Rebecca Duras

If Only She Would Come

Nada Petrović spent most of her pension on candles.

She did not need them to light her home. Her grandson, an architect in Zagreb, paid her electrical bill. She did not use them to decorate her sparse stone cottage, which was only decorated with pictures of her family, mostly dead or abroad, and a portrait of the Virgin Mary in every single room.

Nada brought her candles to the feet of the Virgin in the village church. Every day, she sat in front of the statue from the moment the sun rose until it set; she had started this vigil several years ago, back when her knees were still strong enough to kneel.

“Come,” she prayed. “Grant the wishes of an old woman with not much to live for; I know those ceramic ears can hear me better than my neighbors can.”

The villagers all speculated about what Nada prayed for.

“She is praying for her husband’s soul,” whispered Marija Petrović dreamily.

“Shush, Marija; you’re too old to be a romantic,” said Marija Zelenić. “She’s probably praying for her family to visit her more often. She barely remembers what that grandson looks like!”

“Maybe she’s praying for death,” said Marija Jelačić, a tear sliding down her wrinkled face. “It’s coming for all of us soon. Let’s hope it brings a blessed relief in the arms of Our Lord after these awful years.”

“Oh, shut up, Maro! You’re going to outlive us all,” snapped Marija Lovrić. “Maybe she’s just crazy.” Marija Lovrić was still bitter about losing her title as the most pious woman in the village when Nada Petrović had begun her daily vigil.“Or maybe she just wants the attention,” she said, but her friends were already talking about Father Stjepan’s new car.

Nada always greeted the women warmly but never divulged her secret or even stopped to chat. Nothing would deter Nada from her daily prayers. She did not even move when she heard the honking car horns from yet another family leaving for Germany, although that day she stayed in the church even longer.

“Please, Virgin, please appear to us. It would save this village. Now we only have four children. What is a community without children? Only old women, sitting around weeping! You showed yourself down in Medjugorje, and look at what they did with your holy image! A whole money-making carnival, pah! I would never go that far. I just want you to show yourself here in Kardinalovo so maybe people would stay.”

She did not move even when Father Stjepan blew out the candles.

“It’s ok, Stjepan, I can pray in the dark too,” she said when he tapped her shoulder.

“Nada, the Virgin has powerful ears. She will hear you at home as well,” Father Stjepan replied. He grasped her elbow and steered her towards the door. 

Nada went to bed but did not sleep. Instead, she lay awake, wondering how to make the Virgin hear her. She gazed at a painting Petar had bought for her, a picture of the Virgin and the apostles receiving the Holy Spirit. “Tell me what to do,” she whispered.

The answer came to her while looking at the painting: even Jesus had apostles who helped him spread his word. How silly of her to think her own voice would be enough!

**

She knocked on Father Stjepan’s door the next morning. “Stjepan, I need to tell you something.”

“Yes, of course, Nada. I am always here for you. Would you like some coffee?”

“I want to tell you what I’ve been praying for all these years.”

Stjepan immediately sat up straighter. “Nado, you know whatever you pray for is between you and God. If you feel the need for a father confessor to intervene—”

“Shush, Stjepan. I know you’ve been dying to hear what I could possibly be praying for, just like the rest of the village.”  

He blinked in surprise. Nada continued. “I’ve been praying for the Virgin Mary to appear here in our village.”

“But Nado,” Stjepan said, “you know that true believers believe without seeing.”

“I don’t need her to appear to me, I believe in her just fine. I pray to her every day, don’t I? I need her to appear to the rest of the village.”

“Oh,” said Stjepan, wiping away a tear. “All this time, you’ve been praying for their souls. I do my best, but there are still some unbelievers, some strayed sheep in this flock…”

“I don’t care about their souls, Stjepan. That’s between them, God, and maybe you. I want the Virgin Mary to appear in this village so we can become the next Medjugorje.”

“What?” Stjepan said, choking on his coffee.

“Oh, with less pageantry. Still, people would come from all over. Our villagers could run hotels and restaurants. My grandson could come back from Zagreb and design a new, soaring church to house the miraculous statue—”

“Nada, are you telling me that all this time that you’ve been praying to the Virgin Mary to get her to come here? As if she’s a visitor from the next city over? Bothering her with wishes for a-a-a hotel, and restaurants!”

“Please, Stjepan, it’s the only way to save this village. Yesterday, another young family left, the third one this year, and it’s only July!”

“So why did you come to me after all these years?”

“Because the Virgin Mary still has not come. Perhaps she does not hear me; I am only one voice shouting out of many. But if the whole village prayed, I think she would listen.”

Stjepan sighed. “I will pray for the health of this village and that people find jobs nearby. I will not pray for the Virgin Mary to appear. She’s not a grandchild that you can guilt into visiting, Nada.”

Nada rose. “Then I will organize the villagers without your help.”

She shuffled outside, moving with as much purpose as her old joints could afford her. As usual, the four Marijas were sitting in the church courtyard.

“— I told her mother this is what happens when you let girls go to Germany to study. Now she wants to marry a Protestant!” Marija Zelenić was explaining.

“Never mind your granddaughter, Sofia was always stubborn and she will marry who she wants. Do you want to know what I pray for?” Nada interrupted.

“I mean, yes, if you want to tell us— “whispered Marija Petrović.

“Oh, please. I know you’ve spent years trying to guess. I’m praying for the Virgin Mary to come to our village.”

 “Like Medjugorje?” said Marija Zelenić.

“Yes, like Medjugorje.”

“To save our village and keep the young people here,” said Marija Jelačić, thinking of her long-gone children.

“Yes,” Nada said with one of her rare smiles.

“And why are you telling us now?” asked Marija Lovrić, crossing her arms.

“Because clearly, my voice is not enough. I need all of you to come pray with me so the Virgin will hear.”

 “And why us?” 

“Because you are pious women,” Nada replied, “and most importantly, you have all lost just as much as I have.”

“Very well,” Marija said, rising. “We will join you.”

The five shuffled into the church and arranged their bulky hips on the hard wooden pews. They sat in silence, waiting for Nada to lead the prayer. After ten minutes, Marija Lovrić finally spoke. “So, are we going to pray the rosary or something?”

“What?” Nada replied after she crossed herself. “Oh, I’m too old to remember all those words. I mostly just talk to her.”

Marija Lovrić tried to do the same. At first, she could not stop fidgeting, but with time Nada’s stillness enveloped her and she thought of nothing besides the church and her friends, full of yearning, beside her. With contemplation, even the Virgin’s factory-sculpted face seemed to grow more beautiful.

At the end of the day, all of the Marijas were emotional. Even Marija Lovrić had tear tracks on her craggy cheeks. “Thank you, Nada. I can feel the Virgin thanks to you.”

“Maybe it’s working!” Nada said. “But for us, five old bats are not enough. You must tell your neighbors about this. They don’t need to pray all day, but a few Hail Marys might make a difference.”

Soon, all fifty remaining villagers were praying for the appearance of the Virgin Mary. The statue, which had been looking a little worse for wear, wore a new, hand-sewn gown every week and was surrounded by so many flowers that her head was barely visible. Father Stjepan had a full church every Sunday for the first time in years. 

“We’ve finally put Kardinalovo back on the Lord’s path,” said Marija Jelačić, smiling through her tears.

“Oh, stop weeping, Marija; you’re spending all your money on tissues,” Nada said. “We’ve all been praying for three months now, but still no Virgin Mary.”

“Well, not all of us,” said Marija Lovrić.

“What do you mean? Have you forgotten to tell somebody to pray?”

“No, we’ve talked to everybody,” Marija Lovrić said, drawing out the words. Despite her renewed zeal for prayer, she could not resist the feeling of knowing more than Nada.

“Then who is refusing to pray?”

“There are still two holdouts. Father Stjepan­–”

“Father Stjepan prays; he’s a priest,” Nada interrupted.

“Yes, but he refuses to pray for the apparition. He says we are bothering the Virgin.”

Nada shrugged. “That’s not a problem. Every good apparition story has a reluctant priest. Who’s the other one?”

“Miro.”

The ladies groaned. They had forgotten all about Miro, the town drunk.

“We’re doomed,” said Marija Jelačić, sniffling.

“No, we’re not,” said Nada, gripping her walking stick. “I’ll talk to him.”

She hobbled towards the edge of the village, where Miro liked to sit and drink. He looked up at the sound of her walking stick.

“Oj, Nado! Your house is the other way. Have you been sneaking a few sips too?”

“Miro, I’ve come to talk to you.”

“Why would you want to do that? Aren’t you afraid of my sins?”

“The Lord himself spent time with tax collectors and prostitutes, so why should I be afraid of you?”

“Ah,” Miro said, “You’re a rare one, Nado, a religious bat who’s not a hypocrite.” He rose from the stone he was sitting on. “Here, sit down while we talk. I have not forgotten all of my manners.”

Nada sat. “Miro, why aren’t you praying?”

“I’ve never prayed.”

“That’s not true. I remember when you were an altar boy.”

“That’s the problem with talking to old people. They remember the shit about you that even you’ve forgotten or tried to.” He looked at her with alarm. “Sorry I said shit, ma’am.”

She waved a hand. “My ears will survive a few curses. Why did you stop praying?”

“I still pray. Alcohol is my god now.”

“Miro!”

He looked at the bottle in his hands, studying the label as if there were answers there. “I stopped praying twenty-five years ago, Nada, when I first saw my friends get blown up in the muddy battlefields.” He took a swig from his bottle then grimaced when he realized it was empty. “First, I prayed to God to make it stop, but He didn’t, then I prayed to God to make me forget everything I had seen, but He didn’t. Alcohol is at least kind enough to make me forget.”

“Oh, Miro— “

“Don’t ‘oh, Miro’ me. I don’t want your sympathy.” He sneered even as the last of his tears trickled into his moustache. “I may be a drunk, but I’m not stupid. I know about your little project. That’s why you’re really here, isn’t it? To get me to pray so that you can have your stupid miracle, not because you actually care.”

“That is why I’m here, but—“

“Well, you’re delusional if you think she’ll ever come here. We’re a small place, but full of sin. What do you think all those people do when they’re done praying? They drink, lie, fuck… The Virgin is never going to come to a village of sinners, to a village full of people who let their friends die and didn’t do a thing to stop it… God, I need a drink.” He turned and stumbled towards the village store.

“He’s right,” said Nada. “None of them have stopped sinning!”

Over the next few weeks, the villagers grew terrified of Nada and her uncanny ability to appear at the worst moments. “Are you gossiping?” she said to the Marijas by way of greeting one morning. “Gossiping is a sin.”

“Greed is a sin,” she cried under Father Stjepan’s window when she caught him watching the lottery draw.

“I only play to get more money to rebuild our church!” he protested, but she glared at him until he turned the television off.

The four Marijas began to regret their alliance with Nada.

“This is too much,” Marija Zelenić grumbled. “Praying was nice, but this is like living under the Inquisition!”

“The other day I was having a sip of medica to settle my stomach and she yelled at me for alcoholism,” said Marija Petrović. “Maybe if she took some time off, it would do her good. We could send her to visit her grandson in Zagreb?” 

“I mentioned it to her, but she refuses to leave the village until the Virgin appears because we would fail without her guidance. Then she yelled at me for committing the sin of vanity because I curl my hair,” added Marija Zelenić.

“I can’t live like this anymore!” Marija Jelačić sniffled.

“I agree; I’ve had enough,” said Marija Lovrić. “I called my grandson, Milan. He gave me her grandson’s number. Petar said he’d come soon and take her to live with him.”

“He won’t put her in a home, will he?” said Marija Jelačić.

“Not immediately, no. But if she becomes too much for him to handle...” Marija Lovrić said ominously. “You know how it is with these young people.”

The next day, Petar drove into the village and parked in front of Nada’s cottage. The house was the same as always, down to the last half-dead flower in the garden, but the others felt unnaturally still. The neighbor’s granddaughter that played with toy airplanes in front of their house was gone. His friend Žućo, who always sat in his entryway with the door open while drinking a beer at midday, was also gone. Now he was waiting tables in Germany.

Petar knocked. “Baka?” he called.

“She’s in the church!” called the neighbors.

Petar trudged up the hill to the church. Nada was in front of the statue, alone again. The Marijas had begun staying away. She looked up as the door opened.

“Petre! This is a bigger miracle than the Virgin appearing. Come pray with me, and the blessed Virgin will surely come join us.”

“Baba, I’m taking you with me to Zagreb.”

“What? No!” Nada shrank back in her chair. 

“You can live with me. I live right by a beautiful church, and you can pray to the Virgin there. We can visit Zagreb Cathedral, and one weekend, I’ll take you to Marija Bistrica.”

“But what about the Virgin? The villagers need my guidance!”

He placed a hand on her arm. “Baka, they’re the ones who called me. They said you’ve been terrorizing them.”

Her grey eyes flashed with anger. “Do they think salvation is an easy task? I am trying to save their souls and their livelihoods whether they like it or not.”

Petar suppressed a groan. “Baka, what can I do to convince you to come with me?”

“I will only leave Kardinalovo when the Virgin comes. Then they won’t need me because they will have her.”

“Then I will pray with you for her to come.” Petar knelt next to his grandmother’s chair and bowed his head, placing his clasped hands into her lap. His knees were unused to the cold stone floor and they soon began to hurt, but he kept praying, whispering words he’d almost forgotten.

Petar stayed with his grandmother for three days and two nights. By day, he kept vigil with his grandmother. In the evening, Nada would go to bed soon after dinner so she could wake up as early as possible to go pray. But Petar would stay awake wondering what would happen if her prayers did come true. “You’re going senile too,” he muttered, but at night he would dream of himself, Žućo, and the whole crew drinking beers on his porch, together again.

On the third night, Nada kept her apron on after dinner. “Tonight, I will teach you how to make bread,” she said.

“Isn’t it late?” Petar asked.

Nada waved his question away. “It’s important for someone to know how to make bread, and I have no granddaughters. Take out my wooden board.”

Petar placed the board on the table. “Can’t you teach me in the morning? There will be more light–“

“In the mornings we pray, Petar, I thought you knew that,” Nada cut him off. “Bring me the flour and the sugar.”

Nada’s hands shook when she sifted out the flour, but she still made a mound on the board with hardly a grain out of place. “Remember to put lots of sugar in the yeast, Petar. Then it works better and you get that sweet taste only homemade bread has. None of the bakeries do this anymore, not since Vinko the baker died.”

“Baka, my apartment is small and I don’t really bake–“

“I don’t measure my ingredients,  only young people do that,” Nada interrupted. “Add however much flour the bread needs from you. You will learn to feel it out in time.” She beat all the ingredients together with a fork. “Come, Petar, you knead the dough.”

Petar rolled the dough around the board. He only made a few rotations before his grandmother shoved him out of the way. “Not like that, Petre moj mali, you can’t stroke the dough as if it’s a sensitive cat!” Her wrinkled hands became nimble again and she kneaded the dough until it was smooth.

Petar shrugged. “Baka, I’m like a fumbling baby. It’s no use.”

“Practice, son. I started making bread when I was a child, then later when your grandfather and I were working on his land, and then to feed my children and my grandchildren.” She placed the dough in a bowl and covered it with a kitchen towel. “Now always make sure to let the dough rise to twice its size before you continue. Oh, I’m getting too old for this. Let me sit down while it rises.” She collapsed onto a kitchen chair but waved Petar’s worry away. “Stop jumping. I worked until I thought my back would break when I was younger.”

She sighed. “But it was good, all the same. People walked home with a song on their lips even after spending all day in the fields. Everybody came to church, and children never strayed far from their parents.”

She looked at the resting dough. “Will you shape the loaves for me once I’m in bed? I know you remember what they look like.”

“Of course,” Petar said, helping her up. “You shouldn’t have talked about the old days, it makes you so sad–“

“Oh, I’m not sad!” Nada said and patted his cheek. “I’m happy for the first time in forever. Soon it will all be like that again.”

Like every night, Petar knelt by the side of her bed while she whispered her evening prayers, but this night Nada suddenly stopped praying. He looked up. She was staring upwards, her eyes filling with tears. “She has come,” she whispered. “Look at the light, sine moj, she has come!”

Petar saw only the overhead light. “Grandma, it’s just—“

“It was all worth it, Petar. The families will no longer leave... Oh, Kardinalovo is saved!” she said, tears now flowing freely down her cheeks. She removed her grandson’s hands from her lap and eased herself up into a sitting position.

“Grandma, wait—”

Nada turned to him and cradled his head in her hands. The light made a halo of her hair, finally free of its kerchief. “And you were the first, Petre! You were the first to come back, that’s why she’s appearing to us now!”

“Grandma, you know I cannot stay forever,” Petar said as gently as he could. “This is my home, but I have to go back to work!”

But Nada only stared blissfully at the ceiling light. “I can see her face in the light, she is smiling at me. The village must know, but — I am so tired. I think I will lie down first, and we can tell the village tomorrow.”

She lay back on the pillow. A blissful smile spread across her face as she closed her eyes.

Petar knelt by her side and held her hand long after it was cold between his fingers.

Rebecca Duras is a Croatian-American writer currently based in Zagreb. Her work has previously appeared in Gastarbajter Magazine, Bombastic Magazine, and other journals. You can find her on Twitter at @ozzthegr8 or on Substack at thebestfckingyearsofyourlife.substack.com.