Does it have a visa for Višegrad?
Walrus stopped and looked around. We'd reached Liberation Square. This was where Maestro Stankovski had his barbershop. Zoran was nowhere to be seen. Walrus put the bags down and gave me a hug. How brave are you, Aleksandar? he asked seriously.
I lose my head rather easily, I said, but that's when I notice things best.
Just hark at him talking, said Milica, but this time she said it in a firmer voice.
You'll manage. Walrus stroked both sides of his mustache and went up to the road junction. Cars stopped, no one hooted. He climbed up on the hood of a red Mercedes, made his hands into a trumpet around his mouth and shouted: Višegrad! Hey, I'm back, with the war hard on my heels! Višegrad! he shouted, Višegrad, Walrus is back! Zoran! he shouted, here's your father. Zoran! The war is hard on my heels, but we're a family and no one can harm us!
First some came, then others, the first of them wondering how they really felt about synagogues, they salted cucumbers and ate breakfast on the Torah shrine and they gathered to discuss the situation in the shtiebel, they couldn't make up their minds, then they moved on and the hard winter came, everything froze, the blood in my veins and the tears on my face, because when the others came they didn't wonder about anything; they pushed me over in the snow so that they could go about their work in peace; let's get at the books first, one of them shouted, and then burn down the rest; the priests heard that, they went on their knees to the soldiers, fat-bellied priests with girls' eyes lovingly caressed the soldiers' boots, they prayed and begged for mercy for the building and the books and me, but the soldiers had longer beards than the priests, very well, said the drunkest soldier among them, we won't burn anything, we'll take it all out on the lake; the priests thanked them and you could hear the organ playing music in their church, the bass went down low while the synagogue was gutted, they carted everything out onto the frozen lake, the Torah scrolls, my tefillin, my kippah, the Talmud, the old, old books, and when the synagogue was as empty as their hearts they dragged me over the snow and ice by my legs and tied me to the Torah shrine in the middle of the lake, don't you worry, Jew, spring will come soon, they laughed, and they called to me from the bank to make sure that I could see every girl before they flung her into the synagogue, so that I'd have seen her alive before they brought her out to me, dead, hours or days later; we'll spend the winter here, they sang, they slaughtered pigs in front of the bimah, they posted guards by the lake so that I couldn't escape and so that they'd be told when the ice began to give way; the priests fed me with bread, they cleaned me up, it grew warmer every day, the snow melted, the full moon was never redder at Pesach, I could see the flowers coming up on the bank, and I heard the thin ice creak under the priests' quick footsteps; the soldiers didn't want to move on until I and the sacred objects had sunk, the war wasn't going to run away from them; the sun came and went, the ice held, and the soldiers, getting impatient, threatened my neck with their knives, but they threatened from the bank because they didn't trust themselves on the ice anymore; the youngest of them, wanting to prove himself, had to be rescued, he went in right beside the bank, and I knew: this ice will hold out through the summer if it has to, hunger will kill me before the lake does, for I believe with all the faith in me that the Creator, praise be to his name, does good to all who obey his commandments and evil to all who break them; they shot at me a few times and hit the shrine, I remembered the priests in my prayers to the very last when I fell asleep with no strength left, I was only skin and bone, as light as a song in the morning; the priests woke me, Rabbi Avram, they've gone! they cried happily across the ice, Rabbi Avram? they cried in alarm, because I didn't move; but I stood up, the ropes had worked loose long ago, I walked over the ice on my shaking legs, hunger guided them, I thought of nothing but food, of chewing and tasting it, surely the priests will be able to find something kosher in a hurry, I thought, I was thinking of food and not the Torah scrolls, not the Talmud, not the venerable old books, I brought nothing with me, I went over the lake empty-handed, and the ice broke in the tracks behind me, as if my weight were stepping on it just a little late; I didn't turn around, and when the priests helped me up onto the bank the holes left by my footsteps joined into a single mighty crack in the ice, there was a deafening crash, and now more and more cracks began to split the ice, all running into each other and meeting in the middle of the lake, under the Torah shrine, which disappeared first, only seconds before everything else sank into the depths, I saved nothing, it was all gone: my name, my dignity, my breath for saying long sentences, my self-respect, my confidence, but as the priests gave me water I knew one thing, I knew that the whole world is only a very short bridge, and we need have no fear of the depths below it.
What we play in the cellar, what peastaste like, why silence bares its fangs,who has the right sort of name, what a bridge will bear, why Asija cries, how Asija smiles
The mothers have only just called us, in a whisper, to come for supper when soldiers storm the building, asking what's on the menu; they sit down with us at the plywood tables in the cellar. They bring their own spoons, they wear gloves without fingertips. The soldiers insist on joining us, just as they insist on knowing everyone's names, they insist on shooting at the ceiling, they insist on pushing Čika Hasan and Čika Sead downstairs to the cellar and taking them over to someone who wears a headband. But he dunks bread in the pea soup, saying: we needn't insist on that just now. Come quick and sit down, soldiers, supper will get cold, was not what the mothers called. There isn't any room for rucksacks and guns and helmets on the little tables, but Zoran and I are more than ready to make way for the Kalashnikov. What are your names? We have good names, that's why we can wear helmets. I don't know how a helmet can smell of pea soup.
Before the soldiers arrived everything was the way it had been all the time recently. I wasn't allowed out of the cellar after nine-thirty, I wasn't allowed to pull Marija's braids, but I pulled them all the same. I had to eat peas although these peas tasted of beans. And at nine-thirty on the dot this morning, the same as every morning over the last nine days, the noise began. Heavy guns, people said, nodding, and they named them by their letters and numbers, VS128, T84. Čika Sead and Čika Hasan argued about which letter and number was shooting where, and whether it had scored a hit. In theory, they said. When the department store opposite was hit they said: in practice, and laughed. Čika Sead and Či ka Hasan are widowers, both pensioners, always arguing, always laying bets, you seldom see one without the other but you never see the two of them sharing an opinion. The sound of the heavy guns, said Čika Hasan this morning, is coming from Panos; no, said Čika Sead, polishing his glasses with a small cloth, the guns are stationed on Lower Lijeska.
We children like the term “artillery” better than “heavy guns.” Edin is best at imitating the sound of the artillery scoring a hit and the machine guns yapping. That's why every team always wants him when we play at artillery in the cellar. Three against three, no bombs allowed, no, Marija, you can't join in, prisoners can be tickled, unlimited ammunition, it's an armistice at the way out to the stairwell. When Edin goes ta-ta-ta-ta-ta he purses his lips and shakes like crazy! The side that has Edin on it nearly always wins. No wonder, what with the salvos he fires and the way he shakes about.
There was a skirmish this afternoon too, even Zoran joined in, as commander, of course. Edin was on the other side. Before the first shot was fired the two teams usually ran off in opposite directions to hide in dark corners of the cellar and lie in wait: who's going to leave his position first and storm into the attack? Sometimes no one stormed into the attack, and it got boring—we'd begin playing marbles and forget that there was a war on. Easy prey for the enemy if he happens to overrun you when your only weapon is a small glass globe held between thumb and forefinger, although mine has a quadruple spiral inside it.
Today we secretly followed the others instead of hiding. They barricaded themselves behind two tubs of sauerkraut and
a rusty old bedstead. Zoran peered around the corner, and Nešo took his Winchester repeating rifle off his shoulder. That Winchester won't do, we'd told Nešo about a hundred times: an old thing like that is out of place here with its engraved bison and its twelve shots. He might as well bring a bow and arrow, we told him. I shoot more accurately with this, he said. He didn't shoot accurately at all, he just looked peculiar. Before he went to bed in the evening and after he got up in the morning his mother stuck his jug ears to his head with heavy-duty parcel tape. The gray strips of sticky tape always reminded us to tease him, I've no idea what she had against big ears.
Zoran waved at us to come on. Edin and his two companions, Enver and Safet, the watchmaker's sons who always arrived late, were crouching down with their backs to us, drawing women's breasts on the sauerkraut tubs. Zoran put his finger to his lips and went ahead, ducking low, me after him, clutching my gun firmly. It wasn't a quiet approach, I stepped on some pebbles, they made a grinding sound on the rough cellar floor, little explosions, I thought, then Zoran stormed forward. Hurrrraaah! I called, raising my gun. Surprised and alarmed, the defenders retreated before us, groping for their weapons, only Edin stood his ground, turned his head to me, dropped his chalk and raised his machine gun. Before he could purse his lips and begin shaking, I flung myself on him. Did he jump aside? Did he duck? Was he trying to avoid me? I don't know, I couldn't see. We fell to the ground and rolled about together. I shot him in the side, bang bang, you're dead, I shouted, trrrr, trrr, trrr! He said: hang on a minute, I'm bleeding, stood up, put his cupped hand under his nose as if to drink from it, and showed me the blood in the hollow of his hand. It's bleeding, he said, your knee caught me. The blood was running around his mouth and onto his sleeve. How much blood is there in a nose? he asked, and I said: enough to fill four liter bottles.
Nešo looked at his Winchester and shook his head: wow, won't I be glad when we can get out of here and kick a ball about—the mechanism's jammed again.
When Edin's mother saw the blood she put her hand in front of her mouth, opened her eyes wide, and dived headlong at her son. Tip your head back, what happened?
Aleks's . . . knee . . . murmured Edin.
Knee! she cried, grabbing Edin by the ear, as if his ear had started the nosebleed, not my knee. She hauled him to the stairs with her, but turned in the doorway as if she'd forgotten something, and so she had—me. It was no use Edin saying it was unintentional, her fury was now directed at my ear too, and she shook me by it until it made a cracking sound.
Soldiers shot the men in the stomach. They fell over forward, like when you get hit there in volleyball—just like that. I saw it from the upstairs window, Edin fantasized when he came back. He was whispering and holding a towel to his nose. I didn't believe a word he said, but I didn't say anything, and anyway, what soldiers? Čika Aziz, the only man with a gun anywhere nearby, was playing Ghostbusters on his C64 console at that moment with his mouth wide open, the neighbors were watching him and smoking, and Walrus told him, sounding bored: you've flattened them good and proper, my turn now.
I was planning to show Edin what I thought of his fairy-tale soldiers, but not until his nose had stopped bleeding and his mother wasn't around anymore. Edin folded up the towel and showed me how much blood he'd lost. It was a lot, maybe enough for two liter bottles, but I knew you could grow more blood. Edin's mother shook her head. She put her hands on her hips and paced up and down in front of me. She was jingling all over. All that jewelry. She frowned, and wagged her forefinger in front of my nose. Her bracelets jangled vigorously. Just you wait! she said through her teeth. But I wasn't ashamed of my knee and I wasn't afraid of her—Edin and I had made it up by now. Just you wait! I waited, and soon she jingled away to join the other mothers and the pans on the stove.
The peas were simmering away on the thank-God-we-still-have-power. Less and less light was falling through the ventilation grille. You could hear occasional shots, now and then a salvo, then silence, then a distant explosion, then rattling again. The noise came from the streets; it wasn't coming from the hills anymore. Around seven it was so calm outside that our mothers warned us, keep-quiet-now-keep-quiet! although we weren't saying anything at all. It was all just as usual, except that the silence seemed to weigh down louder. Why was everyone listening to the silence?
The silence is baring its fangs, whispered Walrus. He usually said that about the sun in April when it shines without warming you. Even when the mothers called: Suppertime! it sounded as if they were whispering.
The grandfathers put their heads together over a little transistor radio. I wished Grandpa Slavko was among them. What would he say now that everything had turned to untold silence? It was a long time since there'd been any music on the radio, it was now all talk. At that moment someone with a hoarse voice was saying that our troops were withdrawing from their positions in order to regroup. In silence, the grandfathers propped their elbows on their knees and their heads on their hands. Everyone was feverishly following our troops and their positions, even though no one knew exactly who these troops of ours were, and what kind of important positions had to be abandoned. Only when the hoarse voice on the radio mentioned a town with exactly the same name as ours did everyone know something. Even I knew a little—the hoarse voice said “Višegrad” like something you wouldn't be safe from wherever you hid. So this was the knowledge baring its fangs in the silence. I arranged the marbles from my pockets side by side on the floor, running from light to dark, then trod on them. Every single marble had to crunch.
The mothers told us what else we should know. Drink only boiled water, be in the cellar from nine-thirty onward, don't go breaking Čika Aziz's C64 records when he's got his gun around. When the hoarse voice on the radio said Višegrad, and I wondered: how can a town fall, wouldn't there have to be an earthquake? even the mothers didn't know what to do. They salted the peas and stirred the pan.
Outside, a wedding party broke the silence, hooting horns. Zoran, Edin and I slipped out of the cellar—first into the stairway, for a cautious look out the window, then into the yard, then into the street. No one stopped us, but we could already hear the mothers calling behind us. What was all this about? Bearded bridegrooms in camouflage jackets and training-suit trousers drove past. Cross-country vehicles hooted, heavy trucks hooted. An army of bearded bridegrooms drove by, shooting at the sky to celebrate taking their bride, our town. Bridegrooms on the roofs and hoods of the vehicles swayed in time to the potholes in the roads that they'd made themselves from nine-thirty in the morning onward, every day for nine whole days. They shielded their eyes with their hands; they squinted out from under them, avoiding the setting sun. Legs in green and brown hung out of the backs of trailers, dangling like decorations.
The first tanks chugged up the street. Their tracks scored white grooves in the asphalt and turned concrete to gravel where they drove over the pavement. There was no holding us now: who oils those, then, why do they squeal like that? I shouted, and we were running toward the tanks—we could run faster than anyone! The mothers held on to their long skirts and wailed after us, we were running so fast toward the tanks. Who's driving them, then, what does the steering wheel look like, can we come too? Clattering past the gardens, clattering past the yards where there are suitcases standing ready and people desperately cramming them into car trunks and stacking them on car roofs. What a whimpering and trilling sound there was under those metal fists, forefingers outstretched! Even the bridge sagged under those toothed gearwheels; the arches of the bridge will break, Granny Katarina's china is nothing to that. We stopped in the little park by the bridge where the statue of Ivo Andric used to stand before it was torn down. We wanted to hear how loud the bridge would sound when it broke.
The mothers raced up to us, mine gave me a slap in the face, and she really meant it. She knew I'd have followed the tanks right over to the other side. The slap was still making my head ring, like the tiled roofs vibrating as the tanks passed. I put my hand
to my cheek and listened to the steel centipedes grating the street into dust.
The bridge held.
Our mothers dragged us back to the cellar, Edin by his ear, me by my sleeve.
Asija, my Asija, hadn't run after the vehicles with us. She was sitting on the bottom step of the stairs where you go when you've run out of ammunition. That's in the rules of the game: the way out to the stairs means an armistice. I sat down beside her, rubbed my smarting cheek, she rubbed her eyes. I said: gun barrels. I said: camouflage colors. I said: faster than Edin. Asija got up and ran up the stairs, crying.
Asija had cried once before, two days ago. She had cried until she fell asleep with her hand in mine. Asija's Uncle Ibrahim had been shot when he went to shave in Čika Hasan's bathroom and moved his head close to the mirror. He was shot in the neck through the little bathroom window, and his chin was grazed too. And I could hear it through the door, Čika Hasan told the others, Ibrahim struggled for air for minutes on end, fought for air as if he were trying to take a never-ending breath and tell us about all the things that lie ahead. But I didn't have any air to give Ibrahim, said Čika Hasan, lowering his voice, and he climbed down to death without beginning his story. Či ka Hasan showed us how he'd raised his hands, because everyone else was just standing around Ibrahim, and Hasan told us how he'd closed Ibrahim's eyes, because there was blood everywhere sticking to Ibrahim's head and the tiles and the mirror. Blood everywhere, he said—blood the color of cherries everywhere, that's how I imagined it dripping off the fingers that had been digging into Ibrahim's throat so that he could get some air.
I would have run straight after Asija if the mothers hadn't called us to supper for the second time, and if there hadn't been the sound of breaking glass in the stairwell, and all the silence vanished because of the shots and shouting and cursing. Asija is crying because soldiers' fists smell of iron, never of soap. Because the soldiers' guns are hanging around their necks, and doors give way when they kick them in as if there were no locks on them at all. Asija is crying because that's the way soldiers kicked in the doors in her village too, she's crying, and she'll be hiding in the storeroom where we chase mice, where there's dust on the glass cases, and bikes stand about getting rusty. I'll go and find my Asija there any moment now.
How the Soldier Repairs the Gramophone Page 10
