“Who are you?” asks the man in a quiet voice. His voice is deep, just above the silence.
“Josip.”
The man smiles—a gentle smile. His eyes are smiling too. “You are Josip.”
“I am Josip”, he replies, as if this confirmation has been too long overdue. His aunt began the process, and now this man completes it with an authority the boy did not realize existed anymore in the world.
“Yes, you are Josip. And where have you come from, Josip?”
“From the fields of heaven.”
“This I have already seen.”
“Where have you come from, sir?”
“From the sea.”
“Upon the waves?”
“Yes,” nods the man, “and from beneath the waves also.”
“Will you return there?”
“I will.”
“When will you go?”
“When the wind takes me.”
“Then it is you!”
“Yes, it is me.”
“You are the swallow who once landed in my hands.” A look of curiosity fills the man’s eyes.
“It is you who have landed in my hands”, he says, raising his stumps.
Though Josip understands that the other is speaking with humor, he knows also that it is true.
“Though there is no holding and keeping”, the man adds. “I may fly as I will?”
“You may fly as you will.”
“This is the way of the lastavice. It is the way we must be.”
“Yes, Josip, it is the way we must be.”
“Why did you come to me?”
“It is you who came to me.”
“But you came to me beside the sea, that day. When we first met on the beach of white stones, by the cliff where the lastavice live.”
The man says nothing. His smile has returned, and he continues to gaze at the boy curiously. “Do you not remember?”
“I remember”, says the man. “I did not want you to fly away.”
“But we all must fly away.”
“Why must we?”
Now the man’s face saddens.
“It is the way of the lastavice. You know this.”
“Because this is not our home?”
“Yes, because this is not our home.”
For some time they say no more, simply regard each other without discomfort.
The man is the first to resume: “You are from the mountains.”
Josip nods. He does not want to think about the mountains, back there—all that is behind him.
“When I was your age, I would go out to sea with my father. I loved the sea, though many drown in her. I loved her, and still to this day I love her. Often did I stand on the prow of our boat and look east toward the white peaks of the Dinarics.”
“Did you go there?”
“Never have I been there.”
“Yet, here you are, in the mountains.”
“No, I am standing on the prow of a boat. I am upon the sea.”
Now it is Josip’s turn to fall silent. He does not understand what the man has said, but knows it must be true.
“I am not upon the sea”, he whispers, hoping this will prompt an explanation.
“You are upon the sea, Josip”, replies the man.
“Are we not in Sarajevo?”
“Sarajevo, too, is within the sea. Though these hills are waves, they are not the highest.” Another long silence follows. “What is the highest?” asks the boy.
“The highest is within you. It is a country of mountains and valleys, the beds of alpine glens, the crevasse and its fall from which there is no return, and the summit from which one does not wish to return.”
“Is that where you are?”
“No, I am upon the sea, as I said.”
“I do not understand you.”
“It is not necessary to understand me.”
“Why is it not necessary?”
“Because you will remember my words, and when you have grown old you will understand them.”
“Will I grow old? I do not want to. I would fly away.”
“You must not fly away before the appointed time.”
“How will I know it is the right time?”
“How do you know when to be a lastavica?”
Josip shakes his head; he does not understand.
“You will know when it is time for you to know”, the man adds. He closes his eyes. He is fatigued with the effort of speaking.
“Will you bring me water?” he asks.
Josip goes out to the hallway and searches along it for a source of water. He finds a barrel with a dipper hanging at its side. He fills the dipper and returns to the man of the sea. The eyes of the man thank him, as Josip tips the dipper and lets the water pour slowly into the open mouth.
“I must sleep now”, says the man to the boy. Josip nods and goes away.
The next morning, the doctor wakes Josip, says that he is recovering well, informs him that tomorrow he will go home. This news prompts the return of dread; and after the doctor leaves, he looks along the row of mattresses, hoping that the man of the sea is still there. He is there. He is sitting up, back to the wall, observing the bar of light on the opposite wall. Josip goes to him. The man smiles and says:
“You did not fly away.”
“I did not fly away.”
The dread recedes, almost all of it. In this presence, there is little fear, and within seconds none remains. “Did you sleep, Josip?”
“Yes.”
“You are no longer very ill.”
“Soon I will leave here. Then we will not speak together.”
“We will speak together, always.”
“Who are you?”
The man thinks about the question a moment before replying.
“I would like to tell you my name. Yet I would also prefer not to tell you my name.”
“Why?”
“Because then you will remember what is important. This way of knowing will remain open to you if you do not know everything.”
“I do not understand.”
“In time, you will understand.”
“Can you not tell me your name?”
“I can tell you my name, and I will tell you if you choose it. But I ask you to choose a higher way.”
“Why is it higher?”
The man lifts his arms—the stumps performing their task instinctively.
“It is higher because it will take you upward.”
“To where the lastavice fly?”
“Yes.”
“You do not have to tell me your name. You have already done so.”
“I have already done so? Tell me, Josip, what is my name?”
“You are the Lastavica of the Sea. I am the Lastavica of the Mountains.”
“Yes, you have understood. But you are more: you are the Lastavica of the Fields of Heaven.”
Later that evening, he returns to the man of the sea and sits on the end of the mattress. He feels the sadness of impending departure. Though their eyes greet one another, for a time they say nothing.
“You wish to ask me something”, says the man at last. Josip nods.
“But you are shy to ask it?”
“Yes.”
“You need not feel shy. You may ask.”
“What will you do without arms?”
“The lastavice do not have arms. We have wings.”
“Did you lose them in the war?”
“I lost them in a war, but not the war you think of.”
“In which war did you lose them?”
“The war that will last until the end of time.”
“Will I see you again?”
“That is for the wind to decide.”
“I hope we will meet again.”
“I too hope for this.”
“Do you have a family?”
“Yes.” For the first time, the man’s face registers pain. He closes his eyes.
“Are you seeing them now, as you
stand on your boat.”
“I am seeing them now.”
“Are they dead?”
The man opens his eyes and looks long at Josip. “She stands with me upon the sea, though not on the land. She is above. So, too, my daughter, and so, too, my son.”
“What are their names?”
“They are forever the family of the Lastavica of the Sea. That is their names.”
“If we meet again, will you tell me their names?”
“I will tell you, if the wind decides we are to meet again.”
“What if it doesn’t?”
“It is not our task to question it.”
“I do not trust it.”
The man sits upright, leans forward, and speaks intensely: “Josip, above all things you must trust it. Trust where it will take you.”
Josip covers his face with trembling hands. “Are you afraid?” asks the man.
“Yes.”
“In your life, Josip, you will have much to fear. In time, you will come to a length of days, and wisdom, and goodness. You will suffer, and this suffering will bring much good to others.”
“I do not understand what you are saying.”
“You do not need to understand. Only remember: you will be afraid. But do not be afraid.”
“What can this mean! Tell me what it means!”
“You will be afraid. But when you are afraid, do not be afraid.”
Josip is choking back his sobs; he is no longer the Lastavica of the Fields of Heaven. He is only a boy with nowhere to go, other than a place where a wolf wants to kill him.
“Look, Josip”, says the man of the sea. “Look at the wall.”
With his one good foot he nudges Josip, pushing him gently, making him turn to face the opposite wall. The bar of light is climbing higher now.
“Do you see?”
Josip shakes his head.
“Surely you see”, says the man.
“I see the light, but the walls imprison it.”
“The light has entered the prison. Nothing can keep it out.”
“If there is no window, the light cannot enter.”
“If there is no window, the light enters within you.”
8
Eva comes for him the following afternoon. With his eyes Josip says good-bye to the Lastavica of the Sea, and the man does the same to the Lastavica of the Mountains.
Dressed in his ordinary clothes, his book under his arm, Josip walks with his aunt from the hospital to the apartment. His legs are unsteady, his head still dizzy, his eyes blinking at the too-bright sunlight, but he is no longer burning. It is only weakness. Instead of sickness, he must now deal with a growing feeling of dread.
Eva walks along beside him, an arm draped over his shoulders, ready to catch him if he falls. She is chattering, telling him disconnected things, preparing the way for reunion with the uncle.
“He has been drinking a lot lately, Josip. Soon he must report to his battalion, and he does not want to go back. But what else can he do? There aren’t many jobs yet, even if they let him go. He sleeps through the morning and goes out at night, so only in the afternoons will you be together. Do not mind if he says harsh things. He is angry with me too, sometimes, though he would not harm a mouse. He was always like that: a bit of a temper, but basically a good man. With everything he saw, all that killing, his comrades dying all around him, it has made him sad, and he does not like to talk about it. You won’t ask him questions, will you? He doesn’t like questions, because he is trying to forget.” She sighs and catches her breath. “That’s why he drinks so much. It eases his pain. He lost friends, brothers-in-arms. But he is irritable too, so don’t bother him if you can help it. Do you understand?”
Josip nods, I will be silent.
“In the afternoons, he just sits at the table and looks out the window; not that there is much to see, with the brick wall. He says we should move to another apartment soon, maybe closer to the center where there is a view of the river, after we have—”
She stops herself, glances at the boy with a worried look, then continues.
“He has spoken with the committee for the orphans, but they say there is not enough room for you, not even for a boy whose uncle is a war veteran. Soon the government is sending money for construction of a building and for staff to look after the children. But the youngest will have first place, because they are in greater need. I’m sure boys of your age will have a place with them as things improve. You’ll be happier there, with other children your age, better than our place, with two people who are very tired and have been through so much, and with never quite enough to feed us all. You’ll see, Josip, everything is going to get better, now that the bad times are over.”
Uncle is not in the apartment when they return. Josip collapses onto the mattress and goes to sleep.
It is night when he awakes. No house lights are on. He has slept for hours, and during that time the life of his aunt and uncle has continued around him. Now they are in their bedroom, talking in low voices. Josip cannot hear the words, but the tone is certain. His aunt is pleading, his uncle is growling. Josip curls his body tightly, fists clenched between his knees, ears toward the bedroom wall, eyes wide open like a forest mouse listening for a hunting owl.
Now, as voices are raised, he is able to pick out words.
“But why? He is my own flesh.”
“Your own flesh! He is another mouth to feed. We don’t have enough money!”
“We have enough money for drink, so why not enough to feed a boy who has lost everything.”
“Don’t start on me about that. The drink helps me—”
“It does not help us.”
“Who is us?”
“You know what I mean. The boy—”
“Damn that boy! Damn him! Why didn’t he die with his parents?”
Auntie is sobbing, “How can you say such things! I lost them too, my beloved sister and her family. And maybe Katarina down in Split—who knows where she is?”
“Belgrade is going to do something about those nuns and priests. They’re all parasites!”
Sobbing and shouting, squeaking springs, feet stomping back and forth on the floor. Neighbors pounding on the walls.
“He’s going”, uncle roars. “One way or another he is going!”
“What do you mean by that! We can’t just throw him out into the streets.”
“Why not! Take a look at the streets. Kids like him are everywhere.”
“And why, why if the new order is a better way, are there so many kids like that?”
“Be careful—watch your mouth”, says uncle in a lower voice. “Don’t bring trouble on us.”
A sob, a sniffle, a nose blowing. “I won’t”, she says in a conciliatory voice. “I won’t bring trouble on us. I’m not stupid.”
“You’re not stupid, Eva, but you don’t know anything.”
“I know what I know.”
A cold laugh. “You know what you know.”
“I knew you were brave, Jure, but I didn’t know you were cruel.”
“I’ve grown up. I’ve learned a few things.”
“Have you? Tell me what you learned, then. I’d like to know.”
“You don’t want to know.”
“What do you mean? Stop sucking on that bottle and tell me what you mean.”
“Get me another bottle, and I’ll tell you what I mean.”
Squeaking-squeaking. His aunt opens the bedroom door and by the pale light filtering between the apartment blocks, Josip sees her shadow cross the window. A cupboard door opens, glass clinks, she tiptoes back into the bedroom and closes the door. She has pushed it shut, but not firmly enough because with a faint squeal of the hinges, it swings open behind her, invisible in the dark.
A cork pops and rolls onto the floor. Silence for a minute or two.
“You don’t know what I’ve seen”, says the uncle. It is his quietest level of speaking, but because the door is open, the words are audible to the
boy on the mattress, no more than a meter or two away from the mouth of the speaker.
“You should tell me, Jure. There should be no secrets between husband and wife.”
Another cold laugh.
“Tell me.”
“All right, I will tell you”, he says in the bitterest of tones, slurring his words a little. “But you will not thank me for telling you. You will say there should be secrets a man does not tell his woman.”
“I am your wife, not your woman”
Jure laughs again.
“Maybe not for long—after I tell you.”
She does not reply. Then the uncle speaks:
“We were in the south, east, everywhere, cleaning up pockets of Germans and Home-Guard. Then the chiefs in the east commanded a big push because the Germans were in trouble, losing ground. They’re tough, but we were tougher. Last October we took Belgrade, and in March Tito declared the new government of Yugoslavia. The end of Croatia was near, and the Fascists were retreating northward. In May they abandoned Zagreb and went toward Austria, a mass exodus toward the passes. We hit them from behind, and from both sides, but they were well organized, hundreds of thousands of them, maybe two hundred thousand troops and about as many civilians. Whenever we caught Ustashe bastards, we butchered them. The Home-Guard not so much—a nice clean bullet for our countrymen, out of respect for their stupidity, and because they were just dumb puppets, country boys like us, but on the wrong side. There were so many sides at first, in the early years, Partisans all the time fighting everyone—Germans, Home-Guard, Ustashe, Chetniks. Then the Chetniks joined us, and we stopped killing them and they stopped killing us. Battalions had old Partisans and new Partisans, Croats and Serbs fighting side by side.”
“You know Chetniks?” Eva interrupts.
“Many. There I was, side by side with my new comrades, the ones who only a year ago would have slit my throat. But they know where the future is. The Red Army coming down through Romania and Bulgaria, the Allies gobbling up Europe, the Reich shrinking, islands of Fascists shrinking everywhere. So, everybody gets on board with the Partisans and starts to push north. No more killing each other, the bosses told us. Just kill the Fascists, do whatever you have to do. So we did.”
Island of The World Page 16
