Stories about first settlers in the region of Cleveland should be noted and
remembered for the future generations. We encourage such knowledge about
Serbian communities around the United States
By Nikola MARIC
Serbs arriving here in the early 20th century found the change in life style traumatic
Cleveland’s first Serbian immigrant was Lazo Krivokapic who arrived in 1893. Although most early
immigrants to the United States were laborers, Krivokapic was not. Well-educated and multi-lingual, he had
served his country as a diplomat in Constantinople prior to coming to America. Here he owned a real estate
business near East 25th Street and St. Clair Avenue where his linguistic skill proved most useful. Since there
were no other Serbs in Cleveland, Krivokapic joined a Greek enclave because he spoke their language and
shared their Eastern Orthodox religious beliefs. He felt at ease with them, too, for in Europe, Serbs and Greeks
were traditionally good neighbors.
For years after their arrival in America, immigrants commonly suffered from homesickness and loneliness,
taking solace from companionship with fellow countrymen. While living among the Greeks, Krivokapic
continually searched for a fellow Serb. After nine years he encountered a factory worker named Grahovac as
he strolled along St. Clair Avenue. Their friendship and the humble beginning of the Serbian Colony of
Cleveland were recounted in a Plain Dealer feature on September 28, 1964.
Other Serbs arrived around 1910 and experienced problems similar to those of Krivokapic. Some of the
problems stemmed from an old Serbian tradition of living in huge families, zadruge, as they were called. As
many as 60 people lived under one roof and one command –the eldest male in the family. Grandfather made
the major decisions, grandmother prepared the food and tended the small children, while other family members
performed domestic and farm chores. Life was simple and, in many ways, carefree.
Even in the delicate matter of choosing a marriage partner, the elders in the household usually made the
decision. The story is told of the way 23-year-old Aran Velisavljevic from Slavonia, Yugoslavia was married in
the early 1900’s. He was the youngest of four brothers and it was his turn to get married; the family convened
to select his bride. There were two candidates. Each girl came from a good family and had a sizeable dowry.
Aran sat quietly as the older brothers argued whether to choose the one west of the village, or the one who
lived east. Nobody asked Aran what he thought about either one of them. It was late at night, and the family
was still arguing about the choice when the oldest brother came up with a solution. They would harness the
horses in the morning, loosen the reins, and let the horses go to the east, or to the west as they chose. Thus
was decided the future of young Aran Velisavljevic. Even the bride did not seem to mind the way she was
“chosen” over the other young girl.
Serbs arriving here in the early 20th century found the change in life style traumatic. Young, unmarried men
arrived alone, often intimidated by their environment and possessed of meager funds. For the first time in their
lives, they had to make their own decisions and provide food and shelter for themselves. And compounding
their problems was the need to learn English as quickly as possible.
To be Serbian is to be sociable. Socializing is intrinsic to the Serbian way of life. Households are geared
toward hospitality, a hospitality which is closely linked to their religious beliefs.
For Serbs, every event from birth to death over the centuries has been humanized and celebrated in a
special way through their revered Eastern Orthodox religion. Cut off from this ritual which daily revitalized his
life, the immigrant could not help but feel alienated by the stark and lonely life he was forced to lead in his
adopted land. However poor he had been as a peasant in Europe, he was continually sustained by the warmth
of family ties and a vibrant religion. In America he had no such solace. When he came here, he stayed, most
likely, in a boardinghouse or, if he were so blessed, with a relative who had preceded him here. His life was a
daily grind of long hours and hard work for meager wages in whatever nearby factory or shop needed his
unskilled hands.
Many of the early immigrants, Serbs and others, hoped to work and save enough to return to their native
lands and establish themselves well there. Some saved to bring other members of their family to America.
Whatever their goals for the future, they came to realize that to survive and be happy in America, they would
have to reestablish their social and religious traditions here.
Meanwhile, the comfort of lonely hours for the immigrant was the nostalgic memory of his homeland. He
recalled such pleasures as wedding celebrations which went on for several days and nights as friends and
relatives sang and danced and feasted. No expense was spared, though the newlyweds’ parents might have to
live frugally for some time to pay for the reception.
Celebrating the Slava was another event that went on for days. Slava referred to the patron saint under
whose protection the household was placed. The house was “open” to the village and hospitality extended to
all.
Other ordinary activities which were elevated to occasions of merrymaking were harvesting, corn husking,
wine making and picking feathers for the stuffing of pillows. This rather idyllic life was hardened somewhat,
however, by the harsh reality that the small patch of land worked by the average farmer provided little hope for
future prosperity; frequently it was hardly enough to sustain a sizeable family. Consequently, many young men
sought to better themselves economically by immigrating to America.
The early Serbs in Cleveland retained whatever they could of favorite traditions. Whenever they could obtain
the services of an Eastern Orthodox priest, they would worship simply in a store front- a considerable
comedown from the exquisite churches and elaborate ritual they had known. The feast day of the beloved St.
Sava continued to be a joyful event. In an article appearing December 1959 in the Serbian-American
newspaper American Srbobran, author Stevo Ivancevic described the occasion as follows:
On Hamilton Avenue there were five berths (boarding places) where about 100 young, Licani (Serbs from
Lika) were living. At seven in the morning, as if someone issued a command, the St. Sava’s songs were
reverberating, and at the end of each stanza: My dear Bania, Lika and Krbava (provinces in Yugoslavia)! So
help me, one would think he was in Atos listening to the monks sing. I was visiting the respectable family
Banjanin with twenty other Serbs. After the songs were finally exhausted Mile Vukadinovic told us that he had
heard some tamburitzans were to perform at the hall. This hall belonged to Janko Popovic called “Uncle,” on
St. Clair Avenue. The building was relatively big, two stories – the hall upstairs, the saloon downstairs. At the
time many buildings, including this one, had no electricity. Petroleum lamps were used for lighting, with glass
cylinders and some sort of material used as wick, which, when burnt out, remained inside the lamp and gave
better light. The only drawback was that these wicks could not withstand any tremors.
The St. Sava’s celebration that evening was better and richer than ever, because the organizing committee
had brought the best tamburitzans from Detroit called Krisom Sremci. At seven in the evening the hall was
already full of young, powerful males, mostly Licani. The rest consisted of our Vojvodjani and a number of
young women. There were six tamburitzans, five small ones and one big one – bass. Licani were particularly
impressed with the big one. “You could make a berth out of it,” commented one, while the others broke into
laughter.
Gajo Germanovic, the host for the evening, was ceremoniously dressed in coattails, full cylinder on his
head, cane in hand … “Look at Gajo!” whispered Licani among themselves, “He looks like Franz Josef,”
shouted another Lican and the entire audience laughed…
“Brothers and sisters, I salute you… Let’s praise St. Sava,” exclaimed Gajo. “Long live Gajo,” yelled the
Licani… The program ended around ten o’clock, and the spectators quickly got up from their chairs, which were
removed to make room for dancing. The orchestra took its place on stage; a group of Sremci and Sremice
gathered in the middle of the hall demanding, “Seljancica” and “Sremsko kolo,” and as the Vojvodjani were
dancing, the Licani formed a ring around them watching the fancy footwork of their Serbian brothers and sisters
from Vojvodina, but they could not join in, because they never saw the dance before. For an hour the
Vojvodjani were dancing, and then it happened. A Lican jumped on the stage, pulled a five dollar bill out of his
pocket and gave it to the orchestra not to play, ordered the Vojvodjani off the floor to make room for Licko kolo,
saying, “We, too, paid the tickets to get here. We, too, want to dance;” they started the kolo such as Cleveland
never saw before. One of the musicians tried to help out with the tamburitza, but without success. Licko kolo
has no rhythm, no beat (similar to Crnogorci and Hercegovci). The kolo was accompanied by singing of songs
from Lika. The inevitable came: those fifty voices from the strong Licani made such a thunderous noise that
very few wicks survived in the lamps, the whole room trembling and swaying until the owner, Mr. Popovic,
came running into the hall holding his head. “No, lads, stop it, we are all going to collapse with the building.
Stop it!” Reluctantly the Licani stopped, but the leader turned around and shouted, “Let’ s go to Hamilton and
dance till dawn!” All the Licani left and proceeded to dance until morning in the middle of the street.
TO BE CONTINUED
