One day a group of men, including my father, were discussing the best-looking widow in the village — Anka. She lost her husband one rainy day when he fell off a bike. The talk was about whether she was seeing the local mailman Bosko or not. The bully — big mouth Viktor — was categorically saying that he saw not only Bosko, but a local teacher visiting her too. He asked everybody, “Why would Vojko visit Anka? She has no kids!” Vojko’s brother was present when Viktor-the-bully asked this rhetorical question. Right away, he started defending the honor of his married brother, who happened to be the best teacher in the village, according to all the villagers. My father was on the teacher’s brother’s side. When Viktor, who was eager to turn his argument into a fist fight, began readying himself, my father just waited. Finally, he told Viktor to shut up or leave the shop. That didn’t please the bully. It infuriated him. He started pushing his index finger into my father’s face. At that point my father said nothing. He started rolling up his shirt sleeves, closing and opening his fists, bringing them into the scope of Viktor’s close vision, almost touching Viktor’s eyebrows, sending a message of red hot danger. Viktor grasped the size of my father’s fists which were ready to slam against his face. He did the right thing — for a change — by lowering his insulting voice all the way to the front of the shop and running out, still cursing in a whisper. That caused an uproar of laughter and temporary relief amongst the men in the shop. But everybody realized that at some point, the blub-blub Viktor would resume the argument even if it took fifty years. I do not know if the Balkanian tradition lived up its reputation in this case.

Then, there was a different kind of incident where my father’s strong hands were involved. This one was free of trouble. I like to call it an American incidental experience. It took place in Brooklyn in 1979.

View of the Brooklyn Bridge, 1889
(Oil on canvas, 101.3 x 51 cm)
BY Emile Renouf

My father used to talk about America as a proud American, though he knew no English, and had only an elementary school education. Regardless, he was a self-taught scholar by reading books and following newspaper reports about the world. In December of 1978, I, his lost son, fulfilled his secret wish of coming to visit America. America in this case meant Brooklyn, New York. It was Christmas season. I waited at the Kennedy airport, anxious to see him. I was excited, visualizing him in an expensive outfit suited for a world traveler. I had a reason. I’d sent enough money for him to dress properly. When I saw him on the luggage pick-up line, he had a somewhat unpleasant surprise for me. Instead of a new overcoat, he was wearing his old (but in one piece) farmer’s woolen winter coat. Instead of a brand new suit, he was wearing an old but clean jacket and mismatched pants that he kept for years in his commode in Stankovci — his outfit for special occasions. Instead of a new pair of factory made shoes, he was wearing a pair of rugged farmer’s boots. A gift, from his shoemaker, Antun, who was also from Stankovci. When I first saw him I took a second look. Then I took a microscopic look around me to defuse my doubt that I wasn’t in Stankovci, Croatia, but at the Kennedy airport in New York. Before I could ask, he read my mind (he had the ability to read his family members’ minds), which I guess was not that difficult anyway.