Chapter seven

 As expected, there were interminable discussions around the table on the Virtues of Capitalism. The kids 

were turned out of the room when these began because Mother was afraid the kids would blab at school. 

Appreciating the gravity of the occasion, we loitered outside the door in the hope of catching a few words 

of treason but heard nothing worth repeating. There was a lot of shushing and hushing going on as 

Mother took every precaution. The family, you see, had got into trouble once before.

     Just a few months ago, Pavel came home from school with a note requesting an interview with Mother 

and Dad at the comrade principal’s office. They were a bit puzzled; it was Pavel’s first year of school and 

he was doing all right, and what with his quiet nature and all they couldn’t make sense of it, but of course, 

they went. The interview started well enough, Pavel was a clever boy, no problem there. However, when 

asked by the comrade teacher for a monetary contribution for the purchase of trumpets for the Young 

Pioneers, Pavel refused to hand over his crown saying he’d rather have ice cream, and if the Young Pioneers 

were short of trumpets, they could blow out of their asses as far as he was concerned.

‘Now, you understand we cannot allow this attitude to flourish,’ comrade principal Ciliman 

said, looking severely at Mother who’d shrunk to the floor under his stern gaze, ‘and frankly, 

I am wondering where the child gets it from,’ he continued, shifting his focus to Dad who 

loomed larger than ever. Mother and Dad gathered their wits. Lying through their teeth, they 

blamed Pavel’s lack of enthusiasm about the socialist youth organization (aka the Young Pioneers) 

on a mystery illness that had kept him out of preschool thus depriving him of valuable instruction 

on the Pioneers’ pivotal role in our progressive society. A plausible scenario to be sure; 

nonetheless, comrade principal Ciliman looked grim. Drumming his fingers on the desk, he 

pursed his lips and raised his brows. Dad understood.

 

‘We’d be honoured if you …’ pulling a hundred out of his wallet, Dad discreetly placed the note 

under the stapler, slowly bowing out of the office. A valuable lesson was learned from this: keep 

your mouth shut in front of little children. Consequently, from then on, discussions involving politics 

were out of bounds in the house of Zhvuk & Dribbler. 

     Of course, everyone knows what goes on behind closed doors. Slivka flows, people argue, fists are 

banged and things containing very little truth are sworn to on all sides. Uncle Bob’s debates were no 

exception; his conversation was peppered with little white lies and eency weency Dribbler-esque 

exaggerations; nevertheless, deda Anton remained deeply impressed long after Uncle Bob went back 

to Australia.

     ‘Never let an opportunity slip!’ deda, recalling Bob’s mantra, would shout out of the pantry year 

after year as he stood there enjoying the fruits of our collective labour. Mopping up lard out of the 

roasting tin with a piece of bread, deda searched for A Good Idea as he slobbered on about Free Enterprise, 

the realm of which beckoned to him like a Siren to a ship.

     Well, what can I tell you? The Lord moves in mysterious ways. One day, when deda was delivering 

carrots and cabbages to customers out of town, it happened - A Good Idea fell off a tree and hit him on 

the head, unleashing a chain of events that four weeks later led to his moving in with us.   

     On that fateful day, deda had been happily driving along a country lane when he felt the need to answer 

a call of nature. He pulled over, crouched under a plum tree and got down to business. Whistling a merry 

tune, he looked around him in wonder, admiring God’s work. Plums, glorious plums as big as apples, hung 

low from the branches in their thousands, millions, billi-trilli-zillions from every tree as far as the eye could 

see. It was then the Idea came to him when, on the zip-up, a plum fell on his head, rolled off and hit the 

ground where it split open, releasing a fragrant aroma which aroused his senses, deda, bamboozled by 

visions of Opportunity, later hailed the stench coming from the piles of overripe fruit rotting at his feet. 

By the time he got home that night, he had it all worked out.

     The plan was simple. ‘We’re going to make slivovice,’ deda told Dad when he called with the news 

after dinner, ‘and sell it by the barrel. ‘There’s tonnes of money in it, Zhvuk, and all of it tax free.’

     Dad, although buoyed by the thought, worried about the practicalities. He wanted to know about storage 

as we only had a tiny little cellar choc-a-bloc full of things already.

     ‘What are you talking about? The cellar’s perfect for it!’ deda enthused, advising Dad to throw out the 

kids’ bicycles but when Dad calculated the cost of the barrels, he hesitated. This was a tricky, sticky situation. 

You see, somewhere in the process of making the brew, the plums have to ferment for a while and usually this

 is done in large wooden barrels constructed especially for such a purpose. Of course, the discussion, at this 

point, turned purely academic since you wouldn’t be able to purchase proper brewing barrels even if you did 

get the money together because, like everything else under communism, brewing barrels were hard to come 

by; however, neither deda nor Dad could think of what else to use as containers. Eventually, deda got tired of 

solving the unsolvable and gave it up. ‘Why worry?’ deda cheerfully declared to Dad who really was just 

humouring him. ‘Something is bound to come up.’

     It did. A couple of days later, just as deda was pulling up at the old people’s home to deliver his 

cabbages, a garbage truck backing into the courtyard accidentally knocked down a row of garbage bins that 

had been lined up on the footpath. Voila.

     ‘Brand spanking new they are, on wheels,’ deda announced; it was the weekend and they were drinking 

late. Well, Dad was drinking and deda was just watching him because, as babka Zlatka put it, deda Anton 

was not thirsty. Poor deda. A despondent look in his rheumy eyes, he sat quietly ogling Dad’s slivovice. 

Occasionally he grumbled, pleading to be allowed a little sip but babka, who since deda’s heart attack 

outlawed all such avenues of pleasure, kept an impassive countenance and a sharp watch on the liquor cabinet. 

Dad too took no notice of deda’s discomfort. He was too busy projecting profits now that the storage problem 

had been solved. The future looked rosy.