Tihomir Levajac:
Here We Go on Trial Again

1. Story
2. Story
3. Story
4. Story
5. Story
6. Story
7. Story
8. Story
9. Story
10. Story
11. Story
12. Story
13. Story
14. Story
15. Story
16. Story
17. Story
18. Story
19. Story

Verdict

In addition to the defendant, three more Stories were brought to trial on Wednesday for putting mankind to shame, and all were charged with the same offence. The first Story was charged with having committed the offence, the others with having aided and abetted it. The first Story had been telling the incriminated story and the other three helped spread it, which was strictly forbidden by the Statemute of the Tribeurinal. The Stories, maintained the Prosecutor, who was, incidentally, closely related to the Potato Pact Headquarters, had persisted in making a grave error. While telling the story, they had adhered to their own higher, that is, artistic, in fact, private system of values, not the one prescribed by the Statemute of the Tribeurinal.

Which the judges of the Court would see for themselves when they heard what had happened in the course of the inquest.

The Prosecutor had held an official investigation into how the Serbs took the town of Odžak, near the Sava River, in the course of, as they put it, breaking through the Posavina corridor. The Prosecutor knew the facts, but insisted on hearing the defendants’ version of them. When they saw that he was subjecting them to cross-examination, they tried to evade answering his questions. However, burdened by the mountain of evidence, they eventually had to talk.

Thus one of the defendants said that the Army of the Serbian Republic had not taken any town in the Posavina region more easily than Odžak. That town, as the defendant put it, which had been the toughest Ustashi stronghold in the Second World War, falling as late as Berlin itself, as the Croatians used to brag, had put up almost no resistance to the Serbian Army!

The defendant, said the Prosecutor, a close relative of the Potato Pact, did not know what had happened to the Croatian Defence Council and the people, why they had fled head over heals before the Serbian Army in the direction of Svilaj and Brod and across the Sava en masse.

The second Story, however, blurted out at the inquest that it did know!

It said that, prior to breaking through the Jakeš-Plećnik line of defence, the Serbian Army had been carousing, revelling and shooting in the air so much that the inhabitants of Odžak had got the impression that they had broken through the line of defence and had taken to their heels.

The third Story to be indicted modified that story somewhat, you know what Serbs are like, that they can never agree on anything whatsoever, and maintained that Radio Zagreb was actually to blame for it all because that radio station had totally misinformed its listeners. It reported that no less than forty thousand Četniks were advancing towards Odžak from the direction of Manjača, as if it supported the Serbian cause, thus doing the Croats a great disservice.

There was, on the other hand, a Story which maintained that neither account was correct and presented entirely new facts pertaining to the case. The soldiers of the 102nd Odžak Brigade, in particular a certain Mr Hyena, then Mr Jackdaw, also a certain Mate, known to everyone as Horse, then Josip, nicknamed Brandy and others, had committed such crimes against the Serbs in the town, and particularly in the nearby Serbian villages of Novi Grad and Lower Dubica, that they dared not wait for the Serbian Army for fear of retribution.

It would never be known what had happened to the three to four thousand Serbs imprisoned in the makeshift camp on the pitch of the local stadium at Odžak. Their fate would never be known, although he, the Prosecutor, maintained that the Croats had no concentration camps but reception centres for the purpose of protecting the Serbs, lest they should be slaughtered by the Muslims.

However, gentlemen, the Story which he, the Prosecutor, had indicted as the main offender, the one which everybody saw as an innocent child, would only admit into its story such facts as the situation warranted: it said that when the Serbian Army entered Odžak, local houses kept leaning towards it of their own accord while the shop windows of many shops shone alluringly with goods on display.

Entering the verandas of local houses, the soldiers sometimes came across coffee-pots and cups containing coffee that was still warm, left lying on tables under the grapevine, and in some houses they found loaves of bread in the oven, some warm and some burnt.

They even came across a car whose motor had been left idling in an open garage.

Only a few houses got damaged as a result of isolated skirmishes, only the shop windows of the local Department Store and several shops were broken – and the town fell into the hands of the Serbs. Most houses remained intact, which was not the case in other towns in this destructive war – and the town fell.

The houses were nice, spacious, with big yards, single- and multi-storey, rich-looking and well furnished, as most of their owners had been working in Germany and Sweden for years and investing their savings in these houses.

Some of them even had English grass in their yards, others had little fountains, well-built like young girls just come of age, and in some of them one could even see swimming pools, which was just too much for a socialist country.

When the Serbian Army had thundered through the town and shifted its operations in the direction of Plehan, Derventa, Bijelo Brdo and Kostreš, a number of soldiers remained to guard the rear.

And to plunder.

Whoever entered a house first got to choose what he would take as his war trophy. Having picked the things he would need, having set aside that which was usable, he would immediately stick a self-adhesive tag containing his name on the goods in question.

Some of them had no sense of proportion and took even those things that were of no use to them. It was quite understandable because human greed and covetousness knew no bounds even in peace, let alone in war. It was understandable because claiming somebody else’s property as rightfully theirs was only natural to victors.

From the point of view of one of the Stories, that was not true at all. It maintained that the Serbian Army did no such thing but that the locals from the reserve corps did.

What the indicted Stories agreed upon was that the fall of Odžak was celebrated very enthusiastically. The soldiers drank, sang and kept shooting late into the night, although many of them were intoxicated even without drinking alcohol.

The drinking was particularly heavy in a house on the outskirts of town, in the direction of Novi Grad, before the petrol station, a two-storey house covered with vines. Inside this house, where everything but the walls was imported from abroad, the crew of a howitzer were celebrating their victory.

Glasses clinked incessantly because every sip tasted of victory.

The soldiers were sprawling in thick armchairs. In their hands were crystal glasses, in their swollen veins there was alcohol, and it seemed to them that they’d got rid of everything in this war that was painful and uncertain. That they had, quite simply, achieved the very thing they were fighting for.

Alcohol was already overflowing, they were quarrelling, bragging, interrupting one another, cursing, swearing and threatening. While one of them was singing, another one grieving for a lost friend and others remaining silent, Mladen, the commander of the squad, was complaining about his own and his nation’s misfortune.

He would like it, he said, slurring his words drunkenly, he would like it if they declared war on America and captured New York the way they’d captured Odžak.

How they’d plunder there!

His deputy did not care about New York at all because they didn’t have a corn sheller there, he said contemptuously, smugly, superciliously, his mouth hanging open in a coarse sort of way.

He had no corn sheller at home!

They did have one, shouted Mladen in a voice heavy with drink, they did, he hiccuped as if somebody mentioned him at that very moment. They did have one, it was America he was talking about! Did he know, he shouted, inebriated, that America was the richest country in the world!

That he did know, the deputy admitted, but they didn’t have a corn sheller!

But they did have one, what was he saying! It only they were to capture New York the way they’d captured Odžak, he’d see for himself just what precisely they had in America!

Well, they didn’t! Even if they had houses that big in New York, the deputy persisted in a voice rough with drink and with melancholy in his eyes, they didn’t have a corn sheller! Maybe they had one somewhere else, but there, in New York, they didn’t, he said loudly, slapping his knee with the palm of his hand for emphasis.

America had everything! It did, it did! It had everything, and most of all, it had that which others lacked! Most of all, it had that! That was the sort of country it was! Did he know what a corn sheller was to them?

What?

Nothing!

That was the way the howitzer crew, exercising the victors’ right lacking in morality, when plenty of drink and everything lowered one’s dignity, celebrated their victory for three days and nights, getting drunk in somebody else’s house, inside somebody else’s walls, on somebody else’s drink late into the night, waging a war with America in addition to the one already being waged.

On the fourth day, having sobered up, Mladen got himself a truck, filled it up with the things he’d picked for himself in that house and the neighbouring ones, and got a seven-day leave from the Headquarters. This admirer of real estate drove home furniture, household appliances, bed linen, Persian carpets, three ceiling pendants, four pieces of needlepoint, a chain saw and two cement mixers.

He even took an Alsatian, albeit a small one, because his own Alsatian had been stolen the year before. When it came to dogs, he only kept Alsatians. He liked and admired Alsatians only, claiming that, when it came to thoroughbred dogs, the Alsatian was the king of dogs and all the other breeds couldn’t hold a candle to it.

As opposed to the Šar Mountain[1] dog, which remained faithful to one master only throughout its life, an Alsatian could change its master. Knowing that, Mladen took this one for himself. A young Alsatian was particularly suitable when it came to that, and this one was really young. Since he still kept his ears lowered, he was probably barely three months old.

Mladen reached his village, which was near Laktaš, at dusk, inside the truck, together with the Alsatian.

When his twelve-year-old daughter, Nevena, his only child, laid eyes on the dog, they took to each other immediately because it was a very fine-looking dog.

He had eyes the colour of hazelnut, very intelligent-looking, and soft, velvet-like ears. His head was not fox-like, there was just a tiny, barely noticeable lump above the nose, as was the case with all males of that particular breed. The chest was narrow and deep, the tail quite thick. The hair was short, reddish on the back, black on top, but the same length throughout, which made for even-looking fur.

A real Alsatian, just the way he should be.

Nevena fell in love with him at first sight and asked her father not to keep him on a leash but inside the dog-house where their old Alsatian used to be, only without locking him up.

One of the Stories even claimed that Nevena had dreamed of her pet the very first night, and that the name she called him had actually occurred to her in that dream. Allegedly, she had dreamed of calling him Zovko.

How was it possible for the Story to know that? It couldn’t possibly know that! What sort of Story could find that out? There was no such Story, the Prosecutor kept asking and answering himself, no Story could know what people dreamed of, nor could it find out a thing like that.

Be that as it may, the moment Nevena came out into the yard the next morning, she called Zovko by name. He ran up to her, laid his legs on the grass next to hers, then laid his head on them, wagging his tail. Such lovableness was soon rewarded by Nevena. She went to the kitchen and brought back a bowl of milk.

That was how their mutual love started.

Nevena was so obsessed with Zovko that she failed to notice all sorts of changes about the house. She did not notice when her parents took the old beds from the bedroom and moved them to the porch, then brought in the new double bed, which had a built-in radio set above the head-rest; she did not notice when they hung the new crystal ceiling pendants either, when they hung the new curtains, which made the house look as if it were in the centre of Munich, when they put a music-playing clock on the living-room wall, when they brought in the new, period-looking table together with two armchairs to match, and placed them next to the old table and chairs, so that their house was packed with furniture and things.

So packed was it that they could not move through it properly but had to jump over things, as if in a gym.

Nevena saw none of that because she only had eyes for Zovko.

When she came into the yard in the morning, or when she came back home from school, or when she came back from a friend’s house in the neighbourhood, Zovko ran up to her only, played up to her only, seeking her attention.

He wanted them to play and fool around.

When she gave him the sign, he rolled in the grass or crawled, whatever she ordered him to do. He would sit on his hind legs at a sign from her, then jump through a hoop from that position, looking like a dark, red-blue jet spurting from some fountain, or run to fetch things she threw around, an old glove or a tattered-looking teddy bear she’d had since childhood.

What Zovko liked best was playing with a ball. They say that a dog that does not want to play with a ball is not healthy. Zovko was a healthy dog, quite healthy, because his eyes were bright and clear at any time of day, and his nose was cold and wet.

When somebody interrupted their game, when someone came along, be it someone known or unknown, he would stop playing immediately, take up position in front of Nevena, looking belligerent, as if he wanted to defend her. He wouldn’t let anyone enter their own little world.

It was as if the two of them competed over whose love for the other one was greater.

This mutual affection was as touching as it was endearing.

Little by little, Zovko started eating everything, although he liked best whatever Nevena ate. Every dog likes that. Not leftovers but actual dishes. However, whenever Mladen came home from the front, he brought him raw meat or bones. Meat, he said, contained some fibre that was strength-enhancing, while crunching bones made the jaws stronger, so that Zovko started developing at a rather rapid rate.

When her father left for the front again, Nevena took care of Zovko and fed him: in return, he only obeyed her, enterprising and beautiful specimen that he was.

It was a little odd that he had chosen her, a girl, for his master, when it was known that a Alsatian might play up to a girl or woman, play with her and seek her attention, but that he would never, or almost never, choose her for his master.

In any case, he had chosen Nevena, and he obeyed her only.

He wouldn’t even take food without her permission, nor did he do anything she didn’t want him to, although he was not entirely faultless.

While playing with him once, Nevena hit him playfully on the ears with a rolled-up newspaper, upon which he changed his attitude momentarily. She did not know that it hurt a dog the most when you hit him between the ears because paper rustled too noisily for his keen sense.

Then she discovered that he didn’t like being washed. He enjoyed being scratched between the ears, having his neck massaged and his back caressed, but he did not like being washed. He liked being petted in all sorts of ways but he did not like being washed in any way whatsoever.

As time passed, naturally, Zovko grew and became stronger and stronger, so that he was a much better-looking dog than when he was brought to their home for the first time, and also much stronger.

And then, my dear listeners, one autumn day, when Zovko had lifted his other ear as well, one fine and sunny autumn day, while Mladen was away on the front line, and her mother had gone shopping to the village shop, one lovely, bright autumn day, then, one crystal clear autumn day when there was nobody at home, neither inside the house nor in the yard, something happened.

Something that had to happen.

Or, come to think of it, maybe not.

Since there were no witnesses, nobody knew how it had come about.

Not even the Stories, allegedly omniscient.

One of the Stories guessed that all of a sudden, for no apparent reason, Zovko attacked Nevena in the middle of the yard, causing her to fall down to the ground, then snapped her neck with his teeth and wandered away, no-one knew where.

Another Story did not tell the story that way, but told what it knew. Zovko did attack Nevena when there was nobody about, causing her to fall down on the grass, and started tearing into her throat. He would certainly have slaughtered her, had it not been for their next-door neighbour, who came upon the two of them and saved the girl.

Zovko jumped over the fence and wandered away, and the neighbour, who was a doctor, rendered first aid as best he could and then called for an ambulance.

The former Story knew that, the Prosecutor claimed, but had altered that particular detail although it had no right to do so, letting Zovko slaughter the girl so as to leave as strong an impression upon the listeners as possible.

That, honourable judges of the Court, went to show what some of the defendants were capable of!

The greatest controversy among the defendants arose when they were asked to explain, from the point of view of the Tribeurinal, why Zovko had done what he had done.

What brought about such a gruesome act on the part of the dog?

One Story claimed, with an air of superiority, that it had to do with the inappropriate way the dog had been trained, but offered no proof to support that claim.

Another one said it had to do with a faulty hereditary gene.

Maybe Zovko was not a thoroughbred but a mongrel, which caused the aggression-carrying gene to come to the fore. Who knows whose blood ran through his veins, because it was rather unusual for an Alsatian, from what it knew of the breed, to have reddish hair on his back.

The third Story offered the third version of the events.

Zovko did it out of jealousy.

As the two of them had competed over who loved the other one more, he did not want to share that love with anyone else.

Not even her parents.

The first-charged Story would not accept any of these opinions, but offered some non-human reasons for what had happened, reasons that reached back to the original owners of the Alsatian.

From the point of view of the Tribeurinal, everybody knew that one could never be absolutely safe with an Alsatian, something that neither the girl nor her parents knew.

In any case, the story ended this way.

When her mother came back home from the shop, she found Nevena on the grass in the middle of the empty yard, in front of the packed house, lying on her back, with arms and legs outstretched, dead.

A howl, a single howl, a howl like that of a wild animal, resounded through the yard.

A blood-curdling, inarticulate howl reaching for the sky, as if to rend the heavens in two, which, unfortunately, could not change anything.

Nor bring anything back or improve things.

That was how the inquest had unfolded, the Prosecutor said. The Tribeurinal Board should not find it difficult to see that the Prosecutor had done his job professionally, conscientiously and in accordance with the law, as well as the Statemute of the Tribeurinal. That is why there existed no valid reason for the Stories to be questioned again or to waste any time over the actual trial.

He, the Prosecutor, Uncle Sam, uncle and godfather to the Potato Pact, suggested, in the interests of as speedy a dispensation of justice throughout the world as possible, that the Bill of Indictment be accepted in its entirety, that is, that the trial should end and the defendants sentenced immediately.

No sooner had the Prosecutor finished than the Defence Counsel jumped to his paws and shouted: The qadi charges you, the qadi judges you![2] He even started hopping across the courtroom, awkwardly shifting from one leg to the other as if he was attending a country fair in the Posavina region, yodelling and swaying despite his huge body.

The qadi charges you, the qadi judges you, o-le! The qadi charges you, the qadi judges you, tra-la-la! The qadi charges you, the qadi judges you, whoopee! Tra-la-la, whoopee, o-le!

Since the Defence Counsel could not be stopped from dancing and singing, the trial, needless to say, turned into a jamboree with lots of singing and yodelling.