Vaka's House

Vaka's House

A Shadowed Testament to Neusatz's Memory

In the dim corridors of Pejić's Alley (today Kraljevića Marka Street), where echoes of bygone footsteps linger, Vaka's House rises like a spectral sentinel. Built in 1911 by the Jovanović family—called "Vakini" by those who whispered their name—the house breathes the remnants of a lost age. It endures, weathered yet defiant, its neobaroque contours etched against the encroaching sprawl of modernity. Declared a cultural monument in 1977, it stands as both sanctuary and relic, a testament to time's unrelenting grasp.

The house sprawls with purpose, its elongated form whispering secrets along its neobaroque facade. A semi-circular carriageway yawns at its heart, guarded by a wooden gate, massive and carved with motifs that hint at rituals long forgotten. Vines and garlands creep along its plaster skin, curling around arched windows like spectral tendrils. Beneath, Prussian-vaulted cellars slumber, their depths once cradling barrels of crimson nectar—wine, or perhaps something darker.

Within, the house exhales elegance and decay in equal measure. Ornamental ceilings still glisten with traces of gold, while carved doors conceal glassy reflections of vanished faces. It is a dwelling born of industry and artistry, where the scent of earth and grape once mingled with candle smoke and whispered prayers. Shadows pool in corners, and the faintest creak of old wood seems to stir echoes of voices long silenced.

Though time has thinned their ranks, the Jovanović bloodline endures within these walls. Among them, one serves as a conservator for the Library of Matica Srpska, guarding the fragile remnants of Neusatz’s memory. The vineyards have withered, their fruits scattered to oblivion, but relics—barrels, tools, and the faintest scent of fermenting dreams—linger still, as though awaiting hands that will never return.

Yet the living move cautiously here. The air hums with unseen currents, and the walls seem to listen. Rumors persist—of candlelight flickering in empty rooms, of footsteps echoing in the dead of night. Beneath the house, the cellars breathe cold and damp, their depths a vault for more than barrels. Some say they were catacombs; others insist they were hiding places for things better left undisturbed.

Its motifs—grapevines, wheat sheaves, and garlands—speak of cycles eternal: growth, harvest, and decay. Yet it is no mere monument. It is an altar to persistence, a labyrinth of recollections carved in wood and stone.