Other occasions where he had to use his strong hands were not as happy as this one. One day my father rolled up his shirt sleeves and left the house in a hurry, just when we were about to have supper. A few yards away from our house, the government had opened an excavation pit to supply stone for building the new school in the village. Nobody else was allowed to help himself with stone to build his own house, except my father, whose property held the pit. When a horse-driven carriage with rubber tires tried to sneak by our house, my father noticed in the nick of time. And that was the reason he ran out of the house and up the hill, mumbling more to himself than to anybody else, “Let me see what those two wise guys want.” My mother, my sister, my little brother and I ran after him. When we left our front gate and looked in his direction, he had already caught up with the two stone thieves.

They ignored him, throwing the stones into their carriage as if that wasn’t their business at all. When he continued his protest, trying to reason with them, the younger man, without warning, punched my father right between the eyes.

As we approached them we overheard our father: “You know, guys, you are trespassing on my property, and you are stealing from my stone pit!” They ignored him, throwing the stones into their carriage as if that wasn’t their business at all. When he continued his protest, trying to reason with them, the younger man, without warning, punched my father right between the eyes. My father absorbed the punch without blinking, like a pro in some boxing ring, staying on his own two feet. In that instant an angry smirk landed on his forehead. He closed his large fist, locking eyes with the culprit’s as in a bull fight. Then he decided to fire it into this guy’s head. He repeated the same with the other fellow, who by all his verbal evidence (he yelled out: “Oh, son, are you hurt?”) seemed to be his father. Before he realized it, he got a portion of the same medicine that his son had already gotten. At this point both of them were wiggling on the ground, bleeding from their noses, trying to get up. My father’s large, muddy farmer’s boot landed on the throat of the younger one, while his quick hands kept pressing on the chest of the older one. He let go of them only when they promised him not to come back on the same business adventure… and — yes! — when they agreed to unload the stolen stones. That was the end of the stone thieves. Some nasty rumor about my father spread through the village after this incident, keeping other would-be stone thieves away. My father was left with enough stone to build another extension to his original house, with the government’s approval, of course! That was his only appreciation of the communist government, which he otherwise thought was too constricting and cruel.

After many years, another incident of a similar nature happened. This one took place in the local blacksmith’s shop. There, my father’s strong hands changed the attitude of the most feared village bully — “big mouth” Viktor — a short, overweight man in his forties who constantly spewed insults, often without provocation. He once insulted the parish priest by calling him a “hell’s angel” just because the priest liked to drive a motorcycle on his regular visits to nearby parishes. My father would frequently visit the local blacksmith, Jozo, to sharpen his plow and other farming tools. The blacksmith’s shop was a place for the village men to gather and discuss everything from farming to getting brides for their sons, the village widows, their houses, and sometimes — bravely enough — the failure of the communist system. That was an official taboo, and just because of that, it aroused an intense interest in everyone present. Often verbal arguments would flare to the point of fist fights. The Balkanians, thought to be hot-tempered people with a long memory and a special knack for revenge, would start one fight and bring more fights with no forgiveness in sight. Regardless, people would go about their daily business as usual… with revenge simmering under their skin.