Island of The World

by Michael D. O'Brien

  Tata has joined the dialogue. It can get confusing holding two conversations at once, holding two threads as he wends his way through the labyrinth. So, they decide to have just one dialogue per day, like a hoarded piece of chocolate held in the mouth, melting slowly.

  Tata is dialoguing with Propo now. Sometimes they switch, Josip with Tata or Josip with Propo. The four conspirators compare notes at the end of each day, but they are getting worried that all this nocturnal whispering is going to attract attention, get them dragged into interrogation rooms. Even so, a few fragments of gold appear in the debris.

  From the mental archives:

  Tata:

  Western civilization survived the Dark Ages because of Christian monasticism.

  Monasticism was founded on prayer and work and art.

  Work is the plastic artform of love.

  Prayer is the soul’s song of love.

  Josip:

  Children are the fruit of love.

  The natural habitat of children is the family.

  A human civilization is a community of such sanctuaries.

  Our civilization will be reborn only as a community of sanctuaries.

  Propo (surprising the other three because he seems such an unreflective man):

  There is nothing more intimidating than a village clerk infatuated with the powers of his office.

  There is nothing more benevolent in appearance than a dictator who perceives himself to be a humble philanthropist.

  Both are dangerous, but the village clerk is more so.

  Prof

  Humor is the delight of suddenly expanded perspective.

  Humor is the transformation of linear vision into the multidimensional.

  Humor is not logical. Neither is it illogical. It is in the realm of meta-logic.

  Humor, like art, liberates, for it can affirm the prisoner in his ultimate identity.

  Between Propo and Prof:

  Prof: “Are you still a Stalinist?”

  Propo: “Certainly. Are you still a Revisionist?”

  Prof: “I was neither.”

  Propo: “What are you?”

  Prof: “A rabbit with a Ph.D.”

  Propo: “Your jokes will not liberate you.”

  Prof: “They have already liberated me.”

  Propo: (no reply)

  Prof: “Stalin has a thousand Goli Otoks throughout the Soviet Union.”

  Propo: (no reply)

  They remain undetected. They remain physically unharmed. Josip’s strength grows. Then he is infested with lice, shaved bald, and cured by a bitter powder. Not long after, he sickens with dysentery and spends a week in an infirmary that is worse than the cellar-hospital at Sarajevo. There are no sea-swallows here, only infirmarians and guards who like to insult prisoners continually. It is bearable, and he slowly recovers. As he rests—if one can call it rest—he thinks of compacted sayings that may be transferred to the others. He misses the dialogues and feels a certain loneliness for his fellow conspirators. He tries not to think about Ariadne and the baby. That would immerse him in endless hell. He must not indulge in it. He will get out someday, he will find them, and together they will escape to freedom. Until then, he cannot afford any self-pity. Rage and discouragement alike would rob him of what he needs.

  So, he turns his thoughts again and again to the dialogues. Sometimes to little poetic passages, though he knows these would not be of interest to Prof and Tata and Propo. Stop, he tells himself, you must not slide back into that sort of naming! Their names are Vladimir and Tomislav and Ante! Maybe Sova should be brought into it too. Sova is a thinker of some kind, and he would broaden the spectrum. But what is the owl’s name?

  Returning to the lime quarries, Josip finds that his muscles are a little weaker, but he is also stronger because he has rested and slept properly for the first time in months. During his absence, Sova has come into the dialogues, but he is not really much interested. His one contribution is something caustic about Communism, then he lags and refuses to continue. A pessimist, he is certain they will be detected and punished. It’s not worth it, he says.

  Unfortunately, young Svat—Krunošlav—has wriggled his way into the conspiracy as well. He has put two and two together and deduced the rest correctly. A bright lad, but without prudence, he is excited about it—too excited for safety. The others repeatedly warn him to guard his mask, to watch his manner and his mouth at all times. They permit him a simple exchange as a test.

  His first utterance: “Are there any girls on this island?”

  His dialogue partner, Propo, merely rolls his eyes and ends the discussion.

  That night he warns the others that Svat is too immature, too optimistic, and lacks the necessary caution. He will forget and make a slip and pull them all down with him. This little brother is likeable, but he is also a deadly peril.

  “Give him a chance”, whispers Sova. “We were all young once.”

  “And lived to tell of it. And what’s this—are you still involved, Sova?”

  “No, no, I’m out of it. But can’t you see he’s going to kill himself through some stupidity if he stays here long enough. The dialogue could help him grow up, learn to think on his feet, give him something to live for.”

  “He’s living for the very thought of girls, and that’s all.”

  “Give him another chance.”

  “All right, I’ll take him”, says Prof.

  The next day, this dialogue between the two as they teeter up and down the quarry path:

  Prof: “Svat, pay attention.”

  Svat: “Speak, professor!”

  Prof: “It’s time for you to start thinking.”

  Svat: “I’m always thinking!”

  Prof: “There will be girls enough if you survive. To survive you must begin real thinking.”

  End of day. In order to continue, they need another day. Svat: “What is life without women?”

  Prof: “I agree. But you must stay alive if you want to appreciate them.”

  Svat: “I’m going to escape.”

  Prof: “Unlikely. You need to survive long enough for that.”

  Svat: “I’ll survive. What is a kiss like?”

  Prof: “Shut up, idiot.”

  Svat: “I would die for a girl’s kiss.”

  Prof: “That may well happen.”

  Another month passes without detection. No one will dialogue any further with Svat; he is too great a risk. Because he and Budala are naturally allied by their youth, and also in the shameful task imposed upon them of bathing new prisoners whenever a boatload arrives, they remain close to each other. They are alike in temperament and differ in character—the good brother and the bad brother—though of course neither one is entirely good or bad. Inevitably, Svat brings Budala into the conspiracy. It seems to spark something in the blockhead, and he appears to be more cheerful as a result. They are dialoguing together in the quarries each day, though what they talk about is anyone’s guess. Girls, no doubt, and perhaps naïve escape plots.

  The days are growing shorter, and now artificial lights are used during the final hours of each day’s work. The truck parks on the crest with its nose pointed toward the pit, its headlights augmented by the guards’ flashlights. In some ravines and quarries the poor illumination, combined with the prisoners’ fatigue, has caused more accidents. A few men have been shot, not for disobedience but as horses with broken legs are shot.

  The men of Josip’s barracks are moved to a quarry at the east end of the island. They are higher in the hills here, working near the base of the highest point of Goli Otok, a peak named Glavina, which offers a better view of the water that separates it from the mainland. In the near distance, the mighty wall of the Dinarics can be seen. Vistas of transcendence, a zone promising other worlds. All minds muse more painfully on escape because it is now a visual possibility. Perhaps the administration senses this or understands the psychology of prisoners all too well. Tougher guards, and more of them, are assigned to the crew
.

  Despite all warnings to Svat and Budala, the boys continue their dialogues with each other. Two, three days go by without mishap.

  “What do you talk about?” Josip asks Svat one night in the darkened barracks.

  “We talk about the kind of women we will marry. I want blond, Budala wants brunette.”

  “I will lend you a shoe”, whispers Josip.

  The boy bursts out laughing, and Josip is forced to clamp his hand over the idiot’s mouth.

  The next morning, as the crew packs slabs of limestone uphill, a second truck drives along and three additional guards hop off the back. Usually there are not enough trucks to go around to all the quarries, and as expected it drives away. The new guards join with the ones already present, chat with each other, and then spread out around the perimeter.

  At water break, Propo whispers, “This is not good. Zmija and Zohar are here.”

  Snake and Cockroach. Josip needs no explanation.

  “They’re the worst”, Propo adds. “No more dialogues today.”

  “Back to work! Back to work!” shout the guards.

  An hour passes, during which the snake and the cockroach behave no differently than other guards. Then it happens: Svat is going up with a big slab of stone in his arms, Budala is coming down, and they meet halfway. Even at a distance of twenty meters, Josip can see that the boys pause in passing, just a few seconds, but enough to draw attention to themselves. Though it is too far to see lip movement, the way they hold their heads is classic discussion mode. Only a blind man could fail to note that they have spoken to each other.

  “Stop!” shouts a guard. A whistle blows shrilly; again and again it shrieks, until all movement ceases within the quarry. Men put down their stones and stand at attention. Zmija the snake stomps down the track, grabs Svat by the collar of his burlap shirt and shakes him. The boy hunches his head into his shoulders, his face stricken with fear. Barking and whistles. A cuff to Svat’s face. Another guard strides down into the pit and grabs Budala.

  What is said cannot be heard by all. Slowly, Svat crouches and picks up his stone, and shifts it onto his back. With a kick, the snake propels the boy upward toward the crest. To carry stone in this way demands that the bearer bend at the waist so that the slab will not slide off his back. The snake unholsters his pistol and follows behind with gun in hand.

  Svat arrives at the top and shifts the stone onto the carry platform of the truck. Another kick sends him stumbling down the track to the quarry floor. Arriving there, he stands with head bowed. Now the guard who is standing by Budala—it is Zohar the cockroach—tells Budala to load two stones onto Svat’s back. Svat bends, Budala obeys. Svat turns toward the track and begins his ascent. He is moving at his normal speed, but his face is red with strain.

  Again and again the procedure is repeated. Three stones, four stones. Now all the guards have gathered at the head of the trail and are placing bets with each other. Down Svat goes to the bottom of the quarry, his eyes staring at nothing but his feet, as his trembling legs take him back for another load. He bends. Budala, his chin on his chest from anguish and shame, places five slabs on Svat’s back. The boy cries out, moves his legs, trying to turn. One step, another, and another. Now he reaches the base of the track.

  The quarry is silent as guards and prisoners alike observe his progress.

  The incline begins. Svat is groaning, gasping, his limbs trembling as he forces them to overcome weight and gravity. He is still only at the bottom, and the slope ahead has become for him a sheer cliff. He takes a few more paces, until the muscles simply cannot move. A leg gives out, and he sinks down on one knee, though he does not let the stones slide off.

  “Up!” commands the snake.

  Svat gathers every last gram of energy and slowly rises. Then, in an instant, everything collapses. His legs give way beneath him, he tumbles sideways, and falls a meter onto the quarry floor, a few of the slabs sliding down after him. None hit him. He lies on his belly, panting, as the snake casually strides down the trail and comes to a halt beside the prone boy. With a snap of his fingers, he calls the cockroach and Budala over, and commands the latter to pull Svat to his feet.

  Svat is up now, with Budala holding him by the arm, but he cannot stand upright.

  “Again!” shouts the snake. “If you make it to the top with six, you will live. Give up now, and you die.” He smirks. “Load him”, he barks at Budala.

  Budala puts one slab onto Svat’s back. Then another.

  “Faster!”

  The third and fourth are added, and now every ear can hear the whimpers that are forced from Svat’s throat.

  “Another!”

  The fifth is added, and Svat’s knees begin to shake and buckle. He resists, and straightens them. “Now the sixth!”

  Budala bends to pick up a slab. Suddenly he straightens and cries out, “Sir, sir, please let me carry it for him!”

  The snake punches Budala in the nose; the boy staggers backward into the dust.

  “Get up! Put the sixth on him!”

  Budala gets himself to his feet and obeys.

  For a few seconds, Svat quivers and sways, then collapses under the entire weight. He lies beneath the rubble without moving.

  The cockroach squats near Svat’s head. The boy’s eyes are closed but twitching; his lips are trembling, his breath is whistling in and out.

  “He’s alive”, says the cockroach.

  “Then he can work”, laughs the snake. “Seven!”

  The cockroach pushes Budala forward. “He said seven. Put another on.”

  Sobbing openly now, Budala lifts a slab from a nearby pile and moves toward Svat. He is about to add it to the load pressing down on his friend, but he stops himself and with a wild animal yell hurls the slab at the snake. He throws himself onto him, pummeling with his fists. The cockroach grabs him, drags him away, rams the barrel of his pistol under Budala’s chin, and pulls the trigger. The explosion echoes throughout the quarry. Budala’s head snaps back, and he crumples at the cockroach’s feet. The snake nods approval and dusts himself off.

  With a jerk of his hand he tells the cockroach to finish the job. “Not with a bullet”, he adds. “It has been a while since we made wine.”

  The other guards have unslung their rifles and are pointing them down into the quarry, lest the prisoners interfere.

  As the snake stands by with a smirk playing on his face, the cockroach lowers a slab onto the stones on Svat’s body. Faint groans come from the boy. Another slab is added. Inarticulate pleading.

  Josip and Tata are standing nearest, convulsing interiorly, but keeping their masks in place.

  “Courage”, Josip breathes through his parted lips.

  Slab after slab is added. Bones crack, a scream, and then silence.

  “You two,” snaps the snake, “get these bodies up to the truck!”

  Josip and Tata pull the stones off Svat. When his head is exposed, they see that his eyes are open, unblinking. His skull is crushed, blood and brain-matter seeping out; his arms are broken, his ribcage is caved in.

  Numb with horror, they pull the broken body toward the trail, leaving a smear of blood in the dust. Tata takes the boy’s legs, Josip the arms, and they carry him up the trail to the truck, then roll him onto the platform behind the cab.

  “Back to work! Back to work!” shout the guards, blowing whistles. All prisoners stir, shake themselves, turn away from the pile of rubble and gore, and resume their tasks.

  “Get the other one!” a guard tells Josip and Tata. They go back down into the pit and retrieve Budala’s body. Josip chokes and vomits when they pick him up, for much of the boy’s face has been blasted away.

  When both bodies are on the truck, the snake commands Josip and Tata to get on. A guard with a cocked rifle joins them.

  The truck drives away. Rocking on the uneven road under the hot sun, Tata and Josip crouch beside the bodies, staring at each other in disbelief, two living prisoners beside the two dead.
We are all dead, thinks Josip. The guard lights a cigarette and leans against the cab with a sour, bored expression. The engine has no muffler and is roaring loudly. No whispers are possible, though Tata’s lips are moving. At one point, when the truck rounds a bend and begins its descent from the hills, the guard stands and faces the front, leaning over the roof of the cab. No one’s going anywhere, his posture says, there are no escapes.

  With thumb and forefinger, Tata traces a sign of the cross on Svat’s forehead, then on Budala’s. Josip holds Svat’s limp hand. It is not yet cool, not yet stiffening. They pass the prison compound and descend further, going round a bend that arrives at a little bay.

  The guard tells them to strip off the boots and throw the bodies into the sea.

  Josip and Tata drag Budala’s body from the platform and carry it to the water’s edge. They throw it in. The body sinks a little and then rises, rolls onto its side, and sinks again, leaving a veil of blood in the water.

  Josip takes Svat’s body by the legs, the bare feet bobbing against his chest; Tata has the arms, the boy’s head lolling and leaking fluids all the way. They throw him in. He slowly sinks, his mouth open wide as he goes down.

  Krunošlav, Krunošlav! cries Josip silently. I will not forget you!

  Then they are commanded onto the truck and driven back to work.

  20

  Hatred is an energy that gives and takes. It drains the soul, even as it seems to invigorate.

  The night after they have thrown the bodies into the sea, Tata crawls across the barracks in the dark and whispers into Josip’s ears:

  “Now is the test that we all must pass through.”

  “What test?” Josip replies bitterly.

  “When Cain slew Abel—if there had been a third brother, would he not have been put to this test?”

  “Leave me alone, Tata. Long ago I figured out that you are a priest, but I cannot bear any religious talk.”