The Good Daughter

by Amra Pajalic

  As they talked I opened my bag and found my mobile. I typed in a message: ‘Hope you’re having a better time than me. Love Sammie.’ I scrolled to Kathleen’s name and pressed ‘Send’. Kathleen was my best friend. We’d been friends since primary school when Mum and I lived in Thornbury.

  During the summer holidays we’d seen each other regularly. She visited me once, but my grandfather was less than welcoming, so mostly I travelled down her way and we met in the city or hit the op-shops and cafés around Brunswick Street, in Fitzroy.

  In the week since I’d started Year 10 at my new school, St Albans High, we hadn’t spoken much. I was used to seeing her every day, and then we’d call each other after school, and send emails and text messages. I missed her. I returned my mobile to my handbag. When I tuned back into the conversation they were talking about the war. Again. I was so sick of hearing about the war.

  ‘I was on the front line,’ Uncle Hakija said. ‘That’s where I got injured.’ He touched his stomach. There was a collective sigh from the group.

  There weren’t many men who could claim hero status. Most men fled with their families when the war broke out. When he arrived in Australia, Uncle Hakija had surgery to repair the damage to his gut. He attempted working for a few years, but his health was frail and he was in too much pain. Now he tended the garden and ran errands, while Auntie Zehra and my cousin Merisa worked as cleaners. In Bosnia, Hakija had been a veterinarian and Zehra a nurse.

  ‘I lost my wife and two daughters. My oldest would be Sabiha’s age.’ It was Safet’s turn and he glanced at me. We all shook our heads on cue.

  ‘My fiancé was a police officer in Prijedor,’ Safeta said. ‘After the Serbs seized the city he was arrested, with all the other officials and non-Serb leaders. I never heard from him. They were probably sent to Omarska. Omarska.’ We all looked down, remembering the television images of emaciated men staring at the camera through steel fences. Omarska was the Serb-run concentration camp in which Bosnians were imprisoned, the Bosnian equivalent of Auschwitz. Even though I was sick of the constant talk about the war, when I remembered those images, I realised why they couldn’t let it go.

  I turned away and watched the folk dancing on what passed as the dance floor. When Mum talked about attending the zabava I’d imagined a fancy ball, instead we were in a high school gym. There were folding tables and plastic chairs laid out in long rows from one end of the gym to the other, with an aisle down the middle.

  In the canteen attached to the gym the women were preparing the food. Heavy clouds of cigarette smoke hung over the tables, blending with the smell of sweat, onions and cooked meat. On the stage behind me a folk band were producing an ear-piercing tune. Some people would call it music, but I wasn’t one of them.

  The folk dancing had looked deceptively easy: dance in a circle holding hands as if you’re in a conga line and shuffle your feet in a quick two-step. But when Mum dragged me into the circle to get me dancing it felt like I was jumping on a pogo stick. For some reason I lacked the necessary rhythm to transform the simple moves into a high-spirited jig. Mum had natural rhythm. Her cheeks were flushed, a wide smile on her face as her feet kicked in unison with the other dancers.

  As we walked back to our table a man stared at us. ‘Isn’t that Mustafa?’ I asked Mum as we sat. Another ex-boyfriend —he’d lasted nearly a year and was one of the rare guys I’d liked. I smiled and raised my hand to wave.

  ‘Don’t!’ Mum slapped my hand. ‘He’s with his wife.’

  A little girl about eight years old was on his lap. His wife noticed me staring. I turned away and met my aunt’s gaze.

  Auntie Zehra cast Mum a scathing look. Mum blushed. Auntie looked like she was about to get stuck into her sister.

  ‘I’m hungry,’ I exclaimed loudly.

  Uncle Hakija and Adnan stood to get chevapi and soft drinks. I loved chevapi, the grilled skinless sausages made with minced beef or lamb, garlic and spices, and served on a Turkish roll with diced onion. While we were eating they resumed their conversation.

  Uncle Hakija had a toothpick between his lips. ‘The war happened because of who we are. It’s backward the way everyone’s identity is decided by his or her religious beliefs. We call Bosnian Catholics Croatians, or Orthodox Bosnians Serbs, even if their family has lived in Bosnia for centuries.’

  Uncle Hakija’s theory was that there were no problems when former Yugoslavia existed under the communist President Tito who led the Partisans to defeat the Nazis in World War II. The tension started when Tito died in 1980 and communism was eroded, as everyone sought independence.

  Dido thumped the table. ‘Those Orthodox Bosnians are Serbs. If they weren’t, why did they rise up in the coup d’ état, even though they’d been living in Bosnia all their lives?’

  ‘Just like you were a Muslim all your life.’ Uncle Hakija was making a dig at Dido’s previous life as a communist. Dido was now a Born-Again-Muslim like a lot of Bosnians since the war.

  ‘I did what I had to do,’ Dido frowned. ‘It was the only way to make a life.’

  While those with religious beliefs weren’t persecuted in Yugoslavia the way they were in other communist countries, they weren’t promoted at work and given the opportunities that communist party members received.

  Safet clapped Dido on the shoulder. ‘Come on friends, let’s talk of happy things.’

  Auntie Zehra covered Uncle Hakija’s hand. ‘We came to have a good time, not rehash old arguments.’

  Dido and Uncle Hakija engaged in a staring contest. Safet and Safeta finished eating and left to speak to friends at another table.

  Mum picked at her chevapi. ‘Do you want it?’ she asked Uncle Hakija. He broke the stare, smiled and shook his head.

  Auntie Zehra narrowed her eyes at them. ‘You were always wasteful, Bahra.’ Using a fork she transferred the chevapi to her plate. ‘You need to eat more.’ She bit into the sausage and chewed it with relish.

  Mum scrunched her nose and watched Safet as he worked the room. ‘I need to watch my figure.’

  ‘If you put meat on your bones you’d be able to keep a man.’ Auntie Zehra followed Mum’s gaze.

  ‘Not all men like big women,’ Mum replied.

  Uncle Hakija reached over and pinched the roll of fat bulging over Auntie Zehra’s skirt. ‘You should watch your figure too.’

  She slapped his hand. ‘You should keep your eyes off other women’s figures,’ she hissed.

  Uncle Hakija rubbed his hand. ‘I was joking.’

  ‘He didn’t mean anything by it,’ Mum said.

  ‘You’re in your thirties yet you’re as vain as a teenager.’ Auntie Zehra shook her head at Mum.

  Auntie Zehra was forty-two years old to Mum’s thirty-seven, and she was right. Mum looked like she was twenty-something. She did push-ups and sit-ups every night to keep trim, while Auntie Zehra’s weight aged her face and her dowdy clothes made her look like a senior citizen.

  Auntie Zehra kept going, pointing at Mum. ‘And you’re dressed like a whore.’ Mum’s only fault was that she looked too good. Her knee-length dress fitted against her curves and her cleavage was just visible.

  After over fifty years of living under communist Yugoslavia, there were only a few customs Bosnians practised in their everyday life that identified them as Muslim: the names they gave their children, drinking Turkish coffee, and the fact that male children were circumcised. Since the war they were groping for a new sense of identity after being pigeonholed as Muslim; and while many of them didn’t know how to be Muslim, they knew what didn’t make the grade and what got gossiped about. Skimpy clothes, drugs, and pairings with non-Muslims were at the top of the list. Mum had already received two strikes.

  Mum picked up her glass and took a sip, her hand trembling. She wasn’t good at confrontations.

  ‘That’s not—’ I started to interrupt my aunt. Adnan pinched me under the table. ‘Ouch!’ I exclaimed.

  ‘Leave them to it,’ he whispered.
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  ‘She’s my mother,’ I whispered back.

  ‘She’s her sister.’

  I was about to speak, but he held up his fingers like he would pinch me again.

  Uncle Hakija took Auntie Zehra’s hand and looked at Mum. ‘I think Bahra looks nice,’ he pronounced.

  Auntie Zehra’s face was crimson and rivulets of sweat trickled from her temple. ‘Keep your eyes to yourself.’ She dug her nails into Uncle Hakija’s hand.

  ‘Zehra,’ Dido snapped. ‘This isn’t the time.’

  Mum and Auntie Zehra’s bickering went back nearly twenty years, when Uncle Hakija was courting Mum. Everyone expected them to marry, but then my father came home from Australia to find a bride. Mum ended up marrying my Dad and moving to Australia. Auntie Zehra and Uncle Hakija married and stayed behind, and there’s never been peace between the two sisters since.

  In the strained silence we heard a murmur.

  ‘She’s the crazy one.’

  A woman at the table behind us scowled at Mum.

  the family reunion

  Mum hunched in the seat beside me. Most of the Bosnians off the boat freaked out when they heard that Mum was bipolar. In communist Yugoslavia anyone with a deformity or an affliction was put in a home and separated from the rest of the population. Yet another reason why we avoided the Bosnian community.

  ‘She may be crazy, but at least she’s not dumb,’ Auntie Zehra glowered at the woman. The woman turned away. ‘Don’t pay any attention to them,’ Auntie Zehra told Mum. ‘They’re primitives,’ she said, her voice loud enough to carry.

  The woman stiffened, but she didn’t look at us again. Mum smiled at Auntie Zehra, who nodded and kept eating her chevapi. Mum fiddled with her dress, tugging the neckline to cover her cleavage.

  ‘Merisa, give Bahra your jacket,’ Auntie Zehra said.

  Merisa was sitting on the other side of Mum. She took off her jacket and handed it to Mum.

  ‘You have to stop dressing like an Aussie.’ Auntie Zehra reached across the table and squeezed Mum’s hand.

  ‘I know.’ Mum smiled as she put the jacket on.

  ‘See,’ Adnan whispered in my ear. ‘I told you.’

  ‘Up yours,’ I whispered back.

  Adnan left the table and I groaned with relief, leaning back in my chair, arms crossed. It was still weird that these people had a claim on Mum. For so many years we’d been our own independent unit. Unlike so many mothers and daughters, we were friends. But now everything was changing. I was relegated to the sidelines. I checked my mobile—no reply from Kathleen.

  Merisa stood. ‘Where are you going?’ Auntie Zehra asked.

  ‘To the toilet,’ Merisa replied.

  ‘I’ll come too,’ I said, following her from the table.

  Inside the bathroom Merisa went to the mirror while I went to the toilet cubicle. As I washed my hands Merisa reapplied her make-up. I eyed her lipstick covetously. ‘Can I have some?’

  ‘I don’t think this is your colour.’ She used her finger to fix her lip line. I dried my hands with a paper towel and directed a piercing stare at her reflection. Merisa sighed and handed me the tube. ‘Don’t break it.’ She was such a tight-arse. I smeared my lips. ‘Not like that!’ She blotted my lips with a tissue. ‘If it’s obvious Dido will go crazy.’

  Adnan was waiting for us outside the bathroom. He and Merisa walked away from the entrance to the gym.

  ‘Where are you going?’ I asked.

  ‘To get some fresh air.’ Merisa’s tone was sharp. I knew I wasn’t welcome, but I didn’t care.

  They hurried outside. I followed and heard snatches of conversation as we turned the corner. So this was where everyone under the age of twenty disappeared.

  Merisa pulled out a pack of cigarettes from her handbag and popped one in her mouth. ‘Anyone got a light?’ she asked in Bosnian. A young man flicked his lighter and put the flame to her cigarette. ‘Thanks.’ She exhaled smoke to the side.

  He offered his hand. ‘Mooki, short for Muharem.’

  ‘Merisa.’ She smiled as they shook hands.

  Adnan moved to another group. I edged closer to Merisa and she introduced me. I said hello, not knowing whether to offer my hand or not. Most Bosnians seemed to be into the handshake thing, but it felt weird to me.

  ‘Australian?’ Mooki asked. Merisa nodded.

  Another young man put his arm around Mooki’s shoulders. ‘What have we got here?’

  Mooki introduced his brother, Ferid.

  I watched them like I was at a tennis match, my head bobbing from side to side as they talked. I knew Merisa was keen on Mooki by the way she tilted her head and laughed. I thought Merisa was pretty when I first saw her, but once I knew her better her bitchiness erased my first impression.

  Adnan appeared at my side. ‘Got a smoke?’ he asked Merisa. She passed one to him without taking her eyes off Mooki. ‘Having a good time cuz?’ He put his arm around me and squeezed me against him.

  ‘Let go,’ I muttered, pulling away.

  He laughed and pinched my cheek, before sauntering off.

  I turned and saw Dina watching me. Dina and I now went to the same school and even had classes together. Our grandfathers used to be neighbours in Bosnia and since Dido had moved to St Albans they’d reconnected. Her grandfather, Edin, was my grandfather’s chess-playing buddy, and she was named after him. Her real name was Edina.

  Last week, when I started at St Albans High, Mum talked to Dina’s mum, Suada, and asked Dina to show me around. Grudgingly, she and her best friend Gemma let me hang with them if I happened to find them, but they didn’t make it easy and were always moving around the school grounds.

  Dina sidled up to me. ‘Is Adnan your boyfriend?’ she asked, her eyes following him as he rough-housed with his friends. Adnan went to our high school, but he was in Year 12.

  ‘No,’ I protested. ‘He’s my cousin.’

  ‘Your cousin?’ Dina said, incredulous.

  ‘Our mums are sisters.’

  She looked relieved. ‘Wow, you’re Adnan’s cousin.’ She said it as if I was related to royalty. There was no accounting for taste.

  You could call Adnan handsome. He was over six feet tall. He had bright blue eyes and brown hair, with a slight cleft in his chin. As his cousin, I was immune to his charm since I was always the butt of his jokes.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me you were related?’ Dina said, pouting.

  ‘What’s the big deal?’ I asked.

  Dina shrugged and gave me a smug smile.

  Adnan appeared at my side again. ‘Where is she?’

  I looked around. Merisa had disappeared.

  ‘Mum’s coming,’ he grunted.

  Auntie zeroed in on Adnan.

  ‘Merisa’s gone back to the gym,’ Adnan said.

  Auntie walked on. I didn’t have a good feeling. Her face was red and a vein was popping in her forehead, like when she and Uncle Hakija were arguing. Adnan and I followed. Even though I tried to give my feet the signal to turn back to the gym, I couldn’t help myself. I wanted to see Merisa cop it.

  Ten minutes later we found them. Merisa was leaning with her back against a building while Mooki had one hand above her head, his body nearly on top of hers. She turned her head to exhale smoke and saw Auntie Zehra. Merisa stamped the cigarette under her foot. Mooki straightened and offered his hand to Auntie Zehra. After shaking hands, Auntie waited for us to start walking towards the gym before following.

  ‘You should have been more careful,’ Adnan said to Merisa.

  ‘What’s the big deal?’ I asked. ‘Merisa’s an adult.’

  When we were away from the crowd Auntie caught up to us. ‘What were you doing with those boys?’ she demanded, her voice tense as she kept from shouting. She had Merisa’s arm in an iron grip.

  ‘Nothing, Mum.’ Merisa was clearly in pain, but she didn’t pull away.

  I’d been looking forward to Merisa getting in trouble but, seeing Auntie’s scarcely suppressed rage,
I wanted to get away.

  ‘Zehra! Babo wants you to come inside,’ Mum said as she approached. When Auntie ignored her, Mum tried to pull her away from Merisa. ‘Now isn’t the time, Zehra.’ Mum pushed herself between Merisa and Auntie, but as Merisa moved away Auntie went for Mum.

  ‘Don’t tell me how to discipline my child. How do you think I felt hearing about all the men you slept with?’ Auntie Zehra’s face was ugly as she leaned into Mum. ‘Not even married men are safe from you.’

  Mum put her hand on Auntie Zehra’s arm. ‘Zehra, there’s nothing between Hakija—’

  ‘I know there isn’t.’ Auntie Zehra threw her hand off. ‘I’m keeping an eagle eye on you both because I know what you’re capable of.’

  Auntie looked around, remembering we were in public. She stormed off. Merisa followed, rubbing her arm, and Adnan took up the rear.

  I checked my mobile, in order to avoid looking at Mum, and frowned at the blank screen. Usually Kathleen would have replied instantly. She carried her mobile everywhere. We would have spent the whole night sending each other messages. At least I would have had something more amusing to get me through this hellish night.

  Back at our table Dido was talking to a man in a black robe. Bosnians might wear Western clothes, but the hodja, the Muslim priest, wears a robe. Imagine an orthodox priest, except the hodja’s hat is white, and minus the cross, of course.

  ‘Here are my grandchildren,’ Dido announced.

  He introduced Adnan and Merisa. The hodja shook hands with Adnan, but Merisa didn’t put her hand out. Women were supposed to follow the Muslim custom of not touching a male who wasn’t a blood relative, which was really weird because they shook hands and kissed everyone except the hodja.

  ‘This is my Australian grand-daughter.’ Dido was being such a suck-up.

  ‘Sabiha,’ I snapped. ‘My name is Sabiha.’

  Mum came to my side and put her hand on my back. I bit the insides of my cheeks.

  ‘I’m reminding parents that mejtef is held at the Deer Park mosque on Saturday mornings,’ the hodja said. ‘So many children are woefully ignorant about their heritage and we need to correct this.’