Rose of Sarajevo

by Ayşe Kulin

  “You can use mine. It’s not like anybody’s going to ask for your ID.”

  “So I’ll be Miza in the neighborhood and Mirsada at work?”

  “Just so nobody bothers you, Mirsada.”

  “And who are they, these people who would bother me?”

  “Darling, Yugoslavia is changing fast. I have no way of knowing how people will be acting a few weeks or months from now. I’m not asking you to change your name. It’s your safety I’m worried about.”

  “We’ve lived openly with our different backgrounds for years in this country. There’s never been a problem. Do you think people are going to change overnight just because a madman is taking the reins of government?”

  “Nobody could have predicted that reasonable Germans would stand by as their Jewish neighbors were rounded up and exterminated. But when that madman came to power, everything changed, and reasonable people did nothing to stop it. They all tried to save their own skin first and foremost.”

  “That’s very sensitive of you, but I’m prepared to resist to the end. Besides, since you brought up Germany, do you really think humanity would allow a new genocide? You’ve become paranoid.”

  Though her words had been defiant, something started gnawing at Mirsada. Was Petar hiding anything from her? Was she ignorant of new developments in Belgrade? But she was too distracted by the move to brood on these and other questions, and they were both relaxed and happy as they picked out new furniture and gardening equipment. For a moment, Mirsada even regretted having turned down Petar’s proposal of marriage. But it was too late now. He was unlikely to propose again after she’d replied with such an unequivocal no. He’d never brought it up again, and Mirsada was too proud to tell him she had changed her mind.

  Mirsada and Nimeta spoke on the phone several times a week. They’d been confiding in each other since childhood, and when they were unable to phone, they wrote long letters. This baring of their deepest secrets was a form of confession—and therapy. When Nimeta was in the clinic, Mirsada had called her every day and come to Sarajevo several times to see her friend. She did all she could to offer her support, even though Nimeta’s own mother was there.

  Raziyanım had always resented Mirsada’s access to her daughter’s private world. Whenever anything bad happened to Nimeta, she tended to blame it on her best friend, and Mirsada knew this. In her eyes, Raziyanım was an oppressive, tyrannical mother who discouraged her daughter’s talents and narrowed her horizons, and Raziyanım knew this. And yet nobody could come between these two women, who had shared so much since childhood.

  In her most recent letter to Nimeta, Mirsada had written, “I don’t know how everyone else celebrated Milošević’s victory, but Petar and I had quite a wild night. We were so worried about that Serbian madman, we drank ourselves silly. Some might have reached for the bottle to toast him, but we drank out of sheer terror. We must have visited every nightclub in Belgrade . . . It was great while we were actually knocking it back—and, of course, afterward in bed together—but the next morning was a disaster. That was days ago, and I’m still feeling muddleheaded. You’re such a slip of a thing, how ever did you manage to put away so much plum brandy back in the day? Milos brought me the sweater and scarf you sent. Thanks, sweetie. You picked out the most beautiful color. I’m told you’ve put on some weight, cut your hair, and grown even prettier. Whatever you do, don’t go and fall in love again. At our age, it can only mean trouble.”

  Nimeta folded the letter and put it in the drawer. Ah, to be in Mirsada’s shoes. She’d put an end to an unhappy marriage and gone off on her own. But when God had created the same opportunity for her, she’d chosen depression over a new life. Yes, she’d gained weight and cut her hair. But for whom? For what?

  She studied her face in the mirror. There were fine lines above her lips, where her face was pressed into the pillow every night. Another new line had appeared in her chin, and she could only conceal the dark circles under eyes with lots of powder.

  “Your drink and cigarettes will turn you into a crone before you reach forty,” her mother had always said, as though she herself hadn’t become quite the crone without the benefit of either vice.

  “Mother, my piano instructor sent you a letter.”

  Her daughter was at the door, waving an envelope.

  “What does he want? Did you go to your lesson without practicing again?”

  “How can you say that, Mom? I’m one of the five students who’ve been chosen to give a recital at the end of the term.”

  Nimeta was ashamed of herself. First she’d been so busy she’d neglected Hana, and then she’d been too depressed to take much of an interest.

  “Come here, you little squirrel,” she said. She pressed Hana against her bosom. Her blond head smelled like lemons.

  “Your hair smells wonderful.”

  “Grandma washed it with lemon shampoo.”

  She felt another twinge of shame. Even though she was all better now, her mother was still looking after the kids. Wasn’t it time she sent her mother home and shampooed her little girl’s hair herself?

  “You’ve got such pretty hair, Hana, just like your grandmother. She had thick blond hair just like you.”

  “Did she wear a headscarf?”

  “No, she never did.”

  “Are you sure, Mom?”

  “Of course I’m sure. What’s all this about headscarves?”

  “Saliha’s mother wears one. She says everyone did in the old days.”

  “Not everyone. Just the ones who wanted to did, like now.”

  “Why not everyone?”

  Nimeta cleared her throat and swallowed hard.

  “Mom, didn’t Allah say to cover our heads with a long, long scarf?”

  “What makes you think Allah takes an interest in women’s fashion?”

  “But that’s what our God says in that book over there.”

  Hana was pointing to the embroidered blue purse holding the Koran, which was hanging next to the bed.

  “Hana, what do you mean by ‘our’ God? There’s only one God.”

  “But doesn’t Mirka have a different one?”

  “Dear, the prophets might be different, but God is one.”

  “Mom, are you sure?”

  “Of course I am.”

  “I’m going to tell that to Saliha’s nana. You know what else she says? The piano is the devil’s plaything.”

  “Who?”

  “Saliha’s nana.”

  “Who’s Saliha?”

  “A classmate.”

  Nimeta took the envelope from her daughter. Long after Hana was gone, she continued staring at the doorway. She didn’t even know her daughter’s friends. She’d made her choice. She’d chosen her husband and children over love. Well then, it was high time she followed up on that decision. She’d put in a request to work part-time, starting at the end of the year, or she’d quit her job. Hana was growing up, and she had no intention of leaving her little girl to the influence of Saliha’s grandmother. She’d speak to Ivan first thing tomorrow.

  SPRING 1988

  The first thing Nimeta did when she stepped into the lobby of the television station building was to ask at reception whether Ivan had arrived yet.

  “Yes, he’s expecting all of you in his office,” said the receptionist. “You’d better go straight up.” Nimeta ran into Milos in the elevator. “Do you know why Ivan’s called a meeting?” she asked.

  “No, but if he’s calling us in at this hour of the morning, it must be something important.”

  Routine evaluation meetings tended to be held toward noon, once everyone had finished their own assignments and bulletins.

  “Every time I’ve got a personal matter I need to discuss, something more important comes up,” Nimeta grumbled.

  She’d made up her mind months ago, bu
t every time she attempted to inform her boss that there was some major development, she was sent off on location, or a staffing issue threw off her plans. Today, however, she was determined to cut to the chase and inform Ivan before she was given yet another assignment she couldn’t refuse.

  She hung up her jacket and raced to Ivan’s office. Everyone had gathered around the oval conference table.

  “You’ll never guess what’s happening in Slovenia,” Sonya said.

  “What could possibly happen in Slovenia?” Milos said. “Catholic villagers are making Alpine yogurt from fat cows and their red-cheeked, big-breasted daughters are making cheese.”

  They all laughed.

  “You all remember the Mladina incident?” Ivan said. “The war of words between the Slovenian political magazine and the army?”

  “Didn’t that happen way back in January?”

  “Yes, but as you all know, the dispute between the army and the press has been raging ever since.”

  “So what’s the latest?” Nimeta asked.

  “They’ve arrested the editor, Franci Zavrl, and the supervisor, Janez Janša.”

  “On what charges?”

  “For the crime of publishing stolen military documents.”

  “But who authorized it?” Nimeta asked. Her mind was on the conversation she planned to have with Ivan later.

  “Don’t ask silly questions. Our federal army, of course. Our own glorious Yugoslav National Army. Get ready to go to Slovenia, guys. You’ll be attending hearings and monitoring developments.”

  Nobody moved.

  “Have you called our Slovenian correspondent?” Milos said. “Surely he’d be the best man for the job.”

  “Go to your desk and give him a call,” Ivan said. “Pack a bag, Nimeta. You’ll have a cameraman. Take a backup reporter if you like, but leave me Milos. I’ll try to schedule an appointment with the Slovenian party leader, Kučan. With any luck, you’ll be able to meet with him while you’re there. Your per diems are ready at accounting.”

  Back in her own department, as Nimeta waited for a call to be put through to Burhan, she turned to Sonya and said, “I was getting ready to send mother home and take care of my kids myself. What’s going to happen to my life if we go on like this? Yet again I have to tell my husband I won’t be home tonight. And on the very day he was expecting me to come home with the good news about working part-time.”

  “This is a really interesting assignment,” Sonya said. “Cover it, and then you can get back to thinking about life.”

  When Nimeta reached Lubliyana, the city was abuzz with rumors of a military coup. It was the only thing anyone was talking about, from pedestrians and shoppers to students and businessmen. Meanwhile, defense minister Admiral Mamula had been hastily retired, and Colonel Vasiljević, the officer credited with suppressing the Albanian rebellion in Kosovo in 1981, was being dispatched to Lubliyana to bring Slovenia to heel.

  Confronted by the sight of Janez Janša’s worn, unshaven face behind the glass partitions in the city prison, Nimeta realized just how trivial her own worries were. Even pain should be suffered in freedom. The man across from her was so close, and yet she couldn’t reach out her hand and touch him. The expression on his face revealed a kind of despair she found impossible to put into words. Reflected in his eyes was the helplessness of a person who didn’t know where or what he’d be in a week, a month, a year, or even an hour. Any sense of security in Yugoslavia was being obliterated. Anything could happen to anyone at any time.

  “Did they torture you?” she asked him, barely hearing her own voice.

  Janša shook his head no.

  “Who interrogated you?”

  “Vasiljević himself. All he wanted to know was who in the army had passed along the document. Unfortunately, that’s something I don’t know.”

  Nimeta knew they were being listened to, but she hoped that Janša would somehow find a way to give her a few hints, even if he was unable to answer her questions directly. She also wanted to give the ghostly man behind the glass some hope.

  “Janša, there’s an incredible sense of solidarity on the outside. Everyone’s collecting signatures petitioning for your release and that of Franci.”

  “Vasiljević told me that even if all of Yugoslavia were to take to the streets, it would make no difference. He said that in the interests of the state, I could be held for fifteen years or executed on the spot. He even said they could destroy my family and kill my children. You know what—”

  Before he could finish his sentence, an official stepped between the prisoner and Nimeta. Standing before Janša, he scowled and said, “The interview is over.”

  “But our fifteen minutes aren’t up yet,” Nimeta objected.

  “The interview is over.”

  Nimeta hunched over to try to get a glimpse of Janša. “Good-bye, Janša. I’ll let the others know that you’re fine, that they’re treating you well, that I didn’t see any evidence of torture,” she shouted as he was being led away.

  Despite having received permission just the day before, she was denied an interview with Franci Zavrl. It was obvious that the armed forces loathed members of the press who weren’t from Serbia or of Serbian descent.

  That afternoon she found herself in an airy office sitting in a morocco-leather chair across from Kučan, the leader of the League of Communists of Slovenia.

  “It’s very gracious of you to see me, sir. I know how busy party leaders are, but the people of Bosnia are closely following events here,” Nimeta began.

  They sipped coffee and made small talk for a few moments.

  “It’s being said that you were given prior notice of the arrests made by Vasiljević—”

  Kučan interrupted Nimeta with a scowl.

  “The army and its intelligence agency are responsible for these arrests. The Slovenian government knew nothing about it.”

  “But according to the briefing I received—”

  “How could we possibly be connected to these arrests? Do you have any further questions?”

  “General Kadijević told me himself that the Slovenian government has been kept apprised of all developments.”

  “And I am telling you otherwise. Young lady, I have an important meeting to attend in five minutes. Now if you’ll excuse me.” His tone was as harsh as the expression on his face.

  Nimeta got up to leave and was accompanied as far as the door, where Kučan shook her hand, gave her a gentle push, and immediately shut the door behind her.

  When she left the party building, she ran into a large group of people marching down the street. A woman came up and handed her a flyer on which was written “Petition to free the prisoners.”

  Nimeta signed it. Lubliyana, the most conservative city in Slovenia, was staging its first demonstration. Nimeta joined the crowd and tried to gauge the mood of the people as she walked toward her hotel with them. Journalists, professors, and intellectuals had turned out for the event. Slovenia seemed to be transforming these arrests into a banner of freedom for its own future.

  She called Sonya as soon as she got to the hotel.

  “Ivan strongly denied the possibility that Kučan had cooperated with the army, but he seemed overly defensive when I spoke to him,” she said.

  Then she sat at her desk to write the fax she would send to Bosnia.

  Huge crowds have gathered in front of the building where the hearings are taking place. People are dropping everything to gather there and demonstrate. They carry placards strongly condemning the court, which is closed to the public, and which has refused to grant the defendants their right to an attorney or to a defense in their mother tongue. Although those inside can’t see the placards and the crowds, they must be able to hear their chants and slogans. The uproar is unnerving the military and uplifting the spirits of the prisoners. The military continues to make mi
stake after mistake. Under the command of Milošević, the people of Yugoslavia have lost their affection and respect for the republic. I’m afraid our country has begun to unravel, Ivan.

  Best wishes to all. See you soon.

  Nimeta

  After sending off the fax, Nimeta called home. Her mother answered. She asked after Fiko and Hana. Fiko hadn’t come home yet. Hana wanted to go to the home of her friend, Saliha, but Raziyanım wouldn’t let her. Nimeta asked to speak to Hana.

  “How you are, my lamb?” she asked.

  “Mom, when are you coming home?” Hana said. “Grandma keeps poking her nose into my life.”

  “You need to learn to listen to your elders. Why are you picking a fight with your grandmother?”

  “I want to go to Saliha’s, but she won’t let me.”

  “What business have you got in a house where they think a piano is the devil’s plaything?”

  “Because they make the tastiest zucchini fritters.”

  “I’ll be home tomorrow, Hana. Hang on for another day. And don’t upset your grandmother.”

  That was it. She’d speak to Ivan when she got back. She didn’t care whether the republics all sank together or went to war with one another. She wasn’t going to leave home again for a remote assignment. Her decision was final.

  GAZIMESTAN, JUNE 28, 1989

  “Who’s going to go to Pristina, Nimeta?” Mate asked.

  “Ibo wants to go,” Nimeta replied.

  “Don’t you want to?” Mate said. “This isn’t to be missed.”

  “It’s not right for me to take on every assignment, Mate.”

  “Not right for whom?”

  “Not right for my colleagues and, even worse, for my husband.”

  “Are you saying that Burhan still hasn’t got used to the pace of the media?”

  “Burhan has, but the same can’t be expected of the children. Hana is going through such a sensitive phase right now, Mate, that I’d hate to neglect her. I want to be a mother. Frankly, sometimes I feel like handing in my resignation.”