Before I’ve even shut the door behind me, I’m greeted by an audible sigh. I know I’m irritating her by saying nothing, I make no excuses, I don’t even fight. My brother’s bed is made, she probably spent the whole evening by herself. All I want is to crawl under the blanket, fall asleep, and while I’m trying to do that her voice rouses me: “You must have had quite a night to be out so late. Hey, that’s okay, go for it.”
I hated Sunday. Lots of people hate Sunday, I know, but I hated it with every inch of my being. I spent the day waiting to go back to the dorm, I had to listen to how I’d come home the night before too late, did I need to review anything, and what kind of a school was this where there was no homework. Mama’d gone out somewhere, surprise surprise, probably to visit with Nana, and I saw my brother was getting ready to go out so I’d be getting up soon. My head throbbed, I didn’t feel up to anything, and when I remembered I had a math test on Monday, I felt like flinging myself out the window. The rain began to fall, yet another autumn had begun, and in this dingy room the windows were at a tilt so you couldn’t open them when it rained, because then the rain poured in, so you had to suffocate till it stopped. There was nobody in the halls, they were deserted, lots of people had already moved away, mostly it was old people still there. On the desk my brother left some letters, he probably took the clean copies to the mailbox and the drafts were left on the desk. One more stab. No hope.
October 30, 1996
MINISTRY OF DEFENSE OF THE REPUBLIC OF CROATIA
CROATIAN ARMY HEADQUARTERS
Deliver to: Chief Mr. Z. Č.
Dear Mr. Chief!
I apologize for taking your precious time, but I find it necessary to write to you, because there are things I cannot understand so I’m asking you to find a little time and read this letter.
I am the son of a Croatian defender who went missing at the Vukovar hospital in 1991. I won’t write of the calvary that my sister, mother, and I have endured, but I simply wish to ask you to help us resolve our housing question.
We submitted our petition for an apartment in 1991, and since then we have been given nothing but promises and lies, while apartments are granted to people with connections in high places. In regard to this I wrote a letter to the president’s office a year ago. You sent a response to that letter which filled us with hope, but also disappointment because nobody ever paid any attention to our letter or tried to understand our problems. I am wondering whether the housing commission even wields any authority, because it’s a fact that apartments are being given out right and left, and not according to a priority list or any other criteria.
Today I petition you again, please help us resolve our housing question. My sister has started high school and thanks to her excellent grades she was able to enroll in the gymnasium directly, but now she lives on her own in a dorm, far from our mother. I am a student but I have no conditions for studying, because we live in one little room that is only nine by nine feet.
I have tried to be as brief and clear as possible. I’m begging you to help us start leading a normal life, because I think we’ve earned that, since my grandfather, too, was killed in Vukovar as a member of the Croatian Army.
Thank you in advance.
Sincerely,
J.B.
Croatian Army Center p.p. 21
41295
I wonder whether he’s writing this for himself, or Mama, or if he really thinks they’re still reading our letters. If he does, maybe he shouldn’t be accusing them of lying and giving away apartments as favors, because once they’ve read it we won’t get anything. And the bit about his sister’s excellent grades is a riot, I could die laughing. Despite her excellent grades his sister might flunk a few classes at the semester’s end, though nobody knows this yet. Mama, who’s no longer her confidante, doesn’t know it, and certainly the folks from the housing commission don’t. His sister might be reprimanded for skipping classes but this, too, they don’t know, so what’s next, oh, when the time comes I’ll think about it. As it is we’re living from one day to the next, that’s what all people displaced like us say, so why would I be any different. Ever since Zrinka left I’ve no patience for sitting in class, especially some of the classes where they think of you as a lower life-form. Fine, there are some okay people. Like the Croatian teacher. The first assignment was brilliant, I aced it, I’m the best writer in class, obvious to everybody from day one. I never doubted it, but what good is that when it will never make you one of them, except when somebody needs you. A few days after the brilliant assignment a girl came to me with a request. “I have a favor to ask. My aunt died a few years ago and the anniversary of her death is coming up. Mama told me it would be nice for me to write something and send it to the newspaper, but I don’t know what so I thought I’d ask if you could.” “Sure,” I said, I always say sure, that’s probably the way I was raised, but I wonder who this crazy girl is. What am I to you, I never even met your aunt, doesn’t that make you uncomfortable, but still.
Beloved Aunt,
The river of time flows quickly by and sweeps away with it our memories, but my heart will always be a sea into which all memories of you flow.
Love from your niece M.
On Monday her pals crowded around large-format newspaper pages and when they reached the Obituaries and Remembrances section, they patted their schoolmate on the back and smiled in sympathy. I only hope she doesn’t faint, the freak. I haven’t been to physics class for the second Thursday in a row, and seems I won’t be making it to a third, there’s a party on in the boys’ dorm across the street. I’m hanging out with the crew from the dorm more now, at least there are different kinds of people there, but if I skip another class I could be in big trouble. I must come up with something; how can I avoid going to class without invoking doom. Terrifying how quickly I make up an excuse, how easy it is for me, how low I’ve fallen. So what, everyone else does it. I stand out in front of the teachers’ lounge, it’s recess, everybody’s out in the yard except the teachers going in and out. “Could you please call my homeroom teacher?” I ask the bio prof who likes me, she nods and out comes my homeroom teacher. “What’s up? Having a problem?” she says, sneering slightly, always expecting trouble from me, but never looking me in the eye. “Could you please release me from my last class, physics, today?” I ask, eyes to the floor. “See here, what do you think this is? A university? You come and go as you please? Where would you rather be this time?” The words tumble out in a rush, “There’s a Mass for my dad. It starts at six.” She finally clams up. What can she say. “Fine, go. Tell your mother to come see me.” Oh sure I’ll tell her, just like I told her about the meeting with my teachers two weeks ago, and when the homeroom teacher asked why she didn’t come, I said Mama didn’t have any bus connections from Kumrovec at that time of day. But I’ll sort it all out sooner or later, I’ve got another month before the end of the semester. I always slip through somehow. I don’t need much, once I put my mind to it everything hums along, I just have to sit myself down. If only I didn’t have to see these people, either they pity me or I’m invisible. Monday I start being good, I swear. No more skipping classes. I leave the school, it’s cold outside, November, but lively, it’s always lively in Zagreb. I put on my earphones, Azra again, “A šta da radim kad odu prijatelji moji,” this song is for me, it’s my gift to myself. And what will I do? I’ll walk to Borongaj, panhandle a kuna or two, watch people going places, light up a cigarette, the little match girl, get lost.
The parties at the boys’ dorms are always the best. We tried a few times to hold one like theirs, but we never learned how they managed to come up with all the booze and cigarettes. The music was louder, the dark darker, and none of the dorm monitors would appear before midnight. “Come on, Baby, I’m waiting not a minute more,” called Ivana from the hall, I put the last touches on my makeup which wasn’t supposed to be visible and plaited my long braids, came out of the bathroom, my cameo in a lame Woodstock movie. Nana’s dress
was my favorite. Under it pants, red knee-high Docs, peace and marijuana symbols slung around my neck, everything smelling like a good time. Ivana had a flask in her pocket, I took a swig, but without a label saying what was in it I had no idea what I’d imbibed. Like I’m an expert on booze. I smiled when I remembered Mama: “Take care nobody spikes your drink.” Maybe I would, if I knew what I was drinking. Ivana and I laughed, the party was near, just across the street, our worries were far away. The music was terrific. He was standing in the middle of the room and strumming wildly on an air guitar. He was older, definitely older, maybe even university- age, he was wicked handsome, and it didn’t do to hang out with boys like that. Ivana sized up the situation. She knew me and saw he had long curly hair, black this time, a leather jacket, skinny pants. She looked, and then said, “He noticed you, too, Baby. Go ahead, join in.” This went so easily, I took another swig and then over I went and started dancing near him. A slow song began soon and we put our arms around each other, pressed up close, his hair smelled nice but he didn’t say anything so neither did I. After a few minutes, he whispered in my ear, “Should we go to my room.” Something in my head said no. “Sure,” I said. The room reeked. Six boys slept here, it wasn’t as messy as it smelled. Dirty socks, I guessed. I figured his was the bed with the guitar up against it. Yes, he was a senior, a student at the music high school, he was nineteen, actually, he’d missed a year when the war was at its worst in Bihać. I loved people who’d been through the war, right away they were more appealing and they could be as close to me as they liked. There was this understanding we had. And yes, his name was Dražen, he couldn’t believe I was so young, I looked way older, he said while he sucked in smoke from some horribly smelly rolled cigarettes. My now quite concrete experience told me this could be weed, I just hoped he didn’t get caught. When I told him at the dorm they called me Baby, he choked with laughter. We kissed. Dražen was on top of me. He undid my pants. He slipped his hand in, I could barely breathe, what do I do. “Come on, why so tense. All I’m doing is touching you and kissing you, do the same to me.” I put my hand under his shirt and moved it up and down, I was embarrassed to touch any other part of him. I was no longer excited, I wanted to get him off me, I wanted to go, but I felt stupid saying anything. He started breathing faster, something was happening, I didn’t know what, I still didn’t know anything about all this, and then suddenly out of me burst, “Stop! Cut it out!” Dražen pulled away and said, “What’s wrong, why the panic?” “Nothing, I just have to leave,” I answered and did my pants up real quick. I was at the door when he shouted, “Where are you going? It’s only just after midnight.” This set an alarm jangling in my head, at midnight they locked the door to our dorm and I didn’t know where I was, how to get out. I roamed around the dark halls and thought I’d cry, what was I thinking. Finally I found the stairs, hurtled down to the first floor and there I was on the street. Hurry, maybe the night guard hadn’t gotten there yet, maybe he wouldn’t lock up right away, maybe he knew there was a party. Maybe that was why they locked up. The door was barred. I couldn’t believe it. Tears streamed down my face, I didn’t make a sound but I was choking, I’d have to stay outside all night. If I rang they’d call Mama in the morning and tell her I didn’t come in on time. If I stayed out there was a chance, a slim chance, they wouldn’t notice I wasn’t there. But where could I go, what would I do outdoors all night? Did I go back to the boys’ dorm, the door was still open there. Maybe I could throw myself under a tram. Six hours, at least, I’d catch pneumonia. I was scared to go anywhere else, somebody might mug me, there were people in this city more desperate than me. Moron. I took off my backpack and set it on the concrete steps. I’d sit down here and wait. Survive the night. Somehow I’d manage. Survive the night. Six hours, then my cozy bed. I was in the afternoon shift, this thought warmed me like a ray of sunshine. And until then, hands tucked inside sleeves.
When I crawled into bed, everyone else was still sleeping. The blankets on the bed were rolled up and covered by a sheet, I bet Ivana did that, if the dorm matron made the rounds, she’d think I was in bed. When the monitor unlocked the door at six, I waited for him to go into his office where he smoked and then I slipped in. I still couldn’t believe I’d squeaked by without being punished and that nobody caught on. If only I could warm my feet and stop shivering, that’d take about three days. It was so good to have a bed. I was shocked awake by the PA system, all sweaty I jumped up, I didn’t know what time it was or whether I was late. The speakers were screaming my name, I had a phone call at the porter’s desk, somewhere along the way I caught sight of an alarm clock, oh good, it was only 11:00. Groggy, I went down, the girl on duty came out of the booth where the phone was and with a smile handed me the receiver, even warning me: “Mama.” “Hello?” I said. “Well how long does it take you to come down from your room, they’ve been calling you for five minutes over the loudspeakers, I hope you weren’t asleep.” No greeting, straight to the point. “Of course I wasn’t, I was working on my math homework, but I wear earphones so other kids don’t disturb my concentration.” My brain, apparently, was still working. “How can you study with those things in your ears? Oh, forget it.” Mama didn’t wait for me to say a word, along she barreled. “Listen, your homeroom teacher called. She asked why I didn’t come to the parents’ evening and when would I come in. When were the teacher conferences?” A straightforward question. “Two weeks ago,” a straightforward answer. “Why didn’t you tell me, is something wrong?” One more. “Aw, nothing really, I just forgot, and then when I remembered it was too late, so what’s the point?” I thought she knew I was lying and lying badly, I could do better. “I’m coming in tomorrow to talk with her, your brother’s coming today after school. He’ll wait for you out front.” I said nothing. “Did you hear me?” she asked. “I did.” “Bye,” she said and didn’t wait for me to say goodbye. This could be bad.
I took the tram twenty minutes early, I’d review the material before my first class, I’d offer to go to the board, raise my hand, make an effort, all the things I should have been doing, maybe the homeroom teacher would appreciate this and tomorrow wouldn’t be a total train wreck. Until then all I had to do was survive my brother. I was guessing we’d fight. About what I didn’t know, but we always did, maybe about: You’re not my father. Just let him try to say something to me, I’d turn and leave. After six hours of torment I walked out of school. I didn’t see anybody waiting for me, maybe he was late, maybe he wouldn’t come. But across the street there was a boy standing in a jean jacket, in this cold weather who could that be but my brother who was ashamed to wear his puffy jacket because it was purple. He noticed me, too, we walked toward each other, but we were evading each other’s eyes. “What’s up, sis, amiga!” he greeted me in a breezy tone, he was always calling me weird names. “Not much, how about you?” What else could I ask him. “I’m fine, let’s pick up the pace and catch the tram! Hustle, move it!” He grabbed me by the back of my neck and pushed me forward, then yanked me back, and then pushed me again. “Hey, slow down!” We laughed and acted silly, jumped onto the tram, and then I heard a familiar toot. I couldn’t believe he’d farted in a tram full of people, and then he bugged his eyes out and started talking in this hoity-toity Zagreb accent. “You should be ashamed of yourself, young lady, I beg your pardon, but the smell is simply appalling!” I pounded him on the back and died laughing. When the euphoria let up, I asked him: “Where are we going?” “I’m taking you out for pizza, pudding, and chocolate milk, you can also get an apple and apple juice!” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a fan of colorful coupons. The student cafeteria was through the looking glass, my brother was the Easter Bunny, he piled dozens of items on my tray, asked what else I wanted, and then paid for it all with some change and we enjoyed the treat. I ate a whole pizza, a slice of cocoa cake, ice cream with pudding, a weird combination, and washed it all down with chocolate milk. My belly ached, but when I looked over at my backpack I saw a
few more packets and almost threw up. My brother gorged himself, too, and in peace we sat quietly and enjoyed the clamor and rattle of cutlery. “She really needs to pull herself together,” he said all of a sudden. Immediately I realized he was thinking of Mama, and I was grateful and happy he didn’t mention my school, me, we could talk about her, anything, till tomorrow. I said what I thought she needed but he was already off onto something else, how she was angry at him when his roommate slipped him something. Candy? I didn’t understand what sort of candy and how she knew, but I heard she showed up that day at his room and he barely managed to get up out of bed. “She’s living in a world all her own,” he said, I nodded, agreed, and he pushed something over the table into my fingers. I looked and saw a fifty-kuna bill and I leaned over to kiss him, and with a grimace of disgust he flinched. He’d had that gesture for ages, my brother, my big brother. “Mama’s coming to school tomorrow,” I said, but I couldn’t tell the real truth even to him, there was no truth so valuable that I’d spoil what we were sharing this evening. We strolled slowly to my dorm, in the end I hugged him, I loved him so much. “Be smart, sis!” He looked at me sternly, and back in my room I said, “I was out with my brother.” “You have a brother?” “Yes, an older brother.” “You never said anything about him.” My other roommate, Nikolina, was surprised. “Any pictures?” she asked. “Yes,” I said and took out of my wallet a picture torn from his displaced person’s ID. My brother didn’t have one anymore. Once when he was fighting with Mama he’d torn it up and ever since he’d been buying his tram ticket instead of riding the trams for free because he didn’t want to show it. “What business is it of theirs where I’m from.” He’d also torn up his first student ID and sold us a story about how it fell into the Sava River, but they’d quickly made him a new one because he told the administration he’d lost it. After he’d left the room, Mama, tearstained, had gone into the bathroom and I’d picked the torn ID up off the floor, pulled out the little picture, and tucked it into my wallet. I carried with me pictures of everybody in our family, but at the time I still hadn’t had one of him. “He’s pretty cute,” said Nikolina, “but he doesn’t look like you.” We don’t look at all alike. He took after Mama, while I took after Papa. Seems we formed our attachments based on likeness, but sometimes I thought he hated Mama more than loved her. “Yes, he’s handsome but he has a girlfriend, sorry,” I smiled at Nikolina. His girlfriend was cool, the two of us hit it off, and if I ever heard anything about my brother, it was from her. Once I’d asked her, “Does he ever tell you anything, I mean about himself, about Papa, all that?” “Actually not often,” she’d said, “when he fights with you two he’s really sad, and when he’s sad he doesn’t say much, he just puts his head in my lap.” “What does your brother do?” asked my roommate. “He’s a law student,” I said. “Well, well! A handsome attorney, if he splits up with his girlfriend let me know.” “Sure!” I was certain he’d decided to study law, I even knew he’d passed two exams, but when he came home on the weekend I never saw him with books. I only saw him writing in his diary. He was always scribbling in that diary, and the notebooks with their leather covers were piled in his cupboard. When he was younger, he ran a piece of thread across the door of the cupboard so he’d see if someone touched his diaries, and ever since I’d noticed it, I’d never tried to open it, who knew what other traps he’d set. Once he’d left a diary on the table, but that had been ages ago. I’d read only the last two pages. On one page, with carefully shaded letters, he’d written “VukoWar” probably fifty times, and on the other page: “Dear God, please bring Papa back.” At the end of the second page was written: “For two months I haven’t written anything in my diary, my miserable existence in a nutshell.” At the time I didn’t understand what he meant, but now I, too, often used the phrase “miserable existence” when I wrote in my diary.
The Hotel Tito Page 13