Tihomir Levajac:
Here We Go on Trial Again

9. Blood and Sperm

It was sorry, the ninth Story said having heard the bill of indictment, but it would have to disappoint the Tribeurinal Board! It had nothing whatsoever to do with what the Prosecutor charged it with! The Prosecutor ought to know that it so happened sometimes, rarely, true, but it did happen, that a story was being spread without anyone knowing who was spreading it. As if it were being told by an invisible Story, an absent Story or a Story leaving no traces – and yet the story remained.

As a testimony of sorts.

It was familiar with the story that the Prosecutor attributed to it but it hadn’t been telling it.

Whereupon the Prosecutor, unaccustomed to being contradicted, immediately, without waiting for the Chairman to grant him permission to address the Court, retorted by saying that the defendant was trying to deceive the Tribeurinal Board.

He had evidence, he had witnesses to confirm his charges! Let the defendant tell the story, and then the witnesses would confirm that it had been spreading it.

Thirteen witnesses, honourable judges, had volunteered to testify against the defendant, shouted the Prosecutor.

The defendant immediately agreed to tell the story on one condition: when it had finished telling the story, it should be allowed to mingle with the other Stories so that the witnesses should try to recognise the Story which had been telling the story.

The proposal was acceptable to both sides, so the Chairman of the Tribeurinal Board, an Oriental by the name of Chaos Al-Mighty, agreed to it and immediately allowed the defendant to address the Court.

Nobody in the village knew, the defendant started telling the incriminated story, who had spread the word that Damir’s father had said he’d noticed there was something or other wrong with Damir. Allegedly, unverified stories had it that, towards the end of that summer, in front of an inn in Laktaši, where he’d fled as a refugee, Damir’s father had said something to that effect, only it was not known to whom. They said his father had sat on the terrace, in the shadow of the roofs, telling that to someone, only it was not known to whom. Built like a ploughman, he told his story slowly, without passion, in a restrained tone of voice, as if he were not talking about his own son.

Nobody knew who had said that Damir’s father had said, if, indeed, he had done so, that only in March had he noticed that something strange was happening to his son.

Before that, things had been more or less all right with Damir, up to a point.

Somebody, allegedly, had said that back in ’91, when the war between Croatia and the Yugoslav People’s Army broke out, Damir had been among the first to volunteer for the United People’s Guard in Slavonia, where he had distinguished himself by extraordinary courage; it was not known, however, who had said that Damir had been transferred to a reconnaissance-sabotage unit. As his father had had no knowledge of this, it couldn’t have been him but someone else. Whoever had said that, maintained that Damir had got transferred to a reconnaissance-sabotage unit with a poisonous sort of code name because he had been trained, while doing his national service in Niš, in the army he was now fighting against, as a commando. This somebody had also said that, following the outbreak of war, the “Cobra” unit had been fighting a life-or-death battle in the Slavonian theatre of operations with Veljko Milanković’s Wolves from Vučjak, Martić’s Kninja[1] commandos and the vast Serb-Četnik-Communist armada.

The story had probably been embellished by someone who had assumed that, while fighting in the sabotage unit, Damir had won himself such a glorious reputation that no-one could prevent him from risking his life, sacrificing himself and even getting killed if need be.

They said that he had not been afraid of death. He had even wished that it should come to him in battle, thus providing a glorious end to his life on this earth.

As if only he had been born under a reliably good omen, as if glory had been promised to him only.

That was perhaps to be expected after the feat that Damir had pulled off together with another fellow-soldier. The two of them, not being in their right minds, for no sane man would have risked his life in such a way, showing their contempt of death and defying death at the same time, had got through a mine field dressed in the uniforms of the Yugoslav Army, entered the territory under its control, reached a house where a company of the Banja Luka corps had put up for the night, where these barbarians in olive-green uniforms who wore stars and cockades on their caps were sleeping, went in, had a friendly chat with the Yugo-soldiers, whom they proceeded to kill when they were turning in for the night by means of automatic fire from their rifles.

Having thus killed and massacred seventeen enemy soldiers, they managed to get back safely to their own camp.

After this feat, the golden halo of glory shone above Damir’s hot head. It did not shine intermittently, on and off, nor did it disappear after a while; it shone the way the halo of an immortal would.

So obsessed with his feat was Damir that he wouldn’t take off his uniform, displaying all the insignia of the new Croatian Army.

Not even when he slept.

Nobody knew who had said that his father had not even known of his son’s feat. He had known that his son was attracted by the unknown, that, as was the case with most of those who had not come to know life, he liked danger and unique experiences, but he had not known of that particular feat of his son’s.

When Damir came home on leave, he often advised him to fight honourably and manfully for his country, but to think of himself and his own life first of all. Youth was impatient, he would say, and prone to rush headlong into things.

They said that Damir had not paid much attention to his father’s words.

Why should he take care, he would retort, a look of conceit and a wild expression on his face, when God watched over him!

God watched over Croats!

It was perfectly justified, he would go on, the expression on his face already that of a victor, this age-old saying about God being with the Croatian people!

Listening to these words and seeing the incredible glow in his eyes, his father thought that his son was not quite aware of himself and of what was happening around him. It was as if some dangerous, wild mood had taken hold of him. The way he got carried away had nothing to do with youth, his dedication to the Croatian cause was tantamount to dangerous lunacy.

It had to be some sort of lunacy, the way he wore a headband and an ear-ring, the way he had sewn the chessboard[2] onto a number of places on his uniform and cut off the fingers from his gloves so that he could place a naked finger on the trigger!

However, when the Vance Plan was signed in January, which led to a cease-fire in Slavonia, Damir suddenly changed. His father did not know why, but he saw that Damir wasn’t the same. He no longer emanated pride, his eyes had become lonely rather than wild. He became taciturn, suppressed his feelings, was full of loathing for everything and everyone. He was no longer wild or violent, nor did he laugh for no apparent reason the way he used to do. His innate cheerfulness was gone, as were his wild spirit that defied self-control and wildly unrestrained behaviour. Gone was also the look of self-confidence in his gaze, the carefree glow in his eyes.

Something had soured his mood.

Even his hair no longer shone the way it used to, and had taken on a dull, hazy sort of colour.

His youthful vigour had gone as well. When he walked, it was as if he was dragging himself. Or caving into himself.

Naturally, he kept to himself, stayed in his room, silent and frowning, smoked like a family ghost and chewed gum.

He did not want to be with his father, a man of strong arms and big hands, as a result of having lived off the land the way all his ancestors had done.

Nor did he help his father in any way. There was a lot of work waiting to be done but he wouldn’t budge. He wouldn’t clean the stable, chop up wood, get onto the tractor and plough or harrow a field, trim a fruit-tree, drive to the nearby quarry and get some stone to pave the paths in the yard the way he used to do, no!

He simply wouldn’t take up any work.

Nor did he want to be with his mother, an unassuming, humble housewife, who was known for having the best cows in the whole area, thus being able to sell the greatest amount of milk to the co-operative dairy farm in Veliki Zdenci.

He didn’t want to be with her or eat the food she prepared specially for him.

The fact that he shunned his parents only proved that some cruel, insidious, poisonous demon had taken hold of him and was doing with him as he pleased. The fact that he shunned the company of his parents, the local girls and their smiles, must mean that something had led him astray and brought him into conflict with the world.

Yes, yes, his father mused, he had not become a different Damir, he was an entirely new Damir, one who spent his days in his room, not uttering a single word.

When, after his leave, he went back to his special unit, stationed near the dividing line separating the territories under Serbian and Croatian control, spring blossomed of itself in the village. Trees spread the newly-grown leaves along their branches, while fruit trees blossomed luxuriantly. Damir’s father somehow managed to do most of the work himself, to sow maize in the field, onions, potatoes and carrots in the garden.

However, when Damir came home on leave three weeks later, he looked worse than when he had left.

There was no passion in his eyes, they looked as if something had shifted inside them, got pulled down and extinguished, while a layer of something had gathered in his cheeks, underneath the contorted muscles, so that he looked like someone who had lost all individual features.

No sooner had he said hello to his parents than he entered his white Sierra and drove off somewhere.

Even before the war, he hadn’t wanted to keep company with the local youngsters but had aspired towards some higher kind of life. Ever since childhood, the notion of nobility had been deeply rooted within him, so that he had no wish to communicate with the Croats, nor with the few local Serbs and Czechs, especially after he had graduated from the Secondary Agricultural School in Daruvar. He had constantly aspired towards better company, so he often went to town, nine kilometres away.

However, when he came home late at night, he was always drunk.

His father watched him in the moonlight from the window of his room one night: he barely managed to get out of the car, then staggered towards his room, which was in the single-storey building. It was amazing that he had managed to drive home at all without hitting anyone on the road.

His father vaguely surmised that Damir was headed towards some kind of disaster. He woke up the next day, around noon, and got up, his head in an alcoholic haze. His mother would be waiting for him, tenderly attentive to his needs, having prepared coffee, ham and eggs, sour cherry pie, amid the smell of freshly baked bread, but he ignored all that wordlessly, got into his white car again, went off somewhere, only to return home at midnight, drunk.

And so his week-long leave passed, and his father and mother did not dare ask him what was wrong and why he carried on the way he did.

It was as if the family ties that bound them together had snapped, so that their relationship was based on contempt rather than love and respect.

One of those telling the story said that, sad to say, his father was relieved when he left home again.

But when he came back around the beginning of June, when his car stopped in front of the gate, both his father and mother were standing there, as if they had known that he would arrive at that very moment.

Damir got out of the car, greeted his father, but did not even look at his mother. When she came up to him wishing to hug him, he brushed her aside without a word and went towards his room, holding his rucksack in his hand. Letting her arms fall back against her sides, not uttering a word herself, his mother went on to attend to the domestic chores; she did so humbly, the way only mothers knew how, with that inbred gentleness that graced her.

When his father saw that, he followed his son into his room.

Damir was already lying on his bed, propped up on the pillows. He lay there in his uniform and fully equipped, staring at the ceiling.

Let him speak, his father said angrily, and explain what madness possessed him and why he treated his mother the way he did!

His son started shrugging his shoulders, then relaxed and stared at the ceiling again.

His fellow-soldiers, the ones he’d fought in the war with, he finally said with an expression of utter dejection on his face, had found out that his mother was a Serb. At first they merely taunted him, then they started treating him with contempt, now they shunned his company altogether.

They would no longer have a drink or a mid-morning snack in the mess with him!

When, from time to time, they did let him join their company, it was only to play with him, make a fool of him.

They were Croats, they would say, nine generations into the past, and he could not boast of a single generation of Croat ancestors!

He had no Croat blood in his veins, period!

Jesus Christ, how could they say such things to him?

He’d been fighting for Croatia all along, he’d done everything and would be prepared to do anything for his country, he would even be willing to sacrifice his life for it, and they humiliated him in this way!

He would like to participate in the making of the new Croatian state, to be the decisive factor in its formation, and all he got for it from them was ridicule and excommunication!

He wouldn’t mind giving his life for the cause the very next day, as his own personal contribution to it, just to prove to the boys in his unit who he was, but all they did was ridicule him!

This was a time when Croatian history was being made, and he was no longer participating in it! This was a time when Croatia was being reborn from the ashes of the past, the pinnacle of the millennial history of Croatia, and they were excommunicating him from that history! He felt that yearning for a new Croatia coursing through his veins, but it could not be brought to fruition because his blood was Serbian!

In view of that, he felt himself to be a minor, inferior being, insignificant and nameless!

His life had become unbearable just because his mother was a Serb!

That was why he had to do something with his life!

Having heard all that, his father could only stare at him in wide-eyed wonder. He hadn’t had the slightest idea of what was happening to his son.

How could he say such things, he finally uttered, how could he say such things, he asked again, seeing that his son had taken leave of his senses.

That was the way extremists and nationalists spoke and acted, and their sort, let him mark his father’s words as long as he lived, would be the ruin of Croatia! Why, yes, he interposed for emphasis, the way they did in his village. Why, yes, the ruin of it, let him not shake his head! Why, yes, ruin Croatia they would, the way they had done in the previous war by the establishment of the Ustashi state!

There were people of that sort in their village even today!

Those were the people, he went on, pacing to and fro as was his wont, who had killed the few local Serbs the previous autumn, who had looted and burned down their houses, who had blown up the local Orthodox church, the Temple of the Ascension of the Mother of God, and who were now demanding that its ruins be removed altogether, ostensibly because they endangered the surrounding buildings and the local traffic!

They had blown up the Church of Patriarch Arsenije Čarnojević, a stone edifice that was protected by Croatian law as a cultural monument of major importance.

With people like that, Croatia was not marching towards a glorious future but into an abyss!

But why should he be joining their kind? Why should he despise his one end only mother? Why should he treat her so when Milica was a good mother and a faithful wife? Milica was a hard-working housewife and a good wife! As a wife, she had never even scowled at him, let alone made him cross!

In a word, she was an angel treading this earth!

While his father spoke thus, the son obstinately remained silent.

When he got back to his unit, his father spoke again, let him tell those extremists there, those intolerant soldiers, who hated so implacably, let him tell them to their faces that his father's wife and his mother was a Serb by origin, but that she was married to a Croat, that she was living with a Croat, that she had given birth to a Croat, and that she felt a Croat within her family.

And let him tell those nationalists that he had been baptised as a Catholic, in a Catholic church, and that he had been brought up in accordance with Catholic rites and canon!

It was no use; Damir had sat through all this and did not change his behaviour, neither that day nor the next. He was dark-faced all the time, morose and unwilling to talk, so that his father felt relieved when he left again for Lipik, below Čaglić, where the dividing line was.

His son had gone and he could not bring himself to tell his wife what was bothering their son. He thought that, if he told her that, he would hurt her more than her son had insulted her.

And so the father, son and the Holy Ghost kept the secret among them, waiting to see what would happen.

When Damir came home again for a week’s leave, he looked worse than ever.

He was listless and tired, and at the same time nervous and irritable, as if there were two persons inside him fighting.

His father, therefore, had to talk to him on that same day, in his room, behind closed doors.

Had he told those extremists in his unit what his father had advised him to tell them?

He had, but they had countered every single word of his! He could not be a Croat and feel a Croat, they said, one and all, if his mother was a Serb!

It was her who had given him his blood, not his father!

It was blood that mattered, blood, not sperm!

His blood was of the Serbo-Četnik type, did he understand that?

His blood was tainted, there was no way he could feel a Croat!

The only way for him to become a pure Croat, they told him to his face, was to have his blood changed, to have his Serbo-Četnik blood replaced by Croatian blood!

Were he to do that, they could count on him to be one of them, this way – never!

Naturally enough, Damir had agreed to fulfil that condition of his tormentors.

Not knowing anything about this change of blood business, neither who did it nor where or how, he started asking around and thus went to Pakrac, to a doctor he knew. He found out from him that this change of blood was done in a surgical or hematological ward, and that the operation in question was called exsanguinotransfusion. It would be best for him to have it done in Zagreb because they were the best equipped to deal with that. The blood that he would receive had to be of the same blood group as his own, and of the same subgroup, that is, the RH factor would have to be the same, and only a hospital or clinic in Zagreb would be that well-equipped. The doctor could recommend him to a colleague of his who worked at the Rebro Clinic.

And so Damir found himself in his beloved Zagreb; carrying the letter of recommendation supplied by the doctor from Pakrac, he went to the Rebro Clinic and had a litre of blood changed in exchange for three thousand German marks. He had his blood changed but did not get a certificate to prove it because the doctor at the clinic wouldn’t give it to him. He wasn’t ill or wounded, the doctor said, he didn’t even have a proper request signed by his doctor, he had only accepted him on the recommendation of the doctor from Pakrac! What he had done was strictly forbidden, but he’d done it for the sake of his colleague from Pakrac!

He could hardly wait to hear what the boys in his unit would say when he told them that his blood was Croatian and Croatian only.

When the fifty-year-old Josip heard the whole story, he had to go out and cry first in order to be able to think afterwards.

Why, his son had meddled with his own life to such an extent that he could no longer live normally!

That was why he decided to give up farm work altogether and to keep an eye on his son, to be with him and talk to him, to try to put right what he could.

He picked moments when the feeling of closeness between the two of them was particularly strong in order to talk to him about illusions, illusions in general.

He said that no independent state of Croatia, no United People’s Guard, no Croatian Democratic Union, no Father of the Croatian Nation could make anyone happy, only one’s family could do that! Not even the church or those who represented the Lord on this earth, no friar or cardinal could justify one’s stay upon the Earth; it could only be provided by that awareness of God felt by a human being against the immensity of the sky.

Only when a human being became a temple of God, not in church, not in a cathedral but within himself, letting the Lord permeate him, could that be.

Then, and only then, was the Lord the truth and love! Only the Lord and the family could plant love, wisdom and faith inside a man!

He had nothing against his son’s love for his country and his fighting for it, so that it should have its own identity, as all the countries in the world did, to be independent and sovereign, but it could not be done irrespective of human and divine morality! And one must not neglect one’s family, the family one originated from, so that one could start a family of one’s own one of these days!

That was the road a true Christian should follow, not the one that nationalists were pushing him onto!

Nobody knew who had said that his father had spoken just like that, that he had followed those words by quoting from the Bible, especially the parts about the ten commandments, Jesus Christ and the Christian morality, and the one about the repentance of the prodigal son.

It had seemed to his father, while he was reading from the Bible, that Damir was changing, that a certain kind of piety was emerging in him which was not mere submissiveness on his part.

When he was satisfied that that was indeed the case, his father prayed to the Lord at the dining room table in a truly domestic, family-like atmosphere, in the presence of his wife. After saying his prayer aloud, he asked the Lord for mercy and love. He petitioned Him to heed his words and give love to his family, the father, the mother and the son.

Love, mercy and wisdom!

He prayed, and his prayer was granted because Damir was not so sad and taciturn afterwards; after supper, he sat and talked with his father for a long time. He talked about a soldier from his unit, about the things the fellow had done, he even smiled for a moment, albeit sort of spasmodically.

The way one blew out snot from one’s nostrils or shook a spasm off one’s face.

He continued to purify himself over the next couple of days, so that he left for his unit almost gaily.

When he came home three weeks later for his week-long leave, however, he was almost crushed. His face was transformed, his cheeks hollow, there were huge bags under his eyes and a sick look in his eyes, so that he looked much older than he actually was.

It was as if someone had been squeezing him out during the day and leaving him to dry at night in a draughty room.

Josip, therefore, followed him immediately into his room, as his mother was not in the yard at the moment.

As before, Damir was lying on his bed, on a blanket, sunk deep into the pillows, looking at the ceiling, at a spot there that was all his own, with a gaze that was turned in on itself.

His father walked about the room, not knowing how to start a conversation.

The father was silent, the son was silent, and a mutually heavy atmosphere hung in the air.

It was no use, father, no use at all, Damir spoke first. He was irreparably miserable and humiliated!

Why?

Because he felt the way he had felt before!

Nameless, faceless, numb!

Although he had had his blood changed, he hadn’t changed at all. He was entirely the same! Whatever he had thought before he thought still, whatever he had hated he hated again! He got out of bed the same way as before, put on his shoes the same way, yawned the same way, even coughed the same way! It was as if nothing whatsoever had changed.

One Story that pretended to know everything said that blood was not that which determined one’s hereditary characteristics, one’s character or temper, but a transporter of oxygen, which was essential for life.

But the hapless young man did not know what the Story knew.

He had been hoping that he would feel different after the change of blood, that he would feel a pure Croat, but he felt just as imprisoned by his blood as before!

Why did he feel imprisoned?

Because the boys in his unit had rejected him again! Nobody believed him when he said that he’d had his blood changed!

He’d had it changed but he remained the same!

What kind of change of blood was that supposed to be?

He felt a desperate need to be believed, that he was no longer who he used to be, he said, his eyes full of passion and pathos, and they drove him away like a dog!

His position there was even worse than it had been before!

Was that all?

No, it wasn’t.

What else troubled him?

Dreams!

What dreams?

A recurrent dream! Every night he dreamed of his mother! Every night she came to him in his dreams!

How?

Every night, while he slept, she stood leaning over his bed, the same unchanging expression on her face! She watched over his bed all night long, hanging above his head and crushing him with her weight!

With what?

Why, with that frozen old face of hers, that ancient Serbian face of hers, that patriarchal furrow between her eyebrows! That face of hers, its expression, the good-natured peasant look of it, was driving him mad! He couldn’t stand it any longer! No, no, he couldn’t stand it any longer, he mumbled, shaking his head, staring at nothing in particular.

And what did he intend to do about it?

In order to get rid of all the torment, nightmare and humiliation, he had decided to slaughter his mother!

Hearing those words, his father jumped up although he had been standing, and shouted, what was that, what was that, Jesus Christ, what pernicious words, what was he saying, O merciful God, was he in his right mind, O St Anthony, enlighten my son, Jesus Christ, was he mad, O God, what was the matter with him, O Lord! How could he say such shameful things before the Lord, who saw everything and knew everything, such unspeakable things, he kept shouting, pacing to and fro inside the room.

Was he in his right mind, he shouted again, or was it Satan speaking through him?

His father kept talking about Satan and the Devil, then went on to mention folly and sin, and finally addressed the Lord, asking Him to bring his son back to his senses.

However, when Damir, having listened through all that, mentioned again what he intended to do, his father’s blood pressure increased dramatically.

Did he really have to do that, he asked, hitting some imaginary partition above him with the back of his head.

Yes, answered Damir resolutely, forcefully, without hesitation.

Whereupon something inside his father snapped, something that had been stretched very tight indeed, and he said, as if it were not him speaking but somebody else speaking out of him, let him do what he had set out to do if he must, but could he please, please, do it outside their home?

Some place outside their home!

When Josip said that, claimed the Story that left no traces, it seemed as if some huge burden had been lifted from his shoulders, some burden that had been exerting pressure upon the back of his head, his conscience and his bloodstream, and he felt some relief afterwards.

He rushed out of the room, astonished and relieved of the burden, while Damir remained, lying on his bed. He lay there smoking, gazing at some spot on the ceiling known only to him.

Nobody knew who had said that Damir stayed in the room in a state of utter composure, his face in the shade, his mind dwelling on that particular thought, while his soul remained in the dark, close to that thought.

From time to time, while the June flies flew in the dry air in-between the two window-panes, he turned his gaze towards a framed photo hanging on the wall next to the bed. He stared numbly at the high cheekbones and chubby cheeks, the prominent jaws and the wide eyes looking wonderingly at the world.

The photo brought him back to a distant past, saying: It’s you, it’s you!

Then he took a pile of photos lying on the bedside table and started leafing through them.

He was in those, too, but as a soldier, in a camouflage outfit, armed or unarmed, alone or in the company of his fellow-soldiers.

In those wartime photos his gaze was not full of wonder, as in that childhood photo, but bold and unbridled; the expression on his face was not that of an innocent baby but of a victor!

While he looked at those photos, a succession of wartime scenes flashed past him, so that he thought that they belonged to a time that was no longer his.

He even thought that only in those wartime photos would he remain forever the way he used to be, the way he would never be again!

How terribly distant was that time when he had enjoyed his moments of glory!

When he thought of all that, it was just like a dream!

He looked at the photos, thought of transience, chain-smoked and threw the cigarette butts into an ashtray lying on the floor beside the bed.

Without realising it, he often put out cigarettes he had just lit, so that the ashtray was full of unsmoked cigarettes, cigarette butts and ash. When dusk started to throw ash onto the window-panes and darkness started to gather under the windows, he suddenly roused himself.

It was as if he had been in some sort of equilibrium for a moment, and when that moment passed, it got late.

He got out of bed with a start and went to the window.

At the far end of the yard he saw his mother going across the massed shadows, going to the stable with a bucket in her hands to milk the cows. As soon as she had disappeared behind the fence, he went out into the yard; there was no-one else in sight.

Lovely roses gently dozed by the path cutting across the yard. The bright colour of the Sierra flashed in front of the garage; in the greenish mist behind the fence loomed the dark shape of a small tractor hitched to a low trailer filled with freshly mown clover.

Quiet and tranquillity reigned around the farm buildings; above them, behind the wooded hills in the west, the sky was pink beyond belief.

Damir walked out of the yard without a sound and came to the stable. There was an air of unreality as he gazed through the open door into the stable.

Sitting on a three-legged stool, his mother was milking a cow with even movements of her hands. She appeared to be smaller than she actually was, and being dressed in black, she looked like a black smudge.

The acrid odour of manure mingled with the smell of freshly mown clover. The sound of cows’ jaws munching was punctuated by the sharp sound of milk being squirted from the udder into the bucket at regular intervals.

Damir suddenly became aware of the grating sound recurring in a primitive sort of rhythm, and took his knife out of its sheath.

Just then his mother finished milking the cow and got up from the stool in order to pour the milk into a white aluminium container.

When mother and son were a single step from each other, a crack pierced the stillness of the stable, a crack that did not sound like a gun shot at all but more like a chord being torn from the strings of a guitar. It rang out through the warm stable, through the yard sunk into the warm symphony of the evening, through the village under the sky that was pink beyond belief.

A flock of sparrows that had found shelter under the stable roof flew off towards the sky, Damir lurched towards his mother, fell onto his knees and dropped the knife from his hand.

Clutching his heart with both hands, he turned his face up towards his mother, as if he were contritely begging for forgiveness.

While Milica stood there frozen, holding the bucket in her hand, his face was gradually being stamped with a seal of transience.

Her son was going off somewhere forever.

All around, movement seemed to have ceased for a moment, then it started anew.

As did the evening above.

The evening went on and the defendant, having told a story that no-one knew the source of, stopped talking.

The moment it stopped, a performance began in the packed courtroom with the Tribeurinal Board and the indicted Stories in the supporting roles and the Prosecutor in the leading role.

The performance was directed by some hidden director, who was maybe thousands of kilometres from the scene.

The performance unfolded like this.

The introduction contained no action whatsoever because it had taken a long time to get the other Stories out of the vacuum-sealed cells of the sort where genies were kept, transport them to the Court building in a special vehicle escorted by several tanks, and place them in the dock, next to the defendant.

Then the real plot began.

Through a special side door, one by one, witnesses from the village of Sirač and the nearby villages were ushered into the courtroom. The Board demanded from each one to state who he was, where he was from, why he was there, and also to swear that he would tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth before the Court.

The witnesses were supposed to identify the Story that had been spreading the incriminated story. Although they had agreed to testify before the Court out of a conviction that it was the proper thing to do, although they had volunteered to do so out of patriotism, although they had sworn to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, none could recognise the incriminated Story. Not the first one, nor the second, fifth, seventh or any other witness, not one of them pointed at the Story marked number thirteen, so that tension in the courtroom mounted steadily. The eleventh witness did not recognise the Story, nor did the twelfth, the next-to-last or the last one, so that the trial had evidently turned into a comedy.

However, the Prosecutor would not concede defeat even after such a fiasco. He even justified the erratic behaviour of the witnesses. They were, the Prosecutor maintained before the Tribeurinal Board, not very well educated people, so that the sight of the Courtroom, the judges dressed solemnly in their gowns and the whirring of the cameras only confused them all the more.

Exposed to the eyes of the public in this way, they only got hopelessly confused in the big world far away from their tiny villages.

Everyone in the courtroom accepted the Prosecutor’s explanation except the Defence Counsel. Big and awkward as he was, he got up from his seat and started gloating in the way only he knew. Hairy, clumsy and wild as he was, he started hopping across the courtroom on his hind legs and clapping his paws as if he was in a circus, dancing like a clown.

Which he was not.

[1] Abbreviation of Knin Ninjas, translator’s note.

[2] Part of the Croatian national coat of arms, translator’s note.

Tihomir Levajac: Here We Go on Trial Again

9. Blood and Sperm

Tihomir Levajac:
Here We Go on Trial Again