Looking for Nike

It was hot in the graveyard. Dubrovnik’s noon sun was penetrating the concrete graves, walks and walls, it was being absorbed and re-radiated by the stones that lined the paths and filled every spot that threatened to be green. It was an open air oven and we were getting baked.

Walking the streets my father had walked as a youth had blown oxygen on the ember of my curiosity. I wanted to know more about where I came from and my sister’s enthusiasm fanned the flame. I’d felt a closeness - fifty-two years dormant - that took hold the moment I stepped inside those walls. I could hear his echo bouncing off the ancient stone and I wanted to chase it.

Melita was a little surprised by our enquiry. “No-one has ever asked about her grave before. I ask Angela if was alright to continue and I have all receipts!” She was worried. Graves here aren’t just burial sites, they’re a connection to the past and a plan for the future. They’re family property and are passed on to heirs like any other holding. A fee is paid annually by the holder to the government to maintain title and as my father’s last surviving Croatian relative, Melita had continued the payments and maintenance to ensure she had a place to spend eternity.

When her time comes, the lid will be lifted, her remains placed in the family crypt and a new name added to the list of ancestors. Unless some uppity direct descendants cross the ocean and want to re-connect. My grandmother was the last person added to the list and Melita, a second cousin to me, was afraid we were looking for a final resting place; we were just looking for my grandmother’s grave.

Melita’s wariness about our intent made her directions vague and her reticence and marginal English made clarification difficult. The guy in the office wasn’t any help either. He spoke some English, but only enough to tell us that his ‘colleegu’ wasn’t in and he didn’t know how to operate the computer that held all the records. “Come back tomorrow.” Unfortunately, we were leaving the next day. This was our one shot to stand silently and stare at the foreign name chiseled in foreign stone and reflect on our past.

Dad rarely spoke of his past. It must have hurt him deeply to desert the country that bore him but the communists were in control after WWII and his time in the merchant marine had opened new horizons. He met and married an Englishwoman and after the war settled in England long enough to sire five children. He worked the mines but a sailor underground is an unhappy creature so they sold the silverware and bought passage to Canada.

Seven children followed the first five, Canadian citizens all, and other than the frequent Croatian curse from Dad, his homeland rarely featured in the lives of his children.So little that we spent the first hour looking for our family name on the tomb. Silly us.

We finally called Melita and roused her from her midday slumber. Now she was wary and cranky. “You should have done your research first!”, she reprimanded. My grandmother had remarried and died as Nika Tomic and that name would have appeared on plaque on or about the tomb. And the name on the family tomb is Urban; apparently my great grandfather was a Hungarian immigrant. My family knowledge was growing.

“What colour flower you buy?”
“Uh, we thought we’d find the grave first...”
“Ok, ok. Whatever. No matter.”

Back to the ovenyard to the spot Melita assured us we’d see our past. Not there or near there or anywhere near any other interpretation of her directions. We crossed and crisscrossed and double-checked each other’s checking. Our search revealed a lot of Dubrovnik’s history: the Russian section with its cyrillic alphabet was testament to their occupation, the large Italian immigration, the dominance of the Croatian nameform and saddest of all, the section for those killed in the war with the other former Yugoslav states. But no grandmother.

Pave finally called “Uncle!”. With our dwindling time and the increasing heat we had to accept defeat. But as we walked away without leaving flowers I realized we were taking something, the increased knowledge of my family and the nation that spawned half of me. I didn’t get the photo but I got what I came for; a sense of connection.