Little Bastards in Springtime (9 page)

“Oh,” I say, like an idiot. It doesn’t make sense to me, Cena getting hurt twice. It’s not fair. “What happened?”

“I don’t know.”

“Where is she?”

“I don’t know.”

I go to Cena’s apartment. The door is open. People are huddled in the living room, eyes wide, lips pressed tight together.

“Where is Cena?” I ask. “And her mom and dad?”

“We’re waiting to hear,” a woman I don’t know tells me.

“They’ll call from the hospital when they know.”

“Know what?” I ask, but no one answers.

I go in and sit down on the floor by the couch. I hunch over, feeling kind of sick, and pretend to look at a magazine that’s on the floor. They’re talking about a shell that exploded yesterday in the marketplace.

A
TRIP
to Hungary, in the glorious ‘50s, when Mama was little, this is what Baka wants to tell me about today. Baka, Djedica, Mama, and Ujak Luka, all four of them driving in an old Yugo car, which was new then, the kids sitting on top of sleeping bags, pillows, towels, and clothes. Hungary was very beautiful, the food was very good. They camped on the shores of Lake Balaton, floating on the still water all day long, sitting around a campfire at night, sweating in the hot breezeless night air. They sang revolutionary songs and tried to forget that Hungary invaded Yugoslavia with the Nazis. I picture the whole family in geothermal baths, soaking up Mother Earth’s mineral gifts. And when Baka lost a ring in one of them, I see them spending a happy, fun-filled afternoon diving for it, the other bathers scowling at them and turning their backs.

I try to imagine Mama and Ujak Luka when they were little, how they lived in the same home all the time like Dušan, Aisha, Berina, and I do now. How they shared a bedroom and went to school together in the mornings, how they ate dinner in the evenings with Baka and Djedica, how they all told stories about their day. It’s hard to picture, because now they hardly spend any time together, and when they do, he’s always teasing her,
and she’s always frowning at him. He says, “Lighten up, Sofija,” and she says, “Grow up, Luka.” I guess one day the six of us won’t live together anymore, and maybe the twins and Dušan and I won’t visit each other much, and Mama and Papa will get old. But that’s a long time in the future, so far I can’t see it at all.

Some kids in the building are allowed outside today even though there’s shelling. They’re playing soccer in the court, I can hear their cries like hungry seabirds over a fishing boat. Not too far away, buildings go boom, but it’s cozy in here with cards, snack food, a sip of slivovitz if I’m lucky. And the droning, crackling sound of Baka’s voice as she tells her stories.

Done with Hungary, she says, “Did I ever tell you about our beloved leader, our Joza?”

I nod my head and feel dizzy because I’m very tired. I didn’t sleep at all last night, the city was so wide awake, shaking and twitching and moaning more than usual.

“Well, for centuries, South Slav freedom fighters who perched in mountain strongholds tried to get rid of conquerors, the Turks from the south, the Austrians from the north, because, you see, our region has always been cursed with imperialist invaders. This went on right up to World War One. When our beloved leader came home from Russia after that war, he found that the Serbs had fought courageously against the Austrians, empires had crumbled, and a union of South Slavs had been born. Peace, happiness for all? Well, not quite, because the Serbs took control, and the Croats and Slovenians didn’t like that. But our hero didn’t care about any of that. He was a communist, and his loyalty was to a cause far bigger than nation and tribe, his loyalty was to universal human dignity …”

One minute I’m sitting at the table listening to her, the next I’m lying on Baka’s bed and she’s draping a blanket over me.

“Shh,” she says. “It’s okay, Jevrem. You sleep, my boy, this terrible time is exhausting our young, it’s depleting our future. Down with fascism, freedom to the people! May the ideals of your elders live in your heart.”

It’s daytime, so I sleep with my eyes open, the ocean of my dreams swimming around me in Baka’s cramped bedroom.

‡ ‡ ‡

D
UšAN BEGS MAMA TO LET HIM GO AS WELL. HIS
face is white, his mouth twisted into an O, ugly with wanting. Papa has decided to join up, and there’s no way Dušan will stay cooped in this apartment with Papa on the front line somewhere, shooting guns from a muddy trench. Papa leads the girls to their bedroom, his face stony and hard. Then he stares at me like he’s never really seen me before.

“You,” he says to me, “will help Mama from now on.”

“Okay,” I say, and feel light-headed.

“Everyone decent hates war,” Papa says. “I am a pacifist. But now there is no choice. When they are at your doorstep, there is no choice. The government is desperate for fighters. It needs to form a proper army, take control of the paramilitaries and the criminal gangs who are defending us now. Am I going to sit here and simply wait for other men to do the hard work, to make the sacrifice?”

Mama shouts, “
Noooo, noooo, noooo
…” She cries, she covers her face.

“The draft will come soon enough, anyway,” Papa says quietly. “Please. Sofija, you must understand. I don’t want to live in a Greater Serbia, I don’t want to live in a Greater
Croatia. One has to draw the line somewhere, and mean it, and fight for it.”

“They don’t want a child, Lazar. They don’t want someone of Dušan’s age.” Mama’s voice is a high sob. I want to hide somewhere, but I can’t move. “They don’t want Serbs, Croats, they only want Muslims, you’ll see.”

Papa stares at her, but his mind seems elsewhere, probably going over all the things he needs to do before he leaves.

“I can’t believe it’s actually come to this, either,” he says slowly. “Years of watching the political situation, raising alarm bells, protesting with friends, family, colleagues, and now off to fight in my hiking boots.”

“I know we all have to help,” Mama whispers, “but there has to be something else you can do. You have skills, you’re educated. And Dušan …” Mama begins to cry again.

“That’s true of everyone here in the city.” Papa is calmer, quieter than I’ve ever seen him.

He shifts his gaze to Dušan. Lots of teenagers are fighting, girls too. Everyone knows that. “It’s not civic-minded to protect your own, Sofija.”

I stare at Dušan. He suddenly looks like someone else. How could he be a soldier? He’d have to get up early, obey orders, keep neat and tidy, run around with heavy things on his back. Mama knows he will go with Papa, she can’t keep him at home. Her face is an open book, she wants the old Dušan back, the pot-smoking slob who was out with friends all the time, his torn shirts, his grumpiness in the mornings and most of the rest of the day too. Well, if he goes, I will take his place. It won’t be so hard to be like him, if that’s what she wants—it won’t take that much effort at all.

“Just please stay together,” Mama cries. “Surely they
don’t put young ones like this at the front. Or old ones like you, Lazar.”

“Everywhere is the front, Sofija. Our front door is the front. They’ll put us where we’re needed.”

I
T ALL
happens so fast. A week of Mama dragging herself around like she’s suddenly sick with a terrible disease, of Papa and Dušan running around getting their stuff together all hyper-focused and excited. And then they’re leaving. They’ve chosen warlike clothing from their bedroom closets, dark button-up shirts with pockets on the chest, pants with pockets on the sides, jackets with as many pockets as possible. But it doesn’t matter that much what they choose, the old men in the lobby say the T-shirt-and-running-shoes war is coming to an end already; now there will be a uniformed war, with official ranks, exactly how it happened with the partisans. The government is seeing to it.

Dušan forgets to say goodbye. He just walks out the door, down the hall, and pushes the button for the elevator, fingers drumming his thighs, his pack dragging on the floor. His face is rigid like he’s in a very tense dream. Aisha and Berina cling to Papa’s sleeves. Where are you going? they ask. Why are you leaving? He hugs us all. He cries. He says they’ll be back soon, in a few months when training is done. Then much more often. That’s the one good thing about this war, he says, we soldiers can come home really easily and rest and be looked after by our loved ones. What other soldiers can do that? He lugs his gear to the elevator, grabs Dušan by the back of the neck, and marches him back to the door of the apartment.

“Say goodbye like a human being,” he says quietly into Dušan’s ear.

Dušan seems surprised that he’s still here. I can tell by the look in his eyes that he’s at the front already, sitting in his trench, having a smoke, fiddling with his machine gun.

“Wait, wait,” Mama shouts. She pulls us all back in, closes the door. The twins are sobbing in that silent way they do, their faces getting redder and redder. I just stand there looking at everyone, like I’m watching a movie with weird pointless scenes that make no sense.

“What are you doing, Sofija? We have to go.”

“Lazar, for all the years that we have loved each other, just take a moment for me, for the children. Everyone, come sit down in the living room.”

So we sit in the living room and wonder what’s going on. Papa starts to cry quietly, his cheeks are wet, he blows his nose. Mama picks up the phone. “Baka, come up, please,” she says. “As fast as you can.” Then she sits down at the piano, her back to us, her face to the window.

We wait without speaking, listening to each other breathing. The door opens and Baka comes in. “What’s going on here?” she says loudly. “I thought you two were gone already.”

“Mama,” Mama says, “they’re just leaving. Please sit down. I want to play for us all.”

Baka perches on the edge of the couch, and Mama begins to play. She plays for ten minutes, maybe, or an hour, it’s hard to say, but Baka makes clicking sounds in her throat, and Aisha and Berina sit slumped on our laps, chins against their chests, and Papa holds my hand, and I put one finger on Dušan’s wrist, so lightly that he doesn’t bother to flick it off. The music Mama plays is not sad and not happy. It says,
terrible sad things happen but we go on, that’s how human existence is.

After she plays the last note, we all sit there for a moment
listening to the silence it leaves behind, then everyone gets up at the same time and Papa and Dušan are suddenly at the door, then down the hall. The elevator comes with a ping. I stand by the apartment door, watching them pick up their bags in the greenish light of the hallway. I think of the hundreds of times Dušan and I have raced, checking and grabbing each other, from where I’m standing to where he’s throwing his pack into the elevator. How every single time he won.

“I love you,” Papa shouts, and walks into the elevator.

The doors close. They are gone.

One second later, the apartment feels like it’s been abandoned for years. All the nice things Mama and Papa have collected, the paintings and sculptures, the rugs and books and glass bowls, seem ratty and thrown together randomly. I suddenly see that the place hasn’t been cleaned or tidied in a while and the windows are streaked with city dirt. We look at each other, Mama, Aisha, Berina, Baka, and I, the leftover ones. Everything feels strange and muffled. Already I can’t think about them, Papa and Dušan, because it makes me want to sob like the girls.

I go to my room and lie on my bed. I sleep.

Dusk creeps over the city. I wake. My room is filled with eerie half-light. Supper smells are wafting under my door. I picture the food and feel sick. I curl up into a ball. Mama calls my name. Her voice is too high, too clear, it echoes through the apartment. For once, the stereo is not on, there is no piano music blaring from the speakers. Mama is at my door, her head a dark blob against the frame. I can’t see the expression on her face. She doesn’t say anything. Then she’s gone. I get up slowly. We’re eating tonight?

At the table, Mama still looks like she’s sick with a terrible kind of cancer. Her face is yellow and sags like warm wax. Her
eyes are small and black, set back in her head. They reflect no light. She sips some tea. She hasn’t bothered to put a plate out for herself.

“Eat your food,” she says quietly.

My sisters look small and dishevelled. Aisha whines that she can’t cut her potato. Mama asks her how old she is. Aisha begins to cry, pursing her mouth in that way the girls do, in that way I thought was so cute when they were babies. Berina sits still and silent, staring at her plate.

So this is war. It’s completely different from Baka’s stories. There isn’t any action for me, nothing to do, no way to help, just waiting around for bad things to happen. It’s going to be hell. And it just crept up on me. Yesterday I was happy, I know that now.

‡ ‡ ‡

M
AMA IS MOANING INTO THE PHONE AGAIN.
I can’t stand that sound she makes. “Oh no, oh no, oh no.” Someone else has been killed. I think about Papa and Dušan but it can’t be them, they’ve got guns and it’s safer on the front than in the city, that’s what Pero says. I run out of the apartment in my slippers, my heart pounding, blood pulsing in my temples. I fly down the stairwell, jumping from landing to landing so hard my skull snaps back against my spine, past the women and kids who spend their days in the stairwell now, scared of the booming and rat-a-tatting that’s coming so close, of exploding glass and the lottery of flying shrapnel, past the whores who sit on the stairs smoking cigarettes and picking at their fingernails all day long, waiting for customers to come by.
In the lobby, I feel dizzy and stunned, so I sit on the floor and listen to the old men. Rations are sure to come, they’re saying. Flour, rice, milk, sugar, salt. And these Chetniks, why don’t they just go back to Serbia if they don’t want to live with us? Instead, they are raping Bosniak women in Grbavica, so many terrible stories, those poor girls. The old men turn to me. I think they’re going to yell at me, at my Serb half, but they don’t, they ask me a question.

“Do you know what rape is, Jevrem?”