VJEKOSLAV KALEB

ANTE KADIĆ

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Journal of Croatian Studies, XX, 1979, – Annual Review of the Croatian Academy of America, Inc. New York, N.Y., Electronic edition by Studia Croatica, by permission. All rights reserved by the Croatian Academy of America.

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Vjekoslav Kaleb is one of those good, conscientious, and serious authors whom other writers and literary critics read and appreciate much more than the general public, which enjoys light and amusing stories.

Born in 1905 at Tijesno, on the island of Murter, near Šibenik, Kaleb was an elementary school teacher in the backward Dalmatian hinterland (Zagora, between the mountain Kozjak and the river Krka) for sixteen years, from 1924 until 1940, when he became a civil servant in Zagreb. He joined the partisans in 1943. After the war, he served as editor of various literary periodicals; he was secretary of Matica Hrvatska and president of the Union of Croatian Writers. Now Kaleb lives in "retirement," which he spends (when not fishing or sailing during the summer) in reading and writing.

In 1940, when he was thirty-five years old, Kaleb published his first collection of stories, Na kamenju (On the Rocks). He was immediately hailed as one of the most talented Croatian writers. The majority of critics were pleased with his interesting material and particular style. Sima Matavulj and Dinko Šimunović had already depicted the primitive, barren, poverty-stricken Dalmatian plateau (both had taught in this area), but Kaleb looked at this same desolate region and its inhabitants from substantially different angle.[1] Kaleb's stories do not glorify the peasants as the representatives of honesty and the happy patriarchal life. On the contrary, in a calm, unemotional, concise manner he depicts the desert-like countryside and analyzes the minute movements and deeds of individuals who sometimes behave like animals. All day long they think of how to fill their empty bellies, how to conserve the bit of energy which still remains in them.

Parents have too many children (they have never heard about birth-control), but they celebrate their departure to "the better world" with a feast; they sometimes actively engage in infanticide. In his story Na kamenju, Kaleb sketches the apathy of parents who continue to live from day to day. They gradually cut down trees and sell everything which can be sold in order to buy food, or preferably drink; they even steal hard-earned money from their own youngsters whom they then leave in rags and starvation.[2] When the step-mother beats to death a small girl who "ate a bit of flour" (!), the girl's deaf-mute brother cuts the half-witted and rapacious woman's throat with a razor. Their father, who is equally hungry and at the end of his strength, nevertheless takes his dying daughter into his arms while tears run abundantly down his cheeks.

Grown-ups, particularly fathers, are Kaleb's favorite protagonists. Women play secondary roles; they are somewhere behind the scenes because they lose their appeal as soon as they are married and become pregnant. In one of Kaleb's moving stories, Odlazak Perušine (Peter's Departure), the author's attention is focused more on Peter's father than on the boy's journey to the unknown world, where he goes expecting to become an artisan's apprentice. The father attempts to assert his ego by all possible means, to show that he also exists. In spite of this and other shortcomings, when his son finally leaves, the father's heart is in his throat; he feels clumsy ridiculous, and alone in the world. He had boasted just to impress his son by his imaginary importance; he wanted to save face in front of other people, but deep within himself he was always aware of his miserable situation. Underneath their rude exterior, which they consider to be a masculine trait, certain peasants hide child-like souls; they do not dare to reveal their true feelings.

Kaleb's second collection of stories, Izvan stvari (Outside of Things), came out in 1942. One does not understand those critics who write that Kaleb was already then declining as an original author.[3] It seems to me that these stories are equally good, if not superior, to those published in 1940. This collection contains stories (such as Usput, Gost, Susret) which penetrate the inner substance of the characters. Pirandello, K. Capek, Kafka, or even Freud are usually mentioned in connection with these stories, but no matter how much Kaleb read these or other authors, he showed that he was maturing, that he was constantly reexamining his creative process and experimenting in subject-matter and style.

In the story Usput (By the Way) Kaleb gives a succinct picture of two men, Šime and Marko, both wealthy peasants whose interests and vanity had often conflicted: Šime had courted Marko's wife before Marko married her; Šime had succeeded in buying a piece of land which Marko also wanted. Their ill-will was inherited from their parents who were on extremely bad terms. One sunny afternoon, they meet in a tavern (the only place of diversion and showmanship) and though everyone, particularly the innkeeper, does his best to reconcile these two opponents, Marko often explodes at the peaceloving and indulgent Šime. When, toward evening, the peasants are leaving for home, they feel at ease, believing that the old vendetta has been settled. Then suddenly, for no reason, Marko butchers Šime. All present remained stunned; they do not utter a single word and have the appearance of people who do not believe their own eyes.[4]

Kaleb's story Gost (The Guest) is another remarkable achievement. The peasants he describes are needy, wretched, superstitious, and accustomed to living in a world of witchcraft. An unknown, clean, and well-fed dog enters a peasant's hut; he belongs definitely to a higher social class. The peasants look at him with respect and offer him their food on a plate. He then jumps onto their bed, where he rests for a while; they reverently whisper and are proud that he has deigned to visit them. When he awakens, he yawns, and then calmly leaves their shanty, watering their doorstep; the peasants remain speechless, but the reader knows that now they have something to talk about during their dull evenings.

The author does not make a single comment, but the story leaves a strong impression that in certain parts of this world perhaps it is better to be a well-bred dog than a man. These dogs, like their masters, take everything for granted; they are not a bit concerned with what people will think about them; they do not suffer from inferiority complexes, because they have not been forced from early childhood to accept the status of pariahs.

It is hard to be a poor peasant, it is harder to be his wife, but it is particularly difficult to be his daughter especially if she is pretty, bright and sensitive. In his autobiographical story, Susret (The Meeting), in which the author for once becomes lyrical and the scenery is no longer the rocky plateau, but the nearby enchanting waterfall of the Krka River, Kaleb presents a fifteen-year old girl, Ranka, who is in love with her teacher. He senses this and would like to sit and chat with her, but he does not dare and does not know how to show his feelings. Here and there they exchange a few words, revealing their melancholy mood and loneliness. The day before the teacher goes away, the girl grabs his hand, kisses it tenderly and then runs away. Two human beings were so close and needed each other, but they did not take advantage of the situation. In this love story the vocabulary and atmosphere are different than in Kaleb's other stories, but at the end we feel equally sad. The teacher and Ranka dream about a distant and better world; he succeeds in leaving the place, but what will happen to her? If she attempts to realize her dreams of freedom, she will probably be crushed by life just like the deer they had seen run gaily into the foaming waters of the Krka.

Although certain critics exaggerate the value of Kaleb's first two collections, probably to show the weakness of his postwar work, one must recognize that his first two books, as a whale, remain Kaleb's highest literary achievement. Nevertheless, one finds some remarkable stories among his recent writing.

Immediately after the war and until 1950, when he publishes his first and weakest novel, Ponižene ulice (Humiliated Streets), Kaleb swam in Zhdanovian waters. Using a black-white technique, he lost his detached attitude and competed with numerous Yugoslav writers in propagandizing the partisan exploits. Kaleb's third collection of stories, Brigada (1947), showed such a decline in the quality of his writing that his case is mentioned in Yugoslavia to prove what a catastrophic effect an arbitrary doctrine can have when imposed upon gifted writer.[5] One of his most "popular" stories, called Prozor (Window), is about two boys, Darko and Joža, who bravely fight the Germans to reconquer the elementary school of their native village where they studied a year before. The description of the skirmish, the reactions and thoughts of the two protagonists, their heroism (Darko courageously dies) and Joža's superhuman accomplishments ring like clichés. In reading such stories one feels both cheated and sorry for the author.[6]

Besides Ponižene ulice, Kaleb has written two much better novels, Divota prašine (Glorious Dust, 1954) and Bijeli kamen (The White Stone, 1955).

Kaleb's novel, or rather novella, Divota prašine (translated into English by Zora Depolo, London 1960), is one of the most successful works about the partisan movement. The pages in which Kaleb describes the hunger of the two main heroes (the "Boy" from Dalmatia and the "Naked Man" from Banija) are of unforgettable power.[7] Kaleb's protagonists are simple mountaineers for whom life would be beautiful again if they could have a piece of corn-bread, a potato and a glass of milk. They stumble and drag themselves over the harsh Bosnian hillside to expend the last ounce of their strength in an unequal engagement with the enemy. Kaleb is an accomplished master in bringing to life the feeling of brotherhood and genuine intimacy[8] which can only originate in a battle and out of an awareness of the justice of its cause.

When people are deprived of everything, they enjoy things which we take for granted, such as a sunrise, the singing of birds, the rippling of water, the feeling of rest after a good night's sleep, a human smile, comradeship, the certitude that our life is not without purpose. It seems that from time to time one should be reduced to a caveman's existence; one must apparently be on the brink of death in order to enjoy the simple but great blessings of life. Who among us dreams about the fragrance of a baked potato,[9] and who would think himself privileged if he were forced to take off his torn shoes and walk barefoot on the dusty roads?

In his third novel, Bijeli kamen, Kaleb has returned to his Dalmatian peasants, somewhere in the neighborhood of Šibenik. He depicts their individual and collective resistance in 1942 against the Italian fascists, who suffered from self-deception because of their own Irredentist propaganda; they were convinced that the Dalmatian people expected them as "liberators". As it is impossible to turn stones into human beings, it was equally impossible to turn a Croatian into an Italian. In all this bloody adventure the individual Italians are presented warmly; they are ready to exchange their guns for guitars, horrified by the idea of suddenly becoming murderers: they would rather give their own food to the emaciated victims than shoot them.[10]

The main character of Bijeli kamen is the stonecutter Strana; around him gravitate his wife Cvita and their young friend Naste, with her one-year old son. Naste's husband is gone; he left her, hoping to find a better life elsewhere. She gradually becomes attached to the silent stonecutter, who is intoxicated by her beauty and her naiveté but is unable to betray his wife. Cvita is sometimes jealous and sometimes very condescending. She acts protectively and tenderly toward Naste; she looks at her attractive body more than her husband, who does not dare to give free course to his emotions.

Strana is a wise and self-controlled man. He lives only for his white stone which he measures and caresses with his hands and eyes in his spare-time. Since he is not interested in what is going on in the village or in the world, Strana has much time at his disposal. He keeps in contact with events through the two women, who are always in the middle of everything; they feel an inner urge to be informed about the smallest tidbits of gossip. They are good-hearted but their tongues are in perpetual motion.

The Italians attack the village, but they are massacred by the partisans; the Italian commander climbs a tree and hides himself among the branches. Strana has many reasons for revealing this arrogant boaster, who had publicly humiliated him, but he does not say a word to anyone when by chance he sees the trembling commissar. The commissar later spreads the news about his benefactor. The partisans discuss at length if Strana should be executed; he is pardoned but ordered to remain in the village when they with-draw after heavy Italian shelling which causes the burning of en-tire villages. Strana and his intimates are burned alive.

It is obvious on every page of this novel that Kaleb's hero is Strana. One can admire the attitude of a Communist author siding with an individual who does not care for national collective involvement in the struggle against the enemy. It could be, however, that Kaleb's main goal was to emphasize that an individual, no matter how goodhearted and innocent he is, will certainly perish as long as he does not join the ranks of others; only those individuals who entirely subordinate their own interests and ambitions to a collective enterprise have chances of surviving.

Strana is not a convincing character. One does not understand what he really wants. Does he posses the capacity for being a good craftsman instead of a simple amateurish artisan? If he could free himself from his environment, where would he go, what would he do? Is he too human to survive in circumstances of war or is he just a dreamer, a coward, an undecided man, constantly torn in opposite directions?

In addition, Kaleb did not stop experimenting with his style. No one objects to an interest in psychology, the insertion of dreams, or frequent allusions to streams of consciousness, but readers become exasperated when they must read some paragraphs several times because it is not clear who is speaking. Kaleb used to be precise and write short sentences, but in this novel his phrases are page-long, with little punctuation.[11]

Kaleb is not always a perfect writer, but he is one who is able to discover when he is on the wrong track and is willing to move in the right direction. There are signs that in his recent writing he has found a happy compromise in being not only new but also understandable, convincing and interesting. In some of his stories he shows that he has regained his mastery; I would even say that in certain instances he is better than the prewar Kaleb. To corroborate my statement I shall quote stories as Stube, i ništa više (Stairs and Nothing Else), Ogledalo (Mirror), Štap u šetnji (A Stick on Promenade), Zarobljenik (Prisoner), and the best among them, Trijumfalna vrata (Triumphal Door), all to be found in his collection of stories Ogledalo (Beograd 1962, with a valuable introduction by Vlatko Pavletić).[12]

In these stories Kaleb is not interested in accurate external description. He now looks for that subject matter which will convey his thoughts. Kaleb often meditates on the crucial problems of life and art. He writes simply and avoids high sounding vocabulary; he does not fatigue his readers with pompous phraseology. He points to certain subjects around us and then stops. He leaves it to the reader to form his own judgments, to search for a deeper meaning in accordance with his capacity, taste and education.

Thus, in the story Stube, i ništa više, a couple sits at the bottom of a long stairway and comments on people walking up and down. They find that only a child walks naturally, while the others are ridiculous in their efforts to preserve their imaginary dignity. The couple is joined in conversation by a madman, who watches the passers-by from the garden of an adjoining insane asylum and utters remarks which have no connection with reality; he enjoys finding some abstract comparison, some nicely formulated idea. The male companion has the habit of hiding his indecisive nature behind big words. His lady-friend, on the other hand, is not interested in dissecting everything; she would prefer to climb those stairs like other people do. The couple starts to climb the stairs, where they will encounter difficulties, because stairs are dangerous, like life is, but they will experience existence. If one likes to find the meaning of stairs, he should not look at them from a distance, but sense them resounding beneath his feet.

In another story, Zarobljenik, it seems that a madman is right. He refuses to go out and mix with other people, because in the out-side world everyone has a gun; everyone wants to shoot; nobody can keep quiet. There is constant fighting going on. The same fortress is conquered by attackers, who are then expelled by the former occupants, who again are chased by the original attackers, and so on. Is it worth being considered a normal citizen if one must accept the duty of killing others or run the risk of being killed by them? When will people stop fighting each other?

In Trijumfalna vrata the narrator decides to let loose his donkey, accustomed to meager food, into an imaginary garden where he can find everything to his heart's desire. But the donkey is chased out of there by a fierce panther, which then turns its fury upon the narrator. The story becomes amusing, almost grotesque, when the scared narrator starts running back and forth through the door which he succeeds in closing every time, while the panther, trying to catch him at any price, keeps jumping over the wall.

The triumphal door, which separates dream from reality, saves the narrator. We are also saved by our dreams if they became real; they would then lose their meaning and charm. Perhaps we would then dream about things which we now reject as prosaic reality.

Although some good writers (e.g. Matavulj, Cippico, and Šimunović) wrote about the same Dalmatian hinterland (Zagora) as did Kaleb, he did not imitate them, but went his own way. While his predecessors were prone to lyricism, or defended those who were underdogs or exploited, Kaleb usually does not identify himself with his characters, and therefore his testimony is even more convincing.

As Sisyphus and Tantalus endeavored to reach something unattainable, so Kaleb's intellectual protagonists, in one way or another are tormented with insoluble problems. It is not easy to be a man, because he does not live by bread alone, but what he really seeks beyond material existence, he does not know. Even when he discovers it, it is impossible to explain to others. One must move forwards, always towards higher goals, because without this constant search for a deeper meaning, life would become even more unbearable.

As Kaleb depicted with adequate language the Dalmatian villagers, so he gave convincing portraits of those who dwell in the cities. He entered so deeply into their mind, into their often complicated psychology, that we remain enchanted both with his elaborate vocabulary and his capacity for revealing the inner thoughts of his characters.

With his subject-matter, original approach and expressive power Kaleb is an interesting writer. His stories likewise are a witness to the high level which contemporary Croatian prose has attained.[13]



[1] Concerning Kaleb's cf. Petar Šegedin, in the third part of his essay "Čovjek u riječi" (Man and His Writing), in Rad JAZU 308 (1955), particularly pp. 115-17.

[2] We expect that parents would give food first to their children and go hungry themselves if necessary. But what happens when one's animal instincts over-come reason, when there is pain in one's entire body and the stomach becomes a dreadful vulture which demands its due? It could be that then there is no difference between voracious dragons and human beings. Dante understood well our human nature when in the Inferno (Canto 33) he described the horrible suffering of the kind Count Ugolino who devours his own loving progeny, but only after they have died ("Piů che il dolor, potč il digiuno," v. 75).

[3] Živko Jeličić, Lica i autori (Characters and Authors), Zagreb, 1953, pp. 22-29.

[4] Ivan Goran Kovačić was the first (in 1942) to stress the value of this story. Cf. his Izabrane djela (Selected Works), 1951, pp. 381-83.

[5] Vlatko Pavletić in Republika, 1962, nos. 2-3, 50.

[6] Nevertheless, this story was included in Jugoslovenska proza, published by the Association of Yugoslav Writers, in 1949. This was during the time when rigid socialist realism was still predominant in Yugoslav letters.

[7] They were familiar with several degrees of hunger. The first stage is the state in which one simply yearns for breakfast, dinner or supper; in the second stage the stomach shrinks with emptiness, and as it has been denied satisfaction for a considerable time it has lost all hope, and the body only yearns for sleep. In the third stage the organism suddenly becomes completely exhausted, and feeling an immediate threat of collapse, greedily searches for food, prepared, like a wild beast, for anything...." (p. 147). Some have suggested (e.g., Milan Selaković) the influence of Jack London's Love of Life (1907), but there is little if any similarity.

[8] "The Boy's shivering grew worse and worse. The naked Man lay down by him, leaning over him to shelter him. But this was no use. Then he took off his leather coat and covered the Boy up and pressed himself all naked against the Boy's back. He tried to nestle close to the Boy to reduce the amount of his exposed surface" (pp. 82-83).

[9] "You've just got to come with me to Banija. Then you'll see what potatoes are! Potatoes! But what potatoes! You can't die of starvation. You can't. You can bake them in the ashes or on the embers; you boil them, and if you have the money and the time you can fry them in lard (p. 41).

[10] The poor soldier who finds himself in a country which hates him, is supposed to kill no matter how he feels, because otherwise he will be executed by his superior officer or by the insurgents; he then becomes obsessed by fear for his own life and is brother to any soldier in this bloody world. The conquistadors were never successful when their hands were not covered with blood. The last war made us realize that civilization, even among the most advanced nations, is only a thin crust which serves to hide the unattractive side of human nature.

[11] I am in full disagreement with Miloš Bandić, who in writing about Bijeli kamen said that Kaleb is cold and composed and that he operates with few words, tersely and simply, like a sculptor cutting stone (Vreme romana, [Era of the Novel], Beograd, 1958, pp. 77-83).

[12] This same introduction was first published in a longer form in Republika, 1962, nos. 2-3. 49-59. Pavletić's best essay about Kaleb appeared in the collection Pet stoljeća hrvatske književnosti (Five Centuries of Croatian Literature), vol. 118. Zagreb 1973, pp. 7-29.

[13] This sketch is an abbreviated version of my long study about Kaleb's stories, which is included into my book Domovinska riječ (Message from the Homeland), Barcelona; Knjižnica Hrvatske Revije. 1978, pp. 266-86.