Does good surrender wipe out bad surrender?
See, O Lord, I have no weapon in my hands.
A publisher in Vienna has put together a book of Croatian poems, written by contemporary poets in exile. Six of Josip Marulić’s are included in the anthology. Letters pour in from Europe and America inquiring about the author. Who is he, what is his story? The New York publisher always replies without supplying the information they desire, explaining that the poet wishes to maintain a private life.
Winston and Miriam have a newborn son, whom they name Thomas Xavier.
The McIsaacs buy a small farm in the Mohawk valley of New York and move away, insisting that Josip must visit them someday.
Gus-the-doorman retires to look after his wife during her dying months.
Carl Johnson has been promoted and is living on an army base in Georgia with his wife, who is a schoolteacher. They have three young children. Carl writes articles for U.S. military journals and sends copies to Josip. He likes to quote a French writer named de Tocqueville. Josip replies, quoting from Aristotle, Plato, and St. Thomas More.
Coriander has surgery on her hip. She can no longer work. She has a little pension, but it is not enough to live on. Caleb supplements the family income with his wages as an associate professor of literature at Columbia University.
Caleb marries a woman whom he met at the university. She is working on her master’s degree in sociology. She is from Eritrea. A guerilla war is under way there, a vicious and dirty one—worsened by drought and famine and years of Marxism. It will soon escalate, she believes, into full-scale war between Ethiopia and newly independent Eritrea. The church in Harlem has changed its name to the Abyssinian Gospel Holiness Tabernacle. The woman is the only true Abyssinian who visits the church. She is, in fact, a Catholic, educated by nuns in Asmara. Shy and graceful, she is devoted to Coptic art, Dante, and Caleb. Her name is Miriam. One of her brothers is an Olympic runner. Seven family members were executed by the Communists. Caleb is entirely, reverently, and poetically in love with her. They are married in St. Patrick’s cathedral. Though Caleb does not convert to Catholicism, he takes premarriage instructions and agrees to the nuptial Mass.
Because the bride does not have any family members in America, the people from Caleb’s family and congregation sit on both sides of the aisle. A few of her university friends are also present, talking aloud, indifferent to the presence of God. Miriam is working on them, slowly but surely. She wears the traditional wedding dress of her people. There is a lot of classy clothing among Caleb’s people and much humming and swaying during the Mass, though out of respect for cultural differences they do not give full vent to their religious passions. However, they are reverent. Much of the liturgical music is provided by a folk ensemble from the university, young Catholic friends of Miriam. The recessional hymn is sung by the choir from Caleb’s church. It is a trans-cultural event of epic proportions, as Winston would say. Pouring out the front doors and down the steps, the wedding party encounters an unexpected demonstration: a group of angry people dressed (or rather, undressed) in scanty clothing are throwing rotten eggs, small pieces of rubber, and coat hangers at the door of the cathedral. Life is strange. You learn something new every day.
Within a six-month period, all of Josip’s remaining teeth fall out. The dentist tells him that this is unusual in such a young man. Young? He is, what, fifty-six or fifty-seven years old now. “You don’t have a single cavity or filling”, the dentist comments. “No gum disease either, so early malnutrition is probably the cause.” He pauses and glances uneasily at the patient. “You must have had a rough childhood.”
Full dentures are made. He likes his new smile and uses it overmuch until he more or less forgets about it. Faggedaboudit.
The Serb-lady retires from the fish market. At some point after Jason destroyed her fortress walls, she told Josip that her name is Ljubicica—Violet. He now dares to ask the Serb owners her family name. With Yugoslavians this is a risk.
Why do you want to know? is implicit in their eyes.
In any event, they tell him: Czobor.
Now he knows his fellow prisoner’s full name, Ante Czobor.
Three of Caleb’s poems are published by a big New York publishing house in an anthology of young African-American poets. The book is widely and positively reviewed. A small press in New Hampshire invites Caleb to submit his work for publication. He does not hesitate. The book is being edited now for release under the title Distant Shores: Selected Poems of Caleb Franklin.
One evening in May of 1990, Josip arrives at the parish hall of Cyril and Methodius to find the people of the prayer group standing about in animated clusters, talking intensely. They are enthusiastic but worried by news. The Sabor in Zagreb has passed a decision on the sovereignty of Croatia, following a referendum. An independent Republic of Croatia has been declared!
Now Josip begins to study the newspapers in earnest. Day by day, the situation worsens. Belgrade is refusing to acknowledge the new country. It is brandishing its sabers and encouraging Serb minorities in Croatia to rise up and overthrow the legitimately elected government. People are being killed.
Serbia invades Croatia, Slovenia, and Bosnia. Full-scale war has broken out. The small republics have little defense other than their police forces, for the Serbs control former Yugoslavia’s army, navy, air force, weapons, money, and all instruments of intimidation.
The first scattered reports appear in the papers—civilians are being killed by the Yugoslav army wherever it goes. Cities are bombed. Vukovar is being pulverized. Its citizens are resisting the massive onslaught of Serb troops and heavy equipment with only small handguns. Mysterious death squads are roving about, mainly in Bosnia, killing Muslims and Croats. People are fleeing the country in great numbers. They are cut off and herded into zones, raped, tortured, exterminated—bands of merciless killers wear the uniform of the state, but the death’s-head insignia is branded in their souls.
It cannot be happening. This is not real! This is what genocidal shock troops do; this is like a world war concentrated into a micro-zone.
Josip prays fervently for proliferating intentions—the preservation of innocent lives, the conversion of guilty lives, for the survival of a nation, for democracy. Month after month his anguish grows. He feels helpless and ashamed. Though he knows that this shame over his safety is groundless, he cannot understand why he has been pulled from the fire only to watch from the sidelines the immolation of his people. The odds against Croatia are staggering. The people are practically weaponless, possessing hardly a rifle with which to defend themselves. Though they are rallying, arms embargoes have been placed by the world on the new republics, as if denying them weapons of defense will ensure peace. Don’t they understand? The peace that follows will be a trussed pigeon handed over to a hungry cat!
The editor of the Croatian journal tells Josip that weapons are being smuggled into Croatia and a resistance army is being built from the base of the small republican police force. Money is needed, and he is trying to channel funds to Zagreb. Josip contributes everything he can, lives on bread and water for weeks, sells some of his most precious books, even his fishing rod and reel, anything that people will buy. “It’s not much”, he tells himself. “I have not truly sacrificed.”
In December of 1991 the Vatican recognizes the independence of Croatia and Slovenia, as do Iceland, Ukraine, Latvia, and Lithuania. In January, Germany, Italy, and Sweden follow suit. Strangely, the most conservative nations of the West, notably Great Britain and the United States of America, are reluctant to grant official recognition. The latter’s successive secretaries of state are strongly critical of Germany for recognizing the new nations, arguing that such recognition merely escalates the war. Carl Johnson sends Josip a clipping from a Washington newspaper, an opinion piece that notes the strong economic ties that American banking and industry have with Belgrade. Oil, Carl concludes. For the most part, the media focus on horrific imagery and minimaliz
es, when they do not avoid altogether, the actual architecture of the situation.
Josip’s anguish grows and grows, fed by his outrage over the distortions in the American press. It is a combination of platitudes, humanitarianism, rhetoric about democracy (as the real thing is being sabotaged), and clever propaganda bottle-fed to the media by Serbia and its friends. Occasionally, other reporting trickles through and gains some momentum. Journalists on the ground send reports about the actual situation, revealing the motivations of the several nations involved. The situation cannot be distorted completely. Even so, mixed messages continue to pump into the consciousness of the free peoples of the West. For most, it is just another conflict in “the Balkans”, the zone of madness, the old cockpit of European hegemonies. Whenever Josip tries to explain it to others, they merely regurgitate the info-bites that television news has given them—a nation of the impressionable controlled by impressionists.
It is hard to sleep properly these days, little more than a few hours snatched from the constant anxiety, fleeing from awake-pain into dream-pain. Restless dreams become nightmares. He is a boy running from a village in flames; he is a youth drowning in blood; he is a man crushed beneath slabs of stone. He is alive and dead, screaming silently.
At every Mass, month after month, he pleads with Christ, “Why am I here? Why did you save me? Why are so many people dying? Why does evil go on devouring the good? Why do men of malice have so much power? Why do men of freedom help them?”
Each day Josip remains kneeling before the tabernacle long after most people have left the parish church, but the silence of heaven just grows and grows. Occasionally, he feels again what he felt that day when he laid the body of Abel Kristijan Bogdan before the tabernacle. It is the silence of Calvary, the muting of creation as the mouthpieces of the killers babble on about freedom and democracy even as they stab and stab with their lances, even as a fountain of blood and water pours from the wound.
On Good Friday, Josip makes a prayer during the liturgy of the Passion of Christ. Approaching the cross to reverence it, he is slowly moving forward in a line of fellow parishioners when a light appears within his soul. He perceives it as a form, not as actual thoughts. It shows him that he has been pulled from the fire for a purpose, though what the purpose is he cannot know. Then, in his mind’s eye, he is kneeling on the stones of St. Peter’s piazza, confessing to the friar who read his soul, and he sees as well the counsel he was given: You shall love your enemies; forgive those who harm you.
This he has tried to do, with much success and some failure, throughout the nearly thirty years since that turning point.
“Teach me to die like you”, he asks, as he kisses the bronze feet of the corpus.
On Holy Saturday morning, Winston phones. This year Josip is to spend Easter with the Kanapathipillai family, and he intends to take the bus to New Haven later in the day.
“Josip, I guess you saw yesterday’s Times? Look, if you want to go to the event, we’ll understand.”
“What event are you speaking about?”
“Don’t you know? Sunday evening, there’s a benefit concert at Carnegie Hall to raise funds for Croatia. American and Croatian musicians will be performing.”
“Would you mind if I go?” says Josip. “I could come to you on Easter Monday.”
“Miriam and I are driving down for the concert too. Why don’t we meet you there and bring you back to our place afterward?”
“Good”, says Josip, “Very good. This is wonderful news.”
At last something is being done. He can help. He can do a little to protect his homeland and perhaps to save lives.
He meets Winston and Miriam in the lobby as arranged, and they find seats together about halfway to the front. The hall is full, with standing room only. The orchestra is tuning up in the pit below the stage. The curtain parts, and an introductory speech by an American-born Croat begins the evening. Then come brief speeches by Croats in exile, including the editor of the monthly in which Josip’s poems are published. The applause is loud, impelled by the release of passions long-suppressed by helplessness.
As singers, musicians, and choirs perform, Josip feels his heart tear open again, exposing the reservoir of sorrow. Though he weeps silently throughout, his grief is mingled with an inexplicable joy and the whole is subsumed in supernatural peace. He is also surprised by a sense of consolation—the kind he has felt only after receiving Holy Communion.
Finally, as the evening draws to a close, a second curtain divides, and a grand piano is exposed. A man enters from stage right and seats himself at the keyboard. One by one, other musicians enter and stand nearby—three violins, a bass viol, cello, flute, oboe, and a long-necked bandura.
Silence falls as a stagehand brings a microphone to front and center of the stage. A dignitary, speaking in Croatian, introduces a Mr. Robert Finntree, the organizer of the concert. The latter is a distinguished, silver-haired man in a tuxedo. He apologizes for his lack of Croatian blood, for he is pure Irish, he says, drawing scattered applause from the audience. He goes on to say that he is married to a Croat and that his children are half-Croats, therefore he claims some rights. Appreciative laughter, stronger applause.
He continues with moving words about the war and about the peoples of former Yugoslavia who are falling victim to naked aggression, are invading no lands, and are merely defending what is their own. The Croatian people are doing this practically without material means and without a spirit of vengeance, he says, and are an example of courage for the whole world.
Finally, he introduces the concluding performance, “In the Homeland of the Soul”.
As Mr. Finntree leaves the stage, Josip’s scalp begins to tingle. He sits straighter, and chills wash through his body.
Can it be? Can it be the same piece composed by Iria more than thirty years ago?
The pianist begins, slowly, slowly, striking a minor note as if it were the deep booming of a heartbeat. More minor notes arise, the pulse of blood quickens, and the melody begins, quietly at first as if a soul is awakening. The violinists lift their instruments and draw their bows across their strings. The central theme emerges, growing complex with alliances, then the wind instruments enter unobtrusively and gradually increase in volume. Themes blend and part and reunite, and all the while it remains meditative and melancholic as the Slavic passion is released. The composition is Iria’s.
It has been refined with the passage of years, but still present are the faintest residues of the Orient and the cool northern exultation of Europe, followed by the heat of the Renaissance and the suction of the Turkish tide rising from the south, and then the final movement, when the tide is repelled at last by valor and faith and love for what must not be lost, for what has been purchased by immeasurable sacrifice. The cries of mankind are heard by the mysterious presence within the music, a vast consciousness who is suffering with his people.
The spirit of the composition has been preserved almost wholly intact. In the pauses between movements, the silence in the hall is like a suspension of breath in which the murmur of a thousand pounding hearts can be heard. They have left behind all thought as they rise into a realm that is never seen with the eyes and is rarely felt in the homeland of the soul.
When it is over, not a sound can be heard. No one speaks. No one applauds. There is only stillness, attention to the indefinable presence.
The musicians lower their instruments, bow their heads, and then the subdued weeping of a woman comes from somewhere in the audience, a child calls out, and a baby begins to cry.
Now the audience rises and breaks into thunderous applause, countless voices are cheering, it goes on and on as if it will never stop.
Josip too is standing, crying openly, as are so many others in the seats around him. Blinded by tears, he cannot see the performers and does not hear the voices at the microphone calling for silence and the final words of thanks. Throughout all of this, the audience remains standing, breaking into applause again
and again, while Josip is flown across the years and is once more within the parlor of the Horvatinec home in Split, seeing Iria’s face as she plays her composition, seeing Ariadne playing the same piece. Finally, he looks up and wipes his eyes. The past, the present, and the future are concentrated in this moment, this eye of the needle.
Mr. Finntree is surrounded by people on the stage; he has just finished his final words, and a little girl comes forward and presents a bouquet of red roses to him. A little boy comes forward at the same time and presents a bouquet of white roses to the woman beside him.
Josip steps out into the aisle. He moves through the crowd toward the stage, longing to ask so many questions. Perhaps this man will know how the composition came to America, how it survived. Did Vera and Iria take it out of the country when they fled? Surely it must have happened that way. Was it 1958 or 1959? Yes, it must have been 1959, because he had been married a year, the baby was due within a few months, and Christmas had just passed. Thirty-three years ago.
He is closer to the stage now, and hundreds of people are milling about the floor in front of it, clapping and shouting things to Mr. Finntree. More people are filling the stage from both wings to hug and kiss the musicians. Though he is talking to those who crowd him, Mr. Finntree keeps his arm around the woman’s shoulder, a white-haired lady of noble bearing. Her refined face is reposed and glowing. Yes, it is the man’s wife, because the woman’s right arm is around the man’s waist, her left arm dropped by her side. She holds a violin in her hand, and on the wedding finger is a diamond ring. The woman is Ariadne.
Josip halts. No, it is not Ariadne. This is merely how his bride would have looked after thirty years. It is another woman, but for the moment the similarity is difficult to absorb. He can move no closer since the uncanny resemblance evokes too many memories at once. He steps away from the crowd and sits down on an empty seat, a few rows from the front.