by Nicol Ljubic
“His mother disappeared when he was eight years old. At least, I think he was eight, but I don’t know exactly.”
“How do you mean, ‘disappeared’?”
“One day she was gone.”
“And later your husband’s father re-married? Is that correct?”
“Yes, that’s correct.”
He knows hardly anything about Ana’s mother because Ana spoke about her only rarely, as if her mother’s role in her upbringing had been negligible or non-existent. In a photograph he once saw, Ana’s mother could be seen a couple of paces behind her husband, apparently caught in the frame by accident. And he looked unaware of her presence as he stood there in the foreground, a dominant figure with his gaze fixed on the camera lens.
She is much smaller than him and it needs no special insight to realise that she has lived in his shadow. Perhaps she prefers to stay there; perhaps the shadows simply crept up closer and obscured her. He knows that she was the one who cared for the home and the garden. She has previously been abroad just once, when her husband was invited to Yale to lecture on revenge in Shakespearean drama. They have known each other since childhood. She is the daughter of one of his father’s cousins and, from early on, it was obvious to everyone that these two were meant for each other. The one memory of her mother that Ana told him was from the time they fled together. They made their escape quietly. Ana described them on the bus to Belgrade, how she sat by a window with her mother next to her. Nobody spoke while the engine struggled to haul the bus through the mountain passes and made the pane of her window vibrate so much that she pressed her face against it to hold it still.
He’s frightened that the courtroom door will open and Ana will come through it. A profound unease comes over him. He has to grip the armrests of his chair to prevent people from noticing how badly his hands shake.
He hasn’t seen Ana for weeks. At first he wanted to be alone, to think everything over in peace or, at least, that was what he told himself. But that wasn’t all. He felt deceived. She led two lives, one with him and one that excluded him. He found this duplicitous. She did not reciprocate his trust in her. It hurt him, he felt hard done by and hoped that she would take the first step, come to see him one day and stand outside his door, or write to him, or at least speak to him on the phone to explain everything. He was prepared to be understanding, whatever she told him. When she didn’t come, he took it to mean that she wouldn’t reveal her other life to him because she thought him unworthy of being part of it.
He searched his memory for incidents which supported these doubts of his. He remembered the drive back from the Baltic Sea, when she taught him words in Serbo-Croat: sea – more, wind – vetar, waves – talasi, sand – pesak, life – život. But not the word for “love”. And that would have been the first word to occur to him.
Or that summer’s day on the lawn in Tiergarten. Ana pulled her T-shirt up just enough to let the sun reach part of her stomach. She held out her hand and he twisted his fingers in between hers. Then she felt about for the bottle of water, found it, gently freed her hand, unscrewed the top and straightened up almost to sitting position in order to drink. She gazed down at him then. The look in her eyes is etched into his mind, so clear and deep, at odds with the absent expression on her face. Her eyes stayed on him, unrelated to the faint smile that began to hover around her lips. For him, that moment is torn out of the flow of time. Next, with her cheeks full of water, she held out the bottle for him, he took it and drank the rest in one gulp. It seemed to him that happiness flowed into his body with the water. He leapt up, stood over her and prodded her navel gently with his big toe. Her body jerked, she sat up, took his hands and burrowed her face into them. The sun had warmed her skin, and his fingertips picked up its sweaty glaze. “Do you have any idea,” he had asked, “just how happy you make me? Do you realise the joy you’ve brought me by suddenly coming into my life?” He’s still sure that her eyes filled with tears. And he believed that her tears were testimony of their love for each other. Or were they just the tearfulness of saying goodbye?
He asked if she was all right, not if she loved him. Another person’s love for him seemed such an unsettled, fragile thing, like a mobile which the slightest touch can set off in incessant, self-generated motion. He had previously been in love with a woman who blamed him because, she said, he wouldn’t leave the tender plant of love time to grow and flourish. He made love wither away. The phrase stayed in his mind; he couldn’t rid himself of it. The absurd thing was that his love for Ana felt as solid as a rock, indestructible. That was why he didn’t question her directly. He didn’t want to throw his weight around. He would say, “You know, don’t you, that I’ve never loved anyone as I love you?” And she would touch his face, running her index finger along the ridge of his nose, across his lips, then stroking his hair away from his forehead.
Perhaps he reproaches her, above all, for treating his memories of her so carelessly. He cannot let go, not even weeks later. His journey to The Hague has been nothing but a desperate attempt to understand. The prospect of seeing her father frightened him. He feared it, because out of his love for Ana he might feel protective towards a man who had led forty-two human beings to their death. He feared it, because he might betray his own moral convictions. And he also feared that he might doubt the veracity of a woman who had survived the fire and returned as a witness, only because he longed so much for Ana’s love that he would do anything to recapture it. For the same reason, he dreaded discovering evil in the man who was Ana’s father and come to detest him.
If Ana were to step inside the public gallery, look around and see him there, she would surely realise how seriously he has taken all this. How would she respond to him? And he to her? What would his first words be? Or hers? “I hoped to find you here,” she might say. And he might reply, “Ana, you were right all along, all this has nothing to do with us.”
The defence lawyer pauses, when his female colleague pushes a note across the table. He quickly reads the message and nods. Then he turns to his witness.
“Mrs Šimić, would you please describe how your husband behaved when under the influence of alcohol?”
“It was bad for him, because after a few days, he’d no longer know what he was saying. He mumbled. It didn’t really matter as long as he was with his family. He never harmed us, and he loved his daughter. It was just that drinking did him no good.”
“When you say that drinking did him no good, what exactly do you mean?”
“After two or three days he couldn’t take food any more. He was no longer aware of what he was saying.”
“Can you recall when he started drinking to excess and when the effect on him required treatment for the first time?”
“He started drinking when our son died.”
“How old was your son at the time? What were the circumstances of his death?”
“He was sixteen years old and had gone on a skiing holiday in Slovenia. A trip organised for young people. He was out skiing and had a bad fall. When they found him, he was already dead.”
Nothing worse can befall parents than the loss of a child. He wonders how Ana’s mother came to terms with her son’s death. Was she still grieving, deep inside? And how did Ana feel? He knows someone who was sixteen when his brother died. The hurt never went away and, to this day, that man feels guilty because he cannot explain why he’s alive and his younger brother dead. What about Ana? Why was it that an acquaintance could speak to him about his brother’s death and how it weighed heavily on his mind, while Ana could not bring herself to mention it at all?
He observes Ana’s mother, as if the answer might be read in her face. He tries to imagine her as a young woman, at the age Ana is now. But he fails. Life has sapped her strength, he can see that. He would like to know what her true reaction was when she learnt of her husband’s arrest. Did she have any suspicion that there might not have been a mistake? Did she secretly believe that he might be guilty? Was it even possible that she had unde
rstood him, because she realised the extent to which suffering had driven them both insane?
Soldiers from the NATO Stabilisation Force had rented the house belonging to Ana’s grandparents and built by them just before the Bosnian War. It was only about ten metres from the Šimićs’ place. Now Ana’s mother speaks of how well they got on with the French soldiers. They exchanged greetings, then became friends, she says, actually using the word – friends. When the soldiers had something to celebrate, birthdays or Christmas, she would walk across to their quarters and cook for them. She brought them tomatoes from her own garden. Her lawyer asks if the soldiers had known her husband’s name, and she replies, “Of course. They all knew who we were and everyone knew Zlatko.”
“Did any official, under whatever authority, tell your husband that he was under suspicion or that he was being investigated?”
“No, never.”
“Did your husband ever mention in your presence that he was afraid of being taken away for questioning?”
“No, never.”
After the midday break, Mr Bloom, the prosecutor, takes over. He too wants to speak about the French soldiers.
When did they leave the house of her parents-in-law, he asks. She answers that they left just after her husband was arrested.
“From the moment of your husband’s arrest, soldiers were no longer stationed in the house next door – is that correct?”
“Yes.”
Mr Bloom gives her a sidelong glance and then ostentatiously shakes his head.
“Mrs Šimić, at least at that point in time, it must surely have occurred to you that the soldiers were in your in-laws’ house for six months because they were ordered to arrest your husband and also obtain as much information as possible about your nephew Marić, who – as you know – is charged with having set fire to the building in question.”
“No, I didn’t. I truly had no idea. I only knew that they were staying in our house, but I didn’t know why they were there.”
“Previously, in connection with questions concerning your nephew, you said, ‘I’ve heard that he’s supposed to be involved in arson, but I don’t know anything about it. I wasn’t there. I haven’t seen him.’ I’d like to ask you now when you first heard that Milan Marić had been involved in acts of arson?”
“I don’t know. Stories began doing the rounds and the newspapers were on to it. My brother-in-law once showed me an article, but by then I was already living in Belgrade.”
“During this trial, we have heard other witnesses state that several houses were set on fire. So, referring to what I understand you to have said earlier, you believed that people died during the fire of which you spoke, that is, the house fire in Pionirska Street. Is that right?”
“I don’t know who died.”
“Do you believe that people died during the fire you’ve spoken about?”
“I read about it in the paper afterwards. I don’t know anything else. I wasn’t there.”
“I would like to know if you believe that people died there or not.”
“I assume they did. I’ve no idea, not really. I don’t know.”
She feels under pressure, that much is obvious, the tone of her voice has changed. It sounds dismissive, nervous and despairing at the same time. Perhaps she didn’t realise that her statement could be used against her husband. Perhaps now, in the presence of judge and prosecutor, she has become aware that appearing in court won’t help him.
He believes her. She doesn’t know if people died or not. She must have read about the deaths of the Hasanovićs; if a newspaper gives the name of a suspect, it will surely also report any fatalities. But she forgot, because she didn’t want to know. She never questioned anything. She wouldn’t have wanted to know if her husband was involved in this crime. When he was arrested, she didn’t enquire about the charge. Was that for fear that he might be guilty?
During the past weeks, he has reflected again and again on what he would have done in Ana’s place. It’s so hard to imagine one’s own father as a murderer, or an accomplice to murder. A murder that he denies any part in. Shouldn’t his son be ready to believe him? Should it be up to the son to investigate his father’s guilt or innocence? Who would insist upon a son searching for evidence against his father?
Mr Bloom keeps his eyes fixed on Ana’s mother.
“In a year, how frequent would his drinking bouts be?”
“It varied. He could often go for five or six months without alcohol, but at other times he wouldn’t last that long.”
“When he was drinking to excess, were you able to discuss things with him? Could you speak to him about matters concerning your daughter or your house?”
“Why do you ask? Of course I could. Early on when he drank hard, it wasn’t easy, but then he’d stop and everything would be normal again. So, yes, we could talk together.”
“Have you ever quarrelled with him when he was drunk?”
“No.”
“Did he ever shout at his daughter while drunk?”
“No, he’s crazy about his daughter.”
“I note that, according to you, the only problematic aspect of your husband’s drinking was that he stopped eating and lost weight. Apart from that, there seems to have been no other ill effects for his family. Have I understood you correctly?”
“Yes. Only that it was bad for him. That his health was affected.”
“Mrs Šimić, you have mentioned earlier that your husband found the sight of hurt or crippled people extremely troubling. My next question concerns his role as a host. When there was something to celebrate and you planned to serve up chicken, or perhaps lamb or pork, presumably your husband, as the man of the house, would slaughter the animal?”
“You’re right that it’s our custom to slaughter a lamb or pig on such an occasion, but Zlatko never did it. He just couldn’t make himself do it. Every time, we had to ask a neighbour. I remember that when the soldiers who lived in our house had something to celebrate and wanted grilled lamb, we asked our neighbour because Zlatko didn’t have the heart to kill a lamb or a chicken. Zlatko has never slaughtered an animal.”
“Do you know the reason why?”
“He has an aversion to that kind of thing. He doesn’t like it at all. The very thought of killing an animal is a torment for him.”
Šimić looks on impassively as he follows his wife’s performance. He sits straight-backed and soberly dressed, his hair neatly combed. Unresponsive and unemotional, just intensely attentive. In the gallery, many clearly feel ill at ease. Mrs Šimić’s last few sentences have triggered a restiveness you can’t miss: in the row in front, a man puts his head in his hands, another removes his headphones. In his row, someone’s foot is jerking and a woman leans back in her seat and closes her eyes.
The judge tells Mrs Šimić to leave the court. She looks around for someone to help her and is escorted out by one of the attendants. No doubt she meant well, but now seems to feel lost. Just before she leaves, she turns towards the defendant and tries to catch his eye. He stares fixedly into space. The judge asks for the next witness to be called.
On the way back from the Baltic coast, he decided to turn off the motorway. He wanted to show her Müritz, the great lake. For many years, it had been the place he went to when the winter in Berlin, with its constant drizzle and grim, grey buildings, made him so depressed that nothing seemed any good. He tried to remember his usual route, but roadworks forced him to follow a diversion. Then, believing that he recognised the road they were on, he almost missed a turning and had to brake sharply. Too late, he noticed the car behind him and realised that his manoeuvre had almost landed it in trouble. He waved apologetically.
They could already see Lake Müritz in the distance. He had read somewhere that the name was derived from a Slav word, morcze or “small sea”. Ana took her feet off the dashboard. Later, he would often wonder why he’d taken Ana to Müritz and only wished he hadn’t. He had simply wanted to show her a beautiful place and
decided on an impulse.
“You’ll like this,” he said and, at that very moment, there was the loud whine of a car engine closing in. He glanced in the mirror. A blue Golf with darkened windows, the car which his earlier carelessness had forced to make an emergency stop, was now hanging on his tail.
“What’s up?” Ana asked.
“Just some nutter,” he told her.
She turned round to see.
“What does he want?”
“To scare us a little. Look, he’s overtaking us now.”
In the side-mirror, he saw the car pull out. As it drew alongside, the passenger window opened and they could see two men with smooth-shaven skulls in the front seat. The Golf accelerated, got back in lane and stopped in front of them. He thought for a moment of moving out to overtake, but there was an oncoming car in the other lane. He had to stop.
“What do they want?” Ana asked and locked the doors from the inside.
Four men climbed out of the blue car, one by one. All four wore bomber jackets and rolled-up jeans over high boots. Two of them stayed by their car, one on each side, and one of them went to stand at Ana’s door.
He saw Ana’s hand grip the door handle. The man on his side of the car knocked on the window. He briefly considered putting his foot down on the accelerator, but that would have meant running over two of them.
“Step outside,” said the skinhead who had knocked on the window.
He held onto the steering wheel and stared straight ahead, trying to breathe calmly. One of the two men in front of the car used his foot to pump the bumper up and down. He drew a deep breath and reached out to open the window, but Ana cried, “No! Don’t!”
“So, what do I do?” he asked.
“Whatever you do, don’t open up.”
The guard on the driver’s side banged on the roof with the palm of his hand, once, twice and a third time, before bending to look inside their car. He stared at Ana, then at him. “Come on,” he said. “I must do something. We can’t just sit and wait.”
