by Ann Michaels
Sonja
The plane soared away from Sydney; Sonja was on her way. She had just pushed the earphones into her ears, to escape from the loud, large American crammed next to her, when the events of the previous night, seep into her mind. She burns with shame. How transparent she had been with Marco! I am bloody glad that, I am going to the other side of the world, she thought. But she also felt a twinge of sadness mixed in with the shame. Marco was so handsome; like a hero in the romantic novels, which she secretly read. How superficial I am! She thought, sadly.
However, on thinking about it, Sonja, had to admit that, what she felt toward Marco, probably amounted to plain and simple lust. She blushed again, closed her eyes, and put on some cool jazz. To float away.
Sonja would join her older sister, Vesna, who was already living with their grandmother, whom they called, Baka, in a one bedroom apartment in Sarajevo. The plan was, for the sisters to study at the university. But, really, Sonja’s parents had spent years saving money, so that their daughters’ could find ‘nice Croatian men to marry’.
There was a palpable excitement and optimism in Sarajevo after the success of the Winter Olympics. Building was going on everywhere when Sonja arrived on that crisp November morning. But, never-the-less, Sonja’s bus from the airport, lumbered past many run-down and depressed neighbourhoods, where the odour of cabbage hung on the air; where washing hung limply on balconies and serious-eyed children ran the streets, in clothes sporting obvious holes, and patches.
Sonja’s Baka, a Croatian Catholic, lived in the Grbavica neighbourhood of Sarajevo; close to the left bank of the Miljacka River, and the famous sports stadium. And it was here, that Sonja shared a cramped room, with Baka and sister, Vesna. It was a place, which was cramped and utilitarian, in that Brutalist, Eastern, European style; where the uproar of the stadium crowds’ often provided the symphonic backdrop to everyday life.
So far, Sonja was enjoying herself living in Sarajevo; it was if some dormant part inside of her had come alive. She now spent her days: meeting new friends, studying and learning, and exploring the landscape and culture of Sarajevo. One of her favourite things to do, though, was to climb onto the roof of the apartment and gaze out upon the beautiful, forest-covered hills, which surround the bowl in which Sarajevo lies. She would feel the breeze upon her face, and sometimes, she had the impression that, those shifting air currents travelled right through her. Her mind felt free up here. At rest.
What Sonja felt was most tricky to negotiate in her new life, was the religious and ethnic differences. In Australia, Sonja had felt different, but never excluded. But as a Catholic minority, she sometimes felt uneasy and marginalised here. Sonja’s grandmother often lamented, that, tensions had increased from the time of President Tito’s death in 1980. When Tito was alive, he had pushed the communist ideal as a way to overcome ethnic tensions, but with his death, entrenched differences began to rise again. Brotherhood and unity began to decay.
It wasn’t long before it also became evident, to Sonja, that, the Serbs appeared to occupy the most important positions in Sarajevo, while the Croats, were often harassed by the police. However, as Sonja had too many parties to attend, and friends to meet, she didn’t dwell on these difficult thoughts too often.
As time passed, Sonja became fluent in the Serbo-Croatian language. Of course, she had spoken the language with her parents. But now, she really knew how to express herself with ease. Sonja and Vesna would, however, mostly talk to each other in English, when they were alone together. It was as though, they wished to preserve and savour their Australian selves, and not lose them altogether.
When Sonja thought about it, it was as if their Australian and Yugoslav parts thought and expressed themselves, in different ways; each needing its space and freedom. This thought, sparked a memory for Sonja, of her friend Kerry, who had explained one day that, her Irish ancestors had been banned from speaking their own language, for many years. Her mother, she said, had learnt Gaelic from her own mother, and they had spoken it together. In private. Many Irish people didn’t know their own language anymore; they only spoke English, and so, in this way, had lost so much of themselves.
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The next few years passed in a blur. Sonja and Vesna graduated from university and both began working at the Sarajevo City Library. Their days were full; processing books in and out; helping people to find books, and offering advice.
The library itself first opened in 1896. A glorious, neo-Moorish, Egyptian-style building: a place which Sonja loved. Sometimes, in the summer months, Sonja would stand mesmerised before entering the library, on sunny mornings, as though hypnotised by the yellow and red façade and the ornamental tin-glazed earthenware boarding. Absorbing its beauty. Inside, she would immerse herself in the calm solitude of books, and feel peace flow through her. Beautiful peace.
Meeting handsome men was easy. Sonja with her strong personality, and striking, black-eyed looks, could arouse plenty of male interest, as did, Vesna, who was grey-eyed, and more introspective.
In Sarajevo, the sisters were much freer than they were back in Australia, where their parents were possessed with fear, imposing so many rules. Here, they dated many young men and made many friends. These ‘romances’, however, were not very serious.
Then, one night, Vesna came home looking dazed. She had met the man she was going to marry, she said. Only he didn’t know this yet.
Vesna would say no more about this man. She just flitted about with a giddy look on her face. But she promised that, she would introduce him to Sonja, at a party on the following Friday night.
Waiting for Friday to come was torture for Sonja. She was desperate to meet this man, who had snatched her sister’s heart.
The sisters dressed carefully on that Friday evening in early 1989, as their Baka followed them around, imploring them to be careful on the streets and fretting about the thick, brown smog which hung like a threat over the city. Gas heating was to replace coal soon; it was said in the papers. Baka was worried, because there was so much political unrest lately, and the flames of ethnic hostility were alight.
The party was to be held at Stari Grad, in the heart of the Old Town, a place where the intellectuals and artists often lived. To get there, the sisters rode a decrepit old tram, which smelt of sweat and something flammable. They sat opposite a man with a ferret on his shoulder, which was disconcerting, but soon, they forgot their strange traveling companions, and Vesna began to share some of the details about this man, she intended to marry.
‘Bojan is a writer for the youth magazine, Nasi dani’, began Vesna. ‘He is very concerned to expose corruption’. She said, in an odd sing-song manner.
‘That sounds a bit dangerous’, Sonja replied carefully.
‘Mmm, it is. But I am so proud of him. That he is prepared to speak up!’
‘I hope he is kind and handsome too!’ Sonja added laughingly, trying to lighten the mood, and her feelings of disquiet.
‘Clever, handsome, and kind, Sister! How about that for a trifecta!
Traditional Sevdah music was playing in the background, when Sonja and Vesna walked into the dingy room, on the top floor of an old building, in the Bassccarssija district, near the north bank of the river Miljacka.
Once inside, the sisters looked carefully about them. The room was crammed with people talking intently and there were curls of cigarette smoke, snaking toward the high ceiling. To the left, a long, thin table was laden with bowls of delicious food, and various bottles of drink and glasses were scattered about.
Vesna was to meet Bojan near the window, which Bojan said, had an excellent view of the Ottoman influenced eastern part of the town, and western, more European part. So, the sisters pushed their way into the throng, toward the only window, which they could see in the room.
Suddenly, Sonja found herself separated from her sister, who had enthusiastically surged ahead. For a moment, she panicked,
as the people streamed around her, like schools of fish. She looked back, thinking of escape, when she saw a young man framed in the doorway, with piercing blue eyes and a shock of black hair. For a moment, which felt like an age, Sonja and the man were eye-locked; feeling the attraction and electricity flow between them. Then, the man stepped into the swarming people and ploughed his way toward her. He grabbed her arm, without saying a word, and towed her toward the window.
‘You are either Vesna or Sonja’, he said. His voice was low and soft, but somehow, it cut through the raucous noise of the people and the music.
Sonja was startled and replied ‘How do you know this?’
‘Because I know everyone else in this room. But please, tell me which sister you are.’
‘I am Sonja’.
‘I am glad’.
‘Why?’ Sonja said, confused.
‘It would not be good if you were Vesna, as she is the girl my brother wants to marry.’
His name was Gordan and he was a news photographer at the same magazine as his brother. Recently, some of Gordan’s photos of ostentatious holiday homes, built by Bosnian officials, at sea-side resorts like, Neum, had incited massive public outcry and debate. Gordan talked a lot about the growing corruption, and structural inequality, and how he saw violence in Sarajevo’s