She was right, of course. Not only did we not go home the next day, it felt like we never would. The words housing commission had the ring of something to be uttered in a church or at a university. The president himself, who chaired the housing commission, loomed as vast as a mountain and as friendly as an uncle who’s never been near, but we all know he’s out there somewhere, and his warmth reached back into the past, before we started saying putovnica instead of pasoš, and now he warmed us like a legend. Our day would come and we, too, would be granted an apartment. Resolve the housing problem. Resolution. For other kids my age, a word having to do with New Year’s; for me it meant documents. Our Disability Resolution, our Pension Payments Resolution, our Resolution for Croatian Defender Status. The person heading the commission changed from time to time, but, as far as my mother was concerned, every functionary who held it could have had each square inch in each room of their apartment or vacation home carpeted with crocheted rosettes, if they liked.
Mama volunteered at Apel, the human rights center housed in a rented office near the Črnomerec barracks where the staff were searching for our nearest and dearest. She hoped that by being there she’d be close to those deciding our fate, just in case. She collected documents about the missing and they’d take them to the various embassies. She also worked at Uncle Grgo’s, so often she’d go off in the morning and come back late at night. Sometimes with a white sack of bulk chocolate-covered cherries, or a package of broken cookies. During school vacations she’d take me along. First we’d go to Apel. Auntie Zdenka, who was in charge there and whose brother went missing somewhere near Osijek, always offered us cookies and coffee. The coffee was brewed on a little stove in a saucepan and they’d top it up from time to time. Two other women were usually there. Rosana from Bosnia, who did her nails in red but almost always gnawed them to the quick, was something like the secretary. The other was a woman of about seventy who’d lost her whole family, and she’d kiss and hug me and invite me to sit beside her. Aside from them there were always people I hadn’t seen before; all of them were searching for somebody or something. Out of the whole morning we’d spend there, I’d be fine, no sweat, for a half hour with them in the office, meeting the new people and hearing their story, why they were crying. Then I’d start fidgeting and shooting glances at the door to the next room, which was kept dark and was filled nearly to the ceiling with boxes stuffed with documentation about the missing, imprisoned, killed. This room was thrilling for me both for all the boxes and for the computer. After I’d been fidgeting for fifteen minutes or so, Auntie Zdenka would ask, “What’s up, kid, bored?” I’d smile and just happen to glance over at the door again. “What about a little time on the computer?” “Well, sure,” I’d answer happily. “Just don’t wreck anything!” she’d call after me. “I won’t, I won’t,” I’d answer from the dark.
At school I’d already had a computer class; solitaire was my favorite game. After the packs had been cut a few times on the screen, I’d turn to the cardboard boxes and start digging through them. I went by alphabetical order, searching for familiar names, relatives, or people from my building. Sometimes I looked only for women, or boys the same age as my brother. Kids were the fewest in number on the list, but there were some. The youngest was born in May 1991 and died in November 1991. The oldest man on the list was born in 1898 and killed at the same time as the youngest. My folks were early in the alphabet, B. A., born 1953, Svib, Imotski, last seen November 18, 1991, at Vukovar General Hospital, all trace lost. He had a brother, I., and married wife A., who bore him two sons, J. 1975 and I. 1982. B. M. born in 1927, Svib, Imotski, killed on Priljevo in October. This is literally what it said. That was all that was known about my father, and there I was, the second “son”: I. 1982. They gave no details, yet details seemed necessary because not everybody had died the same way, for instance, my grandfather’s throat was slit, the baby died of an infection like lots of other kids at the Vukovar hospital because there was no longer any electric power, water, or medicine. Some people were hit by shells, and surely some died of natural causes. “So, are we off?” Mama would poke her head in at some point. “We need to get to Kvaternik Square before three. Have you made a mess in here with the papers? Please don’t, we wouldn’t want to lose anything.” Everything could be so easily misplaced. What possible chance could this mountain of loose sheets of paper in boxes have, when nobody knew where so many people were? Once Auntie Zdenka organized a meeting with all the ambassadors in Zagreb who agreed to attend, and I was there. There was talk about the association, the ways in which the embassies might help locate the missing and obtain information about them from the other side. In the middle of the room around a large oval table sat fifteen ambassadors and a few women from the association. I sat behind some of them on a chair against the wall and waited for my moment. I was fascinated by their nearly identical polished shoes. At the end of the meeting Auntie Zdenka said, “Since we’re asking for your help, we’d like to give you something in return.” I got up and approached the first ambassador, who was sitting in front of me. The man was caught by surprise and was about to stand and turn, but I put my hand on his shoulder and said, “Sit.” I was quite confident in my role and before he understood what I was doing, a gold chain with a four-leaf-clover pendant was around his neck. I smiled at him and moved on to the next. I fastened one on each ambassador, and in the end they all clapped for me and went home happy with their new gold chains. They were all impressed with me, too.
To step out of the dark, crowded, yet empty, room at Apel onto Ilica, the bustling Zagreb thoroughfare, was remarkable. The city was lovely and totally insensitive. They didn’t need us, there were enough people in Zagreb already; they felt that being from Zagreb was a matter of some prestige. We rarely took a seat on trams, especially at first, we never stopped in city parks to do whatever people do when they’re at the park. We never went to the movies or a theater, explored unfamiliar streets or discovered lovely spots. That’s not why we were here. We made the switch to salty rolls but when we said the words they sounded off, always with a twang; when we bought them the baker had a little sneer. Like it was something so enormous, not a stupid doughy roll. But say it right. The only places we knew were the small, smoky cafés at bus stations because the bus ran only four times a day and in winter we needed a place to wait. We resided at a few locations in the city: the Zagreb Vukovar office, the Apel center, Grgo’s office, and the housing commission office on Čerina Street. The street’s name, Vjekoslav Čerina, rolled off our tongues naturally, like we were speaking of an old friend, and no one ever wondered who this man actually was. The name sounded like a savage’s, and not, perhaps, a mild-mannered savage, but one who had taken scalps in war. Čerina.
A phone call for us. They called the front desk and left a message from the housing commission. Have the lady call this office so we can resolve her problem as soon as possible. We didn’t sleep that night. Even in this country, we felt, things were finally moving in the right direction. We’d battle our way forward and it still wouldn’t be easy but somebody was thinking of us and we’d be proud we’d sacrificed ourselves for a society where you don’t need friends in high places to get things done. That’s how we talked long after we’d put out the light. I was feeling a little sad about leaving because Jelena, Marina, Vesna, Ivana, and I were inseparable, and coexistence with the Piglets was finally bearable. The only thing I didn’t regret was that Damir had found himself a Miss Piggie, one of the richest in the school, though she wasn’t even pretty. I’d thought he and I might hook up. During every recess we’d watch each other and whenever he was near me he’d talk really loud and turn to see if I was watching. I did the same and kept vying for his attention. I felt I was his true and secret love though he was the one who switched girlfriends all the time at school; he was the cutest boy. Still, I was convinced that I needed burgundy Levi’s for success. But I couldn’t face asking Mama to buy them for me, knowing my brother had come unhinged a few
weeks before. I hadn’t noticed, but I’d heard Mama talking with Željka’s mother. She told her he came home from school all broken up and miserable. “He was snapping at everything and scribbling things in his notebook. He’s talking less with me, he chokes it down. I ask whether he’s dealing with problems, a girlfriend, maybe, something like that, I know I’m not Papa, but I’ll do what I can. And then he bursts into tears. He’s shaking all over. He said he’s had it with this dingy room, he can’t stand me like this and he’s ashamed because he doesn’t have the pocket money for a cola with his friends.” Then Mama began sobbing, saying she was doing all she could and she couldn’t take it anymore, and Nana and Granddad were here too and they couldn’t look after themselves, let alone give her a hand. And in the end, she cursed my father for not leaving Vukovar with us. That didn’t sound fair to me. I waited for things to quiet down a little, and then as everything was humming along with Damir I went into action. One afternoon, when I was home after school, I said, “You know the Levi’s Marina has, her 501s, all faded and just a little flared? Her aunt brought them to her from Germany.” I was immediately sorry I’d mentioned Marina’s aunt because I had an uncle in Germany, and if she thought of him, things would probably go downhill. “You want Levi’s?” Her crochet hook stopped and she shot me a sidelong glance. “Ones like that cost a hundred Deutsch marks for sure.” I looked over. My tone, heavy on the melancholy, generally produced the best results; I had nothing left to say but: “I like the burgundy ones best, but there probably aren’t any like that here.” The last thing I expected was Mama coming back from work the next evening holding a bag with “Levi’s” written on it. She came into the room cheerier than usual, which was already a gift. “I have a little something for you,” she said, grinning. I couldn’t believe it, I thought I’d burst with joy. She pulled the jeans out of the bag and it really did say Levi’s on them, but under the light in our room they were actually more cherry colored than burgundy. And when I held them up, they leaned toward carrot and were just a smidge too big. Fine, I’m still growing. Mama watched me, elated, and said, “Come on, try them on. I think they’ll be just right, I found them marked down at Varteks.” My brother’s were blue, a little weird, but still—Levi’s. “There, son, the saleslady told me the kids are snapping them up.” She was quiet for a moment, and then added, “Grgo gave me a raise.” “They’re super!” I said and kissed Mama on the cheek, even though they weren’t really. “They’re snapping them up because they’re cheap,” said my brother and put them away in the cupboard. I couldn’t wait for morning. I lay there wide awake, imagining Damir and me walking down the school corridor holding hands. I didn’t miss a detail. Of course I was wearing my Levi’s, my burgundy Converse All-Stars I brought from Italy and my new burgundy turtleneck. I really liked that color. Everything was perfect till the moment when we each had to go off to our classrooms. At that point things got a little complicated because I wanted to skip the piece with the French kissing, and I’d already seen Damir do that with each of his girlfriends. He was, after all, in the eighth grade while I was in the sixth, though some of the sixth-grade girls had already tried it. Since he obviously loved me, I felt it wouldn’t be too much to ask for us to put that off for a couple of months till we got to know each other better. By then I’d already be nearly a seventh grader and it probably wouldn’t make me quite so sick.
With these thoughts I fell asleep and in the morning everything went just as it had in my dream until I walked into school. We ran into each other straight away, and he winked at me and nodded. He was standing by the girls’ bathroom, he seemed to be waiting. Just when I was about to slow down and say hi, out came Miss Piggy and he put his arm around her neck. As if somebody had kicked me in the gut. I didn’t expect he’d do that; I was always hearing him tap on the wall between our rooms. It occurred to me now for the first time that the tapping might have been his little sister. I wanted to weep, but I lifted my head up high and on I went. Miss Piggie, horror of horrors. But she was a seventh grader and probably let everyone stick their tongue down her throat. The thought of that consoled me and I convinced myself that I was better. I decided I wouldn’t do that till I was married. It’s disgusting and besides you’re never sure if somebody loves you for who you really are.
The next day was the day of the phone call. We’d get an apartment in the nick of time, I’d have my own room and forget Damir, I hoped. Mama went off by bus at 7:00 a.m. She didn’t know when she’d be back, but she said we shouldn’t start packing without her, because we might not be going right away. I sat on the stoop out in front of the hotel and waited for the bus at 3:00 and then the one at 6:00. She came at 8:30, and we were in the room, though not in bed, because we didn’t want to receive news like that in our pajamas. She’d barely opened the door when we were all over her, “What happened, what did they tell you? When are we going?” “We’re not going anywhere,” answered Mama. My brother and I looked at each other and stopped talking, and she, instead of sitting down, dropped straight onto the bed. “There are no apartments available in Zagreb or the surrounding area. I told them I’d agree to something smaller, but they say there is nothing.” “Well then why did they call you?” growled my brother. Mama said nothing for a minute, then all in one breath she said, “They offered us a place on the island of Vis, I refused, what’s the point of going there, there’s no school, hardly a living soul, and how will I hear anything about him. And what if he turns up? If they like it so much why don’t they live there. I pleaded with them and prayed, all that matters is a roof over our heads, we have to stay nearby, I marched off to the president’s office, I waited for him all day, they said he wasn’t there and then I saw him, just let me speak to him, hear me out, nothing more. ‘What’s the rush, ma’am?’ That’s what he said to me. ‘You’ll be going back to Vukovar, we aren’t waging this war for nothing.’” She jumped up and went into the bathroom. My brother grabbed his jacket and stomped out, slamming the door. I was left alone. It’s the hardest when they turn you down the first time, afterward you get used to it, and you don’t care.
Zagreb, June 12, 1995
Dear Mr. President!!
At the outset I must tell you that I was driven to write this letter by great sorrow and sore disappointment. Believe me, I no longer know whom to turn to, so, placing my faith in your goodness, I am setting out my predicament for you.
In regard to this I would request that you find the time to read this letter to its end, because this is not just about me, and please do not hold against me any clumsiness. This is the first letter on such a subject I have written, and for a special reason.
I am the son of a Croatian defender from Vukovar who is missing in action, and I am currently housed at the CROATIAN ARMY Center (the former Political School) in Kumrovec, with my mother and sister. I wish to write to you about my pain, I have confided it to no one and I’m asking you for help because I believe you can help me. The first thing that hurts my feelings so deeply is the war profiteering in our country. Many people who until a few years ago were—and I apologize for my language—lowlifes, are now amassing a vast fortune, to the detriment of most honest, hard-working people. But, so it is. There is a saying, “One man’s curse is another man’s blessing.” However, what hits me hardest and hurts the worst, I daresay, and is crushing the lives of family members of the imprisoned and missing defenders is the impression of the almost total disinterest and the unprotective attitude of most of the Croatian government and public toward us, when we are, in my opinion, because of our legally unregulated status, the part of the population that has endured the greatest suffering. I take upon myself the right to speak in the name of the other children (though children in name only because we were forced to grow up at age fifteen, and some much younger) and ask you to help us live lives of dignity, since we were unable to experience the most wonderful years of childhood the way other children our age could. It has been difficult every evening to stay up late so we could watch Slik
om na sliku (in hopes of hearing news about our fathers), and then get up early and go off to school. After school to come back to our little room, barely nine by nine feet, finding our mother with tears in her eyes, all the life drained from her because of our father, and eating the lukewarm or even cold serving of meat (if you can even call it a serving for its size) that we were given for lunch. It was even harder because we could see Mother suffering that she couldn’t warm it up for us, but we have no stove. After lunch it was time for homework, then supper, and then back to Slikom na sliku, and so we have done day after day, year after year. There were months when we literally slept on the floor, during which time I probably contracted bronchitis. I think under circumstances such as these any child who completes their schooling without succumbing to one vice or another is a Croatian hero on a par with his father in the war zone. Most of us before the war knew nothing of poverty, but when we lost everything we understood the difference between what it means to have and what it means to have not. In those moments we were always thinking of our father and his return, while many others were focusing on the paperwork for importing merchandise, apartments, medals, and I don’t even want to think about what else. We want you to know you can find your strongest support for the prosperity of the homeland right in the segment of the population I consider myself to be a part of—the families of Croatian defenders. All this time, we have been patient and waited with love, and this for us now is very, very trying. We feel marginalized from almost everything going on in society, we feel discarded and forgotten. I was thinking about what my father would say if he knew of this. What would he say if he heard that when I asked for help, they answered, “So why did they go to war anyway?!” And, indeed, I too could ask why! But, no, I’m ready, if need be, to go tomorrow, not because I have no choice, but for the same reason my father did. He was able to choose, he was a sales clerk and would have had a job in Zagreb, but he said: now or never, just like the song, and chose to put our homeland first. I want to bring your attention to a sort of epidemic that has been hitting the families of missing defenders since the fall of Vukovar, and that is that they have regularly been taken off the Defense Department payrolls (not everyone, only the ones who have no friends in high places). That’s how we spent eight months without a single dinar, except the displaced-person allowance, which is only 100 kunas per person, and before it was even less, but still this is my homeland and I love it, and if I am able to I wish to help it when I complete my studies. I aspire to shoulder the responsibility of building our country with others my age, but how can I when we are not on a level playing field.
The Hotel Tito Page 6
