From there, there was a good view of the middle of town on the far side. I climbed the embankment, stopped at the top – froze.
By the stairs leading to the boats, behind a bushy willow, I spotted two men lying on their stomachs. They were facing the river so they could not see me. During the brief moment that I stood behind them, I had time to notice two things:
– they were wearing YPA olive-grey helmets and uniforms,
– one of them handing the other a large pair of binoculars.
I took a couple of steps backwards, turned and slipped away quietly.
As I walked past Marko’s cherry plum I was seized by panic. I was ready to bolt. Marko’s wife, Zrinka was hosing down the concrete path with a hose. She was bent forward.
Should I tell her? No?
She straightened up. Spotted me. Smiled.
‘Zrinka, there are soldiers down by the boats!’
‘Where?’
‘Down by the boats. Two! I have to get home.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘I don’t know. I have to get home! Don’t go down there!’
The gravel crunched beneath my feet as I opened the gate. The hairs on the back of my neck were stood on end.
‘Mum! Dad!’
No answer.
I walked around the back of the house. Nobody beneath the grapes. The tray and the ashtray were still there, but the coffees were gone. I glanced over at Zaim’s veranda. Tried to see if they were over at his place. One step forward. Quick glance to the left. At the foot of the embankment, behind Zaim’s garden, seven or eight men in uniform slinked forward. They were bent over, hurrying towards the spot on the embankment I had just left. They were wearing helmets and rucksacks. They were holding something.
There was nothing in the world I had looked forward to more than that summer – the summer of 1992. Neno was finally going to finish his studies and move home. I was going to complete primary school and start secondary school. Dad was going to enjoy his hard-earned early retirement. Last but not least, Neno had promised to teach me to drive. I looked forward to sitting behind the wheel and impressing Nina.
But then they came with their shovels, their gear and their rifles. They dug in. Had their arses facing us – along the embankment and along the river – and began to shoot towards the other side.
The power was cut. The water, likewise. The surrounding space shrunk.
Our side started shooting at them. Our people were on the other side. We were occupied by Serbs and being shot at by our own people. Without lifting a finger, we suddenly found ourselves in a really bad location.
The frontline was a stone’s throw from the houses. The snipers took up their positions. There were streets and alleys it was best not to use. Certain times of the day were better than others.
Near the bridge, where Dad once watched two Ustashe being hung, they shot at each other with Pragas, the mobile, 30 mm calibre cannons. Each night they thundered away. The guided missiles aimed for the middle of the town, which was situated on a hill, and the Catholic church in the pedestrian precinct. They were extremely precise. The clock on the white churchtower stopped. Parts of the tower were charred and crumbling.
I missed having electricity. My old record player with the inscription Miki ’91, engraved using the point of a compass, was gathering dust.
One day I was sitting in my room; it was unusually quiet. The only sound that could be heard through the half-open window was the cooing of pigeons in the roof gutter. No Smoking, the album with the grey sticker was resting under the stylus: While You’re Waiting for Dawn with the Devil. It must have been the last record I played without the use of electricity.
I placed the needle between ‘Uncle Sam’ and ‘The Sunday When Hase Left Us,’ pressed my index finger lightly against the record and made it spin. Reaching thirty-three turns per minute was difficult. It was either too fast or too slow, and when I finally got it to sound the way it was supposed to, I lost my concentration. Once again, I spun too fast or too slow and got annoyed at hearing the distorted sounds. Finally, I gave up.
In the sitting room, Dad lay asleep on his back. His mouth was agape, his left hand on his chest. Neno sat on the other sofa reading the local paper. It was the only newspaper in the house, at least two months old. During the deepest bouts of boredom I read it from start to finish on a number of occasions. I knew the obituaries and the colophons by heart.
Neno was not supposed to have been there. Officially he still lived in Sarajevo, finishing off his studies. He protested in the streets and went to peace concerts. All kinds of bands got together and attempted to sing the politicians to their senses. Actors and authors recited poems. Buses drove people to the capital and back, free of charge. People held up photos of Tito and shouted about peace, fraternity and all that.
I watched it on TV and wished I was there. Some of the coolest bands were playing there. Neno called after one of the concerts and his voice was completely gone. He managed to get out of Sarajevo in a car that took him to Banja Luka. There he spent the night with a friend from school – a Serb, in fact it was his Dad who had picked them up. When he appeared at the garden gate the following day, we did not know if we should shout for joy or cry. The Serbian army was digging in by the embankment. Right under our noses.
Neno sat on the sofa reading the paper. Mum was outside by the water pump. She said she just had to water her roses and hyacinths.
I sat down by the window between Neno and Dad. He woke up at almost that exact moment.
‘News report,’ he said. ‘What time is it?’
‘Ten minutes to.’
The clock hung on the wall above the TV. Our red Sanyo cassette player was on top of Mum’s sewing machine by the entrance. The door was closed, as was the door to my room.
Dad pointed at the sewing machine:
‘Would you mind grabbing me that?’
‘Shouldn’t we wait until the hour?’ I said. ‘We’ll be out of batteries soon. I …’
That was as far as I got.
An indescribably loud noise, something no speaker in the world would be able to replicate, passed directly through my head and chest. My brain felt like it had exploded inside my skull. Like the crash had shattered my head and pieced it back together again.
The sitting room instantly smelled of hot metal. Like when a pipe is cut in half or an iron railing is being welded.
The doors to the display cabinet opened.
The stack of plates that Mum had placed inside crashed to the floor.
Through the crack in the entrance door, smoke wafted in.
I looked at Neno and Dad.
That is how I think it happened most of the time. In that order. Other times I remember the smell, the smoke and the sound of the plates reaching me a second before the explosion. The crash being slightly delayed.
The house has been hit, I thought, and jumped up. Dad and Neno did the same.
‘Get out! Get out!’ I heard someone shout, rather faintly.
I wanted to open the entrance door but it was jammed. Shell fragments had struck the keyhole and made the lock stick. In shock, in panic, or whatever it was, I grabbed the handle firmly and tugged several times.
No luck.
Neno took over, planted one foot against the frame and yanked on the handle. The door opened and he tumbled backwards.
In the brief moment that it took me to run out through the entrance, I noticed the pane of glass in the veranda door was broken. I did not see the shards of glass. I ran in front of Neno and Dad.
Mum was staggering in the drive in front of the garage. She was moaning and manically tugging at her black top. Her face was horror-stricken, and she was crying dry tears. I called out to her, but she could not hear me. Her gaze was directed at the roof of our house, and I turned around and looked up.
It was the next-door neighbour’s house, not ours, that had been hit. I started to take it all in, while I stood there wondering why I was not wearing any shoes. I had trampled
over the broken glass and scattered pieces of roof tiles wearing only a pair of thin, white tennis socks.
My foot was bleeding.
AND THEN WHAT HAPPENED?
Wicky grew busier over the course of the evening. German and English were spoken around us, and Igor complained vociferously that his leave had passed so ‘dryly,’ as far as ‘groin grinding’ went. The next day he was due to return to the front, and every girl that passed our table walked arm in arm with their handsome fellow.
‘Driest leave to date,’ Igor concluded. ‘Went far better last time.’
Before he got drunk and monopolised the conversation, he pressured me to tell him various things. I evaded him for some time, but three quarters of a litre of beer eventually loosened my tongue. The words poured out of me as soon as he asked his favourite question:
‘And then what happened?’
After telling the story about the shell I replied:
‘Nothing. One night they told us to pack our things and meet at the crossing the next morning. They wanted to evacuate us.’
‘Why?’
‘Because more intense battles were expected. At least that’s what they told us.’
‘Civilians are nothing but an inconvenience,’ Igor said.
He exhaled smoke through his nose and added:
‘You were probably getting in the way of both sides. And then what?’
‘Then we were packed inside some old, stinking buses and driven deep into Serbian territory.’
‘Where to?’
‘Towards Banja Luka. The previous night they had blown up the nearest mosque. With dynamite. I thought our house had been hit. It was a massive explosion!’
Igor shook his head and spat out a single, but emotionally charged sentence. The words ‘pussy,’ ‘mother’ and ‘Chetnik’ formed part of it. Then he took a big swig of beer and said with a hint of indignation:
‘That’s the kind of thing they do, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, but our side also destroyed their church.’
‘Cool.’
‘No … I don’t know … Now all the mosques and churches are gone. Not a single one left in town. And one of them – a mosque – it was really old, you know, a few centuries, and there were …’
‘Never mind, your people can just build a new one. A bigger one. You can build five of them on the same spot!’
‘Yeah, but …’
‘These are minor details. It can be rebuilt. And then what happened?’
‘Not much. After two full days they divided us into two groups. The women, children and old men were driven off and delivered to the Bosnian army. Any man able to fight was kept back. Dad rang Uncle when we reached …’
‘Wait, wait a sec! What happened during those two days?’
‘What days?’
‘When they held you captive.’
How stupid could I get! Why did I have to say ‘after two full days?’ That was an insignificant detail.
‘Come on. What happened?’
‘Nothing. They just drove us around a little.’
‘For two days? C’mon, kid. Spit it out! What did they do to you?’
‘Nothing,’ I smiled and leaned back in the chair. ‘They didn’t do anything to us.’
I looked at the two large beer mugs on the table between us. Igor’s was half-full and I noticed a chip in the rim near the handle. It looked like someone had bitten off a piece of glass. A customer with really good teeth.
‘Why did they drive you around for so long?’
‘Uh, I dunno. Probably didn’t know what to do with us.’
‘Like hell they didn’t! You don’t evacuate people without a plan!’
‘There were hundreds of us. Men, women, children, old people … They drove us around a little and …’
‘And they were really nice to you? They drove you around and served you coffee?’
‘No, they let us off the buses a few times … so we could stretch our legs a little.’
I smiled again and looked at Igor silently. I felt he deserved to know more, but I did not feel like going into detail.
‘They made us empty our pockets,’ I said, trying to be a smart-arse.
‘Oh?’
‘Anything that was chafing.’
‘Hmph!’
Now Igor was smiling too. He stubbed out his cigarette in the middle of the ashtray. The table shook under the pressure.
‘Did they strike you?’
‘No, we slept in a primary school the first night. And on the second night in a leaky town hall. In some random village. I slept like a rock.’
‘You didn’t get beaten?’
‘No. They treated us alright.’
‘You’re lying.’
‘No. I just don’t feel like talking about it any more.’
Igor did not give up so easily. His muddled gaze wavered a little.
‘Come on! I have to know what they did. It’s of strategic importance. You have to know your enemy. His methods.’
‘Some other time, maybe. I’m tired.’
‘And where are the prisoners now? Where’s … Neno?’
‘I dunno.’
‘I’ve heard that they’re mobilising them. Probably fighting your own people.’
That was a provocation. I did not answer straight away. Finished the last sip of my beer.
‘He’s in a concentration camp. We were told that by a number of people.’
‘Are you sure about that? Didn’t you just say you didn’t know?’
‘That’s because … it’s not a hundred percent. There are all kinds of rumours. We also heard that they’ve been killed … All of them! But then later we heard that they were at a concentration camp.’
Igor hesitated for a moment. He had seemingly given up.
Finally, I thought.
He blinked, like a fly had struck him in the eye, pounded the table and said:
‘Don’t worry. We’re going to fuck their mothers.’
The rest of the time we talked about something else, or rather Igor talked, while I just sat there, simultaneously feeling drained and pent-up. At one point I considered whether I should just tell him the truth about those two days, now that he was drunk and probably would not remember much afterwards. But at the same time a sea of images crashed inside me and I knew that I could not do it.
On they way back to the camp I was happy I had not told Igor more. He bragged about a list of women he had ‘laid,’ and laughing, told me about a ‘detained Chetnik’ who had shat his trousers in terror.
I had a litre of beer in me. I do not think I have ever drunk so much in such a short time. Igor’s laugh annoyed me, and those fucking images rolled through my mind again. Even when I was lying down, ready to fall asleep, the same film played over and over again in my head, accompanied by Dad’s monotone snoring and Mum’s deep, sleepless sigh.
RESTAURANT
The next day I woke up late, sat up in bed at looked at the white scar on my foot.
It happened.
Last night it had felt surreal and incongruous with the bay, the beach and room 210. But it had actually happened. The scar on my left foot testified to that fact. The stray shell landed, and later more landed. We were taken captive and driven into Serbian territory. Mum, Dad and I were transferred to the Bosnian army. Neno was driven in another direction.
Through the wall, the neighbours could be heard arguing. My parents moved about in the room. Mum was patching one of Dad’s shirts. The buttons did not match. That was a problem. I followed the small curve of the scar with my index finger then crawled back under the blanket. The weight of last night’s conversation still sat in my body. And the two large beers I had drunk. My head felt heavy and tender, vulnerable in some way.
Is this what you call a hangover?
I stood up and stretched my arms. Mum handed the shirt to Dad, and he put it on.
‘We’re going down for lunch,’ he said.
‘Fine. I’m coming too.’
>
‘Remember to lock up behind you!’
‘Why?’ I yawned. ‘What’s there to steal in here?’
‘Quiet, you little philosophiser. Never poke a hungry bear. It could prove dangerous.’
‘Yes,’ Mum laughed. ‘Mind Dad doesn’t bite your leg off!’
I looked at her. This was the same woman who a little less than two months ago had stood in the drive, lost and panic-stricken, with the cement dust suspended in the air around her. She looked terrified that day – I had never seen her that terrified before – and now she stood before me joking like it had never happened.
‘We’re going now.’
Dad had put his arms around her and comforted her that day. With trembling hands. When he led her around behind the house, his head grazed the drying line in the garden. His glasses and some of the plastic pegs on the drying line flew off. He bent forward and feverishly felt for his glasses on the ground.
The whole thing looked rather comical in the midst of all the chaos surrounding us. They appeared more shaken than Neno and I, and it was strange to see them so confused, scared and awkward all at once.
Now, they never spoke about the shell or the two days in the hands of the Serbs. They talked about war, politics and the news, but never about what we had been through.
I got myself ready and headed downstairs with the key in the pocket of my swimming trunks. Planned on jumping in the water straight after eating.
Down by the pier I observed the outstretched figures of all the women. Their brownish skin glistened in the sun, but I was so lost in my own thoughts that both them and the rest of the beach seemed several light years away. The surface of the water shimmered rather unsettled, a breezed toyed with my shoulder-length hair. I stopped in the middle of the path and stared at the surreal panoramic image in front of me. It looked like a film shoot. One altogether different from the one I starred in.
Last night when Igor and I passed the marina, I had the same feeling at one point. The night had been mild and pleasant, a number of tourists walked past chattering away, and I felt like grabbing them by the arm and shouting into their floppy ears:
‘Hey! We’re in the middle of a war here, dammit! Stop it! You can’t just walk around enjoying yourselves!’
Ukulele Jam Page 4