Back in the days when my mother’s uncle was a priest, families were so proud when one of their sons got the call. I always thought it was because everyone was so religious. But over the years, I got to learn there was more to it than that. They only picked the most intelligent boys to become priests. In the schools that they trained in, they learned about a lot more than the bible. They got a very well-rounded education. When they graduated and were sent to a community, they were often the only educated people in their whole village.
The parents of a priest not only had pride in an intelligent son, but they also had comfort in the knowledge that he’d be educated and out of poverty. Having a family member with a closer connection to God didn’t hurt either.
My mom’s uncle’s given name was Ivo, but when he entered the priesthood, he took a new name which was custom. His new name was Antony, and he was known everywhere as Don Ante Matacin. But we always knew him as “mom’s uncle, the priest.”
As a kid, I remember him being tall, stocky with a shaved head. Very formidable with a perpetual scowl. But the coolest memory I have of him was when he walked me to the store. At the counter, he told me to buy candy. Lots of it. I cautiously grabbed two chocolate bars. He said to grab more. Hmm. I did. He said to grab more. I did. This continued for much longer than I ever dreamed it could.
When my mother was a little girl, she remembers her family having to live with her uncle during World War II. They had to move there because their house was destroyed by the Italians. His house was in the Yugoslavian coastal town of Privlaka, just north of Zadar.
Things actually worsened for him after the war because Yugoslavia became communist under Tito, and many priests were put to death. Mom’s uncle was targeted because he was so politically involved. They captured him and were going to put him through a secret court where he would be found guilty and sentenced to death. They had to make everything seem legitimate, so they could get financial support from the West. They had already spread rumours that the priest was dead so that no one would be asking questions and showing up at the court.
Luckily, a judge that was the priest’s childhood friend found out about this and told his family. According to the judge, someone had to show up at court and demand to see him. In this way, they wouldn’t be able to carry out the kangaroo court and sentence him to death. My mom hid and listened as her mother and two sisters talked it out. No one wanted to go, but my grandmother finally said she would do it.
She showed up unannounced and demanded to see her brother. The judge asked who told her he was still alive. She said that she had a dream that he was alive. They didn’t believe her and kept asking who told her. But she was stubborn and stuck to her story. She said she had several dreams that he was still alive and demanded to see him. They finally relented and let her see him.
Now they had to have a regular court day for him, and his friend could be the presiding judge. He was a communist on paper only, not in his heart, but the best he could do was get the priest 20 years in prison. It was the minimum sentencing he was allowed to give. It was either that or being shot. His friend said that either he’ll die in prison, or he’ll be released at some point if the government changes. The priest received multiple beatings while in jail. Years later, he told my mom about how he still had a sore back from all the thrashings he got in prison.
In 1955, the Warsaw pact was formed, and because of that, all political prisoners had to be released. The priest was released after a little over 10 years. But in true communist fashion, all the released prisoners were secretly killed, one by one. It was another communist-in-name-only (CINO?) who came to the priest’s rescue. His nephew was a captain of the police patrolling the Adriatic Sea. One of his duties was to catch people trying to escape Yugoslavia by boat (being a communist country, you weren’t allowed to leave).
The captain knew what was happening, so he got in touch with his aunt, my grandmother, to hatch a plan. It was a typical Slavic plan.
The night of the escape, the nephew got his entire crew really drunk. The priest and a few friends got ready with a boat. When the crew was passed out drunk, the captain signaled the priest and friends that the coast was clear. The nephew saluted his uncle as the boat sailed by. He later told my grandmother that all that booze cost him an entire month’s pay. Apparently, I met the nephew when we first visited Yugoslavia in 1972. I wish I knew the story then. It would have been great to hear it first hand.
The priest was able to get to Italy, where he settled in Rome for a time, helping other Croatians escape Yugoslavia, including my parents.
There are more stories to tell about him and his interesting life, but my mom has her own favourite memory of her uncle. Back when they were living with him during the war, her uncle had a dog. He was a German shepherd whom all the kids adored. They played with him all the time.
I never considered that the priest had any kind of a sense of humour, but he named the dog Hitler. I can only assume that it’s because the real Hitler was so well respected before the war broke out.
The Italians had already overrun the Dalmatian coast, but now the Germans were coming. The priest realized that he had to put Hitler down before the Germans got there. It wasn’t an easy decision, especially for a priest. But he had lived through the first world war and knew you could get killed for much less than naming your dog Hitler.
The children didn’t understand and were all very sad when they heard the news. They ran crying that Hitler was dead. Father Antony buried him in the back of the house and prayed for him. All the kids in the neighbourhood came for the funeral and cried for Hitler. What a sight that would have been if the German soldiers got there a little early.