Sometimes people look at me quizzically when I tell them my folks are missionaries. But Slovakia is in Europe, they protest, and hasn’t Europe historically been more Christian than anywhere in the world? Surely the Slovak natives have heard the Gospel before! And so I tell them that missionaries don’t only work where the Gospel has never been, but also where it’s been nearly stamped out, and any place in the world that’s suffered under Communist atheism certainly qualifies. Some Slovaks, of course, remained ardently Christian throughout the whole regime, resisting the worst efforts of their oppressors and fighting to keep the seminaries open (for a particularly amazing account, see Silvester Krcmery’s Break Point); but other Slovaks had never even heard of Christianity. In any event, the Church cried out for help, and we went over to answer the plea.

Another objection I hear to the title “missionary” is that since Slovakia is in Europe, its culture can’t be nearly bizarre or unfamiliar enough to warrant a name that evokes images of steamy jungles, cruel pagan rituals and mystifying local customs. Admittedly, it isn’t quite like bringing first word of Jesus of Nazareth to headhunters. But every nation has its own unique character, habits and foibles, and they run deeper than the surface ever betrays. My parents could tell you some wild stories. For my part, since it’s December, I’ll sketch you a typical Christmas in Slovakia, and you can decide for yourself how odd it is.

What Carp Is This
Let’s imagine a family. The mom and dad are Zelmira (Zela for short) and Milan Kovac; the kids are Little Milan, Igor and Olga. Both parents work so they’re fairly affluent, which means they make about $400 a month. They live in Bratislava, the capital city of Slovakia on the far western side of the country, only about an hour from Vienna, Austria. It’s the 22nd of December, and Zela and Olga have been baking all morning. Mostly sweets: sugar cookies with a little chocolate glaze or sandwiched with raspberry jam; crumbly hazelnut crescents; anything with coconut. The food is very sweet, relentlessly so, because Slovaks, unlike Americans, can’t abide any salt in their desserts (they are completely baffled by the American passion for peanut butter). Right now, the kitchen is too hot and the tables are full, so the family decides to walk down to the Christmas market in the central square of the old city and buy the Christmas carp.

The old city of Bratislava is charming, lots of fine old buildings painted in bright colors to erase the memories of drab gray Communist housing. Cafes abound, and until about November of every year little tables are set up on the sidewalks for the townspeople to enjoy a cup of Turkish coffee (water and a spoonful of grounds boiled together, not filtered). Hlavne Namestie, Main Square, is lined with polished wooden booths with red and white canopies.

Merchants bring their wares and compete for the worst price (the customer is always wrong, after all). They sell pine wreaths, wooden toys, blown glass ornaments, hand-painted pottery, Slovak folk art, original watercolors, beeswax candles and innumerable varieties of firecrackers. At the far end of the square are all of the food booths. There’s always one that has a cast-iron pot of gulas (a heavy stew of venison, potatoes and LOTS of paprika) simmering over a fire, but the rest stick to the ciganska pecienka, “gypsy cutlet” a suspect-looking piece of pork grilled to fatty perfection, slapped on a fresh roll and doused with sweet mustard. If that sounds a bit heavy, you can have a lighter snack (mastny chlieb, “greasy bread”) fresh bread slathered with lard and sprinkled with chopped onion. To wash it all down you have two options: spiced white wine (called Gluhwein in Germany) or hriato, which is hot slivovica — strong plum brandy, the national drink — liberally garnished with bacon bits.

Mom and Dad Kovac stand in the long line for the pecienky and send off the three kids to fetch the drinks. The guy at the wine stand asks in an ironical tone if any of them are fifteen yet, or else he can’t give them the drinks. Olga insists in an offended tone that she is in fact sixteen, and the man relents, amused. Little Milan is a bit puzzled by the man’s reticence, since at the age of nine he has frequently run out to the potraviny to get his dad a bottle or two of Pilsen, but it doesn’t seem wise to press the issue. Once reunited, the Kovacovci (that’s the plural of Kovac, like Fred Flinstone vs. Fred and Wilma Flinstonovci; Wilma by herself would be Flinstonova) wolf down their food before it gets cold — and in the biting winter weather, that won’t take long — and then proceed with anticipation to the carp vat.

In Bratislava the carp vat is quite enormous and dominates one part of the square, since it has to accomodate so many families. In most villages across the country a barrel in the tiny grocery stores is sufficient. A man bundled in hunter’s clothing stands atop the ladder next to the vat, brandishing a heavy-duty net. Crowds gather around the vat to examine the day’s selection. Fathers hold up their children to the edge so they can peer intently into the murky water and choose the biggest, liveliest fish. This year it’s Igor’s turn, and he takes his duty seriously. After some consideration he cries out, “We want that one!” and points to the winning specimen. The “Man with the Net” swoops his tool into the vat, chases the carp a moment or two, and whips it out of the water. His assistant standing below catches the fish in a handful of newspaper, wraps it up, and passes it off to Big Milan, while Zela doles out 300 korun to pay for it. The fish safely in hand and wrapped in newspaper, the Kovac family races towards home before their new family friend suffocates in the air.

The Kovac five tumble in the front door, kick off their shoes, hastily put on their slippers, and then race towards the bathroom. Olga starts running the cold water in the tub immediately, stopping it up with a rubber plug. Big Milan gingerly unwraps the crumpled paper from around the flipping, frantic carp, newsprint staining his hands. When the fish is at last free, he drops it into the tub, where it swims around joyfully, relieved to be able to breathe again. Little Milan and Igor plop down on the side next to their new toy, poking at the poor creature, whom they have affectionately named “Borko,” as it discovers the boundaries of its new home.

Carp! The Herald Angels Sing
It is now Stedry Vecer, Generous Evening (what we call Christmas Eve), and the Kovacovci have just returned home from the church, whose bells are ringing out the good news to the whole town. In the one seasonal departure from the standard minor key melody, they have sung Christmas hymns like “Ticha Noc” (Silent Night) and “Z Nebies Hore” (From Heaven Above, one of Luther’s Christmas songs). Traipsing home through the slushy piled snow (no one would drive such a short distance), the children talk excitedly about what Jezisko might have brought them. Slovakia is blessedly free of the secular Santa Claus that stifles so much of the real spiritual value of Christmas in the western world. St. Nick doesn’t go unnoticed altogether, though. He has his own day appointed by the Church, December 6, when the saint (known here as Svaty Mikulas) rides through the towns on his white horse and brings the first snowfall of the year. On this day children are given mandarins and nuts and chocolate angels and devils by jolly guys dressed up in red suits, who blessedly remind them that Jesus loves them. Sometimes the kids dress up as angels and devils and St. Nicks themselves for the church’s Svaty Mikulas party, like a mixture of Christmas and Halloween. But on Christmas itself, Jezisko — which means “Baby Jesus” — is the one who brings all the gifts and lays them beneath the tree.

Back at home, Olga, Igor and Little Milan gather by the tree to examine the presents. The tree itself looks more like the one in “Merry Christmas, Charlie Brown” than anything else. It’s of a decent height, but it’s fake, with five spokes of evergreen sticking out from a central pole every couple of inches, giving it a sparse, sickly look. But they’re used to that. It’s always been that way, and no one would ever dream of bringing in a real tree, since a real tree surely has sheep ticks on it, and Slovaks have a terrible fear of introducing sheep ticks into the household. Its lack of lushness is more than compensated for by the decorations, at any rate. Besides the little lights in the shape of red-capped-and-white-spotted mushrooms, the tree is loaded down with candies wrapped in bright gold and silver foil, and lots of tinsel. It has a cheerful, flashy look about it.

As the kids survey the goods, Zela and Big Milan take a look at the TV. The Bishop is giving his customary Christmas address, so they listen to that for a bit. After it ends they flip to another channel and find a news report of angry environmentalists protesting the brutality of the carp customs. Which reminds Mom and Dad Kovac that it’s time to get on with the celebration.

Dinner must precede the presents, so while Olga dutifully ducks into the kitchen to help her mother with the kapustnica (sauerkraut soup full of klobasy and prunes and caraway seeds and spiked generously with paprika) and the potato salad (potatoes, peas, and pickles, moistened with a bit of mayo), Big Milan summons the ecstatic boys for the final stage in the carp ritual. They fetch “Borko” out of the tub, where he’s been living for the past two days (I cannot say with any certainty whether or how the family has showered in the meanwhile). The three males attired in heavy coats and heavy boots adjourn to the back yard, and set the flapping fish down on an icy table. To spare the gentle reader the bloody details, I will just note that the fate of the carp — that ugly ichthyoid that slinks along the muddy bottoms of rivers and is scorned by gourmets the world over — is rather like that of, say, Marie Antoinette during the French Revolution, followed by deft filleting. Then Christmas dinner is brought back in to Zela and Olga, who skillfully fry it up while the boys start to eat their kapustnica. When it is brought to the table, the whole family digs in with great enthusiasm. At one point Little Milan starts to choke, because it is nearly impossible to get all the bones out of carp, but he recovers admirably well. Everyone is relieved; last year they had to take Igor to the hospital after his first bite of carp. That wasn’t too awful, since at least two dozen other people were in there for the same malady, as there are every year, which gave the emergency room a nice festive spirit. But twice in a row would be a bit much.

At the end of the meal, the dishes are cleared and one last ceremonial bit is observed. A favorite Slovak Christmas treat is the oblatky — paper-thin sweet wafers, as big as a plate, sometimes rolled into tubes. Most families make their own (you can buy oblatky-irons), usually more than they can eat themselves, but special ones are also produced commerically with a nativity scene stamped into them. Big Milan brings out this special oblatka and a Bible. He reads to his wife and children the story of Jesus’ birth, from St. Luke’s Gospel. When he finishes, he takes a spoonful of honey and drizzles it onto the wafer, signifying the sweetness of God’s love and salvation. They each take a bite, passing it around the table, blessing God for the good life he has given them. And then when they’re done, they settle down to the hard work of opening presents, leaving the dirty dishes and leftover carp for later.

If you think that’s strange ... wait till Easter.