by Glenn Meade
She decided that instead of phoning again, she would drive there. She wanted to meet Alma Dragovich face-to-face.
She saw the man close the garage door and take a couple of more boxes to the van, as if it was his final load. Carla felt her legs weaken as she locked her car and went up the footpath.
“Larry Dragovich?”
The man leaned back out of the van. “Yeah?”
His brown eyes were wary, and his hands looked like hammers from hard manual labor, black hairs sprouting from his back and neck.
“I wonder if I could speak to Alma Dragovich? I believe she lives here.”
“Why, what about? What’s up?”
“I was hoping she could help me, Mr. Dragovich. Are you her son?”
He nodded, stood there saying nothing, waiting for Carla to explain.
“I . . . I knew your mother a long time ago, when I was a child.”
His eyes sparked. “Hey, are you the lady from the old country? The one Max Shine called me about?”
“Yes. Do you think I could speak with her? I was hoping she’d remember me.”
He smiled, slid shut the van door. “Sure, come on inside.”
• • •
A fat, silver ornamental samovar sat in a corner like a plump Buddha.
Family photographs cluttered every shelf. On a tray on top of a sideboard stood bottles of plum and pear brandy and some shot glasses. All very ethnic.
“I hope I’m not disturbing you?”
“Naw, not at all. I had to come back to load up some supplies. My wife’s at work; my youngest kids are in high school.”
“How’s your mom?”
Larry shrugged. “She has her good days and bad. Her memory comes and goes. She’s getting on. Seventy-seven last birthday. How do you know her?”
“That’s a long story. Have you got a couple of hours?”
He answered with a smile. “If only. I got to leave shortly.”
“You say your mom’s memory isn’t good?”
“Some days she remembers what kind of sandwiches she packed for my school lunch over thirty years ago. Others, she looks at me like I’m some punk who just broke into the house to rob her.”
He shrugged. “Sometimes you just have to be very patient with her. But today she’s in good form. At least my wife’s a nurse and helps care for her.”
He filled a coffeemaker. “So, are you from Sarajevo?”
“No, I spent most of my childhood in Dubrovnik. But my mother was from Konjic, not too far from Sarajevo.”
“I know it well. I left to come to Jersey and work for my uncle almost thirty years ago. But maybe I knew your family? Carla, you say?”
“Carla Joran. But my mother’s family name was Tanovic back then.”
He grinned. “Hey, mine wasn’t Larry, either. But it’s a lot easier to write on the side of a van than Slavoljub Dragovich. Mom’s upstairs in her room, watching TV. She likes The Ricki Lake Show. Let me get her. Coffee won’t be long.”
“Does your mom speak English? It’s been a long time since I spoke my mother’s language. I wouldn’t understand.”
“She speaks English pretty well. My wife or kids don’t understand a word of Serbo-Croat, so she’s got to. I’ll make sure to tell her.”
“Thank you.”
“Sure.” He winked, opened the door, and disappeared upstairs.
• • •
Carla wandered around the room. The aroma of fresh coffee scented the air.
She studied the photographs on the shelves. Sons and daughters and extended family, Larry and his wife, a plump, dark-haired woman with a cheerful smile. Snapshots of old Sarajevo.
She noticed a worn family photograph taken outside a typical Yugoslav house and vineyard: whitewashed walls and a red pantiled roof. It jolted a memory out of thin air.
Of her father up a ladder fixing the roof on her grandfather’s farm one afternoon as Carla walked up the pathway from school.
She remembered her father waving, tossing away the hammer and sliding down the ladder, his blond hair bleached white by the sun, his face a warm smile, his arms open wide to greet her.
“Hey, how’s my Balkan princess?”
She struggled to recollect more but all she remembered was a feeling of love and safety in his arms. Her emotions soared. She knew she adored her father.
She heard footsteps, and pushed away the memory. Slow, clunky footsteps as if someone was being helped down the stairs.
Carla switched off her cell phone and slipped it into her purse. She didn’t want any distraction.
The living room door opened.
An old woman stood in the doorway. Her strong, peasant face was deeply wrinkled, her hair almost snow white.
She looked dazed, in a trance. It seemed grief had aged her, a ghost of torment in her striking blue eyes. A long scar ran down the right side of her face.
Carla felt a kick in her chest.
There was no mistaking that scar.
Alma. She remembered.
Alma muttered something in Serbo-Croat. Larry said, “English, Mom, remember, Carla doesn’t speak the old language too good.”
“Carla . . . Carla it’s you, isn’t it? My son told me. Carla Joran. I thought I was hearing things when he said the name.”
The old woman was transformed as she studied Carla. Her face came alive, and her hand went to her mouth, covering dentures that were overly white.
Carla said, “You remember me?”
A single tear rolled down the old woman’s face.
Carla felt her own eyes moisten.
Alma opened her arms wide. Carla let herself go, as Alma’s arms wrapped around her.
And just as she had twenty years before, the old woman started to cry, deep, convulsive sobs that racked her entire body.
24
* * *
Carla stood there for a long time, hugging Alma.
When both of them finally wiped their eyes, Larry led them to the sofa and helped seat his mother.
Carla sat, clutching Alma’s hands.
Larry smiled nervously, an uncertain tremor in his voice, as if he didn’t quite know if this emotional get-together was good news or bad. “You okay, Mom?”
Alma took a tissue from a box on the coffee table, then handed the box to Carla.
“Yes . . . yes, I’m fine. Carla’s an old friend, I’m just so happy to see her. This is the young girl who saved me. This is her.”
Larry smiled. “Yeah? You’re serious? Hey, you don’t get reunions like this too often. How about a plum brandy to celebrate?”
Before Carla could answer, the coffee was forgotten and Larry filled three shot glasses, one for each of them, setting them down on the coffee table.
“Mom, Carla, your health. Zivjeli!”
Alma fumbled with her glass; Carla left hers aside. This didn’t quite seem like an occasion to celebrate with alcohol. Besides, she was pregnant.
Larry seemed to sense something, too, but it didn’t stop him knocking his glass back in one swallow. He slapped it on the coffee table.
“Hey, I’ll leave you girls to talk. Me, I got a living to earn. Mom, I’ve got some deliveries to make. I’ll be back in less than an hour, tops. You’ll be okay?”
“I’ll be fine. Go, do what you have to.”
“You need me, just call.” He mimicked putting a phone to his ear, and gave a thumbs-up sign. “Great to meet you, Carla. I hope we get to talk again soon? Maybe you’d come to dinner?”
“Thank you.”
Larry left. They heard the van start up, reverse, and drive away.
Alma said, “He’s a good son. My eldest, the only one alive. He found me through the Red-Crescent, and brought me here. His brother, sister, father . . . they’re all gone, dead in the war. How have you been, Carla?”
“Surviving. How about you?”
Alma smiled. “Older, grayer, but as well as can be expected.” She let go of Carla’s hands just long enough to wipe her eyes with
the tissue. “I’ve thought of you often, Carla.”
“I’m so glad you remembered me.”
“How could I forget the girl who saved my life?”
Carla wondered if she should tell Alma the truth: I forgot all about you. She decided it best not to complicate things.
“It’s wonderful to see you, too.”
Alma gave a nervous laugh. “I . . . I think I will have that drink after all. Seeing you, it’s like seeing a ghost. So many years have passed. So many faces lost. But not yours, thankfully.”
Alma lifted the glass to her lips, barely sipped, then replaced it on the table.
“However did you find me?”
“You gave an interview in a newspaper. I got your son’s address.”
Alma spread her hands in a helpless gesture.
“That interview. You know, I didn’t want to do it. But my son got to know the journalist, and he persuaded me. I’m glad now he did, even if I didn’t say much. It’s painful to remember.”
Alma put down her glass. “The journalist said it was important to remind the world of the terrible inhumanity that was done in our country. But so many who lived through the genocide prefer to forget, you know.”
Alma looked into her face. “In my dreams I often see those I knew and loved. My husband, my sons, my daughter, my friends and neighbors, all those who have passed. I’ve seen your face, too, so many times. I often wondered if you survived and were still alive. And now look at you.”
She squeezed Carla’s hand. “You look wonderful. You have an American accent. How did you come here, how did you come to America? With your parents? Did any of your family survive?”
“My American grandparents adopted me. I haven’t seen my family since the day I last saw you.”
A spark died at once in Alma’s face, as if a switch were thrown.
“I . . . I’m so sorry. I was told I was the only known survivor of the camp but of course I never wanted to believe it.”
“Who told you that?”
“The war crimes investigators who interviewed me. They told me they never discovered what happened to all the other women and children Shavik evacuated that day but they feared the worst. At least I know now you survived.”
“Alma, that’s why I wanted to talk with you. You’re the only person I know who last saw Luka and my mother alive that day at the camp. Larry mentioned that sometimes your memory isn’t always good. But you do remember my mother?”
“Yes, yes I do. Of course.”
“And Luka, my little brother?”
Alma looked flustered. “Y . . . yes, Luka . . . such a cute, sweet little boy.”
“That day’s events are foggy to me, Alma. It was so much trauma. Do you remember what happened? Can you help me recall?”
Alma fell quiet.
“Alma, I recall my mother wanted you to hide with Luka in the janitor’s closet until Shavik and his men had gone. Then she wanted us to escape through one of the windows and try to reach the front lines.”
Alma was completely silent, as if she was numbed. The stillness hung heavy in the air.
“What is it, Alma?”
Alma didn’t speak, a look close to terror in her eyes.
“Alma, I need to know what happened to Luka.”
Alma’s lips began to tremble. “I . . . I don’t like thinking about those days at the camp. They . . . they upset me.”
“I understand, Alma, but this is so very important. Can you tell me what you recall? Can you try?”
25
* * *
“You never saw Luka again after you left the camp?”
“Never. Not since the day we were all separated.”
“My poor Carla.”
“I don’t know if he lived or died. Or what happened to my parents.”
Alma put a hand to her scarred cheek. “Have . . . haven’t you looked for them?”
“Others have, but without success. So much time has passed that it’s unlikely my parents lived. But Luka was with you. I know the building was shelled, I remember that much. Yet you survived. I thought that if you survived, then Luka may have survived, too.”
Carla saw a terrified look on Alma’s face. As if she was standing outside a door she feared to open.
“What’s wrong, Alma?”
She didn’t reply.
“Alma, if there’s something I need to be told, even if it’s bad, you have to tell me. I know it may be very difficult for you but I need to know what happened that day the camp was evacuated.”
“It’s—it’s just that sometimes I can recall clearly, even when I don’t want to. Other days it’s all a blank, as if my mind is forcing me to forget.”
“Can you try to cast your mind back?”
Alma fell silent.
The silence grew between them.
Carla was conscious of the terrible void. She tried to fill it.
“Do you remember when the gunfire and shelling gradually came closer to the camp the day before the evacuation?”
“Yes.”
“What do you remember?”
“The weather was getting worse. It began to snow. The guards became agitated. We could overhear them talking among themselves. Some of them wanted to flee. They were worried.”
“About what, Alma?” Carla prompted.
“That their crimes against us would be discovered. One of the women claimed she heard the guards say they would kill us all before they left.”
“So there would be no witnesses?”
Alma nodded. “All of us started to panic. We feared for our lives, and the lives of the children.”
“What else, Alma? What else do you recall?”
“Mila Shavik strode into the dormitory and announced that because of the enemy shelling we would be evacuated early the next morning for our own safety.”
Alma faltered.
Carla tried to keep the conversation moving, afraid to let it die.
“Don’t stop, Alma. Please.”
“But nobody believed Shavik. They were still afraid they were going to be killed. The guards were drinking heavily, and getting more edgy.”
Alma looked at her.
“That’s why your mother wanted me to hide Luka and you in the janitor’s closet, hoping you wouldn’t be missed in the chaos and that we could eventually escape.”
“Please tell me what you recall.”
“Early the next morning during the evacuation there was chaos, everyone was frightened, and the children were wailing. Shavik and his guards started to herd everyone out of the building. That’s when your mother became desperate and decided it was time to act.”
Alma’s eyes narrowed, as if the intensity of the memory was becoming painful.
“She thrust Luka into my arms and pushed us back into the building, toward one of the corridors that led to the janitor’s closet. Luka was crying, holding his hands out for his mother. You tried to soothe him. Your mother placed something in your hands, a book.”
“The diary she used to write.”
“Yes, that was it. She told you not to lose it. That it was important.”
“Why didn’t my mother come with us?”
“She felt certain Shavik would know if she disappeared. At least if he saw her there, in all the panic he might not notice you and Luka were gone.”
In a flash of memory Carla remembered her mother’s face as they parted, her terrifying look of despair and fear. She was wearing her old overcoat, a burgundy cardigan and headscarf, her expression desolate with worry. She recalled Luka crying, his tiny hands reaching out for their mother. The memory cut into her heart, sharp as broken glass.
She forced her tears away. The last thing she needed now was to crumple in front of Alma, who started to speak again.
“I held you and Luka by the hands and ran with you along the corridor toward the janitor’s closet. We ran quickly. Because we could hear the guards moving through the building, trying to empty it.”
More fragment
s of memories began to return, and they urged Carla on. “It’s coming back to me. And all the time the sound of shelling was getting closer.”
“Yes. As we approached the closet you spotted an open window at the end of the hall.”
“I could see more snow falling beyond the window.”
“That’s right. It was cold outside, freezing. You thought little Luka was too feverish, too ill to move any further.”
Alma squeezed her hand.
“So you decided we might stand a better chance if you left us hiding in the closet and you fled alone to the front lines. That way you could bring back help.”
“But . . . but the guards were coming.”
“Yes, they were coming closer, so you had to act fast. You hugged Luka, and kissed him. He was pleading with you to keep him safe, begging you to come back, and not to forget him. The last thing you said to him was that you’d come back for him; you promised him that.” Alma paused. “Then you left us. You were sobbing, too, I remember that.”
Carla remembered. Luka holding on to her, not wanting her to go. It was pitiful, Luka’s face full of fear, clutching her. She had to pry his tiny, determined fingers away, refusing to let her go; she had to uncurl them one by one as he cried. She felt his sobs, his fear, his panic, his terror, all growing within her again.
Carla closed her eyes. It felt wretched, remembering their last few words.
“Carla, please . . . Carla don’t leave me, please . . .”
“I’ll come back for you, Luka, I promise. Carla will come back. Don’t be afraid.”
She opened her eyes. She wanted to break down, fought it, the effort enormous.
“What . . . what happened after I left?”
“I opened the closet door. That’s when I got a shock.”
“What do you mean?”
“The closet was full. Other children were already hiding there. Perhaps their mothers hid them with the same intention, hoping they’d survive. Or the children were frightened of the shelling, I don’t know. But they looked petrified.”
“How many children?”
“Three, I think, maybe four. I remember a boy of eight or nine, and a girl of four or five, and another small boy. They were crying. The closet was crowded. I had to force myself in between them, and close the door. It was claustrophobic.”