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The Lacemaker's Son
The Lacemaker's Son
The Lacemaker's Son
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The Lacemaker's Son

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Ted Setnikar was just four years old when his father sold him for two litres of schnapps and a handful of cigarettes. Living in servitude, he learned that most people were cruel and comfort could be found only in the company of animals and the seclusion of nature.

As a youth, Ted dreamed of waking in a distant land with the freedom to decide his own fate. As a man, it became clear that survival was not enough. To have true freedom, he would have to face his tormentors. Only then could he truly begin to live.

* All proceeds from sales of 'The Lacemaker's Son' have been donated to the Hutt St Centre, a frontline organisation working for the homeless and disadvantaged in Ted's adopted home town of Adelaide, South Australia.

LanguageEnglish
Release dateJun 18, 2014
ISBN9780980286625
The Lacemaker's Son
Author

Ted Setnikar

Ted Setnikar was just four years old when his father sold him for two litres of schnapps and a handful of cigarettes. Living in servitude, he learned that most people were cruel and comfort could be found only in the company of animals and the seclusion of nature. In 1967, aged 18, he managed to escape Tito's Slovenia to settle in South Australia, where he studied to be a chef and eventually ran a successful catering business. His volunteer work and the sales of 'The Lacemaker's Son' support the work of the Hutt St Centre, serving the homeless and disadvantaged in the city of Adelaide.

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    The Lacemaker's Son - Ted Setnikar

    1

    Fifteen years had passed since I left Slovenia.

    In May 1944, a new government of Yugoslavia was established and Josip Broz (Tito) became War Minister. In March 1945, he became Premier and, over the next few years, created the Federation of Socialist Republics (Slovenia, Serbia, Croatia, Montenegro, Bosnia-Herzegovina and Macedonia). In 1974, Tito became Leader of the Communist Party and President for life. He died on 4 May, 1980. His legacy was a form of socialism which included profit-sharing councils which managed industrial enterprises.

    I hadn’t said goodbye to anyone when I left for fear of being caught and causing problems for them with the police. If they knew nothing, they couldn’t get into trouble. Also, no-one could betray me. I held within me resentment and hatred towards my father, instilled in me by my older brother and the people of the village. It hurt so much and it was gnawing at me. I had to deal with the pain of the past. Finally, I decided to do something about it.

    At the age of 33, I decided to return to Slovenia and make peace with my father. He didn’t know of my pain, where I was or even if I were still alive. It was risky for me to return to Yugoslavia as, in 1981, I was still listed for compulsory conscription in the army or five years gaol. I had to apply for a visa as my citizenship had changed, and that meant the authorities would have a record of my intention to visit.

    But the agony of the past was stronger than my fear of being gaoled. I flew from Adelaide to Melbourne, then Vienna.

    I didn’t worry about anything during the flight as flying was still a novelty which I enjoyed. The only other time I had flown was when I migrated to Australia in an old propeller-driven aircraft. When I arrived in Vienna, I bought a return, first-class, overnight-train ticket to Ljubljana in Slovenia, Yugoslavia. There were many stops along the way, including a lengthy wait at the border with Yugoslavia. Here, a friendly Austrian border patrol walked through the carriages and, without much formality, stamped everyone’s passports.

    The journey continued, but not for long. The train slowed and halted after a short distance. Fierce and aggressive Yugoslav officials boarded and swarmed through the carriages. Each one gave orders, such as Open that bag, anything to declare? What’s in your pockets? and How much washing powder or coffee do you have? They scrutinised our passports and citizens of Yugoslavia were interrogated more than the others. I had butterflies in my stomach and hoped I could see my father before being gaoled. If I saw my father, Janez, I had decided I would tell him that I forgave him and would not judge him further for abandoning me and my siblings as children.

    But, having satisfied the Yugoslav officials’ scrutiny, I received a stamp in my Australian passport. I was relieved that I was treated as a foreign citizen and questioned little.

    The journey continued for three more hours before reaching the capital, Ljubljana, in the early hours of the morning. I decided to visit my brother, Ivan, first, as he lived nearest the city centre. I found no-one at home, so I took a taxi to my sister Tonka’s place but no-one was home there either. Her neighbour, who was looking after her property, gave me the address of a campsite in a small coastal town in Croatia where Tonka had gone for her annual two-week holiday.  Most people in Slovenia took such a holiday in the middle of the summer.

    I couldn’t visit my father as I didn’t know where he was living. But Ivan, who was also dependent on alcohol like my father, would know where I could contact him.

    I was lucky to get a bus to the camp ground where Tonka and her family were staying. It was a journey of about four hours. At that stage I was feeling relaxed and thought nobody would recognise me. However, whenever I saw police or officials, I averted my gaze and walked away to avoid suspicion of being a former resident.

    With difficulty, I found my relatives amongst thousands of holidaymakers, just in time for dinner. They were shocked and surprised to see me as they had no idea of my intended visit. So, you have returned to the motherland, said Ivan, who was also there with his family. How on earth did you find us? asked Tonka. There were also children, whom I didn’t know, surrounding me and asking their parents if I was the uncle who’ d escaped to Australia.

    No, I have not returned for good, I told them. I only want to spend two weeks here to see Father.

    Why would you want to see our father? asked Ivan. He never cared for you or anyone else. He was only good for making children. But caring for them, no. He’s no good. He’s an alcoholic. He got rid of us all. Giving us to whoever would take us. We boys were easy to give away. We were good workers, except you.

    Nobody wanted you. You were skinny and always sick and so small. Nobody believed you would survive and we thought that you would soon die.

    He continued to rave on and on with bitterness in his voice and no forgiveness nor understanding of our father’s situation.

    I was invited to stay with them until the end of their holiday in a few days time. I was surprised how peaceful it was. Three siblings together. My brother and sister not arguing as they had always done previously.

    On Saturday, Ivan drove us back to Ljubljana and I stayed overnight in his flat.

    Will you take me to the village where Father lives? I asked Ivan.

    Yes, Ivan replied. It’s 25 kilometres away. We’ll go tomorrow. We live there most of the time now. I built a house next to the old house where we were born. This flat is cramped with a family and a visitor.

    I had lived in this flat with my brother and family before I escaped Yugoslavia. I had known one particular neighbour back then, an old army general. I had been very frightened of him and was happy to hear he had died since I left Yugoslavia. Ivan told me the police had come searching for me a number of times after I was supposed to have reported for army duty. I was constantly worried in case anyone recognised me in the city and was relieved when we left for the village of Praproche next morning.

    As we drove through beautiful countryside along a river valley between green hills, my head was full of thoughts and questions about my father. Would he be home? What would he look like now? What could I say to him? Would he remember me? Would he be so drunk he wouldn’t recognise me?

    Perhaps we’ll arrive early before he goes to the village begging for schnapps, I said, breaking the silence.

    He has been home a lot lately, replied Ivan. People don’t give him much these days. Everyone is having a hard time, even in the country.

    He hasn’t had much work either, Ivan continued. He’s still very strong but over 70. He was good at carpentry in his younger years but no-one lets him climb on roofs or steeples anymore. Those were the jobs he enjoyed. He took on any job, especially if it was dangerous or something nobody else wanted to do. He would earn more that way, which meant more schnapps.

    We reached the village and I became anxious. Some farmers were working in the fields even though it was Sunday and people were already picking the first fruits, especially plums, to make schnapps. The village was renowned for its disproportionate percentage of alcoholics.

    It was mid morning when we turned into a driveway and parked the car under a house perched on the edge of a hill. I remembered the place as if in a dream long ago. The little windows were like eyes looking at me.

    I stepped out of the car and said to Ivan, You go first.

    No. You first, he replied, You’re the one wanting to see him.

    I nervously climbed the eight wooden steps, pausing on each to look around for changes since I was last here.

    It’s all different, I said, And a new house next door.

    Yes, that’s mine, said Ivan, who was still at the bottom of the steps. Go on. Don’t tell him who you are. See if he recognises you.

    I nodded and, from the top step, I spied a man through a window sitting on a long bench built into a wall. The front door was open and I stepped into a small entry-way. It smelled like a musty cellar. A small window next to the door was surrounded by cobwebs and lichen. The wall on the left was built into the hill so had always been damp and a little channel around the floor drained away any seepage. In front of the main entrance was the door to the kitchen. A wall to the right displayed a beautiful fresco of Lake Bled. I remembered it had been painted by Tonka many years before. On the right of that was a door, slightly ajar, which led to a day room.

    I called out with a trembling voice, Good morning! Anyone home?

    A voice replied, Yes. What do you want?

    Forward, forward, I urged myself and I eventually stepped into the room. I was confronted by the vision of an old man sitting hunched on a bench looking down at the floor.

    He held himself upright by firmly gripping the front of the bench. His legs were bent under the seat and one big toe poked through a sock. He was dressed in slightly stained black trousers and a surprisingly clean white shirt. He lifted his head and we greeted each other simultaneously with Good morning. I recognised his voice, his face, and a hand gesture somewhat similar to someone trying to catch an invisible fly. A round basket of plums was placed on a table next to him.

    Ivan gave me this shirt the other day, my father said. So I put it on.

    It’s the one clean thing I have, he continued. Did you come with him? I think I heard a car. He’s the only one who stops here since he built his house where we once had a cow in the shed.

    What day is it today? he asked.

    Sunday, I replied.

    Ah, ah, he mumbled, Others are also building, on the other side, right across.

    Through a window I could see three more buildings not far away on a slope. I was surprised. He was talking to a stranger and hadn’t asked who I was?

    Who lives there? I asked.

    All of them, he replied. Peter, Franci, Dore.

    They, with Ivan, were also my brothers. There was no mention of my sisters or the second youngest son, Miha. He was two years older than me and had been adopted at the age of four.

    The girls are all married, he continued. Tonka and Mici are in Ljubljana. Tonka visits sometimes. Angela is in the next village. I never see her. She’s busy with her children and married to Paul. He drinks too much but he’s a good man when sober, like me.

    He smiled to himself and added, I had ten children you know.

    I don’t think Paul and Angela have that many. Mici never comes to visit. I don’t remember when I last saw her. It might have been the day of the dead.

    It is a tradition for people to gather in their home villages every year on 1 November to take flowers to the graves of their loved ones.

    Then there’s the eldest, Betka, he went on. "She ran the border with her husband to escape the army. I think she’s in Australia, wherever that is. I don’t know.

    Miha is with a good family. I don’t see him much. I know he has bees at home. I believe his guardian is in the Communist Party. Anyone who has fingers in that is doing alright. Yeah, that is all.

    That’s nine, I said. Aren’t there ten?

    I don’t know where the youngest is, he said.I remember I gave him 5,000 dinars once, many years ago. I could use that now. Do you have any money I could borrow, mister? I really need it.

    My father had given me 5,000 dinars when I’d previously visited him. I had been sixteen and in my last year at the orphanage. I’d bought two dictionaries for the money, English-Slovenian and Slovenian-English. I’d wanted to learn English because I had wanted to live in Australia.

    These were the only possessions I inherited from my father. At the age of 65, I still treasure them today. There was a brief silence during which I could hear Ivan moving about outside. I ignored the question about money. I didn’t want to give him any, in particular for alcohol. I already knew Ivan had food for him. That’s all he needed for now.

    I didn’t know what to do next. Would I give him a hug? Would I tell him who I was? Confused, I decided to leave and let it be for then. I pretended to be passing through the village. I said that I’d had a lift here and would walk to the village, then to the top of the next mountain, fifteen kilometres away. I knew the area well.

    It was the place where my father had sold me, at the age of four, to a cruel, dysfunctional family. Traded for the price of two litres of schnapps and a packet of cigarettes.

    I leaned over, shook my father’s hand and turned away. Simultaneously I had my other hand in a trouser pocket searching for a handkerchief to wipe away welling tears.

    Wait, mister, Father said. I stopped, momentarily thinking he’d recognised me.

    Do you know how to get there? he asked. "I can tell you how to get there. I used to go there a lot of years ago. I gave one of my sons to a farmer up there. The youngest one.

    "He was there many years. Two of them. The youngest girl, Tonka, as well. She left when she finished school but the boy, Metod was his name, never liked it there, always running away. I had to take him back whenever he came home.

    "Once he ran away and lived in the forest and begged for food in the villages. Finally the police put him in a home. I’m surprised he survived.

    I don’t know where he is now. They might have caught him crossing the border. You know, I gave him five thousand dinars once.

    Mister, he continued, Take some plums. It’s a long way. You’ll need them.

    He offered me the basket from the table and urged me to take some fruit. I felt like I had already had a plum, but in my throat. I could no longer speak. I stood in the middle of the room, gazing through a window, as my father reached for a basket of plums. I could not meet his gaze as tears were running down my face. I mopped them with a handkerchief and my vision began to blur.

    Here, he insisted, while standing in front of me with the basket in his outstretched arms.

    Suddenly, Ivan entered the room and yelled abruptly, What kind of a father are you? Not knowing your own children. What a father!

    He pointed at me and said, He’ s your son, Metod.

    After an awkward silence my father quietly asked, Is that you? My youngest?

    He returned the basket to the table, stepped forward, and shook my hand, exclaiming proudly, My number ten child. How you have grown.

    I had always been the smallest and shortest of the children. The tallest one, the first, was my sister, Elisabeth. It almost seemed my father ran out of genetic material by the time I was conceived.

    My brother kept interrupting, He would never have grown up and never have made it if he’ d stayed in your care. The two began squabbling about the past. I tried to pacify them but couldn’t get a word in. Ivan had a tendency to bully to a point where everyone agreed with him.

    I decided to leave the room and followed Ivan’s wife, Pepca, into their newly completed house. I complimented her on the design, the outlook and the position.

    Yes, she said, Ivan took this land. The other three divided the block on the slope of the other side of the hill.

    Over there, she pointed, On the hill, half a kilometre away. You missed out because you weren’t here.

    I have a house in Australia, I said. I really don’t need another, especially as I don’t intend to return permanently. Even if the border police get me and put me in gaol, I’ll eventually return to Australia. I am an Australian citizen now, I added proudly.

    I understand that while I’m in Slovenia I am under the law of Yugoslavia. It does not recognise other citizenships bestowed upon people born here. I thought to myself that I had gained two dictionaries from my father. These were more useful to me than a patch of land near a brother I hardly knew.

    Ivan and Father eventually appeared and we all had lunch which Pepca had prepared.

    At the first opportunity after lunch, Father again asked for money. I explained to him, I have come a long way to see you and it cost a lot of money. I’m on a tight budget. Anyway, why don’t you ask your sons, to whom you gave the land, for money?

    I didn’t give anything to anyone, he replied. They just decided to take it. Ivan gave me some papers to sign and some schnapps and that’s it.

    "After that, they started building their weekenders without any electricity, water supply or government approval. I don’t know what will happen.

    "I’ll stay in my house until I die and that’s not happening soon. After all, we are known as the ‘Oaks’ and we are tough like oaks, not only by name.

    "Our house was called The Oaks because of a large oak which once stood in front of it," he reminded me.

    Father had indeed been known as ‘the Oak’ and we children had always been teased and called ‘acorns.’

    He disappeared mid-afternoon, walking into the village where local men gather on Sunday afternoons for drinking sessions.

    I saw Father again next morning. He was still drunk from the previous day and I couldn’t get too close to him as the smell of alcohol was overpowering. That was the last time I saw him during that visit. I felt somewhat happier within myself but I regretted not hugging him.

    I stayed with Ivan for two more days. We returned to the city and, on the way, visited my sister, Mici. She had lots of stories to tell of her suffering as a child.

    Afterwards, I was taken to Tonka’s place. I stayed with her and she was good to me. We drove around visiting more of my siblings. It didn’t take long for Tonka and me to come into conflict. It was like when we were children on the farm in Crni Vrh (Black Peak), a village high in the mountains.

    How would you like to visit the farmhouse house where we grew up? asked Tonka. They have a road there now and you can drive right to it.

    Yes, please, I replied. On the way, perhaps we could visit our sister, Angela.

    Oh, Metod. Didn’t you know? Tonka became quieter.

    Know what? I asked.

    "She died two years ago. She went blind at the age of 38 and died three years later. Diabetes it was. We have it in our family.

    "She was the same age when she died as our mother, at 41. Her children looked after her when she went blind. They were very caring. That way she was lucky. They knew how to work.

    There wouldn’t be anyone home anyway, during the week. Most of them are married and I don’t have much to do with them.

    We visited the farm for a short time and, in the afternoon, we called at Dore’s house. Again, I heard familiar stories about the suffering we had endured.

    Eventually, we’ d visited as many siblings as we could. Everywhere I heard the same sad stories of their younger years and much criticism about our father. No-one was prepared to let go of the past and embrace the good lives they now had. All had families, compatible spouses and houses in pleasant surroundings. The time had come to return to Australia. I was getting more and more anxious about how I would depart Yugoslavia without being detected.

    Tonka took me to the railway station and I boarded an afternoon train to Vienna. As I left, she gave me something in a brown paper bag.

    Here, take this for the journey, she said. It will be more comfortable if you have some of this. The bag contained a bottle of home-made schnapps. We said goodbye without much sadness and promised to keep in touch.

    The railway carriage was new, clean and modern. I shared it with two women. I made some small talk with them, both Austrians from Graz. We soon became quiet as they were tired and my German wasn’t the best.

    The journey was comfortable but, for me, overly tense until we reached the border. As we approached, I opened the bottle Tonka had given me. The closer we got, the less the bottle contained. By the time the train stopped at the border I was prepared for the worst.

    A call of Border Patrol. Passports, echoed along the carriage. Momentarily, a tall, older officer, one of the few without a moustache, stepped into our compartment. He was friendly, with a smile on his face. From his demeanor, I felt at ease.

    I opened my passport to a blank page and gave it to him. Perhaps he wouldn’t open the passport to the page which displayed my name and photograph. I thought, he might just stamp it and not concern himself with anything else. The guard put one finger on the blank page and held the passport open at the identity page. He looked at me, then at the passport and back to me. He read my name aloud in a hauntingly sad tone.

    So, Metod. Now you are living in Australia?

    Yes, I answered with surprise.

    A sad time, he said. The way your mother was struck. She was killed instantly and you and your brother survived.

    The official seemed to be talking to himself, recalling something from his past. How could he have known my mother and me? Still holding my passport in one hand, he reached into his pocket with the other. I thought he might know everything and be reaching for handcuffs. But no. I relaxed after I saw he’ d only retrieved a handkerchief to wipe his tears.

    I knew your mother very well, he said. She was a good woman. An excellent lace-making teacher. And ten children in that little house. It is a miracle that you all survived. Are you  all still alive? he asked.

    No, Angela died from diabetes, I replied. The guard nodded and wiped his eyes some more while trying to compose himself.

    He stamped my passport and handed it back to me, saying I wish you a pleasant journey and a good future.

    He stamped the women’s passports and left the compartment with a farewell nod and the parting words, Good night, in German. A few minutes later the train lurched and we recommenced our journey, this time through the Austrian countryside.

    I am free! I am free, I repeated to myself, finishing the schnapps in celebration.

    I could never understand the encounter with the guard. Had it been luck, a coincidence, what? Was it possible, even, that this man could

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