“We can watch them from high up”, Josip nods. “We will wave to the pilots.”
“What is a pilot?”
“The one who drives it.”
“Ah.”
They each run to their homes to fetch bread, water-skins, and various implements they will need for whatever adventures present themselves to their minds. Petar returns to the Lastas’ house first and barges into the kitchen without a knock, carrying his hatchet. Josip straps a sheathed knife to his waist. Bang, they are out the back door and galloping up the hill toward the trees.
It takes a while to get out of sight of the village. Not a single mother spots them, not a cry calls them back. Grinning, they reach the fringes of the oak forest. They are winded, going slowly now. They kick aside sheep droppings and the hard balls of the acorns and throw themselves down onto the grass. Most of the nuts are old and brown, but some are new and green, the size of a dove’s egg.
Neither Petar nor Josip has brothers or sisters. They are like brothers to each other. Petar is a year older, though they are the same height, and both are altar boys at the church. Josip is not as good at soccer, though better at studies.
Petar picks up an acorn and tosses it at Josip. Clunk, it bounces off his forehead.
“Ouch!” He throws one back, missing Petar’s skull by a millimeter. Petar opens his mouth like a wooden doll, and he makes a squeak like a startled mouse. His black hair always pokes out in all directions. This, added to his clowning, makes Josip throw himself back on the ground guffawing.
“Stop laughing at me, lastavica!”
“You are a wild man. Look at your h-h-h-hair!”
“What about my h-h-h-hair”, Petar mimics. “Look at yours, just like straw.” He tears up some dead grass and throws it at Josip. “Come on, let’s get going!”
They heave themselves upright and begin to climb, the ground underfoot becoming more rocky with each step, the terrain pitching sharply. It takes a long time to reach the plateau halfway to the peaks of Zamak. They are sweating and puffing heavily. The final ascent must be accomplished by pulling themselves upward, grabbing onto the branches of the trees.
One slip of the foot and they would tumble downward a hundred meters. They are on their bellies as they drag their bodies over the crest onto the plateau.
It is not a large place, this relief from the vertical walls of the mountain all around them. You can throw a stone from one side to the other; the same along its length. The floor is covered with rubble. Half of the space is occupied by the crumbled ruins of the Turkish fort that for centuries overlooked the valley. It is from this structure that the mountain derives its name, Zamak—castle. It was not a true castle, for few men could have crowded into this narrow space. All that remains of it is a broken cistern made of cement, and the foundation walls, no more than a foot or two in height. The people of Rajska Polja—Petar’s ancestors in fact—dismantled it sometime during the previous century, hurling its stones down into the valley, where they have sunk into the soil of the forest. In its place they erected a hand-hewn stone cross as tall as a man. On clear summer days it can be seen from the village as a white speck. In winter it is invisible because of the snow.
“Do you think we will see another British bomber today?” Josip asks. Petar often knows about things Josip’s parents neglect to tell him. It is a custom between them that Josip will ask for useful information and Petar will ask for help with schoolwork. This is a perfectly satisfactory arrangement that neither of them feels demeaned by.
“Yes, maybe today. And soon there will be more. More and more and more. I hope they drop lots of bombs.”
“People could get hurt.”
“Yes, but they are smart, the British. They will drop them on the Italians and the Germans. They won’t drop them on our people.”
“My father says someday we will have a real Croatia.” Petar shrugs. “My father says he doesn’t think so. The British will rule us just like everybody else tries to.”
“Maybe the Ustashe and Chetnici won’t let them”, Josip says timorously, because he has already sensed the confusion and delicacy of this matter among adults.
“Maybe Partisans won’t let them”, Petar says, staring out across the valley.
“They all kill people”, Josip muses. “Why do they kill people so much?”
“I don’t know”, Petar says, staring at his feet dangling over the edge. “They are angry.”
“Fra Anto says we must not do what they do.”
“He’s right. But when they try to shoot you, what can you do? You shoot back.”
Josip absorbs this. “We have no guns.”
The Italians and Home-Guard took away all the guns in the village, on the day they first came to Rajska Polja. It is no longer possible to protect the flocks from wolves or to hunt deer in the mountains.
“My father has a gun”, Petar says. “Don’t tell.”
“I won’t.”
“You won’t tell your father, not even Fra Anto?”
“I promise. No one.”
“It’s for Chetniks. If they come here, he will shoot them.”
“They will never come here.”
“Last year your father said the British would never come here. Today a British bomber flew over us.”
“But it did not drop its bomb.”
“This is true. Still . . .”
Petar leaves his thought unfinished. He resumes gazing out over the valley. It is a peaceful scene. Threads of smoke are rising from cook fires in the houses far below. A dog barks, and now and then the noises of a goat, a rooster, a human voice are carried up on the warm breeze. The pastures are lush in the narrow slopes closest to the creeks that drain Zamak. Here and there the sheep move in loose clumps over the ground.
“Look, we are above the clouds”, says Josip pointing to one of the flocks.
Petar grins in agreement but says no more.
For a time they are content merely to look at the world. After they eat some of their bread and drink from their water flasks, Petar gets up and begins to stack a few stones at random onto the walls of the fort. Josip joins him. They work together for a while in this way until Petar stops and stares into space.
“Your father says the Chetniks will never come here because no one is interested in this valley.”
“Yes.”
“Joshko, why did the Turks build a fort here?” Josip can think of no reply.
Later they cut some brush with hatchet and knife, and spark a small fire with Petar’s flint. They don’t need a fire, but it’s always essential to make one. This is something they have done many times before. They throw a few pine cones onto the flames, just for the smell—so nice, like Mass on Sunday. By late in the afternoon, the sun has moved around the mountain and is beating straight into the plateau. They have drunk all their water. So, by wordless agreement, they know it is time to go. They stomp out the fire, then slide themselves over the edge of the crest.
There are a few tumbles going down the mountain, another acorn war, and some good jokes. But uppermost in the minds of both boys is the mystery of the fort. They part company in the village street, after washing their hands and drinking deeply from the creek that runs past the church. And by the time they reach their homes, their fathers are coming in from the animal sheds, and their mothers are placing meals on the tables.
It is Sunday morning. After the Gospel reading, Fra Anto speaks about the British bomber.
He is a very tall man, lean and sturdily built, black-haired, lots of muscles. Whenever he plays soccer with the boys in the field behind the church, he does not wear his Franciscan habit, only his black trousers and white undershirt. He wears a big crucifix under this shirt, and Our Lady’s scapular. He is really strong and so good at soccer that it is unfair if he plays for one side against another. He helps both teams, just to keep it even, and they never know when he will switch sides. It’s part of the fun, never knowing when Fra Anto will fool you. He plays in bare feet. His feet
are enormous and are usually cut and bruised, with a bandage or two. He wears his sandals only when the first snow has fallen, though without socks. When he gallops down the field toying with the ball between those feet, you don’t get in his way. One stomp and you’re dead. Most of the boys want to be friars when they grow up. Most of them forget about this when they are sixteen or seventeen, though not all. Since Fra Anto came to Rajska Polja ten years ago three boys have left for the seminary at Široki Brijeg—a great number of vocations for such a tiny village.
Now Fra Anto speaks about the bomber. He tells the people this is a sign that the Allied forces are approaching Yugoslavia, and that the war is about to change. In the struggle for this land, many factions will be active, Allied, Axis, and our own people, who are divided and angry. Old evils might be replaced by new evils. We must all pray for peace, a holy peace, a just peace that only Christ can bring. Hatred and vengeance must not take root in any heart. This is Christ’s village, he says, consecrated to the Savior and his Mother. Even its name speaks of the fields of heaven. But it must be so in more than name. The Kingdom of heaven is within, and it can be preserved only when the life within us has no death in it. Hell’s spirit must be kept out of every heart if Rajska Polja is to be preserved in peace. This is a task no man can do for another. We can help each other in this, he says, but each must do the major task within his own soul.
“Satan was a liar and a murderer from the beginning”, he concludes. “Wherever there is murder, there will always be falsehood with it. For this reason we must live in the truth. It is never enough simply to avoid killing others. We must never permit the smallest seed of untruth to sprout within the heart of the soul.”
All the people are silent, pondering within themselves as he returns to the altar and continues the Mass.
September. School has begun. Once again Josip’s father is master of the wooden building the government built beside the church in the 1920s. His father is a kind man, but he can be stern too. No nonsense. Every child knows this. Every parent in Rajska Polja supports him in this.
His father was born and raised in Split and is, like Josip, an only child. His parents died in an influenza epidemic many years ago. Josip’s mother is from a mountain village in a small pocket of Croatians northwest of Sarajevo. She shares the customs of the country people, though she graduated from high school in Sarajevo and attended one year of teacher’s college in Split. That is where she met father and they were married. Father accepted the position of master at Rajska Polja, despite its very low wage, because he loves the mountains and the country people. He does not like cities. Cities are rabbit warrens, he has frequently said in years gone by.
Josip puzzles over the fact that his father now wants to move the family to a city and is frightened that he cannot.
His father’s accent has a strong Dalmatian flavor. Josip’s accent is in no way different from the accent of the other students of the school, though he knows more words than most. This richness of expression—which he seldom reveals outside the home—derives from his father’s books, the way Miro Lasta has read to Josip every night from his son’s earliest childhood onward. There are many books in their home. There are many in the school as well, some from the old government, some from his father, and others donated by people his father knows in Mostar and Tomislavgrad. There is also a box of books that was brought to the school by the Italian inspector at the start of the war. These remain always under the teacher’s desk and are unpacked and displayed only for the inspector’s annual visit.
So, it’s back to studies again. About a hundred people live within the narrow cul-de-sac of Rajska Polja and its immediate environs. Thirty-eight of these are school-age children ranging from ages seven to eighteen. Usually the older ones leave school when they finish primary classes. A few depart for the city to find work, but most take up farming alongside their fathers. It is a good life. Before the war the spring sheep-shearing always brought in some money for luxuries like tea, coffee, cocoa, and sugar, and for essentials like tools, harness tackle, fabric for making clothing, suspenders, buttons, and belt buckles, as well as shoes, which are expensive, and once every few years, a fancy hat from the shops of Mostar. Since the war began, such items have grown scarce, though the wool continues to be taken away in carts each year in exchange for the new currency, which can hardly buy anything. Even so, the fields grow plenty of vegetables, and these combined with mutton and eggs and milk provide enough. The teacher’s salary is insufficient for his family’s needs, and everyone knows it, though he does not complain. Because his eyesight is not the best and he is not the strongest of men, the families of the region supplement his income with food. It works well for everyone.
It is evening, a week after school has begun. Josip’s mother is making sweet-bread with the raisins someone gave her, brought from the grape harvest near Mostar. The firebox in the stove is crackling and the room is warm.
The Lastas are fortunate to have such a fine house. It is made of mortared stone and is a little larger than most in the village. The walls of its three rooms are plastered and whitewashed—three and a half rooms, if you count the small loft above the kitchen, a cubby beneath the eaves where Josip sleeps. He has climbed up and down the ladder without mishap since he was three years of age. Before that, he always slept in his parents’ bed, so his mother could nurse him if he cried in the night. All of that lies behind him, in the distant past.
The floors in the kitchen, his parents’ bedroom, and the parlor (which is really part of the kitchen with no wall between them) are wooden planks. Though these are rough-hewn and unvarnished, they are better than many a floor in the region, for the people are accustomed to stone slabs or pounded dirt. The building was long ago an Austrian customs shed, used once a year by officials who came from Mostar for the tax assessments. Now it belongs to the new government and is used by the Lastas as part of father’s salary.
Though there are few pieces of furniture, and these all made of wood, the rooms are comfortable enough. Some of the chairs have cushions, which Mamica stuffed with wool and embroidered with the red and white Croatian braid. On a shelf are displayed dozens of her painted eggs, which she makes each Lent. Her best ones have small hearts on them. Her first ones, made when he was a baby, have acorns and flowers and braid painted on them, but their lines are wobbly. The ones she has made during the past few years are more sure of hand, more brightly colored. Her sister in Sarajevo (whom Josip has never met) sent her a package with powdered dyes in them—twelve different colors. Mamica mixes these with egg yolk to make the paint.
On the floor are a few sheepskin rugs. On a peg by the kitchen door hangs his mother’s brightest shawl, which she wears only on Sunday to church. Her everyday kerchief is usually to be seen on her head, or dangling from the pocket of her long brown skirt. It is forest green with small red hearts embroidered around the edges.
The walls of the parlor and bedroom are lined with shelves and loaded with books. One wall of the parlor is kept bare for the family altar, a wooden table on which stands an ivory crucifix—very old. It was inherited from his father’s mother, who inherited it from her grandmother, to whom it was given by a young Austrian officer who died of a broken heart when she rejected his proposal of marriage. No one now recalls their names. At its feet are a ceramic pot containing wildflowers, an amber glass vigil light, and a pile of rosaries. Quite a few of these latter have broken links, which will need replacing when father can obtain a spool of brass wire. Behind the crucifix is the only window in the room, needing a good washing soon, the glass gray from wood smoke and fly-specks. Hanging on each side of the window is a framed print, the Sacred Heart of Jesus and the Immaculate Heart of Mary. Above the window is a little icon of Majka Božja Bistricka, Our Lady of Bistrica. Father wants to walk to her shrine near Zagreb someday, a pilgrimage, just he and Josip all the way on foot, so they can pray before the miraculous statue and ask for the grace of Josip’s vocation in life.
“What
ever it may be”, his father often says.
“If our finances permit”, his mother adds quietly.
“If politics permit”, adds his father even more pensively.
“Everything is becoming politics”, says his mother shaking her head.
“In this country, yes”, agrees his father. “Politics and war and grudges that people will not let go of.”
“And what does the Gospa think of all that?” sighs his mother.
This is an exchange that has been repeated several times in recent years.
But tonight, as his mother makes bread, his father is seated at the kitchen table by the oil lamp, reading aloud from The Odyssey. They have read The Iliad twice, and now they are beginning The Odyssey for the second time. Josip knows what is coming, yet it is always new. He is seated in the chair across the table from his father, eyes glazed, mouth open, in a trance. He is Telemachus, the son of Odysseus, and his father has not returned from the war in Troy. Telemachus has donned his best armor and, arrayed like a golden god, is about to make a speech in the agora. He will plead for help from the elders, for the means to go in search of his father.
Just then there is a knock at the door. Josip’s heart sinks, and he is ripped from Ithaca back into a valley in Herzegovina, many kilometers north of the city of Odysseus.
Father removes his glasses, rubs his eyes, sighs, and gets up to open the door. Lo and behold, it is Fra Anto! Josip’s heart rises again. Miro clasps the priest’s arm and draws him inside. Fra Anto kisses Marija on both cheeks, and she tells him the sweetbread will be ready in half an hour if he is willing to wait. He says he is willing to wait until dawn for her sweetbread. She is famous for this bread. She makes it with a special spice—it’s a big secret, this spice.
Miro finds a little flask of slivovica high in a cupboard, uncorks it. The scent of plums and herbs fills the air, competing with the baking bread. The special glasses for visitors are brought, so small you can hardly fit a thumb into them.