St. John’s Day Birthday

My uncle Jova (Jovan in Serbian, John in English) is my father’s younger brother, the brother who took over the family house and land and stayed in the ancestral village.

My uncle Jova, 2011

Jova was born on this day in 1945.

Today is the Serbian feast day in the name of St. John the Baptist, a great church holiday in the Serbian Orthodox calendar.

This is the story of how my uncle Jova was born.

Battles raged in Northern Serbia during the early winter months of 1945, as embittered, frightened  armies tried to annihilate each other and everything on their path, after four long years of carnage.

My family was in the middle of it all.

My grandfather had spent the war years fighting with the partisans in the dense forests of Fruska Gora.

My father (twelve years old in 1945) and his two sisters were mostly at home in Vizic, taken care of by their grandfather Milos.

Their younger brother, Triva, had died the previous summer, from an infection that had developed after he stepped on a rusty nail. There was no way to get him to a doctor.

Their mother, Mara, had spent months at the notorious concentration camp, Jasenovac. She was pregnant at the time she was taken to camp. During her eight month of pregnancy she was freed in a trade of prisoners.

That January, for the first time in years the entire family was together, but the fighting was closing in around the village and they had to flee. What was left of the village (mostly children and old people) fled together, on foot, in deep snow.

They walked for miles, moving away from the raw border and deeper into Serbian territory. Late that evening, they arrived in a quiet village and were given permission to sleep in village barns.

Small fires were lighted, straw beds made and children tucked in for rest and warmth. But it was hard to find warmth in that drafty old barn.

And then, after walking all day, my grandmother Mara went into labor.

Women huddled around her, helping the best they could. Men moved to the furthest corners of the barn, trying to give women space and privacy. Frightened children listened and could not sleep.

All that night, my father said, despite the fact that he had buried his head under piles of straw, he heard his mother’s cries. He was sure that she would die.

But towards morning, right before dawn, a piercing cry of a healthy baby filled the barn with joy. A strong baby boy! There was no question of what his name would be – Jovan, John – the baby had brought his own name.

My father’s grandfather, Milos, went up to the children and caressing their heads told them they had a new brother. They got up to take a look.

My father (left) and his brother Jova

All the adults were sitting together in the middle of the barn, trying to provide warmth and protection the the mother and baby sitting closest to the fire.

Their mother smiled as she lifted the cloth to show them the baby’s face. The kids huddled around her.

Slowly, gently, one of the women started singing an old Serbian folk song, a song about a boy named Jovan. One by one, the other women joined in.

Deep, manly sounds hummed and harmonized in the background, echoing the joy.

There was hope in the world.

Happy Birthday to my uncle Jova! Срећан рођендан!

Note: Special thanks to my cousin Maja Zoric Kotarlic for taking these wonderful photographs. Maja is cika Jova’s daughter.

Tagged as: childbirth, Jasenovac, Sveti Jovan, WW II childhood