by Jean Austin
“Don’t go past those flags, okay?” I say to the kids. As the grass is quite tall, with a tangle of bushes, I doubt they will, but I feel compelled to warn them regardless.
“Why?” Jimmy asks.
“There are mines,” I say, but he has no idea what a mine is. “Bombs that haven’t exploded.” Probably not the best explanation, as to a child, the idea of a bomb can have some allure. Danger is exciting, so I try to dampen the quizzical look on his face by adding, “and snakes.”
“Snakes?” Jimmy says with alarm, looking more closely at where he places his feet as we walk along the gravel path. Jilly squeezes my hand. She doesn’t like the sound of snakes.
“Oh, yeah,” I say, realizing I've found something that resonates far better with them than the intangible concept of landmines. “Lots and lots of snakes. Bosnia is famous for its venomous snakes.”
“What kind of snakes?” Jimmy asks, slowing his pace a little as we walk along the riverbank.
“Tiger snakes, leopard snakes, lion snakes.” Are there even such creatures? I’m pretty sure there are tiger snakes somewhere in the world, but leopard and lion? I doubt it. An eight year old boy isn’t going to know that though. Before I mentioned the snakes, Jimmy was fifteen feet ahead of me on the track, now he’s walking beside me.
The trail is broad and well kept. Tourists must stop by here regularly, as the path has freshly cut grass on either side of it out to about five feet before the thick grass suddenly shoots up. The flags are slightly wider again, so I feel safe. There’s no way the kids are going to stray off the path at the thought of snakes in the long grass. I don’t even know if Bosnia has snakes. I suspect the winters her might be too cold for them.
We reach the ruins within an hour, and I end up carrying Jilly most of the way up the hill. Ropes sections off those parts of the castle that are unstable and have fallen into ruins. There are the obligatory warning signs about the danger of walls collapsing, with images of a cartoonish man being squashed by rocks, although that’s not the danger I fear. I note that there are tiny orange flags dotted around the perimeter of the field surrounding the castle. In some cases, they’re well over a hundred yards away, but they’re there, reminding me of the danger hidden beneath the ground.
The castle is set on a slope, with a strong prevailing wind coming from the east, blowing my hair across my face. There’s only a smattering of trees on the hilltop, but they’re all well beyond the orange flags. I’m worrying over nothing. The closest flag to us is easily fifty yards from the castle wall.
Most of the outer wall surrounding the castle has been reduced to rubble, having been torn down centuries ago, but the inner wall still stands proud and defiant. There’s a circular tower reaching up several stories in one corner.
“Can we go in there?” Jimmy asks.
“Sure.”
We follow some other tourists that drove to the top of the hill and parked on the road behind the castle. They have cameras out and are snapping pictures. I’m tempted to do likewise, but this definitely isn’t Montana.
The staircase within the tower is narrow and cramped. If anyone’s coming down while we’re going up, things are going to get personal. Jilly sits on my hip, watching as I breathe hard, climbing the well-worn stone stairs curling around the inside of the tower. Every fifteen feet there’s a narrow opening in the stone wall, allowing light to filter in. I peer out across the valley, wondering if archers once took up firing positions from places like this.
The castle tower is well kept. Metal handrails have been set into the floor at those points where the ramparts have crumbled, preventing tourists from accidentally tumbling over the edge.
“Wow. This is totally cool,” Jimmy says, looking over the edge of the wall at the ground so far below. The view of the valley is breathtaking. It’s not hard to see why the castle was built in this spot as we can see for miles.
There’s a small room in the center of the tower. Jilly asks, “Is this where they kept the princess?”
I laugh. “I hope not.” The room is empty and little more than the size of a janitor’s closet. At best, it would have allowed guards to get out of the wind, rain, snow and sleet while on duty.
“I can see our house,” Jimmy yells, pointing. I follow his gaze beyond the trees and over the rooftops. At this distance, I can’t see anyone, but I spot the tiled roof of our cottage and the open field beyond, with the forest stretching for miles.
“A castle. A real castle,” Jimmy tells Jilly. She nods.
“But no dragons,” I say.
We head back down the stairs, and watch as another couple backs out of the entrance to allow us past. They’re an elderly couple, and appear as excited as Jimmy.
Jilly giggles, picking tiny daisies and tossing them in the air like confetti. Given all she’s been through, it’s refreshing to see her enjoying life. It’s about nine in the morning, which is easily two or three in the morning back home, but Jilly’s full of energy. She’ll crash before lunch, I’m sure. She’s always been good at taking naps.
“Hey Mom,” Jimmy yells. “Take a picture.”
He’s climbed up on a low stone wall, with one of the towers behind him. Beside him there’s an old iron cannon set on wooden wheels. Flags flutter from the ramparts. Not very Montana, but at some point I’m going to have to come clean—might as well have some memories to show for my brash stupidity.
The battery indicator on my phone blinks with a single red bar. I snap a picture.
“And one by the drawbridge,” Jimmy says, pointing at a wooden platform extending over a dried up moat. Thick chains reach back into the sides of the castle. Metal spikes over the entrance reveal the presence of an iron gate that could impale someone were the restraints loosed. I’m sure it’s all fixed firmly in place—or at least I hope so.
Jimmy pokes his head around the corner. A sword and a shield and his day would be complete. I take a few more photos as my phone complains and switches to low-power mode, making the screen dim.
“Come and get a picture, Jilly,” Jimmy yells out.
Jilly? My heart skips a beat. I’ve become so caught up in the moment with Jimmy, I’ve lost track of Jilly. I turn in a panic. Jilly skips through the grass, plucking flowers and tossing them aside like she was leading a bride to the altar, only she’s over by the orange flags.
“JILLY,” I yell, and she stops mid-stride. From where I am, I can’t tell which side of the flags she’s on. The flags are spaced twenty feet apart and barely reach above the tall grass.
I run. I don’t know that I’ve ever run so hard or so fast in my life. My heart pounds in my throat as I scream, “DON’T MOVE.” I’m running into a minefield, but I don’t care. I have to. I cannot abandon my daughter. I feel as though the earth beneath me is about to erupt and explode with each pounding step.
Jilly looks at me, confused. She’s oblivious to the danger and continues walking forward, gathering more flowers. I cannot run fast enough. The forces of nature seem to conspire against me, holding me back, dragging me down. I’m yelling at her to stay still.
As I get closer, I see she’s right on the fringe of the flags, almost directly in line with two of them. I snatch her off the ground and retreat several yards before putting her down. I’m hysterical. I run my hands through her hair as though I’m looking for injuries, but she’s fine. Nothing happened, Emma. Nothing. Breathe.
“Jilly. Jilly. No,” I say, trying to catch my breath. I point at the nearest flag saying, “Mines!” She looks down at the flowers in her hand and then up at me, offering me an assortment of wild flowers. I laugh at the tension of the moment. It’s as though the heat of a stifling hot summer’s day has been broken by the cool of falling rain. “Snakes, honey. Snakes, remember?”
“Oh,” she says with utter innocence, and pointing at the nearest flag. “Snakes.”
“Yes,” I say. “We don’t go past the flags, okay?”
“Bad snakes,” she says, and I hug her, wanting to hol
d her close for a moment.
Jimmy jogs up beside me.
“Can I see?” he says, oblivious to my distress. I hand him the phone. “Oh, damn. The battery’s dead.”
That’s my cue. Time to head back to the village.
Chapter 07: Soccer
“Can I go and play soccer?” Jimmy asks as I wash the lunch dishes.
“Sure,” I say, seeing some of the boys from the village kicking a ball around on the street. Back in the US, I’d never dream of letting my son play in the middle of a road, but cobblestones and horse drawn carts trundling by provide me with a different perspective. Someone’s painted goal posts on a stone wall. Besides, it’s good to see Jimmy active. No wifi is a blessing.
Jilly curls up on the couch. She’s asleep in seconds. I go to carry her upstairs, but Branka bats me away with a wave of her hand. Branka is sitting in one of the rocking chairs, knitting. I suspect she’s enjoying the novelty of having young children around, and is happy to watch over her.
Branka’s a sweetheart. I wonder about her family. I imagine she has kids and grandkids, but there are no pictures of them. All the photos on display are of older men and women, and they’re all faded. Does she have any living family?
“Ah,” I say, pulling the spare phone battery from my bag along with its charger. “Where can I get some electricity?”
“In the market. See Giotto. He has the power.”
The power? I assume she means electrical power and not some form of mystical energy.
“The bakery,” she says. “Go. Go.”
My Kindle has plenty of charge—it’ll last for a month or more, but my phone struggles after a day or two. I smile, comfortable leaving Jilly in her care. It’s somewhat surreal how quickly I’ve acclimatized to trusting a stranger, but Branka is lovely.
I feel light—free—as I walk through the village toward the market. Jimmy sneaks a quick wave to me while playing soccer, something that would never happen in the US. The cobblestone road evokes a sense of nostalgia in me, and my mind recalls happier days with Paul—like when we visited Niagara Falls with Jimmy still in diapers, and a summer vacation spent in Florida just after Jilly was born. Perhaps these are the things fond memories are made of—unusual places and warm feelings.
At the heart of the village, a market square opens out, surrounding an old well. Wooden stalls sell everything from fresh vegetables and cheese to necklaces and handmade dresses. I pick out a beautiful silver bracelet with plaited strands woven in an intricate pattern and as there’s no price tag, bartering begins in earnest. Rather than using a single currency, Croatian Kuna, Serbian dinars and Euros are all in circulation. As we’re close to the Serbian border, it’s mainly dinars changing hands, and I wonder about the exchange rate. I doubt it’s favorable, but as I only have Euros I’ll have to accept whatever change is available.
The seller is a young woman in her twenties. She seems to be inflating her price, switching between Slavic Bosnian and English. The more interest I show, the worse her English seems to become. Exasperated, I put down the bracelet and walk on, reminding myself I didn’t come here on a shopping spree.
“No, no, no,” the woman with the red scarf says, her English seems to improve the further I stray from her stall. “We negotiate. I give you good price. I give you best price.”
She tugs on my arm, telling me I’m not leaving here without the bracelet, but I don’t mind as it’s pretty, and I’d love a keepsake of our time here.
“Ten Euros,” I say.
“Oh, but my family. We buy from the Gypsies. This is genuine. It is thirty euros in the shops.”
“Ten,” I say, determined to hold my ground with what I feel is a fair price.
“At twenty Euros, it is a steal. I am selling it to you at cost.” She shoves the bracelet in my hand. “It is beautiful. It makes you pretty.” Ah, there’s nothing like insincere flattery to drive a sale. I pull a ten Euro note from my purse and offer it to her. If any of the locals showed any interest in this bracelet, I’m pretty damn sure it would sell for a couple of Euros at most. Our eyes lock. She hesitates, and then snatches the note from me with a sense of vigor that says, “No refunds available.”
I smile and walk on, slipping the bracelet over my wrist.
The bakery is on the far side of the market square. Thick, glass windows distort the baked goods on display inside the stone store, but I spot baguettes, wholemeal loaves, and rolls. Inside, an old man in traditional Bosnian dress is busy cutting loaves by hand. He has a large bread knife, with serrations so extreme he could be using a pruning saw.
“I, ah… I’m looking for power.”
He points, saying something in Bosnian. A power strip sits on the table behind me. Each plug on the board as several other dual extension plugs jammed in it, giving a six plug board somewhere between twelve and eighteen sockets. It’s not in any way safe, but as there’s only a couple of phones plugged in, I grab my plug adapter, stick it in, and set my spare battery on charge.
“Should I pay you for this?” I ask, wondering if my battery will be stolen between now and tomorrow. More brutal Bosnian is spoken in an angry tone. Fingers point at the display case, convincing me the offer of electricity is made on a quid pro quo basis. I point, saying, “I’ll take that loaf,” and I hand over a couple of Euro coins, hoping that’s sufficient. The old man looks at the coins for a moment as if he’s questioning their authenticity, and then slips them in his pocket. No receipt required—or change, for that matter.
From behind me, a man’s voice says, “Pola tuceta krofne.”
I turn to see Anton, pointing and directing the baker to pick out some pastries. He continues talking in Bosnian to the man, but it’s clear they’re talking about me. Finally, the baker hands over a paper bag full of sweet buns.
“Krofne,” Anton says as we step out of the bakery. “Filled donuts. I asked him to give you a mixture, a few jam filled, a few with custard.”
“Thank you,” I say, peering into the bag.
“You were paying too much.”
“Yes,” I say. “I kinda get the feeling the economy here is very different from back home.”
“It is.”
“Krofne?” I ask, offering him one from the open bag.
“Sure.”
We both bite into a bun. Cream squeezes out the side, and I find myself licking my fingers, trying not to make a mess. Anton laughs, “Good, huh?”
“Perfect,” I say, enjoying more than just the Krofne.
“Where are you from?” he asks as we walk through the market. It’s a Disney moment. The sun comes out from behind the clouds. Birds sing in the trees. I’m walking through a magical land with—okay, not with Prince Charming, as he’s wearing filthy overalls, but I don’t need a knight in shining armor, just someone genuine and nice, someone that’s interested in me—and not just for sex—interested in me as a person.
“North Carolina,” I say, which is a typical American reply. Americans are not from America, they identify with various states within America. As much as America is a single country, it’s a collection of diverse societies bound by common ideals, but I’m suddenly aware Anton’s probably not sure where North Carolina is other than that it’s north of South Carolina.
Even such simple designations as north and south are misnomers in America. My folks have a holiday home in Oak Island, North Carolina, which is south of Florence in South Carolina, and yet north of North Myrtle Beach in South Carolina. Confused? Aren’t we all? Foreigners often wonder why Americans are lousy at geography. It’s because our own country has enough quirks to confuse the hell out of us. When you live in a country that is unequivocally south of Canada, but have major cities like Minneapolis, Portland and Seattle that are all north of Toronto, Canada, you have to be forgiving of high school geography teachers.
It’s even worse on our southern border. Tijuana in Mexico, is further north than San Antonio, Houston, New Orleans, and Jacksonville. Our country is weird. Take off from Lo
s Angeles, on the West Coast, and you have to fly northwest to get to San Francisco without ever passing over the Pacific. Strange, but that’s kinda representative of us Americans as a whole—we’re hard to define in simple terms.
I spare Anton my confusion, simply saying, “On the Atlantic Seaboard.”
“Oh,” he says, with a tone that suggests he knows of the Atlantic, but not much beyond there.
“South of New York,” I say. Everyone knows where New York is.
“What brought you to Bosnia?” he asks, which is a very good question and not one I can answer honestly. Even before the words leave my mouth, I have the feeling he doesn’t believe me.
“My grandparents are from around here. I just wanted to get away for a few weeks, and thought, why not visit my ancestral homeland?”
Anton licks red jam from his fingers as he finishes his Krofne. He seems to accept my explanation, although I doubt he believes it.
“Thank you for the Krofne,” he says as we reach the edge of the market. From this point, the road stretches down toward his workshop and up toward the cottage, so we inevitably have to part ways, which is a shame. I’m enjoying his banter, and I appreciate him standing up for me in the bakery. I should say something nice, or perhaps something witty, but instead, I’m flustered and end up simply nodding awkwardly and raising the paper bag as though I were proposing a toast with a glass of wine.
“Bye,” slips from my lips. I want to kick myself for being such a klutz.
Anton waves a friendly goodbye and walks on toward the truck protruding from his workshop. Large open wooden doors reveal an array of tools and tires, barrels of oil and workbenches inside. The doors have been painted in a deep sea green, but near the bottom, the paint is flaking off, revealing a bright orange beneath. To me, that’s characteristic of Bosnia. As much as anyone might want to repaint the country, its rich past still peeks through.