Laku Noć Baba

Excitement builds, an atmosphere of palpable delight as the aroma strengthens. Senses heighten as the maestra nears the crescendo, the room fixated on her every move and ready to erupt. This is no ordinary performance, this is an ace at the peak of her powers, an artist about to deliver her opus, a master about to become a legend. A sensory explosion signals its arrival–overwhelming pulses of amazement, happiness, joy, and wonder. How could someone produce something so magnificent, so perfect? Welcome to Baba’s bacon and eggs.

Anyone who has dared venture into a Slavic household will notice a peculiarity common to all; framed aerial shots of the family’s town of origin hanging in prominent positions just begging for attention… and Maxwell Street was no different. As a boy, I couldn’t get enough. “Baba, pokaži mi…” and before finishing the sentence, I’d be on her hip about to embark on an adventure. That’s the thing about Baba; even when it was about her, she made it about you. That coastal town 13,062 kilometres away hanging on the wall— Baba described it better than anything Orson Welles ever wrote.

Life was very different 89 years ago. Modern conveniences had not yet been developed which meant the strength of a family dictated success. The Prižmić’s may not have been rich in material wealth but they were rich in community, spirit, laughter, and hope. At the time, I was too young to realise but when Baba pointed out the family’s generational home on the photo hanging on the wall, that’s what she was remembering; Luka and her three older sisters Kata, Grana, and Sveta, her baby brother Jure, mum Frana, and of course her dad, Jakov. In that photo was a lifetime of memories and experiences, friends and family, people and places.

Strong men have influenced Baba’s life, but no man stands out more than her father. There’s no debate, Baba was a ‘Daddy’s girl’. One of Baba’s prevailing memories of her skilled artisan and fisherman father was after a day of working the Adriatic Sea, Sveta and Baba would latch on to their favourite of Dida Jakov’s legs and for a short while, be carried around before washing his feet. Imagine growing up in a household where your father has rowed a boat, dropped nets, retrieved nets, rowed back to shore, processed the catch and after a minimum 12-hour day, still found the energy to play with his children. It should come to you as no surprise that when Dida Jakov passed, all of Vela Luka came to celebrate his life.

One of the things I admired about Baba was her infectious energy. She was like the Energizer Bunny only on steroids. She had a zest for living and a passion for life which is why I can’t begin to imagine the horror at spending her teenage years with her leg in a cast. As it turns out, Baba was an excellent gymnast who happened on a stroke of bad luck. Whilst training on the vault, she dismounted, landed awkwardly and broke her ankle on a tent peg resulting in tuberculosis of the bone. This is where the value of family comes to the fore. Relatives living in San Francisco became aware of Baba’s condition and swung into action. They consulted specialists in the United States and through their own generosity, funded treatment of an experimental new wonder drug, Streptomycin. Without their philanthropy, three sons, six grandsons, one granddaughter, two great-grandsons, and one great grand-daughter may not have come into existence. 

Humans are social creatures and Baba was no different. A gregarious person, she loved the company of others and when needed, could always be called upon. In her time of frustration, she leant on her sister Kata, who over a year in Zagreb, nursed Baba back to health. Something I noticed about Baba was her ability to build and maintain strong relationships. Whether it was Robin Fiamengo, Stojan and Slavenka Marinović, Marija Nadilo or Beba Ruljančić, she placed great value on friendship and treated close associates as family. My family has asked me to express special thanks to both Teta Beba and Baba Marija as in her twilight years, both kept Baba Lucija entertained, engaged, and happy.

As fate would have it, Baba moved back to Vela Luka the same time as ‘The dirty little boy who used to throw rocks at her.’ Their 12-day romance may seem like a whirlwind affair, but the reality is, they had known each other all their lives. Dida’s interest came as a surprise as he’d never shown an inkling of desire or what the kids today call ‘being in the friend-zone.’ I imagine Baba must have been rather keen because when writing the eulogy for Dida’s funeral, after 60 plus years of marriage, her eyes lit up and she kept repeating how handsome and gentlemanly he was during their now apparent courtship. From there, things moved fast. They were wed, moved to Belgrade and quickly worked out the cramped confines of a one-bedroom apartment on Moša Pijade housing five adults and my very young father, Mario, would not do. 

What came next is a stroke of good fortune for this family. Working in post-WW2 Germany, Baba and Dida saw brighter prospects abroad. It was one of two choices: Canada or Australia. A consular official could not have described Canada and Australia any more differently; one was cold, the other bright, sunny and full of bananas. Baba didn’t like the cold but boy, did she like bananas. Baba liked bananas a lot and before they knew it, the young Surjan family boarded the Arcadia, destined for Fremantle.

Life wasn’t easy for immigrant families in the 60s, even more so for those who spoke little or no English. Welfare wasn’t an option, job placement programs were non-existent and to even be considered for legal immigration, sponsorship guarantees in the form of self-sufficiency were required. In a stroke of irony, the bombing of Korčula by Nazi Germany saw residents of Vela Luka evacuated to Egypt where Dida met the man who would become his Australian sponsor: Šime Sardelić. I’m not going to sugar coat it, but life wasn’t easy for the Surjan family. A series of calamities and tragic personal losses hit the family hard but throughout it all, Baba’s positive disposition and proactive approach shone. When Dida was seriously injured at work, she took control of the finances, became responsible for the payout of loans and ultimately, ensured the family owned its home. Such is the love of a mother, she abdicated her own needs and wants to ensure Dad, Uncle Tony and Uncle Leo never went without. She sacrificed so her boys didn’t have to. Dad never forgot this and on Dida’s passing, had the title changed so the family home became hers in both residence and sole ownership. Baba had achieved the Australian dream.

A woman of simple tastes, Baba never lavished herself in the finest clothes, jewelry or perfume, what she saved, she spent on family however, she did have one weakness, one which we all stoked— Luka. To me, that photo hanging on the wall was just that, a photo, to Baba, our origins; it was home. Every time she visited, the trips became a little harder, a loved one had departed which makes the arrivals of Zander, Anthony and Ilaria, her three great-grandchildren, all whom she met, all the more precious. It’s life coming full circle.

I’ll never understand what it’s like to be a mother but I recognise pride when I see it. It’s a lady in her twilight years sitting at the dinner table smiling, it’s a mother grinning from ear to ear in wedding photos, and it’s a cook in the kitchen preparing the favourite meals of her three sons. If today is a celebration of Baba’s life then it’s a celebration of Tony, Leo, and ‘sunce moje’, my dad, Mario. It’s a credit to both Baba and Dida for the men they raised as all three remained devoted sons, each pulling their weight ensuring Baba and Dida’s needs were taken care of. Each had the grace to allow Baba her space and dignity yet in the background, offered strength and support. Never once, did I see any of the three disrespect their mum in fact, the opposite, revere. On her final night, in her own home, in her own bed, she tucked herself in, said good night and turned off her light. The last face she saw was her son, my uncle, Tony.

Baba was Monday afternoon visits after school and Lilo’s facial expressions of head-rub bliss. She was “Halo dragi” and perfect hair, she was “Hoćeš li tin od lemonado?” and trimmed hedges. She was KFC on special occasions and money slipped into your back pocket. She was a spotless house and “Baby want šnenokle”. She was Josh’s lunchtime stop, soup with Maya, Levi’s ‘Mazit my back little bit tickly”, chipsy with Aron, palačinke on demand, One Day International cricket, watching videos of Ilaria and the twins but most of all, she was ours and she was always present.

Baba loved life which is why I can think of no other way to finish this tribute than with Dr. Seuss: “Don’t cry because it’s over, smile because it happened.”