As readers may remember, I have had the chance to see for myself the Gospel at work in my ancestral homeland of Slovakia. The age-old Easter traditions there are as lovely as the Christmas ones. On Palm Sunday, the entry into Holy Week, a little tree decorated with ribbons and delicate eggshells is processed through the village, reminiscent of Jesus’ entry into Jerusalem. On Maundy Thursday, the shepherds in the hills traditionally eat tender young nettles and dandelion greens and drive evil spirits away by blowing trumpets. A severe fast is observed on Good Friday, and no one works, for it is a day on which even the earth cannot be disturbed for the solemnity of the occasion. On the evening of Holy Saturday, which is the Easter Vigil, the forty day Lenten fast is broken with a fabulous feast — that means a lot of meat, and in Slovakia, a lot of meat means specifically a lot of pork — to celebrate the resurrection, a high-spirited holiday that lasts through Easter Sunday itself and all the way to Easter Monday.

But it is at this point that I must cry "foul play!" amidst all these cultural wonders. I have to admit that I would not shed one single tear if Easter Monday and all its traditions were permanently eradicated from Slovak memory. In fact, I might even jump for joy.

Perhaps I should explain.

The year I lived in Slovakia, I caught wind of the impending doom of Easter Monday a few months in advance. I was tipped off when some of my young Slovak gentlemen friends started whispering about the day with wicked grins, in voices just low enough and words just fast enough to inhibit my understanding. I intuitively knew that some catastrophe was going to befall me, but the boys — Julo, Jano and especially Miso — were not very forthcoming. All I knew was that after church early that Easter Monday morning, the ladies of the house were expected to have a generous selection of goodies ready on the living room table, cookies and cake and chocolate bars and Fanta and coffee and tea; and they, the men, would take care of the rest. Somehow I suspected already then that it was going to be a really bad deal.

When the big day arrived, Mom and I were amply prepared. We’d spent the whole previous afternoon baking (not an easy things for Americans to do in a country that uses only the metric system and disguises baking powder with the name ‘Into the Pastry.’ Lots of things go into the pastry. That doesn’t narrow it down!). We arose early Monday morning to set up the living room with the best china, extra chairs, and some feebly managed mouth-blown eggs. And then, not feeling very reverent at all but rather stricken with impious anxiety, we slipped down to church. Our apartment was right over the church, actually, and the hallway window offered a nice vantage point onto the courtyard next to the sanctuary below.

The worship service sped by. I was on the verge of hyperventilating in terror of the unknown. My dad kept throwing us girls knowing sidelong looks, no doubt fully aware of the imminent chaos. As soon as the benediction was spoken, I nabbed my little brother — who was only ten at the time and had no idea what was going on either — and dashed out of the church and up the stairs into our place. I locked the door frantically behind me. The two of us tiptoed up to the landing. We peeked over the edge of the window on the courtyard just in time to see and hear an enormous splash, the piercing shriek of my friend Alena, and an appreciative masculine belly laugh. I was baffled. They were tossing bucketfuls of water at her! What on earth...?

I had very little time to contemplate the notion. It suddenly occurred to my treacherous little brother that this was a game he might just like to play himself, so he ran back outside, leaving the door unlocked. Within seconds the door opened again, this time to let my mom in. Except it wasn’t just my mom. It was my mom, screeching and giggling and blushing like an 11-year-old schoolgirl, followed by four men from our church, three of whom were married, all of whom were otherwise serious, respectable pillars of the congregation. But before my very eyes they had turned into grinning blackguards with lecherous gleams in their middle-aged eyes, holding little switches made from dried, braided grapevine and sporting colorful ribbons at the tips (one per conquest!), with which they repeatedly whacked my discombobulated mother. And as if that abuse weren’t bad enough, they were spraying her with grotesquely sweet cheap perfume, too. I just stood there by the window, ignored and astounded, as the four of them danced around my helpless mother in their mysterious ritual, reciting some poem that starts with the nonsense syllables "Shibi ribi." And then, all of a sudden, they stopped. They stood still, bowed to Mom, and inquired politely, "This way to the living room?" The four of them were suddenly respectable again, though one of them gave me an affectionate whack of my own, and filed sedately into the other room to partake of cake.

Mom and I might have had a moment to debrief, but then — the timing was just like in a movie — the door burst open again. This time it was Miso, the sight of whom usually turned my brain to oatmeal and my knees to jelly, but this time the only thing he inspired in me was the burning desire to sprint away as fast as possible. There was that gleam again — just like in those four old guys picking on my mom — and I wanted nothing to do with it. My mother, however, was not very sympathetic. If she had endured it, then so would I. And so instead of protecting her firstborn as one would think a mother ought, she disappeared into the kitchen and held the handle so I would have no means of escape. Betrayed yet again by my own kin!

Miso stalked towards me slowly, relishing the moment, big old bucket in hand, and Julo was right on his heels. I tried yelling at them in Slovak, then in English, to no avail. I insisted that it was totally unreasonable to dump a bucket of water on me inside the house. But Miso only grinned more broadly and indicated that the bucket was empty. That was cold comfort: it meant that some decidedly worse fate was in store for me. In moments they were upon me. Miso seized my wrists, Julo my ankles, and they hoisted me into the air. I bellowed for help, but my bellows were lost amidst those of all the other women undergoing their annual soaking. I clutched at the doorpost — and was handily unclutched. That’s when I realized what was going to happen. Those two scoundrels, agents of everything that is wrong in the world, hauled me into the bathroom, plopped me into the bathtub — jacket, jeans, watch, shoes, and all — and, as Julo held me down, Miso took the spray hose and turned on the cold water full blast. Very methodically, with the expertise of many years’ practice, he drenched me from head to toe, and there was not a darn thing I could do about it. I finally gave up fighting back and sullenly submitted to this charming (ha!) local custom.

And then, sure enough, they stopped, smiled sweetly at me, said, "Happy Easter, Sarah. Rejoice! Christ is risen from the dead!" and adjourned to the living room to go to work on the cookies.

It is very hard to glare effectively when one resembles a drowned rat. Instead, giving in to the demure peasant girl latent in my genetic material, I dutifully toweled myself off, removed my sopping wet shoes, and marched into the living room to play hostess to the triumphant aggressors. No amount of sarcasm injected into "Would you like some cake?" could detract from their satisfaction at seeing a resentful, soaking wet me. The bizarre thing was that, as far as they were concerned, my cruel and unusual punishment was a compliment — a clear indication that I was really and truly one of them.

When the assembled gentlemen had eaten their fill, they thanked us profusely for our hospitality (like we had much of a choice!), and took their leave. They were lots of other ladies to visit. Strangely enough, Easter Monday is the excuse for a national day of visiting, and it’s considered an honor for a woman to have lots of men come splash her and eat her cake. Young girls are depressed, not relieved, if they’re ignored by the marauding boys. The little old ladies love it; it’s the most attention they get all year, though rest assured they get a gentle sprinkling, not a bath. In fact, as far as I can tell, most all the Slovaks adore this custom and have no intention of giving it up.

The true origin is elusive, but the story goes that way back when in pagan times, as spring crept up, the villagers would make a life-sized straw doll and dump it in the river as a sacrifice to the fertility gods. After awhile they discovered it was more fun to dump the girls in the river. It also made them smell and look a bit nicer after a long winter during which a bath most likely meant pneumonia. Somewhat understandably, the guys in charge didn’t want to give up the game when Christianity came along, so the meaning of the custom was conveniently adapted into a baptism-like reminder that Christ has risen from the dead. The men, apparently, didn’t need to be reminded.