you are here, they will start paying attention to our village. You’ll see. Weapons draw weapons.”
CRACKLE.
December 15, 1992
Sara sat at her desk next to the window, one hand on the questionnaires from the embassy, her chin resting on the other. It was evening, cold and wet. She did not really want to finish the questionnaires right now, but neither did she feel like going out. Earlier, she had walked to a small store two blocks away, passing through the pedestrian zone of Knez Mihailova Street. The city felt strange. Normally, at this time of year, Belgrade would be filled with lights and laughter, with people hurrying to buy presents. Now, the city seemed undecided as to whether to get ready for the holidays as usual or bow its head in silence. Or perhaps that was her situation. Boris’s connections had not come up with any new information, and she still could neither negate nor confirm the rumour that she had overheard that night at the awards.
She peeked under the bandage on her palm. The cuts were almost healed but she kept them covered to remind her to keep her hand out of trouble.
Why Canada? Because you can cut out your own space, Boris had said. When you go to a country in Europe, you feel that if you are lucky you can fit in but not change anything there. In the countries of the New World—Canada, New Zealand, Australia, even the States—nothing has been finalized yet. Not only can you fit in, you can change it. You can make a place that is brand new, yours only. You can leave an imprint.
If she filled in the questionnaire tonight she would be doing something for Johnny. Now that this thing hadhappened, his being drafted and all, she expected that he, too, would want to apply for exit papers. She had asked Boris for two applications, which he brought back from the Canadian embassy for her. Hers was done except for one question. How did you answer: “Have you taken part, in any way, in the current armed conflict?”
She could lie about it. One flat “No” and that would be that. The Yugoslav Army hardly shared their lists with foreign embassies. But she had heard that the Canadians had their ways of checking these things, and that even a white lie would mean the application wouldn’t be processed. How could she write a no when she felt that everyone and everything had been affected by this war, and that there was not a single soul in the country who had not taken part in some way?
That was the problem with such documents—only a single space for an answer that was so difficult. What about those people like Johnny, like herself, who needed more space?
Boris told her that their chances of getting their Canadian papers would be higher if they were married. Why had they not married yet?
Behind Sara, a record spun on the turntable. Some Croatian friends had given it to her a few years earlier—an old album of Amália Rodrigues. Her voice was like a flame and her phrasing was beyond description. How can one describe the way a funeral pyre burns? The crackling of the record, played so many times it was a small miracle that the needle still stuck in the grooves, was somehow appropriate. It was precisely how a good film director would use an old record in a wartime love scene. Sara couldalmost see a candle in the window, the light that would lead the missing back …
“Shit!” she said aloud. “Shit, shit, shit!”
She stood up and carefully lifted the needle, then turned the amplifier off.
DARK HOUSE.
December 22, 1992
Life in the village assumed some form of order. Aside from guard shifts and occasional briefings, there wasn’t much else to do except engage in cruel practical jokes—funny here, too scatological to take home. Three Croatian families decided to move out, and were allowed to go once they agreed to leave everything except their personal belongings behind. The rest of the Croats in the village decided to stay after Pap gave them guarantees that they would be protected. Two nights
CRACKLE.
December 15, 1992
Sara sat at her desk next to the window, one hand on the questionnaires from the embassy, her chin resting on the other. It was evening, cold and wet. She did not really want to finish the questionnaires right now, but neither did she feel like going out. Earlier, she had walked to a small store two blocks away, passing through the pedestrian zone of Knez Mihailova Street. The city felt strange. Normally, at this time of year, Belgrade would be filled with lights and laughter, with people hurrying to buy presents. Now, the city seemed undecided as to whether to get ready for the holidays as usual or bow its head in silence. Or perhaps that was her situation. Boris’s connections had not come up with any new information, and she still could neither negate nor confirm the rumour that she had overheard that night at the awards.
She peeked under the bandage on her palm. The cuts were almost healed but she kept them covered to remind her to keep her hand out of trouble.
Why Canada? Because you can cut out your own space, Boris had said. When you go to a country in Europe, you feel that if you are lucky you can fit in but not change anything there. In the countries of the New World—Canada, New Zealand, Australia, even the States—nothing has been finalized yet. Not only can you fit in, you can change it. You can make a place that is brand new, yours only. You can leave an imprint.
If she filled in the questionnaire tonight she would be doing something for Johnny. Now that this thing hadhappened, his being drafted and all, she expected that he, too, would want to apply for exit papers. She had asked Boris for two applications, which he brought back from the Canadian embassy for her. Hers was done except for one question. How did you answer: “Have you taken part, in any way, in the current armed conflict?”
She could lie about it. One flat “No” and that would be that. The Yugoslav Army hardly shared their lists with foreign embassies. But she had heard that the Canadians had their ways of checking these things, and that even a white lie would mean the application wouldn’t be processed. How could she write a no when she felt that everyone and everything had been affected by this war, and that there was not a single soul in the country who had not taken part in some way?
That was the problem with such documents—only a single space for an answer that was so difficult. What about those people like Johnny, like herself, who needed more space?
Boris told her that their chances of getting their Canadian papers would be higher if they were married. Why had they not married yet?
Behind Sara, a record spun on the turntable. Some Croatian friends had given it to her a few years earlier—an old album of Amália Rodrigues. Her voice was like a flame and her phrasing was beyond description. How can one describe the way a funeral pyre burns? The crackling of the record, played so many times it was a small miracle that the needle still stuck in the grooves, was somehow appropriate. It was precisely how a good film director would use an old record in a wartime love scene. Sara couldalmost see a candle in the window, the light that would lead the missing back …
“Shit!” she said aloud. “Shit, shit, shit!”
She stood up and carefully lifted the needle, then turned the amplifier off.
DARK HOUSE.
December 22, 1992
Life in the village assumed some form of order. Aside from guard shifts and occasional briefings, there wasn’t much else to do except engage in cruel practical jokes—funny here, too scatological to take home. Three Croatian families decided to move out, and were allowed to go once they agreed to leave everything except their personal belongings behind. The rest of the Croats in the village decided to stay after Pap gave them guarantees that they would be protected. Two nights
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