The Wind and the Rain

by Martin O'Brien

  After the fall of the Berlin Wall, Janko wanted to visit the city again but his failing health meant he was unable to go. Instead, he sent me to go and photograph the reunited city. It was the strangest feeling visiting Berlin as a tourist. For Berliners under the age of fifty half of the city was a foreign destination. I visited the city in nineteen-ninety and again a year later. Both times when I returned Janko would pore over my photos for hours.

  Janko was only an occasional visitor but the Berlin of the Twenties held a romanticism for him. He saw it as the pinnacle of civilisation, in huge contrast with that night in Potsdamerplatz when I infiltrated the IMFG clinic. Knowing that Berlin was once more potentially on the way to becoming the city he loved again perked him up.

  Sadly, his spirits were de-perked soon after due to the disintegration of Yugoslavia. I grew up in Slovenia, where most of the people I went to school with were Slovenes but there were significant amounts of Serbs and Croats there too. Whether it is a nostalgic gloss I can’t confirm but I don’t remember much in the way of deep inter-ethnic rivalries between the people. The only common denominator was a dismissive attitude to Roma and Muslims.

  I read about the country falling apart but I couldn’t believe it. I thought that eventually it would all be resolved but when I spoke to Janko about it his face was ashen. It was almost like he could read the signs of impending catastrophe. He characterised Milošević as a man who thought he was fifty per cent cleverer than the rest of the clownish politicians when in reality he was only one per cent cleverer.

  He was especially scathing about the Croatian President Tuđman and the hypocrisy and craven disregard for the rights of non-Croats. Janko was aghast that Tuđman, a professor of history, would invoke phrases and symbolism of the fascist Ustaše regime. Janko was sickened that people would not heed the lessons of history.

  As the war developed between the Croats, Bosnians and Serbs it didn’t feel real. I was stunned by the images being beamed through our television. Slovenian soldiers taking Yugoslavian troops as prisoners. The indiscriminate bombing of Dubrovnik’s old town. The dead bodies lying in the street, lives cheaply wasted.

  I was miles away in my Alpine cocoon dealing with the war in my head while my compatriots were tearing each other apart. I was scared for my parents and I was relieved that Slovenian independence was gained so swiftly. Not that I wanted an independent Slovenia, I only wanted peace for my family. Whether it is Slovenian or Yugoslavian in charge, I have absolutely no doubt that institutional discrimination against Roma will continue.

  Eventually, an uneasy truce developed between the Serbs and Croatians. There had been no issues with my early morning crossing over the border and as I expected, no one had arrested me for the arson seven years ago. How does that even work when the country that issued the arrest warrant doesn’t even exist anymore? Do the Serbian remnants of Yugoslavia and the new nation of Slovenia continue chasing felons of a country that no longer exists?

  The bus stops outside of the central train station and I disembark. Memories flood back of the school trip I went on we got off here. I’d never seen so much traffic outside the station, Belgrade was almost like New York City in the eyes of the teenage Ana. In comparison to Berlin or Monaco the grey-brown concrete blocks that surround the station look menacing and oppressive. Dirty men immediately approach me for money and an old Roma woman is sat on the floor holding a young girl and begging, next to the taxi rank.

  I won’t be visiting the park and fortress at Kalemegdan today. I am heading to the bohemian district of Skadarlija. My target is a woman named Yeta Dalmat. She owns a bar in the suburb where traditional Kosovan-Albanian music is played. Last week at the cottage, Gunari received a phone call from a distressed man. The caller told him that his eighteen year old niece who was working in the bar owned by Dalmat had been raped at the end of her shift by the woman’s son.

  Her family tried to seek redress with the Dalmat clan but were told in no uncertain terms by Yeta, the matriarch, to shut up and never bring up the incident again. She issued severe threats against the family if they dared to speak to the police.

  The family of the girl actually told the police about the rape. The police said that ultimately it was her word against the Dalmat family. There was nothing they could do. I know this is untrue and they could act in accordance to the law. But basically the Serb police have no inclination to involve themselves with Kosovan-Roma feuds.

  Yeta discovered that the family had spoken to the police, most likely from a paid informant. She gave the family an ultimatum to leave the city or face the consequences. The girl and her parents have now fled the city in fear of their lives.

  In addition to running the bar where the rape occurred, Yeta owns multiple properties in the neighbourhood. She is well-known in the area as a huge, globulous creature with major links with gangsters in Albania and across Europe. According to local Roma, she possesses an immense ego to match her appetite.

  Hearing about her dismissive attitude to the rape of a teenage girl doesn’t surprise me. Nothing surprises me now. Watching my country disintegrate and the acts of unwarranted violence that citizens of a supposedly civilised country are capable of is bad enough. But all I need to do is think about the clinic in Berlin and it is a constant reminder of the inhumanity of powerful people.

  I spoke with Gunari and told him I would resolve this one on my own. He agreed with no disagreement, which surprised me. He said this also might be a good time to see my parents and take a break from life in Savoy. At this moment though, I need to put thoughts of home to the side and concentrate on the task in hand.

  The Serbs have abrogated their responsibility to one of their citizens. It falls to me to deliver justice. For a man to rape a girl with impunity in Skadarlija, home of the most historic Balkan Roma community is intolerable. I will not accept this behaviour and I will answer their crime by taking the head of the Hydra.

  My initial plan was to act against the son, a man called Ilir but after further discussions with local Roma I decided on an alternative route. My new plan is callous and shocking and it is so brazen that I can’t quite believe I am going ahead with it. However I have no hesitancy in taking direct action, the more brutal the better.

  I arrive a street away from Skadarlija at the home of Miro, the man who requested our help. Miro’s niece was the girl who was attacked. He has arranged to take me to Subotica where I intend to go through the Hungarian border tonight after the mission is completed. Miro is the only one who knows my full plan.

  “Isn’t it too flagrant?” He said to me on the telephone last night.

  “She is a big personality, she needs a big departure for the message to sink in,” I replied. It only takes me twenty minutes to walk to Skadarlija from the train station. I arrive at a five-storey brown townhouse which contains Miro’s apartment.

  At his flat, I drop my bag off and Miro’s wife hands me a traditional Roma outfit to wear. I take my jeans and t-shirt off and put on the deep red chiffon dress with gold trim, I then put on a white long-sleeved top that shows off my shoulders and cleavage. I tie my hair up and place on it my own golden dikhlo, a gift from my mother when I was twelve in case I ever get married. I think it would be fair that I won’t be requiring the headscarf for that occasion. Finally, I wrap a long burgundy shawl around my shoulders. It is long enough for me to wrap it around and tuck it in to my skirt.

  I examine myself in the mirror and I am satisfied with the impression I have generated. The image of a vengeful mysterious gypsy woman, the stereotype for centuries around Europe.

  I reach in my bag and pull out Janko’s old Glock 17. The plain, unprepossessing weapon has been mine for a few years now. Gunari has been training me with increasing regularity with firearms and I am confident in my abilities. I tuck the gun in to my skirt, covered by my shawl.

  Some of Miro’s friends have arranged to aid my escape, they will be waiting for me to kill her. A few people will create a blocking move to prevent
people trying to accost me as I escape. Miro and a pal will direct me to the car where we will hopefully flee the scene.

  I am walking up to the area alone, Miro is a few metres behind with his friends. The bars of Skadarlija are reasonably busy, a mix of the Friday post-work crowd and groups of people out for the evening. Many of the bars have live bands playing music and I can hear multiple songs from different angles as I stride through Skadarska, the main street of Skadarlija. Smoke rises above each section of outside seating and it is a very warm, muggy evening.

  My breaths are long and deep, many of the men working as door security are carefully watching me. My outfit is not a commonly seen thing here in Belgrade, even in this suburb. Most Roma don’t dress like this in day to day life in the cities, maybe once in their lifetime when they marry. I see Yeta’s bar around fifty metres away. It’s as busy as the other bars in the neighbourhood, I can’t see the devil-woman herself.

  I stand ten metres in front of the outside seating area. I can sense the eyes of many of the patrons checking me out. They probably think I am playing music here later. There are currently a couple of old men playing music, one on the violin and the other playing the çifteli.

  I remain staring towards the entrance, the atmosphere is turning a touch queer as people are pointing at me. The musicians’ concentration has floated off towards me and they are now going through the motions. That’s when I see her, holding a platter of meats. She is sweating and her dark hair is matted across her forehead. She notices me and gives me a strange look.

  “Yeta Dalmat!” I call out. I hope it sounded as commanding as I wished. The woman continues watching me with curiosity. She places the platter down and begins to walk over in my direction. She isn’t angry but still appears puzzled at my presence.

  “Are you Yeta Dalmat?” I say loudly.

  “Yes, I am,” the woman replies, “Who on earth are you?” Her Serbian is heavily accented, almost like a parody of an Albanian yokel. Her little arms are waving comically around at the side of her body and she is now beginning to get riled. I do not respond to her, I simply stare at her. The thirty or forty people sat outside are virtually silent. The musicians may have stopped playing but I don’t notice.

  “Who are you, bitch?” Yeta spits out the words and I can see why so many people fear and despise her. I simply smile at her and she emits a screech. A bizarre sound coming from this round lump of flesh.

  A much younger man comes outside from the bar entrance and stands beside her.

  “Mama, what is happening?” he watches me with caution.

  “It’s OK, Ilir, go back inside. I will deal with her,” So that man is the rapist. A handsome guy with an easy manner and terrible moustache. Guilt is not weighing down on this man.

  I reach in to my skirt and pull out the Glock. I cock the hammer in a smooth, easy motion and point it at Yeta. There are no screams from the customers but I hear multiple intakes of breath.

  “Yeta Dalmat,” I begin, “Your son is a rapist and you have not allowed him to face justice,”

  Yeta’s face turns into a snarl and her hands are now balled up and held up near her chin like a boxer. She attempts to set off to confront me when I pull the trigger. The bullet flies straight into the left eye of Yeta and the impact knocks her back in to her son, Ilir. He is astonished, he allows the body to slump to the floor and his eyes dart from his mother to me.

  My mission is complete but the very sight of this rapist animal is too much for me to take. Bar patrons and pedestrians are screaming and I notice a couple of Miro’s friends closing in. I take my chance and step on the front foot and fire another shot straight into the temple of Ilir. He is brought down and the commotion grows louder.

  I back away and walk off as planned to the left of the bar, people aren’t trying to stop me as I reach an alleyway where I see Miro. I run off to see him and we make our way through the back streets of Skadarlija. We reach his car, a worn out Peugoet and I clamber into the back and lay down.

  “How did it go?” Miro says breathlessly as he steps on the accelerator and the car doesn’t exactly speed off but chugs off because it’s a rusty lump of metal.

  “Two for the price of one,” stripping off my clothes in the back, “Bavol i brushíndo, Miro,” Once more, the wind and the rain roars through Europe, ruefully I concede necessity demands it will not be for the last time.

  Homeward Bound

  Sunday, 12 July 1992

  The night train from Budapest was crowded, noisy and the passport checks were cursory yet disruptive. No one questioned me, or Maria Lawina, about where I came from or if I murdered two people in cold blood less than forty-eight hours ago in Belgrade. The train arrived at Ljubljana’s bare train station on time at exactly eight o’clock.

  At first I couldn’t force myself to stand and leave the train. It was only when the guard came along the train and told me it was the end of the line that I finally disembarked with jelly legs and a dismal sense of foreboding.

  Now I stand outside Ljubljana train station, The trees sprouting around the streets and arboreally camouflaged apartments bring back so many memories. It isn’t as warm as the morning I left the city but the scent of summer is unmistakable. Traffic is light and the grass verges are beginning to yellow.

  The thought of seeing my parents again makes my stomach turn. I haven’t eaten since yesterday lunchtime but I know if I eat now then I will be sick. I stand around like a fool for what seems like an age. Eventually I begin walking to my old home. I reach the Dunajska cesta junction and it reminds me of directing Gunari out of the city when I was a scared little teenager. Cranes rise above the city and billboards celebrate recognition of Slovenia’s independence by the European Union.

  Now I turn right on to Dunajska cesta, a group of young girls no more than ten years old wander past me on their way to the swimming pool at Tivoli Park. It is strange hearing my language being spoken again. I walk past a cafe and listen to some old timers chatting away about some illness their friend is suffering from. As the years have gone by my thoughts and dreams have come to me more frequently in French than Slovenian. The streets of Bežigrad are familiar yet don’t feel like home.

  I check my trusty Casio watch which states it is nearly nine o’clock. I have subconsciously taken a circuitous route back to my parents’ house. I finally arrive and I see the house I grew up in, the house I left in shame. It seems so much smaller than I remember, it is strange clapping my eyes on it after so long.

  It’s time to stop standing around outside the house and face my past. I make my way to the door when I notice it is being swung open even though my eyes are facing downward, boring holes into the garden path. I reach the door and finally raise my head. Standing in the doorway is my mother. I was worried that I wouldn’t recognise her but when I see her face, a torrent of memories flood my brain like a music video. Images flash around and my eyes are watering, my senses deserting me.

  I can see nothing and I feel my mother grab and hug me tightly.

  “Ana,” Mum is stroking my hair and I can’t stop sobbing, “My Ana,”

  My mother keeps repeating my name and I would happily die in this embrace. Despite all the homesickness over the years, I have underestimated how much I have missed my mother.

  “I’ve missed you Mum, you wouldn’t believe how much,” I say, pulling away from her and rubbing the snot from my nose with the sleeve of my sweatshirt. Mum continues to stroke my cheek and I remain standing awkwardly unsure what to do next.

  “Is Dad at work?” I say, peering over her shoulder to see an empty house.

  “Come inside Ana, off the street,” my mother replies and holds my hand and walks us both inside. I allow my bag to slump off my shoulder onto the floor and walk around the front room. It has barely changed in the seven years since. The carpet is the same, as are the curtains and the dining table.

  Suddenly I notice that there is something slightly amiss. My dad’s slippers are not in front of his leather
armchair where they normally would be. I glance at the coat-stand and I see none of his jackets hooked up. I move to the fireplace where on the shelf above is a picture of Dad holding me on his shoulders at the top of the castle when I was about five years old. I pick up the photograph and I see my hands wrapped around his neck and Dad grinning.

  “Can we go see Dad?” I say. Mum turns me around and nods towards the door. We walk in comfortable silence for twenty minutes, towards the end of the journey I hold my Mum’s hand. I don’t care how old I am and how stupid I look. We arrive at the ornate two-storey stone gate and enter Žale cemetery.

  As I see the lines of gravestones I once more feel the tears welling. I force myself not to cry and holding them back makes my throat hurt. Eventually, we arrive at my father’s gravestone. It is a simple rectangular block with clean gold-coloured etchings of angels.

  “He died two years ago?” I say, stating the obvious as it is written on the headstone in front of me.

  “Yes, it was a heart attack when he was coming home from work,” I meet my mother’s eyes, I’m lost for words. I’m lost for a father. Once more, I do the only thing I can do, or want to do. I fall into my mother’s embrace and I allow her to comfort me.

  “Was my Dad ashamed of me?” I ask, as my mother hands me a cup of coffee and a big plate of funšterc. I tuck in immediately to the omelettes and it makes me feel like I’m twelve again sat at the kitchen table overfeeding myself. Mum walks over to me and strokes my hair. If I wasn’t so voraciously hungry, I would cry again.

  “I don’t think he ever understood why you did what he did. It’s not a matter of shame,”

  “You understood, didn’t you, Mum?” Mum’s eyes are kindly looking down on me. She smiles and sits back down at the dining table opposite me.

  “Oh yes, I understand,” Mum says, her eyes focusing away at a point in the past, “Your father wanted an easy life. He wasn’t a man who could confront difficult subjects. We nearly split up before I fell pregnant with you. We were spending a day at the park, like young people in love do. It was such a beautiful day but after we had stopped for an ice cream, a drunk man shouted some very offensive remarks towards me,”