit¬
ish figure" (Bernard Newman, Unknown Yugoslavia,  1960, p. 198).

The Slovenians gave Sweden Carl Snoilsky, her great lyric
poet, and France, Jean Vodaine (originally Kavcic), a poet,
painter, and editor of Dire,  which counted Hemingway and other
literary immortals among its contributors. Have these Sloven¬
ians and their descendants also developed a Slovenian ethnic
literature in America and, if so, what kind of literature?

The present anthology is the first systematic attempt to
answer these questions. It offers the first comprehensive out¬
line of Slovenian ethnic literature in America and the first
cross-section of Slovenian American literature written in, or
translated into, English. Twenty-three short works, all deal¬
ing with the Slovenian ethnic experience in the New World, have
been included.

The book begins with selections grouped under the title
"The Invisible Bridge." Americans, including Slovenian Ameri¬
cans, maintain more-or-less invisible bridges between their old
and new countries and their respective cultures. Whatever
names we may use for such bridges, to whatever degree we may or
may not be aware of their existence, or whatever our attitudes
toward them may be, these bridges exist, some visible and
others invisible—built of our innermost thoughts, feelings,
and longings. The Slovenian American writer, Louis Adamic,
speaks very meaningfully of such bridges in one of his books,

x

titled the Two-Way Passage.  In this anthology, Kristan and
others take us over such bridges.

Under the caption "Give Us Today Our Daily Bread," the
authors present the work situations of Slovenians in the United
States and, in one instance, in Canada. These descriptions are
rooted in the personal experiences and observations of the
writers and many of them are autobiographical. With the excep¬
tion of Bukvich's "Sweeper Marich," where exaggeration and
humor are used for literary effect, the descriptions are real¬
istic portrayals of ethnic experience. This holds true even
for Adamic's classic piece, "The Old Alien by the Kitchen Win¬
dow," a true story of a Slovenian immigrant whose life in the
factory is much more typical of that experience than is his
unique retirement style.

"All Kinds of People" underscores the sometimes forgotten
fact that members of an ethnic group are not "all alike"—that
they differ in life styles, perceptions, and feelings, ranging
from naive simplicity to avant-garde sophistication, from petty
concerns to noble endeavors. With the exception of Zupan's
"Cross-Spider," which is based on an old and long-abandoned
superstition, all writings in this section deal with actual
ethnic situations.

Finally, the ethnic American as a "marginal man" is dealt
with in a literary manner under the title "A Soul Divided." It
is common for recent ethnics to remain torn between two worlds
and to be subjected to two or more sets of conflicting and in¬
compatible inner longings and environmental expectations—an
experience of the "marginal man" which is often just as painful
psychologically and socially as it is stimulating and rewarding
culturally, thanks to bicultural or multicultural exposure. If
one accepts the thesis that an individual cannot fully under¬
stand his own culture without knowing at least one other cul¬
ture, then the concept of marginality—of souls divided—should
be a very rewarding one to ponder.

The editors have endeavored to present, as far as possi¬
ble, a fair and unified cross-section of Slovenian ethnic lit¬
erature in America, centered on themes of ethnic experience in
the New World. Although some of the writers included in this
anthology have long enjoyed national and, occasionally, inter¬
national recognition, some selections have been included not
because of their clearly demonstrated literary excellence but
in order to illustrate various levels, concerns, and styles of
Slovenian American literature. Twenty of the twenty-three
selections come from Slovenian American writers in the United
States and three are by Slovenian Canadian immigrant authors
(Daniela and Ivan Dolenc and Ted Kramolc).

The senior editor was responsible for the review of Slo¬
venian American literature (Part V), for choosing the selec¬
tions for this anthology, and for securing the cooperation of
the authors, translators, and publishers. The junior editor

xi

has polished and, in many instances, rewritten the translations,
and has transformed the uneven materials into what we hope is
now a reasonably unified and worthwhile volume.

We are deeply grateful to the publishers of copyrighted
materials for their permission for reprinting, to all trans¬
lators and artists for their fine cooperation, to all benefac¬
tors and friends for faithful support and encouragement; to our
spouses, Milena Gobetz and Fedor Donchenko, for their inexhaust¬
ible patience and loving help; and to Mrs. Patrick Cleaver for
valuable advice, expert typing, and technical assistance. Our
deepest gratitude, however, goes to all writers, living and
dead, whose contributions make up this volume. Should the
present anthology help, even a little, to promote an interest
in and appreciation for Slovenian literature and heritage,
should it enrich the American mosaic with a few colorful peb¬
bles, then we will feel amply rewarded for our efforts.

Giles Edward Gobetz
Adele Doneheriko

Xll

CONTENTS

PREFACE . ix

I

THE INVISIBLE BRIDGE

Etbin Kristan, The Invisible Bridge

Translated by Rick Sustaric . 3

Daniela Dolenc, Survivors . 13

Rose Marie Prosen, Looking Back. 25

II

GIVE US TODAY OUR DAILY BREAD

Ivan Molek, Graveyards of the Living

Translated by Mary Molek . 39

Ivan Dolenc, Night Shift in the Bakery. 45

Frank Bukvich, Sweeper Marich

Translated by Edward Krasovich  . 55

Louis Adamic, The Old Alien by the Kitchen Window ....  61

Karel Mauser, John Kovach

Translated by Joseph Zelle . 75

III

ALL KINDS OF PEOPLE

Sister Lavoslava Turk, My Little Angels. 85

Frank Mlakar, Osip Buys a Home in Chicken Village. 87

Kazimir Zakrajsek, A Father's Love

Translated by Edward Krasovich  . 99

Jim Debevec, The Holiest Thing Alive. 103

Janko Rogelj, The Charter Member

Translated by Joseph Valencic  . 107

Katka Zupancic, How Much Will You Give?

Translated by Edward Krasovich  . 111

John Modic, Being Naked Is a Sin . 121

Stanley Zupan, The Cross-Spider. 125

Ted Kramolc, Ambush . 131

xiii

IV

A SOUL DIVIDED

Ivan Jontez, A Soul Divided

Translated by Joseph Kess . 147

John Nielsen, Letter from New York. 157

Frank Kerze, Podboy's Return to Slovenia

Translated by Florence Unetich . 165

Marie Prisland, Memories of Our Old Wood Stove . 171

Zdravko Novak, A Patch of Earth

Translated by Joseph Kess . 175

Anna Krasna, Wings in the Clouds. 179

V

SLOVENIAN AMERICAN LITERATURE

Giles Edward Gobetz, Slovenian American Literature .... 185

Background Information  . 185

Overview of Slovenian American Literature . 189

Selected Characteristics of Literature and Literati . 200

Impact and Contributions . 206

Epilogue . 209

CONTRIBUTORS . 219

xiv

ART WORKS

Ivan Zorman, by Bozidar Jakac . vi

Slovenian pioneers, by France Gorse  . viii

The eye of a storm, by John A. Kapel . 4

Wailing in the wilderness, by France Gorse . 8

Survivors, by John A. Kapel . 16

United in suffering, by Lillian Brule . 18

New life, by FI. Gregory Prusheck (Perusek) . 22

Dreams, by H. Gregory Prusheck (Perusek) . 26

Slovenian peasant women, by Lillian Brule . 30

A village of Dolenjska, by H. Gregory Prusheck  (Perusek). . 34

Planting, by Lillian Brule . 36

Labor, by H. Gregory Prusheck  (Perusek). 40

Still life, by H. Gregory Prusheck (Perusek) . 42

Evening clouds, by Ted Kramolc . 46

Climber, by France Gorse  . 50

Ascetic, by Milan Vojsk . 58

Louis Adamic, by Bozidar Jakac . 60

The old alien, by Nancy Bukovnik  . 62

Memories, by Nancy Bukovnik  . 66

New growth, by John A. Kapel . 70

Karel Mauser, by France Gorse . 74

Multi-position piece, by Stanko Tusek . 76

Old man, by Steven A. Rebeck  . 78

Christ on the cross, by Lillian Brule . 80

Each and all of us, by France Gorse . 82

Chicken shack, by Nancy Bukovnik . 88

Landscape composition, by H. Gregory Prusheck (Perusek)  90

Light and shadows, by Lillian Brule  . 96

On strike, by Ted Kramolc . 100

Mother, by Milan Vojsk . 104

Katka Zupandic, by Lillian Brule . 110

The kiss of Judas, by France Gor§e  . 114

Offering, by Milan Vojsk . 116

"Bonjour tristesse,” by Milan Vojsk  . 126

Ted Kramolc, self-portrait  . 130

Archaic landscape, by Ted Kramolc  . 132

Gallery, by Stanislaus Rapotec  . 138

Doghouse, by Ted Kramolc  . 140

xv

Composition, by H. Gregory Prusheck (Perusek) . 144

Ivan Jontez, by Nancy Bukovnik  . 146

Madonna with Child, by Steven A. Rebeck . 148

Moses, by Lillian Brule . 152

Apocalyptic riders, by France Gorge . 154

John P. Nielsen (Sesek), by Bozidar Jakac  . 156

Metropolis, by H. Gregory Prusheck (Perusek) . 158

Cathedral, by Stanislaus Rapotec . 160

Steel and iron, by Stanko TuSek  . 162

Slovenian village, by H. Gregory Prusheck (Perusek)  ....  166

Still life, by H. Gregory Prusheck (Perusek) . 168

Marie Prisland, by Nancy Bukovnik . 170

Dreams, by France Gorse  . 172

Longing, by Milan Vojsk . 176

The Martyr, by H. Gregory Prusheck (Perusek) . 180

The immigrant, by Ted Kramolc  . 182

France PreSeren, by Milan Vojsk  . 188

Ivan Cankar, by H. Gregory Prusheck (Perusek)  . 190

Louis Adamic, by Nancy Bukovnik . 198

a : b = c : x, by Milan Vojsk . 206

The dawn of life, by H. Gregory Prusheck (Perusek) . 210

Plowed fields, by Ted Kramolc  . 218

XVI

I

THE INVISIBLE BRIDGE

Etbin Kristan (1867-1953)

Etbin Kristan

THE INVISIBLE BRIDGE

Translated, by Rick Sustaric

An enormous, giant-like, black bat hovered over the land,
casting shadows into every valley and winding the peaks with an
ominous darkness. It really was not a bat; the people did not
know the right name for it. A terrible nightmare pressed on
breasts and sapped the living air out of lungs. A pent-up feel¬
ing flamed in the heart, but it could not burst out; it could
not be expressed. The mind gave birth to a thought, but it
could not see the light of day; it could not be uttered.

"We live on our land; this is our ancestral soil; here we
were born, we and our parents and their parents; here are
rooted our rights," spoke the people.

A harsh, roaring voice thundered a reply: "Laws are writ¬

ten by the lord and ruler of the land and he alone deals out
justice. What he decides is right and the servant and serf do
not judge about rights. You were bondmen, slaves; too quickly
have you forgotten the whip and the white-hot crown."*

A quiet, barely audible thought murmured a whisper: "We

are people as you are; we plow and sow; you, however, reap and
enjoy. Who should be thankful? Who should endure?" It did
not dare express itself aloud because the thought was insurrec¬
tionary, seditious, revolutionary and, as such, first among
mortal sins.

The law declared: "Bow, submit to the lord!"—and bow

they did, even though they were exhausted with oppressive,
backbreaking labor. Furthermore, declared the law: "Give to

the lord the share which he demands!" and give they did as com¬
manded, even the portions from their own mouths and from their
own needs.

*"White hot crown" refers to Matiya Gubec, who in 1S73 led a peas¬
ant uprising in Slovenia and parts of Croatia. He was defeated and put
to death by being crowned with a white-hot iron crown.

SOURCE: Etbin Kristan, Povesti in artioe  (Chicago: Prosvetna

Matica, 1945), 79-90.

3

The eye of a storm, by John A. Kapel

When there was a holiday, they broke into song that they
might forget their cares and troubles, their torment and anger.
But a voice bellowed: "Stop! Cease with such singing. It is

forbidden. Sing songs of submission and respect as befits
bondmen."

They unfurled their own banner on that festive occasion,
but an order cried out: "Not here! Hoist up the lord's stand¬

ard, that it may flutter and wave over the roofs and steeples,
over the mountain tops and over the whole land."

Rules and regulations, laws and prohibitions, constables
and courts, the lord's officialdom and red tape and damp jails
—life was a narrow path, circumscribed on every side, and you
did not dare close your eyes or absent-mindedly stumble onto
notions or thoughts lest your foot overstep onto forbidden
ground set with snares and traps. Everything was rigidly
structured, strict law and order prevailed, but there were some
who, at night when utter silence reigned, in the innermost
depths of their soul thought that order choked life and that
law had slain justice.

There were restless spirits who did not know how to sub¬
mit and who lived from day to day hoping, believing in the mor¬
row, and telling others that it was necessary to prepare for
that future. If they dared to speak, their mouths were muzzled
and their hands chained. All the days and all the years and
all the centuries must be, and must remain, as the lord dic¬
tated, for even one silent notion for change was perverse and
criminal.

The restless spirits, however, fled across the borders of
the country, across the widest ocean to the very distant un¬
known places, where they expected, anticipated, and awaited a
different justice and broader paths of opportunity. The more
rigid and ironclad the lord's law and order became at home, the
more inviting became the fabulous places of strange and foreign
lands.

"You, too, Tone?" asked Yuri in a voice of surprise and
amazement.

"Yes, even I, dear friend," replied Tone, and it was obvi¬
ous it was not an easy decision for him. "If I cannot breathe
the life-giving air of freedom, I will perish. I feel choked
that I cannot breathe. Oppressive cramps and spasms crush and
numb my bones and organs and my head reels from the heavy aches
of prohibitions and forbidden thoughts. Something, some force,
is drawing me away before I am utterly poisoned by this oppres¬
sive and contaminated air."

"Endure! Submit as we do!"

"I cannot submit. If I stay I will break thousands upon
thousands of rules and laws and run up against a million prohi¬
bitions. I am not afraid of imprisonment. I have experienced
jails. The whole land is one grand slave pen, one huge pris¬
oner's quarry. Law officers, tax collectors, officials of all

5

kinds have you in their grip before the courts and other high
places. Constables eye every path you take—to your home, to
the fields, to the woods, and even to your bedside. Fear has
no power over me. What bothers me is that life is so empty,
work has no meaning or sense, and so much is wasted and lost."

"If you leave, you yourself will be lost. Strange and
foreign lands will swallow you up. You will speak a foreign
language, sing foreign songs, fall in love with foreign people
and in the end forget your homeland."

Tone answered with a negative nod. "I am leaving because
I cannot and will not forget. I must go away if I am to pre¬
serve whatever spark of love is still within me. My soul and
all my deepest feelings depart with me."

Yuri could not understand. His head rocked from left to
right. He looked at his friend, held and pressed his hand with
poignant pain. Then he turned, lifted up his arms, and walked
away. "One more lost son who forsakes his mother. ..."

Great and expansive is the foreign land and also very
strange. For a long time the many Ton^s, Johnnies, and Yerneys
did not understand it—some never understood it. From some,
the foreign land just took and took, and even reproached them
for the crust of bread for which they gave their sweat, their
health, and even their very life. To some this strange land
gave nothing, to others a morsel, and to some a great deal. In
a way it was just as in the homeland. The goddess of fortune
is the same and life is a gamble, a game as at home. You lose,
you win—and then some will say, "He is shiftless, worthless,"
or they might say, "He is a magnate." Take Pepch^, who bought
some worthless papers from a man who wanted to be rid of them;
suddenly everything changed — Pepche did not know how or why.
Today he rides in a limousine, he has a palace, and people bow
to him. It doesn't bother or faze him at all that he forgot
his mother tongue and learned a new one. Martin worked twelve
years in a mine. Then there was an accident, a cave-in. He
rescued the lives of three comrades. He himself perished and
is buried in a pauper's grave.

Whoever left the homeland without a soul did not find one
overseas; whoever left the homeland with his soul did not lose
it abroad.

Between the old country and the new one, however, there
are deep valleys, high mountains, wide rivers, and an even
wider and more distant ocean. A hand cannot reach across such
a great expanse and a word is lost even before it is uttered.
Life has many paths; one leads here, others lead elsewhere in
many directions. How could we know what they were doing in the
distant foreign land, when one cannot see that far or hear from
such a great distance?

Once a whole group of emigrant Johnnies returned to the
homeland. On their coats and jackets they pinned symbols and
momentos of foreign places—symbols which declared the fact

6

they belonged together. The people at home looked and said:

"Did you notice? Publicly they declare that they have become
foreigners. They are no longer ours."

Back in the homeland, they began to build a big house,
preparing for the festive day when it would be finished. They
sent letters to the foreign land stating what they planned to
do and enumerating how many bricks, stones, and how much lumber
and glass would be needed and how the entire interior would be
furnished and decorated. In the foreign land, however, there
were hard times. Something strange happened. Thousands of
Johnnies and Peters from Slovenia with millions of Williams,
Patricks, and Vaclavs began to knock on doors which did not
open. They counted their last coins which began to vanish as
fast as a desert puddle. There was barely enough for bread,
without butter—for today and maybe some for tomorrow, and then
what?

Back in the old country, it was not possible to conjure
up enough silver or paper notes for the big house, for the tur¬
rets and painted windows. So they pondered and concluded: "We

knew all along that they would forget us. Selfishness overcame
them in the foreign land. The greedy doctrine of each for him¬
self rules them. They are as lost to us as if they had
drowned."

* * *

Violent and terrible storms blew over the earth and did
not spare the homeland. Thunder crackled, lightning pealed
across the skies, the earth shook and graves swallowed up
entire legions. Death became so common that it no longer
stirred a soul or pierced a heart. Violence put off its mask,
boldly and loudly declaring that it alone was the source of
right. Blood soaked the land, enormous pieces of steel fresh
from the furnaces ripped, raped, tore, and crushed the earth
with deep holes. The explosions, cries, and laments, propelled
by a bloodthirsty drunkenness, boiled into more hatred, more
hostilities. However, during rare hours of sobriety enemies
exchanged tobacco for bread, cigarette lighters for cheese and
jokes for jokes. When the trumpet sounded the alarm, they were
again at each other's throats—killing. There were moments
when they all asked: "Why?" They received no answer. They

were not able to ask those who did know. . . .

In the faraway foreign land hearts also bled with sorrow,
but in the homeland they did not know this. A handful of local
Johnnies could not stop the madness which the powerful on
thrones could no longer restrain. Yet, in time, this madness,
too, will end just as floods, drought, and earthquakes subside.
What will happen to the homeland then? Rays of sunshine filter
through even the thickest darkness and goodness springs forth
from even the most terrible horror. So immigrants strained to
tell the world about their poor native land —its trials, suffer¬
ings, hopes, and rights.

7

Wailing in the wilderness, by France Gorge

But between the homeland and the foreign land there were
hills, rivers, and the boundless ocean.

The beasts of war were finally overpowered. They buried
the dead and hid the blind and disabled as best they could.

They signed many papers and documents, rearranged many bounda¬
ries like farmers shifting fences and fence lines. A new life
began. They wiped their tears away and one could hear the
cries of happiness and the songs of fulfillment.

In the faraway land across the sea they nodded in assent;
their eyes gleamed with approval. There was much suffering and
many were buried in the dark earth and would never return. But
the sun appeared to shine brighter with promises for a better
future. Satisfaction eased their new tasks and lightened their
endeavors and exertions.

Hopes are most beautiful when the dawn glows with bright
promises across the sky after a long night. Yet, time devours
minutes and hours and pales the dawn's colorful glow; many a
bright expectation receives a sudden slap. Beautiful were the
beginnings; beautiful was the dawn in the homeland. Yet, like
youth in the month of May and virginity, beauty is fleeting.

The homeland is not an island upon which shining gods and good
nymphs would establish a paradise, safe from the cruel encroach¬
ing hands of the world. Tempests and thunder may cease, but
when the wineskins are filled, sudden storms burst out, raining
fear and destruction. Water freezes and water evaporates into
stifling heat; it gathers in rivers and in clouds, and thunder¬
storms again shake the air. Threatening furies soar over the
north and south and spread fear and horror over the homeland.

Oh thoughts, so beautiful, so high and free, do you again
hear prohibitions? Oh yearnings, so gentle and noble, so warm
a nd passionate, is the heart again bound with fetters? Oh you
testless spirits who seek fulfillment, who yearn for truth, for
tights, who soar upwards toward the sun to kindle torches—did
the old order again return, the order which commands the serf
and restrains the oppressed with prohibitions, binds the eyes,
muffles the ears, and clips the wings of freedom? Did the
years circle full around and return back to those times we
believed were long since gone and buried? . . .

Yuri walks long, lonely paths because he fears his
thoughts yet cannot live without them. People have become
silent and mute; words are dangerous whether they be expressed
°r not. You feel or think that you denied or repressed your
thought, but a listener or an eavesdropper deciphered it,
perhaps because it also crossed his mind. How can one know how
a neighbor, once a close friend, will judge your thoughts when
bis daily bread is more important to him than friendship.

Yuri's thoughts are alive, very powerful. More than half
°f his life is in his thoughts. If you want to destroy his
thoughts, you will have to kill him, too.

9

It is not enough that thoughts linger in his head. They
seek the light of day. They must get out or his skull will
burst. But they are forbidden and they must not even come to
the tip of his tongue. What would it profit or avail if he
went to the top of a mountain and there bravely screamed out
his thoughts into the valley? At that moment his hands would
be fettered, his mouth muzzled, and his thoughts would linger
in darkness. But they must come out, they must see the light
of day, they must be in the world—they must or they will choke
him; they must be shared because they are true and just. They
must be uttered because they were begotten by life itself; they
must be heard; they must meet thoughts from other minds and
hearts, equally begotten, and united with them, to grow, to
become a powerful beacon, the flaming Shek-inah,  which led the
oppressed tribes to the Promised Land.

Who will utter the word, express the thought labeled dan¬
gerous which must not be spoken? Who? . . .

Day after day along the scenic paths Yuri walks alone
with thoughts as his only companion. Far from the town he
walks, past the meadows, through the woods, to where no spy
hides, where the forest murmurs and sounds accompany his
thoughts as the keys of a piano accompany one another. Today
he climbed to the very top of the hill. . . .

Who should speak? Who should utter the word, as vital as
bread and water, which lingers on his tongue all the day long
but cannot be expressed? To whom may he unburden himself? In
whom should he trust? How and from where may the thoughts
break out into the light of day? . . .

Listen!

What delusion or trickery, troubling and confusing, hides
in the evening air? Are his nerves so highly strung that
either madness or death is near? Did the word become such a
mania that he hears the ineffable thoughts as if they came from
the heavens, or from some bottomless pit, or from the other
side of the world? Yet, it is all in his head, in his soul,
like an untamed lion, and silent as the grave.

No! Yuri, it is not madness; it is not a mad fantasy.

If you strike on one string, all related strings respond in
kind. The world is vast and encompassing, but thought is power¬
ful and laughs at great distances. The strings of your soul
were struck and found an echo in another, like yours, which
yearns, strives, hopes, and believes as yours does. It receives
your word which came to it across an invisible bridge, past the
hills and valleys, across the distant ocean. It meets, catches,
and utters your word so that it is heard, that it resounds
throughout the world until it is fully realized.

"I am leaving because I want to preserve love; my soul and
all that is within me departs with me," declared Ton^ when he
left. And behold his soul is alive and all that is within him
remains as before. The same strings are tuned in him so that

10

his spirit responds to the string's of great joy or deep sorrow
in the homeland. He must live in a foreign country; his feet
must tread foreign ground; his hands must dig foreign soil,
turn foreign wheels, lift foreign burdens, count foreign num¬
bers, build foreign homes, and raise foreign children. He
kneads his bread from the wheat of foreign fields and covers
his nakedness with the cloth of foreign weaving. His labor has
been appropriated by the foreign land and there he builds his
future. How could Yuri despise him for he breathes his air and
drinks his water, and through him and in him he has found peo¬
ple, sensitive and thoughtful, suffering and fearful, yearning
and hopeful, similar to him, his comrades, his co-workers and
co-warriors?

The homeland still lives in Tone's soul. When joy reigns
at home his soul is also uplifted, and when misfortune strikes
his soul feels all the grief and pain. In the hours of great¬
est suffering a silent word, a thought, suffices, and another
soul understands, accepts, and fulfills its desire.

This forgotten son of the homeland is far away, changed;
some customs and ways he gave up and took on new ones; he
shaves daily and his chin is always smooth; he speaks a foreign
tongue, but he is not lost. From heart to heart, from soul to
soul, for joy and sorrow, for suffering and striving, for wishes
a nd hopes and for an inexorable faith in the future, there is
a n invisible bridge. No earthquake can shake it, no bomb can
destroy it, for undying love walks across that bridge with
inaudible steps.

11

Daniela Dolenc

SURVIVORS

The scorching sun beat against the well-guarded prison
windows which were covered with black paper. In Cell 104 the
female prisoners were awakening. They stretched their tired
limbs and stared silently into the outline of the sun's rays
that filtered around the edges of the paper. Each busied her¬
self with her own burden.

I was the youngest among them. I was only fifteen. Ly¬
ing beside me was a middle-aged woman, the mother of two. She
§°t up from her spot on the floor and began catching lice in
the uncombed hair which hung limply about her shoulders. She
Ca ught them one after another mechanically, turning from time
to time to kill a few fleas which happily jumped over the straw

mattress.

"How long will all this last?" she asked harshly. "I
c an't stand it very much longer; I itch all over. And how are
You today, my child?"

"As on any other day," I replied. "I'm hungry, I itch
a nd, worst of all, the pain in my legs bothers me more and
more." The vitamin deficiency had opened the wounds bn my legs
and pus spattered from them onto the straw in a regular stream.

"If we only had a bandage," Mrs. P. said to me. "I
already gave you all my underwear—there is nothing left."

"It will go away somehow," I comforted her. She worried
ov er me constantly as though I were one of her children. They
had been taken from her when she was arrested and she had no
idea where they were. She did not talk about them often but at
night she sobbed painfully and in her dreams she called out
their names.

Gradually all the women prisoners began to kill the ver¬
min plaguing them. We did this daily in place of a morning
Wash. Each day the Gestapo woman Tuschka placed one pitcher of
water in the cell; this had to serve forty-eight prisoners.

There was not enough water for our thirst, much less for washing.

SOURCE: Veterans Review,  Remembrance Day Issue, 1974, 3-11.

13

A strong stench came from the corner where the toilet pot
stood. I desperately needed to urinate but the pot was already
too full to accept any more. God forbid that the contents
overflow before Tuschka arrived! Again a prisoner would be
beaten and sent to the bunker for three days.

We started our usual game of guessing the time. The sun
was already high —that meant breakfast was near. A jingle was
heard at the door and the hated traitor-renegade stood there
with her company, two Gestapo guards. We jumped to attention
and into line. The prisoner nearest the door reported, "Cell
104, forty-eight women."

Recently Tuschka had been speaking in a lower tone. Today
she did not even look into the pot in the corner but merely
signaled two prisoners to carry it away, which they did, accom¬
panied by a Gestapo guard on either side. The rest of us
greeted her with an empty gaze. She poured some black water
into each of our military mess tins and left one small loaf of
bread for all of us.

We hurriedly gulped the coffee and swallowed the entire
portion of bread which was the ration for the whole day.

The city of Maribor is located in northeastern Yugoslavia
near the Austrian border. The British and Americans often
bombed the city which was a production site for German weaponry
and ammunition. The approach of the bombers made the citizens
of Maribor happy rather than frightening them. They were eager
for the war and Nazi terror to be over as soon as possible.

Ever since my imprisonment behind the thick jail walls, my
heart beat wildly at the sound of the siren. Together with the
other prison inmates I prayed that no bombs would fall on us.

During the year and a half I had been imprisoned, we had
had no news of what was happening outside the prison walls. We
did know that April of 1945 had arrived and that the next day
was Easter,Sunday.

I thought of all the goodies my mother had so carefully
prepared for us children for this holiday. We were not wealthy.
There were eight children at home, all healthy and strong. My
father had been an army officer but he was already on pension
when the Germans invaded. They scattered all of us; my father
and mother were separated at a railroad station and sent to
different concentration camps. I thought of my people and won¬
dered if they were still alive. I clung to Mrs. P. as a symbol
of my parents, my brothers, my sisters, my home, and I confided
only in her. On numerous occasions she had given me her ration
of bread and I will never forget how she took my part against
the other women in the cell.

Suddenly I wanted to see myself in a mirror. I had not
looked in a mirror for a whole year and a half. What did I
look like? In spite of the horrors of prison life I wanted to
be beautiful, to be admired. I asked for a mirror. The pris¬
oners around me screamed in one voice, "A mirror—in these

14

times! What does she think, anyway? She should thank God just
to be alive!"

Mrs. P,, with tears in her eyes, intervened, "How incon¬
siderate of you! Don't you see that she is developing from a
child into a young woman? Nature doesn't wait because of the
war. If any of you is lucky enough to have a mirror hidden
under your prison uniform, give it to her. If you don't, I
shall have to. . . ."

All confessed that they had no mirror. Suddenly they
became quiet; perhaps they felt guilty.

Noon was approaching when the siren sounded. Alarm! We
clasped our hands—our allies were coming again! The thunder
began and the explosions came closer and closer to the prison
walls. Suddenly, the cell was filled with a thick darkness and
dust swirled on all sides. Shrapnel whistled and human screams
and prayers mingled with the thunder.

I crawled along the floor toward the door which was
always closed and reached for the handle. Just then the door
was gone and a huge hole was in its place. "Forward, forward,"
I kept encouraging myself as I rose and stumbled into the dark
corridor. Screams and confusion continued behind me. "Maybe,
roaybe I can manage to escape," shot through my brain, "to be
free."

Three guards with machine guns stood at the end of the
ball, "Into the cellar!" they shouted. The thunder had sub¬
sided and together with the other female prisoners I dragged
m yself toward the cellar. The male prisoners, from whom we had
been strictly separated, now joined us. The cellar was a mass
°f bodies. As many as could had wrapped themselves around the
strong pillars of the prison foundation. The darkness was so
thick that I had to grope to find an empty spot for myself.

The explosions returned and everywhere I heard cries of "God
help us!" I dropped to the floor and felt another body close

b y.

"Who are you?" I asked.

"No questions!" was the answer out of the darkness. "It
doesn't matter who I am. I am just another prisoner like you.
Here, I have a blanket. Wrap yourself in it; you're shaking
a ll over."

"How old are you?" I persisted.

"Seventeen—and you?"

"Fifteen."

"You are even younger than I."

"What do you think is going to happen to us?"

"They say that the war will be over soon. It has to end,
if only because we have a whole life ahead of us," he said.

Of course, that's if we stay alive. And if we don't, who
cares? I'm fed up with everything anyway. I feel like I'm a
hundred years old. And you?"

"The same. I've read so much about youth—what youth?"

IS

Survivors, by John A. Kapel

"You and I never knew it. From childhood straight into
the dying age—that's what we know." His voice was sad. I
told him how sorry I was that he could not see me. I also told
him what Prisoner P. had said: that I was a young girl, and if
it were not for the lice and fleas I would be very pretty. . . .

"I shall see you if we ever get out of this hole alive.

And then you must take a good look at me—maybe I, too, am
still young and maybe good-looking."

Somehow, the explosion of the bombs and the moaning of
those injured by shrapnel was easier to endure. Somehow, it
was not so important that the bombing stop immediately.

But it did stop shortly. Again we heard the siren, this
time announcing the end of the air raid. The Gestapo personnel
began to shout and use their fists as they rushed us to the
stairway. We were halted on the second floor and someone
announced that the cells on the floor above were without doors
the air pressure had ripped them off their hinges. We would
a ll have to be housed on this floor.

They began to separate us into groups. Later, after the
Wa r, I learned that many of my co-prisoners were shot on that
day. Room had to be made only for those of us who remained.

Now I could see my good compatriot clearly: he had blue

e yes, curly hair, and, yes, he was young and handsome. His
Sl »ile was bitter as we parted hands and I waved goodbye to him.

A guard pushed him to the side where the male prisoners were
a ssembling. What did he think of me now that he had seen me
for the first time? Was I attractive? I could not know the
a nswer.

So many prisoners were crowded into our cell that there
was no room to sit down. Lunch—that so-called soup with corn-
meal—did not arrive and we were told that there would be no
supper either—not even the usual thin liquid with two potato
Peels floating on the surface.

I was completely exhausted. I looked for Mrs. P. but I
could not find her, nor had any of the others seen her. The
fear and sadness came over me, like never before in the prison,
f felt an urge to scream aloud, but suddenly I trembled all
°ver. What is going to happen now? What are they going to do
with us?

That night I hardly slept. Early in the morning I was
a wakened by the turning of the key in the door. It wasn't the
female devil. There stood a Gestapo decorated with many medals.
He called out names from a list. My name was called and I
stepped out into the corridor where a number of girls about my
a ge were already standing. The gloomy guard shouted an order:
we were to wait here.

From around the corner came a whisper—it was my friend
from the cellar. He hurriedly transferred a cookie from his
band into mine. He said that he had stolen it from the Gestapo
wife whose apartment he cleaned. I could not accept this

17

United in suffering, by Lillian Brule


treasure. "No, keep it yourself; you are hungry," I protested.
But my friend was already at the other end of the corridor.

The Gestapo shouted at the male prisoners that they were not to
communicate with us. I clutched the cookie in trembling fingers
while huge tears rolled down my cheeks. Wrapped in my own
thoughts, I did not even realize that the Gestapo had returned.
He began to speak. He told us that we were still young and
therefore the great Reich, in its compassion, was forgiving us
°ur mistake. He also told us that henceforth we should serve
the great Reich and its Fuehrer.

A piece of paper—some sort of release form—was thrust
into my hand. From a distance I heard a voice telling me that
now I could go home.

With the cookie held tight in my hand, I staggered toward
the exit. The daylight to which I was no longer accustomed
blinded me temporarily. And then I started to run along the
streets of Maribor toward my home, my home. ... I opened my
fist and swallowed the precious cookie.

The city was almost empty. Only here and there I met the
retreating German army. They were all in rags and their carts
were filled with the injured. I could not believe that I was
free and that the hated green uniform was finally falling apart.

I rushed along the river Drava toward the east. I stopped
°nly when the factories of the suburb of Melje were behind me.
Before me I saw the houses of the first village outside the
city. I W as starved and exhausted. My vision blurred and sud¬
denly everything disappeared before me. I wanted to keep my
eyes open, to inhale the green of nature, the fresh air, the
freedom, but I collapsed into pitch darkness.

When I awoke, there was a strange face leaning over me.
i recognized the features of a farmer. He asked me what I was
doing there, sleeping in the middle of the road. In seconds I
told him my story and that I was on my way home. "For God's
sake," he exclaimed, "you can't get home that fast. It's over
sixty kilometers from here to your village." He warned me also
that remnants of the German army, retreating under the assault
°f the Russians, were still in the vicinity. The front line
he said—was a mere hundred kilometers away. "Don't you hear
the thunder in the east? You'd better come with me to my farm,
you need food and we'll clean you up." And then he put me on
bis bicycle.

Beyond the town of St. Peter we reached his farm. His
wife, his son, and his mother came running to greet us. Who
was Ij they wanted to know. Soon neighbors also crowded around
Me. "My God, my God!" they kept exclaiming. "Such a child and
So  cruelly tortured!"

Those wonderful people fed and pampered me like a baby.
Nine days later the war was over.

* * *

19

(Twenty-five years later in Toronto)

The photographer's reception room was filled with people
patiently waiting for their pictures. The photographer had
suffered a heart attack and his wife had taken over. She busi¬
ly bustled among the customers, apologizing for the delay. All
the customers tried to comfort her, telling her that they would
gladly wait and that everything was O.K.

When I entered, the photographer's wife, also a Slovenian,
asked me to wait for her in her apartment behind the studio.
"The wedding pictures of your daughter are beautiful!" she ex¬
claimed. And after a while, "You'll have good company back
there in my living room, with a Macedonian and a Slovenian.

Have a nice talk until I finish my work."

The two gentlemen greeted me politely. They both rose
from their seats.

That day I had a terrible toothache. I was holding my
hand on my jaw. The Slovenian, a round bald-headed man about
my age, noticed my discomfort and asked, "You have a tooth¬
ache?"

I nodded.

"Here, have a glass of wine; it will help." He continued
jokingly, "Wine is better medicine than aspirin. ... So
young and already you have decayed teeth?"

"No wonder," I defended myself. "When our teeth needed
the best care we were in prison or in the concentration camps.
Who got his teeth fixed in those days? And after the war
it wasn't much better. We didn't have enough nutritious
food. ..."

"You were in prison?" he sighed.

"Oh, I was still very young then. It was during the war.
I was fifteen. All that is so far away now. Sometimes I feel
as if it all was just a dream."

"Just a moment," he jumped to his feet. "You were behind
prison walls? Where? I think we have met somewhere before. .

. . Were you in Maribor? On Sodna ulica?"

"Of course," I answered.

"Do you still remember . . . the bombardment in April,

1945 ?"

"Do I remember? That terrible day! How could I forget?
How could I ever forget it?"

"Then you are . . . that lovely girl . . . from the cel¬
lar . . . the girl under my blanket?"

"And you are that handsome boy who gave me a cookie—a
whole cookie! Yes, yes. ..."

We joined our hands and looked at each other without say¬
ing a word.

"And we met again in Canada—at the other end of the
earth. How strange our paths have been!"

"I would like to thank you again for that cookie. If I
hadn't been so hungry then I would have kept it as a souvenir

20

forever. I would put it into a treasure box, give it the best
place in there. But. ..."

"We were hungry, terribly hungry," he finished the sen¬
tence for me. We hurled questions at each other and waited
impatiently for the answers: where and how had we been freed

ln  1945, how and why had we chosen Canada.

"Did you marry a Slovenian?"

"Of course, a survivor of our kind. Otherwise I could
never be happy. It means a lot to me. We don't talk about the
Past very often anymore. We just think alike about it without
even discussing it. I think that we are different from others
who haven't had the same experience. The fears of the war
which we carry in our hearts caused us to be estranged. We all
feel the same pain—that we have never been young. ... I
still remember your words which sounded so terrifying in those
days. You said we were old men and old women—do you still

remember that?"

"Yes. And nowadays we even look old," he chuckled cheer¬
fully. "Some who survived became drunkards but I ate a lot and
x °st all my hair. Just look at my belly. I was so afraid that
I bought food and ate and ate. That old fear of ours that sud¬
denly there won't be any food left is still in me. My cellar
Xs  filled with homemade sausages and hams. Since I took up
hunting I even have a supply of venison stored away."

"I have a wife and two sons," he continued. "I am very
happy that my sons are growing up in peace and enjoy a carefree
youth. Everything that you and I never had."

He became thoughtful again. Then he asked, "Do you ever
f e ll your daughters about the war and the deprivations of your

youth?"

"Yes, sometimes. To them my accounts are like fairy
ta les. They can't comprehend. Nobody can if they haven't
lived it themselves. . . . Were all those horrors and suffer¬
ings necessary for anybody? The question haunts me. Is it all
only for history books? . . . Once upon a time there was the
first World War . . . and then the second World War. ... So
ma ny and so many people were killed. So many people were
imprisoned and tortured. The Nazis were terrible. . . . But
don't you think that history is repeating itself?"

"Let's forget about all that and drink wine to the miracle
that kept us alive—even if it is sometimes hard for us to live
w ith all our memories. You know, there are times when I feel
guilty that I stayed alive. Why me, especially me?"

"The thought bothers me, too. Why didn't they kill me
lust before the end when they shot so many of our best people?

• . . Why not me? . . . I .also felt that I should hate man¬
kind after my bitter experience. But it's just the opposite
1 love them. Maybe just because once a human being helped me
to  stay alive. ..."

21


New life, by H. Gregory Prusheck (Perusek)

"As we get older, there are more and more questions . . .
and no answers," he remarked.

"I have a fear that I never felt in those days, perhaps
because I didn't understand then. I often have the same dream:
roy home in the old country is a ruin, buried by bombs, and I am
searching for my loved ones—always in vain. When I wake up, I
am drenched with sweat. Many times I have touched myself, won¬
dering if I am still alive, and I can feel the fear of all
those twenty-five years which have passed. ... Do you under¬
stand me?"

"Of course! Life is becoming easier now as I see that
there are others like me still around, . . ." he said. "But
or >e thing used to bother me all the time: on the jobs I had,
e very inflated little authoritarian, every impossible boss was
like a Gestapo to me. I couldn't take them for long. Now I
have finally won my independence—I have opened my own dental
laboratory. If you want, I'll make you new teeth. You know,
You have to eat well now that we can both have some food."

My feelings were a mixture of joy and sadness. At last
! had met with my youth. . . .

23

Rose Mary Prosen

Rose Mary Pro sen

LOOKING BACK

Looking book we do not remember
ourselves but the neighborhoods
we lived in and the things there we knew.

. .  . How

much we belong to the past we learn
only when we have labored
to swroive and prevail without it.

—Richard Howard
On the United States
Considered as a Landscape

Easter. Arising at four a.m. Standing at the gas stove
the kitchen while mother curled my hair with the curling
lr ons. Wearing a long, loose white gown and gauze wings hooked
onto my back; a crown of flowers on my head; a small white bas-
e t with a long curved handle in my hands, flower petals inside
0  strew in the aisles at church as I and my fellow angels
® a rched, preparing the way for the Holy Monstrance, the robed
Ptiest, the altar boys, splendid in bright red cassocks, the
1 ncense burning and swinging on its chains; the organ and choir
shaking our souls with Easter music. Who can forget the rich
Poetry of church ritual from her childhood days? It is not to
e  forgotten; never can be.

The church full of early morning men, their grimy, cal-
°Used hands scrubbed down with Lava soap; the aroma of garlic,
Cl gars, of perspiration, of breath, not bad but au naturel  (bak-
ln g soda was our tooth powder); the women in their flowered
straw hats, wearing their one good dress, their church dress;
everyone wearing Sunday shoes, shining brightly, newly heeled;

" e  choir announcing "Christy has risen as He said! Alleluia!
fleluia!" The triple brass bells ringing, alternating; brass
—Hjjs on the left of the canopied tabernacle and on the right;

SOURCE: Growing Up Slavic in America,  ed. Michael Novak (New

or k: EMPAC, 1976), 1-8. Reprinted by permission.

25

Dreams, by H. Gregory Prusheck (Perusek)

the clouds of incense stinging my eyes as I floated down the
aisle. My sister girl angels and I led the whole procession; we
emptied our little wooden baskets, strewing the whitesheeted
center aisle with bright red and blue and yellow petals until
we reached the front of the altar, where we stopped, turned,
and watched the three priests ascend the steps, assisted by
their altar boys, some of them, sometimes, missing a cue; whis¬
pers to Joey to move left, not right; to hold the priest's
cape lower or higher.

The choir sang in English, the adopted language; the lan-^
guage their children were learning in the church school: Eng¬

lish, the key to success; its correct pronunciation the mark of
social distinction; its usage humiliating the old people, some -
of them illiterate, living their lives in devotion to Our Lady
of Perpetual Help, chanting their rosaries at early evening;

-^Fblack babushkas, black dresses, widows, their faces creased in
perpetual grief, sustaining themselves in plain Chant in their
own language, Slovenian, its very sounds striking the dim lit
Friday evening services with assurance, with specificity; the
communal spirit of women who had lost husbands, children,
friends; who had buried babies, those too-many-born in times
when the only birth-control was self-control; who had washed
their own dead with their own hands in their own beds; who con¬
tinued to plant lettuce, carrots, tomatoes, corn, beans; to
nurture plum trees, pear trees, grape vines; to preserve these
personal fruits and vegetables in Mason jars for the American
winter; the old ladies of the neighborhood who in their devo¬
tion to the Blessed Virgin Mary and their own home, their
kitchen, their cooking, preserved more than food and a reli¬
gious tradition./ Out of such single-minded routines arose the
hope of a better life for their children, and the strength to
endure another day in the family of strangers their children
sometimes became. Better to keep holy the familiar paths than
to wander in the wilderness, though they had boarded the great
ship which had taken than across the Big Pond to a strange land
where a peasant could dress like a gentleman if he could save
the dollars to buy the suit that said he was such a man. Money.
They came for money; money to buy the land that would mean they
were no longer tenant farmers; that they were landlords; that
they could nurture their own land and pass it on to their sons
and grandsons, and nobody could take the land from them without
war.

Through the years, I have had my quarrels with the Church,
as I have had my quarrels with the world. Wanting to be me, I
needed to find out what I was. Rebellious, confused, I left my
home, my church, my neighborhood, and ventured forth into the
world, into Cleveland, into America, into Europe, wondering
Where it was I belonged. I flowed into the mainstream, but
sometimes the currents were too strong for me; the questions
Unanswerable. I drowned, and drowned, and drowned. In the

27

ninth grade, a boy said to me, "You talk funny." I wondered
what he meant. I listened to my friends, and I did not think
they "talked funny." Then, that great American experiment, the
public high school, opened my ears. I heard the English lan¬
guage spoken as I had never heard it spoken. At that time, a
time without television, the high school was the only place to
hear multiple dialects. There were some students, mostly Jew¬
ish, who spoke English as properly as it could be spoken in our
school district. I began to hear that I did indeed pronounce
my words differently, and so did my friends. I wrote a letter
to a movie magazine. For twenty-five cents I could study the
correct pronunciation of English words from a special publica¬
tion, entitled, "How to Become an Actress." I practiced in
secret, in the bathroom, of course, until I could pronounce the
difficult "th" sound, which seemed the most distinctive and,
therefore, the most necessary to conquer. How superior I felt
when I had mastered this sound!

Of course, there were other language problems. Thanks to
the Dominican nuns in our elementary school, I learned the gram¬
mar of the English language better than any professor was ever
to teach it during my high school/college years. I still have
those composition books where I learned to diagram sentences
until I thought architecture was merely an extension of grammar!
Those lessons are the lessons I myself teach today when I teach
English grammar. I learned the rules of the language as I was
to learn and love its sounds . 1  Alas, however,I refused to speak
Slovenian. What was a Slovenian? A hunkie. A greenhorn, A
dumb Slav. "You sound like you just got off the boat," another
boy had said to me once. I became ashamed that my parents spoke
"funny"; that we laughed too loud; that we drank homemade wine;
that our walls were wallpapered in flower patterns; that we
grew our own vegetables; that my father raised chickens in our
garage; that he constructed his children's beds out of scrap
wood with his own hands; that he repaired all our shoes in our
basement; that my mother never sat down to eat dinner with us
(she cooked, served, ate when everyone was finished); that our
clothes and our curtains and towels were homemade, some of them
out of feed bags from the local granary; that stockings and
worn clothing were never thrown away but given to my uncle who
transformed them into rag rugs; that we had linoleum floors;
and, I suspect, there were other more subtle aspects of that
early life which I tried to reject but cannot remember.

What was to become of x me?^ Wha,V became of most of the
girls of that neighborhood in those days? Many of them went to
work in factories at fifteen—the woolen mills, the lamp works.
They became factory girls, glad to have a job, then a husband.
Some of them became domestics. Without specific purpose, I
finished high school, not the public high school. I transferred
to a Catholic high school, Notre Dame Academy, after I had saved
money for tuition. I was becoming an American, but I needed to

28

be with my own kind, the safe structured world of Catholics.

The language of my birth, Slovenian, did not pass my lips as I
grew into womanhood. If someone did speak to me in that lan¬
guage, I might respond. More often, I would not. However, by
the time I was thirteen, there had been five other children
born, and my parents were outnumbered. We all spoke English.
Except for Slovenian prayers, English dominated my family home
and, of course, the elementary school. We had become Americans.
My mother, whose parents were from Slovenia, spoke both lan¬
guages. My father began to learn the English language, working
in a brickyard and then in the steel mill. At home, he sat
with me as I read my school books. He pronounced the sentences
with me, word by word. We all became Americans, reading about
Dick and Jane and "Run, Spot, run."

There were no Dicks or Janes in my neighborhood; there
were many Josephs and Marys. In these strange first-grade read¬
ers, the children never went to church. There were no nuns nor
priests nor wine nor polkas. Mrs. Dick § Jane did not preserve
tomatoes for the winter. She and her husband never argued about
money. Mr. Dick § Jane never got drunk. There was no saloon in
the lives of this peculiar American family. Strangest of all,
there were no flowers growing in their yard. They never men¬
tioned flowers. In our school, every spring, the children sold
seed packets. Every yard, small as some of them were, was
filled with several different kinds of flowers, the most out¬
standing being the sunflower. I loved to look at the brightly
colored illustrations on the seed packets. What I know today
about flowers, I learned at St. Lawrence School and in the yards
of its neighborhood. Men and women, saving nickels and dimes
for the insurance man, always had a nickel for a packet of
seeds. It is amazing to me today to list the flowers that grew
in our family yard. The variety is so numerous a reader might
imagine that we had an acre of land, but we did not. We had a
small city lot. In it grew marigolds, roses, lilies-of-the-val-
ley, petunias, forget-me-nots, daffodils, geraniums, irises,
nasturtiums, sweet peas, and morning glories against the wooden
fence. Oh, yes, there were also glorious peonies! My parents
planted and cared for all these flowers as naturally as eating
and sleeping. I never once heard the word "landscaping. I
was astonished to learn years later that some people actually
bought full-grown flowers from a business called a "nursery
and paid a perfect stranger to dig up their yards. How strange
to deny themselves the pleasure of watching a seed sprout into
a beautiful blossom! Perhaps it was then I began to suspect
that mine was a peasant's heritage tied to the land and the
fruit thereof. Imagine raising rabbits as well as chickens m
a. city garage! Today, I am sure the neighbors would object.
Then, the neighbors, too, had their chickens and rabbits, if
only two or three. I remember the smell of chicken blood in

29

Slovenian peasant women, by Lillian Brule

the basement after my father had wrung a chicken's neck, then
chopped off its head. Chickens do run around without their
heads! No chicken today tastes like the chickens my mother
cleaned and prepared for Sunday dinner. There is no chicken
soup in America today like the chicken soup my mother made from
our home grown chickens. Homemade noodles went with the home¬
made soup. My sister and I hung around the kitchen table as my
mother floured the cutting board, rolled out the dough and
chopped the noodles. The flour clung to our aprons and dusted
the floor. Even our eyelashes fluttered flour dust. Dick and
Jane's mother never made her own chicken soup. Neither did her
children have the pleasure of watching her chop homemade noo¬
dles.

After food and flowers, I remember most of all music. My
parents bought a used player piano and, at age seven, I signed
up at the Dominican convent to take piano lessons. How proud I
and my family were when I wore the blue satin blouse and red
plaid skirt my mother made me for my first recital. In the
basement of the church, the neighborhood gathered to see what
their children had been up to all that school year. There was
accordion music, of course, folk dancing, colors, dramatic reci¬
tations in Slovenian and English. Afterwards, the adults re¬
viewed their children's performances in Slovenian, while the
children reviewed themselves in English. The old folks looked
on and wept. What they must have seen, I suspect, is the begin¬
ning of the end of their way of life; a discomfort more acute
than age and ailing naturally bring; a discomfort that signified
social change, for with money and education came social mobil¬
ity. Who would respect the woman who wore her money in a little
bag around her neck; who boiled bones for soup to nourish her
family of eight; who took in boarders in every room in the
house, including the kitchen; who boiled and laundered shirts on
a washboard in her kitchen when she wasn't peeling, or canning,
or baking, or ironing; who never bought a paper product because
old newspapers served just as well? Who could respect her hag¬
gling ways, her sharp tongue when the Jewish peddler arrived at
her door, carrying his suitcase stuffed full of life's luxuries?
A penny too much was a penny wasted! Even rags had market
value. On Saturdays came the horse and wagon and a skinny man
who collected rags and paper. "Paper-rags! Paper-rags!" he
would shout, and the ladies of the neighborhood would hurry out,
their fingers shaking as they received their pennies. Alhat
child could understand then that terrible struggle to pay the
mortgage before anything; that fierce desire to own the land and
a house thereon; to owe no one; to be free and clear? I cer¬
tainly did not.

At the same time, a Sunday did not pass without some money
being placed in the collection basket at Mass. Pennies and
nickels and dimes built the church and school, the national

31

home, and, of course, a bank. In a time when workers had mea¬
ger, if any, unemployment compensation and inadequate hospital¬
ization benefits; a time when the welfare system had yet to be
defined; at such a time, a generation of men and women from Cen¬
tral Europe determined to survive and make a better life for
their children. They did so, and in their doing, they forged
steel and wove woolens, assembled lamps and mixed paint; they
manned the factories of America which have made us today the
most prosperous people in the history of the world Jj Today our
garbage cans are extravagantly full. Our pets eat“better than
did some of our ancestors. Surely, somewhere in heaven the old
ladies in black babushkas are shaking their heads at the sight
of our waste.

So I remember the men and women of my neighborhood; the
factory whistles, announcing the eight-hour shifts; the men in
their steel-toed shoes, their blue denim clothes heavy with
grease, their lunch buckets empty, giving me a piece of candy
as they passed our house walking home from the mills. What
were their names? One was Matt; one was Cy. My father coming
home; my mother filling the bathtub with hot water; listening to
Gabriel Heater's news on the radio; boiling the greasy work
clothes in a copper tub in the basement; hearing the train whis¬
tle and chug; calling out to the train conductor, "Gimme some
chalk." My father and I walking in the center of the tracks,
picking up coal. The women in the grocery store, pointing to
sides of beef, or pork, picking out that evening's meal; the
sausage house where the butcher smoked his special brand of sau¬
sage; watching the blood and fat and meat chips being ground
through the giant grinder into casings; the smell of sawdust on
the store's floor; my mother, carrying her paper shopping bags
as she walked up the street to our house; the icebox in our
hallway which could hold fifty pounds of ice, although we would
buy only twenty-five when we did buy any; the fish truck, stink¬
ing and loaded with crushed ice and Lake Erie blue pike on Fri¬
days. Our lives had rhythm: fish on Fridays, chicken on Sun¬

days. Saturday nights for baths. And what were vacations for?
Why, painting the house, repairing the sidewalk or stairs,
scrubbing, rubbing, scouring. In their entire lives, my parents
never had a vacation. Yet, I do not remember self-pity. It was
enough to have a sturdy, neat house and healthy children. It
was more than enough. Such was their source of pride. Such was
the simple life of my childhood days, or so it seems to me now.

I am beginning to feel there is gold in the dust that I sift as
I write these words; a pagan spirit, beyond any language, that
is my heritage, tempered by thrift and work. Of course, no one
was perfect, but the strong took care of the weak. The retarded,
the mad, the deformed, the illegitimate—none of these were
sent away. Families cared for their own, accepting these bur¬
dens as fatalistically as rain and thunder. The drunken, the
desperate, the stupid—these, too, fit into the community of

32

workers. The old and the young and the middle-aged shared
households, each leaning on each as circumstances required.

The Church stood at the center of all our lives, the priests
burdened beyond confessionals to guide the young and console
the old, to straddle two worlds, Slovenia and America; somehow,
to strike a meeting ground for three generations of souls.

My generation became American. Not until I was out of
high school did I begin to ask, "What is an American?" When a
stranger asked me, "What is your nationality?" I always answered,
"Slovenian," though I had been born in Cleveland, as had my
mother and father. All my grandparents were from Slovenia. My
father was to return there at the age of three when his father
decided he would not make America his family's home. That
grandfather died in Franz Josef's cavalry during World War I,
age thirty-eight. My grandmother sent her son to America to
avoid conscription and to find employment in 1922. She sold a
cow to finance his ocean voyage, and sent her eldest son to
Cleveland. She was never to see him again.

When grandmother died,-in her eighties, a photographer
recorded her village funeral. The men, and women, and children
she had known all her life carried her to her churchyard grave
within walking distance of her home. No automobiles. No hearse.
Only people and flowers. Frances. Franciska.  She had lived
the lonely widow's life, never to see her grandchildren, for
she had sent her second son to U.S. Steel in Cleveland, also.

One stayed with her. I saw her grave in 1965 in Dolensko, in
the churchyard of Sts. Cosmos and Damian. I lit one candle and
placed it in the earth before her tombstone. Frances, I thought,
what a hard life! I remembered her letters. What were her
words? I had the photographs—her deep eyes and patient frown,
her gnarled hands, worker's hands. Frances, I have come to
greet you! From a factory town, from the shadows of steel
mills, I kneel before your tombstone. My eyes look up to see
the mountains of your life—those mountains which I had described
to me as a little girl from my father's memory. I felt at home.
In your house I saw the same picture of St. Cecelia playing at
her organ mounted on your wall—the same picture my mother had
mounted on our wall. I had studied piano. I had received the
family gift of music.

An ox startled me out of my reverie, and I arose and walked
out of the churchyard, across the bridge, and up the pathtothe
house that was my heritage. A sturdy house rooted to the earth,
it seemed. Sleeping that night in the old house, I dreamed the
songs of my childhood, songs my father had taught me; songs the
children at the elementary school sang in concert every spring,
directed by that great spirit, Ivan Zorman, our church musical
director. Songs about mountains, horses, flowers, boys and
girls, lovers, winning or losing. At dawn, I stirred and

33

A village of Dolenjska, Slovenia, by H. Gregory Prusheck (Perusek)

listened to the swishing sounds of workers. I got up, looked
out the window and saw a man and a boy, cutting the tall grass,
rhythmically, their scythes glinting in the early morning sun.

It was another world. Was I awake? Yes. It was 1965, but mo¬
tors had not yet invaded this village in Dolensko. Later, in
the attic, I saw a spinning wheel and a few ceramic pots, used,

I was told, by attaching to long poles. Then, they were thrust
into the stove below, which was furnace as well as hearth and
oven.

In one giant leap, a country peasant had become the city
steel worker.* What were his dreams at night? How many mornings
did he arise to walk in the dark to the mill where he earned
the money to buy his bread, bread that he had once made with
his own wheat? What transformations blazed within his soul?

Some men drank. The corner saloon on Friday and Saturday nights
was always full—their time for psychoanalysis and their time
for remembering home. Some felt displaced their whole life
long, never learning English, never leaving the neighborhood,
hugging their own blood, their own plot of land, living still
as workers on the landlord's great estate. They knew their
boundaries—the lines their children crossed and crossed. The
price for bread was high.

On Easter, 1976, I will remember the blessing of the bas¬
ket; the ritual meal of colored eggs, baked ham, homemade bread,
fresh horseradish, sausage and homemade wine; the sparkling
windows of our house, the clean curtains, floors, walls and
woodwork; all of us singing for the Great Feast Day; the side¬
walks and porches hosed down; the yards raked, ready for seed¬
ing; the great basso voice of Mr. Snyder in the church choir,
shaking the statues, the parishioners, the very earth, stirring
roots, arousing the spirits of our ancestors in that Slovenian-
American village in Newburgh. In my memory, his voice stirred
the winds of the Asian steppes, raised questions: who are

these, my people, my soul? The great Slavonic heart of a peo¬
ple dispersed and made singular through war and time and the
elements; one tribe to settle in Cleveland, Ohio, to become
again new men and women. I, too, am new.

'"Between 1880 and 1914, when emigration from Slovenia to America

was at its peak, Slovenia was still a predominantly agricultural country.
According to current statistics, only twenty percent of Slovenians are
engaged in agriculture, while the remaining four-fifths derive their
livelihood from industry, mining, tourism, and other non-agricultural
occupations.

35

Planting, by Lillian Brule

II

GIVE US TODAY OUR DAILY BREAD

Ivan Molek (1882-1962)

Ivan Molek

GRAVEYARDS OF THE LIVING

Translated by Mary Molek

Sunday came and Tony and John started the night shift in
the new mine. The night-shift work week went from Sunday mid¬
night to Saturday midnight.

On Monday the foreman sent Tony to a small new pit in
Shaft 75. There, machine drilling was proceeding on a slant
through a great layer of rock to a vein of copper. Already,
some three hundred feet had been cleared. It was the job of
the night shift to remove all of the rock which the day crew
had dug out so that the next day's drilling and blasting could
proceed.

Two other men were sent into the hole with Tony, a Slo¬
venian, and a greenhorn Italian who understood not a word of
English. All three were to load at the bottom of the pit. The
motor at the top, run by a young boy, dropped the empty three-
ton tramcar on a cable, down a track, to the bottom of the pit
where it was loaded, hauled back, and dumped.

The task, though simple, was not easy. Ventilation at
the bottom of the new excavation was so poor that, even when
they sat quietly, the miners were covered with sweat. The fore¬
man, an efficient man, had sent down three workers so that they
could alternate without destroying the rhythm of the work proc¬
ess. Two of them loaded while the third, who had ridden to the
top on a full car, rested and cooled off until the next car
came up. Then he returned in the empty tram to exchange places
with one of the others.

Other than this crew, Shaft 75 was deserted. The long
shaft was as quiet and peaceful as a graveyard, except for the
whine of the distant motor. And it smelled like a sepulchre,
too. Even the fat-bellied rats, companions in any mine, had
long since deserted this one. The once light-brown walls of
the shaft now reflected black in the light of the tallow lamps

SOURCE: Ivan Molek, Dva svetova  (Chicago: Prosvetna Matica,

1932 ), 122 - 26 .

39

Labor, by H. Gregory Prusheck (Perusek)

set on the miners' hats. Far off, the hollow groaning water
pump in the lower pits hooted like a melancholy owl.

Tony was not happy to be sent to this smoked-up hole, but
he would be there for only one night and he easily shook off his
depression. He and the Slovenian were the first to jump into
the empty car for the trip down into the mine. The timberman
had managed to fit only two-thirds of the shaft with a wooden
ceiling and sides. A thick plank was nailed transversely across
the passage where they had stopped. A full tramcar could pass
through easily but a man riding on it would have to bend low to
get by. Tony pointed this out to his companion as they went
past it.

At the bottom of the pit the miners removed their thick
woolen shirts, stripped to the waist, and went to work. Soon
shovels sang as they quickened their pace. When the car was
loaded, Tony told his partner to get on it, pulled the wire, and
the cable hauled load and miner to the top. Wiping his sweaty
hands and chest with a rag, Tony sat down on a rock to wait for
the empty car with the Italian passenger to come clattering
back.

When the swarthy man arrived, Tony tried to warn him about
the dangerous plank, but the newcomer only looked at him wide-
eyed and repeated, "Parla niente." What a nuisance! They
filled the iron box in silence. Perhaps, thought Tony, it might
be a good idea for both of them to ride to the top this first
time. If he couldn't explain the danger to his companion, he
would demonstrate what to watch out for. By the time the cart
was loaded, it was clear that his partner was exhausted; sweat
poured off him and his lungs pumped like a blacksmith's bellows.

Tony sat the Italian down at the front of the car, settled
beside him, gave the signal for the ascent, and the tram began
to roll upwards. Again, by word and action, Tony tried to con¬
vey the imminent danger to the silent passenger, but with no
success; the man sat there rigid, tense, and uncomprehending.

The car gathered speed and soon was but a few feet from the
piank.

At the last moment, Tony grabbed his partner's head to
force it out of the way of the dangerous barrier. But he had
moved too quickly—Tie lost his balance and slipped from the
tramcar onto the tracks ahead.

It all happened in an instant. Tony was wedged up to his
hips under the vehicle. He lay on his side, scraping against
the jagged rock and the wooden-platformed tracks as the car
moved forward. The Italian jumped off the side of the car,
picked himself up with lightning speed despite some scratches
and began to howl like a woynded beast. He tugged at the wire
madly, hoping to stop the cart. But the dull-witted youth at
the top had set the motor at full speed and was oblivious to
everything but the whine of the machinery.

41

Still life, by H. Gregory Prusheck (Perusek)

The tramcar dragged Tony with it in its progress up the
steep gradient. He was fully conscious but felt no pain from
the skin and flesh torn from his hands by the sharp rock. It
was like swimming in a huge black horn. Sparks from the cart's
iron wheels flashed along the tracks. A booming din echoed
around him as though the roof, immense cliffs, the entire mine
were caving in. . . .

His predicament was clear. If the track were free, the
tramcar could pull him to the top still alive. But he knew
that the track was not free. ... At any moment now the cart
would reach the wooden cylinder around which the cable wound.
There was only a few inches of space between car and cylinder.
Yes, death awaited him there. ... He would be crushed.

He was certain that this was his end. Only moments re¬
mained before death. What should he think about in these last
few seconds? How should he make use of them? Was it worth
thinking at all anymore?

Tony's mind flashed back through his life, as much of it
as he remembered since his childhood. All the images, as clear
and as vivid as the most crystalline reality, passed before
him. The old country, mother and sister in the little hut on
the outskirts of the village—perhaps the cellar has been re¬
paired by now so it no longer leaks—the neighbor's Kate, Stan-
ishar and Louisa, the struggle of the little people . . . the
departure at night, Vienna, Prague, Bremen, the ocean, New York
. . . Steelton, Frank Zamershnik, the factory, the slaughter of
the Black, Anna Shoster . . . Reading, Pennsylvania, escape and
tramping, Bill, Pittsburgh . . . the fat woman saloonkeeper,
the Salvation Army, the strike, the revolutionary Shartz,

Ruthy , . . Chicago, Calumet at the end of the earth, Sajovec
and the Wizard's Apprentice, Shvigel, Robkar and Fannie . . .
Saloonkeeper Feer and the job lie offered in the best mine on
earth. . . .

Little and much. He had experienced little and much. .

. . Still young, he had seen and met with two worlds. . . .

He could see, experience, and meet with even more—a pity that
he would not. . . . Did he fear death? No, not really. When
a person is born he is destined to die. But when a man is
still young and vigorous, when he likes to work and still has
much undone work before him, why must he die? . . . Especially
here in this devil of a hole so deep underground, in this
graveyard of living people three hundred feet under the sur¬
face. . . .

There is still a moment! . . .

Aha, the end! . . .

A million sparks flashed around him. They combined into
a small flame which grew smaller and smaller until only one
spark remained. Soon, this spark, too, vanished. All that was
left was the infinite darkness of nothingness. . . .

43

Ivan Dolenc

Ivan Dolenc

NIGHT SHIFT IN THE BAKERY

They gathered gradually in front of the long, white-black
plant, like bubbles upon shaken dough. One came near, then
another—no two men arrived together to this one-way, dead-end
street. Yonge Street, the "Queen of Toronto," was quickly dim¬
ming in the near distance, and, beyond, the stars were flicker¬
ing one after another like shiny drops appearing on bread
crusts in the overheated oven.

Few men stopped at the huge entrance; they all hesitated.
They savored their last breath of cool air before stepping into
the hot hell. They chewed on their cigarettes or pipes, greeted
each other with a swing of their arms and listened to the noise
of the congested city in the distance.

The bakery was located in the heart of the city, but no
cars or neatly-dressed people came this way. No happy faces
could be seen here either—one could only see the subdued and
the silent and the tired. Now all of them enjoyed seriously
the phony eternity of those last few minutes before that auto¬
matic punch of the time clock upon their workers' cards.

All of them were now leaning against the wall of the
plant; only Nikolay sat alone at the edge of the street on the
opposite side. The grayish wise man was remembered for the
remark he uttered on that postwar day when they were lined up
in the plant office offering themselves for the night shift.

"There are no friends left—nor are there any enemies,"
he blurted out loudly as he glanced around at the long row of
applicants before and behind him. "Only competitors have re¬
mained!" Nikolay's words, spoken in his soft Russian-English,
sounded so aristocratic and out of place in the deadly monotony
of the plant that they all burst into laughter.

"Everyone here is on his own and forever alone," he con¬
tinued, paying not the slightest attention to his listeners.
"Anyone with a family, like myself, is doubly and triply aware
of this. So don't expect me to give up in this long line and
perhaps get lost on the street! I need the night shift for my

Prepared especially for this anthology.

45

Evening clouds, by Ted Kramolc

survival!" His directness at once evoked much sympathy from
the others. They named him their "Saint."

On this late evening in June, there were some twenty or
thirty men standing on the street, but not one of them entered
the plant just yet. They waited on and stirred only when they
heard a bus pull to a stop on the main street. Although they
heard the bus every evening, they seldom saw it in the twi¬
light. But when a tall, broad-shouldered gentleman carrying an
attache case stepped off the bus, they knew that the time had
come for their departure for the plant locker rooms in the base¬
ment of the block-long building. Janosh was always more accu¬
rate than the watches on their wrists. He approached slowly
and greeted them with a wave of his briefcase—it was exactly
nine forty-five!

Like most of the others, Janosh was no longer young.

They called him the "Professor." Again, such a name was noth¬
ing extraordinary on the night shift crew, for there was not a
single professional baker or professional laborer among them.

The crew was undoubtedly the best-educated team of its kind to
be found between the Atlantic and the Pacific—on the Canadian
side. It consisted of European professors, engineers, econo¬
mists, doctors of humanities, physicians, teachers, artists,
lawyers, army officers, diplomats, and, of course, all of them
former celebrities. They represented all Slavic countries and
were also joined by Estonians, Latvians, and Lithuanians. All
the rest were students who attended daytime classes.

Although at times they referred to themselves as "The
Brain Trust of the United Immigrants," normally, by unspoken
agreement, they avoided all references to political or social
labels. The differences among them were so great, especially
in political background, that had they not done so, they would
not have been able to spend one single night together in peace.
Without exception, they had marinated, mayonnaised and glazed
themselves according to the lovely old recipe called tolerance.
One night Mike, the young theology student, described the exem¬
plary behavior of the night shift with a quote from a cookbook.
To the great satisfaction of all present he cited the following
paragraph:

"Game, especially the meat of an old field rabbit, must
be marinated so that it loses its toughness and can be pre¬
served for an extended period of time. We do not recommend mar¬
inating the meat of young deer, for in the process it loses
much of its nourishing components and its natural taste."

All recognized the thrust of the recipe but no one was
offended by it. With understanding they swallowed the truth
from the book of good cuisine and reacted with self-knowing
laughter.

At midnight, the group headed by the Polish literary
historian Henry stopped the conveyor belt that carried the
American and fruit bread down to the ground floor. Eight

47

sweaty intellectuals in white uniforms sat down around him,
each with a paper cup of coffee in hand, ready to listen to his
lecture. Tonight the topic was "The Tragic in World Litera¬
ture."

"From the bottom of my heart I would like to follow the
ideal path of Prince Myshkin," Henry ceremoniously concluded
his comparison. "But I see that this path of the heart, this
way of integrity and noblemindedness, of humanitarianism and
respect, leads only to a bakery of dreams like this one here."

He gulped some coffee, then continued. "We are acting out the
miserable role of Ganya; we are satisfied with the leftovers
and the big world out there is still the world of the Rogozhins
and Ptitsyns! As for myself, I readily admit that I cannot fol¬
low those two natures, despite the fact that I could easily
reach them or even outdo them with my reason. The unhappiness
of their life is attainable, this I know; even so, I would
rather forego dirty competition of that sort and wait."

There was a break in the discussion. The listeners sipped
their coffee, searching for an answer to the problem presented
to them. First to speak was Frank, the Estonian artist.

"There is no answer," he said. "Isn't it enough that
Myshkin came from a sanatorium for the insane and in the end
again returned to a sanatorium?"

"True," nodded another as he took an apple pie out of the
refrigerator. "Myshkin cannot be followed. His kind of good¬
ness leads to suicide."

"He remained as lonely as Christ with his experiment,"
stressed Martin, a former Catholic priest who had married a year
ago, "Christ, too, has not a single honest disciple or follower
left in our commercialized world—only admirers remain."

"But still, I see a minor difference here," laughed Mike
openly. "Myshkin is not a legend so it isn't possible to make
money on him as the organized profiteers do in the name of the
Nazarene."

"Let's end on this point for tonight," said Henry. He
turned to a Lithuanian Doctor of Politics and suggested, "Per¬
haps you can continue next time. Until Wednesday, on our be¬
half, you can consider if similar dough has risen in 'Hamlet'
and in the sad 'Knight from Mancha.'"

"O.K.," answered Ignatius, "I'll do my homework."

Then all of them rose, returned to the baking ovens, and
the indefatigable assembly line began to hum again.

* * *

Dragolyub, a graduate economist, was placing cakes des¬
tined for shipment to chain stores into the steel cabinets.

Every night, as he set them in the containers, he exercised his
memory by recalling the first names of all the great personal¬
ities or scenes of the beautiful places they were named after.

He always began with the Elizabeth and Napoleon cakes, then

48

continued with those of Linz, Brazil, Italy, Florence, Hamburg,
and Panama. Only after he had carefully pushed the Indian cakes
onto the tray did he count the mundane rum, orange, coffee, mar¬
ble cakes, and the others. When he got to the nut, strawberry,
and blueberry cakes he contemplated longer and began to count
them more slowly, as if he were dwelling on something from the
past. His tired eyes behind spectacles began to close involun¬
tarily and he was forced to rest. His colleagues, shuffling
their feet, stood before the cabinets with the large white order
sheets pasted on the doors. Dragolyub turned to them, leaned
against the wagon with the cakes, and shouted loudly:

"People of God, I won't be in this purgatory much longer!
In the autumn I am leaving you!"

They descended on him from all sides and stared at him,
wide-eyed.

"Are you joking?" the first one queried. He helped him¬
self to broken pieces of Colonial cake, which lay on a special
tray for waste, and sat down beside Dragolyub on the hot floor.

"No, I'm not joking," replied the young economist. "My
mathematical problem will soon be solved—maybe in one week or
two—and then Monte Carlo is mine!"

"May I visit you someday?" eagerly inquired the Estonian
teacher who, as a French Legionnaire, had swum out of Dien Bien
Phu. "Ah, but will you and your wife still want to know me?"

In addition to his night work, during the day Dragolyub
worked in a large supermarket alongside his wife—she was a
cashier and he was a stock clerk. All of their savings were
invested in autumn and winter tickets for the French Riviera.
They had already been there three times and on the last occasion
Dragolyub had won small sums at the roulette table. He was con¬
vinced that he was close to discovering a sure betting system
that would win him a fortune.

"I have borrowed several thousand," he continued excitedly,
"and I'm hoping for a clean sweep. I'm going to break the
Bank!" He wiped off his moist glasses and went on, "And then
I'm going to call myself a capitalist. I might even buy this
bakery of ours, if only to make it cooler for you fellows."

"And you won't work nights any longer?" called a man from
the other side of the shop. He had three children and a sickly
Wife at home. He had enrolled at a Canadian university but
could not afford the costs.

"Nights?" thundered the passionate gambler. "I won't work
days, either! Do you understand what this means in North Amer¬
ica? ... I will be free, free at last! I'll  have money and
again I'll  be a respectable intellectual. It's  quite possible
that I may want to become a human being again, too. A 'Man'
with a capital 'M' who is completely hot or completely cold—and
never lukewarm again as all of us here are. Have you ever heard
of anything good that came from a lukewarm disposition?"

49

Climber, by France Gorse

"This bakery of dreams has burned him terribly," old Vas¬
sily thought in sympathy, as he recalled his own dreams in the
prisoner-of-war camp; but he said nothing.

Several shouts were heard:

"Lucky fellow!"

"At least somebody is getting out of here!"

"Congratulations!"

"A mathematical genius!"

The economist was suddenly frightened by the effect of his
revelation and he desperately wanted to return to his cakes as
soon as possible. His colleagues dispersed slowly; each fell to
his own work.

k k k

Janosh ran over the cement loading dock where trucks came
and left again throughout the night. His job was to unload the
huge boxes of poppyseed buns which arrived from other plants,
and to fill the steel cabinets with the cookies and pastry which
descended in painfully assorted dozens from the floors above.
Over and over he repeated the Czech names for all the eighters,
twists, half-moons, boats, raisins, slices, drops, puffs, tarts,
macaroons, animal and chocolate-chip cookies, as he had done at
three o'clock in the morning for many years. He continued with
Neapolitans, peanut butter crunch cookies, shortbreads, marsh¬
mallows and doughnut holes. Here and there he nibbled something
from a tray.

Along the loading platform other intellectuals, their
faces marked by a European mildness, helped him. The group in¬
cluded four lawyers, two diplomats, a physician, and three engi¬
neers. All had arrived in this country too old to have any hope
of ever leaving the bakery.

Janosh was respected and admired by his co-workers, not
just because he was the oldest but because he was a living ency¬
clopedia of the humanities—a philosopher, linguist, historian,
and poet, all in one.

The crew worked in the fresh air, so it was natural that
they were constantly taunted that they were enjoying paradise
while the others suffered and sweated in the hell of the open
ovens or in the purgatory of the airless second floor which had
no windows or doors, just the elevator and the dull gray steel
of the sorting cabinets. Janosh invariably answered these jibes
with the explanation that this was true only in the summer. In
Winter, in the cold slush and snow, the established order of
things was reversed and he and his men were in purgatory and
sometimes, when the snowstorms whistled, even in hell — if only
in a Miltonian frigid hell.

The night was clear and full of the mysterious light of
the moon and the glowing stars. It was a night worthy of Goe¬
the. Although Janosh continued collecting French and Spanish
biscuits and rolls on his way, his thoughts rose faster than the

51

yeastiest dough and connected into sentences in his mind. The
bakers in the plant all agreed that he not only wrote well but
that he was truly a great poet. They and his wife were his only
critics.

He wrote articles, essays, and poems for himself, for the
night shift, and for his understanding mate. Once a month he
collected the sheets covered with typewritten lines and tied
them into bundles. Often he sent such a bundle to the address
of so-and-so or so-and-so, countrymen whom he had met at church
or on a streetcar, but rarely did he get a response. To be per¬
fectly honest, he never really expected anything to come from
these efforts of his. They were refreshing to his colleagues on
the night shift and they were satisfying to his wife. But
mainly, he had to continue his writing if he wanted to remain
alive.

In one of these bundles he outlined a calm, Tolstoyan ap¬
praisal of his situation. Perhaps, one day, someone may find
it and discover the inner truth of the bakery people.

In his tract Janosh maintained that an intellectual should
not waste time and emotion if he does not get an echo. He
should acknowledge, once and for all, that the nucleus of this
continent is a never-ending domain of elegantly dressed servants
and maids to whom any idea other than winning their bread is
not only strange but hostile. Here he added that he would not
bother to probe the question of whether winning one's bread
could be classified as a human idea.

On the same page he continued, "When these people realize
that they are in the majority, they will close down humanitarian
institutions and unleash all of their police and military appa¬
ratus against those who dare to defend anything but personal
material comfort."

On this night Janosh was absorbed in kneading out a poem
about a man who saw no relationship between his personality and
warm baskets and boxes which he was transferring from hand to
hand at three o'clock in the morning. Certain parts of the poem
burned him more than the trays hot from the oven. He served
these nameless trucks only because he needed a small sum of
money every Friday morning for another week of existence. There
could be no other explanation for this dreary nightly ceremony.
But his poem was concerned with living, suffering people who
were awaiting his bakery colleague, the physician; he saw wild
waters without bridges which could be tamed easily by his col¬
leagues, the engineers. Through his words there surged a flood
of precious, lost, discarded human time which was already a
deluge of biblical proportions.

Janosh stopped with this thought and stared, perplexed,
into the reality around him. Half-empty trucks still stood at
the dock. And alongside him men were working with an enthusiasm
normally reserved for the rescue of a drowning person. Blazing
heat, smelling of bread in all its forms, still hit out unbear-

52

ably from the plant. Loud shouts could be heard. "The night
shift is probably announcing the morning coffee break," Janosh
said to himself. He, too, put aside everything he held in his
hands and in his thoughts.

Humiliated and bent from the long night's work, he had
forgotten himself that he was still an intellectual from time to
time. Inwardly, unwillingly, he had hung a white flag which
waved to the order of the plant just as the flame in the long,
deep bread oven.

"Only till six, only till six," he murmured and once again
embraced the shrinking pie of the moon and the fading points of
the stars above him, which were becoming recognizably smaller
and paler, and then he stepped out from the yard under the roof
of the plant.

* * *

The sun had already been smiling for an hour over the
street, when from the huge entrance door the nightly bakers
rushed onto the sidewalk. They all hurried in one direction,
toward the main street of the city. They looked neither left
nor right; they did not stop; they even forgot to smoke. And
they did not turn either.

Nikolay, the grayish wise man, was the only one running
alone on his own side of the street. No one paid any attention
to him; no one remembered his saying that "everyone here is on
his own and forever alone."

53

Frank Bukvich

Frank Bukvich

SWEEPER MARICH

Translated, by Edward Krasovich

If I hadn't been transferred to the paint shop, I probably
never would have become acquainted with him. In the paint shop
I felt that I knew the man before I actually saw him. My fellow
employees apprised me of him at the very moment I arrived; it
seemed that they could hardly wait until I got there to tell me,
as if on my first day in the paint shop I would have nothing to
occupy my mind except the character of a lowly janitor. This
janitor was the one and only Marich, who had fled from the Mon¬
archy to America to avoid being drafted sometime before the
first World War.

In the shop there was utter confusion. One worker re¬
called one thing, another remembered something else, until they
were all talking at the same time and I didn't know which one I
should listen to. During the recounting they gestured expan¬
sively and laughed boisterously. At first I didn't believe
them, not because I thought they were joking with me, a novice,
or because I thought they were putting me on. I simply could
not believe that such a character as Sweeper Marich existed or
could have existed.

"Now he is on the third floor. At 8:20 he will appear on
the second floor. He will reach us here on the ground floor at
twenty minutes to ten," said Herbie, as I looked in vain
throughout the shop for Marich.

"Just look how much dirt there is under that table! It
takes an expert to sweep only in the middle of the room," said
the first Polack.

"The broom handle is too short for him to reach under the
table," chimed in the second Polack, the brother of the first.
"He scolds all of us for not being concerned enough about clean¬
liness. You will be included, too."

SOURCE: Frank Bukvich, "Pometai? Marich," Meddobje,  vol. 2, no. 6,

1956, 286-88.

55

The discourse was interrupted by the buzzer summoning us
to begin work. Time went by quickly that day. I did not need
to look at the clock; just a glance at the shop entrance imme¬
diately told me that it was twenty minutes to ten. There at
the door stood Marich, his chin resting on hands wrapped expert
ly around the top of the broom handle. That this awkward, bald
headed figure swathed in a dirty apron was Sweeper Marich would
have been apparent even if he had come in without a broom, for
his officious eyes scanned the floor tyrannically as if gather¬
ing scattered dirt. After the first fleeting glance, I was con
vinced that here was a born loafer who could take a full eight
hours to sweep this paint shop which actually required barely
an hour's work. It was clear that Marich was not merely carry¬
ing out the duties of his job in a shop but was engaged, day
after day, in playing an important role, more suitable for a
theatrical stage than for a shop. The way he held his broom
was in itself worthy of recognition: the upper part lay in his

left palm as though he were grasping someone by the neck; his
right hand rested somewhat toward the center of the handle.

His bearing, though artificial in the extreme, was at the same
time familiarly natural. It was sincerely genuine yet calcu-
latingly deceitful—that peak of an artist's skill, rare even
on the legitimate stage, when the actor's performance so charms
the spectator that it takes his breath away or brings him to
tears.

Glancing at the spot where the floor was unswept, Marich
bristled and turned his piercing eyes, showering fire and brim¬
stone, onto the unfortunate individual who happened to be work¬
ing nearby. "This fellow is new; it will be necessary to teach
him about cleanliness," his eyes seemed to scold me. Involun¬
tarily, I looked down—there under the table I noticed two
crumpled pieces of paper protectively surrounding a long ciga¬
rette butt. I fully expected Marich to descend on me with a
reprimand but he did not. He just stood there at the entrance,
not making a move as he gazed at me, not angrily yet not pleas¬
antly. His look, at best, expressed curiosity. After a while
he moved slightly and greeted the employees near the entrance
with a loud "Good morning." He waited until they returned the
greeting, then resumed leaning on the broom. He was frozen in
that stance for a good quarter of an hour. His benumbed, al¬
most dead countenance reminded me of Rodin's statue, The Think¬
er. Only his eyes were alive, taking pleasure in the sight of
the employees feverishly working to meet their quotas.

Finally, he pulled himself erect in a movement so gradual
that one felt he was straightening an iron bar in his spine.
Clinging awkwardly to the broom, he bent forward imperceptibly
and began to sweep very slowly, as if he were facing a week's
work for which he must conserve his strength.

At first I thought he was so slow because his blood had
not yet warmed up. But to my great surprise, I soon noticed

56

that Marich was actually most agile at the onset of his sweep¬
ing. After that his movements became slower and less frequent,
until the sweep of the broom moved no faster than the minute
hand on a clock. Finally, I could detect no movement of the
broom whatsoever. I surmised that Marich was still sweeping
since he was bent forward in the customary sweeping posture. At
last the broom made one final forward thrust, like a flame be¬
fore it dies, and stopped. It was quite clear that the sweeper
did not stop the broom; it had stopped of its own accord. The
sweeper seemed to be so tired that he was barely able to stop
himself, much less the broom. Marich leaned on the broom and
rested. For a fleeting instant it seemed to me that the broom
in his hands had become something else, but I could not guess
what it might be.

I looked at the clock. Marich had swept a distance of
barely two yards from the doorway in five minutes. Having ob¬
served his lassitude, I now became more conscious of the broom
than of the sweeper. I began to wonder when it would glance at
the clock and remind Marich to start sweeping.

After several substantial rest periods, man and broom had
swept themselves up to me. I purposely ignored Marich as he now
was working around my chair. Pretending not to see him, I spec¬
ulated as to whether or not he was going to berate me because
of the paper wads. As the broom came to a stop, Marich's voice
came floating over my shoulders.

"You are new here," said the voice.

"I am," I answered, without glancing up.

After a short silence he said, "I don't like it when peo¬
ple throw papers on the floor."

Feigning ignorance, I asked "What kind of papers?" as I
turned around.

"The ones under the table," he answered.

"Those have been there since yesterday," interjected Fat
Joe, who was sitting on the opposite side of the table.

"Since yesterday?" said Marich in a studied and restrained
manner. "If you say that they were there yesterday, you mean
that I didn't sweep them out?"

"And you haven't swept them out today, either," laughed
Skinny Joe.

Marich reacted to these words as if he had been splashed
with boiling water. For several minutes he was speechless.

When he finally regained command of himself, he blurted out,

"You just be quiet! You don't give me my bread and, further¬
more, you're not my boss."

"Ah, why argue! Skinny Joe is really glad he’s not your
boss and you, Marich, ought to be glad that your work is the
most overpaid in America. Besides, both of you have a chance
to become vice presidents of this enterprise. So why argue?"
said Fat Joe as he secretly winked at his thin namesake.

57


Ascetic, by Milan Vojsk

A

Marich did not respond to these words, pretending that he
had not heard them. He set about resuming his sweeping, but it
already came to an end before it started.

Such conversations, which often became quarrelsome, took
place daily. The paint shop crew could hardly wait to accommo¬
date Marich and he, in turn, would not have fared so well with¬
out an argument with at least one employee every day.

Half an hour before lunch time, he propped his broom near
the window, washed his hands and began to eat his lunch. When
I turned toward the window again, he was no longer there. He
had disappeared as completely as if the earth had swallowed him.
If I hadn't gone to the bathroom, I would not have known what
became of him. There he sat on a toilet seat with his pants up,
as immobile as if cast in bronze. I felt certain that no noise,
no racket could have awakened him from his noonday siesta.

At precisely two o'clock, Marich reappeared, pushing a
wheelbarrow in which an empty barrel rattled. This container
was intended to hold his hard-earned sweepings.

Before long, he was confiding details of his past life to
me. For no reason he stepped up to me and, without any intro¬
duction, he said, "In the old country I was not a sweeper.

There I had a better job." His emphasis on the words "better
job" seemed to convey that in the old country he had been at
least Minister of the Interior.

"What kind of work did you do?" I questioned.

"I was a musician."

"A musician!" I turned my face to hide my skeptical smile.
"What kind of instrument did you play?"

"A bass viol."

Marich and I got along quite well. We probably never
would have argued if I hadn't hung a for sale sign on his broom
one day. This innocent prank upset him so, he would not even
look at me for several days. This, too, was soon forgotten and
in order to make peace with me, he gave me a good scolding be¬
cause he had found dirt under my workbench.

It has been lonesome at the paint shop since Sweeper
Marich reached the age of sixty-five and retired.

On the Saturday after New Year's, when I went to the Hun¬
garian Garden, I received the surprise of my life. There was
Marich with three gypsy musicians. He stood near the piano
with his left hand raised somewhat as though he were holding
someone by the neck while his right hand vigorously stroked a
bass viol.

59

Louis Adamic (1899-1951), by Bozidar Jakac

Louis Adamic

THE OLD ALIEN BY THE
KITCHEN WINDOW

To his multitudinous family, relatives and friends, Anton
Kmet is Oche Tone —oohe  meaning "father" or "old man" in his na¬
tive Slovenian tongue, while Tone is the familiar abbreviation
of his first name. He is an old man, no doubt about that.

His shrinking frame hunched over, his nape pushing down
between his protruding, age-sharpened shoulder blades, and his
legs crossed limply, Oche Tone sits all day long upon a hard,
squeaky old chair by a small window in the kitchen on the ground
floor of his house at 6208 Schade Avenue, in Cleveland, Ohio.

He sits from ten to fourteen hours daily, and looks into the
yard, in which there is nothing much to see; and, looking, he
pulls at his corncob pipe and puffs with a slow, determined
rhythm; and, sitting and looking at nothing much at all, and
smoking, he thinks his thoughts.

Now and then he grunts or chuckles to himself as if to
punctuate the things going through this head, or he lifts the
large tremulous paw that rests on his thigh in a faint, vague
gesture in the general direction of the cosmos, or he makes a
remark to his wife or anyone who happens to come within the
range of his voice, which is rather limited. Except for this
and for the sucking and puffing at his pipe, he is perfectly
still, often for hours at a spell. Sometimes he does not even
smoke, but only sits and thinks, and frequently, no doubt, he
just sits. He is in good health; only he is very old.

Within a period of three weeks during the late winter and
early spring of 1940, sitting by the little four-pane window,
Oche Tone celebrated six anniversaries—the eightieth of his
birth in the village of Ajdovec, near the town of Zuzemberk, in
Lower Carniola, then a province of Austria; the fiftieth of his
arrival as an immigrant in the United States; the fiftieth, too,
of his beginning to work for, and getting on the payroll of,

SOURCE: Louis Adamic, From Many Lands  (New York and London: Har¬

per and Brothers, 1940), 147-53, 162-64. Reprinted by permission of
Harper § Row, Publishers, Inc.

61

The old alien, Tone Kmet, by Nancy Bukovnik, his granddaughter

the American Steel and Wire Company on Fortieth Street in Cleve¬
land; the forty-eighth of his marriage to Karolina Novinec, who
had come to America a year and a half after him from the village
of Veliki Lipovec, also in Lower Carniola; the forty-seventh of
the birth of the first of his eleven children, a son; and the
twenty-fifth of his retirement on a monthly pension from his
job, when he had decided that he had done his bit in the world
and sat down in that chair (then new and free of squeaks) by the
kitchen window, to gaze out and smoke and think from daybreak
until nightfall every day of the week, week after week, month
upon month, year in and year out; and to wait for his pension
check, which,the postman brings him once a month without fail.

As Oche Tone sees his life, now that it is tightly wrapped
in old age, these anniversaries cover or suggest its high spots.
Among them roam all his thoughts and talk. There is only one
other important fact in his career, as he sees it: he is not a

citizen of the United States, because he did not want to become
one--a fact closely linked, however, to his notion that he is
neke vrste Amevikanec vse eno,  a kind of American, anyhow.

He understands some English but does not speak it. His
medium of expression is a Slovenian peasant dialect, but he uses
many American-English words twisted into Slovenian forms to fit
his tongue. In his speech, for instance, a "house" is a gauz,
"shoes" are shukhi,  "street" is shtrit,  and "beer" is pir.

He likes to tell "facts" about himself, which he has told
so many times now that to him they are more true than truth it¬
self; he has a surprisingly good memory, and each time he re¬
tells some of these "facts" he is more impressed by them than
he was at the time of their occurrence. He is not hard to lis¬
ten to, although, in common with most old people, he repeats
himself a great deal. Off and on, when he catches himself re¬
peating a bit of his life story in too close succession, he says
something to this effect, "Eh, why not! I am like an old horse
tethered to a pin in the ground, making the same steps all the
time. At this stage of the game you don't go leaping into new
adventures, so the old ones have to do."

His story, however, is not without significance, if that
is the right word to attach to anything pertaining to an old
man who has never been anything but a laborer. Perhaps I should
say that parts of his story are typical of many aged immigrants
who have been in America a long time without becoming citizens,
and who are now dying at an increasing rate—albeit Oche Tone
is apt to live to be a hundred. He wants to.

k k k

At thirty, on landing at Castle Garden in New York Harbor,
Tone Kmet was what Slovenians call a korenjak,  one who might be
described as a "giant," or one constructed on a heroic scale.

He was six foot three and all bone, blood, muscle, and hide;
strong and straight as a pillar holding up the ceiling in a

63

church, and not hard to look at otherwise. He had a shock of
dark brown hair, an aquiline nose, an impressive mustache, and
a bold, challenging look in his hazel eyes.

Kmet  means "peasant” in Slovenian, and he was a peasant.

He had no schooling but knew how to read a bit and to sign his
name in an emergency. He had decided to come to the United
States because he was his father's second son, and as such,
along with all his younger brothers, obliged to leave the vil¬
lage and find a place and function for himself somewhere else.

In the village of Ajdovec, a half-century ago, and before and
since, things were tight and set economically, and only the
oldest son was encouraged to remain at home. Fifty years ago,
America was still a fairly new, though intensely interesting,
idea in Carniola; but when Tone emigrated a score or more of
Ajdovchani were already scattered through the various coal and
steel and iron towns in the United States.

Tone Kmet had served for a number of years in the Emperor
Franz Josef's army, and was none the worse for that experience.
As a soldier, in fact, he had picked up a little German, which
was useful to him in Cleveland, where a good many factory
bosses were German immigrants from Austria and Germany.

From New York, Tone traveled in an immigrant train. At
the depot in Cleveland, most of his fellow passengers were met
by relatives or friends, but no one came for him. Not that he
expected anyone. He had a slip of paper bearing the address of
a number of the boys from the village of Ajdovec who had pre¬
ceded him over; so he was not worried. But he was a bit bewil¬
dered by all the hubbub. His bundle over his shoulder, he stood
outside the depot, watching the people jam themselves into the
horse-drawn streetcars, and wondering which way to turn. Then
a great dray loaded high with beer kegs drew up in front of him
and the driver leaned downward from his lofty perch and yelled
at him, "Ti s' pa Kranjo , al ' nis'?  You're a Carniolan, aren't
you?" (Carniolan is usually synonymous with Slovenian.)

"S'm 3 ”  answered Tone. "I am."

Showing a broad grin, the driver invited him to hop on;
he would take him wherever he was going. He also was a Sloven¬
ian immigrant, three years in America, and said he could always
tell a rojak  or fellow countryman on sight. "There's something
about us!" He delivered beer to saloons in the Slovenian neigh¬
borhood and often picked up newcomers when he happened to pass
by the depot.

He dropped Tone at Feliks Novinec's boardinghouse, where
most of the other Ajdovchani lived. Feliks was the brother of
Karolina, whom Tone married two years later, soon after she
came over.

Two of the Ajdovchani at the house were employed in the
American Steel and Wire Company's mill on Fortieth Street, and
the morning after he arrived they took Tone Kmet along and told
him to join the job-seeking crowd in the yard. Taller byahead

64

than almost anyone else on the scene, he was among the first
hired that morning, and assigned to a German straw boss, who
put him to work with two other laborers. The job consisted of
putting great bundles and coils of wire from a platform into
freight cars.

Moehan kot hrast —strong as an oak, Tone Kmet tossed the
coils and bundles as though they were trifles. The straw boss
noticed this immediately and called the boss, who called the
assistant plant superintendent, who called the chief superin¬
tendent, who decided that with Tone around the other two workers
had nothing to do, and, indeed, were in his way; so he ordered
them taken off the job and left Tone alone to do the work of
three men. This, Tone continued to do with the greatest of
ease; in fact, he thought the job was somewhat of a sinecure,
and soon he received a higher wage—twelve cents an hour, while
the other laborers were paid only ten.

He worked from ten to twelve hours daily, but not infre¬
quently overtime stretched his workday to sixteen and occasion¬
ally even to eighteen hours. Sometimes his muscles creaked with
fatigue when he took himself home, and he felt a little groggy,
but thought he was doing all right, and America looked good to
him.

* * *

Strong and good-looking, several years younger than he,
Karolina Novinec caught Tone's eye, as she did the eyes of the
other single boarders, immediately after she arrived from stara
kontra,  the old country. By-and-by, after he had made his in¬
tentions clear to her, she decided to marry him because he
looked "steady."

Now, nearly half a century later, when he gets someone to
listen to him, Oche Tone likes to tell of those days:

"To get married and start a home was no great stunt then.
Sometimes I got only fifteen dollars on payday, which came every
two weeks, but that wasn't bad. You managed on seven or eight
dollars a week. If there was a lot of obevtaim" —overtime—

"and I brought home eighteen or twenty dollars, that was some¬
thing to let the neighbors know about in some roundabout way so
they could not accuse you of bragging, and they said, 'You're
making good money, Tone; you and yours won't starve.'

"Living was cheap then. Naturally, when we got married,
we had to furnish the flat. Zlomka , believe it or not, for
thirty-five dollars we got everything we needed. Nowadays a
young couple have to have four or five hundred dollars to set
themselves up. Of course, our tastes then were not so high; we
were satisfied with less than people are now: which may be good

or bad, I don't know. But things really were cheaper then, in
relation to wages. For three"cents you got a quart of milk or
a pound of meat. . . . Cleveland wasn't nearly as big a town
then as it is now. Houses were thick only to about Fiftieth
Street; there were a lot of farms within walking distance of

65

where most of the Slovenians lived, and you could get a four-
hundred -pound hog for four dollars; then there was enough meat
and lard to last the winter and well into spring, if you did
not have too large a family or too many boarders. If you went
into a butcher shop and bought a few pounds of pork or beef,
you got free of charge all the tripe and lungs you wanted to
take along; the butcher was glad to get rid of such stuff. . . .
And any time of day you could step into a saloon, buy a glass
of beer for a nickel, and eat your fill off the free-lunch
counter. Ya-ya,  this was a wonderful kontra  then. . . .

"My wife and I rented a flat with two extra rooms; we put
beds in them and took boarders, young fellows who were coming
over from stara kontra : which helped. We were all content."

This last is one of his favorite sentences, with which he
concludes most of his narrations about the old days. "We were
all content." He rolls it off his lips with all the finality
of a priest's "Amen."

* * *

For ten years Tone Kmet tossed the great bundles and coils
of wire from the platform into the cars. Then he was promoted
to a "better" job in the cooling department, where wire was
treated in chemicals. The work here was much less strenuous
and by now this, too, was all right with Tone Kmet. He had got
to be forty and the heavy work on the platform had taken some¬
thing out of him. Also, since the new job involved some respon¬
sibility, the pay was higher, "which didn't get me mad, either."

One day the chemists and several of the bosses were exper¬
imenting with a dangerous new chemical. They warned the men to
be careful, and Tone heard and understood them all right. In a
moment of bravado, however, meaning to impress the bosses, lest
they should have forgotten that he was still a korenjak  and
that this work of handling these wire coils and bundles contin¬
ued to be pretty much of a snap to him, he pushed a big bundle
into the trough with his foot, as though he were kicking a lump
of earth into a furrow. The iron platform on which he stood
was wet; he slipped and, trying to regain his balance, lurched
with one foot into the strong acid solution.

He was pulled out and his leg was quickly immersed in a
vat containing another solution, supposed to counteract the
first; but even so the leg was affected. A doctor treated him
immediately, and he was taken home in an ambulance (a horse-
drawn one, of course, for this occurred in 1901). He was laid
up for several months. The doctor came to see him at first
every two days, then once a week . . . "and I got my wages just
as if I were working."

As already reported, wheii he was a young man, Tone's eyes
held a bold, challenging look. They did later on, too. But
that look was directed personally only at individuals who might
Want a fight or seek to vie with him, and to situations such as

67

a great pile of wire bundles on the platform that had to be
heaved into the cars by quitting time. By and large, it had no
reference to institutions, such as governments or industrial
mills or companies. Way down deep in him, peasant-1 ike, Tone
was a humble fellow in most respects; in fact, rather fright¬
ened, obedient, and "grateful"—grateful for the least demon¬
stration of decency or generosity toward him. Or, at least,
that was one fairly definite streak in his character (there
were others). So, since his pay was nearly always a trifle
higher than the other laborers', gratitude was always part of
his feeling toward American Steel and Wire; and now, with all
the good treatment he received following the accident, which
he realized was entirely his own fault, he became clearly a
"loyal employee," a "company man."

During the late 1900's and the early 1910's, there were a
couple of strikes in the mill, but he never joined them. He
felt miserable about this, especially since he knew he was
called a scab, but he could not bring himself to go out. Even¬
tually, too, his nonstriking became, to no small extent, a mat¬
ter of policy between him and the company, for in 1910 Amer¬
ican Steel and Wire entered into a pension plan under which the
workers retired on partial pay after twenty-five years of con¬
tinuous employment; and going on strike was interpreted by the
company as an interruption of that continuity.

What helped to alleviate Tone Kmet's unhappiness during
these strikes was that a good many of the men in the mill felt
and acted as he did; and the strike leaders, as a rule, did not
really expect or count on those who were working toward a pen¬
sion to go out.

* * *

Like most peasant immigrants, in whom the property in¬
stinct was strong, Tone and Karolina IGnet aspired from the start
to live in a dwelling of their own. To realize this on his
laborer's wages was no easy matter, especially since a child was
born to them on the average of every two years. But in 1907
they bought their first home, a small, cramped one-family house.
Tone then acquired a couple of lots, mostly because everybody
else he knew was plunging into real estate; and with Cleveland
expanding at a great rate, he sold them in 1911 for three times
the price he had paid for them. The following year he disposed
of his house, or rather the corner on which it stood, for the
building itself was worthless, and bought the substantial resi¬
dence on Schade Avenue in which he now lives.

Karolina bore the eleven children, three boys and eight
girls, during the first twenty years of their marriage. To say
nothing of keeping up the payments on the house and lots, it
was a problem to feed and clothe so large a family, for the cost
of living, of course, did not stay at the 1893 level, when they
married; yet all eleven children achieved adulthood and ten are

68

still living and, in their various ways, doing as well as most
Americans of the lower-middle or working class.

The oldest son, Anthony, Junior, commonly also known as
Tone, started to work and contribute to the family income when
he was but twelve. He served in the First World War, then
trained himself to become a coremaker, and got a job with the
United States Aluminum Company. He worked there until 1939,
when in consequence of his war experience he suddenly died. He
left a widow, who is a Slovenian immigrant, and two daughters
and a son who are still in school.

The oldest daughter, Lina, was the first to marry. Her
husband, Frank Turk, is a Slovenian born in Germany, where his
parents had gone as emigrant laborers shortly before he was
born. He was also trained to be a coremaker and works at that

trade to this day. He and Lina, in their mid-forties, have

eleven children, the youngest of whom is a few years old. Three
of their daughters are married, and employed in the Richman
Brothers' clothing factory, which is renowned for its satisfac¬
tory working conditions.

The second daughter, Mary, wed a grocer on St. Clair Ave¬
nue, which is the lifestream of the Slovenian section in Cleve¬
land. The Depression hit him hard; when he was forced to sell

either his home or his store, hesold the latter. Now he is a

night watchman, while Mary cleans offices downtown. They have
a boy and two girls, all grown up, two of them working.

Frances, the third daughter, was only sixteen when she
married John Svete, a young fellow fresh from the old country.
Also a coremaker, he too works for United States Aluminum,
and Frances has been with General Electric now for fifteen
years. They live in a house of their own and have three daugh¬
ters, one of whom is married.

The fourth of the Kmet girls, Rose, married in 1935. Her
husband, Janko Rogelj, an immigrant from Slovenia, is in the
general insurance business and is an official of the South Sla¬
vonic Catholic Fraternal Union, secretary of the Slovenian gym¬
nastic "Sokol" society, president of the Slovenian National
Home on St. Clair Avenue, which is the center of the neighbor¬
hood's social and cultural life, and a writer of short stories
and articles for the Slovenian language publications in the
United States. The Rogeljs rent the upstairs part of the old
folks' house, and have one child.

The fifth daughter, Tonca, or Antoinette, married in 1930.
She has a boy and a girl. Her husband, John Bukovnik, is an
immigrant who came over young and served as an aerial photogra¬
pher in the First World War. Now he is a successful commercial
photographer.

Vide and Joe, the two boys born after Tonca, are single
men, now in their late twenties, both coremakers with United
States Aluminum, turning out airplane parts. They live with

69

New growth, by John A. Kapel

the old folks, as does their youngest sister, Gertrude, who,
also unmarried, works at General Electric.

The other two daughters married American-born boys of Slo¬
venian parentage. Mila works at Richman Brothers, while her
husband is boss in a small factory. Bertha's man is an employee
of the New York Central Railroad. Mila has no children. Ber¬
tha has a daughter.

Taking after the old man (for his wife is medium-sized),
all the children are large people, as are almost all of the
grown-up grandchildren, whose total now is twenty-four. And
they are a handsome lot, both individually and together. Most
of them resemble one another.

On Sundays and holidays the ground-floor apartment in the
house on Schade Avenue, especially the kitchen, is full of the
Kmet family, children and grandchildren. But they almost never
come all at the same time. There is scarcely room for them.

American-born, all ten of the Kmet sons and daughters are,
of course, American citizens; and having attended Cleveland's
public schools, they speak fluent American English as it is
usually spoken on their social level. But they know also their
parents' Americanized peasant-Slovenian dialect, in which they
occasionally kid and josh them for not being citizens.

* *  *

The spring of 1939 was a hard period for Oche Tone. First,
as already mentioned, his son Tone died. Then his Karolina, in
her early seventies, went down with gallstones and had to under¬
go an operation, which put a pall on his lightheartedness for a
while. In her absence he lost his appetite for klobase  and
prunes and milk, but regained it with her return from the hos¬
pital. In a few months, she was her hardy old self again, tak¬
ing charge of the Kmet household.

Oche Tone continues to take good care of himself, and bar¬
ring accidents or serious illness, is apt to live for a long
time yet. He is old, and looks it, but the core of his life is
vital and healthy. His will to live is strong, but not intense;
not such that its intensity might devour him. Life to him,
when all is said and done, is a rather pleasant joke, and he
sees himself deeply involved in it.

So he chuckles a great deal, and many of his remarks are
touched with a dry, tongue-in-cheek humor. Some of his seem¬
ingly childish or naive notions, attitudes and actions, includ¬
ing much of the ritual with the pension check, are really sly,
indirect commentaries on his own amusing and essentially satis¬
factory existence; commentaries by which he is himself con¬
vinced. There is in nim a bit of the artist, which is to be
found in most Slovenian peasants. His sitting by the window is
an act; he is an actor in a role he himself has created, and he
goes on writing his own lines. He has the artist's eye for
effect.

71

Now and then he requests his son-in-law upstairs to come
down; he wants to ask or tell him something. His questions are
roundabout, not neatly phrased, wandering in all directions,
but seldom unclear or pointless after one gets on to the habit
of his mind. They are hardly questions at all, but ramblings
of an old mind with a streak of humor.

"Sit down, Janko," he said one day in connection with his
several anniversaries early in 1940, "pull over a chair, come
close here, so I don't have to talk so loud. ... I've been
thinking, Janko, about this office where my check comes from,
this United States Steel and Carnegie Pension Fund. What is it?
What kind of a place is it? . . . Well," answering his own
question, as is his wont, "I imagine it's an office in some
great building, high up near the clouds, with desk and writing
machines and water coolers, like the office of the American
Steel and Wire mill, which I saw a few times. And there they
sit, whoever they are; they sit by their desks and writing ma¬
chines, and make out checks and sign them, and then they send
them out—like gods in heaven. And what I want to know, Janko,
is this: what am I to them? Am I just a name, someone on

their list of names? For twenty-five years nobody has come to
see me. No questions are asked. They must be vsevedni" —omnis¬
cient—"or how do they know I am still around? They must be
gods; no?"

He chuckled.

"Besides, where do they get the money to send me? Do they
ever say to themselves: when is that old buzzard on Sc hade Ave¬
nue in Cleveland going to die, so we can stop sending him money?
Here I am. For twenty-five years they've been sending me $21.40
a month. That's a lot of coin. Where do they get it? They
must be gods, vsemogoehni" —omnipotent. "Their checks are good.
There hasn't been a bad one yet. ... Of course, Janko, an¬
other explanation may be that they are just Americans. Smart
people, these Amerikanei "—chuckling again.

"But jesting aside, Janko," he went on, "wouldn't you
think that they would get tired paying me all this money, with
me sitting here, not doing anything, getting calluses in the
wrong place, just sitting; or that they would run out of money,
even if they are Americans? Not that I worry about them. It's
their business. I did my bit. . . .

"And you know what, Janko: something else has occurred

to me. Maybe those strikers were right. Maybe the American
Steel and Wire didn't pay us enough for our work, not even me,
although my wage was always a little higher than the others'.
Maybe I did work too hard, crowded my years together too fast
with obevtaim  and doing two or three men's work, and it may be
that now I'm getting only what was my due all along because I
worked in that mill for twenty-five years. Of course, it may
be that they did not figure I would live so long and get the
best of them in the deal. Maybe I'm getting more than my due.

72

If so, the joke is on them; eh, Janko? The whole thing is fun¬
ny, if you come to think of it. Me getting a pension! It's a
joke; but maybe only to me. So I want to live a long time yet.
I enjoy it so. What are jokes for but to be enjoyed; and if I
die, who would enjoy this one?"

* * *

On one of my visits I mentioned to Oche Tone that there
were people in the United States, including members of Congress
in Washington, who were disturbed about the aliens and nonciti¬
zens, and that some wanted to deport all the foreign-born who
did not have their naturalization papers, while others wished
to pass laws requiring all noncitizens to register and be fin¬
gerprinted.

"Tabu? —So?" said the old alien by the kitchen window.

He was silent for a few minutes, smoking, looking out of the
window. Then he chuckled and said, "Papers, papers! God gave
the fish freedom in the sea and lakes and rivers, and birds all
over the earth, but from a man somebody always wants some kind
of paper." He smiled, shaking his head. "But, nu,  maybe I was
wrong in not taking out the citizenship papers; mind you, I
don't say I was; I just say maybe I was. Let me tell you,
though, what you do: you bring those people here on the first

of the month, any month, whoever they are; you bring them and
I'll show them my American paper, which says that I worked all
right and did what was expected of me. I didn't ask for this
paper. I didn't pay for it; Bostijancich, or Boston, didn't
have to use his pull to get it for me. I worked until I did
enough for one man's lifetime, and America has been giving me
this paper once a month now for twenty-five years. . . . You
tell those people, whoever they are, to come to my house and
I'll show than. . . . But, of course, if they want me to get
registered and—what do you call it?—fingerprinted, if that
will make them feel better, I'll be glad to oblige, even if I
have to go out of the house to do it. . . ."

He fell silent again, sitting and pulling on his pipe,
and looking out into the yard, where a sparrow sat on a limb of
a tree close to the window. Then Oche Tone chuckled again,

"Look at him! They call him an American sparrow; what makes
him American? Has he got his papers? Is he registered? Lis¬
ten: back in Ajdovec, in lower Carniola, I saw sparrows which

Were no different." The chuckle broke forth again with real
gaiety. Then: "A sparrow is a sparrow, a man is a man, at' ne'

— isn't that so?"

73

Karel Mauser (1918-1977), by France Gorge

Karel Mauser

JOHN KOVACH

Translated by Joseph Zelle

He waited till the alarm clock finished ringing. Then,
while still in bed, he pressed down on his legs, stretched him¬
self, let out a sigh just as he did every morning, and sat up.

How quickly the night passes, he thought.

As his legs touched the floor, he felt for his slippers,
put them on, and walked to the window. It was quite light al¬
ready. Enough daylight had filtered through the smoke and fog
so that he could well distinguish the three tall poplars pro¬
truding through the grayness with their short, dense branches.

His eyes stopped at the old, dilapidated garage. At the
time he had bought the house, the garage had still been in good
condition, even if the wood cried out for paint. The years and
the oversaturated air had deteriorated it completely. It was
still standing, but the rotted boards sagged in all directions,
and it always seemed to him that the first strong wind would
topple over the rottenness in a heap. The loss would not be
great. People had begun to desert this place shortly after the
factory had moved away. The people had left; he had stayed on.
As fed up as he was with the weeds behind the poplars and with
the long, brown grass, he still did not want to move.

He had bought the house soon after getting married. Three
children had been born behind those wooden walls: Louis, Steve

and Agnes. Louis was in Akron now, married; Steve had moved
away to Euclid and had been married there; and Agnes, grieving
for her mother, had married and left with her husband for Flor¬
ida.

He had been without a wife for a long time now. She had
died so unexpectedly. On the street — a car had knocked her
down. After that, she had tossed about in the hospital for two
weeks, and then she was gone fo'rever.

SOURCE: Karel Mauser, "John Kovach," Meddobje,  vol 2, nos. 4-5,

1956, 197-99.

75



r\

' ' *.

Xvr-

0*

% > 4 . \ W- <tfM

Multi-position piece, by Stanko Tusek

Almost every day, as he glanced out the window, he would
think like this, spit down below into the garden, and decide to
retire. But then he would dress anyway, put the coffee on,
wash, make a couple of sandwiches, and after the coffee was
brewed, pour a little milk, and sit down to breakfast. He could
not poke around too long. He had to take a bus to Public Square
and there transfer to the St. Clair bus. And that standing
around and waiting sometimes took up to a quarter of an hour.

At seven he was already punching the button on the machine.

He knew that he would not retire. He could not. He was
used to the work, and if he thought it over, what in the world
would he do all the day long in the house? Louis came home only
once a year for a visit, Steve perhaps three times, and Agnes
barely once every two years. They wrote cards for the holidays.
That was all. Little did they think of his loneliness. Well,
he didn’t count on their company anyway. He had known that they
would scatter. If she were still alive, so that home would
really be home, perhaps one of them would still drop in, if for
no other reason than baby-sitting.

Thus he went quietly to the bus every morning. Before
entering, he would shove a lump of chewing tobacco in his mouth
with three fingers. He had learned that at the factory.

Once in the shop, he always felt better. Everything
smelled of oil. The machines waited neatly in order, the lights
were lit, and there were even nice golden teardrops of oil on
the bulbs. As the bell rang, he would push the button. With a
strange trembling, the grinding wheel would start up, sound like
neighing, and as it reached full speed, it would grumble along
amiably. He would stick a rag in his pants' rear pocket for
wiping his hands and look over the work. Three long drills. A
special order! He would take one of the drills in his hand and
twirl it. He would study the order, examine the tolerance, the
special instructions. What time-consuming work!

John was a good grinder. All his life, he enjoyed his
work, but something had been troubling him for a good four
months. His hands were beginning to tremble. The week before,
because of his trembling fingers, he had bumped a drill against
the grindstone and there had been a hundred dollars' damage. He
was called into the office and the boss had glanced at him good-
naturedly from head to toe.

"We're getting old, eh, John?"

He was grinning as he showed him the ruined drill. It was
a good thousandth under size at the injured place. Useless!

"Tough luck," John smiled derisively to himself. However,
everything within him was crying. He dreaded the time when
someone would say to him, "We're getting old, eh, John?" He did
not want to hear those words; it was as if they already meant
death, a coffin lined with silk, and everything that went with
it.

77

Old man, by Steven A. Rebeck

For four months now he had been struggling to steady his
fingers. Secretly, he would bend them and try to hold them out
straight, gritting his teeth all the while. Sometimes, it
seemed to him that his fingers shook no longer, that they were
perfectly steady, just as when he had first come to the machine.
Then he would see in horror that his little finger was shaking,
that the third finger was shaking, that all the fingers were
shaking. It seemed as if on purpose, to mock him, just as the
boss had, "We're getting old, eh, John?"

Sometimes he would bring the drill near the grindstone
three times, four times, to catch the points of the centers in
the little holes. It would not work. His fingers were trem-
bling, his whole hand was trembling, and John felt heavy drops
on his forehead. He would lay the drill back on the bench and
Wipe his brow with the rag.

After that he would manage to catch the drill in the cen¬
ter. The wheel would approach the steel, the grindstone slowly
lick the rotating piece, and a great joy would overtake him, as
he would see the rough upper layer disappearing, the steel be¬
ginning to shine, just the way it had to be.

Today he was in a good mood. The machine, which sometimes
had its whims, was running smoothly. Two drills were already
finished. He wiped them with his rag and measured each one
three times. Taper, tolerance, everything was right, just as
specified in the order. Now the grindstone was lapping at the
last piece. John quietly whistled to himself and wiped his
hands with the rag. It was three o'clock. One more hour.

He took out the piece from the centers and measured it.
Still two thousandths too thick. He started putting it back.
"Damn it!" His hand was trembling like a branch right up to his
shoulder. Stubbornly he tried, even though something kept tell¬
ing him to lay the drill on the bench and wait.

"I'm not old; I can do it, just as these youngsters can.
I'll show them; I'll show the boss, too."

There was a screech, a long black streak etched the smooth
steel, and John's eyes grew misty.

He held the drill in his trembling hands, kept twirling
it, and the deep black stain hissed back at him like a viper's
head: "You see me, you see me?"

His neighbor at a machine nearby came to him and shook his
head oddly.

"Son-of-gun! And over two inches thick!"

He did not hear him. He raised his head and looked to¬
wards the office. The boss was quietly sitting by the window
writing something.

He gripped the drill in his hand and slowly went between
the machines. It seemed to him'*that the drill was unbearably
heavy, that just about everything he had was contained in it,
even those three poplars and those weeds, that coffin lined in

79

Christ on the cross, by Lillian Brule

V. _

silk, and that last trip, when you are laid on a cart before the
altar steps, where you get the last blessing.

The boss with half-closed eyes twirled the drill in his
hand. He was not laughing.

"I'll ask, John," he said coldly. He did not look up at

him.

Three days after that he was transferred to another ma¬
chine. For children! He was given a chair, and with a little
conical grinding stone, he smoothed the holes that were rough.

He looked about and, with a peculiar troubled look,
stopped at his old machine. A strong, young lad was standing
behind it. He had been like that once. This one's hands did
not tremble at all; with a grin he placed a drill between the
centers.

"This will be easy work, John," he heard the boss say.

He just nodded his head and sat down.

The motor was running evenly, the stone was rotating
quietly. It seemed to John that he was sitting on a target,
that everybody was looking at him, that all of them were going
to the office to examine his latest drill with the deep black
st ain.

As soon as he got home, he lay down and did not even warm
up the coffee. In the morning, too, he did not step to the win¬
dow as usual.

Old!

And then came that afternoon. He had eaten his lunch as
always on the chair beside the machine. He felt strangely
tired, felt a tightness in his head. He leaned against the ma¬
chine, his back propped up against an iron container alongside.

When the bell rang, he did not budge. He did not push the
button, did not straighten up, did not look at the clock as he
usually did.

"John!" his neighbor called to him. "Kovach!"

He did not answer.

The young man from the other side gave him a push on the
shoulder. He moved only slightly, but did not get up. The
young man knelt down to see John's face.

Blood was slowly trickling from John's nostrils.

"Stroke," someone said hollowly.

Then came the stretchers. Someone wiped off the clotted
blood on John's machine. Someone also turned off the light.

81

Each and all of us, by France Gorse

Ill

ALL KINDS OF PEOPLE

Sister Lavoslava Turk

Sister Lavoslava Turk

MY LITTLE ANGELS

I shall always cherish fond memories of my first American
pupils. The siege of the fortress of my heart began, when I
first entered the classroom. Soon the little ones had won it
over completely. Even now, after so many years, I love to
think of them and I include them in my prayers.

I felt that all my pupils were "little angels." Doesn't
every mother consider her child to be the most beautiful, the
most talented, almost a genius? Frequently, I would discuss my
pupils with Sister Lea. She, too, taught only "little lambs"
who sometimes became regular "rams." How we laughed when we
told of our successes in breaking the horns of this or that one
as soon as they had sprouted!

My feelings were terribly hurt whenever any Sister com¬
plained about my "little angels." But I could not defend them,
for I realized that Sister was right. They prepared many a
bitter hour for me, but these were soon forgotten, for on the
scales children's innocence, obedience, simplicity, and other
beautiful virtues weighed so much heavier.

Lives there a king so respected, admired, loved, and
adored by his subjects as a Sister-teacher who is loved by her
Pupils? She is a queen—the queen of little hearts. Whatever
she says is law, even in their homes: "Sister said so!"—and

there can be no higher court.

What a beautiful opportunity a Sister has for molding
children's hearts, for sowing seeds of goodness that will ripen
into a rich harvest later!

How I wish that I were a poet so I could sing a canticle
about our beautiful and exalted vocation—and about my "little

angels!"

SOURCE: M. Lavoslava Turk, Pesem bolske sestve  (Celovec: Drulba

Sv. Mohorja, 1974), 79.

85

Frank Mlakar (1913-1967)

Frank Mlakar

OSIP BUYS A HOME IN
CHICKEN VILLAGE

Osip dared not admit even to himself that he was looking
for a suitable house to buy. Lenka and he had managed to save
a fair amount from their wages, but the sum was insufficient
for even a down payment on a house. Nevertheless, he wandered
the streets of the Chicken Village, dreaming to himself.

The few blocks of "bordingauses" and saloons surrounding
St. Lizaveta's had once comprised the whole of the Chicken Vil¬
lage. An evening's stroll would have covered the area. In
those days there were fields of weeds and grass among the fac¬
tories, mills, tenements, and wooden frame dwellings. Now all
the fields had been built on. Dwellings occupied all the nar¬
row spaces that might have shown a patch of bare earth. Then
there was nothing to do but move out in other directions. To
the north, the lake stopped the movement; to the west, the
blocks of mills. The south was cut off by President Avenue and
its streetcar line. But not for long. A sudden convulsion,
and the Slovenian colony had spilled itself over the dividing
line. Slovenian names commenced to appear above the shops. A
new tongue was heard on the sidewalks.

The people pushed east, past Kittman Street, Champion
Street, Eldorado, Promenade, as far as Manager Street. Could
another narrow house be crowded in here somewhere?

It took Osip several weeks to explore all the streets of
the Chicken Village, and always his walks were bounded by the
mills in one direction, the lake in another, President Avenue
in the south and by Manager Street in the east. As soon as he
moved out of this territory, it seemed to him that the streets
Were less clean, the houses not so sturdy, or that people sit¬
ting on the porches gave him a hostile stare as he passed by.

Now and then he was recognized by a worker from the mill
and invited in for a dri nk and a chat. Inside the man's house

SOURCE: Frank Mlakar, He, the Father  (New York: Harper and Broth¬

ers, 1950), 62-72. Reprinted by permission of Harper § Row, Publishers,

Inc.

87

Chicken shack, by Nancy Bukovnik

he would look about him, exclaiming at the number of rooms and
their bigness, the fancy furniture—thinking to himself as he
said these things that his own place would be even bigger and
better.

One evening late that autumn, Osip began his explorations
with an air of keen expectation. A friend had told him of an
unusual house on Promenade Street that was for sale.

Overhead a yellow moon sailed lazily. He almost ran along
the sidewalks, smiling at his eagerness to believe what he had
been told. He went past the big "bordingauses," past a group of
children who were chattering among themselves in American. One
°f them, with his face turned to a pole, was calling off a
string of numbers. The others went fleeing for their lives in
a ll directions. Osip saw them hiding themselves, in the shad¬
ows, in cavelike doorways, behind a solitary tree that had lost
lts  leaves and was cowering in two feet of dirt between sidewalk
a nd street.

He hurried on. At Promenade Street he came to a stop. To
the north lay the railroad tracks, gleaming in the moonlight
like ribbons. Somewhere in the opposite direction lay the house
he was seeking. Was it likely to be the kind of house he
wanted? Most of the habitations in this neighborhood were ter¬
ribly old, deserted by the Americans a long time ago.

Behind him, four blocks back, lay the wire mills, but here
it was another world altogether. In the moonlight he could see
the twin rows of narrow dwellings. Not a factory chimney any¬
where, not a saloon. There were lights shining in some of the
houses. Everything was quiet, peaceful.

He turned into the street. The house was located midway
down the block. The first quick glance told him what he wanted
to know. It was the house he had been looking for. He had
Walked up and down this street a dozen times; how could he have
overlooked it? In his mind it was his already. It had been
waiting there for him, so that he should come on it at just this
foment, when he was ready for it.

In Osip's eyes the straight, clean, and almost gaunt lines
°f the house were proof of the good craftsmanship that had gone
into it. It was solidly constructed, resting securely on stone
piers. A properly steep roof covered it. All the proportions
°f length and width and height were so finely adjusted that
they could not have been altered without making it a different
and inferior sort of house.

He exulted in its simple beauty. His heart went out to
the person who had made it.

"He knew what he wanted and didn't trust others to make it
for him," exactly, as he, being Osip Princevich and not someone
e lse, had known from the start that he could not buy the kind of
cradle he wanted for his firstborn and would have to make it
himself.

89

Landscape composition, by H. Gregory Prusheck (Perusek)

The dwelling had once been a farmhouse, with land running
down to the lake. Over the decades other houses had crept up
to its walls. The acres of land had dwindled to the few feet of
dirt surrounding it. The fields on which the forgotten American
farmer had grown his crops were now covered by mills in which
machines pounded and thundered, and by myriad houses whose in¬
habitants spoke a language that was not American. This little
core of an old vanished life stood alone and lost in the dis¬
figured landscape.

Its suggestion of oldness appealed to Osip. As he went up
to it, he could see even in the moonlight that a crime had been
committed on the venerable thing. Its boards were unpainted and
cracked. Nails showed their heads. The fence sagged inward.

The sidewalk leading to the porch was broken; grass grew up from
it. But these imperfections pleased him. He would have been
disappointed to find the house perfect. Now he himself would
bring it back to its rightful beauty. The sagging shutters on
the windows, the curlicues of wood tacked on to the eaves, the
trellises on the porch—all would be removed, the simplicity
restored.

With his heart in his throat, Osip went to the door and
knocked.

After a while he heard slow and halting steps. As the
door swung open, Osip saw an old man, bent almost double, his
face cracked with a hundred seams, his thin shoulders covered
by a blanket.

"Yanez Anzlovar?"

"Come in." The old man turned and led the way to the
round-bellied stove, which was cherry red with heat. Here he
let himself down slowly into a black rocking chair and motioned
Osip to take a place near him.

Osip sat down, wondering at the old man's wastefulness in
having a fire on what was a comparatively warm autumn night.

Yanez Anzlovar noticed his expression and said, "I'm cold
all the time. I can't get warm," His voice was pitched low.
Osip had to lean forward to hear him.

"Are you here about the house?" He was surveying Osip
from under his white brows.

"Yes."

The old man began to rock himself slowly, tapping his
slippered toes into the floor like a child engrossed by rhyth¬
mic motion.

"It's  a good house, but it hasn't brought me any luck,"
he said. "Once I thought it would stay mine until I died and
then go to my children."

Osip could not repress a .start as he heard these words.

But Yanez Anzlovar was absorbed in his own thoughts and went on
with, "Some of my kids were born on the other side, some here.
Now I've  got no one. My old lady died two years ago."

91

A clock ticked loudly on the shabby dresser. The rug on
the floor was threadbare. From the molding that ran round the
walls a few pictures were hung: one was of Christ; another

showed a young woman clad in a voluminous white garment, her
hair piled in coils on her head. The third picture was of a
young man whose chin was supported by an incredibly tall and
stiff collar.

"That's me, when I came here forty years ago, long before
Shirekar and his saintly crew." A spark of life crept back into
one faded watery eye; the other remained closed. "The Christ
was the old lady's. I let it stay there because she liked it."

Yanez Anzlovar was picking at the blanket on his shoul¬
ders with his transparent fingers, trying to settle it more
comfortably. Osip helped him. He felt there was something
queer about this old man who appeared interested not so much
in selling his house as in finding someone to listen to him.
"What have I walked into?" he wondered. "Is he sincere about
selling the house?" His first words had not been the sort to
please a prospective buyer.

"There wasn't a Slovenian here then," continued the gar¬
rulous ancient. "Only Germans and Jews, Polacks and Americans.
I went years without saying a word to the neighbors. Then the
kids grew up and I learned some American." The chair creaked
as he tipped himself forward and backward.

"My children thought I knew more than I did, and so they
spoke American to me all the time. I was ashamed to confess
that I didn't understand them. I told myself that I would
learn the language some day, but it was too late and I never
did. One by one they deserted the nest, until only the little
one was left of seven. Then she, too, married, and the old
lady and I were left alone, just as if we had never had any
children at all. The house became as quiet as a grave. The
old lady died one day, and I was alone. Now I've decided to go
back to the old country. They can bury me in the place where I
was born."

A spasm of coughing shook him. The blanket slipped from
his shoulders. He blew his seamed cheeks in and out fiercely,
trying to catch his breath.

"Can I help you?" asked Osip, bewildered by the unreal,
dreamlike turn the interview had taken.

The old man's fingers on the black arms of the rocking
chair were quivering like aspen leaves. After a while he began
again, his voice unwinding itself from the recesses in which it
had been stored.

"I'm worn out," he said. "They gave me the pension too
late. What can I do with it now? I've told the man from the
mill to bring it to me in dollar bills. I throw them into the
air and let them fall at my feet. Then I sit here and look at
them and say to myself, 'Well, Yanez Anzlovar, you're an old
fool, all right. This is all it's  brought you. There's your

92

life on the floor. There's the blue right eye you lost in the
mill. There's your old wife who never had any fun. There are
your lost American children. Everything's passed you by.

You'll die soon without knowing why you were put on earth.'

Now there's only the money left. That's why I sometimes spit
on it, to show myself that man is better than a bit of paper."

Osip put in timidly, "About the house, is it really for

sale?"

"See if you want it first. Of course it's for sale.

What am I to do with it?"

He was still going on when Osip left him to explore the
house. As he passed from room to room his elation mounted. He
saw that the floors everywhere were solid to his tread, though
they were hollowed with wear near the doorways. Board joined
board with a true edge. Here and there the square head of a
handmade nail showed itself. There were probably hundreds of
such nails hidden from the eye, all handmade, of iron patiently
heated and pounded into shape, all wrought with the same careful
craftsmanship.

Osip walked through rooms in which no one had lived for a
long time, saying to himself, "I don't have to see any more.

It's mine already, every bit of it. This house has been waiting
for me, no matter what the old man says about it being unlucky.
His life is finished; mine is beginning."

But he could not stop looking. He went into each of the
seven rooms once again. He went into the windowless cellar
where the long-dead farmer had stored his apples. The beams
that supported the weight of the house had been hewn from living
timber and still showed the marks of the ax.

Yanez Anzlovar was drowsing when Osip came back to him.

His mouth had fallen open, revealing a few blackened stumps of
teeth. He wakened at Osip's touch.

"How much—about how much would it be?" stammered Osip.

"Three thousand dollars. In cash. I won't live long
enough to collect a mortgage. I'm taking the money with me to
the old country. Is it yes or no?"

Three thousand dollars. Where would he get that amount of

money?

"Yes," he heard himself whispering, "the answer is yes.

I will be back tomorrow night."

"Well, then, shake hands on it," said Yanez Anzlovar.

"In cash."

"Yes, yes. Tomorrow."

Osip stumbled out of the house.

Three thousand dollars. He was making twenty-two dollars
a week, Lenka another nine. Sixteen hundred and twelve dollars
a year in all.

Did he sleep at all that night? He remembered something
that was either a dream or else part of his half-wakeful imagin-

93

ings. He had seen the hut again, the same hut that once figured
so prominently in his dreams. But this time the hut was not
torn down by winds. He saw it take fire and burn to ashes. In
the midst of the leaping flames he glimpsed quite clearly the
figure of an old man slowly rocking himself on a black chair,
serenely oblivious to the fire around him, until he was abruptly
swallowed and lost to sight.

Osip was aware of an intense anxiety the moment he opened
his eyes. The house on Promenade Street! The dream of the hut
meant that something had happened to ruin his chances of getting
Yanez Anzlovar's house.

"It's too early to get up," said Lenka drowsily, hearing
him move. "Did the clock ring?"

He decided he would tell her nothing yet. "Go back to
sleep. The light must have wakened me. See, the sun's begin¬
ning to rise."

Lenka obediently turned her back to the window and was
soon asleep again.

It was while he was sitting at breakfast that Osip thought
of Smrekar. The saloonkeeper was fond enough of Lenka that he
would listen sympathetically to anything that might affect her
happiness. He owned this building and was reputed to have title
to several other important properties in the Chicken Village; he
was undoubtedly the only person Osip knew who might have three
thousand dollars available in cash. Osip pushed the breakfast
aside and hurried out.

Downstairs Snrekar was talking to a man in a leather
apron. Outside the saloon a pair of horses stared gloomily at
the pavements. The morning was gray, the sun cold. The man in
the leather apron came out, climbed up to his seat on the beer
wagon, and set the horses in motion.

"What will it be, Osip?" said Smrekar, eying him with
curiosity. "This is the first time I've seen you here in the
morning."

"Nothing to drink, Gospodar ."

"Is Lenka all right? There's no trouble?"

"Lenka's sleeping. I came to see you about something."

"So?"

"Gospodar  Smrekar, I want you to help me buy a house."

He blurted it out all in one breath, despite the decision
he had made to go at the business calmly. Ignoring Smrekar's
startled expression, he began rapidly to describe the property
on Promenade Street, the amount of money he needed to effect
the sale.

With a wry grin Snrekar took in the situation.

"And so you come to me?"

"I've no one else to turn to. Gospodar  Smrekar, I'd do
anything to get that house, give you whatever you want for the
use of your money."

"Can't you get a loan from the Slovenian bank?"

94

"Lenka and I have only a couple hundred dollars. They
wouldn't give me a mortgage on that. I've no security but my
word."

"They're businessmen," said Sinrekar, "Slovenians who have
become American businessmen. They learned quickly. Tell me
something, Osip. Did Lenka put you up to asking me?"

"It was my idea, Gospodar  Sinrekar. Lenka knows nothing
about the house yet."

"You haven't told her!"

"I wished it to be a surprise. I wanted to make all the
arrangements, then lay the title to the house in her hands."

And now, as he spoke these words, he felt a momentary pang of
doubt. Should he have approached Sinrekar without speaking to
Lenka first?

A smile wreathed the saloonkeeper's face. "So that's how
it is. Don't you know that Lenka doesn't want to live in the
Chicken Village?"

"Excuse me, Gospodar and he rushed on, scenting 3nre-
kar's interest, "she's impatient and restless now only because
we don't have a place of our own, because we live in a single
room. No offense meant, Gospodar  Smrekar, but that's how it is.
We can't live in one room much longer. We want children, space
for them to live in."

"I will tell you what," said Smrekar casually, an impish
grin playing across his pink features; "go to work now. There's
no reason for you to lose a day's pay. Let me see what can be
done. I'll go to old Yanez myself. If the place is worth the
money, perhaps something can be arranged. I promise nothing
yet, but . . . well, let's say the mortgage would rest in my
hands, to be paid off properly, just as you'd pay it at the
bank. I'll  be doing this not for any sentimental reasons, or
because of Lenka, as you may be thinking, but as business, a
good six-percent business."

Osip gawked at these words. It wasn't possible that the
matter could be settled this easy. There was a trick in it
somewhere. What did Sinrekar's queer grin mean? He had half a
mind to back out of the deal. Then everything was washed away
in a flood of joy, and he had caught up the saloonkeeper's hand.
If he hadn't been ashamed to, he would have fallen to his knees
in gratitude.

"Off with you now," said Smrekar jovially, as though he
were hugely pleased at some private joke.

In the ensuing days Osip put his name to the documents
that Sinrekar several times laid down for him to sign. The
saloonkeeper seemed animated by an eagerness equal to Osip's,
but the young man no longer wondered about it. Each signature
brought him that much closer to”the dreamed-of property. He
dared not go to the house again for fear he might upset the
luck that was so extraordinarily favoring him.

95

Light and shadows (baptistry in Panama), by Lillian Brule

Lenka did not fail to notice his preoccupation or the
laughter he spilled affectionately over her. "You'll know
everything soon," he promised when she pressed him.

"You're not doing something you shouldn't?"

"Of course not! What a notion."

A frown settled itself on Lenka's face. What could he be
planning? He seemed a different man. It was strange that he
would not confide in her, take her into his confidence.

And then one evening Smrekar beckoned Osip into the lit¬
tle room he used as an office. In his hand he held a document
of some sort. Osip followed him at once.

"There it is," said Smrekar simply, "the deed to the
house. Anzlovar intends to be out of the place next week. He's
going to the old country to spend his last years. All his
furniture goes with the house. It's written down here. He's
expecting you tonight."

Osip was inarticulate with gratitude.

"Pay what you owe me, and there'll be no complaints,"
said Snrekar, "You're young, so it shouldn't take you long to
square the whole debt. Find Lenka now. She's got my permis¬
sion to leave."

Now that everything had turned out the way he had hoped
it would, Osip could not believe it. The saloonkeeper finally
pushed him out of the office and, seeing Lenka watching them,
gave her an imperious nod that brought her running.

"What's wrong?" she exclaimed.

"Nothing's wrong," said Smrekar. "You two are seeing a
friend for me. Take off your apron and leave. Osip will tell
you what there's to know." He returned to his stool behind the
bar and waved to them as they left.

"What is it, Osip?" asked Lenka, once they were out on
the street. "Who is this friend? Why are we seeing him?"

He smiled down at her. "You'll know, you'll know. . . ."

On Promenade Street he led her to a lighted house. He
climbed the porch stairs and knocked loudly on the door.

"Whose house is this?"

He knocked again. When there was still no answer, he
said, "It's our house. We may as well go in. We've come here
to take possession."

Lenka seemed to wilt as she took in the meaning of his
words. Her hand went to her mouth.

Osip pushed open the door.

Yanez Anzlovar was sitting quietly in his rocking chair.
One blue eye was staring; the other, as always, was closed.
Scattered on the floor were the dollars Smrekar had paid him
for the house. He was grinning down at them.

The old man was dead.

97

Kazimir Zakrajsek, O.F.M. (1878-1958)

Kazimir Zakrajsek, O.F.M.

A FATHER'S LOVE

Translated by Edward Krasovieh

It was at the time of a big strike in Chicago a number of
years ago. For weeks already, workers had been walking the
streets and hoping for a settlement of the labor dispute.

Jacob Cvek was one of the men working at the mill who had
walked off his job with the others. He believed in labor
unions.

It was with heavy heart that he walked home from the mill,
on the last day of his employment, taking his paycheck to his
wife. There was a bill at the grocer's, a bill at the butch¬
er's, and they owed the milkman. Johnny needed shoes, and Annie
needed a dress. If his paycheck were four times what it was, it
still would not be enough to cover the bare necessities they
needed. Now he was without work! And God knows how long the
strike would last.

So Jacob was a sad man when he came home and with some
trepidation broke the news about the strike to his wife. She
was shocked. She had been in poor health since her last child¬
birth. Now what if she should become bedridden?

That's how things were at the time of that strike. Week
after week the labor negotiations dragged on, but it seemed that
no agreement could be reached.

Hunger began to be felt at the Cvek household. Jacob was
able to find a part-time job occasionally, but that helped very
little. Hunger and sorrow overcame his wife, who was now com¬
pletely ill and bedridden.

It was very difficult for the man of the house when he
reflected on the poverty and misfortune that had befallen his
family. If only he could find a job so that he could at least
provide his wife and children with the necessities of life!

Every morning he went from factory to factory seeking employ¬
ment, with no results. _

SOURCE: K[azirair ZakrajSek], "Oietova ljubezen," Ave Maria Kole-

dar,  1920, 86.

99


On strike, by Ted Kramolc

One morning, cold and hungry, he walked from one factory
to another. It was bitter cold. He came to the employment
office of a factory where there was a long line of applicants
seeking employment. As he stood at the end of this line, he
picked up a discarded newspaper. Leafing through it, he read:

"Wealthy N. N. lies fatally ill at X Hospital. Only a
transfusion of a rare type of blood from strong and healthy
individuals can save his life. Acceptable donors will be paid
handsomely."

As he read this notice he wondered whether his blood
would be acceptable. "I'm strong and healthy," he thought.

"We are not hiring any more men today. We'll take on a
few more tomorrow morning," the clerk announced to those stand¬
ing in line.

As the men dispersed, Jacob thought, "Now I have no other
choice but to go find out about my blood." And he hurried over
to the hospital.

The doctor gave him a thorough examination. "You have
the proper type blood and you are healthy enough," said the
doctor. "Your blood will be acceptable!"

Jacob's blood was drawn, and he received his fee.

With great joy and happiness Jacob brought home groceries
and other necessities for his family.

"Where on earth did you get the money?" asked his wife.

"It's best, dear, that you do not know."

"You're certainly not going to keep secrets from your
wife," she said.

Jacob kept the news from her as long as he could. Final¬
ly, reluctantly, he told her what had happened.

"You bought us bread with your blood?"

"Yes, dear. I could no longer stand seeing your hunger,"
he said as the happy little children embraced their good father.

101

Jim Debevec

Jim Debevec

THE HOLIEST THING ALIVE

Probably the most unselfish person in the world is a Slo¬
venian mother! Her children always come first.

She may have come from the old country (Slovenia, Yugo¬
slavia). Mother there was accustomed to the hard life and
taught her daughter the principles of thrift, religious devo¬
tion, and difficult physical toil as a means of obtaining satis¬
faction in this life.

In the old country, the mother often worked in the fields
beside her husband. It was not uncommon to see her chopping the
firewood, or bringing in the well water.

In this country the Slovenian mother followed her mother's
pattern. The newly arrived citizen could be seen working in
factories, helping as a domestic, and in rural districts, help¬
ing the husband with the daily farm burdens.

She is thrifty. If family obligations at home prevent
her from seeking employment outside the domicile, she can find
a million ways to save money in her own environment.

As an example, she never buys frozen foods; she would
rather spend all day Sunday cooking zinkrofi  (filled dough).

She prefers homemade soup to the store-bought variety. "Open
up a can of soup? What's that?" she might ask. Nobody can bake
potiea  (nut roll) as well as she.

She spends a good deal of her time jarring foods for later

use.

When shopping for clothes, the Slovenian mother is con¬
stantly thinking of her family. She usually buys for the entire
household, forgetting (on purpose) her own needs. "I can do
without. You must face the public" is her reasoning.

Often she is in charge of the family finances. She always
saves some money for the future. That usually means buying a
home. If the husband brings home fifty, or a hundred, or two
hundred dollars a week, at lehst ten percent of it will go into
the bank.

SOURCE: The Euclid News-Journal,  11 May 1972.

103

Mother, by Milan Vojsk

A Slovenian mother has been taught from generation to
generation, from the old country, that the most precious com¬
modity one can buy is land. Once land is purchased, the next
investment is to put a home on it.

She usually feels that charge accounts are unnecessary.
She pays cash for everything—groceries, clothes, and even the
family car. She will reason, "If you can't pay for it now, you
don't need it!" Real estate agents have marveled about Slo¬
venians going to the bank and paying cash for a house!

Our heroine has the best looking house in the block.

There is never any dust found even in the most remote corner.

She washes clothes every day. She can't stand anything dirty.

Outside the home, Slovenian mothers have been known to
mow the lawn (honest), do the gardening, and trimming. But
best of all, she loves her flower garden. Every home-owning
family has one. She spends hours caring for flowers. And buy¬
ing a rose is unthinkable. She usually borrows a Cutting from
a friend, plants it in the ground, and when that blooms, takes
more cuttings until the yard is filled with beautiful roses.

Her life is very religious; she never misses going to
church. She teaches her children the traits of honesty, and the
value of maintaining a sterling character. "A man is only as
good as his word," she says.

But why go on? You must know the person we are describ¬
ing; she can be found almost everywhere. And she is a legend
in her own time!

A mother is a mother stilt,

The holiest thing alive.

—Coleridge

105

Janko Rogelj (1895-1974)

Janko Rogelj

THE CHARTER MEMBER

Translated, by Joseph Valencia

Jack Zmeda was distressed. The president's report in the
lodge newspaper had stated that Jack Zmeda was a charter member
of the organization. Yet the secretary's report did not even
mention Jack's name. He now felt he was in a doubtful position.

The uncertainty of it all gave him quite a headache. The
more he thought about the situation, the more confused he was:
"The president should know 'cause he's the highest official.

But the secretary should know, too, 'cause he takes care of all
the records. So why don't they agree?"

What disturbed Jack the most was that he himself could
not remember whether or not he was an original member of the
Studencek lodge, now celebrating its fiftieth anniversary.

As Jack troubled his aching head about it, a comforting
rationale began to form: "The president's word is most impor¬
tant because he is the head of the lodge. He is the one who

holds the gavel at meetings and gives the floor to speakers.

He is also the first to give his signature to lodge documents.

If a member dies, it is the president who gives the eulogy. In

short, he has the first and last word and would know for sure

if Jack was a charter member fifty years ago."

So Jack then figured that the secretary's accounts don't
mean a thing. "What could that secretary know? He isn't the
chief of the lodge—he's just a humble servant!"

A large resplendent banquet was planned in honor of the
charter members. The affair had great meaning for everyone,
especially the founders. After spending fifty years in the
lodge, they now sat at a large table, ate well and drank, and
listened to educated speakers. The others looked upon their
oldest brothers with respect and trust. There they were at the
main table--those rare members who formed the groundwork of the
lodg e and had persevered to ma ke it great ■ _

SOURCE: Janko Rogelj, Skrivnostni klio  (Ljubljana: Drzavna Zaloz-

ba Slovenije, 1967), 84-87.

107

Jack sat himself at the last table in the back of the
hall. He had his approach already planned: "Act humble and

inconspicuous so that when they announce your name, you can
stand up and really shine. The whole place will be staring at
you!"

As the banquet was starting, the president asked the
founders to sit at the speakers' table. He then read off their
names alphabetically. Jack Zmeda knew that his name would be
the last on the list. But the president sat down after he
called the name of Tony Slama. . . .

Young women in starched white uniforms carried in tureens
of thin soup and platters of roasted chicken in greasy puddles.
Bowls of wilting lettuce in strong vinegar were also placed on
the tables. Only the vivid red beets and green peas showed any
life—mainly because they were undercooked. But on the creak¬
ing tables the Slovenian "potica" reigned supreme and quickly
found its way to everyone's plate. The hot coffee which finally
arrived burned the guests' tongues, insuring silence as they
listened to the speaker who had been brought in from some dis¬
tant lodge to help honor the men.

Jack Zmeda had tears in his eyes. He had some soup, hop¬
ing that it would keep him from visibly crying. After that he
could not eat anything more. His neighbors at the table tried
to persuade him at least to taste some of the other food. But
Jack resisted, knowing that his throat would immediately con¬
strict from sorrow.

The question continually pounded on his brain: "Am I a

charter member?" Unconsciously he pulled the formal invitation
from his pocket. His name was printed among the founding mem¬
bers. His neighbors noticed him as he was turning the invita¬
tion in his hands. Louie Jezicnik was sitting opposite and
stretched across the table to Jack.

"The invitation says you're a charter member. So what're
you doin' siftin' here with us?"

Offended, Jack answered with a Scriptural saying:

"'Many are called but few are chosen.' They didn't call
me even though I'm marked down as an original member. See!
That's what happens when you're too long in the lodge and ready
for your grave. Boy, I remember the kinda funerals they used
to throw for a guy if he died at the right time. And now?

Hell, if you die now, nobody goes to your funeral. And that's
what's gonna happen to me 'cause I been too damn long in this
lodge."

The roster of speakers was unusually long but this was
necessary to satisfy all the politicians who wanted exposure at
the ceremony. ... As the speeches dragged on, Jack suddenly
rose and took leave. He was glad he was not seated as a charter
member because, in that case, he would have had to sit through
to the end.

108

About six months later something unexpected happened.

Jack received a newspaper clipping from Slovenia that said,
among other things, that Jack was one of the founding members
of the Studencek lodge. The lodge name was misspelled, but he
wasn't confused by that, since it wasn't the first time a Slo¬
venian newspaper had misprinted the title of an American^organi-
zation. The point was that the article mentioned Studencek—
hardly a common name for a lodge—and that Jack was a charter
member of his lodge. That was enough proof for him.

He appeared at the next lodge meeting and asked for the
floor. After reading the article, he assailed his fellow mem¬
bers:

"You hypocrites! What kind of lodge brothers are you?

Even in Europe they knew that I was a charter member. And you
guys didn't know!" Then he turned abruptly and left.

No reports were published on how Jack's lodge brothers
were affected by his attack. But the whole matter of Jack's
mix-up does show that even in Europe they read Slovenian Ameri¬
can newspapers and pay due respect to charter members of Slo¬
venian American fraternal lodges.

109

■ iAN,

(>>

Katka Zupancic (1889-1967), by Lillian Brule

Katka Zupancic

HO IV MUCH WILL YOU GIVE?

Translated by Edward Krasovioh

On the outskirts of a mid-American city stands a nonde¬
script six-room house, built on the pattern of thousands o
other American homes. Its front faces the street, and it is
constructed of light-colored brick. A beautiful young maple
tree stands in the center of a well-kept lawn which gives t e
appearance of a carpet of green. The shades are pulled hal way
on the windows on whose clean panes the sun glistens.

All this is taken in with one quick glance by the man who
is already up the steps and in front of the door. He rings.

As he rings a second time, he hears steps on the walk along t e
side of the house. From around the corner appears a somewhat
heavy, almost bald, well-tanned gentleman. His round, good-
looking face is clean shaven.

"What do you want?" he asks sullenly, peevishly turning
his gaze upward. When his caller laughs good-naturedly,^te
gentleman recognizes him and at once becomes friendly.^ A ,
look at you! Do you know, I almost snubbed you. • • •

"Because I interrupted your sweet dreams, no dou t. ou
were sleeping, weren't you?" .

"Well, I was reading and dozed off. The family has gone
to the movies, and I'm home alone. Come, let's go ac o e
patio.”

As soon as they arrive there, he quickly picks U P t e
scattered newspapers, stacks them on the table, and as e  p ac
a stone on them, he says, "That should keep Brother Wind from
doing any further mischief." Just then he notices s ee s o
paper protruding from his friend's pocket, and hal o
friendliness goes with the wind. "So be it. I go ge y
a beer anyway, even though the only time you call on me is w e
you're begging. ..."  , .

His friend was hurt. "If I do beg, I'm not egging
myself. . . ______-— ; - : - : -

SOURCE: Katka Zupancic, Slike iz vsakdanjega zivljenja  (Chicago.

Prosvetna Matica, 1946), 102-11.

Ill

"Yes, I know," he quickly reassures him, "I could have
pretended not to be at home, but I didn't," he said brusquely,
and marched off into the house after the beer. For he, Joe
Koppel, one-time Jozek Capelj, was proud of his reputation. He
did not want to be considered stingy; that's why he always gave
a little something "whenever the devil brought them over with
their collection campaigns."

In the house he put a few coins into his pocket, filled
two mugs with beer, and returned to the patio.

"O.K., let's drink to your health and mine, and tell me-
what you think of the war." He wipes the foam from his lips.
"So, how do we stand? Will we or won't we? And when will
there be an end to it?"

His friend laughs off the questions, saying that he is
not a prophet, and that both of them hold the same beliefs.
"However, if you read the reports from the old country and con¬
sidered the conditions over there, you wouldn't be able to
sleep nights, unless you had a heart of stone."

"Eh, war is war. It brings good to no one. One hears
this, and one hears that. But no one knows the truth."

"I don't have time to get into a lengthy conversation.

But I would like to emphasize something, and that is this: our

people over there are being threatened with total annihilation.
Do you know what that means: total annihilation? And so it

behooves us to help our unfortunate countrymen over there, as
many of them as survive. That is why I have come to you. . . ."

He pulled a sheet from his pocket. "How much will you
give? You know, they will need a bit of everything. Mainly
food, clothing, shoes, medicines, doctors. How much will you
give?

"They will need tools, they will need livestock for the
fields, cows for milking. How much will you give?

"They will have to begin everything from scratch. Their
forests have been destroyed and burned, or their lumber has
been hauled away. But they will need roofs for themselves and
their livestock. How much will you give?

"For their devastated fields and gardens they will need
seeds, all kinds. We'll have to give some thought to hospitals
for than, and refuges, especially for their poor, orphaned
children. So, tell me, how much will you give?"

It was difficult for Koppel to feign a cool indifference,
and still more difficult to force a compassionate laugh. Some
bitter retorts came to his tongue, but he withheld them.

His friend continued, "Their schools are destroyed, their
teachers who were not caught are killed or scattered. Thousands
and thousands of our countrymen are languishing in concentra¬
tion camps. And if some of them should be saved, shall we let
them die along the way like dumb animals? So, how much will
you give?"

He became quiet and waited.

112

"Ha, you really know how! You don't say, 'Will you give
something?' but rather, 'how much, and how much, and how much
will you give?' just like a broken phonograph record. But I'll
tell you straight out—you can be offended or not — I'm not giv¬
ing anything. You may look surprised if you wish. If you were
collecting for something over here, I'd reach into my pocket
and count out something for you. But for those over there—not
one red cent! It's just the principle of the thing."

"The principle? . . . The principles of sober and honest
thinking people are always aimed at good. But yours are turned
and twisted, like a goat's horns. Come on, talk and be guided
like a man who has sense and whose heart is in the right place."

Koppel jumped as though he had been stung by a hornet.
"I'd be a fool and a lunatic if I talked and were guided any
differently!" His lips curled contemptuously. "You know, I
always laugh when I read those tearful appeals of yours:

'Give, give, the old country calls, calls. . . .'" He made a
face.

"Ah, my friend, you would not laugh at those tearful
appeals if you. ..."

"If I had stayed over there, you mean to say, don't you?
But I am here, you see, here! America is an altogether dif¬
ferent home for me than my wretched one over there was!"

"And therefore you feel no obligation to the old country,
because your life there was a wretched one?"

"I'd like to know what kind of obligation! I think I
served her well enough, since after I got here I brought over
my two sisters, although I should have left one of them there
because she is nothing but trouble for me. But that's another
matter, and doesn't concern you. I wanted to get my brother
over here, too. But the fool got stuck on a farm and stayed
there. He wrote that he got married and is satisfied, and that
everything was going well. Good, good. Perhaps he did make
his bed well, but if the Germans and Italians unmade it for him
■—that's not my fault. I advised him to sell everything he had
there and come here. But he wouldn't do it.

"So, you see, I can wash my hands even when it comes to
my own blood brother."

All puffed up with pride and self-love, he stretched him¬
self comfortably on the bench, and calmly met his friend's eyes
which were piercing him sharply and almost hostilely. In his
self-considered triumph, he wanted to be good-natured. "So,
a re you still going to try to pressure me?"

"Please don't force me to tell you what I think of
you. ..."

"Oh, so you think I'm hard-hearted, but I'm not. My
youngest child can wrap me around his finger three times.

His friend kept quiet and stubbornly waited.

Koppel finally made a face, and said, "In truth, you
don't understand me. You can’t understand why I have no feeling

113

The kiss of Judas, or "I can wash my hands even when it comes to my
own blood brother," by France Gorse

for our so-called brothers, nor for those celebrated 'hills and
dales.' But you haven't seen them through my eyes. . . ." He
sighed deeply, and reproachfully turned towards his friend, as
if to say, "you judge me blindly."

"Now he is winding himself in gray sentimentality and
will begin feeling sorry for himself, and will be looking for
sympathy from me," thought his friend, "but I will snatch away
that gray veil and tear it to shreds." Involuntarily he, too,
sighed, and said:

"It seems to me that you would have seen those 'hills and
dales,' with the people, in a better light if you had had some
buttered white bread, isn't that so?"

Koppel threw out his arms ecstatically and cried: "But¬

tered white bread! . . . Merciful God! I would have been
grateful for oatmeal bread. I was ten years old before I first
ate white bread to satiety. And that was given to me by a
strange hand. But I must tell you that it was earned, so you
won't think that I was just a beggar. ..."

His friend nodded understandingly. "So your former pover¬
ty has embittered your every thought about your homeland? . . ."

"Black, ugly, dirty poverty, and a belt which danced over
my starved back like a fiery snake, and I didn't know whether I
should hold the tattered pants I wore in front or back, since
my nakedness showed both in front and in back," He laughed
exhaustingly. "Oh, you'll never be able to comprehend how deep
the wound of my youth was." After a short silence, he contin¬
ued even more gloomily:

"And do you know how it all ended? Just as it was in¬
tended. By fire. Our home was destroyed by fire—it didn't
belong to us anyway—our mother went with it, and with her my
youngest brother. Our father succumbed that night from his
burns. It was a snowy, cold, peaceful Christmas night. . . ."
His lips began to tremble.

"Good Lord. Destiny certainly was not kind to you,"
quietly remarked his friend, deeply touched.

"No, indeed not. . . . Then after that my employment
began. First came the big job of herding cows, and afterwards
the bigger job as a hired hand. . . . That's the career that
®y sweet and good homeland had for me! And you have the nerve
bo expect me to help her with dollars that I have earned here.
Never! It would be a sin!"

"They say that suffering ennobles a person. I, myself,
have noted that people who have walked the thorny path often
have a deeper understanding and feeling for the suffering of
bheir fellow man. That's why I can't understand your narrow¬
mindedness. Neither can I understand why you should hold your
misfortunes against the entire .country. My youth wasn't worthy
°f envy either, but it wouldn't enter my mind to judge someone
e lse by my father's shortcomings.

115

Offering, by Milan Vojsk

"My father didn't have the talents required for adminis¬
tration, nor indeed any luck. In addition, he became ill; when
he finally recovered, the cream of his strength was gone for¬
ever, and then he became stubborn and irritable.

"Finally, my mother's patience was exhausted, and real
dog days began for the family. Tensions and rumblings brought
new thunderstorms. That was the atmosphere we grew up in. In
other homes, holidays were a time of happiness, but at our
house we dreaded than. On such days at our place, only hell
had its orgies.

"Besides that, we worked hard. We strained ourselves to
such an extent that we became like robots. In spite of every¬
thing we did, our home went downwards. . . ."

Koppel laughed harshly, "At our home we didn't go down¬
wards. We couldn't. We were at the bottom. At our place I
learned that a whimpering home love could not bring us to life."

His friend realized that the seed of his words had fallen
on barren ground. "Do you want to hear about the fellow over
there who was innocently indicted and imprisoned?"

Shuffling his papers, he continued: "When the true crim¬

inal confessed, the innocently accused had long since been in
America. He had escaped prison, and fled to America under an
assumed name. He is now an old man. But listen to how he
accepted his bitter cup. 'Will I help? As much as I possibly
can! It's just a pity that I'm not rich. Those who did me
wrong are already in their graves. It's too bad that I never
wrote them telling them that my love for my homeland was never
great enough. They were never able to dim it even a bit.'"

That unwritten letter galled Koppel. He laughed hesitat¬
ingly, saying: "What would folks do without an ass? Wasn't

even I innocently indicted? Indicted as an everlasting hired
hand!

"I had this same head, and these hands! Look," his ges¬
ture took in the house and the garden, "this is what I accom¬
plished with them here. But what could I have done over there?
That's why no one can obscure the old country for me, because
it never shined for me! With my first dollars earned in Amer¬
ica I wanted to return there so that I could spit on her and
all of Europe!"

"Why only on her and Europe? Why wouldn't you want to
spit on the entire world? For poverty and misery are scattered
throughout the whole world, and it's  poverty that you want to
spit upon, isn't it? And what if you had been born in poverty
over here, where would you want to spit then?"

"Ah, but here everything is different. Here even beggars
wear neckties. I heard that many of them even have cars and
homes, some even in the better districts of town."

"Come now, pull the wool from your eyes. Can't you tell
the difference between racketeering and poverty? Rather than
sleep, you should drive around in your car, or walk along the

117

streets, and at least from the outside you could see some of
the miseries of the people. . .

"But those people are to blame for that themselves, . .
put in Koppel.

"Of course. They are to blame because they were born in
poverty! According to that logic, you yourself were to blame
for your sad youth, since you didn't make provisions to be born
into a well-to-do family. Fortunately, your wretched homeland
taught you your letters, so why don't you read, so you'd know at
least something of the seamy side of young, rich America—the
richest country in the world?

"But you don't wish to stir up any smoky notions about
her golden records. And why should you? Didn't she take you
willingly under her wings—and you brought along your head and
your strong arms, which you perhaps just picked up somewhere
along the way. ..."

"It is truly a miracle that I was able to pull myself up
from such depths. You're needling me in vain. You'll never
reach me. I'm dedicated to my new and only homeland with heart
and soul, and her seamy side doesn't bother me at all."

"Of course not, you poor blind mouse, since you fell
foolishly in love with the almighty dollar, and completely re¬
nounced your homeland which gave you life, strength, and char¬
acter. And because she wasn't able to fill your table with
beef, you can't forgive her even now, while the executioners
nail her to the cross—how come you laugh and stare so?" His
voice was shaking with anger.

"Beef, eh? You, too, have a loyalty to this country—yet
your heart still beats for the old country."

"Millions of us came here for bread, or for better bread.
We brought over, besides our strong bodies, hearts open to
everything good, hearts which were not empty, nor corruptible.

I don't believe in the kind of devotion which is based on money,
and measured by the value of a house and garden and beef. For
that is no longer realism, but merely stiff, hard-hearted ego¬
istical materialism.

"So you're the one who cries: To whom and why? It's not

our fault ... we have no obligations toward them. . . . Who
has helped, or would help us, if. . . .

"It was not idealism, nor realism, but rather material¬
ism, which drove Judas Iscariot to sell Christ for thirty pieces
of silver. . . ."

He picked up his hat, firmly determined that he would not
say another word.

But Koppel felt offended. Almost angrily he reproached
his friend for his offenses, the turn-arounds, and belittlings.
"I a materialist? And my thoughts only on money? And all
because I won't have anything to do with my homeland, which had
nothing for me but a kick in the pants. For, you see, too long
I prayed in vain for my daily bread. . . ."

118

"Which you finally got, otherwise you wouldn't be here
today. And if you are honest—I say: if you are honest—you

should return that little which you received. You ought to
make at least one little child there happy, one who is suffer¬
ing more pain and woes than you or any one of us ever did. And
so I ask you for the last time: how much will you give?"

Koppel just gaped, took in a deep breath, and exhaled
forcibly through his nostrils, as though he wanted to say:

"Now look, we're right back where we started from!"

He mumbled something and closed his eyes, "Oh, the devil!
Give me your address. Perhaps I'll mail you a small check. .

. . But don't ever think that I've been taken in by your senti¬
mentality, which attempts to save an old pot which has always
leaked, and always will."

"The pot leaks all right. What was in it is the treasure
we want to save. We would like to save our generation for our
country, and our country for our generation. And that, my
friend, is not sentimentality."

119

John Modic

John Modic

BEING NAKED IS A SIN

"Oh, my, somebody is walking around naked," skinny aunt
Rose said loudly in Slovenian,

"Who does?" her brother, a fat little man with great
drooping mustaches that almost covered his puffy cheeks, hol¬
lered from the kitchen where he sat reading the Amerikanski
Sloveneo  and enjoying a Saturday afternoon of rest.

"Who dares to walk around in my house naked?" As he
shouted, his huge whiteshirted belly trembled slightly where it
rolled over his wide belt. He held the paper away from him ex¬
pectantly, "Who?"

"Nobody," his sister shouted back triumphantly, "nobody
except your own son, Joseph. He is crouching here before me;
now he jumps in the air like a demon!" There was a loud "thump"
as Joey hit the floor and a succession of louder noises as aunt
Rose shouted like a sports announcer, "Now he is running up and
down the room! Now he is hurling himself against the door!

You had better come and see what has happened to your son!"

"Is he possessed?" her brother asked, still declining to
get up from his chair. "For, if he is, I can do no good. Only
a priest can deal with a possessed person." He chuckled at his
little joke and turned back to his paper, satisfied with his
decision, hoping that his sister would let well enough alone.

But aunt Rose, bony aunt Rose, was far from satisfied.

She started in again. "No doubt, the neighbors are interested
in your son's strange actions even if you are not. I can see
Mrs. Petkovic looking in from her house. After all, it's not
everyday she can see a naked boy dancing by our windows—I can't
blame her."

"Why don't you pull down the shades then, if she's looking
in; why don't you, eh?" he asked angrily.

"In broad daylight, pull down the shades? Mrs. Petkovic
would call the police at such goings on."

"Damn Mrs. Petkovic! Do I run my household for her bene¬
fit, the old busybody? Let her turn her eyes in shame before

SOURCE: Skyline,  vol. 20, no. 1, 1948, 3-4,

121

God punishes her—staring at naked boys," he finished on a note
of great indignation.

The sounds of running and jumping from the living room
where Joey was nicely ignoring his aunt became livelier.

"He is running fiercely now," his aunt called out. "Soon
he will fall out of a window.”

"Joseph," his father yelled in some exasperation, "please,
why don't you stop for awhile, sit on our fine sofa, rest your¬
self, tomorrow is another day."

"Put on a pair of pants, Joseph," aunt Rose added.

The busy sounds continued.

"See, I could be a stone on the ground for all he listens
to me," she said in a hurt voice calculated to affect her
brot her.

"Joseph," her brother shouted as he turned a page with a
moistened thumb, "listen to your aunt more carefully in the near
future."

Joey spoke up for the first time. "Aunt Rose is full of
hops," he said definitely. "She don't understand what I'm do¬
ing, that's all." He spoke in English; this increased his
aunt's bitterness since she understood only a small portion of
what he said.

"And now," she mourned, "your son curses me; that is my
reward after all this time."

"He doesn't curse you," his father corrected; "he just
said that you were filled with, with—

"Hops," Joey supplied.

"Yes, hoops," his father said easily. He was very proud
of his mastery of the English tongue.

"Up to the neck," said Joey.

"I have spent five years taking care of your house and
children since your wife died, and this is the thanks I get, a
naked boy calling me names."

"All right, all right." Her brother raised himself reluc¬
tantly; the fat over his belt rolled up and made his paunch a
thing of beauty again, firm and round under his shirt.

He walked grumbling into the living room. His sister was
sitting primly in an armchair, an expression of distaste on her
thin, long-nosed face, as she watched her nephew in a bright
yellow basketball suit, pivot and then break for an imaginary
basket on the wall over the door leading to a bedroom.

"Look at him—naked!" she said pointing dramatically as
Joey shot from mid-floor and then followed up for the backboard
play. The back of his jersey showed dark wet spots around the
big number "3" that was sewed on between the lettering MISTEK §
SONS and FUNERAL DIRECTORS.

"Rose," Joey's father said reproachfully, "anyone can see
he is not all naked; he has underwear on, has he not?"

"Naked," she said firmly, "a twelve-year-old naked boy,
and acting like a lunatic."

122

"But he is just running and jumping, having a good time."

"I'm practicing," Joey remarked as he made another long

shot.

"Yes, he is building himself up, exercise, exercise," his
father explained patiently, but aunt Rose shook her head and
made little clicking noises of disgust with her mouth.

"No good will ever come of such things," she said ominous¬
ly-

Joey's father seemed to notice something for the first
time. "Joseph, my boy, why are you wearing yellow underwear?

In fact," he continued puzzled, "where did you get yellow under¬
wear with numbers and letters all over it?"

Joey threw a hard overhand pass to a teammate by the vic-
trola, dashed over to the far end of the sofa, received the
return pass, and flipped a pretty pivot shot out of the three
second circle before he got time to answer in a winded voice.

"It ain't underwear, pa; it's  a basketball suit. I'm on the
Unknowns, a team at the bathhouse."

He tapped his index finger against his chest where a
giant, wrinkled question mark adorned the cotton jersey. Then
he cleverly feinted his father out of position, dribbled by him,
and sank a basket on the other side of the room.

"You gotta be on your toes all the time in this game, pa,"
he said professionally as his father wheeled about in surprise.

Without stopping his activity, Joey very rapidly explained
more of the game to his father.

Then his father turned to aunt Rose and said, "You see,
it's  nothing. It's  a game where the boys jump into baskets. It
is nothing—nothing to worry about — just an American game. And
Joseph," he added proudly, "is number three in the bathhouse."

Aunt Rose snorted unpleasantly, got up, and went into the
kitchen to start supper.

Her brother shrugged his shoulders as if to say, "what can
you do with a woman like that." He went back to the Amerihmsk'i
Slovenes,  his belly rolled down concealing his belt; he sighed
profoundly and moistened his thumb preparatory to turning a
page. Behind him aunt Rose banged the kitchen utensils without
mercy.

"All the same, being naked is a sin," she snapped.

He did not answer.

In the living room, Number Three chalked up two more
points for the Unknowns.

123

Stanley P. Zupan


Stanley P. Zupan

THE CROSS-SPIDER

Night lay in the offing as dusk settled over the Alle¬
ghenies. At the base of the mountain, Francel, a boy of twelve
years, walked to a woodshed. He stamped through the leaves as
he pierced the sagging mist. But he knew the path well. So
often had he traversed it that his hobnailed boots would slink
into the earth almost of their own accord. He shuffled on,
swinging his arms in a rhythm of discontent. A buzzing hum,dom¬
inated by the twang of crickets, filled the valley. Francel
turned to look at the house, rubbing one sleeve under his nose.
From the chimney issued no smoke, only a few sparks which
flashed against the dark background. The words of his foster
mother echoed in his mind: "Be off, Francel! Your food! You

expect to live on air? Off to the woodshed and fill the bin!"

"Live on air?" he thought as he inhaled the harvest fra¬
grance. Trees were everywhere, while shadows massed themselves
and rose bluntly upward. Here he was enveloped in mountains,
while night's prelude hushed the valley in preparation for the
parade of shadows, moonlight, and stars. In a short while, the
bark of the neighbors' dog would no longer be muffled in the
damp fogginess.

The youth carried an armful of kindling, leaning forward
as he ambled toward the kitchen doorway where a voice strained
forth in sharp cadences: "Francel, you imp! Plague on you,

hurry!"

A woman, bobbing a pointed nose up and down and fastening
her head shawl about her, met him at the door. "You sluggard!"
she screeched, pulling his ear. "Quick! In the bin with that
wood!"

Francel dropped the sticks into the box and crouched for
a moment as would a beaten puppy. Then he turned and slapped
his foster mother to loosen her hold as she pinched his ear. In
a flash, he dropped to the floor in supplication, expecting a
horsewhipping.

SOURCE: Skyline,  vol. 9, no. 1, 1936, 12-14.

125

National Art Gallery—Adelaide, Australia

"Bonjour tristesse,” by Milan Vojsk

The pocked cheeks of the woman became flushed. Every
wrinkle grew taut like the chiseled lines in a granite statue,
and she stared as with the eyes of a corpse. Then she gritted
her teeth, while panting, "Beat you? Kick you? Murder you?"

She bent over. "Nay! Too good, that!" With an upward motion
of her loosely sleeved arm, and as with the gesture of a maestro
signifying a crescendo with his baton, she motioned to him and
yelled, "Up to bed! Nothing to eat for you! Beat you? Nay!

You know the punishment for striking a mother. Before the new
moon shines over the valley, your arm will wither away!"

The lad looked up. He bit his nails and shook his head,
his light hair brushing his forehead as he nodded in the nega¬
tive.

"No, no, no!" he gasped. "Why did I do it? Take it back,
Mother! Take it back! Take it back!"

The woman laughed as the boy fell forward sobbing and
buried his head in his arms. "Lucky for you the master's not
home! You would not have to wait till the new moon."

From beyond came a moaning cry. She composed herself and
shuffled out, mumbling, "Ah, Joshko, the master will bring the
doctor! You will get well."

Francel, pale and terrified, heard the woman question in
the other room: "Why did we take you to market? Why did you
drink from that polluted pool? Oh, the master! When will he
come? Why didn't this happen to that ingrate?" She pointed to
the room she had just left.

Francel thought of the slap and of the moon, as he rubbed
his arm. A knock on the door interrupted his thoughts. As
three shawled women entered, the boy walked to a bench in the
corner, stopping at the table to pick up a crumb with a mois¬
tened finger.

"And how is he, Mariana?" the visitors asked in unison,
as Mariana entered the kitchen. Two of them gesticulated force¬
fully, while the third stood with folded arms.

"Does he still shiver and shake?" one asked.

"I fear," Mariana whined, "if the master does not return
soon, Joshko will—"

"But it is a six-hour walk over the mountain to town,"
one of the women interrupted her, "and he just went before sun¬
set !"

"Yes," another added, "and what did he do? Do you hear
him wailing?" She turned her head toward the room where the
sick boy lay.

Mariana brought her hands upward, saying, "Something must
be done, something, something!"

With an air of assurance, one of the women questioned,

"The cross-spider! Have you tried it?"

"Cross-spider!" Mariana exclaimed. "But it's too late
now! They're already in hiding. Only by a stroke of good for¬
tune could we find one at this time of year."

127

Francel cringed as he remembered his foster mother's
curse. He looked about the corners of the ceiling for a cobweb.
It was futile, however, in the immaculate house.

"Come, let us see him!" said one of the women as she
started toward the sickroom.

Francel tiptoed out of the kitchen, the echo of murmuring
chatter resounding in his ears as he closed the door. "Back to
the woodshed!" he thought.

Outside, the air was crisp and cool. The moon lighted up
the whole valley. He did not grope for the pathway but followed
a winding rut of grayness, crossed by shadows. Above, the stars
dotted the heavens. As much as he had detested the trip to the
shed a short while before, just so much he now seemed to enjoy
the walk. There was hope in his pace. The cross-spider! He
would find one in the shed. Yes, not one but two! One for
Joshko and one for himself. He had heard the cross-spider could
remove a curse. From the kitchen window, a beam of light,
interrupted by the shadows of the women pacing across, fell
diagonally over the ground. Little did he suspect the women had
captured a spider such as he himself hoped to find.

Francel climbed over stacks of wood to the topmost corners
in the shed. Occasionally he wiped his face to brush away a
dangling cobweb. For the first time in his life, he was intent
on aiding his stepbrother. He had to find a cross-spider! The
rest would be easy. He would dry it hurriedly over the fire,
powder it, and then dissolve it in water. There was no taste
to it, so they said. He would find one! But it was dark, and
he dared not strike a light. From corner to corner he groped
for cobwebs until he felt a crawling sensation on his face. He
brought a hand to his cheek and scurried down the woodpile out-
of-doors. Moonlight revealed a luminous cross on the back of a
squirming spider as Francel unfolded his fingers cautiously,
lest his prey escape. He ran to the house, stumbling and cough¬
ing, for the dust in the shed had choked him.

With his hand clasped firmly, he stole into the kitchen.
From the sickroom came a low hum of voices. Francel stopped at
the table, reached for the glass of water he found there, and
gulped down the liquid. No sooner had he put the goblet back
than the four women stood before him.

Three of the figures stared at the glass. Now in echo
fashion, then in a chorus, they shrieked, "The goblet! He drank
it! The spider!"

At first Mariana stood motionless. Then her whole body
trembled.

Francel was terrified as is a rabbit surrounded by dogs.

He clutched at his throat with one hand and extended his fist,
without speaking. Perspiration beaded his forehead. With quick
motions of the head, he looked about the room. Then he focused
his eyes on the kitchen door, turned about, began to run, and
tripped.

128

The four women buried their faces in their hands to
shield from view a blotch of crimson on the edge of the hearth.
The boy lay motionless on the floor. From his half-opened
palm, a cross-spider squeezed out and ambled away, unnoticed.
Only a moaning sound from beyond broke the silence.

129

Ted Kramolc, self-portrait

Ted Kramolc

AMBUSH

The skies hung dark and low. The weather forecast called
for snow. Fred fiddled with the stainless steel knobs on the
stereo set, to find his favorite station, to hear the weather
confirmed by Stan what's-his-name. He could never remember the
name, only the announcer's voice, deep, clear, not nasal, nei¬
ther British nor snobbish, not quite Ontario, but "with it,"
broad yet not prairie. The voice was straight from the dia¬
phragm, not an official CBC voice, yet Canadian, distinctive,
recognizable. It was a manly voice; he always waited for it.
Once or twice he saw Stan on TV doing a hockey game commentary,
but the face didn't fit the voice. So he preferred to listen
to him on the stereo. The voice said that there was to be rain
tomorrow,

Fred could have saved himself the trouble, for he knew
that the rain was due. His back hurt — an injury from the last
war. He always hurt before rain.

His sons came over to his bed. When the back hurt, Fred
always went to bed. This time it hurt bad. He would hide the
warming pad under the blanket. Sympathy irritated him.

"Are we going skiing tomorrow, Daddy?" They both looked
excited.

"Have you waxed the skis?" he asked.

"Yes," they both answered.

"The boots, the poles, and the ski gloves? Is everything
ready for tomorrow?"

"Yes, yes!"

"I don't want any delay in the morning. Be up at eight
o'clock so that we can hit the slopes when the tows open!"

"Will you tuck us in, Daddy?" They never asked their
mother to do this, and it gave him pleasure. There was really
no tucking in to do, since Bill always slept in the sleeping
bag for some strange reason and™Paul was always covered up to
the chin anyway by the time he got around to tucking him in.

It was merely a ritual. _

Prepared especially for this anthology.

131

; r * ‘

VW -

"Good night, Billy! Good night, Paul!" They were his
boys, long past the tucking-in age, yet he bent down over their
beds and kissed them each on their cheek, slapped their bottoms
and turned off the light in both bedrooms.

As if to postpone their falling asleep—"What's the ski¬
ing going to be like, Daddy? Is it going to be O.K.?"

"It's  going to be perfect?"

"You sure?"

"Yah!"

"Good night, Daddy!"

"Good night, Billy! Good night, Paul!"

At that moment the family cat came in and they both
wanted to sleep with it.

* * *

It rained the next day. The announcer on the radio said
that there was no skiing that weekend anywhere in Southern On¬
tario. Fred took the boys to see a matinee picture show,
returned home, and said to his wife,

"I think I'll  be going downtown to tour the art galler¬
ies."

"Fine," she replied, for she did not care for contempo¬
rary painting.

* * *

Fred parked the car behind Bloor Street, walked over to
the area where the art galleries abound and viewed a couple of
boring exhibitions. Bent pieces of multicolored plastic pipe
fastened on polished wood . . . pictorial emptiness. It was
late afternoon and he felt hungry, so he ate a sandwich, washed
down with a beer at one of the coffee houses. He then lit a
cigar. It did not taste right. He left it smoldering in the
cheap ashtray, and with his hands buried deep in his ski jacket
stepped out into the gray wet street.

Yorkville Street was busy despite the steady drizzle.
Young people hung around corners, leaned against wet tree
trunks, shuffled restlessly in small circles—three or four in
a group as if expecting a confidential messenger to arrive with
decisive news. Some walked up and down the same side of the
street, retracing their footsteps, not unlike a great driver
cutting corners on a Formula I race circuit. Longhairs, beard-
niks, young unkempt girls, their manes resembling stiff strands
of dusty hay, swinging their hips in wrinkled frayed levis.

It was too cold for the sidewalk coffee cafes to be open,
yet some bearded hippies sat on a few metal chairs that had
been left there from the Fall. A policeman, walking almost in
the middle of the street as if .he were afraid he would become
contaminated, smiled in labored benevolence; receiving little
attention, he soon turned the corner and was out of sight. The
majority of people in this crowd were youths who resembled

133

beats, but were not. Many of the girls wore flowery pants,
Apache headbands, loud colored scarves and weird looking coats,
but their clothes looked tailored and even when disarrayed, one
could see the studied, arranged sloppiness. Their eyes clear,
quite unlike the true acid heads; long hair shiny, skin healthy.
They belonged — some did, the others only thought they did —to
this "in crowd." Such was the vogue of the day.

They frequented the "Village" primarily because of the
small smart shops where one could find clothes and items that
differed from the standard merchandise offered for sale in the
established department stores. They were the ones who added
color and excitement to Yorkville. These young people kept
coffee houses, shops, and tiny restaurants going. The real
beats were—despite their way-out mumblings, flowery garments,
beards, and beads—gray people, forever broke.

Fred came down here because of the two galleries that
exhibited his graphic work. He enjoyed watching the people,
but he hated the coffee shops. These houses, as they were
called, charged atrocious prices for ordinary tasting coffee.
Some had half-naked waitresses serving to patrons who reaked of
phony interests in art, the supernatural, the occult. Walls
were decorated with nostalgic artifacts, music—the latest
"Shankar."

He smiled at a couple of blond girls passing by. The one
closer to him, with white vinyl boots halfway up her thighs,
black miniskirt not longer than fourteen inches, open leather
jacket over the loosely buttoned jersey, smiled back and then
with a toss of her full head of hair leaned over to her girl¬
friend, said something, both looking back, laughing, waving at
him.

For a split second he wanted to go over to them. Just
then he caught a glimpse of himself in a store window. Lean,
tall, and long hair graying at the temples hanging over the
upturned collar of his dark green ski jacket.

I must have my hair cut, he thought, brushing the full
sideburns back over his ears. He fussed with the bulky white
Irish fisherman's sweater his wife had given him for Christmas.
He pulled it down, smoothing it over his narrow black trousers.
He felt fit. He looked around but the two blond girls had dis¬
appeared .

Wanting to see a show by a Quebec artist, he suddenly
found himself in a walk-down shop filled with crazy neckties,
scarves, and artifacts. The sweet sickly smell of burning
Chinese incense sticks made him leave quickly. He wandered
next into a poster shop full of kids, viewing the posters, a
few buying, counting out their money with great care. The
clerk behind a makeshift counter, long hair untrimmed with a
beard to match and smiling with a mouth full of decayed teeth,
suggested he buy a nice poster of Castro, Mao, or Che. They

134

were nice, the clerk said, and because of constant handling and
being a bit frayed at the edges—"Half price!"

"I don't dig worn merchandise," answered Fred, The
clerk's smile vanished. A few people even turned around. He
left quickly.

* -k  *

Fred returned to the parking lot, paid the attendant, and
started up, determined to get loaded in a nearby bar. What
else was there to do on a day such as this had been? Perhaps
I'll go and see a movie again, he thought. But he had never
enjoyed seeing a film by himself and the realization that he
wouldn't be able to enjoy himself, being alone, made him irri¬
table. He slammed the gearshift into first and released the
clutch so fast that the car leaped forward, almost knocking
down a traffic sign. Halfway out of the parking lot, he heard
somebody call his name. He slipped the clutch, slowed, and
rolled down the window halfway. He heard his name being called
out again. Pulling over to the curb, he noticed in the side
mirror a girl running over to his car.

"Fred! Hey, Fred! Hello, Fred!" The girl was now at
the side of the car. The curb was high with slushy snow which
had come suddenly during the rain in the earlier hours of the
afternoon. All he could see were her legs. He looked down and
then up her dark stockinged thighs, the short leather mini¬
skirt. The legs below the knees in tightly laced motorcycle
boots looked delicious. He leaned out of the window, but still
could not see her face. She was standing too close. He got
out of the car excitedly. Who in hell would recognize him in
this crowd !

The girl was of standard height. Her hair was not a mane
in the fashion of the day, but neatly cut and short. A wide
flowery headband tied behind the ear cascaded freely down her
shoulders. She was slim and looked animated.

Fred stepped closer, his eyes scanning the young face.

The tip of her nose had a slight upward slant and higher up was
a tiny scar that looked almost pretty. The girl smiled, the
tip of her tongue on the moist lower lip. Only one girl had a
mouth like this one. The corners of it curved down gently and
then up. Nelson Eddy, the singing movie star of the forties,
had a smile like hers. He had told her that once, but she was
too young or too disinterested in the past to remember the
stars of yesterday.

"Cynthia!" he cried out.

"Hello, Fred!"

A warm feeling embraced him. The girl had always called
him "Mr. Novak" before this.

He moved closer to the girl and embraced her. Her hands
were on his shoulders, her hair touching his face.

135

"You look great, Cynthia! You look sensational!" said
Fred as he held her at elbow's length. He stepped back a lit¬
tle, his hands firm on her hips.

"You're beautiful, gorgeous!"

The girl laughed.

"You've grown since, . . ." he almost said, but that was
how one spoke to children. He felt his palms getting a tighter
hold on her waist.

"Your headband is nice. No Apache ever looked so good!

You crazy, sexy kid."

"I'm no kid!" replied Cynthia, the tip of her wet tongue
again on her lower lip. Her eyes never left Fred's face as she
spoke to him. They were blue-gray, mischievous and sparkling.
The eyes of a woman. The kind of eyes that look gray and dark
when melancholy clouds them and sadness washes away the spark.
There was a hint of eyeshadow, a touch of silver on the lids,
eyelashes heavy with mascara. He couldn't stop looking at her
—the youthful face, the slender neck, high breasts, dark full
thighs. There was a light sweet fragrance in her hair.

"Ambush?" he asked. "Right?"

She nodded, a flush of color suddenly rushing up her neck
to her cheeks.

A summer ago, he had driven her home after she had baby¬
sat his two sons. It was early morning, the air still cool
. . . first streaks of orange light low on the horizon, the
suburban homes appearing like purple silhouettes and television
towers on the roofs looking like exclamation points. She had
let him hold her hand, squeeze it gently, and he had wondered
jokingly about the perfume she had on.

"Had a lot to drink?" she asked.

"Enough. What are you wearing? It smells very nice."

"It's called Ambush."

"Ambush? Where, where?" Fred looked around in mock
panic, as they drove on. "Do you always wear perfume when you
babysit?"

"Not always." She squeezed his hand firmly, looking
straight ahead into the orange light of the early dawn.

Lost for words, he held her hand, driving on, a strange
desire flooding his loins.

"How was Christmas?" asked Fred, his face aglow . . . his
eyes submerged in hers.

"Fine."

"I haven't wished you a happy new year yet — have I?"

He bent over and kissed her. His hand moved up to her
breasts, his thumb sliding over the silky surface of her blouse.
He felt the nipples become hard. She had then instinctively
kissed him back. He stepped back, away from her.

It was only then that he noticed a young fellow standing
a few feet away from Cynthia.

"This is Bill," she said awkwardly.

136  -

"Oh, how are you, Bill?"

"Very well, sir."

The boy's handshake was firm. His face pleasant, unmarked
by life—the type of face one cannot remember for long.

It was the eyes that disturbed Fred. They were clear,
the color of blue ice. He always had trouble reading blue eyes.
There was a faint smile on the boy's lips.

Fred felt himself lost for words. He always felt proud
of his ability to establish a quick rapport with young people.

He felt young most of the time; that was probably why.

It was that smile on the boy's face that must have made
him self-conscious.

He looked at Cynthia, her cheeks and now her neck turning

red.

Sensing Fred's uneasiness, she said awkwardly:

"What are you doing down here, Fred? I mean here in the
midst of all these hippies?"

"It's because of the rain. We always ski weekends." He
told her about the art galleries.

"We saw a couple of shows ourselves just now, didn't we,

Bill?"

Bill nodded, that smile still on his lips.

"Was there anything that you like?" asked Fred.

"Yah, I liked Riopelle," said Cynthia, "I think his work
is groovy—you know, the colors, the way he slaps the paint on.

I would just love to own one of his paintings! But the prices!
Wow!"

She was Cynthia again, smiling, animated.

"I like Riopelle myself," Fred said. "At least the buyer
gets a lot of paint for his money."

"Oh, you're terrible, Fred!" laughed the girl, brushing
a lock of hair away from her mouth.

"I saw six exhibitions this afternoon, yet I don't think
I could recall one damn painting right now. It's like a cock¬
tail party. A lot of senseless, idiotic talk, a lot of elegant¬
looking people smiling around fragrant limbs, latest coiffures.
An hour later, nobody remembers what was said and what the peo¬
ple there looked like. I, for one, can never recall a single
face from those silly social gatherings."

Fred was getting excited now.

"I really don't know why all these people paint. It's
all anti-art, anti-hero stuff, full of pseudo-Freudian symbol¬
ism. I'm convinced that most of these artists—if one can call
them that—hate art and themselves. Themselves, mostly. Be¬
cause, you see, painting is nothing more than a synthesis of
the artist's personal philosophy of life, expressed through
graphic or painting media—providing the painter has mastered
his craft first.

"There's a showing on now, a few blocks north of here.
You've got to see it! The joint they call a gallery is full

137

Courtesy of News, Ltd., Mirror Australian Telegraph Publications

Gallery, by Stanislaus Rapotec

of two-by-fours. All lumber! All over the floor. Imagine,
unfinished lumber, green spruce, neatly spaced on the floor,
and a plank or two to walk over. And, oh yeah, a few pieces
leaning against the wall, spotlit from above to create a few
shadows, all very mysterious, all very deep. In any damn
lumberyard. . . . Oh, well, I got carried away. I always do,
talking about painting."

"Do you still paint a lot?" asked Cynthia.

"Yes, but—not really that much. I'm looking for a new
gallery to show my work. The owner of the place that repre¬
sented me died. I've got to find myself a new dealer.

"The whole art scene is, well, just a scene. You work
your ass off for a couple of years or longer, working evenings,
weekends, whenever you can steal a free moment. You neglect
your family, you suffer because of it, and then your work gets
hung for a couple of weeks. The opening comes and you find
yourself smiling like some Doris Day to all kinds of people,
breaking your backside to be polite and pleasant so that they
will buy. Oh, well, it's a racket. And at the same time you
wish that these same people would overlook the one painting
or two that you yourself consider good, so that when loneliness
and uncertainties rush in on you, you have something to fall
back on, something to fight that id in you that questions you:
'Why in hell do you bother, Mac? Is it really worth it?'

"But the best work always sells and you're left with
only the money. You spend that and there's nothing to show for
your long hours of work. Oh, well!"

Fred looked at Cynthia. Was there a faint look of admir¬
ation in her eyes? Or was it only compassion? Instinctively
he knew that the girl liked him, but she would never say so.

But then, he thought, could this be just a projection of his
own wishes? Christ, the girl was at least twenty years younger

He was losing his perspective and he knew it.

Bill broke the silence.

"You mentioned something about the anti-hero image in
contemporary art. What do you mean by 'anti-hero,' sir?"

The "sir" at the end of the question irritated Fred.

"Are you thinking of becoming a painter yourself?"

"No, sir!" There was that goddamned smile again.

"Oh, what's your bag then?"

"Student."

"College? What are you in?"

"Engineering," answered Bill.

"I wish that I were." Immediately Fred wished he hadn't
said that. He knew without looking up that the boy's smile
broadened. Fred knew that he c,puld read the boy's eyes now,
ice-blue or not, unless the boy were a fantastic actor. Nobody
is that good an actor at the age of twenty. Fred not only
sensed, he knew what Bill thought of him. That smile shrouded
in a whimsical politeness was not politeness at all. He

139

Doghouse, by Ted Kramolc

remembered looking at his father that same way once, a long
time ago, when he caught him fondling their maid,

Fred knew that Bill wanted him to say something square,
something reactionary—anything to discredit himself in the
girl's eyes.

It bothered him that he felt compelled to answer the
young man's challenge. Couldn't he just as well look at his
watch, excuse himself, and be on his way?

"Well," he said finally, after a lengthy pause, as if to
give the following words more meaning, "an anti-hero is the
epitome of the alienated modern man, confused, guilt-ridden,
driven, unable to trust his instincts, or anyone, anymore.
Scared of love, never really having been warmed by love, ergo,
unable to radiate love himself, he revolts, strikes out in a
blind rage, ridiculing what he subconsciously craves, destroy¬
ing the very food his soul is screaming for. It is his final
destruction that we identify with, that we shed our tears for;
it helps to wash our guilt feelings, our sins, away.

"The anti-art artist negates the process of creation and
is a failure before he even begins. In painting I like paint¬
ers like Bounard, Picasso, Kokoshka. Especially Kokoshka! To
me, these guys represent the hero. ..."

Fred began to feel uneasy. "The description of an anti-
hero sounded a bit pompous," he thought, "but it impressed
Cynthia!"

Still he went on, a racer carried along by momentum.

"In entertainment, in the movies," he said, "Errol Flynn!
There was a hero!"

"He's dead!" said the boy.

"All right, Gary Cooper!"

"He's dead!" said the boy again.

"Spencer Tracy!"

"He's dead, too! All those guys are dead!"

"John Wayne!"

"John Wayne? You must be kidding, sir! That right-wing
old square!"

"He's a real man! To me, at least! Tall, two-fisted,
upright, simple, happy!" answered Fred, a strange hoarseness
gripping his voice. "Why in hell am I talking about all these
entertainment people, these specimens from a plastic menagerie
created by Hollywood moneymakers?" he thought.

The girl was silent, standing exactly between the two of
them, looking at one and then at the other, one of her hands on
her hip, the other at her lips, as if to conceal the pleasure
of witnessing, perhaps for the first time in her life, the
battle of two males for a female. For her!

"Whom do you like, Cynthia?"

"Oh, I don't know," said the girl. "Well, I like the guy
who had the lead in 'Love Story,' Ryan O'Neal. He's great!"

141

"Why him?" asked Fred.

"He's sensitive, no hang-ups, he's young," said Bill.

The emphasis was on "young." "The bastard is hitting
below the belt," thought Fred.

"Yeah," Fred said aloud, "he's that all right!"

Bill's lips were pressed together into the thin, broad
smile of a hunter about to strike the mortal blow.

"I wish that we could talk some more, go somewhere, have
a drink together."

"That would be nice, huh, Bill?" the girl said.

"We are both under age, sir," replied Bill. "You wouldn't
want any trouble, would you?"

"O.K. then, it'd getting late, ah—it's been nice seeing
you again, Cynthia. See you sometime! See you, Bill!"

"Sure!" said the girl. "See you!"

Bill said nothing.

* * *

It started to snow. Thick, wet snowflakes covered the
ugly gray of the sidewalk, his, everybody's shoulders, hair.

Fred's eyes followed the girl as she walked away slowly,
holding Bill's hand, stepping over lumps of ice and snow, avoid¬
ing the oncoming people. By the way she walked, Fred knew that
she felt his stare. But she didn't turn around and soon they
were both out of his sight.

* * *

Fred moved suddenly, cat-like, jumped over the high bank

of snow, slid, almost fell on the slushy pavement, regained his
balance, and got in the car.

He drove off up the main street to the highway and turned
west, toward home.

The road was slippery, yet he drove fast.

The Islington Avenue intersection came up, then the Kip¬
ling cutoff, suddenly; he slowed down too late. He was going
into the turn too fast. Halfway through the curve he realized
that he wouldn't make it.

The car began to swerve sideways, the steering wheel cor¬
rection not helping much. Spinning around, the car hit the
embankment of snow made by the snow plough, hard; it shook him
up, stunning him. Fred hit the brakes, but this only made mat¬
ters worse, and he came to a stop in the ditch.

"Are you all right, sir? Are you all right?"

"Yes, I'm fine!" A face came into focus, slowly, a cop's
face. Brushing the hair off his own face, Fred reached into
his breast pocket for his driver's license, as requested.

"Here it is, officer!"

"Have you been drinking?"

"No, sir!"'

"O.K., O.K.," said the cop, handing him back the papers.
"I'll  get the tow truck for you sir! You sure need a towtruck!"

142

"Thanks, very kind of you! Thanks!"

"Damn weather!"

The cop, calling in on his radio, waved at Fred and drove

off.

Fred rolled the window down all the way.

The snow had turned into sleet. The sharp, frozen parti¬
cles biting Fred's face made him blink and shade his eyes.

A scent hung on the palm of his hand. Light, sweet, dis¬
tinct. The perfume brought back Cynthia's image. Her hair
brushing his cheek, the feel of her breast under his hand. The
loose end of her Indian headband floating freely, kite-like in
the breeze, caressing his forehead, kissing her own neck, draw¬
ing tiny, crazy designs on her shoulders.

"Goddamn weather! Damn broad!"

He ran his hands down his trousers as if to rub off the
smell of the perfume. He got out of the car, his legs a bit
unsteady. He bent over, picked up a mound of snow, and rubbed
it on his hands. It didn't erase the scent.

Back in the car, with the window still open, he sat and
listened to the staccato of the frozen rain on the metal roof.
He tried to think. He leaned back.

"It's going to be a while before the tow truck comes.
Yeah, in this weather it's going to be some time.”

He sat there silently, waiting.

He thought, trying to sort out the events of the day.

It was getting dark.

For the first time in his life—the very first time—he
didn't feel young anymore.

143

Composition, by H. Gregory Prusheck (Perusek)

IV

A SOUL DIVIDED

Ivan Jontez, by Nancy Bukovnik

Ivan Jontez

A SOUL DIVIDED

Translated by Joseph Kess

Alesh Prosen dreamed strange dreams. Suitcase in hand,
with light steps, he hurried along the path through the green
fields which led from the railroad station to the small country
village, a fifteen-minute walk away. He had not seen the vil¬
lage for twenty years now. It was a sunny spring day and Car-
niola displayed herself in her smartest outfit. The fields
were a succulent green, the meadows were sprinkled with gaily
colored flowers, the gardens were transformed into lovely nose¬
gays, and the whisper of birdsong tinkled throughout the forest.
The mountains and Alpine meadows were covered in green and in
the background the azure heavens were pierced by the gray snowy
caps crowning the jagged giants of the Karavanken and Julian
Alps. This was indeed a beautiful picture for the emigrant
returning home.

Alesh stopped, a good rifle-shot away from the first vil¬
lage house. Kramar's old hayrack was heavily laden and was
defying the wind with great difficulty. "Such beauty," he
cried out with delight, as he drank in the sight of his native
land.

"And I thought that this little piece of God's earth had
no more attraction for me, that it no longer suited me. What a
mistake! Of course, twenty years of living abroad erased this
beautiful picture from my memory. The black smoke of American
factory chimneys obscured it so that I couldn't see it anymore.
Now I see how I deluded myself! My God, how beautiful this
small corner of the earth is! How pleasing the sight of it is
to my eyes!"

The suitcase slipped from his hand. His chest swelled,
his face glowed with an inner happiness, and his eyes eagerly
drank in the beauty which surrounded him.

"Magnificent!"

SOURCE: Ivan Jontez, "Razklane duse," Ameri'bki Druiinski Koledar,

1935 , 24 - 29 .

147

\

Madonna with Child, by Steven A. Rebeck

Alesh felt great contentment in his heart, so much so
that a terrible temptation came over him—a temptation to yodel
exuberantly, as he had done time and time before in the days of
his youth. He wanted to yodel right across the fields and
meadows so that the echo would resound off the mountains. And
he would have done so, if he had not thought that such a thing
was unbecoming to a man of his years and position. Instead, he
muzzled his sudden desire and ashamedly pushed it back into the
recesses of his soul.

"Am I crazy?" he asked and he grew angry with himself.

His emotions had made him feel ashamed. "Just like a child,
like some foolish young boy!"

Then on the path ahead he noticed a male figure approach¬
ing him directly.

"Perhaps it's one of my old acquaintances," Alesh said to
himself happily, picking up his suitcase and starting toward
his native village and apparent friend from the past. When
Alesh and the stranger were still about ten paces from one an¬
other, the stranger stopped in front of an old stone wayside
shrine. It was before this same shrine to Mary, the Mother of
God, that Alesh had taken leave of the village twenty years ago

Alesh also stopped and stood in amazement. This man was
a stranger and yet he looked so remarkably familiar. Was it an
old friend? He didn't look like any of them. Alesh realized
suddenly that the stranger leaning against the stone shrine,
silently staring at him, closely resembled Alesh himself. True
he was slightly more peasant-like and his face was burned from
the sun. Otherwise, they were as similar as two peas in a pod.

"Amazing," Alesh said to himself, and lingered for a
moment, hesitating whether he should speak or whether he should
wait to let the man take the initiative. He decided to speak
first. Just as he was about to open his mouth to greet the
stranger, a mysterious thing happened. He stood rooted to the
spot as if he had been turned into stone.

The figure of still another stranger sprang forth from
Alesh. This stranger was in all respects as identical to the
first stranger as Alesh himself. It was as if the three of
them had been born of the same mother at the same instant. And
when the strangers came together they behaved as if all had
been agreed upon beforehand. They reached their arms out one
to the other. Around their mouths played smiles of delight and
in their eyes burned the fire of fierce celebration.

"Welcome back to your native soil!" exclaimed the first.

"My warmest greetings, dear friend!" delightedly replied
the second.

The strangers embraced on© another warmly.

"How have you fared? How has it been all these years?"
the first was eager to know.

149

"In the beginning it was difficult, but now it's not too
bad," the second replied with a smile, and again drew the first
to him in embrace.

Alesh just stared. He was frozen from the overpowering
feeling of astonishment. "Triplets" was the thought that
flashed into his head, and he would have smiled but didn't dare.
He shuddered at the strange event happening before his very
eyes.

Shortly Alesh's fright began to give way to a new feeling
which warmed him. He suddenly felt like dashing to those
strangers who seemed so amazingly related to him. But he did
not, for he was still as rigid and unmoving as a sculpture
chiselled from cold stone. Besides, he felt it was not becom¬
ing for a man of his years and position to childishly lose con¬
trol of himself and his senses.

The strangers parted from their embrace and looked at one
another lovingly.

"I have waited for you a long time, dear friend," said the
first. In his soft brown eyes there burned the love of friend¬
ship. "This wait was long and full of hardship, but your re¬
turn has brought joy and good fortune back to me. Now I will
not let you go back to the outside world. You will stay here
with me, and we will be together as we were before our life was
split apart and we were sent in different directions."

The second stranger then suddenly grew cold and replied
peevishly. "Do not deceive yourself. I didn't come back to
stay. I'm going back to the outside world—back to the foreign
country which has become my home—and you are going with me."

The first grew sad. "Stay by me," he begged, "for we are
one, and it is not right that we should be kept apart any long¬
er. Please stay!"

"I don't want to!" retorted the second, still peevish.

"You are going with me! I cannot do without you any longer;
besides, this separation has disturbed me. It has robbed me of
my balance and has stolen my peace of mind. You're going with
me, because your place is with me."

Now Alesh began to notice small differences between them.
The eyes of the second stranger were harder and colder than
those of the first. Still they appeared to be the eyes of a
good and kind man. The first stranger spoke softly and melodi¬
ously. His voice murmured as a forest spring and whispered
like a balmy breeze, while the other's voice was somewhat
coarse. It came forth like the unpleasant echoes of the fac¬
tory whistle, the jarring of locomotives, and the hissing, whin¬
ing noise made by machines. Otherwise, the two remained as
alike as two peas in a pod and in turn both were just as simi¬
lar to Alesh himself.

Meanwhile, the first stranger cast a sad gaze on the
second. "I can't go to that outside world, for I am tied to
this land. This earth is like the bosom of my mother and I am

150

chained here with a thousand ties. I am chained so strongly
that no power on earth can tear me away from it. You stay here
with me! This soil is our native land! This is our birth¬
place!”

"I cannot," replied the second and in his eyes there
flashed a forlorn look. "I am also tied; although it is a
foreign land, I have already become so accustomed to life there
that it is like my own homeland. I cannot tear myself away. I

think that it would be better if you would go with me; you
should be with me as we were before that bitter hour of separa¬
tion twenty years ago."

"I can't do it!"

"Nor can I! I am tied there."

Silence.

The two men bent their heads in sorrow. The tears began
to run down their cheeks and fall upon the freshly plowed fur¬
rows in the rich brown earth.

"In vain!" said the second. He lifted his head and re¬
signedly began to look around. "All these words are in vain
because we will never be one, as we once were. Powerful unseen
forces have split us in two. Each half knows its place and we
will be tied to that place until death. I know it is terrible
if one being is divided in two and then tied to two different
continents separated by a surging endless sea. But we are un¬
able to help ourselves. Try if you can! Try! Break the ties
which chain me to that foreign country! Tie me here with such
strong bonds that I cannot break them—not I, myself, nor any
other power! We have fought with each other twenty years but
all has been in vain. Shall we continue to fight in this
fashion—entirely in vain and for no reason at all?" The first
did not answer. He slowly turned his head toward the west and
stared at the horizon above the snowcapped Julian Alps.

"Do you see, you are no longer able to tie me to this
land. You neither dare nor do you believe that you can do it,"
the second softly murmured and across his face there passed the
fleeting smile of bittersweet disappointment. "I would like
to. . . ."

This was too much for Alesh. With great effort he tore
himself from the spot where he had been rooted, and moved
toward the two men.

"Tell me, who are you? You seem familiar and yet unfamil¬
iar. I don't know whether you are old friends or only two
strangers whom chance has brought across my path.

The strangers rose up at this, stepped toward him, and
clung to him, one on each side. Alesh had both the feeling of
being at ease with them and yet-of great unease.

"Who are we? Your soul!"

"My soul?" In spite of everything, Alesh began to laugh
aloud. "For heaven's sake, what's wrong with you? What is

151

Moses, by Lillian Brule

churning in those heads of yours? Everyone knows that no man
can have two souls."

"But we are one!" they pleaded.

"Please stop this nonsense!" And Alesh became angry
indeed. "I am not blind and I see two individuals."

"Two halves," corrected the second and the first nodded
in agreement. "Once we were one, but life split us in two.

That was twenty years ago and since that time when we were
split, we have continually argued with each other. Haven't you
felt that there were two different opposing forces fighting for
control of you all these years? Of course, the second almost
had me in a corner. But now, once again, I have come to the
fore and again my opinions will matter. You will feel my power
and know my feelings, too!"

Alesh was amazed at this and he did not know whether he
was awake or dreaming. "The devil take this affair! True,
there were at times strange feelings I could not understand—as
if there were something wrong with me, that something in me was
quarreling, but. ..."

"You see, that was us!" said the two strangers simultan¬
eously, and at that moment they disappeared. They were nowhere
to be seen.

Alesh felt terribly confused and unsettled at that moment.
It was as if he had been split into two halves which were now
bitterly quarreling between themselves. The beauty of his na¬
tive valley, lovely at first sight a few moments ago, had lost
much of its attraction for him. He suddenly had two powerful
wishes, so opposite that they could not possibly survive to¬
gether. The first wish was to return to his foreign home where
he had lived the last twenty years. The second wish was to
stay in his native land, here where he had been born and brought
up. Alesh put his hands to his head.

"Damn, am I going crazy?" To convince himself that he
was dreaming he bit his finger and the pain tore him from the
power of sleep and his dreams.

Then he slept again and he dreamed wild dreams, dreams of
the most fantastic images. His wife slept peacefully by his
side. The panes of glass in the window rattled under the force
of the wind, driving swarms of snowflakes before it. Alesh
Wiped the perspiration from his forehead and sighed in relief.

"Thank God, it was only a dream. But what a damn uncom¬
fortable dream!"

And then he stepped to the window; by looking at the
snow-covered streets of the American metropolis he wanted to
convince himself it had been only a foolish dream. There were
no strangers. In fact, there was no one to be seen. It had
been only a dream. He had dreamed a strange foolish dream.

Only a foolish dream?

Alesh found a cigarette, lit it, and sat down to think.
Last year he had been in the old country. He, himself, did not

153

Apocalyptic riders, by France Gorse

know what had taken him there. He did know that since he had
returned he had been somewhat disillusioned, almost ambivalent
about life in general, and he did not know why. Was it because
he had found something there? Something that unconsciously he
had not hoped to find? What was it? Was it the violent sepa¬
ration of the two sides to his own soul?

Alesh blew a large puff of smoke against the windowpane
and quietly murmured to himself. "The devil! They weren't so
strange, those dreams. They weren't so strange as they seemed
at first. Damn! There was truth in them! The splitting of a
soul. ..."

And Alesh's thoughts went back to the past, where they
had travelled before.

155

John P. Nielsen (Sesek), by Bozidar Jakac


John P. Nielsen

LETTER FROM NEW YORK

About a year ago in an extended stay in Cleveland I was
visiting my cousin and we were discussing, oh, just anything I
guess, when I mentioned I was going back to New York. My cous¬
in asked me in a mild, to be sure, but definite are-you-all-
right-in-the-head tone, "You're really going back to New York?"

Like the legendary man drowning, who sees his whole life
flash by, I experienced a similar flashback going back fifty
years, when I was still a teen-ager. We lived in Nottingham,
as we called this particular Cleveland suburb, but as much as I
liked the vineyardy surroundings of that day around our house,
my feet were generally pointed in the direction of downtown.

On many a day I hopped on a yellow streetcar and got off some¬
where downtown. It took about an hour in those days. I usually
stopped first in that wonderful Cleveland Public Library at
Third and Superior. After drinking in the current literary
magazines and browsing through a half a dozen science books, I
went to a late lunch. In the arcade across the street, in the
lower level, I got the best hamburg sandwich and piece of apple
pie with Cheddar cheese on the side. Then I would walk back
past the Cleveland Plain Dealer building, then perhaps to the
Cleveland Press offices, to smell the fresh-inked paper, and
snatch the first copy of the evening edition sold just outside
the premises. After that I might walk to the Hanna Theater
hoping to see a celebrity going into the stage door. Finally,
before going home, I would lounge a bit in one of the hotel
lobbies, reading my newspaper, maybe pretending I was a hotel
guest, but mostly trying to sense the aura of the big world
outside of Cleveland.

All this was not good enough, and in due course, I headed
for a more definite urban center —New York. I got there by
train, checked into a "Y" and gpt myself a job in Bayonne, N.J.,
just across the river from Manhattan, requiring a daily commut¬
ing by subway and the Liberty Street ferry across the Hudson.

I loved it. I particularly enjoyed, on occasion, seeing a big

SOURCE: Amerihka Domovina,  18 April 1975.

1S7

liner go by the bow of the ferry in the mist of an early morn¬
ing. I rented a room on Riverside Drive, in an apartment con¬
verted into a rooming house. Still not good enough, I found
out in time. The Village was the place to live. And so, I
drifted down there whenever I could to drool over the various
houses that I hoped to live in someday. The couple of thousand
dollars I saved up over three or four years wouldn't come near
the fifteen thousand (those good old days) I needed for one of
those houses on Washington Square. No. 5 on the Square, with
its elaborate colonial doorway and with Boston ivy as a ground
cover for the miniature lawn area, especially appealed to me.
This house, my research told me, was none other than the one
Henry James lived in back in 1850. Fifteen thousand for such
a house! It didn't seem so much, so I decided to plan and wait.

Well, my aspirations for a distilled urban milieu were
only an avocation. My serious occupation was as a chemist-
metallurgist, and at that time I was pursuing a Ph.D. Finally
I made it. Slow it came but come it did, through a series of
fortunate circumstances. I spent the necessary four years in
New Haven, a kind of far-removed New York suburb. And so back
to Manhattan to join a university there.

I recall an incident on Times Square. I was squiring a
girl when we came upon a skid row character leaning up against
a building. His very black hair and other features told me
that he was an American Indian; he was shouting to the passers-
by, a bit incoherently, "Twenty-four dollars they gave us, a
measly twenty-four dollars for Manhattan." Stupidly we laughed,
thinking I suppose, "just another drunk." But that incident
traced itself indelibly in my mind. It was not an act—there
was no self-consciousness—it was the soul of an Indian cursing
what the white man had done to him.

This absence of self-consciousness seemed to be charac¬
teristic of New York. The incident could not have happened in
Arizona, or Utah. It took impersonal Times Square to give it
the ring of truth. And tragic as the incident was, it fixed me
more certainly in New York.

But I am groping for words. I don't really mean no self-
consciousness, or the ring of truth. I think I mean a certain
genuineness. In New York a cab driver looks and acts like a
cab driver, through and through. In Akron or Albuquerque a cab
driver is between jobs, or maybe waiting for his farm to be
delivered to him, which he and his new bride purchased a month
ago.

Mentioning a cab driver reminds me of the precious reply
I got from one when I asked him if he knew where Sniffen Court
Was, as I hopped into his cab. .."All I know is where's the
Statue of Liberty." I had occasion recently to give a party at
the Harvard Club for about twenty guests. One of the guests
looking admiringly around the venerable establishment said that
it was just what he expected the Harvard Club to look like.

159

Courtesy of News, Ltd.

Cathedral, by Stanislaus Rapotec

Yes, that's it—the real thing. A bar is a bar in New
York, designed principally for dispensing alcoholic beverages.

A cop is a professional cop. And that man in a top hat walking
down the street gets no double takes. He has every right to
wear it, not as a costume, but it belongs where it is, along
with the decorations on his chest, as he enters one of the
finer clubs on Fifth Avenue for a banquet at which some histor¬
ical honor will be conferred on him.

Well, to make a long story short, I did make some money
in the stock market, enough to buy one of those houses in the
Village. Jimmy Walker's house, no less. Just think, as we
were inspecting the house we found sheets of music scattered on
the floor in a closet. One of the songs was the number Jimmy
had composed, and, no doubt, Betty Compton, his wife, had sung:
"Will You Love Me in December as You Do in May?" It was a
handsome house—befitting a mayor of New York —on St. Luke's
Place, one of the more elegant streets in the Village. I sub¬
mitted my down payment. The owner I was dealing with was Jack
Lawrence, composer of "Tenderly," "Ciri Biri Bin," and other
hit songs. The lawyers wrangled over the deal, and in two
months I lost out on the house and two thousand dollars in
brokerage and lawyer fees in addition. However, I learned
fast, and after shucking off the predatory lawyers, I made a
down payment on an even more illustrious house on a Paris-like
mews. Not only was it one of the choicest spots in New York,
but the house I captured was the best in the mews. And what a
mews! Cole Porter wrote his "Begin the Beguine" in the corner
house, and fifteen years later, in the same house, Douglas
wrote his best seller, Lost Weekend.  The Lunts lived across
the street. Melvina Hoffman, the celebrated sculptress, lived
next door.

How could I miss? If ever I was to do creative work—
this was the ambience. I was sure of it, especially when I
read an article about writers in America, one Sunday morning in
the book section of the Times,  and the author of the piece spec¬
ulated that no doubt somewhere a nineteen-year-old beast was
inching his way across the country toward Manhattan to write
his The Sun Also Rises,

The creativity did come, and the accompanying recognition
and some prestige, enough for me to be listed in various Who's
Whos.  This, for my self-esteem, established me in my adopted
community. Why does a big city like New York, Paris, or London
help in the creativity expression? Hard to say, but it does.

One thing I see here is dedication —a bit more than elsewhere —
a dedication not for making money, or pushing one's family
ahead as, say, in Texas, but simply for excellence.

I was at my local hardware store one day when Sam, the
owner, called out to me, "Hey, Dr. Nielsen, you're a metal¬
lurgist, maybe one of the best in the country; I want to ask
you a question about soldering." Well, I am not one of the

161

best in the country, but I stand on it that I am one of the
good ones. But my hardware man just automatically assumed I
was one of the best. Well, that's New York. The dedicated
professional, whether he be a photographer, a ballet dancer,
a mathematician, or an authority on eggs, is found here, and if
he is not the best in the country, then he is not very far from
the best. Had my hardware man spoken to my neighbor, and
wanted to ask about sculpturing, he would have had the opinion
of a student of Rodin, and a world's authority in her own
right. My wife once was puttering with some plantings around
a tree in front of the house. A passerby stopped and gave
some advice—good advice, it turned out. And why not? We
learned later that she was only the gardening editor of the
New York Times,  who lived down the street a bit.

In a Fourth Avenue bookstore, while I was browsing over
some old books, an old post card fell to the floor. The card,
which had been mailed from France, was signed "E. Wharton." I
took it to the Beinicke Rare Book Library at Yale to have the
handwriting checked. Not only was the writing authentic, but
I learned that the French town of Herres, on the Riviera, which
was on the postmark, was where Edith Wharton had her chateau.

I sent the card to her biographer, Louis Auchinclos, and we had
a pleasant chat about it. I sensed that I was a part of his¬
tory, at any rate American literary history, and I had encoun¬
tered it in such a casual way. One just had to be in the
mainstream of what is going on in the world.

"What was that you asked?" I said to my cousin. "Oh,
yes, whether I am really going back to New York. Well," I
answered, "you know how it is—it's the place I know best."

163

Frank Kerze

PODBOY'S RETURN TO SLOVENIA

Translated, by Florence Unetich

It was a cold, wintry morning when Mavro Podboy arrived
in Ljubljana, where he spent a few hours purchasing clothing
and other gifts to distribute among the villagers. Then he
hired a coach and driver and drove off directly toward his na¬
tive village. He stopped for the night in Velike Lasce. No
one recognized him. Time had altered his appearance; the once
boyish face was hidden under a man's beard. News of the rich
American spread quickly, and soon, outside the house where he
was staying, villagers lingered, hoping to catch a glimpse of
him.

The next morning, rested, he started out on foot toward
Mala Slevica. Before anything else, he had to find Franitsa,
to see where and how she was. The pounding of his heart be¬
trayed his anxiety as he trudged along the hilly road, pausing
to catch a glimpse of his destination, Rasice, visible only
from the tops of hillocks along the way.

It was already noon when he arrived at the modest little
village and inquired for the home of Franitsa, the daughter of
Krnec. A group of curious children gathered quickly, observing
him silently, intently, but dashing away when he tried to ques¬
tion them. Only after he tossed a few coins among them, did
they volunteer the answer he sought, and crowded about him,
thrusting out grimy palms, pleading, "Me, too, uncle, me, too!"

They made a strange procession—he, the children, and a
dog or two, such as generally escorted strangers through the
village. The procession stopped finally on the other side of
the village, before the second-last cottage. He motioned to
the children who remained at a respectful distance while he
walked through the open vestibule and peeped through the window
of the door. At the table stood a woman. Though her face was
not visible, he sensed it could only be she, his Franitsa.

Blood rushed to his head. His heart beat rapidly; overcome with

SOURCE: Frank Ker£e, "Za soncem," Cas,  December, 1922, 358-59.

165

Slovenian village, by H. Gregory Prusheck (Perusek)

emotion, he restrained a wild desire to throw open the door and
leap to her side. She was not yet aware of his presence as she
gazed through the window, in mild wonder, at the children gath¬
ered in front of the house. Podboy tapped gently with his
foot, then slowly opened the door. The woman turned toward the
shadow-filled doorway in which only two glowing eyes were visi¬
ble. A light burst upon her soul—"It is he!" She stared at
the doorway, straining to see, to assure herself that it was
indeed he and not a dream, not just a projection of her desire.
Her legs seemed to move toward the door of their own accord;
then she stopped a few paces away, unable to move further. Her
hand reached up; she leaned against the wall and went limp. In
a moment he was at her side, embracing her.

"Mavro, myMavro!"

Slowly he inclined his head and brushed her forehead with
his lips. The sorrow which had burdened her heart for so long
lifted, as their eyes met in an embrace that washed away the
pain of separation.

At twilight, there stood before the cottage the very best
carriage the town could boast, all decorated with green boughs;
the old mare harnessed to it tossed her head as proudly as if
she were in the service of royalty.

The next day, Podboy went to the village tavern and
ordered two kegs of wine from Urban, the tavernkeeper.

"Call all the villagers," he declared. "Today everyone
is my guest and can drink his fill!"

Word spread like wildfire and villagers hurried to par¬
take of his hospitality. Old Krnec hobbled in, stooped with
age. Seeing his old adversary, Podboy stiffened momentarily.
Then an inner voice whispered to him, "He is Franitsa's father!"
Quietly, he walked over to the old man and extended his hand in
greeting. Glass in hand, Krnec peered questioningly at Podboy
and asked:

"Who are you, sir?”

"Don't you remember Podboy, father?"

The glass fell from the old man's nerveless fingers and
shattered on the floor. Filled with compassion, Podboy took
the old man's arm and led him to the table where he poured him
another glass of wine.

"Podboy, Podboy," mused the old man, lost in thoughts of
the past. His heart was heavy with remorse and had the earth
swallowed him at that moment, he would have felt only relief.

"Drink, father, and be happy," said Podboy quietly. But
Krnec seemed not to hear. Overcome with guilt and remorse, he
wanted only to fling himself on his knees before Podboy and beg
forgiveness. But everyone would see, and what would they think
of old Krnec?

Podboy sensed the struggle raging in the old man and was
moved to pity. After all, Krnec was Franitsa's father; why not
let bygones be bygones? "Actually," mused Podboy, "I have only

167

Still life, by H. Gregory Prusheck (Perusek)

benefitted from his unpleasantness. Had Krnec been more agree¬
able, I would never have left, and would still be no more than
his hired hand."

He leaned toward the old man and whispered, "Father Krnec,
don't brood about the past. All is forgotten."

Gratefully, Krnec turned to him, searching his face for
signs of forgiveness. Podboy's eyes assured him the words were
sincere. He extended his hand and wrung Podboy's in gratitude.

* -k •k

Several years passed. Near the center of the town rose
an imposing two-storied edifice, which even today, so many
years later, remains one of the most attractive structures in
the village. Its interior was tastefully furnished; the spa¬
cious family room contained fine, soft, easy chairs into which
one sank comfortably. Evenings, Franitsa sat happily rocking
their youngest child while the two older children listened to
her recount tales of where their father had been and how he had
worked to be able to provide them with such a luxurious home.

Podboy spent most of his time in another part of the
building, where the sign on the door read "Mayor's Office." A
steady stream of visitors came through his door daily. Some
came seeking counsel, some help, and others came because of dif¬
ferences with neighbors. Wherever possible, Mayor Podboy
assisted with counsel and sometimes with money. Late in the
day, he would leave his desk, lock the door, and cross into the
comfortable living quarters to relax. There he seated himself
in an easy chair, lifted a child to each knee and sat contented¬
ly rocking them. And if he stopped to rest a bit, the children
shouted, "Giddap, horsey!" and his legs went into motion again.

After the children were asleep, Franitsa often asked:

"Mavro, tell me again how it was in Nevada. There were
three of you, weren't there? Tell me about it."

Podboy laughed. He had already told her of his experi¬
ences so often that she knew each detail as well as he, yet she
always begged to hear the story from the start. As he talked,
she gazed into his face and she was so engrossed in reliving
his experiences that sometimes she lost track of his words.

When he finished, she wrapped her arms around his neck and asked
trustingly:

"Tell me truthfully, Mavro; in all that time, did you
never love another woman?"

"Never any other than you, my Franitsa.”

"And you always thought about me?"

"Always and everywhere."

With that she would jump quickly to the table, turn down
the lamp, and draw the red drapes at the window, and the room
was in darkness. Only now and then a star peeked through some
small chink around the windows, winked knowingly, and then hur¬
ried off to join her sister stars.

169

Marie Prisland, by Nancy Bukovnik

Marie Prisland

MEMORIES OF OUR OLD
WOOD STOVE

Our children, much less our grandchildren, barely remem¬
ber the old wood stove; but when fall brings its chilly winds,

I often am warmed by the memory of our sturdy old wood range.

When I moved into our new home as a bride, the huge stove
occupied the longest wall of our old-fashioned kitchen. The
stove needed a lot of space because of its size and because of
the hot water reservoir attached to it.

When I wanted a roaring fire, I would pull a metal bar in
front of the stove and open the damper in the pipe. The stove
crackled with glowing warmth. No modern stove could accomplish
what the wood fire did.

In 1910 the iron range was a model of efficiency. With
her polished black surface and nickel-plated trim, she was a
beauty! Once a week she was given a dazzling shine with "Black
Joe" stove polish. The nickel was washed with soap and water
and then dried and polished.

We always had homemade bread, potica, pies, cookies, and
coffee cake. There was no stove thermometer, but I knew by put¬
ting my hand into the oven whether it was exactly the right
temperature for baking.

The range burned mostly wood but when winter came with
near zero weather, we banked the fire with coal. The ashes
were shaken carefully from the grates so that they fell into a
narrow ash pan below. If the shakings were too vigorous, the
grates dumped all their coals and then a new fire had to be
started.

There were times when the warmth of the old stove was a
great comfort. My son remembers having a bath as a child in
the washtub in front of the open warm oven, and my daughters
still recall the aroma of the red apples they placed on top of
the hot stove to warm a little before they were eaten.

SOURCE: Marie Prisland, From Slovenia to America  (Chicago: The

Slovenian Women's Union of America, 1968), 167-68

171

Courtesy of Studia Slovenica

Dreams, by France Gorse

The children especially were fond of the old stove in win¬
ter. It warmed their cold and numb feet and dried their wet
shoes and their soggy mittens which were hung behind the stove.
One cold spring we brought our newly-hatched chickens into the
kitchen. The mother hen watched over her brood, which was
housed in a neat box beside the warm stove.

Yes, the old stove is gone, and gone with it is the
tightly-knit family which gathered around the stove warming
hands and hearts. . . .

173

Zdravko Novak (1909—1971)

Zdravko Novak

A PATCH OF EARTH

Translated, by Joseph Kess

It's been a long time since I sat on those hard school
benches and, for that reason, I have forgotten the measurements
of the earth's size and circumference. But that really doesn't
matter, for a man would be foolish to fill his head with empty
and meaningless numbers. At any rate, one thing is certain—
the globe is big enough! And God has made me a gift of a little
patch of earth from this gigantic sphere that we inhabit.

It's sad that even this little patch isn't my native Slo¬
venian soil. There's too little of it for everyone to walk
away with some in his hand. Perhaps back home' I didn't have as
much land, not enough really to call my own, to stand on my
own; nevertheless, I was at home, a native among natives, a
friend among friends. Here I live on my own, self-supporting
and independent, but I am like an exotic plant uprooted from
the soil which bore me. I have never entirely taken and grown
in the soil into which I was transplanted—maybe I never will.
Even if a man does accustom himself to a foreign place, there
comes a time when he is sharply, perhaps cruelly, reminded of
the fact that he is, after all, a foreigner.

A little patch of earth! How happy indeed a man would be
if it lay there, far away in his native land, the land that he
calls home. Perhaps somewhere high up in Gorenjsko, with a mag¬
nificent view of Triglav; or perhaps along the torrent of the
Sava, or beside a glittering lake, or on the edge of a forest
along a murmuring brook; or perhaps somewhere in the green lux¬
uriance of Stajersko, or along the fields of hops in the Sava
valley, or near the hills planted with grapevines; or on the
crest of a hill with its little white church, or along our love¬
ly Slovenian Primorje.

A little patch of earth! Another strand of that thread of
fate which tore us from our homeland and now links us even more

SOURCE: Zdravko Novak, "Tri pedi zemlje" (manuscript contributed

for this anthology by Mrs. Milka Novak).

175

Longing, by Milan Vojsk

strongly to the foreign land. Thus are the ties with the home¬
land rent!

A little patch of earth! A little patch of foreign earth,
and foreign though it is, I must confess that it has blessed
us. True, a little patch is not very much, but it is enough
for a home to stand on. Say the word to someone like me, who
has roamed for thirty years or more—he will know what it means
to have a home.

Behind the little house is a lawn and on it a tree. It
is autumn. Perhaps that tree has stood there from the time
when the first settlement was made on this land. It gives us
pleasant shade so that the hot summer sun does not scorch us.

I would indeed miss it if it were no longer there! At the end
of the yard there is a small garden for vegetables and flowers.
On that little fistful of land grow almost more vegetables than
we can use.

When I am weary, my thoughts travel back to my native
land. If only I could return there some day! How I would like
to have a little patch of earth there! Since Slovenia is so
small, I would even be satisfied if that patch of earth were
less than my plot here, where there is more than enough land
for all. How pleasant it would be if I might find my final
home there, in my native land, where I could rest and catch my
breath from all the burdens which life in the new country has
heaped upon me. How fortunate I would be if my wish were ful¬
filled ! *

*This is Novak's last "short story," written shortly before his
death from cancer in 1971, in Cleveland, Ohio.

177

Anna Krasna

Anna Krasna

WINGS IN THE CLOUDS

There was nothing in the gloominess of the day to dispel
the feelings that weighed on the soul like so much lead. For
hours now father lay still, his eyes closed to the world, his
breath growing fainter and fainter. His toilworn hands were
yet flexible, but cold . . . and somehow, Mila knew they'd
never be warm again . . . and, somehow, she managed to stand by
and wait . . , without tears. All alone with a dying man who
was her father . . . whose hands, strong and loving, used to
lift her almost sky-high when the glorious sun of childhood
shone all over the courtyard, over the wide valley itself, and
the faraway world beyond the hills and mountains. All was
cloudy now. The valley narrowed into the shape of a grave . , .
horizons of faraway worlds were curtained off . . . up in the
thick layers of gray moisture circled man-propelled wings, as
though trying to find a way out of dark, dark clouds.

Wings swished and whirled, the sound reaching in through
the open windows, suddenly wakening already subsiding fears of
the dying man—

—T-i-m-b-e-r—

—No, father. No timber is falling—that's wings, father
. . . friendly wings, not the enemy's.

"W-i-n-g-s—" He tried to open his eyes to see; he could¬
n't. Mila looked at the clock and wondered if the priest would
come soon—and wondered at the same time why he should come
. . . what was the use? Why didn't she keep the children with
her instead of sending them out after relatives and the priest?
Why should they come now—no one came last night. She shivered
at the thought of the night just passed ... of the delirious
attempts of her father to escape falling timber . . . his
strength . . . his eyes staring, yet seeing nothing . . . his
hands reaching out to avoid timber . . . his body springing out
of bed only to collapse . . . arid outside—the black storm rag-

SOURCE: Anna Pracek Krasna, Za lepse dni  (New York: Samozalo^ba,

1950 ), 114 - 15 .

179

The Martyr, by H. Gregory Prusheck (Perusek)

ing, cutting off all the world, isolating them, and ripping
their young hearts with stabbing fears.

But now everything was calm. There was no more fear, no
hysterical pain in the brain, not even desire for tears—only
deep, deep sorrow, surrounded with the beauty of all the mem¬
ories of one who had a kind and noble heart and was now going
away ... to the tune of wings, circling and cutting through
grey layers as though trying to find a way out of dark, dark
clouds. . . .

181


The immigrant, by Ted Kramolc

V

SLOVENIAN AMERICAN LITERATURE

Rogelj

Trunk

Molek Zupancic Krasna

SLOVENIAN AMERICAN WRITERS

Zorman Mauser Mlakar

Kern Prisland Zaitz

Kobal Zaplotnik Novak

Giles Edward Gobetz

SLOVENIAN AMERICAN LITERATURE

Background Information

The Slovenians, or the Slovenes, are the westernmost
Slavic people who currently number a little over 1,800,000 in
their native land, Slovenia, the northernmost republic of Yugo¬
slavia, and close to a million, including about 500,000 in the
United States, in all other countries. Because of their small
numbers and centuries of political subjugation, they have been
relatively little known in America and the world. 1  Who, then,
are the Slovenians and what are some of their historic and cul¬
tural characteristics which may have influenced their litera¬
ture in the New World?

According to Bernard Newman, the noted English author,

. . . Slovenia's masters ranged from Charlemagne to Napole¬
on, but the people clung tenaciously to their own culture
and language. . . . The Slovenes used to share with the
Scandinavians the reputation of being the best-read people
in the world—the number of books read per head of the pop¬
ulation was four times the British figure. ... It was
manifestly impossible for a small people to gain and hold
its freedom when surrounded by acquisitive great powers,
but the Slovenes, determined to secure the greatest possi¬
ble degree of home rule, concentrated on cultural rather
than on political liberty. It was a miracle of survival
almost without parallel. The boundaries of Slovenia have
never been based on physical features; they rest upon the
moral strength of its people. 2

In De Bray's Guide to the Slavonia Languages  we read that
"literacy in Slovenia reaches almost a hundred percent and
their beautiful literature is often characterized by a gentle
melancholy or a positive and constructive optimism." 3  Louis

Reprinted and revised, by permission, from Giles Edward Gobetz,
"Slovenian Ethnic Literature," published in Ethnic Literatures Since 1776:
The Many Voices of America,  ed. W. T. Zyla and W. M. Aycock, Proceedings
of the Comparative Literature Symposium, vol. 9, part 2 (Lubbock: Texas

Tech University Press, 1976).

185

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net rvrr-  t(t ulfi* ili -ctrbf- iL* 'i>A.vmirr\

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trui ert^-ru- Ti film bof<r-vufl-« ac<*  mt trja pu iu v

Lia  vuelic-v Bofr jp’lpudl rmlo^rrvvi• Trbf Xf mil
riionv oA  *^«b poflr tuk <prb I odi n<rk mm* tfk.

\. vufnftl*' l mirifik (fr  trim Xrvcrrntrifrrb 'Lr-rrbr
rml-ruonv- l- iiirm mAni- l-vl/m >» vrtim •

Courtesy of Dr. Rudolf Trofenik Verlag, Munich, Germany

Facsimile of a page of the Freising Leaves or Brizinski spomeniki,  one of
the oldest documents written in Slovenian and in any Slavic language,
believed to date from around 1,000 a.d.

Adamic tells us that in Slovenia "most of the streets are named
after poets, essayists, novelists, dramatists, and grammarians" 4
and R. H. Markham, an American author who spent some time in
Slovenia, compares the coffee houses in Slovenian cities with
the reading rooms in American public libraries. 5

In their millenium-long struggle for survival as a dis¬
tinct nationality group the Slovenians have concentrated on
their Slovenian language and, since the early days of the Prot¬
estant Reformation, on their literature as the crucially impor¬
tant vehicles of their national consciousness and culture and
their primary means of survival as a distinct people. This
situation gave the Slovenian literati  a somewhat disproportion-
ally important position in Slovenian society. This same orien¬
tation has, to a great extent, been transplanted to America,
especially among Slovenian-born immigrants.' 6

Among other factors which have played an important role
in the Slovenian national consciousness and prestige is the
early democracy which flourished in their northernmost province
of Carinthia many centuries before the world-famous Magna Carta
of 1215 came into being. This ancient Slovenian democracy and
the ritual of the installation of the dukes of Carinthia were
described in superlative terms by many famous historians and
philosophers, among then Aeneas Silvius Piccolomini (who later
became Pope Pius II) and Jean Bodin, whose book, Les six livres
de la Republique , published in 1576, has frequently been con¬
sidered the greatest work in political science since Aristotle's
PolitiesJ  According to this ritual, described by Piccolomini
as "something unique and unheard of in other lands" and by
Bodin as being "without equal in the world," the newly elected
Duke of Carinthia was installed and recognized as the ruler of
this northernmost region of Slovenia only after he had publicly
and solemnly promised his electors and subsequent subjects that
he would be a good judge, a just and courageous protector of
his country, and a compassionate supporter of widows and or¬
phans ,®

As Professor Felicijan points out, Bodin's book was read
by Thomas Jefferson, who initialed the description of the
ancient Slovenian Carinthian democracy. The democratic ritual
which was practiced in Carinthia between the seventh and early
fifteenth centuries represented an early concrete historical
precedent for the social contract theory —the  theory which pro¬
vided the ideological, legal, and moral justification for the
American Declaration of Independence and subsequent revolution.
Since Jefferson initialed a text and made marginal notations
only when he considered it to be of exceptional significance,
Professor Felicijan maintains that Jefferson singled out this
democratic Slovenian ritual as a historical precedent of the
social contract theory and as one of the important elements on
which the Declaration of Independence was based. 9

187


Slovenian poet France Preseren (1800-1849), by Milan Vojsk

On the other extreme is a conservative evaluation by the
Harvard historian Crane Brinton, who concedes to Slovenians a
minor, but a real role in the development of our Western demo¬
cratic institutions. In Brinton's opinion,

. . . the picturesque Slovenian ceremony was reasonably
well known to political philosophers, and indeed through
Bodin known to Thomas Jefferson. This Slovenian ceremony
was a part of a complex tradition, a minor variable but a
real one, in the cluster of ideas that . . . went into the
making of modern Western democratic institutions. 10

Another founding father of our nation, Benjamin Franklin,
was also somewhat dependent on a modest Slovenian writer, gram¬
marian, and translator, Janez (in Slovenian), Johann (in Ger¬
man), or John (in English) Primec (or Primic), who not only
discussed Franklin in Slovenian, but also translated him into
German, and thus helped to popularize the thought of this wis¬
est American in several European countries in the early years
of the United States of America. 11

Similarly, a number of prominent American writers and
poets heard and recorded the voice of Slovenia, among them
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, whose Hyperion: A Romance  includes

"The Story of Brother Bernardus," based on the life and works
of the Slovenian American immigrant writer and scholar, Bernard
Smolnikar, who advocated a universal church, a world government,
and universal peace and justice before, during, and after the
American Civil War. His works in English and German have been
preserved at Harvard University and other leading centers of
learning. 12

From these few examples it is clear that despite the vast
differences in size and political condition between the United
States and Slovenia, the common hunger for freedom and progress
sparked a cross-fertilization of ideas between the two coun¬
tries. As the bearers of this heritage, who are the Slovenian
writers and poets who lived and worked in America and what is
their role in American literature and culture?

Overview of Slovenian American Literature

The first contributions made by Slovenian American writers
consisted of travel reports and ethnographic works. The earli¬
est such writings known to us are those of Mark Anton Kappus
(1657-1717), a Slovenian missionary, explorer, professor, and
rector of the College of Matape, and one of the three principal
trailblazers involved in Viages a la Nacion Pima en California
(Travels to the Nation of Pima in California) in 1694. Kappus
also authored Enthusiasmus sive * solermes ludi poetici  (Enthus¬
iasm, or Solemn Poetical Plays, 1708), consisting of 276 chrono¬
grams and representing an early attempt in America at combining
poetry, history, and ethnography.(Kappus was, according to
Professor Bolton and other authorities, also the first person

189

Slovenian writer Ivan Cankar (1876-1919), by H. Gregory Prusheck (Perusek)

who, in 1701, sent to Europe the very first geographic map
which informed the world that California was not an island, as
it had been believed until then, but a solid part of the Amer¬
ican mainland.1 4 )

The next most famous Slovenian American ethnographic work
is a book about the American Indians written by the Slovenian
immigrant missionary and the first Bishop of Marquette, Fred¬
eric Baraga (1797-1868). This book was first published in 1837
in simultaneous German, French, and Slovenian editions. 15  It
was followed by a similar work on the Indians of North America,
Die Indianer in Nord Amerika,  authored in German by the Sloven¬
ian missionary, Franc Pirc (or Franz Pierz, 1785-1880), and
published in St. Louis in 1855.

Travel and ethnographic reports, published in books and
in Slovenian, American, Austrian, and other magazines, journals,
and newspapers, continued throughout the nineteenth and twenti¬
eth centuries, ranging from Baraga and Pirc to our contemporar¬
ies Joseph Grdina, 15  Dr. Andrew Kobal,! 7  and Jim Klobuchar. 18

The modern Slovenian American culmination of this genre
of literature was reached with The Native's Return,  by the Slo¬
venian immigrant author Louis Adamic (1899-1951). 19  Chosen the
Book-of-the-Month Club selection for February of 1934, it be¬
came an instant success and transformed Adamic into a national
celebrity.20 Adamic thus, for the first time, presented a
glimpse of Slovenia to the larger American reading public.

As might be expected, Slovenian literary traditions trans¬
planted to America by the Slovenian-born literati  have exerted
a strong influence on their work. In addition to the high value
placed on literature and the leading status awarded by Slovenian
society to its writers and poets, Slovenia has also been charac¬
terized by an unusually pronounced emphasis on ideological dis¬
tinctions among the various "camps" or "schools." Conservative
Catholicism and innovative liberalism have been the strongest
ideological subdivisions in Slovenian literature, as well as in
economics, politics, and several other aspects of Slovenian
national life. This strongly marked ideological continuum,
which ranges from religious and Catholic-inspired literature on
the one extreme, through relatively "neutral" writings to pro¬
gressive (liberal), socialist, and radical orientations at the
opposite end of the scale, has also characterized Slovenian
American ethnic literature, particularly that of the Slovenian-
born literati . 21

Among the oldest and perhaps the most persistent of these
ideologically based categories is Slovenian Catholic religious
literature, whose first and most prolific Slovenian American
representative was Bishop Frederic Baraga (1797-1868). During
his busy American career as missionary, bishop, and scholar
(1831-1868), Baraga authored a large volume of meditations,
several prayer books, epistles, and pastoral letters in the

191

Frederic Baraga (1797-1868), Slovenian American bishop and scholar

Otchipwe (Ojibway) and Ottawa Indian dialects, and in the Slo¬
venian, German, and French languages. 22

Several generations of Slovenian American missionaries
and priests, nuns and laymen continued to contribute to this
genre of literature up to the present time, among them; Kazi¬
mir Zakrajsek, O.F.M. (1878-1958), with his many prayer books,
meditations, and religious booklets and articles; 23  Bishop
Gregory Rozman (1883-1959), whose serialized spiritual thoughts
and articles appeared in many Slovenian Catholic magazines, al¬
manacs, and newspapers; 24  and our contemporaries, Joseph Vovk,
best known for his translations into Slovenian of religious
poetry, psalms, and hymns; 25  Joann Birsa, Edward Krasovich,
Valentine Spendov, O.F.M., Dr. Alfred Fischinger, Frank Perko-
vich, and many others who have helped to popularize Slovenian
religious songs (often in English translation) and music in
America; 26  and Fortunat Zorman, O.F.M., current editor of the
Slovenian language Ave Maria  magazine and of an annual almanac
of the same name, published by the Slovenian Franciscan Fathers
of Lemont, Illinois. 27

Among the noteworthy contributions to Slovenian American
religious literature one should also mention such works as John
C. Gruden's The Mystical Christ,  published in London, England,
and St. Louis, Missouri, in 1936; George Trunk's translation
from Slovenian into English of France Veber's theodicy text,
There Is a God  (1942); Anthony Merkun's ecumenical work, Ciril-
metodijska ideja  (The Cyril-Methodian Idea, 1952); and Charles
Wolbang's continuous series on the Slovenian Catholic missions
throughout the world, published in Ameriska Domovina,  a Cleve¬
land-based Slovenian daily newspaper. 28

Although nearly all of the approximately 500,000 Sloven¬
ians now living in the United States are Catholic (practical or
nominal, as the case may be), Slovenian Americans have also con¬
tributed to non-Catholic religious literature in America. Thus,
Andreas Bernardus Smolnikar (1795-1869), a Slovenian immigrant
who had started his career as a Catholic priest and theologian,
later became an ardent anti-Catholic religious reformer.
Smolnikar spread his ideas not only through his oratory at
numerous American religious and civic affairs and in confer¬
ences with American political and civic leaders, but also as a
prolific writer of works advocating a universal religion and
world government with universal justice and peace, the emancipa¬
tion of women and slaves, and utopian socialism. The author of
at least seven books, Smolnikar was a blend of brilliance and
eccentricity, the founder of several millenial communities, and
a very colorful personality. He was the subject of several lit¬
erary essays, including one by. Longfellow,29 and was referred
to, probably half-seriously and half-jokingly, as the "thir¬
teenth apostle." 30

A century after Smolnikar, Dr. Joseph L. Mihelic, a Slo¬
venian American professor of the Old Testament, Literature, and

193

Languages at Dubuque Theological Seminary, gained distinction
as a Presbyterian theologian and writer who, in addition to
other works, contributed over forty articles to the Interpret¬
er’s Bible Dictionary  and the Encyclopedia Britannica . 31

The Slovenian religious writers are followed on the ideo¬
logical continuum by those Catholic literati  who dealt with
secular themes from a Catholic point of view or who wrote under
the Catholic label. Only a few leading names of the several
scores of these Catholic Slovenian American writers and poets
can be mentioned here, among them the following missionaries
and priests: Oton Skola, O.F.M. (1805-1879), a talented writer,

poet, and painter; Ivan Cebul (1832-1898), author of essays,
articles, and poems in Slovenian, English, French, Greek, and
Indian languages; Msgr. Joseph Buh (1833-1922), founder and
vicar general of the Diocese of Duluth, writer and editor of
Amerikanski Slovenea  (The American Slovenian); Simon Lampe,
O.S.B. (1865-1939), writer, educator, and an authority on the
Otchipwe language; Antoine Rezek (1867-1946), writer and his¬
torian, best known for his two-volume History of the Diocese of
Sault Ste. Marie and Marquette  (1906, 1907); George Trunk (1870-
1973), writer, historian, translator, and painter (at the time
of his death, the oldest Catholic priest in America); Andrew
Smrekar (1871-1939), poet, writer, and a prolific translator
who, among other works, translated Shakespeare into Slovenian;
Hugo Bren, O.F.M. (1881-1953), theologian, writer, translator,
and editor; Kazimir Zakrajsek, O.F.M. (1878-1958), author of
numerous short stories, novelettes, dramas, and plays, and
founder and editor of Ave Maria  monthly magazine and annual al¬
manac; John Oman (1879-1966), contributor to Catholic Slovenian
American magazines and newspapers; Bernard Ambrozic, O.F.M.
(1892-1973), editor and author of numerous short stories and
novelettes; Alexander Urankar, O.F.M. (1902-1952), poet; Vital
Vodusek (1906-1973), best known for his collections of poems,
Pesmi  (Poems, 1928) and Poezife  (Poetry, 1937); and Edward
Surtz, S.J. (1909-1973), writer, scholar, literary critic, and
an internationally known authority on St. Thomas More. 32

Among living Slovenian American Catholic priests and nuns
(1977), the following authors of secular works from the Catho¬
lic point of view stand out: Msgr. John L. Zaplotnik, the most

prolific biographer of Slovenian American missionaries and con¬
tributor to numerous Slovenian and American magazines, journals,
almanacs, and newspapers; 33  Basil Valentin, O.F.M., former edi¬
tor of Ave Maria  in America and current editor of Misli  (The
Thoughts) in Australia, a novelist, story teller, children's
author, and poet; 34  William Furlan, best known for his book In
Charity Unfeigned  (1952); Bishop James S. Rausch (Slovenian on
his mother's side), general secretary of the National Confer¬
ence of Catholic Bishops and of the United States Catholic Con¬
ference, author and editor of influential works on human rights,
the Catholic Church, American society, and international

194

affairs; 35  Sisters Bernard Coleman and Verona LaBud, authors of
Masinaigans: The Little Book  (1972); and Sister Lavoslava Turk

contributor to Catholic magazines and papers and author of
Pesem solske sestre  (The Song of a School Sister), a collection
of short stories, published in 1974.

Among laymen, several Slovenian American writers and
poets have been classified as Catholic authors. Included in
this category are: Anton Kline (1862-1949), writer and editor

of Narodna Beseda  (Our Nation's Voice) and Nova Domovina  (New
Homeland); James Debevec (1887-1952), humorist, writer, and edi
tor of Sloga  (Harmony), Glas SDZ  (Voice of SDZ), and Ameriska
Domovina  (American Home); Louis Pirc (1888-1939), writer and
editor of Nova Domovina  and Ameriska Domovina ; Ivan Zupan (1875
1950), editor of Glasilo KSKJ  (The KSKJ Herald) and poet, best
known for his collection of poems Iz 'i.ivlqenja za kivljenje
(From Life for Life, 1935); John Jerich (1894-1973), editor of
Amerikanski Slovenes  (The American Slovenian), Bavagova Pratika
(Baraga's Almanac), and Novi Svet  (The New World), and author
of numerous essays, articles, and a collection of short sto¬
ries; 36  Zdravko Novak (1909-1971), author of such novels as
Pota bozja  (God's Ways, 1957) and Utrinki  (Fragments, 1959), of
several dramatizations, and of over two hundred short stories
and articles; and Fred Orehek (1922-1976), editorial writer
for The Chicago Tribune  and author of several short stories and
biographies of Slovenian Americans. 37

The most prolific contemporary Slovenian American Catho¬
lic writer and poet is Karl Mauser (1918-1977), who came to
America in 1950 as a refugee and has gained international recog
nition as author of over twenty novels, several dramas, and a
large number of novelettes which were published by various pub¬
lishers in Europe and both Americas. Many of his beautiful
short stories and poems have also appeared in Slovenian maga¬
zines, almanacs, and newspapers in the United States, Canada,
Argentina, Austria, and Australia. 38

Among the living Slovenian American Catholic literati  the
following names stand out: Stanley Zupan, former English edi¬

tor of Glasilo KSKJ,  of Marquette News,  and of Skyline,  the
literary quarterly of Cleveland College, a talented author of
short stories and essays; Ivan Racic, former editor of Ameri¬
kanski Slovenes,  writer, and musician; Marie Prisland, writer
and columnist, known for her book of "collections and recollec¬
tions," From Slovenia to America,  published in 1968; Professor
Frank Bukvich, storyteller and novelist, best known for his
novel Brezdomci  (The Homeless, 1948), a penetrating analysis of
the uprooted victims of war; Dr. Ludvik Pu^, author of two
books of memoirs, including Klgsje v viharju  (Harvest in the
Tempest, 1970); Mirko Javornik, a talented neo-realist whose
most important literary works were published prior to his immi¬
gration to America in the 1950's; Gizella Hozian, a newspaper
columnist known also for her book Spomini mladosti  (Reminis-

195

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Major Slovenian American periodicals and newspapers, in 1921

cences of Youth, 1961); and Milena Soukal, Rose Mary Prosen,
Marian Jakopic, and Eric Kova^iS, poets. 39

Closer to the "middle range" or "neutral" orientation of
the ideological continuum we find, in addition to hundreds of
Slovenian American authors in such fields as science, education,
medicine, and related areas, also several Slovenian American
literati , among them: Frank Sakser (1876-1961), writer and

essayist and editor of Glas Naroda  (The People's Voice) and of
Slovensko-Amerikanski Koledar  (Slovenian American Almanac);

Frank Ker^e (1876-1961), author of many novelettes, essays,
short stories, and poems, and editor of the humor magazine
Komar  (Mosquito), of Glasilo SNPJ  (The SNPJ Herald), and of the
literary magazine Cas  (Time); Anton Terbovec (1882-1962), humor¬
ist, essayist, storyteller, and editor of Nova Doha  (New Era);
Dr. Frank J. Kern (1887-), editor of Glasnik  (The Herald)
and Clevelandska Amerika  (Cleveland's America), and author of
an English-Slovenian dictionary ( Anglesko-slovenski besednjak ,
1919), of an English-Slovenian reader ( Anglesko-slovensko
berilo,  1926), of many articles on health and medicine, and of
a very valuable book of memoirs, Spomini,  published in 1937; and
Ivan Zorman (1889-1957), composer and the leading Slovenian
American poet, widely known among Slovenians for his collec¬
tions Poezije  (Poetry, 1919), Pesmi  (Poems, 1922), Liribni
spevi  (Lyric Poems, 1925), Slovene Poetry  (1928), Pota ljubezni
(The Pathways of Love, 1931), and Iz novega sveta  (From the New
World, 1938). 40

Others in this category are: Janko Rogelj (1895-1974),

editor of Enakopravnost  (Equality) and author of numerous arti¬
cles, essays, and poems, including three collections of short
stories and poems; Vatro Grill (1899-1976), editor of Enakoprav¬
nost , columnist, translator, and author of a book of memoirs,

Med dvema svetovoma  (Between Two Worlds, 1977); Dr. Andrew
Kobal (1899-), who, in addition to his many scientific works,
authored two books on his world-wide travels, numerous short
stories and essays, and fifteen dramas; Ivan Jontez (1902-),
editor of the literary magazine Cankarjev Glasnik  (Cankar's
Herald) and a talented novelist, storyteller, and poet, best
known for his books Senoa preko pota  (A Shadow Across My Path,
1940), Jutro brez sonoa  (Morning without Sun, 1949), and Trou¬
ble on East Green Street  (1956); Dr. Oton Ambroz (1905-), a
highly regarded journalist, essayist, and scholar, especially
acclaimed for his two-volume book, Realignment of World Power
(1972); Anthony J. Klancar (1908-), essayist, translator,
scholar, and journalist; Frank Mlakar (1913-1967), an exception¬
ally gifted storyteller, poet, and novelist whose book, He , the
Father  (1950), transformed him into a nationally known writer;
Ben Kocivar (1916-), former senior editor of Look  magazine,
writer, and commentator; Robert Debevec (1918-) , a talented
author of short stories and articles, as well as of two legal
books; William Horvat (1919-), former editor of Journal of

197

Louis Adamic, Slovenian American writer and social critic, by Nancy Bukovnik

American Aviation Historical Society,  widely known for his book
Above the Pacific  (1966); and Professor Bernard Jerman (1921-).
scholar, biographer, and literary critic, best known in America
and England for his book, The Young Disraeli  (1960). 44

A more comprehensive overview should also discuss the
role of such writers, poets, essayists, editors, reporters,
critics, commentators, and/or translators of various ideologi¬
cal orientations as: Joseph Ambrozic, Heinie Martin Antoncic,

John Arnez, Ivan Avsenek, Paul Borstnik, Mary Bostian, Mary
Cassidy, Jim Debevec, Frank Dolence, Robert Dolgan, Josephine
Erjavec, Joseph Felicijan, Anthony Garbas, Milena Gobetz, John
and Julia Gottlieb, Joseph Gregorich, Janez Grum, William
Heiliger, Jacob Hocevar, Toussaint Hocevar, Frances Jazbec,
Joseph and Louis Jerkic, Richard Juvancic, Ivan and Jennie
Kapel, Joseph Kess, Victor Knaus, Frank Kolaric, Miha Krek,
Vincent Lauter, Rado Lencek, Lud and Corrine Leskovar, Vinko
Lipovec, Joseph Melaher, James Mally, Albina Novak, Bogdan
Novak, Irene Odorizzi, Anton Okolish, Tony Petkovsek, Josephine
Petrie, Julia Pirc, Ludwig Potokar, Edwin Primoshich, Jacob
Resnik, Anton Sabec, Janez Sever, Antoinette Simcic, Mary
Skerlong, Frank Sodnikar, Rado Staut, Frank Suhadolnik, Rick
Sustaric, Matt Tekavec, Andrew and Agnes Tomec, Frank and
Antonia Turek, Florence Unetich, Joseph Valencic, Joseph
Velikonja, Mary Volk, Bogomil Vosnjak, Cyril Zebot, and, espe¬
cially, Joseph Zelle, writer and translator; Dr. John P. Niel¬
sen (Sesek), storyteller, essayist, and former editor of
Metallurgy/Materials Education Yearbook ; Louis Ule, an author¬
ity on the works of Marlowe and Shakespeare, literary critic,
and co-inventor of the world's first electronically valved auto¬
mobile engine; Elsie Rudman, writer and historian; Nada Skerly,
former Time  magazine reporter and an award-winning writer on
the aged; Elaine Cimperman Slater, a free-lance writer for sev¬
eral American magazines; Stanley Modic, current executive edi¬
tor of Business Week  and former editor of Our Voice ; Margot
Klima, editor of Our Voice  and of the Clevelander  magazine;

John Kameen, writer and publisher of the Forest City News',  and
Veda Ponikvar, writer and editor of the Free Press  and The
Tribune Press , 42

Many works of Louis Adamic (1899-1951) are ideologically
"neutral" (i.e., neither rightist nor leftist, neither pro-
Catholic nor pro-socialist), while some of his books have been
classified as progressive, socialist, or leftist, depending on
the values and orientations of groups or persons who provided
the label. Adamic, who came to America at the age of fifteen,
has become the best known Slovenian American writer. Professor
Henry A. Christian has compiled an impressive but, inevitably,
incomplete list of 564 titles Authored by Adamic, including
books, pamphlets, articles, forewords, and other contributions.
Christian also lists over five hundred items by other American

199

and European authors, dealing with the life and works of Louis
Adamic.

Among Adamic's most important works are the following
books: Dynamite: The Story of Class Violence in America

(1931), Laughing in the Jungle: The Autobiography of an Immi¬
grant in America  (1932), The Native’s Return: An American Immi¬

grant Visits Jugoslavia and Discovers His Old Country  (1934),
Grandsons: The Story of American Lives  (1935), Cradle of Life:

The Story of One Man's Beginnings  (1936), The House of Antigua:

A Restoration  (1937), My America: 1928-1938  (1938), From Many

Lands  (1940), Two-Way Passage  (1941), What’s Your Name?  (1942),
My Native Land  (1943), A Nation of Nations  (1945), Dinner at
The White House  (1946), and Eagle and the Roots  (1952). Adamic
was also editor of Common Ground  and of the Peoples of America
Series.  A master of prose and a very influential popular his¬
torian, sociologist, social philosopher, critic, and reformer,
he gained national and international fame, as well as criticism
and hostility which ultimately cost him his life. 43

In our present overview, Adamic can be considered the
transition from the "neutral," "middle range" orientation to
the progressive and socialist camps—a somewhat ambiguous posi¬
tion which he shares with a number of other authors, such as
Kerze, Grill, Rogelj, and Jontez. The leaders of the progres¬
sive and socialist camps (the two labels have often been used
interchangeably) were: Etbin Kristan (1867-1953), editor of

Svoboda  (Freedom), Rdeci Prapor  (Red Standard), and Zarja(The
Dawn) in Europe, and of Amerikki Drukinski Koledar  (American
Family Almanac), Proletarec  (The Proletarian), and Cankarjev
Glasnik  (Cankar's Herald) in America, and author of many volumes
of poems, short stories, dramas, novels, and novelettes; 44
Joseph Zavertnik (1896-1929), editor of Glas Svobode  (The Voice
of Freedom), Proletarec , Glasilo SNPJ, Slovenski Delavski Kole¬
dar  (Slovenian Workers' Almanac), and Prosveta  (Enlightenment),
best known for his comprehensive volume Ameriski Slovenci  (Amer¬
ican Slovenians, 1925); Martin Konda (1872-1922) and Frank
Medica (1875-1955), editors of Glas Svobode  and Mir  (Peace); 45
Ivan Molek (1882-1962), editor of Glasnik  (Herald) and Prosveta a
storyteller, translator, and author of Dva svetova  (Two Worlds,
1932), Veliko mravljisce  (The Huge Anthill, 1934), and Sesuti
stolp  (The Tower That Collapsed, 1935); 46  Frank Zaitz (1888-
1967), editor of Ameriski Druzinski Koledar , Majski Glas  (The
Voice of May), and Proletarec,  and a prolific author of essays,
short stories, and articles about Slovenian Americans; 47  Frank
Magajna (1895-1971), novelist, satirist, and translator into
Slovenian from English and French; 48  Katka Zupancic (1889-1967),
who authored over three hundred poems, five dramas, and 137
short stories and articles; 49  Jack Tomsic (1897-), a worker-
poet whose poems were published in various progressive maga¬
zines and papers and appeared in a collection, Pognale so na
tujih tleh  (They've Grown in a Foreign Land, 1968); and Anna

200

Krasna (1900-), former editor of Glas Napoda,  translator, and
author of numerous short stories, novelettes, and poems, includ¬
ing a collection of poems, Za lepse dni  (For a Better Future,
1950) . 50

Many authors of progressive-socialist orientation also
contributed their short stories, novelettes, poems, and arti¬
cles to Amepiski Dpuzinski Koledap  (American Family Almanac,
1915-1950), Majski Glas  (The Voice of May, 1933-1945) , Cankap-
jev Glasnik  (Cankar's Herald, 1937-1943), and Mladinski List
(The Voice of Youth, 1922-), and to other progressive pub¬
lications, such as Ppoletcpec , Prosveta, Rodna Gruda,  and Slo-
venski Izseljenski Koledap.  In addition to Kristan, Zavertnik,
Molek, Zaitz, Katka Zupancic, and Krasna, and to^such popular
historians, storytellers, and critics as Frank Cesen and Louis
Kaferle, the following major contributors to various progres¬
sive publications should be mentioned: Frank Alesh, Louis

Beniger, Vincent Caikar, Angelo Cerkvenik, Josip Chesarek,

Josip Durn, Peter Elish, Slavica Fisher, Anton Garden, Filip
and Oscar Godina, Erazem Gorshe, Mary Grill-Ivanusch, Louis and
Louisa Jartz, Joseph Jauh, William Jereb, Mary Kobal, Mirko
Kuhel, Donald Lotrich, Ludwig and Milan Medvesek, Zdenka Mihel-
ich, Mary Jug-Molek, Zvonko Novak, Josko Oven, Matt Petrovich,
John Pollock, Leo Poljsak, Betty Rotar, Doris Sadar, Louis
Serjak, Anton Shular, Joseph Sircel, Joseph Siskovich, Joseph
Snoy, John and Anne Spiller, Frank Taucher, Josephine Tratnik,
Fred Vider, Josephine Zakrajsek, Jennie Zaman, Stanley Zele,

Nace Zlemberger, and Jacob Zupancic.51 Exceptionally prolific
contributors were also Ivan Zorman, of a predominantly "neu¬
tral" or "middle range" ideological orientation, and Ivan
Jontez, who started his writing career as a socialist, created
some of his major works as a "neutral" novelist and poet, and in
one of his novels moved to a conservative-rightist position. 52

Finally, the lone representative of the extreme radical
pole of the Slovenian American ideological continuum is Joseph
Kalar (1906-1972), one of America's foremost revolutionary
writers and poets, associate editor or contributing editor of New
Masses, Left Fronts Intepnational Litepatupe,  and The Anvil . 53

This inevitably incomplete overview of Slovenian American
literature—the literature of a numerically small and relatively
unknown ethnic group—reveals a strong literary involvement in
all areas of the ideological continuum, ranging from the reli¬
gious literature by Bishop Baraga, currently an official candi¬
date of the American Catholic Church for sainthood, to the
radical literature of Joseph Kalar, a leading American revolu¬
tionary writer, poet, and editor. We suspect that a more
detailed analysis of the Slovenian American literary works,
excluding strictly religious literature, would show that the
bulk of writings fall into the middle range, the "neutral" or
moderate orientation, with continuing decrease as one moves to
the more extreme positions on the far right or left.

201

Selected Characteristics of Slovenian
American Literature and  Literati

The Slovenian American literati  have dealt with a consid¬
erable variety of themes. Kappus, Baraga, Franc Pirc, and
several other missionaries created some of the early works on
the American Indians. Adamic was a foremost writer on American
ethnic groups—and on his native Slovenia and Yugoslavia. Klo-
buchar takes us to the little known American mountain ranges
and hidden trails in search of beauty, courage, and a deeper
humanity; and with Grdina and Kobal we visit Greece, Turkey,
Israel, the Soviet Union, Bulgaria, Pakistan, India, Korea,
Japan, and Formosa. With Bardga we can pray and meditate in
the Indian, English, and Slovenian languages. Or we can
immerse ourselves in theological writings by Smolnikar, Gruden,
and Mihelic, each representing a completely different theologi¬
cal orientation. We can enjoy Vodusek's Slovenian poetry about
St. Francis, Fortunat Zorman's religious writings in Ave Maria,
and visit with Wolbang Slovenian missionaries in Zambia, on
Madagascar, in Thailand, or in Japan. 54

We can take nostalgic trips to Slovenia with almost all
Slovenian immigrant writers and poets, including Franc Pirc,
Kristan, Ivan Zorman, Adamic, Mauser, Valentin, Prisland,

Rogelj, and Jakopic. With the humorist Terbovec we can laugh¬
ingly visit the American West, walking occasionally in the
seventeenth-century footsteps of Kappus. Or we can descend
with Molek to the "graveyards of the living" where Slovenian
and other miners were contributing their sweat, their health
and, not infrequently, their lives for a better America. With
Baraga we can plead for God's mercy and love; with Smolnikar,
for a universal church, world government, and universal peace.
After visiting vividly-portrayed scenes in mines and factories,
in bars and hospitals, we can unite our voices with Kristan and
Molek in advocating better working and living conditions for
the working class. Milena Soukal takes us to the "Temples of
Peru" in her sensitive search for brotherhood and love, while
Kalar "prays" to thunder to put an end to exploitatation and
oppression.

With Mauser we watch how John Kovach, abandoned and alone,
dies next to his machine at the Cleveland Twist Drill Company
in the heart of the Slovenian ethnic neighborhood which also
inspired Mlakar's powerful Dostoevskian story. With Bukvich
we analyze the uprootedness and alienation of the modern world.
With Krasna we visit the "black villages" and with Katka Zupan-
cic we revolt against man's inhumanity to man. With Smolnikar,
Kristan, Adamic, Mauser, and Rausch we dream highly different
dreams about a new humanity and a better world. Finally, we
visit Jontez, who had traveled the whole continuum. Paralyzed
by a stroke, he reads us his swan song. . . . "There is a time

202

for everything. . . His face is pale. His voice trembles.

We pretend to stare at the shelves filled with books, the
poet's only possession. In America one is not supposed to
cry! . . .

Yes, the themes differ. There is a tremendous variety.
There is, as the Cleveland Plain dealer  of September 2, 1956,
reported, "an unexplored field of literature." There are many
voices of the many American ethnic groups. There are many
voices within each ethnic group—a rich, unexplored field of
literature. 55

The occupations of the Slovenian American literati  also
represent a wide range. As far as we know, Adamic alone made
his living as a writer. In harmony with the Slovenian literary
tradition, a large proportion of Slovenian missionaries and
priests, from obscure chaplains to famous bishops, were active¬
ly involved in literary pursuits. Many Slovenian American lit¬
erati  worked as editors and reporters on Slovenian ethnic
newspapers, among them Kristan, James Debevec, Louis Pirc,

Zaitz, and Molek, while others occupied editorial or reporting
positions with American magazines and newspapers as, for in¬
stance, Klobuchar, Kocivar, Orehek, and Skerly.

The following examples suggest the wide variety of occupa¬
tions held by the Slovenian American literati : Smrekar was a

chaplain; Trunk, a pastor; Franc Pirc and Cebul, missionaries;
Baraga and Rausch, bishops; Kalar, a lumberjack; Mauser (a
former seminarian whose books are widely read in German, French,
and Spanish translations) and Tomsic, factory workers; Mlakar
was a coal miner, businessman, and reporter; Rogelj, an insur¬
ance representative; Grill and Robert Debevec, lawyers; Dr.

Kern, physician; Stanley Zupan, a banking executive; Zorman, a
composer and music teacher; Borstnik, a radio announcer; and
Bren, Bukvich, Jerman, Kobal, John Modic, Nielsen, Prosen, and
Surtz, university professors. 56

The Slovenian immigrant literati  failed to form a single,
relatively permanent, unifying organization of their own, al¬
though many of them occupied leading positions in numerous Slo¬
venian cultural, fraternal, educational, social, and other
organizations. Those who were ideologically close to each other
frequently gathered in small, informal circles or joined Sloven¬
ian language or university clubs, library clubs, and similar
groups. The ideologically opposed or "incompatible" literati
usually either ignored each other or competed for the souls of
readers. However, there were notable exceptions, such as
Vodusek, a Catholic priest and a sensitive poet, who was a
friend and admirer of Kristan, a leading progressive and social¬
ist writer; or Ivan Zorman, a moderate, "middle-range" poet and
essayist, who cultivated friendship and cooperation with writers
belonging to Catholic, neutral, progressive, and socialist
camps. Several literati  considerably changed their ideological
orientations in the course of their writing careers, for

203

Dr. Frank Jauh Kern, physician, linguist and writer

instance, Louis Pirc, from progressive to Catholic-clericalist;
Jontez, from socialist to neutral and, in one work, to conser¬
vative; Dr. Kern, from socialist to neutral; Adamic, from neu¬
tral to progressive and, some would say, leftist, etc. 57

Slovenian American literature was published in both Amer¬
icas, in several European countries, and in Australia, by a
large number of Slovenian magazines, journals, almanacs, and
newspapers. Several Slovenian American authors also appeared
in American and international periodicals, including: American

Mercury, Family Digest, True,  and Sports Afield  (Robert Debe-
vec); The Saturday Evening Post  (Adamic, Kobal); Look  (Kocivar);
Time  and Life  (Skerly); Family Circle, Skyline,  and Golf Digest
(John Modic); Skyline  (S. Zupan, J. Modic); Moreana, Philo¬
logical Quarterly, Renaissance Dews,  etc. (Surtz); Esquire
Common Ground,  etc. (Mlakar); Journal of American Folklore, The
American Slavic Review, The Slavonic Review,  etc. (Klancar);

New Masses, International Literature, Left Front, The Anvil,
etc. (Kalar); and Harper's Magazine, The Living Age, The Ameri¬
can Parade, American Mercury, New Republic, Reader 's Digest,
Saturday Review of Literature, American Scholar,  etc. (Adamic). 58

Books by Slovenian American literati  were published by a
considerable number of Slovenian publishing establishments in
the United States (Ameriska Jugoslovanska Tiskovna Druzba, Ave
Maria Press, Prosvetna Matica, Triglav, Equality Printers,
etc.); Slovenia (Mohorjeva Druzba, Slovenska Izseljenska Matica,
Drzavna Zalozba Slovenije, etc.); Austria (Mohorjeva Druzba v
Celovcu); Italy (Mohorjeva Druzba v Gorici); Argentina (Slo¬
venska Kulturna Akcija, Baraga Editorial, Svobodna Slovenija);
and elsewhere. Occasionally, Slovenian authors resorted to
"samozalozba" (self publishing), where they served as their own
publishers and distributors.

The Slovenian American literature written in English was
issued by a large number of American and, occasionally, British
publishers, ranging from Harper Brothers, Herder, and Vanguard
Press to Yale, Princeton, Oxford, and the University of Chicago
Press. Works by Slovenian American writers were also published
by various houses in Austria, Germany, Switzerland, France,
Spain, Sweden, and other countries by their respective native
publishers.

While the bulk of Slovenian American literature was writ¬
ten in Slovenian, with works in English a close second, the
Slovenian missionary literati  were remarkably polyglot and
often wrote with equal facility in Slovenian, English, German,
French, Latin, and Indian languages. As a rule, other Sloven¬
ian immigrant  writers were also fluent in many languages, espe¬
cially in Slovenian, German, Italian, and English, while a few
knew seven or more languages. Outstanding in this regard was
Merkun, who studied and considerably mastered no fewer than
twenty-seven languages. 59

205

a : b = c : x, by Milan Vojsk

In general, it can be said that missionaries wrote in
several languages in order to reach as many faithful as possi¬
ble for religious proselytizing purposes and the immigrant
writers other than missionaries usually wrote predominantly or
exclusively in Slovenian to perpetuate the Slovenian language
and heritage in America. The American-born literati  of Slo¬
venian descent wrote almost exclusively in English, although
some of them (e.g., Mlakar) continued to show a preference for
Slovenian themes, viewed often in the light of American rather
than Slovenian values.

Among the substantial number of literati  who wrote only
in Slovenian are: Zaitz, Grdina, Kerze, Ambrozi^, Rogelj,

Vodu^ek, Jakopic, and Mauser. Others wrote only in English,
for instance, Mlakar, Kocivar, Robert Debevec, and Kalar.

Adamic, who came to America at fifteen, wrote a few minor
pieces in Slovenian but all his major works are in English.

Some literati  wrote with equal facility in English and in
Slovenian, among them Ivan Zorman, Klancar, Krasna, Jontez,
Grill, Kern, Zaplotnik, and Prisland. Zakrajsek, whose main
contributions are in Slovenian, also edited a religious maga¬
zine and wrote a number of minor works in Slovak. Kristan
wrote mostly in Slovenian, but he also authored a book and sev¬
eral articles in German.

Counting works in original languages and translations,
Slovenian American literature was published in at least the
following languages: Slovenian, English, Otchipwe (Indian),

Ottawa (Indian), German, Spanish, French, Latin, Swedish, Ital¬
ian, Croatian, Serbian, Slovak, Czech, Greek, Arabic, Portugese,
and Finnish. 60

Impaat and Contributions

It is still much too early to evaluate fully the impact
and contributions of Slovenian American literature. We may,
however, make a few tentative observations.

The Slovenian American literati  have, undoubtedly, helped
to preserve the Slovenian heritage in America and, to a lesser
extent, among Slovenian minorities and immigrants in European
and other countries. Their works have often had educational,
recreational, and prestige value for their compatriots. Up¬
rooted and destatused immigrants and their descendants took
pride in private and public Slovenian libraries, containing
various works authored by their Slovenian fellow-citizens.
Translations from and into English and the appearance of works
by Slovenian authors written originally in the English language
have widened the circle of readers and stimulated cultural
cross-fertilization, starting with Primec's translation of Ben¬
jamin Franklin from English to German and continuing up to the
present time. 61

207

The Slovenians have also made a considerable contribution
to American Indian literature. Albert J. Nevins writes in Our
American Catholic Heritage  that "Bishop Baraga was the first of
the American bishops to issue his pastoral letters in Indian." 62
Professors Cujes points out that a volume of over seven hundred
pages of Baraga's meditations, Katolik Enamiad,  first published
in the Otchipwe language in 1850, was reprinted in 1939 as part
of the Indian cultural revival, and that present-day missionar-
aries and scholars are still using Baraga's Indian dictionaries
and grammars. Similarly, writings by various Slovenian authors
have made an important contribution to American Indian history,
and the Indian songs, recorded by Baraga and several other Slo¬
venian missionaries, have survived as examples of American Indi¬
an folklore and literature. 63

In other areas, some contributions are still tentative,
unknown, or invisible, and call for further research and docu¬
mentation. Thus, for instance, Dr. John Modic, a Slovenian
American, translated into English Johann Nestroy's play, Einen
Jux Will Er Sich Machen.  Thornton Wilder adapted this English
translation for The Merchant of Yonkers,  later rewritten as The
Matchmaker,  and finally resulting in the musical, Hello , Dolly! M

Other contributions which have become visible and even
acclaimed have gone without mention of the Slovenian background
of their creators, as, for example, Professor Bernard Jerman's
The Young Disraeli,  described by Punch  of December 14, 1960, as
"an absorbingly well-written book" and by the Times Literary
supplement  of December 23, 1960, as "a work of genuine and ex¬
uberant scholarship." In 1971, American, British, French, and
German scholars and writers jointly dedicated a "Festschrift,"
Moreana—Meliora  to Professor Edward Surtz, an American writer
and scholar of international reputation, the son of humble Slo¬
venian immigrant parents from Cleveland, Ohio. 65

Although the quality of Slovenian American literature is
undoubtedly uneven, several Slovenian writers have had their
works published in some of America's most prestigious periodi¬
cals, as we have already indicated. At least three Slovenian
American writers (Adamic, Mlakar, and Kalar) were included in
Edward J. O'Brien's The Best Short Stories.  Adamic was fre¬
quently reprinted by Reader's Digest-,  one of his books was a
Book-of-the-Month Club selection and was reprinted in a Modem
Classics  edition. He has also been included in Argentina's
collection, Obras Famosas  (Famous Works). 66  The works of
Mauser, although practically unknown to American readers, have
gone through a number of editions in German and Spanish trans¬
lations. One of his books has been published in the presti¬
gious French collection, La pens&e universelle  (Universal
Thought), as "the work of a great Catholic author" and a second
book has been selected for inclusion in the international col¬
lection, Gigante,  as being among the "giants of world litera¬
ture." 67  Frank Mlakar received awards for poetry and plays,

208

but it was his novel, He, the Father , acclaimed by Time  maga¬
zine as "a powerful Dostoevskian story," 68  which gained him
national recognition. Kalar was included not only in O'Brien's
The Best Short Stories , but also in Conroy's The Anvil Anthol¬
ogy.,  as one of America's leading radical writers. 69

Robert Debevec's story, "Long Shot to Kill," a factual
account of the shooting of a Confederate general by a Union
soldier, first published in True Magazine , was aired on national
television in the General Electric True Series. 70  Similarly,
Daniel Hrvatin's "Cleveland's Moon Shot" has brought him favor¬
able national publicity, 71  and Jerome Turk has gained national
and international recognition for such creations as "Concepts
of Communication," "Listening in on Latin America," "The Many
Faces of Mary," "Some Beloved Child," and the United States
multimedia travel show seen at Expo '70 at Osaka, Japan. 72

If it is true, as Gunnar Myrdal maintains, that the great
est American dilemma is a moral delimma—the dilemma of trans¬
forming the American Dream into reality, 73  then we may say that
in this noble effort the Slovenian American writers have played
a remarkable role. Bishop Baraga, in his fight for the preser¬
vation of Indian cultures, wrote books, grammars, and diction¬
aries in Indian languages a century before the American govern¬
ment adopted a more humane and pluralistic orientation toward
these native Americans. 74  Professor Brewton Berry discusses
Adamic as the  leading exponent of cultural pluralism and cul¬
tural democracy in America, 75  a view, officially recognized by
the United States Congress in 1972, which has become increas¬
ingly popular and powerful today. 76  Finally, Bishop Rausch put
Adamic's America as a "Nation of Nations" into a world-wide uni
versal context in his book, A Family of Nations,  subtitled "An
expanded view of patriotism—a new dedication to humanity." 77

Epilogue

It has frequently been assumed that small and relatively
unknown peoples or nations have contributed nothing, or very
little, to the growth and progress of the cultures and civili¬
zations of the world—and the same "logic" has often been
applied to ethnic groups. Yet, the more we study relatively
little-known peoples such as the Slovenians, the more we real¬
ize that size alone, among peoples as well as among individuals
has very little to do with productivity and creativity.

The Slovenians, for instance, were among the trailblazers
of an ancient democracy that was admired by such men as Bodin
and Jefferson. Baraga, an immigrant from Slovenia, w r as not
only a giant of faith and an early authority on Indian lan¬
guages, but one of the earliest American advocates of cultural
pluralism. Dr. Frederic Pregl, the Slovenian-born, Nobel-prize
winning father of micro-analysis, revolutionized the fields of
organic chemistry and medicine. 78  According to Dr. Von Braun's

209

The dawn of life, by H. Gregory Prusheck (Perusek)

History of Rooketry and Space Travel , Hermann Potocnik, who was
forced to write under a German pseudonym, "Noordung," authored
the first comprehensive scientific book on manned space travel
and was also a pioneer in the field of solar energy. 79  An edi¬
torial in the Atlanta Journal  of November 29, 1944, states that
Max Stupar "has been called the father of mass airplane produc¬
tion" and also "contributed much to the development of the B-29
Superfortress" which helped America to win World War II. 80  Yet
who ever told Americans, or Slovenian American youth, that
Stupar was an immigrant from Metlika, Slovenia?

America's pride at the New York World Fair in 1965 was a
$250,000 car of the future. Who in the crowds of fascinated
visitors suspected that this futuristic superstar of technology
was designed and produced by John Bucik, an unassuming immi¬
grant genius from Slovenia who also designs futuristic furni¬
ture, futuristic homes, and mini-submarines? 81  American news¬
papers wrote of President Ford's "first spectator outing as
president at the Robert F. Kennedy Stadium in Washington"; yet,
how many people in America knew that the stadium in question
was designed by Alexander Papesh, a Slovenian American archi¬
tect, 82  or that the nearby L'Enfant Plaza, described by the
Washington Post  as "a triumph of modern architecture," was
designed by Araldo Cossutta (Kosuta), an immigrant from Slo¬
venia? 83  Cossutta, with L. M. Pei, a Chinese American archi¬
tect, was winner of the 1968 Architectural Firm Award—the
highest group honor conferred by the American Institute of
Architects.

When President Nixon and his party went to China, they
took along HP-35 pocket calculators "as the prime example of
modern U.S. technology." These calculators were designed by
Dr. France Rode, a Slovenian American, 84  but neither the Aneri-
cans nor the Chinese had any idea that the object of their
admiration was related to anyone or anything Slovenian. With
not a single Slovenian contribution tc America or the world
ever mentioned in their textbooks, it is no wonder that Ameri¬
can students of Slovenian descent are often left with the
impression that they belong to a very backward and sterile
nationality group. What an injustice! What a pity! What a
shame ! 85

The ethnic literatures of America are only one of the
many areas where ethnic contributions to our country have been
neglected, ignored or belittled. The so-called ethnic revival
has barely begun to scratch the surface. America is just begin
ning to unearth her many buried, unknown, or little-known treas
ures. As one of our writers, Katka ZupanfSi^, put it, "the pot"
—may we say "the melting pot ,v ?—"is broken" and the treasures,
great and small, which lay buried in it, must now be brought to
light to enrich our multi-ethnic Anerican heritage. A namesake
of Katka, the Slovenian poet Oton Zupancic, invites us all to

211

confront this great challenge of the third century of our his¬
tory as an independent nation with these verses of universal
appeal:

Forge me on thy anvil, Life!

Am I flint, then I shall flash.

Am I steel, then I shall sing.

Am I glass, then let me crash !' 86

Let us hope and pray that America will never crash, that
she will always flash as one of the great lights of freedom and
justice—including justice to all her ethnic groups—and that,
strong as steel, she will continue to sing in her many voices—
this our Nation of Nations in the Family of Nations!

NOTES

1. Primoz Kozak, Slovenia  (Belgrade: Yugoslav Review, 1974), pp. 1-16,81-

112, 209-22. See also Milko Kos, L godovina Slovenoev  (Ljubljana: Slo-

venska Matica, 1955); Bogo Grafenauer, Zgodovina slovenskega naroda t l-\I
(Ljubljana, Zadruzna Zveza, 1956-62); and John A. Arnez, Slovenia in
European Affairs  (New York: Studia Slovenica, 1958).

2. Unknown Yugoslavia  (London: Herbert Jenkins, 1960), pp. 198-99.

3. R. G. A. De Bray, Guide to the Slavonic Languages  (London: Dent and

Sons, 1951) , p. 365.

4. The Native's Return  (New York and London: Harper and Brothers, 1934),

p. 29.

5. Tito's Imperial Communism  (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina

Press, 1947), pp. 10-11.

6. Adamic, pp. 29-31; Grafenauer, V, 179-204.

7. Joseph Felicijan, The Genesis of the Contractual Theory and the Instal¬
lation of the Dukes of Carinthia  (Celovec: Druzba sv. Mohorja, 1967),

p. 25.

8. Felicijan, pp. 53, 73-74, 81; and Kos, pp. 86-89. Facsimile of Bodin's
text, initialed by Jefferson, appears in Felicijan, p. 15.

9. Felicijan, pp. 5, 9-10, 15.

10. Crane Brinton, rev. of The Genesis of the Contractual Theory,  by Joseph
Felicijan, The Catholic Historical Review,  LIV, 4 (1969), pp. 657-58.

11. Helfried Patz, "Geschenke der Slowenen an die iVelt," Steirische
Berichte,  IX, 5 (1965), p. 135.

12. Hyperion  (Cambridge: The Riverside Press, 1893), pp. 360-72; Andreas

Bernardus Smolnikar, Denkwiirdige Ereignisse im Leben des Andreas Ber-
nardus Smolnikar  (Cambridge: Folsom, Wells and Thurston, 1838); Proc¬
lamation of the True Union  (Donnely's Mill, Pa.: Perry Co., 1862);

The Great Encyclic Epistle  (Baltimore: S. S. Mills, 1865), etc. See

also "Bernard Smolnikar" in Alfonz Gspan, ed., Slovenski Biografski
Leksikon,  X (Ljubljana: Slovenska Akademija Znanosti in Umetnosti,

1967), pp. 392-96.

13. "Marko Anton Kapus" in Izidor Cankar, ed,, Slovenski Biografski Leksi¬
kon,  III (Ljubljana: Zadruzna Gospodarska Banka, 1928), pp. 426-27;

and Erik Kovacic, "Pater Kapus—prvi slovenski misijonar v Severni
Ameriki," Ave Maria Koledar 1970  (l/emont: Slovenski Franciskani,

1970), pp. 89-95.

14. Herbert E. Bolton, Rim of Christendom  (New York: Russell and Russell,

1960), p. 464.

212

IS.

Geschichte, Character, Sitten und Gebrauche der Nord-Amerikanischen
Indier  (Ljubljana: J. Klemmens, 1837); Abregk de I'histoire des Indiens
de I'Amerique septentrionale  (Paris: La Societe de Bon Livres, 1837);

and Popis navad in zadrzanja Indijanov polnocne Amerike  (Ljubljana: J.

Klemmens, 1937).

16. Mila Senk, "Stiri knjige Jozefa Grdine," Slovenski Izseljenski Kole¬
dar 1968  (Ljubljana: Slovenska Izseljenska Matica, 1968), pp. 247-49;

and "Jo£e Grdina 80-letnik," Ameriska Domovina,  3 March 1972, p. 2.

17. Andrej Kobal, Svetovni popotnik pripovedufe  (Gorica: Mohorjeva Druzba,

1975-76), 2 vo1s.

18. Klobuchar's books include: The Zest (and Best) of Klobuchar  (1967),

The Playbacks of Klobuchar  (1969), True Hearts and Purple Heads  (1970),
Will America Accept Love at Halftime?  (1972), Where the Wind Blobs
Bittersweet  (197S). More detailed information can be found in Slo¬
venian Research Center of America Archives  (SRCA Archives:  vVilloughby

Hills and Kent, Ohio). Each archive contains multiple data, such

as vitae,  bibliographies, clippings, copies, photographs, etc.

19. See footnote 4.

20. Henry A. Christian, Louis Adamic: A Checklist  (Kent: Kent State Uni¬

versity Press, 1971), p. xxvi.

21. Arnez, pp. 142-43; Ivan Prijatelj, Kulturna in politibrux zgodovina Slo-

vencev  (Ljubljana: Akademska Zalozba, 1838), 2 vols.; and Dr. Anton

Kacin, "Dr. Anton Mahnic" in Dr. Rudolf Klinec, ed., Zgodovina goriske
nadskofije  (Gorica: Mohorjeva Druzba, 1951), pp. 79-106,

22. Rudolph P. Cujes, Ninidjanissidog Saiagiinagog: Contributions of the

Slovenes to the Soaio-Cultural Development of the Canadian Indians
(Antigonish: St. Francis Xavier University Press, 1968), pp. 58-92.

23. Fortunat Zorman, "Pokojni p. Kazimir," Ave Maria Koledar 1959  (Lemont:
Slovenski Franciskani, 1959), pp. 128-31; and SRCA Archives.

24. Dr. Filip Zakelj, ed., Duhovne misli skofa dr. Gregorija Rozmana
(Celovec: Druzba sv. Mohorja, 1969); and SRCA Archives.

25. Cerkvena poezija: psalmi, slavospevi in^cerkvene hirme  (Celovec:

Druzba sv. Mohorja, 1952); trans. Albin Skrinjar, Jezus Kristus:
Premibljevanja,  I (Trst: Samozalozba, 1962), II, 1963.

26. Joann Birsa, Glory to God: A Collection of Slovenian Hymns in English

Translation  (Denver: Holy Rosary Church, 1971); Valentin Spendov,

O.F.M., Organ Music in Slovenia  (Rome: Pontificio Istituto di Musica

Sacra and Lemont: Ave Maria Press, 1973); and Alfred Fischinger,

"Va£en prispevek k cerkveni glasbi," Amerikanski Slovenec , 23 July
1975.

27. M.T., "P. Fortunat Zorman 60-letnik," Ameriska Domovina, 2  December
1974.

28. SRCA Archives.

29. Longfellow, pp. 360-72; John L. Zaplotnik, "Kako je Kamni&an snoval

komunski raj v Ameriki," Ave Maria Koledar 1947  (Lemont: Slovenski

Franciskani, 1947), pp. 115-27; and Dr. Janez Stanonik, "Andrej Ber¬
nard Smolnikar," Slovenski Izseljenski Koledar 1962  (Ljubljana: Slo¬

venska Izseljenska Matica, 1962), pp. 170-74.

30. Gspan, p. 395.

31. SRCA Archives.

32. J. M. Trunk, Amerika in Amerikanci  (Celovec: Samozalozba, 1912), pp.

544-605; Bernard Coleman and Verona LaBud, Masinaigans: The Little

Book  (St. Paul: North Central Publishing Co., 1972), pp. 281-303; P.

Bazilij, "Viharnik je omaiir.il," Misli,  November 1973, pp. 307-09;
Germain Marc' Hadour, "Reverendd" atque amando Patri Edwardo Surtz,

S.J., amici Thomae Mori s.p.d.," Moreana: Meliora,  4(1971), n.p.;

and SRCA Archives.

33. Coleman and LaBud, p. 303. In addition to numerous articles and essays,

Msgr. Zaplotnik authored two books: De vicariis foraneis  (Washington:

213

The Catholic University of America, 1927}; and Janez Cebulj: misijonar

V Ameriki  (Groblje: Misijonska Knjiznica, 1928). He also translated

various literary works from English into Slovenian.

34. One of Valentin's works, on "rural scenes in Slovenia," appeared in

Dr. Ferdinand Kolednik's French translation as Le petit Tonoek du
Potok: Scenes de la vie rurale en Slovenis  (Montreal and Paris:

Apostolat de Presse, 1961).

35. The Family of nations  (Huntington: Our Sunday Visitor, 1970); Human

Rights  (New Orleans: National Council for Catholic Laity, 1973); The

Right to Live  (St. Paul: College of St. Thomas, 1974); Christian

Values in Today's Society  (Cincinnati: Archidiocese of Cincinnati,

1975) and Research in the Church  (Washington: Catholic University of

America, 1975).

36. "Learning about America," The Cleveland Press,  5 May 1939; "Druzina
Ivana Zupana," Novi Svet,  June (1941), pp. 167-68; "Pred 20 leti je
umrl Jakob Debevec," Ameriska Domovina,  3 March 1972; "Zadnje slovo
Johna Jericha," Amerikanski Slovenec,  17 October 1973; and SRCA Ar¬
chives .

37. Zdravko Novak, "Slovenska zdomska knjiznica," Amerihka Domovina,  22
.larch 1971; Pavle Borstnik, "Pogreb pokojnega g. Zdravka Novaka,"
Amerihka Domovina,  8 December 1971; and ARCA Archives,

38. Dr. Tine Debeljak, "Panorama slovenskih leposlovnih ustvarjalcev v emi-

graciji," Zbornik Svobodne Slovenije 1955  (Buenos Aires: Svobodna

Slovenija, 1955), p. 231; Janez Sever, "Karel Mauser," a series of
articles published in Amerihka Domovina,  November 1952; "Karel Mauser
petdesetletnik," Glas Slovenske Kultume Akcije,  28 August 1968; and
SRCA Archives.

39. "Library Board Fetes Mrs. Prisland," The Sheboygan Press,  24 September
1963; Debeljak, pp. 231, 234-36; and SRCA Archives.

40. Jo£e Bajec, "Biografije," Slovenski Izseljenski Koledar 1967  (Ljublja¬
na: Slovenska Izseljenska Matica, 1967), pp. 308-21; "Frank Kerie,"

in Izidor Cankar, ed., Slovenski Biograf ski Leksikon,  III (Ljublja¬
na: Zadruzna Gospodarska Banka, 1928), p. 452; "Frank J. Kern," Slo¬

venski Biografski Leksikon,  III, p. 444; Theodore Andrica, "Slovenian
Poet Reared in U.S. Gains Fame," The Cleveland Press,  24 September
1929; and SRCA Archives.

41. "Janko N. Rogelj," Gspan, p. 121; Bajec, pp. 316-17; Debeljak, p. 235;

"Frank Mlakar," in William Coyle, ed., Ohio Authors and Their Books
(Cleveland: The World Publishing Co., 1962), p. 450; John M. Urban-

cich, "Success Comes Easy to Bob Debevec," The Euclid News Journal,

16 March 1972; "Journal Editor Selected," AAHS Newsletter,  May 1968;
"Books of Interest," The National Review,  27 August 1960, p. 121; and
SRCA Archives.

12. "Joze Ambrozic," Cas,  1923, p. 332; Debeljak, p. 236; Ludvik Potokar,
Zapiski  (Cleveland: Krog, 1951); Frank Cesen, "Odlomek iz zgodovine

St. Clair Avenije," Slovenski Izseljenski Koledar 1970,  pp. 307-08;
Louis Ule, "Cluster Analysis and the Authorship of Woodstock," Revue
(Organization internationale pour l'^tude des langues anciennes par
ordinateur), No. 1 (1976), pp. 1-34; and SRCA Archives.

43. Christian, pp. i-xlvii, 1-142; "Louis Adamic," in Stanley J. Kunitz

and Howard Haycraft, eds., Twentieth Century Authors  (New York: The

H. W. Wilson Co., 1942), pp. 4-5; and SRCA Archives.

44. Joza Mahnic, "Obdobje moderne," in Lino Legisa, ed., Zgodovina slo-

venskega slovstva,  V (Ljubljana: Slovenska Matica, 1964), pp. 292-

307; and Cvetko A. Kristan, "Etbin Kristan: borec za boljSo bodoinost

delovnega ljudstva," Prosveta,  17 September 1970.

45. Frank Zaitz, "Joze Zavertnik: njegovo zivljenje in delo," Amerihki

Druhinski Koledar 1950  (Chicago: Jugoslovanska Delavska Tiskovna

DruSba, 1930), pp. 149-61; Bajec, pp. 320-21; and SRCA Archives.

214

46. "Ivan Molek," in F. K. Lukman, ed., Slovenski Biografski Leksikon,  V

(Ljubljana: Zadruzna Gospodarska Banka, 1933), p. 149; and Cvetko A.

Kristan, "Ameri^ki slovenski knjizevnik Ivan Molek," Rodna Gruda,
September 1957, pp. 190-91.

47. Bajec, pp. 318-19; and SRCA Archives.

48. France Adamic, "France Magajna," Nasi Razgledi,  5 November 1971, p.

643; and I. S., "France Magajna: kmet in pisatelj," Rodna Gruda,

November 1971, p. 32.

49. Joze Bajec, "Bibliografija del Katke Zupancii," Slovenski Koledar 1974

(Ljubljana: Slovenska Izseljenska Matica, 1974), pp. 318-25.

50. JoXe Bajec, "Jubilej Ane Pracek-Krasne," Slovenski Izseljenski Koledar
1971,  pp. 206-07; and "Bibliografija Anne P. Krasne," Slovenski Koledar
1975,  pp. 270-77.

51. Ivan Molek, "Petdesetletnica slovenskega casnikarstva v Ameriki," Amer-
iski Druzinski Koledar 1941,  pp. 28-36; Joze Bajec, "Petinsedemdeset
let slovenskega Casnikarstva v ZDA," Slovenski Izseljenski Koledar
1967,  pp. 273-307; and SRCA Archives.

52. Correspondence by Ivan Zorman and Jontez, SRCA Archives.

53. Edward J. O'Brien, ed., The Best Short Stories  (Boston: Houghton

Mifflin Co., 1934), pp. 357, 362.

54. At the time of this writing, no library has a complete collection of
all Slovenian American literary works. Among the best existing collec¬
tions are those of the Slovenian National Library on St. Clair Avenue,
Cleveland, Ohio; Slovenian Research Center's Collection, Willoughby
Hills and Kent, Ohio; Franciscan Library, Lemont, 111.; the SNPJ Col¬
lection, Burr Ridge, 111.; the Library of Congress, Washington, D.C.;
and the National and University Libraries, Ljubljana, Slovenia.

55. Illustrative of this situation is the fact that several Slovenian
American authors appeared in prestigious French, German, Spanish, and
other collections or series, while some American papers, which faith¬
fully publicized ethnic card parties and foods, refused to mention the
literary and other accomplishments of members of the same local ethnic
groups, even when such accomplishments received national or interna¬
tional recognition. In this way, the image of ethnics as predominantly
or exclusively blue-collar, lower-class people has been perpetuated.

56. In Slovenia, as well as among Slovenian Americans, it would be diffi¬
cult to find a single occupation or profession whose members have not
attempted to write prose or poetry. Students of literature and of
sociology may eventually profit from a careful examination of these
materials, both published and unpublished.

57. See footnote 21 and SRCA Archives.

58. Christian, pp. 1-66; and SRCA Archives.

59. Trunk, pp. 545-46, 553, 556, 565; Coleman and LaBud, pp. 282, 285, 287,

290; Edward Gobec, Love Moves Mountains  (Bedford: The Home Press,

1960), p. 30; and Giles Edward Gobetz, "The Ethnic Ethics of Assimila¬
tion: Slovenian^View," Phylon: The Atlanta University Review of Race

and Culture,  XXVII, 3 (Fall 1966), p. 271.

60. SRCA Archives.

61. In addition to this anthology and a collection of Slovenian American
poetry, a detailed analysis of the role of the Slovenian ethnic writ¬
ers, poets, dramatists, and translators, based on survey data, book
reviews, and personal documents, will be published at a later date.

62. Our Catholic Heritage  (Huntington: Our Sunday Visitor, 1972), p. 149.

63. Cujes, pp. 58-96; and SRCA Archives.

64. Correspondence and copies in SRSA Archives.

65. Moreana: Meliora,  4 (1971). See also "Fr. Edward L. Surtz Dies," The

Cleveland Press,  20 January 1973.

66. Christian, pp. 70, 72.

215

67. Karel Mauser, Kaplan Klemens,  trans. Bernhardt Strauss and Gerold

Schmid (Luzern: Rex Verlag, 1955); El capellan,  trans. Jose I. Belloch

Zimmermann (Barcelona: Luis de Caralt, 1961), Col. Gigante-.  lo mas

selecto de la literatura universal; Yerne, le fils du d&funt,  trans.
Ferdinand Kolednik (Paris: La Pensee Universelle, 1974), etc.

68. "Books," rev. Time, 1  August 1950, p. 72. See also Coyle, p. 450;
Joseph Zelle, "Slovenian Colony Here Is Background for Novel," Cleve¬
land Hews , 19 July 1950; and Nelson Algren, rev. of He, the Father,

Hew York Times,  30 July 1950, p. 12. The author gratefully acknowl¬
edges valuable information on Mlakar which has been supplied by Viola
Mlakar, Helen Perusek, Rose Marie Prosen, and Edward Pekovnik, and
will be more fully utilized in future publications.

69. "Collar," in Jack Conroy and Curt Johnson, eds., Writers in Revolt: The

Anvil Anthology  (Westport: Lawrence Hill and Co., 1973), pp. 91-96.

70. Urbancich, p. 5; and SRCA Archives.

71. Mark, "Cleveland's Moon Shot," Variety,  11 December 1963; and SRCA
Archives.

72. Bob Seltzer, "Best Location Pays Off," The Cleveland Press,  12 July
1967; and SRCA Archives.

73. Gunnar Myrdal, An American Dilemma  (New York: Harper and Row, 1944),

pp. lxxi, 1-25.

74. Cujes, pp. 58-92; Nevins, p. 149; and Giles Edward Gobetz, Joze

Goricar, and Peter Jambrek, "Yugoslav Sociology," in Raj P. Mohan
and Don Martindale, eds., Handbook of Contemporary Developments in
World Sociology  (Westport and London: Greenwood Press, 1975), p. 281.

75. Brewton Berry, Race Relations: Interaction of Ethnic and Racial

Groups  (Boston: Houghton Mifflin Co., 1951), p. 13.

76. Hon. Richard Schweiker, "Implementation of Schweiker Ethnic Studies
Bill," Congressional Record,  Vol. 118, No. 155, 30 September 1972.

77. See footnote 35.

78. "Chemistry 1923: Presentation Speech by Professor 0. Hammersten,

Chairman of the Nobel Committee for Chemistry of the Royal Swedish
Academy of Science," in Hobel Lectures Including Presentation and
Laureates' Biographies: Chemistry, 1922-1941  (Amsterdam, London,

New York: Elsevier Publishing Company, 1966), p. 25; "Pregl, Fritz"

in Asimov's Biographical Encyclopedia of Science and Technology  (New
York: Doubleday and Company, 1972), p. 801; and Milena Gobetz, "This

Our Heritage: Frederic Pregl," Zarja — The Dawn,  December 1976, pp.

25, 32.

79. Wernher Von Braun and Frederick I. Ordway III, History of Rocketry

and Space Travel  (New York: Thomas Y. Crowell Company, 1969), p.

202. See also, "Slovenec nacrtoval vesoljsko postajo," Tedenska
Tribuna,  29 December 1966; and "Pozabljeno dejanje stoletja?" Vecer,

2 February 1972.

80. "A Sad Loss to Aviation," The Atlanta Journal, 29  November 1944.

See also SRCA Archives.

81. "John Bucik: Prototype Auto Designer and Builder" (unpublished

biography, 1975). See also Dan Jedlicka, "A Rolling Executive Suite,"
Chicago Sun-Times , 10 March 1974; "The Ex Has It All," The Wingfoot
Clan,  3 October 1974; and SRCA Archives.

82. "Alexander A. Papesh" (unpublished biography, n.d.); Dino Ianni,
"Cleveland Can Have a Domed Stadium Now," WKYC Radio Editorial,  26
January 1971; "Alexander A. Papesh," The Cleveland Press,  29 November
1971; and SRCA Archives.

83. Wolf Von Eckardt, "L'Enfant Plaza: A Triumph," The Washington Post,

16 November 1968. See also SRCA Archives.

84. "A Superstar is Born," Measure,  June 1972, pp. 6-7; "Peninsula Firms
Win Honors for New Products," Palo Alto Times, 20  September 1972;
William L. Crowley and France Rode, "A Pocket-Sized Answer Machine

216

for Business and Finance," Hewlett-Packard. Journal,  May 1973, pp.

2-9; and SRCA Archives.

85. Several surveys suggest that American textbooks present a principally

white, Protestant, Anglo-Saxon view of America's past and present and
"there is not a single textbook which presents a reasonably complete
and undistorted picture. ..."  See Committee on the Study of Teach¬
ing Materials in Intergroup Relations, Intergroup Relations in Teaching
Materials  (Washington, D.C.: American Council on Education, 1947);

Lloyd Marcus, The Treatment of Minorities in Secondary School Textbooks
(New York: Anti-Defamation League of B'nai B'rith, 1961); and Michael

B. Kane, Minorities in Textbooks  (Chicago: Quadrangle Books, 1970).

86. Oton Zupancic, "Forge Me on Thy Anvil," in Janko Lavrin and Anton

Slodnjak, eds., The Parnassus of a Small Ration  (Ljubljana: Drzavna

Zalozba Slovenije, 1965), p. 91.

Plowed fields, by Ted Kramolc

CONTRIBUTORS

Writers

LOUIS ADAMIC (1899-1951) was born in Blato, Slovenia, of
Slovenian peasant parentage and, after completing two years of
gymnasium in Ljubljana, came to America when he was ",not quite
15." An American citizen since 1918, he visited every state
in the Union and worked as a factory hand, miner, steel worker,
and journalist, before developing an impressive career as
writer, editor, and lecturer. In 1928, H. L, Mencken accepted
his first article for  The American Mercury* and his first book,
Dynamite* was published in 1931.  The Native's Return* pub¬
lished by Harper in 1934, transformed Adamic into a national
celebrity—a status which was reinforced by numerous other
books, including  My America (1938),  From Many Lands (1940),
Two-Way Passage (1941),  What's Your Name (1942),  My Native Land
(1943), and, especially,  A Nation of Nations (1945). Adamic,
who possessed the talents of a stimulating writer, social ana¬
lyst, and critic, has been widely considered as the leading
exponent of cultural pluralism in America. He served as gen¬
eral editor for "The Peoples of America Series, " published by
the J. B. Lippincott Company, which introduced him as "rising
high above his lettered colleagues as  the one to interpret with
his brilliant, sensitive mind the infinite nuances in America 's
polyglot voice." Siding with Tito's Yugoslavia against rival
Yugoslav groups and against Soviet pressures of the late 1940's,
Adamic died in 1951 under mysterious circumstances. His death
was officially declared as suicide, while careful researchers
suggest he was assassinated for political reasons.

DR. FRANK BUKVICH (BUKVld) was born in Slovenia and spent
a considerable part of the Second World War in Hungarian con¬
centration camps. After having received his doctorate in
political science from Graz University, Austria, he worked and
studied in the United States and was awarded a doctorate in
modern languages by New York University. A naturalized Ameri¬
can citizen and current chairman of the Department of Slavic

219

and Germania Languages at Fairfield University, Dr, Bukvioh has
authored numerous short stories, essays, and novelettes and is
best known for his psychologically penetrating novels,  Brez-
domci (The Homeless, 1948) and  Ljudje iz Olsnice (The People
from Olsnica, 1973). A member of several American and Slo¬
venian professional organizations, Professor Bukvioh is also
an associate of The Slovenian American Institute—The Slovenian
Research Center of America, Inc.

JIM DEBEVEC was born in 1938 in Cleveland, Ohio, of Slo¬
venian immigrant parents and attended St. Joseph High School
and John Carroll University. Like his father James and his
brother Robert, Jim has shown an early interest and talent in
writing. In 1971 he joined the Collinwood newspaper chain as
a free-lance writer and in 1972 he began writing a weekly
column in the  Euclid News Journal. An author of numerous
feature articles and short stories as well as an enthusiastic
photographer, Jim has recently served as editor of the  Rich¬
mond Heights Journal and of the Slovenian daily newspaper,
Ameriska Domovina.

DANIELA DOLENC, a native of Slovenia and now a natural¬
ized Canadian citizen, was put into a concentration camp by the
Nazis at the age of thirteen, while a high school student in
Maribor, Slovenia. "Survivors, " published in this anthology,
is the true story of her experiences as a young girl in the
Gestapo prison. She came to Canada with three children in
1958 to join her husband, Ivan Dolenc, Active in dramatics,
she has also been a contributor to the Canadian  Veterans
Review and the Slovenian American daily newspaper,  Prosveta.

She is employed as a receptionist at the Toronto University
Clinic.

IVAN DOLENC, like his wife Daniela, experienced the
horrors of the Nazi occupation of Slovenia until freed by the
American army in 1945, After the war, he studied Slavic lan¬
guages and literatures and comparative world literature at the
University of Ljubljana, Slovenia, and then became a profes¬
sional journalist, writing a cultural column for the Maribor
daily  Vecer and serving as an editor of the weekly magazine
7 dni and of the publishing house  Obzorja. He has edited
numerous volumes of children 's books and novels and also trans¬
lated novels from English and German into Slovenian. He came
to Canada in 1956, worked at many manual jobs, and received his
Master of Arts degree from the University of Toronto. He now
teaches modem languages and English literature in North York.
His articles and short stories have been published in a number
of ethnic newspapers  fProsveta, Glas Naroda, Ameriska Domovina,
and others) as well as in such "old country" magazines as

220

Dialogi and  Rodna Gruda. Since 1976 he has also been publisher
and editor of the  Slovene Canadian Diary-Dnevnik.

IVAN JONTEZ worked in Slovenia as a farm laborer and came
to America in 1929. Since his early youth, he has been in love
with Slovenian literature and has also familiarized himself
with the leading American, English, German, and Russian authors.
Having worked in a number of factories and offices, as well as
a salesman, journalist, and editor, Jontez has never tired of
observing and analyzing human behavior and of reading and
writing. He gained reputation as a novelist with such books
as  Senca preko pota (A Shadow across My Path, 1940),  Jutro
brez sonca (Morning without Sun, 1949), and  Trouble on East
Green Street (1956). He is also a poet and the author of
numerous short stories, essays, and dramatizations and writes
with equal facility in both Slovenian and English. In the
1940 's, he succeeded Etbin Kristan as editor of  Cankarjev
Glasnik —in all probability the best Slovenian American liter¬
ary magazine,

FRANK KERZE (1876-1961) belonged to the literary club
"Sloga" (Harmony) as a student in Slovenia and was influenced
by such leading Slovenian  literati as Ivan Cankar, Josip Mum
Aleksandrov, and Dragotin Kette. Thirsting, as he said, for
broader horizons, he came to American in 1904 and worked as a
journalist with  Glas Naroda, Glasilo SNPJ, and  Prosveta. He
also edited  Komar (The Mosquito, 1905-07), the first Slovenian
humorist paper in America,  Nas Gospodar (Our Economist, 1912-
14), and  £as (Time, 1915-28), a leading Slovenian American lit¬
erary and educational monthly magazine , Most of Kerze 's poems,
short stories, novelettes, and novels were published, often
serially, in various Slovenian American periodicals, especially
in  £as. He was particularly strong as an educational writer
and essayist. He was also very active in Slovenian cultural,
economic, and political affairs. His son, Frank Kerze, Jr.,
has been employed in various executive positions with the U.S.
Atomic Energy Commission.

TED KRAMOLC was born in 1922 at St, Vid near Ljubljana,
Slovenia, as the son of Professor Luka Kramolc, a noted col¬
lector ccnd arranger of Slovenian folk songs, and of Maria
Kramolc, a teacher. While a student of architecture at the
University of Ljubljana, he also studied painting and drawing
in the studios of such leading Slovenian artists as Matej
Sternen, Bozidar Jakac, and France Gorse. After his immigra¬
tion to Canada in 1948, he worked as a railroad section hand.

He graduated with honors from Ontario College of Art and now
lives with his family in Toronto, Canada. His short stories
were published in  Jutro, Nasa Volja, Koroska Kronika., and
Koroski Fuzinar in Slovenia and in such ethnic publications as

221

Meddobje and  Zbornik Svobodne Slovenije in Argentina, and
AmeriSka Domovina in the United States. A bilingual writer
and poet, Kramolc is also and primarily a painter. He has
exhibited in Canada, Europe, and South America, as well as in
the United States. His works are to be found in numerous
prestigious collections, including the Government of Slovenia
Palace, Art Gallery of Sarnia, Art Gallery of Ontario, National
Gallery of Canada, and Douglas Duncan Collection. He is listed
in several leading reference works, including  Who's Who in
American Art and  International Directory of Arts.

ANNA KRASNA hails from Vipavsko, Slovenia, and came to
America in 1920, where she lived first in small Pennsylvania
mining towns, then in Chicago, and, for some three decades, in
New York. She started writing poems while a grade-school pupil
in Slovenia and soon became known among Slovenian Americans for
her poems, short stories, essays, and articles which were pub¬
lished in  Prosveta, Proletarec, Mladinski List, Ameriski Druz-
inski Koledar, Cankarjev Glasnik, Enakopravnost, and  Glas
Naroda. Her collection of poems,  Za lepse dni (For a Better
Future, 1950), is of literary as well as of sociological inter¬
est. Always active in Slovenian and American cultural and edu¬
cational affairs, Mrs. Krasna worked as a journalist and was
editor of  Glas Naroda, a New York-based Slovenian newspaper
published daily and, later, three times a week. She and her
sick husband, Adolph, returned to Slovenia in 1972. Now a
widow, Mrs. Krasna continues to write a column for  Prosveta,
a Chicago-based Slovenian daily newspaper.

ETBIN KRISTAN (1867-1953) developed a considerable repu¬
tation as a socialist writer, poet, arid labor-movement organ¬
izer in Slovenia and Austria before his immigration to America
in 1912. In the New World, he soon became the leading Slo¬
venian socialist writer, poet, and dramatist who influenced a
generation of literary and political followers. He served as
Yugoslav Immigration Commissioner in New York until 1927 and
was editor of several socialist or progressive publications,
including  Ameriski Druzinski Koledar, Proletarec, and  Cankarjev
Glasnik. He published several collections of poems, short
stories, and novels, and over a dozen powerful dramas, in Slo¬
venian, and a book of short stories and essays,  Skizzen
(Sketches, Vienna, 1902), in German. He was also a prolific
speaker and organizer who visited over seven hundred Slovenian
communities throughout the United States. Often characterized
as the greatest Slovenian New Dealer before the New Deal,
Kristan died in Slovenia at the age of 87. His widow, Mrs.
Frances Kristan, lives in Michigan and is a member of The Slo¬
venian American Institute—The Slovenian Research Center of
America, Inc.

K


222

KAREL MAUSER (1918-1977), who acme to America in 1950,
has generally been considered, the most influential contemporary
Slovenian American Catholic writer. A former seminarian, he
supported his family as a worker at the Cleveland Twist Drill
Company while writing at night and on weekends. He wrote over
twenty highly popular novels, many of them based on peasant
life in Slovenia, several dramatizations, and a large number of
short stories. His trilogy,  Ljudje pod bi£em (Men under the
Whip, 1963-66), which describes the suffering of Slovenians
during the Hazi-Fascist occupation and communist revolution of
the Second World War, has often been considered his  magnum
opus. His  Chaplain Clemens, first published in Slovenian
("Kaplan Klemen, 1965), appeared in German and Spanish transla¬
tions, the latter in the collection  Gigante, among the "giants
of world literature. " One of his books was also published in
Dr. Ferdinand Kolednik's French translation as  Yerne, le fils
du defunt (Paris: La Pensee Universelle, 1974), Mauser's

short stories, poems, and occasional ideological-political
articles and essays were published in a number of Slovenian
ethnic publications y  including  Amerikanski Slovenec, Ave Maria,
and  Ameri^ka Domovina in the United States , Bo£ja Beseda in
Canada y  Meddobje and.  Zbornik Svobodne Slovenije in Argentina,
Koro^ka Kronika and  Na£a Luc in Austria, and  Misli in Aus¬
tralia.

FRANK MLAKAR (1913-1967) was born of Slovenian immigrant
parents in Cleveland, Ohio, and won his first literary prizes
as a student at the Collinwood High School where he was active
in dramatics and poetry. At the height of the Depression he
moved to New York and after a number of gobs became the secre¬
tary of Louis Adamic, who encouraged him to write. Later he
became assistant editor of  Common Ground, published and edited
by Louis Adamic. In addition to poems, dramas, and short
stories, Mlakar wrote a novel,  He, the Father (Harper, 1950),
which received nationwide publicity and was described as a
"powerful, Dostoevskian story" by  Time magazine. In 1942, he
married an Australian schoolteacher and in 1953 moved to Aus¬
tralia to manage her family's retail business. The couple had
two daughters, the older of whom, known as Christina Malakar,
became Victorian and Australian National Junior Champion and
was cited in the Melbourne  Sun of November 9, 1967, as "the
fastest junior in Australia." Frank Mlakar died in Australia
from stroke at the age of 54, just after completion of his
drama, "Francie, " on which he had worked the last eighteen
months of his life.

JOHN MODIC, a second-generation Slovenian American born
in Cleveland, Ohio, is a professor of English literature and
linguistics at Indiana-Purdue University at Fort Wayne, Indi¬
ana. Dr. Modic's short stories, poetry, articles, and trans-

223

lotions have appeared in journals as widely different as  Com¬
parative Literature and  Kiwanis Magazine. He has also contrib¬
uted to the new  Encyclopedia of World Literature in the Twenti¬
eth Century, Ball State Forum, Windless Orchard, Family Circle,
Skyline, and to other periodicals. He has written and lectured
on Gascoigne, Ariosto, James Joyce, Thornton Wilder, Thomas
Wolfe, Stanley Elkin, C. P. Snow, Ivan Lah, and Louis Adamic.
Past president of the American Federation of Teachers at his
university, he is also very active in various professional
organizations,

IVAN MOLEK (1882-1962) was born in Slovenia and came to
America at the age of eighteen. He worked as a foundry laborer
and miner and since 1905 as journalist and editor of a number
of Slovenian papers  (Glasnik, Glas Svobode, Proletarec, and
ProsvetaJ. Socialist in orientation, he was a prolific writer
of short stories, dramatic works, essays, and articles as well
as a translator and, with less success, poet. His most impres¬
sive books are  Dva svetova (Two Worlds, 1932),  Veliko mravljisce
(The Huge Anthill, 1934), and  Sesuti stolp (The Tower That Col¬
lapsed, 1935). Upton Sinclair's  Jimmie Higgins is his best-
known translation into Slovenian (1921). His widow, Mrs, Mary
Jug-Molek, has recently published a comprehensive annotated
bibliography of his works, with English translation of the
titles and a valuable introduction.

JOHN P. NIELSEN was born the son of the Slovenian immi¬
grant family Sesek in Cleveland, Ohio, in 1911. He obtained
his Ph.D. from Yale University in 1947 and after experiencing
employment discrimination against his Slovenian surname, he
reluctantly changed it to Nielsen. Taking with him an unending
interest in his Slovenian roots, Dr. Nielsen moved to New York
where he served as professor of metallurgy and department chair¬
man at New York University for twenty-nine years. He is now
professor emeritus at Polytechnic Institute of New York and
professor of dental materials science at the Dental School of
New York University. Founder of the International Precious
Metals Institute, Dr. Nielsen is also past president of the
Metal Science Club of New York and of Alpha Sigma Mu, the
National Metallurgical Honorary Society. Originator of the
Shell-Nielsen shear test for porcelain-metal interfaces and an
inventor with a number of patents on gold alloys, he has pub¬
lished several new theories on the behavior of metals on anneal¬
ing and was for nineteen years editor of  Metallurgy/Education
Yearbook. As president of the Sniffen Court Association, he
was responsible for attaining national landmark status for
Sniffen Court, a small exclusive community in the heart of New
York where he owned a house. Dr. Nielsen, who was selected
head of the first delegation of American technical men to visit
the Soviet Union, reads several languages, including Slovenian,

224

and has published in American and Slovenian periodicals a num¬
ber of short stories and articles on his travels, his ethnic
background, and his personal experiences, A recipient of num¬
erous scientific and civic awards and honors, Dr. Nielsen is
also a trustee of The Slovenian American Institute—The Slo¬
venian Research Center of America, Inc.

ZDRAVKO NOVAK (1909-1971) was born in Slovenia where he
was active in various Catholic-oriented organizations prior to
his immigration to America in 1949, A leading member of the
post-World War II political immigrants and a historian of the
communist revolution in Slovenia and of the recent Slovenian
political immigration in America, Novak authored over two
hundred short stories and articles, three dramatizations, and
two major books,  Pota boija (God's Ways, 1957) and  Utrinki
(Fragments, 1959). He established an impressive collection of
publications authored or published by the "new immigrants" of
Slovenian descent, which he willed to the Slovenian College,
Slovenicum* in Rome, Italy. Many of his literary and histori¬
cal contributions were published in  Tabor, Zbornik Svobodne
Slovenije, Ameri^ka Domovina, Amerikanski Slovenec, and other
Slovenian ethnic publications. While in America, he was also
active in "Tabor," "Lilija,” the Slovenian School at St. Mary’s
Parish in Collinwood, and in other religious and cultural Slo¬
venian ethnic organizations in Cleveland, Ohio. "A Patch of
Earth" expresses his longing for his native land at a time when
he was already incurably sick from cancer.

MARIE PRISLAND arrived in America in 1906 as a young girl
and started working at six cents an hour while attending evening
classes after work. Too poor to become a schoolteacher, she
developed a remarkable career as a leader and teacher of Slo¬
venian American women. In 1926 she became the founder and then
served for over twenty years as president of the Slovenian
Women's Union of America; in 1929 she initiated  Zarja-The Dawn
magazine for which in 1977 she still writes an interesting
monthly column in English and Slovenian. She has written hun¬
dreds of articles for  Zarja* Amerikanski Slovenec* and other
magazines and papers, including the  Wisconsin Magazine of His¬
tory; edited  Woman's Glory—the Kitchen (1963); has written the
history of the Slovenian Women 's Union; and authored a book of
recollections,  From Slovenia to America (1968). Active in
numerous Slovenian and American civic, educational, charitable,
and cultural affairs, Mrs. Prisland has received several
honors and awards, including the Order of St. Sava from the
Yugoslav government in 1938, and in 1946 an American Red Cross
Citation signed by President Truman. Now in her eighties and
very active in scholarship drives for American Slovenian and
Carinthian Slovenian minority students, Mrs. Prisland is also

225

a trustee and senior associate of The Slovenian American Insti¬
tute—The Slovenian Research Center of America, Inc.

ROSE MARI PROSEN was horn of Slovenian immigrant parents
in Cleveland, Ohio, where she is currently professor of English
at Cuyahoga Community College. Her poems have been published
in  Poetry Venture, California Quarterly, Free Lance, Carroll
Quarterly, College English, Epos, Everyman, Green Apple, New
Review, Italian-Americana, Spirit, Tangent, and  The Little
Review as well as in  Poetry: Cleveland (1971),  Four Poets

(1974), and  Cleveland Anthology (1975). She also has to her
credit two independent collections,  Poems (1971) and  0 the
Ravages (1977). She won third prize in the Cleveland State
University Poetry Forum Competition, and her reminiscences,
"Looking Back," reprinted by permission in this anthology, took
first place in Dr. Michael Novak 's "Growing Up Slavic in Amer¬
ica EMPAC Competition." Ms. Prosen has also authored articles
in  College English and the  Illinois Schools Journal.

JANKO ROGELJ (1895-1974) came to America in 1915, studied
at Dubuque College in Iowa, and settled as an insurance repre¬
sentative in Cleveland, Ohio, where he became active in Slo¬
venian fraternal and cultural organizations. Re was the first
editor of  Enakopravnost (Equality, 1918) and for many years
president of the Slovenian National Rome and of the Slovenian
National Library on St. Clair Avenue in Cleveland. He wrote
numerous historical, literary, and educational articles, a
history of the Slovenian National Rome on St. Clair, and three
collections of short stories and poems:  Kruh in srce (My Bread

and My Heart, 1962),  Skrivnostni klic (A Mysterious Call,

1967), and  Svoji k svojim (For Our People's Sake, 1973). A
longtime close friend and collaborator of the late Louis Adamic,
Rogelj was also an active associate of The Slovenian American
Institute—The Slovenian Research Center of America, Inc. Re
spent the last years of retirement in his native village of
Primskovo, near Kranj, in Slovenia where he died in 1974 while
working on a book of  memoirs.

SISTER LAVOSLAVA TURK was bom in Celje and completed
Teachers College in Ljubljana, Slovenia. She arrived in Amer¬
ica in 1921 and taught a generation of Slovenian American chil¬
dren in various Slovenian ethnic parochial schools in Kansas
and Wisconsin, After a loss of hearing forced her out of the
classroom, she began writing for various Slovenian American
magazines and newspapers, especially for  Ave Maria, Ameriska
Domovina, and  Amerikanski Slovenec. Her first book,  Pesem
solske sestre (The Song of a School Sister) was published in
1974, and two additional books are expected on the market in
the near future,  As a senior associate of The Slovenian

226

American Institute—The Slovenian Research Center of America,
Inc., Sister M. Lavoslava Turk has also collected many valuable
historical materials on Slovenians in America. Now in her
eighties, she remains very active as writer, columnist, and a
SRCA research associate.

KAZIMIR ZAKRAJSEK, O.F.M. (1878-1958) came to America in
1906 and became editor of several Slovenian American Catholic
periodicals:  Sloga (Harmony),  Edinost (Unity),  Glasnik Pres-

vetega Srca Jezusovega (The Sacred Heart of Jesus Messenger),
Ave Maria magazine, and  Ave Maria Koledar (Ave Maria Almanac).
He also edited  Sveta Rodina (Holy Family) and  Listy sv.
Franti^ka (St. Francis Messenger) in Slovak and  St. Francis
Magazine in English. A member and officer of the Gallery of
Living Catholic Authors, Father Zakrajsek also authored numer¬
ous books, among them:  Abecednik za ameri^ke Slovence (Guide¬

lines for American Slovenians, 1917),  Pri kapelici (At the
Chapel, 1918),  Spominska knjiga zupnije sv. Stefana (Souvenir
Book of St. Stephen's Parish, 1923),  Molitvenik za ameri^ke
Slovence (Prayer Book for American Slovenians, 1925); dramas,
Prisegam (I Swear, 1932), Za  sreco v nesre&o (Unhappy Search
for Happiness, 1932); and a book of  memoirs, Ko smo sli skozi
morje bridkosti (As We Went through a Sea of Sorrows, 1941).

A towering figure among Slovenian Catholics in America, Father
Zakrajsek was also the founder of the Holy Cross Commissariat
of Franciscan Fathers (1912), and of the Franciscan Monastery
and of Mary—Help of Christians Shrine (1923) at Lemont, Illi¬
nois, a leading Slovenian pilgrimage in America.

STANLEY ZUPAN, son of the Slovenian American immigrant
poet Ivan Zupan, served as editor of  Glasilo KSKJ, of  Marquette
News, and of  Skyline, the literary quarterly of Cleveland Col¬
lege. He retired in 1976 from his thirty-year banking career
as manager and assistant vice president of St. Clair Savings
in Cleveland, Ohio. An award-winning writer of short stories
and author of many articles and essays, Zupan is additionally
a past president of the Wickliffe Rotary Club and a member of
the Wickliffe Civil Service Commission, the Wickliffe Citizens
Advisory Council, the Wickliffe Chamber of Commerce, and the
St. Clair Business Association. A graduate of Western Reserve
University and the Cleveland Advertising Club School, and well-
known for his leadership in Slovenian and American cultural and
civic affairs, Zupan has also served as a trustee of The Slo¬
venian American Institute—The Slovenian Research Center of
America, Inc.

KATKA ZUPANCIC (1889-'1967), together with Anna Krasna, is
considered the leading Slovenian American progressive woman
writer and poet. She was born in Bela Krajina, Slovenia, grad¬
uated from Teachers College in Gorica, and served for ten years

227

as a teacher in her native land before emigrating to America
in 1923, A partial bibliography of her works compiled by
Joseph Bajec of Ljubljana shows 305 poems, five dramas, 137
short stories and articles, and seven translations. Her best-
known work,  Slike iz vsakdanjega zivljenja (Impressions from
Everyday Life), was published by Prosvetna Matica of Chicago
in 1946. Katka wrote for a large number of Slovenian American
magazines, almanacs, and newspapers and was a leading contrib¬
utor to  Mladinski List (The Voice of Youth). She was married
to Jacob Zupan, also an immigrant from Slovenia, a writer, and
a post office executive who contributed many ideas for the
improvement of postal services, including the original idea and
design for the extension "snorkels" on mailboxes which now
allow ■ America's motorists to deposit letters without leaving
their cars. Katka and her husband were active in numerous
Slovenian fraternal, cultural, and educational organizations.

Artists*

LILLIAN BRULC, bom of Slovenian immigrant parents in
Joliet, Illinois, is a painter, printmaker, and sculptor. She
holds Master of Fine Arts degrees from both the School of the
Art Institute of Chicago and the University of Chicago and has
also studied in Europe under a foreign travel fellowship. She
has done major works in architectural environments, including
murals and sculptures at the Archdiocesan Latin American Com¬
mittee in Chicago and at the Panama Mission in San Miguelito,
Panama. Her paintings and prints have been exhibited at the
Art Institute of Chicago and at several galleries, colleges,
and seminaries. She has taught at a number of colleges, the
School of the Art Institute of Chicago, and the Divine Word
Seminary at Techny, Illinois, and is currently on the faculty
of the Chicago Academy of Fine Arts. A member of many pro¬
fessional organizations as well as of the Art and Exhibits Com¬
mittee of The Slovenian American Institute—The Slovenian
Research Center of America, Inc., Miss Brule has recently com¬
pleted a series of drawings and illustrations for book publica¬
tion and is presently working on new figure sculptures.

NANCY BUKOVNIK is the granddaughter of Toni Kmet, who
was immortalized by Louis Adamic as "The Old Alien by the
Kitchen Window," and the daughter of Antoinette, nee Kmet, and
the late John Bukovnik, a popular Slovenian immigrant photogra-

*With the exception of Bozidar Jakac, who lives in Slovenia but
spent some time in America, and of Lillian Brule, Nancy Bukovnik, Steven
Rebeck, and John Kapel, who were born in America of Slovenian parentage,
all artists represented in this volume are Slovenian immigrants who
created a large portion of their art works in America, Canada, or Aus¬
tralia. The biographical sketch of Ted Kramolc appears among the writers.

228

pher. She graduated with honors from Monticello College in
Godfrey, Illinois, where she was art editor of the  Monticello
Times and from the Cleveland Institute of Art where she was one
of the finalists for the Gund Award. A self-employed artist
commissioned by individuals as well as by major American cor¬
porations throughout the nation, she has illustrated numerous
publications, ranging from the  Campus Personal Directory for
Ohio Bell to children's books and school texts. She has done
commercial art, is particularly fond of fairy tales and ani¬
mals, and has also created beautiful landscapes and portraits.
Miss Bukovnik has received numerous prizes and awards, includ¬
ing the Gold Medal Award from the Cleveland Society of Communi¬
cating Arts, CA Magazine Award of Excellence, and an Award of
Distinction for outstanding achievement in the field of graphic
communications presented at the Chicago 1 Exhibit in 1961. She
lives in Gates Mills, Ohio, and is a member of the Art and
Exhibits Committee of The Slovenian American Institute—The
Slovenian Research Center of America, Inc.

FRANCE GORSE was born in 1897 in Zahomec, Slovenia. Re
studied art at Zagreb Academy of Fine Arts under the famous
sculptor, Ivan Mestrovic. He opened his own studio and art
school in Ljubljana in the early 1930 's and taught art in Trst
(Trieste) between 1945 and 1952. Arriving in Cleveland, Ohio,
in 1952, he became an American citizen in 1957, Gorse spent
eighteen very creative years in Cleveland and New York where
he organized an art school and the Slovenian art club, "Lok,"
before returning to Europe to open his own art gallery at Svece
in Slovenian Carinthia, Austria. His powerful art has been
exhibited and acclaimed in many countries, including Yugoslavia,
Austria, Italy, Denmark, Argentina, Canada, and the United
States. His sculptures are preserved in churches in all parts
of America (notably in the National Shrine of Immaculate Con¬
ception in Washington, D.C.), Canada, and Europe as well as in
American and European museums, art galleries, and private col¬
lections. Considered one of the great contemporary sculptors
and painters, he was the subject of a special monograph,
Sculptor France Gorse^ compiled by John Arnez and Rudy Vecerin
and published in 1971 by Studia Slovenica, and of a film pro¬
duced by Anthony Zrnec of Toronto, Canada, in 1976. Gorse,
now in his early eighties, is still active—and ceaselessly
innovative—executing major orders in Slovenia, Austria, Cana¬
da, and the United States.

BOZIDAR JAKAC was born in 1899 in Novo Mesto, Slovenia,
studied at the Academy of Arts in Prague, Czechoslovakia, and
has become known as one of Slovenia's leading graphic artists.
He is the only artist represented in this  Anthology who is
neither an immigrant nor a descendant of Slovenian immigrants.
He has, however, repeatedly toured America and other countries

229

and 'portrayed so many Slovenian immigrants in America (some of
whom appear as authors in this book) and elsewhere that he must
be acknowledged an ethnic painter par excellence, Jakaa has
been awarded numerous prizes and honors in his native Slovenia
and Yugoslavia as well as in America (including two awards from
the Cleveland Museum of Art), in France, and in Switzerland.

He is one of the representatives of the world-famous Slovenian
school of graphic artists whose reputation has made Ljubljana,
Slovenia, a permanent host of the International Exhbitions of
Graphic Art.

JOHN A, KAPEL was born in 1922 in Cleveland, Ohio, the son
of Slovenian immigrant parents, Ivan and Ivanka Kapel, both of
whom have been very active in Slovenian fraternal, cultural,
and educational affairs. A graduate of Ohio Wesleyan Univer¬
sity, he studied art at the Yugoslav Art School in Cleveland
under the direction of H, Gregory Prusheck (Perusek), at Prague
University in Czechoslovakia, and at Cranbrook Academy of Art
in Bloomfield Hills, Michigan. The Second World War found him
in the Navy at Pearl Harbor, then in Guam and Germany. After
employment with Halle's and Swedish Modern, Inc., he went to
California in 1954 where he has become widely known as one of
America's leading independent industrial designers. He con¬
tinues to be active also in other forms of art, including
painting and sculpturing. John has four sisters and a brother
who, like their parents, are very active in Slovenian ethnic
affairs, particularly the Slovene National Benefit Society, the
SNPJ Recreation Farm, Jadran and Circle No. 3 singing societies,
and The Slovenian American Institute—The Slovenian Research
Center of America, Inc. John's wife, Priscilla Todd-Kapel, is
a well-known American sculptress in her own right. Related to
President Lincoln 's wife, she comes from a leading American
family but enjoys preparing favorite Slovenian foods and has
learned to speak Slovenian fluently.

H. GREGORY PRUSHECK (PERUSEK) was born at Jelovea, near
Sodrazica, in Slovenia in 1887 and came to America in 1906.  4s
a young man, he travelled so widely throughout the United
States and Mexico that he was nicknamed by many American sources
the "vagabond artist" who enjoyed presenting exhibitions "for
the masses. " After the First World War he settled in Chicago,
Illinois, and in 1931 he moved to Cleveland, Ohio, where he
established the Yugoslav Art School and served as its director
until 1940. Undaunted by periods of extreme poverty, Prusheck
was an exceptionally resourceful and creative artist whose art
underwent gradual transformation from naturalism to abstract
symbolism and expressionism. He exhibited widely throughout
America as well as in France and Yugoslavia and won numerous
awards, including the Jenkins Prize and the Carr Prize. He is
listed in several prestigious reference sources, among them

230

Art of Today (1932),  Who's Who in American Art (1940), and
Dictionnaire critique et documentaire des peintres, sculpteurs,
dessinateurs et graveurs (Critical and Documentary Dictionary
of Painters, Sculptors, designers, and Engravers, 1954). Pru-
sheck, who was frequently described by American critics as "the
best of the modernistic painters of Chicago" in the 1920 's,
died in Cleveland, Ohio, in 1940. His daughter, Mrs. Marian
Brandon, inherited her father's talent for painting and is a
member of the Art and Exhibits Committee of The Slovenian Amer¬
ican Institute—The Slovenian Research Center of America, Inc.

STANISLAUS RAPOTEC was born in 1911 of Slovenian parents
in Trst (Trieste), grew up in Ljubljana, Slovenia, and studied
economics and the history of art at the University of Zagreb in
Croatia, Yugoslavia. Put in charge of secret Allied missions
in Yugoslavia and the Middle East during the Second World War,
Rapotec later studied art in Vienna and other cities and
migrated to Australia in 1948. "He paints as he has lived:
richly, strongly, without hesitancy," writes Australian art
critic William Olson in the  Sidney Daily Mirror of March 3,

1961. Rapotec has exhibited in several Australian art galler¬
ies and museums and has become nationally known as one of the
best abstract painters of Australia. Described as "a big man,

6 foot 2, but too gentle to kill a rat which invaded his
studio," Rapotec won the Blake Prize, one of Australia 's most
coveted awards, in 1961, for his  Meditating on Good Fridayj an
entirely non-figurative painting. He is listed in a number of
prestigious sources, including  The Modern Encyclopedia of Aus¬
tralia and New Zealand (1964). An article about Rapotec which
describes him as being "of immense significance for the develop¬
ment of art in Australia" was translated in 1971 from English
into Slovenian by his Slovenian immigrant friend, Misha (or in
Slovenian Misa) Lajovic, who in 1975 became the first immigrant
and the first non-Anglo Saxon politician in the history of Aus¬
tralia to be elected to its Senate.

STEVEN A. REBECK was born in 1891 in Cleveland, Ohio, the
son of Slovenian immigrant parents and was in 1912 the first
sculptor to graduate from the old Cleveland School of Art. Up
to his mid-eighties, he has earned a livelihood creating por¬
trait plaques of famous politicians, actors, industrialists,
and other notables as well as sculpturing statuary, cupids,
gargoyles, and medals. His portrait plaques include President
John F. Kennedy, Dr. Martin Luther King, Ernie Pyle, the famed
war correspondent, and the composer of musical comedies, Cole
Porter, His sculptures include a bust of Shakespeare in the
Cleveland Cultural Garden, the War Memorial in Alliance, Ohio,
the stations of the cross and other religious works in several
Catholic churches, and a sphinx twelve feet high and twenty
feet long sculptured for the Masonic Temple of St. Louis,

231

Missouri. As you daily see Mack trucks on the highway, you may
recall that the bulldog symbols for the Maok Truoks Corporation
were made by Rebeok and that the executive vice president of
this giant firm is Frank Pryatel, also the son of Slovenian
immigrants. Rebeck has won numerous awards, including a first
prize at a Cleveland Museum of Arts May Show , and is listed in
a number of leading American and European reference works on
ant.

STANKO TUSEK was born in Hrastnik, Slovenia, in 19S9 and
migrated with his parents to Melbourne, Australia, in 1950.

One year later, he won third place in a state-wide poster com¬
petition among schools. In 1957 he received the Senior Year
University High School Art Award and also served as art editor
of his school magazine. During the same year, he also won
first place in the under-18 section of the Sun Youth Art Show
so highly praised by both Australian Premier Bolte and the
Minister of Education, Mr. Bloomfield, as reported in the
Melbourne daily  Sun of August 30, 1957 (graciously sent to the
senior editor of this  Anthology by Rev. Basil Valentin). Tusek
graduated from Melbourne Teacher's College and in 1966 received
his Diploma of Fine Art in Sculpture at the Royal Melbourne
Institute of Technology. He served as head of art departments
in various Australian high schools and participated in several
exhibits, including a travelling exhibition of the Rational
Gallery and Council of Adult Education and Print Council of
Australia Exhibition in 1967 and the Twenty-Four Point Plug Show
at the Argus Gallery in Melbourne, and a Print Council of Aus¬
tralia Exhibit at the University of Tasmania in 1968. In 1970
Tusek moved to Toronto, Canada, where he was appointed head of
the Art Department at Runnymede Collegiate Institute.

MILAN VOJSK was born in 1922 in Beltinci, Slovenia, and
studied sculpture at the Academy of Art in Munich, Germany,
where he was awarded second prize in a student competition, and
at the Academy of Fine Arts in Ljubljana, Slovenia, from which
he graduated in 1947. He sculptured several monuments, por¬
traits, and figural compositions in Maribor, Slovenia, prior to
his emigration to Sydney, Australia, in 1957. His works of
sculpture are represented in the National Art Gallery in Maribor
and the National Museum in Ljubljana, Slovenia; the National
Museum in Belgrade, Yugoslavia; the National Art Gallery — Ade¬
laide in Australia; the Reserve Bank of Australia; and in numer¬
ous other public and private collections. He has created murals
for some of the leading hotels in Sydney and for Kensington Uni¬
versity and was commissioned for a number of "city" sculptures,
including a Fountain with Sculpture (a ten-foot sitting nude)
erected in the Legal Precinct, London Circuit, in Canberra, the
capital of Australia. First brought to the attention of the
senior editor of this  Anthology by D. S. Lajovic, the Slovenian

232

immigrant president of Impact International Pty., Ltd., and the
recipient of the Australian Export Award in 1367, Vojsk is
listed in several prestigious works, including  Australian Ency¬
clopedia Yearbook (1965) and Longman's  Religious Art of Aus¬
tralia (1967).

Translators

JOSEPH F. KESS is presently an associate professor of
linguistics at the University of Victoria, British Columbia,
Canada. He was born of Slovenian immigrant parents in Cleve¬
land, Ohio, in 1942 and received his Bachelor of Science degree
cum laude from Georgetown University in Washington, D.C., and
his M.A. and Ph.D. degrees from the University of Hawaii in
Honolulu. He has studied in the Philippines, Japan and Yugo¬
slavia and has carried out research on a variety of language
structures. He was lecturer in Tagalog at the University of
Hawaii and language coordinator for the Peace Corps Philippine
Project at Hilo, Hawaii. A recipient of several honors, awards,
and fellowships, Dr. Kess authored over twenty scholarly arti¬
cles and a college textbook,  Psycholinguistics: Introductory

Perspectives (Academic Press, 1976). His parents, active in
Slovenian ethnic affairs, conscientiously helped him master
both Slovenian and English in his preschool years. Today Pro¬
fessor Kess knows, in addition to these, Spanish, French,
Croatian, Russian, Latin, Japanese, Haida, and Tagalog. A
loyal American who is at the same time deeply interested in
his Slovenian heritage, Dr. Kess is a member of the Editorial
and Education Committees of The Slovenian American Institute —
The Slovenian Research Center of America, Inc.

EDWARD KRASOVICH was born in Eaton, Colorado, a farming
community where his Slovenian immigrant parents worked on a
beet-tending contract. After completing his college studies,
he taught Latin, English, and Spanish for five years, worked
for the traffic department of the Colorado Milling and Elevator
Company fourteen years, and was an officer, including supreme
secretary and editor, of the Western Slavonic Association for
sixteen years. Since 1971 he has been in the motel business in
Wyoming where he was elected secretary-treasurer of the Wyoming
Motel Association in 1972. A man of quiet leadership, integ¬
rity, and hard work, he has held numerous other offices, in¬
cluding that of president of the Cody Kiwanis Club, deputy
grand knight of the Knights of Columbus Council, and president
of the Wyoming Catholic Laymen's Retreat Association. A past
editor of  Fraternal Voice and a columnist of  Colorado weekly,
Krasoviah has also translated Slovenian poems and prose into
English and has served for many years as a hard-working

233

volunteer research associate and a member of the Editorial Com¬
mittee of The Slovenian American Institute—The Slovenian
Research Center of America, Inc,

MARY MOLEK was born of Slovenian immigrant parents, Frank
and Lucy Jug, in Chicopee, Kansas; graduated from Kansas State
College in Pittsburg, Kansas; and taught high school before
moving to Chicago where she met Ivan Molek, whom she married in
1934, Subsequently she took graduate work at the University of
Chicago, earning an M.A, degree and being admitted to Ph.D,
candidacy in 1944, Her career includes positions of school psy¬
chologist, school social worker, counselor, college instructor,
adult education teacher, and archives ' curator. Throughout her
twenty-eight year marriage, she worked closely with her husband
in translating and writing and in participating in his fraternal
and political activities. Her own articles and translations
have been published in several Slovenian American progressive
periodicals, including  Mladinski List—The Voice of Youth.

Since Ivan Molek's death in 1962, she has translated his auto¬
biography,  Cez hribe in doline (Over Hill and Dale) and his
semi-autobiographical work,  Dva svetova (Two Worlds) and in
1977 published his comprehensive bibliography and a novel about
an immigrant woman.

RICK SUSTARIC (or in Slovenian Bogomir Sustaric) was bom
in Predgrad, Slovenia, in 1924, came to America with his par¬
ents, and graduated from Grover Cleveland High School in Ridge¬
wood, Long Island, Hew York. During the Second World War he
served with the famous Tenth Mountain Division and was awarded
the Conspicuous Service Cross, the Silver Star, Purple Heart,
and other decorations. After military service, he graduated
from Cornell University, earned his M.A. degree from the Uni¬
versity of Pennsylvania in Philadelphia, and pursued his educa¬
tion toward the Ph.D. at the University of California, Berkeley.
A teacher of social studies, he was particularly interested in
American Indians, Blacks, Orientals, and Slavs and wrote a ser¬
ies of articles on ethnicity, slavery, and other topics. He
was particularly fond of the Slovenian writer Ivan Cankar (1876-
1918) and repeatedly visited his birthplace at Vrhnika, Slo¬
venia. He translated Etbin Tristan's "The Invisible Bridge"
while in the hospital already seriously ill—his last contribu¬
tion to literature and to The Slovenian American Institute—The
Slovenian Research Center of America, Inc., in which he was
active since the early 1960 's. He died at the age of 43,
shortly before the publication of this  Anthology.

FLORENCE F. UNETICH was bom of Slovenian immigrant par¬
ents in Cleveland, Ohio. After high school, she worked as a
secretary before enrolling at Ohio State University in 1962.
Elected to Phi Beta Kappa and Chi Delta Phi English honorary,

234

she graduated  summa cum laude with a B.S, in edueation and a
B.A, in English, After completing her Master's degree in 1972,
she has been teaching American literature and advanced place¬
ment English in Collinwood High School in Cleveland, Ohio, and
freshman English at Lakeland Community College, Active in the
Slovenian community since childhood, she attended Slovenian
School and was a member of the Slovenian Junior Chorus, She
has been a mainstay of Jadran Singing Society of which she is
president. An accomplished soprano, she has performed in numer¬
ous concerts and musical productions in Ohio, Pennsylvania,
Michigan, and Yugoslavia and has been widely acclaimed for her
solo and ensemble work. She is featured with Angela Zabjek
and Gil Dobida on a popular "Jadran Trio" record and has served
as officer and member of the Editorial Committee of The Slo¬
venian American Institute—The Slovenian Research Center of
America, Inc. She also edited the  Adamic Symposium Program
Book, published by the Progressive Slovene Women of America in
1977,

JOSEPH A. VALENCIC, born of Slovenian immigrant parents
in Cleveland, Ohio, in 1954, has been active in Cleveland area
Slovenian affairs since the age of six when he joined the SNPJ'
Junior Chorus, Circle Ho, 2. At the age of eleven, he was a
member of the Lake Erie Opera Theatre and appeared in the
Britten opera,  Albert Herring, with the Cleveland Symphony
Orchestra at Severance Hall. He attended high school in Cleve¬
land and at Phillips Academy in Andover, Massachusetts. He is
presently a graduate student in graphic art and art history at
Kent State University where he has been active as a singer with
the Hew Kent Singers, cartoonist for the  Daily Kent Stater,
assistant slide librarian for the Art History Department, edi¬
tor of  Human Issue, and tutor in Slovenian. He has illustrated
two textbooks and participated in university student exhibits.
In 1975 he was awarded the Slovenian Studies Award, presented
jointly by Kent State University and The Slovenian American
Institute—The Slovenian Research Center of America, Inc.

JOSEPH ZELLE, the son of Slovenian immigrant parents,
holds a B.A. degree from John Carroll University (1959) and a
Master's degree in English from Western Reserve University
(1942). A native Clevelander, he was employed as a radio tech¬
nician with the Columbia Broadcasting System and the Office of
War Information in Hew York, and, after the Second World War,
as consultant radio engineer, technical writer, technician, and
chief engineer with leading radio stations in Cleveland, Ohio.
He has also been an instructor, of physics at Cuyahoga Community
College and John Carroll University and of Slovenian at Cleve¬
land State University. Fluent in several languages, he has
been a contributor of articles and short stories to a large
number of Slovenian and American periodicals and has been

235

active in many Slovenian and American organizations, including
his own Slovenia Film, the Catholic Mission Aid Society, and
The Slovenian American Institute—The Slovenian Research Center
of America, Inc. He has translated a number of works from Slo¬
venian into English, produced a documentary film on the life
and works of Bishop Frederic Baraga, and has received several
honors and awards, including a Public Service Commendation,
Edison Radio Amateur Award, and Consistent Reporting Award.
Zelle attracted nationwide attention in 1957 as the first Amer¬
ican to tune in Sputnik and to broadcast its signals on the
radio station WERE.

236

SLOVENIAN HERITAGE BOOKS
available from

Slovenian Research Center of America, Inc.

29227 Eddy Road

Willoughby Hills, Ohio 44092 U.S.A.

IN ENGLISH

G. E. Gobetz and Adele Donchenko, eds., Anthology of Slovenian American
Literature,  $7.—

Milena Gobetz and Breda Loncar, Slovenian Language Manual,  Vol. I, $7.—
G. E. Gobetz, From Carniola to Carnegie Hall  (biography of Anton Schubel,
with paintings by Fugger), $6.—

Jurbic-Kolednik, George Koziak, A Slovenian Janizary ( historical novel), $4.—
Toussaint Hocevar, Slovenia's Role in Yugoslav Economy,  $2.—
Finzgar-Kolednik, Seven Tableaux for Lent  (meditations), $.60.

IN FRENCH

Jurcib-Kolednik, Le janissaire Slovene Georges Koziak,  $4.—
Valentin-Kolednik, Le petit Toncek du Potok: scdnes de la vie rurale en
SlovSnie,  $4.—

Jurbic-Kolednik, Sept tableaux pour le careme: meditations,  $.60.

IN GERMAN

Finzgar-Kolednik, Iztok  (novel from early Slovenian history), $6.—
Finzgar-Kolednik, Die Magd Anka  (novel about Slovenian rural life), $5.—

IN LATIN

Jurcic-Kolednik, Commentarii de vita et rebus gestis Georgii Kozjak  (Sloven¬
ian historical novel in Latin translation), $3.—

IN GREEK

Jurbib-Kapabia, Giorges Koziak—Enas Slovenos Genitsaros,  $4.—

FORTHCOMING

G. E. Gobetz and Associates, Slovenian Americans in Greater Cleveland,
Ohio,  Vols. I-III

G. E. Gobetz and Milena Gobetz, eds., Glimpses of Ethnicity
Milena Gobetz and Breda Loncar, Slovenian Language Manual,  Vols. Il-lll
Kosovel-Heiliger, Integrals: Modern Slovenian Poetry
G. E. Gobetz, Introducing Slovenia

G. E. Gobetz and Associates, Slovenian Contributions to America
G. E. Gobetz and Associates, Slovenian Contributions to the World.

All members ($2 annual membership fee), supporting members ($5 or more annually),
trustees, officers, associates, and Advisory Council members of The Slovenian
American Institute—The Slovenian Research Center of America, Inc., get a 10 per
cent discount on all SRCA publications and two or more SRCA Newsletters  annually.

NAROONfi IN UNIUERZITETNA
KNJI2NICR

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