No One Gets Turned Away

Milan poured some warm water with half a packet of dissolved yeast into the flour. It was the last flour he had, but he didn’t care. Today was his Slava, the day of St. John the Baptist, 20th of January according to the Gregorian calendar. And there is one simple rule for celebrating a Slava.

No one gets turned away.

Your home is open. Everyone who comes is a guest and is greeted warmly. Kissing each other on the cheek three times is practically obligatory. Everyone is greated with a traditional serving of cooked wheat of which they eat a spoonful. All the friends and neighbors come to visit, eat, drink and be merry. Sometimes there are so many people that the Slava lasts for three days, with people coming and going in shifts.

Milan remembered when he inherited his Slava from his aging grandfather Jovan. He raised enough money to buy a new house in which he and his lovely wife Olga were going to live. When the Slava bread was made, its bottom side was cut in the shape of a cross. Wine was poured in the cut and he and his grandfather broke the bread in two, each one of them chanting “Christ is among us! Yes he is and always will be!’’ This was how Milan’s.

As things would turn out, it was the last year when he would be able to perform this ritual. Jovan passed away on the next year’s Epiphany, just a day before St. John’s. The next year’s Slava turned into a wake for him, with guests from all walks of life coming to pay their respects and tell a youthful Milan what a fine and honorable man his grandfather was, a survivor of both world wars.

The memories of the distant past swirled in the head of the old man as he dutifully kneaded the bread, despite the crippling pain in his hands. When he was finished, Milan had obtained a modest but finely made ball of bread. He let the ball rise for an hour, then carefully carved out a cross with his penknife. He had little energy for more elaborate decorations than this, but a humble cross to indicate that this was no ordinary bread was more than enough. He put the bread onto a small metal tray and into the wood-burning stove he had fired up to ameliorate the merciless January cold.

When Milan was done, he took out the bread and placed it on his kitchen table. He didn’t have any wheat or wine to complete the Slava essentials. All he had for food was several cooked potatoes and half a plate of sauerkraut. Apart from the water he collected from melting the icicles, it was all he could offer.

When Milan was finally done with all the preparations, he lit his Slava candle. Normally, the Slava candle would burn all day, but Milan was too tired to go to the nearest church, which was five kilometers. Thus, he had been using one candle for the last three years. The candle was now only a decimeter high and this year would likely be its final. Nevertheless, the exhilaration of having completed everything for the guests outpaced every other concern. Milan proudly stood by his table in full alert, ready to open the door at a moments notice if someone knocked on it.

No one gets turned away.

Alas, as the hours passed and day turned to night, it was shaping up to be the fourth consecutive year in which no one visited his home. Olga died just a couple of weeks after the Slava of six years before. The year after that, Milan got just one visitor, his neighbor Nikola, who came to inform him that he was moving to a retirement home. It was the last visit Milan would ever received until that fateful night.

Dejected, though not completely surprised, Milan was ready to extinguish the candle by pressing on it with the blunt end of a matchstick, as one never blows out such an important candle, when he heard a knock on the door.

He first thought that his ears were deceiving him, but the knock became louder next time.

Hesitantly, Milan open the door. A stranger wearing a dark cloak was standing in front of him. His loud but raspy voice could barely be heard over the howling winds.

“Are you Milan Todić?’’ he asked in an almost businesslike fashion.

“Yes,’’ said the old man somewhat in shock. It had been years since he talked to anyone, and his voice almost sounded strange, like he had forgotten how to use it.

“Happy Slava, host! May I come in?’’ said the stranger in the traditional greeting.

Tears welled up in Milan’s eyes.

“No one gets turned away today,’’ he quietly spoke.

Milan awkwardly waved the stranger into his humble adobe. A sorry sight greeted the stranger. A hobbled picture of Saint John awkwardly taped to the wall. A single bed with the half towards the wall used for storage. A bunch of newspaper clippings in the corner, the only entertainment Milan had left. An old radio on the kitchen table. A single firewood stove providing all the warmth. Open cracks in some corners of the house, revealing glimpses of the cold winter’s night. The only thing that the house had going for it was that it was clean and orderly. Even in his old age, Milan was very dilligent about cleaning up any mess and keeping his house tidy.

Milan brought forth the only two chairs in the entire house. Before the stranger could sit, Milan broke of a piece of his bread and handed off to him.

“I am sorry I do not have any wheat. Here, please, have a bite of my bread to eat.’’

The stranger made a cross and consumed the piece of bread in solemn reverance. It was a perfectly adequate piece of bread for such a humble baking process, though it could have certainly used more salt.

“You’ll have to excuse the mess,’’ an embarassed Milan said to the stranger. “I have crippling arthritis that makes my hands hurt whenever I try to hold the broom and the dustbin at the same time.’’

“Oh, don’t worry,’’ said the stranger as they sat down. “You’re doing fine of a job. I wish I’ll be half as agile as you when it is my turn to be your age, assuming I even make it that far.’’

“Thank you for your kind words,’’ said Milan, “but it gets harder each year. Especially since my wife Olga died. She always did so much work around the house. I never even realized it or appreciated it while she was alive. I had to learn to do so many things on my own, mostly from my memory of seeing her do it. There are probably quite a few things I’ve never learned to do properly that she’d have a hearty laugh over if she ever saw me do it.’’

“You know,’’ said the stranger. “This might sound unusual, but I did meet your wife once. Such a pure and humble person one seldom has a chance to get to know. She told me how much she loved you and how much you made her life happy.’’

“Oh!’’ exclaimed Milan, “That is incredible. She didn’t go to Nova Varoš often. Only a couple of times to get groceries, especially after the nasty fall, when she had to stay in the hospital there for three weeks. Is that how you found out about me?’’

“Kind of,’’ replied the stranger somewhat evasively. “I learned where you lived and of your circumstance. I’m sorry for not coming earlier, but you have to understand that I am an extremely busy person. I work with a lot of people, so it’s often extremely hard to keep track.’’

“What is your line of work?’’ asked Milan.

“Well,’’ replied the stranger, “think of it as helping people. Unfortunately, there are plenty of people struggling in old age, alone and abandoned. My job is to help people like you as much as I can.’’

“Please,’’ replied Milan in indignation. “I don’t need help. I am perfectly capable of doing things on my own.’’

“Oh, you completely misunderstood me!’’ exclaimed the stranger. “I didn’t mean that I would be doing your chores or giving you charity out of pity. I understand perfectly how much self-sufficiency means to people of your age.’’

“Then how do you plan to help me?’’ continued Milan defiantly. “Everything you see here I’ve built with my own two hands.’’

“I offer a different kind of help,’’ replied the stranger. “A help from loneliness. That is why I came to your Slava. When was the last time you talked to someone?’’

Milan’s eyes started watering. “Five years ago. It was a Slava like this one. My friend Nikola, who once lived just a hundred meters down the road, came to tell me his children were moving him to a nursing home in Užice. They could no longer afford to take care of him up here in the Golija mountains.’’

“I knew Nikola, as well,’’ said the stranger. “Spoke to him before he died, actually. He told me that his biggest regret was moving to the nursing home. It was an okay nursing home, as far as nursing homes in Serbia go. Far from perfect, but the staff were genuinely trying to do their best, despite their abysmally low salaries for this kind of hard work. Nevertheless, Nikola felt so lonely and so disconnected from that place. As he watched the towering apartment buildings of Užice from his window surrounded by terrible layers of smog in the winter, he could only imagine his beautiful his home in this pristine and untouched wilderness. I just passed his home. It’s already in a sorry and decaying state.’’

Milan grew suspicious. “You know a lot of people from my life. How come we’ve never met before?’’

“I’ll come to that,’’ said the stranger, “but I have to tell you a bit more about Nikola. See, his kids almost never visited him. His most frequent visitor was his grandson Jakša, who was finishing up high school when Nikola died. Nikola told me that Jakša was planning on going to Belgrade to study mechanical engineering. He was the only one to bring peace to Nikola in his final moments of life, a confirmation that he had done something valuable with it.’’

Milan tried hard to not be agitated at this extremely rude guest and remain as a polite as possible. “I have no idea why you brought up this topic. Olga must have told you what happened to our boys. Dimitrije got killed in a tractor accident when he was seventeen. Nenad became a violent and abusive drunk who terrorized us for years for what little money we had until he left in an unknown direction and never contacted us again.’’

“I know,’’ said the stranger. “I was extremely saddened to hear this. If it’s any comfort, I haven’t met Nenad yet. However, from talking to some of his old friends, he must have traveled to Belgrade. It seems from some of these stories I’ve heard that he might have even turned his life around.’’

“Well, if that is the case, why didn’t he ever come back to us?’’ welped Milan.

“Shame,’’ casually replied the stranger. “You’d be surprised how much shame people feel when they meet me. It’s such a powerful human motivator. I don’t think one could ever come face to face with one’s parents upon developing a conscience after doing to them what your son did to you.’’

“All would be forgiven,’’ spoke Milan softly, on the verge of crying.

“That may well be the case,’’ said stranger, “but it’s not about living with the ones you hurt. It’s about living with oneself.’’

“Dear sir,’’ exclaimed Milan suddenly. “I completely forgot! Here. Help yourself to some potatoes and cabbage. I also have a glass of ice water for you.’’ He leapt up with renewed energy to spoon some potatoes and cabbage into a clean plate and pour a small glass of water from a jug resting on the table.

“Thank you,’’ said the stranger, as he politely ate the cold unseasoned potatoes and some surprisingly good sauerkraut. “You’ve been an extremely gracious host.’’

“It’s too bad there aren’t more people here,’’ said Milan. “Once you could hardly fit all the people in this room. I remember when we had more than a dozen chairs, all filled up with the eldest people in this village, while the younger guests simply stood against the wall. Olga would be constantly busy throughout the day, serving rakija and fresh gibanica to all the guests. Now, everyone has left for Belgrade. All the kids want to go there. Even Nova Varoš and Užice are too small for them.’’

“Yes, the villages are dying,’’ admitted the stranger. “Old agricultural models are simply no longer sustainable.’’

“I don’t buy that for one moment,’’ said Milan indignantly. “If I can maintain an estate in my decaying age, a young man at full strength could do miracles in these hills.’’

“That is true,’’ said the stranger, “but subsistence farming is a life of toil. Few people are capable of it and even fewer want it. You are a dying breed, Milan. Pretty soon, all the villages like yours will dry up. The old traditions will disappear and with them the rustic way of doing things, making everything from fences to clothing from scratch.’’

Milan’s heart raced. “Even if that is true, some things will survive. The Slava will survive. It is a part of our people and always will be. To be open to the people around you for at least one day of the year, because life doesn’t have meaning without people around you. People you care about and have sacrificed for and whom you’ll miss when they’re gone, even if they can never come back. The Slava is about something mattering to you more than you’ve ever mattered to yourself.’’

Milan looked at the stranger with his fiery eyes and an unmatched determination: “I know who you are. All I’ll say to you is that I’ve lived my life according to my values and if I had the chance, I would it all over again. I’ve worked hard and worked honorably and I’ve loved three people more than you could ever care to know. I am ready now.’’

The stranger looked at Milan with a bemused shock: “Again you’ve greatly misunderstood me! I completely understand and respect your life. I would never imply it was anything but a life well lived. You know what? I think I have something for you. Now, I don’t normally do this, but I’ll tell you the actual reason I arrived here,’’ said the stranger as he leaned towards Milan like he was sharing a huge secret.

“See, I am actually a very accomplished doctor. I’ve been researching some truly amazing regenerating treatments and I’ve come here with a surprise for you.’’

“Milan!’’ a familiar voice called from the outside.

In complete shock, Milan turned around and hurried to the door to see his wife Olga standing in front of him with her unmistakable smile that could melt away even the harshest of winters.

“Oggy!’’ exclaimed the feeble old man as he gave his wife the biggest hug on the planet, with hot tears dripping down his crevaced cheeks!

“I love you,’’ she said in turn, joining him in their uncontrollable sobbing as they kissed each other.

“How is this even possible?’’ he gingerly asked, almost as if he was afraid it would break the spell. “I thought you were dead! When the orderlies wheeled you out, it was the worst day of my life.’’

“She was close,’’ explained the stranger, “but in reality, she was just hibernating. The human brain can survive for quite some time after the heart stops beating. They brought her right to me, and I immediately started the treatment. It took several years for her brain to be repaired by endless tissue regeneration, but, here we are! She woke up this morning.’’

“I told him everything about our lives as he drove me here,’’ added Olga.

“I can’t believe doctors can do such a thing!’’ exclaimed Milan.

“Modern medicine is truly a miracle,’’ replied the stranger curtly. “Oh, and there is one more person I’d like you to meet.’’

“Hey, dad!’’ another voice could be heard from the outside.

This time, Milan’s face went pale in an even bigger shock.

“Dimitrije!’’ he exclaimed even louder, rushing to the door to hug his son.

“His regeneration took much longer,’’ added the stranger. “Several decades!’’

“But... I was there! I literally saw his head explode as he hit the hard ground,’’ stammered Milan.

“Yes, picking up the pieces and reassembling the brain was extremely difficult,’’ admitted the stranger. “You’re lucky! He was the first person on whom we attempted such an extensive restauration.’’

“Oh, my son! My sweet wonderful boy!’’ sobbed Milan, grabbing a hold of his son so tight that no force in the universe could pry them apart.

As the shock from this happy reunion gradually wore off, they sat at their table to eat and talk, having a lifetime’s worth of catching up to do. Milan barely even noticed that the stranger had set up a glorious feast of pork roast, meat and cheese pies, ajvar and a large bowl of Russian salad on the table, as well as a couple of bottles of high quality wine for good measure. In fact, Milan and his family didn’t even notice the moment the stranger saw himself out.

Just before he stepped out the door to continue his journey in the cold and snowy night, the stranger extinguished Milan’s Slava candle.