Peony Red
CHRISTIAN SCHÜNEMANN, born in 1968, is a journalist who has worked in Moscow and Bosnia-Herzegovina. He received the Helmut Stegmann Prize for Journalism in 2001.
JELENA VOLIĆ is an academic, lecturing in Modern German Literature. She divides her time between Belgrade and Berlin.
Peony Red
A Case for Milena Lukin
CHRISTIAN SCHÜNEMANN AND JELENA VOLICĆ
Translated by Baida Dar
First published in English in 2019 by
HAUS PUBLISHING LTD.
4 Cinnamon Row, London SW11 3TW
www.hauspublishing.com
Originally published in German as
Pfingstrosenrot: Ein Fall für Milena Lukin
Copyright © 2016 by Diogenes Verlag AG Zürich
Translation Copyright © 2019 by Baida Dar
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent publisher.
A full CIP record for this book is available from the British Library
Printed in the UK
Typeset in Garamond by MacGuru Ltd
ISBN: 978-1-910376-56-0
eISBN: 978-1-910376-95-9
Acknowledgements
The translator thanks her fellow translator and true wordsmith Peter Lewis for his unfailing editorial flair.
The crime at the centre of this novel is a true story: in July 2012, the bodies of a Serbian couple were discovered in their house in Talinovac, Kosovo. Both had been shot in the back of the head. This double murder caused a furore among the Serbian population and was exploited by Serbian officialdom and media circles to foment public opinion against Kosovan Albanians; equally, on the Kosovan Albanian side it was used to stir up sentiment against the Serbs. To this day, the murders have not been solved.
Aside from this case, the plot of this novel is pure invention, and all the characters appearing in it are entirely fictitious. Any similarities between them and actual characters or events are entirely coincidental.
1
‘What’s the matter, Miloš? What are you waiting for? Button up your jacket or you’ll catch your death!’
Exhausted, he mopped the sweat off his brow with a handkerchief, and then wiped it over his neck. Every time she spoke to him this way, when she turned and gave him that stern look of hers like he was a little child, his heart ached. Concentrated in that look was all her pain and suffering, and at the same time her insistence on accepting everything as God’s will.
He grasped the handles and yanked up the heavy buckets. Together they had experienced so much that he’d hoped they’d never have to endure. They had lost their homeland, lived in a refugee hostel and been forced to sponge off their daughter. Now they were old, his strength was waning and his patience was at an end.
‘It’s OK, Miloš, got it? No reason to get agitated. Everything’s fine.’
Sure, sure. In times of need they’d always had friends to rely on. And now, again, there were people down in the village who looked out for them and helped out with this and that. If it hadn’t been for those friends they wouldn’t even have had these buckets. But the more Ljubinka talked and tried to calm him, the angrier he became. After all that had happened, he was prepared to start from scratch, but he wasn’t about to put up with one obstacle after another being put in their way.
Ljubinka was very short of breath, and gasped for air as she spoke. He noticed that her ankles were swollen and was sure that her legs and her back hurt, but also knew that she’d never complain. He hated himself for not being able to do more, other than cutting long strips of damned cardboard every day and wrapping them around the iron handles of the buckets. Ljubinka’s hands weren’t up to fetching water twice a day and lugging the buckets three and a half kilometres across the fields. The two of them still needed to climb the hill and make it through the woods, and the cardboard was already worn through.
‘We must be grateful,’ Ljubinka panted. ‘Do you hear, Miloš? Are you listening to me?’
The handles squeaked rhythmically, and the water lapped over the edge, splashing onto the ground and their worn shoes. When he caught sight of the cracked leather, Miloš felt like crying. He thought of the shoes Ljubinka used to wear: delicate high-heeled sandals made from braided leather, with thin straps. Back then, he could hear the sound of her stiletto heels from afar; their determined and optimistic rhythm still rang in his ears. He remembered the first time she’d stood in front of him in those heels, and how she still only came up to his chin. From the beginning he had wanted to protect her, to wait on her hand and foot. Their life together had been good, full of contentment, lush and fragrant like peonies in the evening sun.
Until the strange sound started. To begin with, it was difficult to work out where it was coming from. Initially it was quiet – yet even at that stage there was something hysterical about it – and then it grew louder and became more and more insistent, like midges that you couldn’t swat away. There were nights when he got no sleep at all.
Back then, he wrote letters and articles full of outrage at the high-handedness with which mayors, directors and other Serbian worthies abused their power to procure posts for their cousins, brothers-in-law and old school friends. Members of the Albanian majority were systematically dismissed from their posts. This same fate had also befallen his superior and esteemed colleague, the Albanian Ismail Cama. Without warning, Ismail was suspended from his post as headmaster. After that, he could count himself lucky to get a job as a supply teacher at an adult education centre in southern Kosovo. The vacant post of headmaster of the secondary school in Priština had been offered to him, Miloš Valetić. Nobody cared whether he had the right qualifications or even fulfilled the minimum required standards. He was Serbian, and that was the best qualification one could hope for at that time.
He turned down the offer, and remained what he had always been: a teacher of Greek and Latin. Ljubinka couldn’t understand him. His hapless actions made him a grumbler, and some even considered him a traitor, but he did not achieve anything with what he said or wrote. The rift between Serbs and Albanians was already too deep, and the nationalist uproar too deafening. In this charged atmosphere, young Albanians demonstrated ever more fervently against Serbian policies. They were arrested and beaten black and blue in custody. Belgrade’s political establishment was intent on hammering home a simple message: we, the Serbs, decide; you, the Albanians, have to obey and acquiesce; anyone who can’t live with that, who won’t bow to the pressure, can get the hell out.
‘Stop brooding, Miloš. We don’t want for anything, do we? Isn’t this enough?’
He trudged silently across the grass behind his wife. Over there, where the leaning postbox stood, was where they had arrived by bus. Their journey had been an odyssey: they had come via Prizren, changed buses in Ferizaj – which was formerly known as Uroševac, in the days when one wasn’t ashamed to be a Serb there – fallen out of the bus with their two suitcases and cloth bag, and stood in this godforsaken place like two idiots, not knowing where to go. If it hadn’t been for the children who came along and showed them the way, they’d have had to spend the night in the barn, the very place where Miloš returned later to fetch some straw for the mattresses. What a disgrace. Fifteen years after fleeing this country to save their lives, they had returned, and the first thing he did after that was become a thief. Later, the farmer had given Miloš permission to forage, and even equipped them with the bare essentials: a few blankets, pots and pans and – on account – some eggs
, tomatoes and cheese.
Yes, they had been lucky. Just like fifteen years ago, when they had arrived in Belgrade with their suitcases and had found a place in the refugee hostel on Mount Avala. Real lucky beggars, that’s what they were. All those years they had lived in this emergency accommodation, jostling for a place in the washrooms in the morning, fighting for a hotplate at lunchtime and at night having to listen to the couples shouting and fighting in the cells either side of theirs. And the worst thing was that he couldn’t rid his mind of the thought, not even for a split second, that strangers were living in their house back home in Priština, using their furniture – the shoe cupboard, Ljubinka’s dresser and his bookshelves – and drinking coffee from their cups and homemade schnapps from their glasses. They might even have hanged themselves if the ceiling in the refugee hostel had been high enough and if there had been two mullions and transoms in the windows, one for him and one for Ljubinka. They had always agreed on one thing: when they departed this life, it had to be together.
‘Don’t pull such a long face, Miloš. The main thing is we’ve got a roof over our heads. And where there’s holes, we’ll plug them. After all, this isn’t the first time, is it?’
In the moonlight, the trees cut sharp silhouettes against the clear sky, black firs and beeches. Once he’d got hold of some gloves and a scythe, his first task would be to cut the grass and the nettles. And then the fruit trees would follow in the autumn, once he had a ladder. He would collect as much firewood each day as his strength allowed. There was still some time until the onset of winter, but he wanted to be prepared for the cold season. This was life in the Stone Age. He remembered the advice from Vuk, the neighbour from down in the village, where there was running water, electricity, shoe cupboards, bookshelves, a proper roof and all that was required to lead a decent life.
‘I’m speaking to you as a friend, and I’m warning you,’ Vuk had said. ‘Keep shtum. Forget the old stories, and look toward the future.’
Everybody knuckled down, toed the line and kept their mouths shut. But Miloš had promised himself that one day he would sit beside Ljubinka in front of their own little house, without any fear, and gaze up at the stars they knew so well.
‘Don’t forget, Miloš, we’ve got a garden. We can grow vegetables, preserve fruit, keep some chickens, maybe even a cow. We’ll have eggs, cheese and jam. You’ll see, Miloš, everything will be all right.’
He saw the questioning look she gave him, and noticed the fine lines on her face. Wasn’t it a miracle that, after fifteen years and all that had happened, they were back in their homeland?
He planted a kiss on her forehead. ‘Tomorrow we’ll plant a peony,’ he said, caressing her cheek.
He was tired by the time he reached their entrance hall, so he put down the buckets. In the dark he groped around for the matches, which he had placed within easy reach, right next to the candle on the windowsill. His back ached and his fingers trembled with exhaustion, and he broke one match after another. With the front door still wide open, the wind gusted through the house as if they were still outside in the open. Hadn’t he closed the door to the kitchen?
‘Darling?’ No answer. He shuddered. He still couldn’t make out the different noises and get his head around this house. What was strange, however, was the silence.
He saw the shadow – too big for Ljubinka. The matchbox slipped from his hand and fell to the floor. Through the hole in the wall he saw a silhouette in the moonlight. He staggered, lost his bearings in the dark and suddenly felt a searing pain as his arm was twisted behind his back, held there by some outside force.
He clenched his teeth. He had known that they’d come for them one day, but he hadn’t thought it would be so soon. He wasn’t afraid – but Ljubinka, his beloved Ljubinka, they should let her be.
They shoved him against the wall, pushed him into the corner where Ljubinka was also cowering and forced him to kneel. They would break every bone in his body now. He grazed his hands trying to break his fall. He cried out, afraid that Ljubinka might be hurt; he wanted to ask her, reassure her, calm her and hug her. He felt something cold on his neck. He sensed what it was and quickly grew very calm. He didn’t want to frighten Ljubinka. The certainty that they would walk this last road together, that Ljubinka would not be left behind alone and defenceless, made it easier.
He reached for her hand, which was cold, wet and trembling, and whispered, ‘Don’t be afraid.’
2
Gusts of wind lashed Sava Square, driving sheets of rain before them and hastening the people who were leaving the station and the bus terminal. Laden with umbrellas, plastic bags and handbags the people hurried past the yellow cabs, leaping over puddles, potholes in the tarmac and rusty tramlines until they reached their stop. One after the other they slipped under the cover of the tram stop roof and huddled together behind the glass shelter, its side panels decorated with the Belgrade coat of arms. This little shelter was brand new, and so spick and span that one could easily imagine it standing in Berlin, Paris or any other European metropolis.
Milena Lukin found it hard pushing her way through the crowd of people, and sometimes even found herself using her elbows to claim enough room to set down her handbag and the shopping bag, which was full to bursting, between her feet. Unfortunately the slender bench was so short that only three adults could sit down on it, and then only if they didn’t mind squeezing up against each other. Milena loosened her scarf, which she had wrapped tightly around her neck, and unfolded the arms of her spectacles.
The number-twelve tram was the only line that would take her straight to the municipal clinics. If the timetable was to be believed, the service ran every ten minutes. Milena ran through the list in her head: she had packed bananas and oranges. Also the white cheese, the mature one from Zlatibor. And cornbread, parsley and paprika. Plus two pieces of blueberry pastry. And, because calcium was now especially important for building up bone strength, cinnamon milk – a whole pitcher of it.
The tram came rumbling round the corner, squealing as it crawled across a set of points. Milena grabbed the handles of her bags – one left, one right – in a movement that was synchronised with all the other people who were lugging provisions into hospitals all over the country around this same time. In all Serbian hospitals, visiting times were limited to two hours in the afternoon, from two till four p.m.
Twenty-five minutes later she got off at Liberation Boulevard, but not until the tram had reached the university buildings for veterinary medicine, where she backtracked slightly and turned into Louis Pasteur Street. The various clinics were distributed around different buildings set in park-like grounds, which at one point had been surrounded by high walls. Over the decades, gaps had opened up in the walls, but the gates at the four cardinal points of the compass remained intact.
She entered the grounds through the North Gate, via Jovan Suboti Street, which took its name from a famous surgeon who had invented the splint at the end of the nineteenth century and had founded this hospital. The old buildings, with their lofty ceilings, huge rooms, high-stepped staircases and rickety, draughty double casement windows, were unsuitable for a modern and efficient hospital operation. Even the new building – eighteen concrete floors, built in the 1970s and dominating the area in a rather ugly way – had in the meantime also passed its prime. Since the collapse of socialism the adjacent helipad had not been used for its intended purpose. Instead, it had become a parking lot for use by visitors, nurses and doctors, flouting the original ban on all vehicles in the park grounds.
Milena carried her bags past the cardboard boxes of the street vendors who were hawking assorted underpants, soap and toothpaste, bought that day’s paper at a kiosk and walked past two tall pillars and forsythias in full bloom to reach the orthopaedic clinic. She had just ascended the small flight of steps, and pushed down on the wrought-iron door handle with her elbow to open the heavy wooden door, when her phone rang.
Breathing heavily, she propped her
luggage against the half-landing and looked at the display: Siniša Stojković, the lawyer, her good friend, whom she hadn’t heard from in several days.
She pressed the green button. ‘What’s up?’
‘Listen,’ Siniša said at the other end. ‘I’ve got someone now. My best man at my first wedding. He’d completely dropped off my radar.’
‘Your best man?’ She stepped aside to make room for a group of people coming in behind her.
‘Exactly. He’s an orthopaedic surgeon, and the icing on the cake is that he’s the new boss of the clinic in Novi Sad. What do you say to that? I’ll call him tonight. He should get in touch with the consultant here. That way we make sure our patient gets proper treatment and the doctors here don’t get any bright ideas about installing any cheap spare parts.’
‘They did the operation the day before yesterday.’
‘What?’
‘But it’ll take some time before he’s back on his feet. The doctors say he’s in good shape and has great bones. I’m sure he’s in good hands here. To be honest, I’m more concerned for my mother at the moment.’
‘Why? Is there something up with Vera?’
‘You know her. She cooks, fries and bakes like a maniac, and she’s got little bottles of ointment all over the place, and sachets of tea, just so her little darling brother can get back on his feet as fast as possible.’
‘Always ready for the fray. A true partisan.’
‘But she’s no spring chicken anymore! I’m afraid she’ll overdo it.’ Milena sighed. ‘Anyway, I’ve got to go in, see how he’s doing and give him a little sustenance. I’ll keep you posted.’
‘Let me know if I can do anything.’
‘Thank you, that’s sweet of you. See you.’
Instead of taking the lift she picked up her bags and climbed the stairs.
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