The mood in the room fell. The majority of us were very familiar with not having influence on those ‘further up the system.’ We packed our things and left the room.
Out by the gates of the school, daylight swept over us. I squinted, and Dad suddenly swore and turned around. A murky sound that revealed a slimy, vibrating activity in his throat, split the air. Dad cleared his throat and took a run-up towards the gate. The headmaster and a couple of Croatian parents came walking across the courtyard. The sight of them made Dad stop in his tracks. He took a deep sigh, clenched his teeth and muttered into his beard:
‘Bloody …!’
Then he spun on his heels furiously and walked past without saying a single word. Mum and I followed. She waffled on about trying some other schools. I thought about the green wad of snot that instead of landing on the school gate, now slid down Dad’s throat.
I could almost taste it. Salty and nauseating.
Back at the camp we agreed that in future I would be the one to attend those kinds of meetings. It would cost less. Both in bus tickets and nerves. Dad had been cursing between clenched teeth the entire way to the bus station. On the bus Mum had to shove him and whisper:
‘Be quiet. People can hear you.’
But he continued:
‘Scum! As though we were never part of the same country! As though Tito himself was not Croatian, dammit!’
In principal, the system was not to blame for the entire furore. It was my age. Had I been one year younger, there would have been no issue, and my parents would have been three bus tickets richer. A primary school in Vešnja had created an extra class for Bosnia-Herzegovinian citizens who were not of Croatian nationality. There were lessons in the afternoon, and the students from year seven and eight were in one big class. Amar’s little brother, Ismar, was among them.
While Robi, Vlado, Kaća and Marina went to school, the rest of us strolled down to the beach, skipped stones and repeated the same stories. In the autumn, living in Majbule was boring as hell. The tourists were gone, the streets and the beaches were deserted, and you soon grew tired of staring at the same sea view. It was only eventful during a storm, when the waves started to whip against the cliffs of the peninsula, then we would run down there, stand on the flat roof of the bunker and observe the awe-inspiring water. It swelled up in hazy slow-motion and pounded against the cliffs. The foam sprayed into the air, and we bet each other whether the next wave would be higher or lower than the previous one.
In the evenings we met in Damir and Samir’s room on the ground floor of D2. Their parents were often visiting others in the camp or were glued to the screen in the TV room. All of us sat there regardless of nationality or school. There we listened to the same mixed tapes, played cards and drank, when there was something to drink. Damir and Samir were mine and Amar’s ultimate heroes. They knew about all kinds of music – particularly foreign – and they constantly talked about their great idol, Jim Morrison, who had written ‘The End’ and died in a bath. Damir and Samir’s hair reached their nipples, and they usually spent a lot of time talking about their hair. Very informative. For example, I had never heard that you could get split ends, and that you should cut them regularly. Or that an egg yolk was good for the hair. You just had to massage it into the scalp and let it soak in before rinsing.
DAD’S GLASSES
When Dad was young, he dreamed of being a tailor. He told me that one dreary night after the meeting at the technical school. He had just started to go out on the town and had no suit.
It was the in the early fifties. Tito had just broken with Stalin, self-management would replace the much-despised planned economy. A brighter future was in store, but much had to be done before then. The country had to be developed, modernised. Everyone had to contribute.
At the local ‘office for works and education’ Dad was informed that they did not need any more tailors that year. Since he had no possibility of moving from home and becoming a tailor in another city, he agreed to be trained as a welder instead.
‘We can’t get you any closer than that, an elderly office worker told me with a smile on his lips. You’re going to tailor iron!’
Dad comforted himself with the fact that after four years as an apprentice he would start to make some money. At the recently opened pipe factory in the industrial zone, the pay was rather good. He would be able to buy all the suits he wanted.
‘The years before the country was developed were very difficult,’ he continued, with Mum sitting on the bed knitting. ‘One day they picked us up in front of the factory in lorries and drove us to Zenica. That was back when they were expanding the iron foundry. For three months we slept in containers, the fleas danced over the powder used to combat them, and we ate … Well, I can’t even remember what we ate.’
‘You must have been paid well?’ I teased him.
‘A swan's bollock! That was what we were given. Three months construction work from morning to night – and then back home! But were commended. They patted us on the shoulder and said “Good work! You will all be remembered.” Have you ever seen the smokestacks?’
‘Yes.’
‘Have you seen how tall they are?’
‘Yes.’
‘Your father built them. All the bricks had to go past me and my comrades. We sifted through tonnes of them. For three months! And here you are complaining that you have to wait to start school. Imagine I sent you away for three months of hard construction work! We did not weld a thing, all we did was load bricks and other materials.’
Not only did Dad become a welder, he also became a communist.
‘My football coach was a party member of the old guard. He wanted to enlist me. “What would it mean to become a communist?” I asked him, and he replied: “It means becoming a decent human being. Fighting for the rights of the workers.” So I agreed to join the party. Back then it was something. Back then the party was untainted. Without any of these bastards who have recently joined purely for the sake of their own pockets.’
Dad later accepted various other offers. Including being sent for further training in order to become a master craftsman and later production manager at one of the factory’s many halls. Even back then he had problems with his eyes. The doctors believed that his serious short- sightedness and rapidly deteriorating vision had to be genetic. But Dad always believed in another diagnosis:
‘It’s an occupational injury. I’ve welded my eyes away, sacrificed my vision for the homeland! And what have I got in return? A swan’s bollock!’
‘We’ve had a good life,’ Mum said.
‘Exactly, had! And look at us now! If I only had my pension, I wouldn’t have to beg for peanuts at the market.’
‘Yes, that would be nice. You also need a pair of new glasses. The ones you have are too old.’
‘I know. But that costs money. That will cost a fortune, as the young people say.’
‘I’m just going out for a bit,’ I said and got up.
The conversation was getting too depressing.
‘On the other hand,’ Dad continued his elegy, ‘what am I going to do with a new pair of glasses? I’m still not going to like what I see.’
WHERE’S YOUR THROAT?
‘Do you realise,’ Damir said with a yawn, ‘that what White Button produced in the seventies was copied completely from two other bands?’
‘No, which ones?’ I asked and tugged at the neck of my top. For the millionth time that evening! It was one Dad had picked out for me at Caritas. It looked new, but the stitching was all wrong. It was tight around the neck and the left shoulder.
‘Deep Purple and Led Zeppelin. Anybody can hear that.’
‘I’ve heard of Deep Purple,’ I said. ‘“Smoke on the Water” and all of that.’
‘You haven’t heard nothing. Not yet. I can lend you some proper music. Then you’ll just have to listen. New and old … Hey, did you know Filthy Theatre has copied Dire Straits from the very beginning? Pretty much all of their first tw
o albums! Do you know Dire Straits?’
‘Yeah, a little. That video … But … They have some cool numbers, Filthy Theatre, don’t you think?’
‘Oh yeah, it’s fine for parties. When you need to soften up the ladies and that sort. But like so much of the shit our bands play, it’s a matter of atrocious copies. They just add a few traditional notes, embellish it a little and sell the shit.’
‘Hmm.’
‘Everything comes from the outside. The big bands. Anyone who knows music can hear that! You’re standing at a Red Apple concert one night, for example. Completely sold out. The girls pushing and screaming like mad. The floor is slippery with pussy juice.’
‘Heh, heh, heh!’
‘Seriously! I’ve seen it. I was there.’
‘Okay!’
‘And then they play that song, “I Like This Thing.”’
‘Right. Cool tune! Or … what? Now what?’
‘The tune and every single chord were nicked!’
I looked at him blankly, and Damir waved his arms impatiently:
‘Lennon, McCartney, “Twist and Shout,” man! The Beatles! You must know that.’
‘Yeah, yeah. Obviously.’
‘Do you get it now? They’re screwing people. That’s what they’re doing.’
‘Then what about No Smoking,’ I said intentionally, because I knew all their lyrics by heart and wanted to remind Damir of that fact.
‘There you’re on to something,’ he nodded and tossed his hair back. ‘There you’re on to something. But they listened to a lot of The Clash and Sex Pistols, you know. A lot. Especially The Clash. Especially!’
It was past two o’clock in the morning, and while I tried to remember if I had ever heard of The Clash, I saw old Milan coming out of the entrance to D2. He walked towards us with his hands pressed against his lower back.
‘Evening,’ we said to him.
‘Good evening, boys. Don’t you have to go to bed? Don’t you have school tomorrow?’
‘No, not really. We’re just chatting.’
‘Oh, I see. And you’re not tired?’
‘A little. We just can’t be bothered to sleep. It’s nice here.’
‘Yeah! Those who can, don’t want to, and those who want to … of course …’ he muttered and took the stairs down towards the path.
We heard him greeting some people his age who were still strolling around down there. We could only make out their silhouettes, but one of them had to be Jozo from the ground floor of D2. He had walked past us half an hour earlier. Jozo was one of the oldest people at the camp. According to some, he had not shut his eyes since 1942. The closest thing he ever came to sleep, they said, was when he lay down and rested his muscles for a few hours.
‘Maybe it’s time for us to call it a day,’ Damir said and got up. ‘Tomorrow I’ll tell you how Metallica was formed. Now that is a band!’
We flashed each other the sign of the horns and said goodnight. I walked up the stairs of D1 and slipped into our room.
Dad was leading Mum in the ‘loudest snoring’ discipline. I went into the bathroom, relieved myself and washed my hands. Finally, I could take off the stupid Caritas top.
I had just close my eyes when Dad turned over and gave me a proper slap.
He lay in the middle of our three beds, which we had slid together the previous day to make room for a coffee table and a chair in the corner by the balcony door. I slept by the wall to the bathroom. With Dad right next to me. He had his back to me when he screamed loudly and swung his arm. He turned, and in the same movement he smacked me right on the nose.
‘Ow, you hit me!’ I shouted. ‘That bloody hurts, man!’
My words were drowned out by his strange moaning. He muttered something in a strange and distant voice, that sounded both terrifying and ridiculous. Mum woke up and shook him. He pulled the duvet up, smacked his lips and said:
‘Yes. They’re coming with knives. Where’s your throat?’
MUM’S ATTEMPT
When I woke up, Mum was gone. Dad was writing a letter to a friend who now lived in Austria. The man owed him a small sum of money. It was such a small amount that Dad had long since given up recovering the debt. But now he sat writing a lengthy elegy about how we were in a tight spot, in the hope that his friend would recall his debt and send money.
‘I don’t think he’ll send you anything unless you ask him directly,’ I said. ‘Where’s Mum?’
‘She’s gone into town.’
‘Why?’
‘She’ll be back soon.’
‘What’s she doing in town?’
‘She’ll be back in a bit. Then she can tell you about it.’
‘Hmm.’
She returned on the noon bus, which stopped up by the roundabout. She walked the rest of the way in the baking sun. In a way it was rather touching when I thought about it, but I was not touched. I was angry.
‘Where have you been?’ I asked her when she came through the door wearing the ugliest dress I had ever seen.
‘I’ve spoken to them.’
‘Who?’
‘The secretary. I’ve given her all your details.’
‘HAVE YOU BEEN TO THE SCHOOL? IN THAT DRESS?’
‘Yes, why?’
‘Why? Why didn’t you wear the one you had last time? Your best dress?’
‘It’s in the wash.’
‘And you spoke to the secretary? In those clothes! Dammit, Mum!’
I could picture her in front of me. Standing in front of the hottest secretary in the city in that ridiculous summer dress. An old rag that someone had happily rid themselves of at the Red Cross warehouse. At best it looked like a striped, faded nightgown.
‘Did you know about this?’ I asked Dad.
‘Yes.’
‘And you let her walk out the door in that?’
‘Yes, and what of it? It’s a nice dress. Not the most fashionable but …’
‘“A nice dress?” You two have really lowered your standards, haven’t you? That is embarrassing!’
‘Relax, it’s just an older model.’
‘Why did you have to speak to the secretary?’
‘I explained our situation to her. Asked if we could pay in instalments. Because it can’t go on like this any longer. You’re missing out on an entire semester.’
‘Did you stand there begging for special treatment? Did you moan about how poor we are, or what? Are you mad? Didn’t we agree to wait for a sponsor? Like everyone else!’
‘Yes, yes, but it’s certainly worth a try. The woman was very pleasant. A nice older lady. Sweet …’
‘Older? … But … Wait … Where were you?’
‘At the secondary school, of course. Wasn’t that what you wanted?’
I was relieved. Luckily I did not have to stand in front of the hottie at the technical school and hear ‘Oh yes, your Mum came by the other day.’
‘And what did they say?’ Dad asked.
Only then did I realise that he had also been in on it. He was trying to scrape together some money, borrow enough for half a semester, or maybe even an entire semester, while she went to check whether the school would agree to be paid in instalments. They were insane. And insanely naive. They would never dream of borrowing money from Uncle. Dad was too proud for that.
‘Brilliant!’ I clapped my hands. ‘And what did they say?’
‘They told me to come back next week.’
‘Super! Bra-vo! And do you know what they’ll tell you next week? To drop by the following week. Just like they told me.’
‘Be quiet, boy!’ Dad raised his voice. ‘She means well. We’ll see what happens. We’re doing all we can.’
‘Drop it! That was a month ago. If they had wanted me, they would have admitted me straight away. I don’t care any more.’
‘Fine then, I’ll go to the technical school tomorrow and see if there’s any news.’
‘NO! Both of you stop it, now! I’ll go to the technical school tomorrow an
d in the future, and I’ll crack their skulls together if something doesn’t happen soon. And you two should just relax and mind your own business!’
… THAT ENDS WELL
I was allowed to hitchhike to Vešnja. First with Amar and later on my own, I stuck out my thumb, sniffed around the city and looked forward to my meeting with the secretary to the headmaster. She was really pretty. Smooth, aubergine hair. Large, intelligent eyes.
People in the corridors hurried past me. Their hustle and bustle made my life feel even more stagnant.
‘There you are,’ she smiled and opened a ring binder. ‘How are you?’
‘Good,’ I answered. ‘And yourself?’
‘I’m well, thank you. You didn’t come yesterday.’
‘No, I was busy.’
‘Well, it seems there’s good news.’
‘Is there?’
The matter had been settled at long last. Finally the rest of us could go to school. A sponsor had been located. Even for someone like me.
But – there was a small but, as the secretary put it. Not much to choose between. Actually there was only a spot on the mechanical engineering course. Even if people from the other classes were to drop out later, it would be impossible to switch. The semester was already well underway.
‘That’s not relevant,’ I said. ‘Mechanical engineering … That was just what I wanted.’
It was a performance worthy of an Oscar. In my next life I will be a big Hollywood star. A big star with a mansion and an American birth certificate, with several copies.
Shit! Amar and I had hoped for some kind of civil engineering mumbo-jumbo so we could be in the same class as Vlado. We did not know anyone at the school apart from him.
‘What did I tell you,’ she said. ‘All’s well that ends well …’
She helped me fill out the necessary forms for enrolment. She stood up from her chair and held out her hand ceremoniously.
‘Congratulations,’ she said.
‘Thank you very much,’ I said.
And with that, it ended well.
Mechanical engineer!
Ukulele Jam Page 8