Chapter six

Chapter six in which the family history of defecting to the ‘Other Side’ is revealed, and Mother and Dad get in trouble with the school principal 

Well then. Following the unexpected departure of Uncle Stan, a period of relative calm reigned in the Zhvuk household for exactly twenty-eight days until a new disaster struck. Babka Zlatka and deda Anton moved in.

     ‘Only while things simmer down, a few weeks really,’ deda was at pains to explain but if the number of 

suitcases were anything to go by, they meant to stay a while.

     ‘The shame of it!’ babka moaned, clutching at her temples; it was enough to kill a horse.

     Well, of course, there had been a teensy weensy misunderstanding, and, of course, it was all deda’s fault 

but did he own up? Hardly. As usual, he blamed Uncle Bob. 

     Uncle Bob, deda’s youngest brother originally known as Bobesh Dribbler, began his rise to fame in 

1948, after the communists nationalized private businesses. Although not personally impacted by this giant 

leap towards collective ownership (being of poor peasant stock and not having a penny to his name), 

the young Bobesh was outraged and decided his future lay elsewhere. Determined to amass 

a fortune, he’d jumped on the first ship out of silly buggers somewhere bound for Sydney. Years passed. 

Bobesh laboured hard, then harder, investing his income and getting slowly rich but when he wrote home 

about it, he was not believed. Investments? They asked. Who does that? How does it work? Dismissing 

the notion, they wondered how anyone could get rich by digging roads. Heads were shaken and tongues 

were clicked at such foolishness; however, in due course, the young adventurer proved the Dribblers 

wrong. When he returned some thirty years later, it was as a wealthy man owning houses, trucks, blocks 

of flats and properties down the coast, all paid for by hard work.

     Ah, the triumphant return! What an occasion! The Dribblers gathered in their thousands in the ancient 

family home, a one-room stone chalupa hidden away in a dark, gloomy forest where no communist had 

ever been seen. There Uncle Bob sat in state by the potbellied stove; the Dribbler clan contemplating 

him as if he were a rare fossil. Indeed, Uncle Bob was much changed. All he talked about was money and 

hard work. Yes. Hard. Work. Uncle Bob, spitting large gobs of chewed tobacco about, flashed his wallet. 

The Dribblers, gob-smacked and goggle-eyed, could not quite get their heads around the idea; in our 

neck of the woods where means of production have now for decades been collectively owned, wealth or 

hard work were unheard of.      

    Looking at Uncle Bob, it was easy to see the effects of Hard Work.  Hard Work had withered the 

once smooth-cheeked, blubbery, strudel-loving Bobesh into Bob, a tough, sinewy, liquor-drinking bloke 

whose tanned rough hide peeled away like fish scales. When he spoke, he boasted. His words, growling 

like dogs tied to a lamp post, made no sense; the tales he told were as captivating as the smell of whisky 

on his breath.  The size of things over there, really, one had to wonder. Grasshoppers as big as a child’s 

hand, kangaroos as big as a grown man, crocodiles as big as two, dingos ate human babies and koalas 

were bears that lived in trees. Well, of course, he made things up. Wouldn’t be a Dribbler if he didn’t. 

Still, because of his riches, he was looked upon as a kind of a guru; his utterances were cherished, opinions 

taken on board and treasured by all, deda Anton especially. 

     Uncle Bob’s first visit home in 1972 had been a real big deal. There were parties and visits and 

sleep-overs with Uncle Bob doing the rounds, and eventually our turn came to host a family do. Deda 

Anton organized a card game, an all nighter involving Dad and the Dribbler brothers: himself, Uncle Bob 

and the fifteen other brothers including Uncle Prema who was a big wheeler in those days and whose 

presence in this circle marked him as a courageous man. The head honcho of a cement factory, 

a conglomerate, would you believe, he had a lot to lose. He certainly could not be found ‘consorting with 

the enemy’, Uncle Prema stressed, drawing the curtains and ordering everyone to keep ‘shtum’, for a man 

in his position had many rivals waiting for the chance to take  him down. 

Everyone agreed; as the only communist amongst them, he was vulnerable to party repercussions.

     ‘You a party member?’ Uncle Bob asked, not quite able to believe such a thing would be permitted in 

the Dribbler clan.

Of course, he was a party member, had to be, Uncle Prema whined. Obviously, he couldn’t have got 

where he was without the party but you never knew these days, they could still get you if they really 

wanted to, membership meant nothing, he complained, pulling out his i.d. for Uncle Bob who stared at 

the card as if it were a family lunatic let loose from the attic.