Circa 1905
Today they are telling in the village that fifteen are going to Fiume
tomorrow by the early train, - men, women, and young girls on their way to
America. They were all blessed by the priest after mass. The prayer for
their happiness away from home was very moving. All who knelt before the
altar were pale, struggling against the tears in eyes which may never see
this church again. On this consecrated spot they took leave of the
fatherland, our dear Croatia, who cannot feed her children because she is
not free nor the mistress of her own money. She must let them go among
strangers in order that those who remain may live, they and their children
and their old people. And the old people die in peace because they have hope;
the little ones shall fare better than ever they have done.
This morning all went early to confession. With God they go safer on their
long journey. Toward evening they can be seen hurrying from house to house,
taking leave of those that they love. Who can say that there will ever be
another meeting for them? It is very late before they have finished these
visits, and the family waits for them with impatience. With impatience, how
else, when this evening or rather the few hours still left are so short.
This is the last supper at home. There is no going to bed, for at three they
must start for the station, as the train goes at four. It is so sad to hear
them driving through the village singing a song which expresses all the
feelings of their sore hearts.
The saddest moment of all is the departure. The train has come, they must
get on board. How many tears and sobs and kisses in our little forest and
rock-bound station! Friends go with them to Fiume -- all but the children
and the old folks, who stay in the village alone.
In Fiume the girls buy what they need for the journey, and a little gold
crucifix. That must be bought in the fatherland. So must rings, too. Often
the parents buy the betrothal rings for their sons and daughters, who marry
in America, and send them to them. Faith and love come from the homeland.
Finally, at the ship good-byes must be said, the last. One little girl,
whose older sister was going by train to Vienna, had gone with her to Fiume.
But when the train was about to go the little one flung herself down upon
the ground in her distress and shrieked terribly. Every one tried to pacify
her, but she pressed her little hands over her eyes to hide the engine from
her sight, and answered, "It is easy for you to talk, but this hateful
engine is robbing me of my sweet sister." She was quite ill with suffering,
and they had much ado to get her away. But it is hardest for the mothers who
let their daughters or their sons go.
Very late, after midnight, people come home -- I alone. Now come quiet tears
and prayers that God may grant the travelers a safe arrival. With what
anxiety and joy do they wait for the news from the agent that their dear
ones have reached New York in safety. There relatives are already expecting
them, and the journey can be peacefully continued in their company. Our
people generally go to Michigan. In one town there are so many that our
people call it "New Lipa."
The money for the journey always comes from relatives or friends to whom all
is honestly repaid later. The young fellows try to save the money to bring
over a young girl. When she comes to America -- generally she does not know
her suitor -- she is married. If she is unwilling, not finding him to her
liking, she must pay back the money, but it very often happens that another
lad pays it for her and takes her for his wife instead.
Many girls are very fortunate in America. For instance, this very day a
family is coming home. The wife was poor and ill-favored. Relatives sent her
money for the journey to America, and there she married a poor and very
humble sort of man. By work and saving they have got together six thousand
dollars in thirteen years. They have six children and with them are now
returning. In those days she was poor, ridiculed, alone; now she is well
to-do, respected, the mother of a family. The women are full of curiosity
about her. At noon they were all in the street in hopes of seeing her, but
in vain. She and her family are staying in Fiume and will come to-night,
perhaps. My housekeeper is her godmother, and so awaits her happy godchild
with much pleasure, for she is to offer her, for purchase, a large meadow
which once belonged to the parents of her godchild, but which they were
obliged to sell. I think that would be a very pleasant feeling, to be able
to buy back again a piece of land lost in one's father's time, and to let
the happy grandchildren jump and play about where once the poor grandfather
worked, and whence misfortune drove him away to die.
My housekeeper, who is already sixty-five, cannot tell without crying how
it used to be here in the good old days. Thirty-four years ago there was no
railroad. Our splendid highway, the "Lujziane," even then a century old,
saw such activity as will never return. All travel was by this road, and our
people were happy because they always had the opportunity to work and to
live in peace. In one house they kept ten servants, men and maids. Day and
night the teams with their heavy loads were on the highway. Labor was very
cheap, a man got about thirteen cents and a woman six cents a day. To be
sure, they had good food besides, bread, meat, and wine as much as they
wanted, and the children of the women servants were fed, too. The wages were
low, as I have said, yet the people were contented. Some got very rich, but
the poor, too, were well provided for.
Twenty years ago two men went to America from here, the first from our place
to go. Now nearly half the village is in America. It is hard to till the
fields, for there are no workers to be had. Whoever has strength and youth
is at work in America. At home are only the old men and women, and the young
wives with their children. Every wife has much to do for herself. Only poor
girls work in the fields. "And they must be paid a crown (twenty cents) a
day," sighs my housekeeper, and thinks of the better days of old....
What especially pleases them is the respect in which workers are held in
America. They are better cared for, too, mentally. They have three or four
Croatian papers, they have organizations, and learn much that they bring
home later. They have their priests and churches, but as yet only two
Croatian schools. All is founded by the contributions of workingmen. They
send a great deal home to the churches, too; they are supporting a poor man,
and in 1903, when there were the disturbances in Croatia about the Hungarian
flag and the Hungarian inscriptions on the railroad stations, our brothers
in America sacrificed a great deal for the support of the families of those
under arrest. They love Croatia dearly. Each one longs for home and wants to
die here. We Slavs are so soft-natured. Homesickness is our disease. On account
of it many Croatians cannot hold out, and return home too soon.
The talk is all of America. Our newspapers write so much what a bad thing
it is for whole families to go there as they do. But it is no use. People
must eat. The stones are hard. There is too little land. The Government does
nothing for the good of the people. There are no factories, there is no
building, no mining. So how can people live and pay taxes? And if the taxes
are not paid the cow is taken from the stall, the pillows from under the
head.
Only American capital could lessen the stream of emigration. Croatia is a
beautiful country. Our mountains doubtless hold great treasures, but we lack
the money with which to seek them. Only American capital could bring them to
light. We have the beautiful sea, the lovely Plitvica lakes, and the fine
district about Agram, but we cannot make use of these beauties as a rich and
free people could. We have a sufficient income, but as a public man has said,
"Our pockets are in the Hungarian trousers." The Hungarians have our money,
and give us just enough to keep us alive. Only a free and independent nation
can progress. We are like dead capital.
But we hope for our national resurrection. So many have already died in this
hope. It is our ideal, our dearest one. For this Zriny and Frankopany died.
The innocent blood of our best sons must at last bring us good fortune.
A Croatian Couple in Holiday Dress
from the book Old Homes of New Americans
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