There was a stack of sandbags on which to rest the assault rifle, and bales of hay representing the Serbian enemy placed at various distances.
“Vertical, vane, Milošević,” Andrej repeated to himself as he stretched out on the ground, knees and elbows spread for greater stability, as their instructor had demonstrated, and peered through the sight.
“Breathe calmly! Short bursts of fire! Keep the butt tighter against your shoulder, man, otherwise that thing’ll go jumping all over the place! And wipe that grin off your face—this is war, not an arcade game!”
Andrej would have preferred to first see how the others managed, but he had no choice. He squeezed his left eye closed and curled his finger around the trigger.
It can’t be so bad, he thought, but he wished he knew beforehand what it was like to fire an assault rifle. He dreaded it as much as an electric fence, especially the moment just before you had to touch it.
“Fire!” Marković commanded.
But something else happened. In the middle of the oval racetrack the earth’s crust erupted and rose to an unlikely height, a grubby fist that flung the bales of hay every which way. Andrej opened both eyes wide and saw flashes on the hills to the south. A second explosion demolished the salt ponds a hundred meters away.
“Heavy artillery, damn it all,” Marković shouted. “They’ve broken through.” More explosions followed at short intervals, each blast slightly farther away, which was on the one hand reassuring, but on the other hand not, because it meant they were approaching the town center.
Marković took back his rifle and started giving orders. “Rubinić—take my Schwalbe and get to the cable car as fast as you can. They might be evacuating the town. The rest of you—to the rendezvous. No time to practice on the bales. This is the moment of truth. Fall in, march!”
Andrej got up and ran over to the moped, while the others hurried back into town by bicycle or on foot. He turned and saw Marković take extra ammunition from an olive-green canister and put it in his camouflage jacket pockets.
“I don’t know how to start it!” he shouted.
“Turn the key, pedal down, easy on the gas!” Marković yelled before heading onto the open field, the Kalashnikov at his hip.
He was probably a hero.
The siege lasted barely a week, let alone weeks on end, as had been the case with the larger cities in the south. The town had been reduced to smoldering ruins in a single day. The townspeople were dumbstruck: it was as though their thousand-year history had been erased in a few hours, like a hurriedly turned page in a second-rate book. This was winner takes all, and to the very end, those who tried to escape the inferno seemed oblivious to the fact that this was not a war between men, but annihilation. The archducal palace was in ruins, the tower of the celebrated clock museum had collapsed onto the square. The hillside housing tract, built in Tito’s heyday, was a patchwork of blazes. They had used bulldozers to shove the concrete blocks, which for years had lined the Ulica Zrinskog, onto the asphalt as roadblocks against the approaching enemy. Volunteers attempting to paint a large red cross on the flat roof of the hospital were swept off it by low-flying fighter jets as though they were no more than wisps of lint. The palm trees still stoically flanked the boulevard, but the houses across the road now resembled a row of smashed teeth.
There was almost no way out: the coastal road to the north was being bombarded from the sea, and the exodus was blocked by their own military convoys. The only escape route left was inland, over the mountains. And so they headed up the hills, along the countless paths and dirt roads. Many were directed to the funicular—that ostensibly superfluous relic from the days of emperors and archbishops—to flee their burning city.
Andrej wielded the hook used to pry open the lids to the water reservoir to keep the human stream in check. The elderly and the infirm had priority; the rest had to take the zigzagging path up the hill. He made an exception only for families with more than two children, for people he knew personally, and armed men from the civil militia. This was his hour of glory, and it was as though he had been preparing for it all along, ever since he’d started opening letters to separate the good from the bad.
“Back up!” he warned, pointing with the hook. “You lot can go, you others can’t. The car is nearly full. Get in, Mr. Schmitz!”
But old Schmitz refused. “Give me that hook, boy, and get the car up the hill. I’ll take over for you here.”
“You, then,” he said to a pregnant woman. He got in, released the brakes, and the overcrowded car began its slow ascent. Every so often Andrej took his hands from the controls to press down his too-small cap. There were things going on in the blue-gray sky that he couldn’t put his finger on, like fleeting strips of light and clusters of small gray clouds that appeared and then vanished.
The hill crept by slower than ever, and the heroes’ monument seemed to hide obstinately behind its crest. The wheels slipped and at the passing loop he was afraid for a moment that the car would grind to a halt when they met friction at the switch. Had he overloaded the car? That wouldn’t have happened to that bastard Josip Tudjman.
He did not see any rabbits, and the crowd behind him in the car grumbled and groused and vexed him with demands of whether there was further transportation at the top—how should he know?—instead of being ashamed for subjecting the old cable car to such a heavy burden.
He looked back and saw a man with the same cap as his fight his way up the path through the procession of evacuees. It was Tudjman, apparently planning to assist because he knew two men were needed to keep the cars running continuously.
Andrej reckoned he would reach the top much sooner than Tudjman and would have enough time to refill the water tanks and start the descent so as not to meet him face-to-face. Tudjman, with that cap he had no business wearing anymore. If he had turned it in, then Andrej, as the official operator of the funicular, would have had a more dignified headpiece.
He followed the cap, which came nearer with every twist in the path. This was his moment of glory, he was the savior of his people, and Tudjman was the last thing he needed right now. This man, who had once felt like a father to him but was now history—he would have nothing more to do with him. What’s more, when he reached the lower station, he would refuse to let Ljubica and Katarina, whom he had spotted waiting in line, board. If they wanted to survive, they would have to take the path. Just like Marshal Tito, he had cut every sentimental link with the past. Schmitz would not give them a break, either, he knew that for sure; Schmitz had every reason to hate Tudjman, and he was moreover of the opinion that the weak should be eliminated. He could count on Papa Schmitz.
At that moment, a barrage of mortar shells hit the hillside, as though an orchard of gray trees was being instantly planted. The car reached the platform, and Andrej engaged the brakes. While the passengers crowded their way up the steps of the monument, he connected the hose and began filling the tank. The water gurgled and sputtered, and this meant survival for countless fellow citizens. He would not seek refuge himself, he would write history.
Just as Josip reached the final steep stretch, Andrej set the car back in motion. Its descent was very slow, meaning too many people were probably crammed into the other car. But this did not matter as long as the cable cars were kept in motion. With his feet spread, Andrej stood at his post, alone, and made the occasional encouraging gesture to the masses climbing up the path. Most either did not respond or shook their fist at him, angry that they had not been allowed on. This did not faze him; he was above it. And who in their right mind dragged a baby carriage—or even, as he had also seen, a television—when running for their life. As he descended toward the burning city and mortar blasts created pillars of dust to his left and his right, Andrej felt as calm and cool as a bomber in an American war movie flying through the salvos straight at his target. He was too young to have any notion of death, unlike Josip, who leaned, exhausted from the climb, his heart pounding, against the bronze boot of
a hero, where for decades he had eaten his lunch. Josip watched the town, his town, burn and knew it would never recover, at least not during his lifetime. He gasped for breath, and panicking that he might have a heart attack, he tore open his shirt, making the buttons pop. Dying now wouldn’t do—he needed to refill the ballast in the next car when it got to the top. Sweat streamed down his body, even his trousers and underwear were wet. He hoisted himself back up. In the distance he saw the exodus branch out over the paths along the reservoir, heading for safety inland, and to the road that might take them to Bosnia. The view was much improved, because a couple of the bronze heroes had been blown off the pedestal.
Andrej had taken out his camera and focused the telephoto lens on the approaching car. It was still quite a ways off, but he could see that it was filled to overflowing: heads, shoulders, and arms stuck out of the lowered windows, people were perched on the running boards or hung on to the outer handrails, and some were even lying or sitting on the roof. It was like a piece of fruit being attacked by a swarm of insects. His photos would document his role in the evacuation.
But that came differently than expected. The arc of a Serbian projectile and the path of the descending car intersected at the moment that he depressed the shutter button.
Josip saw the explosion, and how the cars came to a standstill, just short of halfway; and how they slowly retreated while the ballast from the sprung water tank cascaded down the hill over the rail ties. Even from this distance he could hear the fading shouts and cries of the passengers as they were transported back to the lower station. The other car approached, but he did not see Andrej at the control panel. Through the gaping holes of the window frames he only saw what was beyond it: grassland and smoke.
Josip ran across the platform, yanked open the door of the moving car, and climbed in to prevent it from slamming against the bumpers, but he was too late.
Andrej’s body slid across the wood-slat floor and under the front bench.
Josip crouched, grasped Andrej’s ankles, and pulled him carefully out from under it.
It did not look good. Andrej’s chest was blown completely open. His eyes were half-shut and he was conscious, but Josip knew that, unlike with the collision at the bus stop, this time there was no hope. He sat down on the floor and lifted Andrej’s head and shoulders slightly.
“Stay calm,” he said. “I’ll get you across the mountains, to a good hospital.”
They started moving again, almost imperceptibly. He looked up and just saw the eaves of the roof as they disappeared from sight. The passengers down in the lower station had disembarked, naturally, and his weight, together with Andrej’s, was just enough to set them in motion. Their car descended back toward the town; hesitantly, though, and it would not take much for it to stop again. But Josip did nothing; he stayed on the wooden floor with Andrej in his arms.
Andrej opened his lips, accompanied by a strange smacking sound, like a kiss.
“You okay?” Josip asked.
He could not understand the answer.
“What did you say?”
“I’m all right,” Andrej whispered.
“Hang on, lad. Only the good die young.”
Groping its way along like an invalid, their car turned onto the passing loop as the ascending car approached. Through their shattered windows, Josip saw shattered windows pass.
“Are they in there?” Andrej asked.
“Who?”
“Ljubica and Katarina.”
“I hope so, but I can’t see for sure.”
Andrej grimaced. It was not clear if it was an expression of pain or mirth.
“I … did … my best,” he managed to say.
“I know you did. Calm now, we’re almost there. Pain?”
“No, thank you, I have … ha ha … enough already.”
Was it courage or delirium that made him crack a joke? Josip could see from the treetops that they were approaching the base station. They were going so slowly that it was as if they were floating. He wanted time, more time. He had no idea what to do with Andrej once they reached the bottom. When he took his hands out from under Andrej’s armpits, he saw they were red with blood. He looked up and tried to fix his gaze on something, but could find nothing better than the slivers of glass sticking out of the varnished window frames. Suddenly he had the sensation that his life was slipping away, not Andrej’s.
The car came to a halt. The other car must have either derailed or got stuck.
Josip carefully freed himself and stood up. He peered through a window down the hill. This was not a good place to get out, as the incline under the running board was narrow and steep.
“Andrej,” he said, in a businesslike tone, “we have to leave the car. I’ll carry you out. Do you think you can manage?”
Andrej drew a deep breath and mumbled something; a new crater of blood welled up.
“What’s that? Heaven? No, not by a long shot. In fact, we were on our way down. I’m going to open a door and lift you out.”
But when he had placed Andrej at the threshold of the door and climbed out onto the gravel, the floor ledge reached his chin. It was far too high.
“I’ll go get help,” he said. “Don’t you want to lie down in the meantime?”
But Andrej made no move to do so. He remained seated, his large hands on either side of his thighs, his enormous feet dangling out of the car, and stared in amazement at the ruined, smoldering town. He was as grotesquely red as a clown.
Josip laid a hand on a shoe.
“Listen.”
Andrej now looked at him like a contrary child whose parents demanded he look away from the television to answer a question.
“I have something to confess to you. Do you hear me?”
Andrej felt fine; despite the joke he had made, he had no pain, only a numb sensation, and he heard the occasional something, and what he saw was perhaps not quite what it was supposed to be, as though he were drunk. And looking at the thick stream of blood running down his trousers he thought that if a person had to run dry, it was good that it came from the chest. He wondered what Josip’s face was doing down there.
“I wish to confess,” Tudjman said.
Andrej did not understand everything but felt it was only polite to show interest when someone paid you a sickbed visit. He still regretted not remembering the flowers that old Schmitz had brought for him.
“Speak,” he said solemnly. Maybe he could become pope; that was even better than midfielder or war hero.
Tudjman said he was sorry for something, but Andrej was distracted by some women who came walking up the path. Three beautiful young women, the first of whom was a bleached blonde. Strange that he had never seen them before.
Tudjman said he had always tried to do the right thing, but that a person, after all, was weak at heart. That may well be, Andrej thought, but what’s it got to do with me?
“It was me, Andrej,” he heard Tudjman say. “I’m the one who blackmailed you all that time.”
That was really funny, because as far as he knew, it was the other way around. But maybe he was mistaken; it was like when you totally missed the point of a movie, but you didn’t say so and agreed with everyone that it was a good film.
“Why, why?” Andrej asked, and gazed intently as a small group of rabbits hopped down the hill. Suddenly they stopped in a cloud of dust that rose along with a large column of smoke above the lower station, and then they turned and darted back up the hill. He wondered if there was such a thing as a rabbit racetrack.
The three women glanced back, knotted their head scarves under their chins and continued up the hill. Maybe one of them was the woman of his dreams, he thought, and he wanted to wave or call to her, but then he thought: maybe they want nothing to do with me.
“Because I needed money. That’s no excuse and I’m sorry, I regret it more than anything I’ve ever done.” Josip began talking faster and faster because he saw the life drain out of Andrej’s face. “You didn’t dese
rve it. You’re a better man than me. I told Jana all about you and she—”
“Who?”
“My lover. The woman in Zagreb.”
The one with the white hat and the nylon stockings, Andrej remembered.
“Yes, I was a good boy,” he said dreamily.
Josip removed his cap, took Andrej’s right hand, and laid it on his head.
“Can you forgive me?”
“I forgive you,” Andrej said, “in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.”
PART 5
They rode to the top of the mountain in a matter of minutes. The century-old carriage was in excellent condition; every wooden seat slat glistened with varnish, the windows were squeaky clean, the brass hardware gleamed. They ascended noiselessly and left the city ever farther behind them.
The carriages carried out their ritual—approach, diverge, pass, and continue—with languid elegance. The conductor was a young woman with blonde curls.
“I know what you’re thinking, Josip,” Jana laughed and placed a hand on his arm. “Don’t look so peevish—these are modern times. Why shouldn’t a woman be able to run a cable car?”
“Funicular,” he corrected her.
“Yes, of course. Say, aren’t you awfully warm? It does suit you, though, that new loden coat. Very German.”
Josip unbuttoned the coat and shook his now completely bald head. “Very German? You do know how to rile me!”
“Now, with that white mustache of yours …”
“Me, a German!”
“Ach, honeypie, don’t act so insulted. You do need a bit of ribbing sometimes. I know you, don’t I?”
“Tomorrow,” Josip replied. “Tomorrow we’ll have been together for fifteen years.”
She laid her head on his shoulder. “Yes. It was such a wonderful idea of yours, Josip, this trip.”
“Then you really shouldn’t tease me.”
“You’re such a big, strong man—you can take it, can’t you?”
The Pelican Page 14
