Seventy years ago, my grandfather on my mother’s side, Stipe Čuvalo
nicknamed Veža, left the family village seeking safety in advance of the
arrival of Yugoslav partisan and communist forces in the village. He was never to be seen by his family again. Witnesses
tell us that he was executed in mid-1945 along with thousands of others after
the war. His body was never recovered, and the communist authorities never
acknowledged that he was executed. Stipe
Čuvalo was 38 years old when he was murdered.
My grandfather left behind my grandmother and four children
under the age of nine, including my mother Iva, who was two years old at the
time and the only girl in the family.
This fact forever left her with the nickname among her fellow villagers
as “Cura”, i.e. “Girl,” because she was alone with four brothers. A fifth child, my uncle, history professor
Ante Čuvalo, was a month away from
being born at the time their father disappeared.
The victims of these communist and partisan crimes had their
voices silenced. The memories of those witnesses
who did live, and who can tell us what happened to these victims, are also
fading away as their generation now grows into their late 80’s and beyond. For this reason, my uncle professor Čuvalo
decided to interview the remaining survivors and to publish their memories
about the plight of the victims of these crimes, so that their memories of
these terrible events can be preserved forever.
The book is titled, “Od Bleiburga do Ljubuškog – svjedočenja preživjelih”
(From Bleiburg to Ljubuski: The Testimony of the Survivors). You can order a copy of the book in Croatian by emailing the publisher at [LUKA'S NEW NOTE: THE BOOK HAS NOW SOLD OUT].
The book tells the individual stories of 83 victims,
including the story of my grandfather, as told from the perspective of my uncle
Ante. I have taken the liberty of having
that portion translated into English so that you can read it. See below.
Eternal rest grant unto them, O Lord. And let perpetual light shine upon them.
STIPE ČUVALO – VEŽA
It’s the end of October, 1944. As the autumn evening’s
sun is slowly beginning to set, a fire is crackling in the hundred-year-old
fireplace in the family house. Sitting around the fireplace are Grandfather
Nikola (born in 1872), Grandma Mara-Biluša (1875), Aunt Iva-Majuša, called Nina
(1903) (whose husband Stojan went to Argentina in 1926 and stayed there, and
her son Franjo (1925) was on one of the battlefields in Northern Croatia at the
time and had most likely ended up in the pits of Kočevski Rog), Aunt Iva (1910)
whose beloved went to war and she remained unwed, Anđa-Grbavuša (1914) and her
four children: the eldest Vlatko (1935), Kamilo (1937), Mladen (1939) and Iva
(1942) [nota bene from Luka
Misetic: this is my mother, Iva], and
the fifth was “on the way”. This was me, born a month later. Our father Stipe
(1906), called Veža, went toward the town of Široki Brijeg with a couple of
more men from the village the day before – to hide until “this evil passes” [translator’s remark: reference to the “evil
passing” is to the arrival of communist/partisan forces in the area].
The gathered children of the house said their evening
prayer: the Angelus; prayer recommendations; “the acts” /tr. remark: four acts - act of faith, act of hope, act of love and act
of charity/; the Soul of Christ…,
and remained seated without speaking. There was no supper. There was nothing to
put on the table. There was only a little piece of corn bread covered with a
cloth on the wooden peel covering the old and empty wooden dough bowl and this
was kept only for the children. The house, the family house and the one some
hundred feet away are empty, as is the pojata
/tr. remark: small ancillary facility for storing straw, wood logs and such/,
and the pigsty. Everything is empty. The clothing set aside for Aunt Iva’s
dowry and all of the clothing from the “srg” /tr. remark: wooden pole attached to the roof timbers for drying
clothes/ had been taken.
Grandma Biluša’s, Nina’s and Anđa’s chests which they
had brought with them to the Čuvalo’s village when they were wed were also
emptied. And one old chest, perhaps from Great-grandmother Lozuša, which was
standing on the “sopa” /tr. remark: deposited
soil/ behind the fireplace, was recently filled with dry walnuts. But they
were also gone, taken. The old and well-known “Biluša’s walnut tree” is the largest
tree in the village and it has a good yield every year. Its fruits are somewhat
small but always healthy and tasteful. It was probably planted by Great-grandfather
Mate, called Big. Its branches covered the central crossroads in the Čuvalo’s
mahala /tr. remark: “mahala” is a word
for neighborhood or section of a settlement, hamlet/. The young would meet
beneath it every night; they would socialize there, sing, tell jokes and learn
to “court”. The elders would meet beneath it to “deliberate” on matters when
needed. There would sometimes be as much as 100 kilos of dry walnuts on the
walnut tree. The yield was high this year as well, but there aren’t any walnuts
left anymore – they were taken by the “people’s army and government” [tr. remark: reference is to
communist/partisan forces].
That day, in the morning hours, the “liberators” [tr. remark: word was used by
communist/partisan forces to refer to themselves] visited the “Bilušinas,”
that is what they called our family, and “liberated” the house of everything,
absolutely everything. They took the horse, the cow, the donkey, two or three
goats, some twenty sheep, and Vlatko cried only for his favorite, for his Gala,
the black sheep. It was difficult for him to part from it. The comrades didn’t
want to bother with the fattened pig so they ordered that one of the members of
the household take it to Medić’s house in Donji Radišići that morning. The pig,
which had never left the pigsty and its small backyard in front of it, doesn’t
obey when it’s “on the loose”. Whether you’re nice or strict, nothing works. Mother
Anđa (Grbavuša) would often tell tales of how much trouble she had getting the
pig over to them. Luckily, our good neighbor Luka, called Luksan, helped her take
the willful pig and hand it over to the “people’s authorities” so that she
could contribute to her “liberation” in this manner as well! Back then, you had
to go from Čuvalo’s fields in the valley across Spajić’s houses in Radišići and
then down Draga to the main road, which is about a kilometer long. Mother had
to do all this even though she was eight months pregnant.
But that wasn’t the end of it. When the “liberators” took
everything away, they promised to return that night and set the house and lot
on fire. One should believe them; it was plain to see that they were trained in
terrorizing innocent folk. Everyone in the house has been thinking about this
deadly promise all day. The sun is setting, all of the children are in the
house around the fireplace, the grown-ups are silent, and they don’t know what’s
ahead. And the children can see and feel that serious things are happening. The
silence was disturbed by voices from the west side; they heard the murmur and clattering
of the army from Zovak’s houses, and then the partisan songs. Singing, they’re
moving closer and closer. Everyone in the house is listening to where they will
turn. If they keep moving above our garden toward Radišići, they can rest easy,
but if they turn right under our walnut tree, it’s clear; they’re coming to set
the house on fire! That’s what they promised this morning and they will
probably keep their promise. In a few moments, it seemed as if nobody was
breathing, everyone was expecting where the “people’s army” was going to go.
They turned right! Here they come!
Grandpa Nikola coughed and said to my mother: “Daughter-in-law, take the kids and leave
the house; hide somewhere. And the rest of you also go to the neighborhood. I
was born in this house and I will die in it.” Nikola never spoke much, but
everyone knew that he was always a man of his word. Grandma Mara-Biluša, given
she was always resolute and brave, raised her voice and ‘ordered’: “Daughter-in-law, you stay here, you and the
kids! If we are to burn, we will all burn together!” She said it and
immediately lay on the right side of the fireplace, where she usually had her
cot. She lay down and started to shake; shake as if she had the worst fever.
She said: “Daughter-in-law, cover me, I’m
cold!” She was shaking with fear not for herself but because of the
responsibility she had assumed upon herself. She ordered everyone not to leave
the house, be what may. Everyone is silently crying, only Grandpa Nikola was
staring at the fire that was breaking the darkness in the house. Darkness of
the night and fear… And the fire seemed to be encouraging the children that
were scared to death; it’s easier when at least the fire’s crackling, giving
warmth and glimmering.
Everything was happening very quickly because there is
only a two-minute walk from the walnut tree to our house. They’re trudging
along, they’re coming, and here they are in front of the old oak wood door
covered in soot. Then someone spoke: “Biluša,
Biluša!” They’re not calling grandfather but Grandma Biluša. The man behind
the door said: “It’s Nikola Tica, open
the door; don’t be afraid, we didn’t come to burn the house!” Grbavuša, my
mother, was the youngest of the women and she opened the door.
Nikola, our fellow-villager, entered together with an
officer. They said again that they didn’t come to burn the house down; instead
they asked if the soldiers who are with them could spend the night in the barn
and other rooms. They’re polite; they even ask if they can spend the night!
They spent the night and moved on the next day! And the house and the barn were
left empty. Not only that, after they robbed everything they ordered the
neighbors that no one is to give any food or provide any help to the Bilušinas.
Most of them didn’t have anything to give as it was, and the others followed
the instructions.
God does care after
all
When the partisans left in the morning, everybody in
the house breathed a little easier – at least they didn’t burn down our house.
The roof over our heads is still here. Rain started falling in the afternoon;
you could say it was pouring. While the members of the household were sitting
in the family house around the fireplace, an unknown man knocked on the door
and entered. “Praised be Jesus.” “Now and
Forever” He’s all wet. He said: “Forgive
me; here I am storming into your house to get out of the rain. I am Franjo
Radišić from Grljevići and I am on my way home from Ljubuški.’’ Grandma
told him to sit down, to get warm and dry. “I
would offer you something to eat and drink, but, brother; there is nothing in
the house. The partisans took everything yesterday and they ordered everyone not
to give us anything. They have condemned us to die of hunger.” The man
looked around and saw that there really wasn’t anything in the house. When he
heard what had happened, he said that he has enough food and that he will bring
a sack of flour and some other things tonight through the woods belonging to the villagers of Grljevići and
that someone from the house should sneak out and get it. As one might guess, Grbavuša
(my mother) went and Nina Majuša with her. They put a rope across their
shoulders and in the evening hours headed across the hill to the arranged spot,
a little further from Šošić’s houses. Franjo was already there. They took over
the food and secretly brought it home. This “secret route” was open during
these worst of times. But more than food, Franjo’s family and ours have become true
friends and, naturally, family members were each other’s godparents many times.
Everything had passed, but the friendship and the love remained.
Veža in retreat
My father Stipe
– Veža left at the end of October and stayed in the town of Široki Brijeg for a
time. Some surviving soldiers and civilians had seen him there. Mijo Penavić,
who came to Canada after the war, told me that he was with Veža at the
beginning of 1945 and that he had spent time with him in Široki. They had known
each other since before the war. Recently Ivan Marić from Radišići had also
told me that he used to see him in Široki Brijeg. When and how he had moved on
is unknown. People his age would also sometimes be “recruited” to provide
assistance to the less able refugees in retreat. It wasn’t until a conversation
with Ante Zlopaša – Skokušina from the village of Proboj in 2013 that I heard
that my father had gone all the way to Bleiburg in Austria. Namely, Ante said
to me: “My friend, I saw your dad in
Maribor (Slovenia) when we were on our way back from Bleiburg. When we were
separated, he was with the elderly, and we young people were on the other side.
I couldn’t miss him, he was almost 6 ft 5 and already completely grey. He had a
pouch of some kind on his shoulder.”
We never learned what had happened
to him from Maribor to Mostar. As most prisoners, he must have passed through
various camps. But, we do know that he ended up in the infamous Ćelovina prison
(in Mostar) of which we heard firsthand accounts.
In Ćelovina
Brothers Branko (born in 1912) and Ivan (born in 1914)
Boras from Gornji Proboj were also in Ćelovina together with my father Stipe,
among others. Their father was Mate, but everyone had called them Vida’s
/Vidini/ after their mother Vida. Together with them in their retreat was a
third brother, Ante. He was a salesman and somewhat fat and so his brothers
told him to get a ride with a truck and they would go on foot, which he did.
Afterwards Ante ended up in a camp in Austria and afterwards left to Canada where
he died. Branko and Ivan made it to Bleiburg in Austria, then returned on the
Way of the Cross[1]
and were brought to Ćelovina.
Before the war, Branko lived in
Mostar where he got married in 1941. He lived as a tenant in a house owned by
Branko Mijan, called Bane, in Matije Gupca Street, not far from Malta. Bane was
also on the Way of the Cross and he also ended up in Ćelovina. My father, who
was with them there, had also known Bane from before the war. Namely, my father
Veža was one of the more active members of the Croatian Peasant Party and he
went to Mostar on several occasions. He was friends with Bariša Smoljan, his
secretary Stanko Tomić, Minister Lavrić and others. Each time he would come to
Mostar he would stay with a fellow villager, friend and colleague from the
party, Branko Boras. That’s where he met and became friends with Bane Mijan as
well. Now they found themselves together in this infamous camp.
Branko’s wife Zora would come to
visit her husband, Branko Boras. Her son Mate remembers well how his mother
would tell him about these visits and the horrendous circumstances the
prisoners had been in. Aside from Branko, she would see her brother-in-law Ivan
and she would bring him food as well. The last time she saw Ivan was on 27 June
1945. She arrived the next day and brought some food but Ivan wasn’t there. She
asked: “Where is Ivan?” The guards
responded: “He isn’t here.” “What do you
mean he isn’t here when I was here yesterday and gave him some food?” Her
husband signaled her with his eyes: “Don’t
ask!” She later found out from her husband that his brother Ivan was taken
outside in the night of June 27 and killed. But, he wasn’t alone; a larger
number of prisoners were slaughtered that night. The Serbs were “celebrating”
their St. Vitus Day (28 June) and the Neretva River was flowing red with blood
that morning! Branko lived, but after Ćelovina he was convicted to four years
of imprisonment in the high-security prison and the loss of all of his civil
rights for three years. He did all four years.
It’s fairly easy to guess who was
making the decisions in our village of Proboj as to which of the imprisoned
villagers in Mostar would be killed and which would be left alive. Mijo Čuvalo,
better known for his bad reputation as Žic (“Wire”), was the one who had the
final say in the village. Of course, he had helpers.
Žic was the first “great Croat” in
the village and a supporter of the Croatian Peasant Party. It was April, 1941,
he was the first “Ustasha” and he started gathering young people for the
Ustasha army. He also later became the first partisan in the village, and they
needed his kind! He and his wife Aleruša were the rulers of the village during
those worst of times. Everyone knew that he was a dishonorable man and in the
end the partisans later hid him in (the
far away town of) Zenica. He would sometimes come to our native village and
even ask my mother how she and the children were. One time he told her: “If your husband Veža had been a little bit
wiser, he could have stayed alive,” to which she responded: “Listen, Žic, I prefer that he died with honorable
men than that he had lived with dishonorable men!” He stood silent and left
without a word.
Godfather Bane
My father Veža found out through Zora Brankinica that
his fourth son was born after leaving Proboj. Since he was friends with Bane
Mijan, they agreed that he was going to be my godfather at my Confirmation
since he couldn’t be my godfather when I was baptized. And that’s how it was,
and Bane later told us the following about my father and himself.
The executioners /dželati, from the Turkish word cellat/ of
Ćelovina prison would come every night and separate, based on what criteria he
didn’t know, a group of around 20-30 men. They would not come back! My father
Stipe was also taken in one of those groups. Several days later, Bane was also
taken. It was just before midnight and they were brought to the east side of
the river. The men knew what was ahead, but they were all quiet. No one
lamented or asked for mercy. They ordered them to stand in a line after which
fire from machine guns followed. After some time, Bane woke up and saw the dead
bodies of his fellow sufferers around him. He was surprised to be alive. He was
wounded in the head but not seriously. There wasn’t a soul in sight. By the
looks of it, they came early the next morning to throw the dead bodies in the
Neretva River or in one of the pits. Luckily, Bane woke up before the “second
shift” had arrived and after swimming across the Neretva managed to come home.
His wife cleaned up his wound after which he went into hiding, mostly in a tomb
at the cemetery not far from his house. After some six months he came out of
hiding and he was no longer of interest to the authorities. They let him be.
Bane was a carpenter and a civilian, and through no fault of his own, he was
taken to be shot and miraculously stayed alive.
Confirmation
While coming to visit his family in Proboj, Branko
Boras would stop by our house as well saying that Bane Mijan was sending his
regards and that my mother Grbavuša should let him know when my Confirmation
was going to be because he had promised my father Veža that he was going to be
my godfather. And so, the preparations were underway for Confirmation in the
church in Vitina in 1950. I was prepared for my Confirmation together with my
brother Mladen and sister Iva even though I was a little too young. I learned
all of the kolince /tr. remark:
catechism, the ‘kolince’ usually consisted of the Angelus prayer, Ten
Commandments, Five things before confession, Three things before Confirmation,
Five Commandments of the Church, Seven Sacraments etc/ and responses from
catechism and I passed the test before the pastor, Fr. Sebastian Lesko.
Mother sent word to Bane through the
Borases when Confirmation was going to take place. But, since she didn’t know Bane,
she wasn’t sure whether this unknown man from the city was going to come, and so
she prepared a “back-up” godfather, just in case. But Bane did not fail. A
man’s word is his word! Friendship is permanent.
I remember. It’s the night before
Confirmation. It’s already dark. Someone is knocking on the door. It was Bane.
He arrived by the bus that was passing through the village in the
evening from Mostar and was heading toward Imotski. Someone had given him
directions to our house and there he was, the man who was the last to see my
father alive. As soon as he came in, he asked who Vežinica (i.e. the wife of Veža) was. He hugged and kissed her and
then, with tears in his eyes, asked for me. I don’t even know what is going on
and there he is hugging me and crying. Naturally, everyone else in the house is
crying. It seemed to me that this lasted for some time. My godfather was of
shorter build but a man with a big and soft heart.
The next day it was Sunday, 19
November 1950. Godfather Bane brought me a white sailor suit for my
Confirmation. He told my mother that he couldn’t buy it, times were hard, and
that he had borrowed it instead. In any case, I was dressed above all
expectations. You have to remember that these were the early fifties! Everyone
was very poor. Bishop Petar Čule was in prison, and Don Andrija Majić performed
the sacrament of Confirmation in his place. After the anointment with the
sacred chrism, the foreheads of the other children were wrapped with an
embroidered confirmation scarf, and godfather Bane put the Croatian tricolor as
wide as the palm of the hand around my forehead. After the Mass he took it off
and placed it across my shoulder on the white suit. I knew that I looked
differently, and the elderly gazed at the Croatian tricolor with anguish and
longing. It was a very brave thing to do in those days, but I suppose that
someone who has already stared death in the face once wasn’t afraid of
anything. I would visit godfather Bane after that and he and my godmother would
always talk about Veža and emphasize that I should never forget where I come
from and everything that had happened during those times after the war. I have
written down these memories here in memory of them and all those innocent
people who were killed or who suffered.
A postcard from her murdered husband
At the beginning of the fifties my mother
was a seasonal worker, weighing tobacco at the Tobacco station in Ljubuški. She
would also work picking corn in Vojvodina (600km away) as well as picking
olives in Konavle (150km away). The children needed to be fed!
One day she received a postcard that
had arrived addressed to her at the Tobacco station. Mother was a little
surprised: who would be writing to her, and not at her home address in Proboj,
but at her place of employment at the company instead. Since she was
illiterate, she asked Ante Grbavac to read to her what was written and who had
written to her. To her surprise, the postcard was supposedly written by her
husband Stipe, Veža. He asked how she was, how the children were… He said that
he was well and that he was working on bulrush fields but that he is going to
the crop fields in Vojvodina with the other prisoners now. Bulrush and crop
fields! The local OZNAs /tr. remark:
reference is to communist secret police, i.e. “Oznaši” - members of OZNA –
Odjeljenje za zaštitu naroda – Department of National Security/ thought
they might torture a woman in such a dishonest and mean way.
When my brother Vlatko was
imprisoned for two months in 1980, mostly in solitary, in Mostar, he was
questioned by young udbašići /tr.
remark: reference is to another branch of communist secret services, i.e. members
of UDBA – Uprava državne bezbednosti – State Security Service, used
derogatively/ and asked about my father. My brother told them: “You know what became of him. The last time we
heard from him was a postcard he sent at the beginning of the fifties.” And
they stood in wonder, what postcard? They knew that he was killed in Mostar in
1945.
Just as his wife Anđa [Grbavuša] waited for him to return her whole
life, his offspring is also waiting for him so that they can bury his earthly
remains and light a candle on his grave.
That is how it was and how it
passed, and our elders used to say: “Whatever
someone does, he does to himself as well!” That is how it was and how it always
will be.
Ante
Čuvalo Vežin
[1] “Way of the Cross” in Croatia refers to the
700-800 km long prisoner death marches in which prisoners captured by
communist/partisan forces were forced to march.
Many were executed on the march; others died from illness or
exhaustion.
