Island of The World

by Michael D. O'Brien

  She hugs him, takes the fish from him, and lifts it high in wonder.

  “A kilo at least!” she exclaims. “Oh, Josip!”

  That night there is a feast. They eat it all, except for the intestines. Head, tail, eyeballs, organs—everything.

  “Tomorrow I will catch another”, Josip declares in a manly voice.

  Of course, the next day she won’t let him try because he has to work at the factory. And she does not want him out after dark, when he could be arrested or shot. But the following Sunday he returns to the river. He does not forget to grease the hook and also adds a bit of gristle to the barb. That day he catches another brown trout, not as large as the first. Then another. Between them, they add up to the weight of the first.

  The following Sunday he catches a fourth fish, larger than the three previous ones. It is not a trout but something fatter and wider. An old man tells him he is lucky to have caught such a fine carp, and after offering this observation begs the head, tail, and entrails. Josip lets him gut the fish and take the nonessentials. Though this will deprive Josip and his aunt of certain nutrients, the praise is worth the loss. Besides, the old man is very thin, and when he swallows the raw liver on the spot, Josip does not regret his moment of generosity.

  The carp must weigh more than three kilos. As he is walking home with it in his arms, carrying it like a baby, three boys his own age come out of an alleyway and pull him into the shadows. They pummel him with their fists, bloodying his nose and closing his right eye; one seizes the fish, and then they all run away with it. Josip takes a few steps after them, but they have disappeared into the maze of alleys, and now it is not so easy to walk steadily because he can see only with one eye.

  Downcast, he shuffles home, trying to suppress the ache in his chest, the choking feeling that comes when he is drowning in a dream.

  Yet he does not give up. On the following Sunday, he brings to the river a rusty iron rod that the foreman at the factory let him salvage from the scrap pile. He catches another trout. Not so big, but a meal in itself. He wraps it carefully in a cloth and stuffs it inside his shirt. He returns home by the ordinary route, using the rod like a walking stick, clanging its base on the pavement stones all the way. He spots the three thieves waiting at the mouth of the alley where they stole his fish. They look at him, he looks at them—they wheel and run away. This is interesting. You learn something new every day.

  There is a loud knock at the door of the apartment one evening. Eva opens it cautiously, and two men step inside without being invited. Josip is sitting in the comfortable chair reading the book about the sea. He looks up with curiosity. As the men talk with Eva, a wave of dread washes through him. They are government soldiers. The enemy has come. He looks down at the book and pretends to read. His heart is crashing within his chest, his blood racing through his veins, his hands threatening to tremble. But he brings himself under control without this being noticed. His body remains perfectly still.

  The soldiers are not behaving in a threatening manner. They are merely asking questions. His aunt does not appear to be troubled by the arrival of such visitors. Indeed, Josip can tell by her face and the tone of her voice—and they surely can see it as well—that she is a friend of the new order. Even so, they want to know where she works, whether she has registered with the workers’ organization, what her religious affiliation is, what she thinks of the end of the war, and her opinion of General Tito. All her answers are satisfactory.

  “Your son?” one asks, nodding toward Josip.

  She crosses her arms, and replies somewhat nervously, “My nephew.”

  More questions about Josip. They want to know who his parents are, where he lives.

  “The parents are dead”, says his aunt. “He lives with me.”

  “When did they die? Who killed them?” The soldier’s tone is cooler now.

  “I did not say they were killed. They were mountain people, they lived up there”, she points lazily toward the hallway. “Influenza.”

  “When did they die?”

  “Last year”, says Eva with an offhand gesture that contains a simulation of sad indifference.

  “What did they think of the Partisans?”

  “I don’t know. They weren’t political people.”

  “And you, boy”, says one of the soldiers gruffly. “What do you think of Partisans?”

  Josip looks up from his book, chokes, and tries to rasp out a few words.

  “Speak up!” barks the other soldier.

  “He has a cold in his throat”, says Eva.

  “So? He can talk, can’t he? Answer my question, boy!”

  “He works at the factory”, Eva goes on. “He’s a good boy.”

  They push her aside, and tower over Josip.

  “Answer”, says one.

  “Th-there w-will be more f-food now”, stammers Josip. “The new g-government will let us keep our country’s riches.”

  “Right, and what’s the name of our country?”

  “Y-Yugoslavia.”

  Satisfied, the soldiers nod abruptly and turn to leave. Eva follows them to the door.

  “My husband is with the Partisans in the north”, she says in an anxious tone. “For two years I have not heard from him. Will the men be returning soon?”

  Now their attitude grows more respectful. “Do you know the name of his brigade?” She shakes her head. “He never told me. It was a secret. He is very loyal.”

  “The country is being reorganized”, one says. “Loyal men are needed everywhere. You will see him when the time is right.”

  They tip their hats to her and go on to the next apartment along the corridor. Bang-bang-bang.

  Eva closes the door, leans her back against it, and exhales loudly.

  “You answered well, Josip”, she whispers.

  With his face buckling, his chin falling to his chest, he says, “We spoke lies, Auntie.”

  “Not really”, she grumbles. “It was just to make things smoother. They could make trouble even for people like us.”

  He is about to ask her what she means by people like us, but he knows somehow that this too would create problems. It is better to be silent. Though he is not dead anymore, he must be silent. If he wants to live, he must remain silent.

  The schools in the city have been closed, but they are now reopening. Josip cannot leave his job at the factory because he and his aunt need his small income in order to survive. But some classes are held in the evenings. To obtain permission to attend them is complicated. There are necessary documents to be applied for, filled out, submitted, approved, followed by other documents. This way he won’t be shot or arrested.

  Josip does not want to attend the classes, but Eva insists that he must learn, he must grow. He is smart like his father was, she says, and has a future to think of. Three evenings a week, he attends a class in the high school. He is placed in a group of city youths, two dozen boys and a few girls, all about his own age.

  The subjects are grammar and spelling, history, and political formation. The history is not taught from books, because the books have not yet been written. The political formation is clearer, prepared by cadres of Communists who know the power of education and have long prepared for their moment. Josip cannot focus on any of it. He is very tired after a day at the factory, and he is always hungry.

  One Sunday morning in November, he wakes from a deep sleep and lies for a while on his back, staring at the ceiling. The window above the kitchen table reveals that the brick wall is sunlit. It will be a nice day. Rolling over to catch a few more minutes of sleep, he finds on the mattress beside his head three ripe figs. He smiles. His aunt has left them for him as a surprise. He feels a wave of affection for her. He chews two of them rapidly. The pleasure and energy they give are great. He jumps into his trousers and shirt, pockets the third fig, and tiptoes to the door of the bedroom to see if she is awake. If so, he will thank her for the gift.

  The door is open a crack. Peeping through it, he
can see a figure on the bed. It is not his aunt, it is a man sprawled among the bedclothes. He is asleep, snoring with his mouth open.

  Josip takes a step back. Where is Eva? Perhaps she has gone out to find food. Who is this man? Is it his uncle? Yes, surely it is his uncle returned from the war.

  Josip knows he is a Partisan soldier and is not happy about this. Yet they are related to each other by marriage; they are family, and thus it is to be expected they will have little difficulty living together. Curious to see what his uncle now looks like, Josip pushes the doorway open a few centimeters. It creaks on its hinges, but the sleeper does not stir. The man on the bed bears little resemblance to the uncle in the wedding photograph. His face is turned away from the door, and what can be seen of it is bearded with weeks of growth. His blond hair is long and greasy. His open mouth reveals missing teeth.

  The smell of animals is in the room. A heap of shucked clothing lies beside him on the floor. A rifle leans against the wall beside his head. Josip tiptoes backward and quietly closes the door.

  Because it is Sunday, he decides to go fishing. With hook and line, and a chunk of bread for himself, he goes down to the river. He whiles away a few hours there and catches nothing. It is better, he thinks, to give his aunt and uncle some time to be alone together. He does not want the uncle to resent the presence of a nephew who must be fed. During recent months Josip has grown canny about survival, and he knows the complications that can arise when people are poorly fed. Money does not always guarantee that food can be obtained. Yet if he can bring home a big fish, this will make things easier.

  Indeed, in the afternoon, an extra dab of rancid lard on the hook brings in a fish. It’s a good little carp, fat and shining and flapping. More than a kilo in weight, he estimates, certainly enough for three people.

  With a mixture of eagerness and trepidation, he enters the apartment. His aunt comes forward to meet him, and exclaims her surprise and gratitude over the fish, which Josip presents to her with a smile. She turns with the fish and says, “Jure, look!”

  His uncle is seated at the table. The man shoots a glance at the boy, then turns back to what he has been doing. He is wearing only trousers. His face is soaped, and he is leaning over a bowl of water, shaving with a bone-handled straight razor. The mirror is propped up on the table top, and he is peering into it as he scrapes and scrapes.

  Eva pulls Josip over to the table so that man and boy are now facing each other.

  “This is Josip, my sister’s son”, she says. Josip wonders about the high artificial pitch of her voice, the strained smile, as if she must work hard to convince the man of how fine is this boy now living in their home. “He has brought us supper!”

  Her fingers play nervously along Josip’s shoulders, distracted, not realizing what she is doing, squeezing, trembling, fluttering. He doesn’t like it.

  Still less does he like the grunt his uncle gives in reply, not really looking at Josip, as he scrapes and scrapes.

  “So, cook it”, he growls through the soap bubbles.

  “Yes, yes, I’ll make it now. Here, Josip, give me a hand. You cut the rot out of these potatoes. Your uncle has brought us butter and cheese too, such a treat!”

  Josip knows that he is the cause of the tension between his aunt and uncle. The man is not pleased by his presence, and the woman is trying to make things nice, peaceful, a good encounter of first impressions as they get acquainted. Josip sets to work cutting the rot from the last of the potatoes while Eva guts the fish. His throat is closing, and his eyes are wet. He should find another place to live, he thinks to himself. He can always visit his aunt whenever uncle is away soldiering. As the potatoes boil in a pot of water, and the chunks of carp boil in another, Eva keeps up a stream of chatter. Josip has never seen her behave like this. She is both happy to have her husband back, safe and well, and is also worried about something. Of course, it is the issue of the unexpected orphan. The husband had no say in the adoption, and he is irritated.

  The uncle goes into the bedroom to dress, wiping his face with a cloth. He still has not looked directly at his nephew, has not said a word to him. More than ever, Josip wants to cry, wants to leave and not come back. But where would he go? Night has fallen, and it is not uncommon to hear gunshots in the city at this time of evening. The uncle returns to the table, and all three sit down to their meal. It is a better meal than any they have had so far. The fish has guaranteed that it will be good, but the butter dripping down the gray potatoes, a pinch of salt, and of course a slice of cheese on each plate are all delicacies. Josip cannot look at his uncle. He can only raise his eyes as far as the rims of the pots. Auntie continues her chatter: two years of news to catch up on. No one mentions the boy, the cause of his presence, or the brief history of his residency in the apartment. Uncle, too, is sparing in describing his battles. He restricts himself to generalities uttered in the briefest of words, all in a tone of bitterness.

  “You must have seen many comrades die”, says Eva, putting a hand on his forearm. He moves his arm away. He concentrates on rapid, steady consumption of the meal.

  “Many.”

  He drinks from the bottle of slivovica that he has brought from the bedroom. He pours a little into Eva’s glass. She sips from it delicately.

  “And now you have won.”

  “Now we have won.”

  “It’s time to forget, time to build what you have fought for, the new Yugoslavia.”

  “Time to forget”, says Uncle, tipping the bottle up and emptying it into his throat.

  “Will you stay with the army?”

  He shrugs.

  “You have sacrificed so much, Jure—we have sacrificed so much. The government will reward you.” Again the man shrugs.

  At the name Jure, which he now hears for the second time, something awakens in Josip. He glances surreptitiously at his uncle’s face and sees it nakedly, fully, for the first time. He freezes, and the bottom falls out of the universe. He cannot move; he cannot jump to his feet and run. He cannot cry out. His mouth is hanging open, his throat closing in a whimper. But his aunt’s chatter distracts from this. Anyone looking closely might see no more than a boy entranced, fascinated by a war hero.

  The face is different from the one in the wedding photo, older by ten years and leaner. It is the face of the man who hit him in Pačići, who told him to run, who put a boot to his chest, fired his gun, and mouthed the words, Be silent, you are dead.

  Were the terrors now ripping through every portion of his being not paralyzing him, Josip would run. He would scream and bolt for the door, racing down the flights of stairs and out into the night of Sarajevo. He cannot.

  Jure now turns his head slowly, chewing a mouthful of fish, and looks directly into Josip’s eyes. There is no change in his expression. Eva’s questions and chatter continue. Jure answers with single words, but all the while he is peering straight into Josip’s soul and telling him that if he speaks a word he will be truly dead.

  Wiping his mouth on his sleeve, he interrupts his wife, leans back in his chair, and says, “Get me more to drink.”

  “There is nothing in the house, Jure. Nothing.”

  Without taking his eyes from the boy, the uncle pulls paper money from his trousers pocket and slaps it on the table.

  “But the curfew—”

  He gives the woman a slip of paper. “If anyone stops you, show them this. If it’s not enough, tell them Desetar Wolf sent you.”

  “Wolf?”

  “Wolf of the Zenica Shock Battalion.”

  She pockets the money. “So, that is who you were with. I thought you were in the north.”

  “In the north, in the south, here, there, everywhere.”

  Eva throws on her coat. “In the mountains between Bugojno and the river?” she asks hesitantly.

  Uncle blinks and breaks the mesmerizing gaze that has held Josip captive. He turns to his wife and says, “No, we never went there.” He smiles. It is a normal man’s smile of reassuranc
e, yet his eyes remain those of a wolf—the wolves who destroyed Pačići.

  “Ah, of course not”, she says and swallows noticeably. “There was fighting in so many places. How brave you all were.”

  “Brave”, nods Jure. “Yes, we were brave.”

  “I’ll see what I can find”, says Eva. going out the door.

  “Bring rakija”, he shouts after her. “It’s too long since I had brandy.”

  She tells him she will try.

  Alone together, Jure and Josip remain without moving. Josip betrays no emotion but cannot raise his eyes. His uncle regards him with a frown, staring at the boy until the force of his eyes commands him to meet his gaze.

  “You remember”, he murmurs in a quiet tone.

  Josip can neither blink nor nod nor answer with words.

  Jure leans forward and slaps the boy lightly on the cheek. “Speak.”

  “I r-r-remember.”

  “I saved your life. Never forget it.”

  Josip shakes his head.

  “If you forget it, I will kill you this time.”

  Josip nods up and down.

  “You will never speak to Eva about what happened.” Josip shakes his head.

  “If you even hint at it, you will drown in the river. You will have an accident.”

  Now tears leap to Josip’s eyes.

  “If you tell her and run away to escape me, I will find you. Then you will die more slowly.” Jure removes his straight razor from his back pocket, and then opens it. Opens it and closes it. Opens it and closes it.

  “Do you understand?”

  Josip nods and wipes from his cheeks the tears that have begun to run down them.

  Jure strikes Josip’s face again, a little harder, not enough to leave a mark.

  “You will never again cry in this home. If you cry, your aunt, because she is a woman, will want to know why.” He nods.

  “I am going to find a place for you to live with others who have no family. This will take time. Until then, when I command you to do something, you will do it. You will stay out of my way, and you will be silent.”

  You are dead.

  Upon command, Josip washes the pots and pans, empties the toilet pail into the sewer down on the street, returns to the apartment, and stands in the middle of the room, not knowing what is permitted and what is not. Uncle has left the room. The springs of the bed can be heard whenever the man turns from side to side. Josip sits down on his mattress, picks up the book of the sea, and turns to the page where there is a photograph of a swallow. He gazes at it with longing. It comforts him a little, tells him it is possible that his uncle only threatens to kill him and that he would not actually do such a thing. Until he has been sent away to a place for children without parents, it will be possible to survive in this apartment, as long as it does not last long. Or perhaps his uncle will go away soon. He tells lies, so it may be that nothing he has said is reliable.