Christmas, like New Year, like the Bajram feast to end Ramadan, like the Gypsy celebrations on St George’s Day, like drinking Turkish coffee or the lucky coin stuffed into baklava, godparents cutting first hair on a first birthday, April 6 their shared day of liberation. All this bespoke common life.
Kisha stood at the tree, surrounded by baubles and tinsel, candles and crystal snowflakes, as she had each Christmas Eve since childhood. The menfolk chatted, the women prepared the feast, Kisha alone cocooned in a singular space of tradition and beauty, seeking the right branch for each piece, colour and symmetry enjoined in a dance of green needles.
Later she found Samir sitting on the stairs in the hall, deep in conversation with Uncle Haris and his several sons.
Communism has collapsed all over Eastern Europe, he was saying as she arrived. Everywhere’s managed a peaceful transition to democracy – we will have our chance to decide by referendum. Let’s see what the people say.
Her uncle was circumspect. I don’t know. Look at what’s already happened in the other republics. And now all this talk about where Muslims, Croats, Serbs should live? He snorted. Bosnia wouldn’t be Bosnia without this soup of mixed traditions!
Slovenia and Croatia managed to leave the federation, but Milosevic is losing face, her cousin Ned said with worried eyes. What if they don’t respect the outcome of our referendum? There are rumours of Chetnik artillery in the hills. And talk of siege.
Oh, but it’s OK, Ki-, he continued, turning to greet her with a kiss. They plan to evacuate all you Serbs first. Anger gritted his teeth. But what happens to us? Would they look to Dad’s heritage or Mum’s to decide where they think we should belong?
Debates continued at dinner, round and round they went. She tried to block the voices but random snatches penetrated to bookmark her fears:
In Belgrade there are street stalls selling fascist T-shirts where all the ice-cream stands used to be … It’s like in the last war – local Nazis getting into the swing of things … Only Tito and the Partisans managed to bring it off last time … Yeah, but where are the Partisans now?
A sombre season, an unruly season, a season of tension, uncertainty and untidy fear.
They popped in to Baba’s a week later before heading back to the city for the New Year’s fireworks and found Azra there, sharing a quiet celebration of sisters-in-spirit.
Baba and Azra had been friends forever. The tiny Gypsy crone with her hand-woven headscarf had lived at the end of the street in a social housing block since before Kisha could remember.
Since my bones told me it wasn’t a good idea to sleep in a caravan by the river any more, Azra had said to her years before.
The camp was still down on the riverbank where these two old ladies had first played as grubby bright-eyed children. Ever since Baba had sneaked out after dark one night to watch the men train their bears by the light of a flickering fire.
Oh, I was a rascal then, Baba chortled. Mama always said we shouldn’t go near the camp. Your great uncle Mirko, rest his soul, was such a good boy, always heeded her words. But no, the camp was much too interesting – the dancing, the guitars. Oh – how their fingers flew over the chords!
You had white teeth then, she said, turning to Azra who sat knitting on the piano stool. I remember the campfire lit up your eyes and teeth all in one go.
Azra grinned a mouthful of gold and gaps. Can you still find the pinprick on your finger where I made you swear not to tell or we’d put your eyes out? she teased.
Baba squinted at her crinkled hands. Could be anywhere, she said and Azra laughed, blood sister through and through.
Baba brought out her secret recipe slivovica, plum brandy infused with rosemary, thyme, sage. This will see you safely through till morning, she said and they raised glasses to the year ahead.
Where are your cards, Azra? Kisha asked. The fun of Gypsy fortune-telling awaited each New Year. White cloth upon the table, the shuffling, humming, muttering. The whiff of incense and waft of candle, the thrill of choosing a first card.
The old woman shook her head. Not this year, she said clicking her knitting needles.
Come on, Kisha prodded. Remember your prediction of a dark handsome stranger? She grinned at Samir and drained her brandy in a gulp.
Azra lowered her eyes, unravelled some more wool. Again shook her head.
But Az –
Baba’s hand suddenly took her arm. Don’t press her, she whispered. She has her reasons.
Two
The referendum weekend came and went, and Bosnia voted for independence. Barricades had been erected, shots had been fired. Then the barricades were dismantled, everyone calmed down, and the newspaper celebrated the power of peace.
Marchers approached the barricades with songs and lighted candles, Samir read aloud from Oslobodjenje’s front page. Sarajevo dismantled the barricades with its heart … our centuries-long culture of common life, tradition and tolerance will defeat the challenges of division and conflict.
He shook his head, lit a cigarette. Gangsters in expensive sunglasses bussed in from Belgrade? The guns are still in their hands. They’ll be tempted again.
It didn’t take long for prediction to become fact – a month of tension before the Liberation Day long weekend in April coincided with the day Bosnia would be officially recognised by the world at large. Again the barricades went up, shots were fired, and pompous speeches made by Karadzic, Milosevic’s local mouthpiece.
Samir’s ear was glued to the radio. The crowd outside the Presidential building had swelled to tens of thousands, people singing for peace had marched into the parliamentary chamber. The National Army had surrounded the city and Karadzic’s bullyboys were more than trigger-happy.
They’re holed up in the Holiday Inn, he said. Apparently you can see them up on the roof aiming their guns into the crowd. Let’s get down there. I want to see what’s going on.
Is that OK, Baba? Kisha turned to her grandmother who’d joined them in town for the holiday weekend.
Of course, of course – you young people need to be up-to-date, she said, wiping floury hands on the apron round her waist. I’ll have burek and cevapi waiting when you’ve had enough of affairs of state.
They walked uptown. People carrying hand-painted peace signs confronted balaclava-masked militia with automatic weapons.
Kisha tightened her grip on Samir’s arm. A feeling rose in her stomach she’d never known before as she heard megaphones take the protester’s pleas and ricochet them around the walls of surrounding buildings:
Let all the Serb chauvinists go to Serbia and let the Croat chauvinists go to Croatia. We want to remain here together. We want to keep Bosnia as one!
But not only words echo, ricochet.
Suddenly there are shots. Little pops rain into her ear like cereal doused in milk, random little pops echoing in the bowl of the buildings, and she wonders what it is. It is not a sound she has ever heard away from the breakfast table before. She sees people hit the ground, hears screams, feels herself pushed, pulled by the crush of the crowd. There is blood on her lip, spattered up from a lifeless corpse no more than a few feet away. People run, scatter.
Samir shouts, grabs her arm, wrenches her away from death. Away from the militia, rifles pointed skyward, firing off round after round. Their cavernous laughter roils together with the screams of fear and cries of pain in the swirled soup of her brain. As she runs, as she is led. Home.
Sweat-soaked, she shivers in shock. Baba soothes, brings out the medicinal brandy. Nip. Nip.
This is madness. Madness! Samir storms out on the balcony. Digging graves on the anniversary of Tito’s victory? For unity?
Kisha downs another nip, begins to cry. I don’t get it.
We are the Jerusalem of Europe! Samir shouts at the river below. Sarajevo is the font of convivencia for East and West! For five centuries we have held firm! For five centuries, since Spain expelled the Moors, expelled the Jews, we have been the n
ew Jerusalem!
We were all out there in the streets, Kisha moans at the table, Baba’s warm hand still rubbing her back. A few fascist pigs can’t divide us, can’t turn us into something we’re not. Can they?
No, says Baba. But if you scratch the surface, you may find there’s more than a few.
The humanities faculty was next to the Presidential building, a poor location in the current scheme of things, and worse once shelling began in earnest.
Samir was at a loose end. I should be rejoicing, he said. All this time on my hands, not rushing between meetings and teaching. Maybe Plato and I could start on that book we always wanted to write.
Nevertheless he twiddled the dials on the radio distractedly, smoked twice as much as usual.
Come on, said Kisha. Let’s take your loose end to the bar.
They found Plato nursing a beer and lamenting his family situation to Marko.
Living up at Vratnik is too far away from everything for Susu, he said, looking up as Kisha and Samir delivered more beer to the table. It’s a day excursion for her to even get to market, let alone visit her mother or the hospital if something happens to Farid.
Move in with us, said Kisha. That flat on the third floor.
Marko grinned. We could start our own commune.
Plato shrugged. I don’t know. It’s someone else’s flat.
But they’ve gone! I’m sure they’d understand. They’re good people.
Here or there, Samir said, the point is to try to avoid the bombs. He took his cigarette and painted a smoke signal through the already thick fug of cellar air to which their normally street-level café bar had strategically relocated. Kisha’s right, they’d understand. And I like Marko’s idea of a commune – the spirit of Yugo resurrected in a last riverbank stand, convivencia putting paid to all tribal instincts?
We could share rations, cook together, said Plato, warming to the suggestion. And you can pretty much spit at the brewery from your place. Susu’s mother’s not much further up the hill either. He nodded. You’ve really got the best spot in town.
So are we agreed? Kisha laughed and they clinked their glasses over the centre of the table, cried Comrade! as one, and sent burning conviction sliding down their throats.
There weren’t many left in their section of the apartment block. Only old Mrs K downstairs, a Gypsy family which had fled Ilidja to take up residence, Plato and Susu in the abandoned flat on the third floor with tiny Farid. Everyone else had left the city on a convoy or escaped across the airport runway at night.
Two Jewish families on the first floor came to say goodbye, handed their keys to Samir.
We’ve been sponsored to America, one explained. It’s time to start over again. If there’s anything you can use, be sure to take it.
A mother passed a bag of baby clothes to Susu. Dress him warmly, she said, hold him close, block his ears to these terrible explosions. Her lip trembled.
With backs bent, heads bowed, the women’s scarves knotted under their chins, the families left. Each carried the allotted two suitcases. Even the children banged small ones against bruised knees.
Plato sighed. I wish I could convince Susu to go.
It’s my choice, she barked from the bedroom, holding up romper suits for Kisha’s inspection while Farid kicked and gurgled on the covers.
Come on, said Samir, putting an arm round his shoulders. Let’s go scavenging.
Three
Marko still lived at home with his parents and twin brother Miki. To save money, he’d said. But Kisha knew it was because they were so close. So different at one level, these peas-in-a-pod boys, yet so alike on another. When one stumbled and tripped in the schoolyard playground, the other let out a cry of pain. When one fought with his first true love the other went out to get drunk. That sort of thing.
Only natural, their mother said. Scrunched up together inside me so long, no wonder they know each other inside out.
Marko worked at a riverside café near the art college in between graduate classes in English literature, Miki was apprenticed to an architect’s bureau downtown, but each night they came home to Mum and Dad in Grbavica, and slept in their childhood beds in a room full of old Olympic posters, frayed sweaters and Sevdalinka LPs.
That was until the Chetniks came down from the hills, opened an office in the apartment block next door and ordered all Serbs between the ages of 18 and 45 to report for military service within seven days. Their parents collected a few belongings, crossed the river and went to live with Uncle Chico up at Kosevo. The boys grabbed their instruments (Miki’s the accordion, Marko’s the guitar), told the checkpoint guards at the bridge they were due at a concert but would be back by ten. And promptly went and enlisted with the Territorial Defence.
Who do they think they are? Marko raged while Kisha painted his jeans in red and green swirls. How can they possibly expect us to join their war against us?
She shrugged, picked up the fashion fatigues and hung them over the balcony railing to dry. Nothing can surprise me any more, she said and turned to Miki. Next.
His brother put down the accordion and peeled off his jeans.
Oh, wow! she laughed. You’ve even got the same knobbly knees! And was rewarded for her insight by having trousers tossed in her face.
Why do they want us to hate each other? Marko grumbled on. I’ve had these friends my whole life. How they can believe this fascist bile?
Just wait till it’s the neighbour’s voice in a trench on the other side, Miki said. Then what do we do? He shook his head. It’s like living in a horror movie. A month back I was celebrating the referendum result. Now I have to pick up a gun to defend the right to choose?
The boys smoked. Kisha made coffee.
Miki couldn’t keep his hands off the accordion. It calms my nerves, he said.
Yeah, but those Sevdalinka ones are such sad songs, she complained. All about loves lost, forsaken, foregone.
Sad songs for sad times, said Marko, joining his brother’s musical lament.
They left the instruments in a corner of the bathroom. So we can serenade you when we get back, Marko grinned. It was time to climb into stiff camouflage-colourful jeans, re-lace white joggers and pull on black vinyl jackets.
You’re the craziest pair of soldiers I’ve ever seen, she said. Maybe one day you’ll graduate to real uniforms.
If they ever manage to bring stuff in through the blockade, Marko winced, doing up his fly.
There were hugs all round. Kisha tousled her friend’s hair.
It’s getting long, she said. Want a trim? Might be better …
What – so I can see who I’m shooting at? His grin slipped as suddenly as it appeared. No. I won’t cut my hair again till this war is over.
Everyone had rituals to survive the siege, establishing little rules such as how long to sit by a lamp at night or when to do the water run (pre- or post-dawn), how many cigarettes were a fair quota for the week, predicting which bakery still had loaves to sell. Plus Baba taught her how to be inventive with the least amount of anything.
As they mixed powdered egg into a recipe, Kisha was reminded of the long weekend when her grandmother had brought almost the entire contents of her pantry into town for the Liberation Day party.
You knew, she said. Somehow you knew.
History repeats, Baba conceded. I decided to be prepared this time.
She had borrowed Plato’s green VW Beetle to collect Baba that Friday afternoon after class and bring her back to their inner city apartment for the weekend celebrations.
I’ve done some baking, Baba had chattered, bringing out container after container of halva, cakes, baklava, cookies, burek and other pita. The back seat was full of food and a sizeable suitcase filled the trunk.
Ready? Kisha asked, turning the key in the ignition.
Wait. I’ve forgotten something.
She let the car idle a few minutes, but when there was no sign of her, cut the engine, sat, scratche
d her ear, looked around. What was taking so long?
Azra came out of her apartment at the end of the street, gave a little wave and started down toward her.
Ki-Ki-, she said, hugging her tight and kissing each cheek. How’s that pretty man of yours? She pulled Kisha’s hand up to the light and traced a rheumatic finger across the lines of her palm.
Ah, she said, turning the hand this way and that. My eyes are not what they used to be. Nothing is clear anymore. She kissed the flat of her palm and each cheek again.
You must be strong, she said, fixing the girl with a fierce look while floury hands patted her headscarf back into place. Now I must get back to my cooking.
Baba called from the front door. She was having trouble with the shopping trolley down the steps. It was brimful of coffee sacks, bottle upon bottle of home-made slivovica from the plum tree in the garden, cans of beans, tomatoes, corn, an assortment of spices and soup mixes.
What is all this? Kisha said. You’re only coming for the weekend!
Yes, yes. But you have a car and I’m an old lady. This won’t be used anytime soon. Just look at this brandy, she pointed. It’s more than ten years old!
Once again they sat in the bar watching war erupt on the television mounted in the corner of the room. This time the post office blown up, the telephone exchange destroyed, the president arrested at the airport on his return from peace talks. Tanks entered the city but were halted in the streets by missiles from their own fledgling Territorial Defence.
Kasim groaned. Nada will have a busy night.
Yeah, said Samir. But just think, by the time this is over, she’ll be the best-trained doctor in Europe.
Plato’s eyes were fixed on the TV screen. You know, it’s just down the road, he said. It’s kind of them to show it live, saves us walking down to have a look.
It’ll be live all right! shouted a veteran. Live in your goddamned living room! And he fell to, laughing, mouth full of teeth blackened by deprivation fifty years before. You young people – always trigger-happy, he said. We didn’t let off a bit of steam with a rocket-launcher now, did we? Oh, he chuckled, wiping tears from his eyes. It’ll be live all right.
The Taste of Translation Page 25
