Nothing New On the Western Front

The telephone in Branko Kostic's apartment rang suddenly, crashing through the frightening calm of the bedroom in which you could only hear flat snoring broken occasionally with the screams of a clear conscience. Branko opened one eye in his head, trying all the time to reach a petroleum lamp whose freedom loving flame shone on the gigantic calendar above his head; while he rose up on his left leg, the cloth nightgown - with emblems of a red shield with three headed white eagle & two moving giraffes - caught on the pillow; the pillow turned and knocked down the petroleum lamp; flames caught the carpet which started burning with the smell of burning giraffe in motion. Branko screamed in fear, tore the nightgown off & naked, ran for the phone which never stopped ringing.

"I'm comiiiiiing!," Kostic screamed, but before he picked up the receiver he tripped on the phone wire which was languishing comfortably in the middle of the living room rolled up like a poisonous snake, hit the door with his head, bounced off it & catapulted by the force of his own naked strike fell into a glass cabinet while inertia kept his arm in the air, geometrically pointing towards the patient telephone whose ringing systematically destroyed the ethnic pockets of the small gray cells in the skull of the slashed former Yugoslav state presidency vice-president.

Covered in a mixture of glass & blood, basking in the light of the fire that was creeping down the walls in the bedroom, Branko went for the phone on all fours. In the strange lights his shadow on the wall looked enormously powerful: as if a twist of fate had turned Branko into a giant whose surface covered the cosmos down to the last black hole.

With the last molecules of strength, Kostic picked up the phone receiver which, slick as it was, slipped from his fingers: at the third attempt Branko managed to pick it up & tired out lay down on the floor covered in bits of glass. He felt no pain; in a flash he recalled Jugoslav Kostic & his intellectual figure; through his head, in a burst of memory, Momir Bulatovic, Dobrica Cosic & Baja Mali Knindza flew.

"Hello," said Kostic, feeling pieces of broken glasses penetrating his back.

"Kostic, Dr. Branko Kostic," the voice on the other side asked.

"I serve the people," Branko said with a pained look on his face.

"Happy holidays, comrade," the voice said.

"What holiday?"

"Mine & yours, comrade Kostic, the greatest holiday of all our citizens who belong to the native, Serb people. By the will of the leadership of Serbia, the citizens of Serbia and Montenegro had to say: We will live in our Yugoslavia."

"The two torches on the coat of arms of the SFRJ did not go out," Branko mumbled while, paralyzed, he stared at the fire which swallowed the bedroom & lazily spread to the corridor.

"Today, in honor of Yugoslavia the old national anthem will resound & gun salutes will be fired on Sarajevo. Will they be heard by the people who placed the burden of unjust, unjustified, undeserved, inhuman & caused by nothing sanctions on us?"

"They won't hear," Kostic said calmly, resigning himself to his fate.

"Let those gun salutes be a sign that the truth about our country is breaking through even further into the world," the voice on the other side said.

"Let it be," Kostic whispered fatalistically watching the tongues of flame lick everything around him with the merry sound of burning wood.

"Do you know who you're talking to," the voice said in a vibrato that smacked of quiet excitement over the sweet mystery of the riddle.

"Jugoslav," Branko said the first name that came to mind & surprised that the Yugoslav national day was taking a toll on his power of reasoning.

"...Kostic, right. Your namesake, presidency friend, partner from the days when we guarded the previous Yugoslavia when we believed the unilateral secession of those who hated us for centuries"

"My hearth is burning, Jugoslav," Branko cried felling the helplessness that was engulfing every unliberated part of his body.

"I'm a little troubled by this trial in the Hague," Jugoslav continued calmly as if Branko hadn't said anything. "If they start with Karadzic & Mladic we'll be on the list."

"they won't get me alive," Branko started perversely enjoying the firing inferno which had reached the ceiling.

"Nor me, by God," Jugoslav said decisively. "I always, you remember, urged the non-use of force to resolve disputes."

"Yes, Jugoslav you did," Branko said mechanically & put down the phone.

In the black skies above Montenegro, right after midnight in the first minutes of the greatest state holiday, (TRAVANJ) April 27, there suddenly appeared a reddish fireball, twinkled with star dust & went out in the sound of fire engines which raced down the deserted, rainy Podgorica streets at lethal speeds.

* * *

Radovan Karadzic didn't sleep well. He knew it was always worst at night: you lie down, close you eyes and wait for Biljana Plavsic to come into the dream & start singing; at first, three years ago, right around the FRY state holiday, it seemed to Radovan that Biljana sang like a nightingale, he enjoyed her protest & engaged songs which flowed into the merry Gusle melodies framed delicately in sounds of heavy rock artillery. Her voice reminded him of Joan Baez; he wanted to believe that he would sleep easily & beautifully with that voice; he wanted to believe that the voice was telling him that he had not surrendered & given up the long established peacemaking policy & democratic principles.

In the last few months, Biljana's song was no longer pleasing to him; he kept discovering that, like sand through his fingers, the once clear & pure refrains were slipping and strange, blurred images were appearing on the twinkling of Biljana's voice one of which was repeated constantly - in a strange town of foggy images there was a building in front of which was a tall red brick wall; at the entrance to the building a policeman in a strange uniform without the state insignia of the Bosnian Serb Republic; in the building a room with a table, chairs & a glass cabin with earphones for translations.

As soon as Biljana starts singing, Radovan saw images of the glass cabin he was trying to get out of; as a rule he would wake up then in a sweat. And Radovan knows, sleeping is over. Tonight was even worse; somewhere in the distance, muffled gunfire, dogs barking, a wintry wind storming like the Sutjeska river.

While he stared at the ceiling with his eyes closed, with the instinct of a pedigreed politician he heard the door to his room open.

"they need oil," Radovan thought.

A black shadow rolled to the bed & shook Radovan with its hand.

"It's dawn president," the shadow said.

"Thank you Miroslav," Radovan rubbed his eyes, pretending that he had just woken up. "I can't remember when I fell asleep so quickly, I haven't had sweeter dreams in a long time, what a nice night," Radovan said, even believing himself.

Miroslav Toholj, information minister, stood by the bed at attention; his uniform shone; the black boots shone, the buttons shone, the steel eagle with wings spread across the cap shone in happiness.

"Allow me to inform you about current events during last night," the shadow said.

Karadzic just nodded his head: his fair fell on his forehead & spilled across his knees down to his ankles.

"In the Hague yesterday..."

"I don't recognize & I ascribe no importance to the so-called Hague court & its activities," Karadzic interrupted the minister, tying his hair into a pony tail. "Apart from media & missionary reports, unrealistic & unproved insinuations by politicians & government of some countries which have shown traditional dislike for my people through history, there is no other & firmer proof but only softer proof of alleged guilt for all of us who were chosen for destruction to self-determination. Are there any important news?"

"It's a state holiday in Belgrade; in Aleksandrovac a customer found a mouse in a loaf of bread; two people were injured in a bicycle crash in Kikinda; in Podgorica an unidentified fire broke out destroying the apartment of former..."
"So there's nothing," Radovan said resigned.

"Nothing New on the Western Front," the shadow replied.

* * *

They waited for him in an old Fica car from the early morning hours. Although there were seven of them in the car, they didn't shove but sat one across the other. Every one of them had a stocking over his head & a head of corn in their hands. They kept quiet & communicated in Braille.

When Zoran Lilic left his residence & walked towards the No. 41 bus stop, the soundless engine of the old Fica roared like the time when they went to Trieste, bought synthetic materials & loved Beba Loncar. The car stopped right in front of Zoran who was whistling brightly, watching the leaden sky over sun drenched Belgrade; it took just 10 seconds for the kidnappers to get out of the car, grab & tie Lilic, put a black plastic bag over his head, throw him into the Fica & spectacularly disappear from the scene.

Belgrade was just waking up into the holiday mood, unaware that it had been left without a head of state, without a pater familias.

(to be continued)