A Guided Tour Through the Museum of Communism (7 page)

“Our revolution does not eat its children!” the Marshal used to claim at the time. But that simply was not true. The Marshal never appreciated, to put it mildly, opinions different from his. His fear of a so-called counterrevolution was great, although nobody ever defined exactly what that meant. Generally speaking counterrevolution covered just about everything he thought was directed against him, since he personified the Communist Party and the government. Freedom of information was certainly not his kind of thing! Yet in the last ten years of the regime, the party's control mellowed: As long as editors in the media stuck to the general party ideology, they were quite free to publish the news, information, and even critical comments.

 

 

The Marshal was a ladies' man, yes he was. He flirted with every woman in sight. Even with such a distinguished person as Britain's Queen Elizabeth. Okay, he didn't exactly flirt, but he did do his best to charm her and many other glamorous and famous ladies. He spoke fluent Russian and German and basic English—not bad for a locksmith. Koki already told you that he was a Communist with style, which made him an exotic bird himself! But in Koki's long life he saw that what attracts people the most is power. Regardless of his looks, charm, or other abilities—of which he apparently had enough—his power itself was magnetic. It pulled people in; it drew them near.

From those exciting times and important visitors to the summer residence at Brioni, Koki remembers the food most of all. It was usually prepared by his cook, a pleasant local woman who understood his fascination, not so much with the food itself, but with its purpose, a feast. A feast meant entertainment, music, meeting interesting people, animated conversations, new faces, new ideas. Such a feast, to be sure, was at the same time a demonstration of his benevolence and his might. An autocrat but a hedonist, a benevolent one compared to Stalin, some say. Koki heard that Stalin's lifestyle was that of an ascetic monk.

You should know that there is a collection of twenty-one thousand menus left from the Marshal! Isn't that an impressive part of his heritage? I could recite to you many of the menus by heart! And the recipes—just ask Koki (and offer him a few nice morsels!). For example, a dinner for Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth consisted of lobster Bellevue, followed by a variation of grilled meat á la Serbe (
čevavapčići, ražnjići, pljeskavice
). On the other hand, Romanian president Nicolai Ceausescu was on a diet, taking only cereal and fruit juice. He was served a simple peasant soup from Zagorje with cheese dumplings. Being of peasant stock, he appreciated it a lot. Indira Gandhi loved apple cake, and Princess Margaret was served quails in their nest.

Ah, Koki could go on listing like this forever . . .

Surprisingly, judging by his favorite foods, the Marshal did not have a very sophisticated palate. He could have had caviar every day. He could have had champagne and strawberries for breakfast every day. What—isn't that the finest breakfast one can have, at least judging by the movies? He could have had anything he wished for. A wag of his little finger would have been enough to bring him quail's eggs, for example, although the thought of eating the poor bird's eggs makes Koki sad. Look, even here, at the seaside—and even in the summertime—his breakfast would typically consist of an omelet with sausages. This was called a
light breakfast
! No wonder his attaché was sometimes desperate, because the doctor's orders were that he should follow a certain diet. But who could have forced the Marshal to diet, even if it was for his own good? Because, of course, only he knew what was best for him, right?

You are what you eat—
Koki thinks it must be a Chinese proverb that he heard long ago, because it is so wise. It was certainly true in the Marshal's case. His eating habits were, indeed, very telling for those who knew where to look for signs about his character. As Koki said, pork was his favorite and, as far as he was concerned, his doctors and their ideas about health could rot in hell. His pleasures always came first, and the Marshal certainly knew how to please himself. Koki went so far as to sometimes think that he had become a ruler (a dictator, an autocrat, a head of the state—anyway, a person in power) just to be able to fulfill all his heart's desires. Or was it, again, the same thing as with his legs: Perhaps he acquired such desires only after climbing to power? Never mind, let's not get carried away by such speculation.

It is hard to believe that seemingly unimportant food habits and preferences—the content of his plate—can reveal a person's character. But according to Koki-birdie, his ability to seriously delude himself could have already been detected in his ignoring the doctor's orders and not taking proper care of his health. Knowing that he ate totally inappropriate and harmful food, Koki said to himself, “Our beloved Marshal, the greatest son of our nations and nationalities” (as he was sometimes called) “is seriously infected by the personality cult virus.” Ah, I see that you think Koki exaggerates, that he could not be that clever a birdie! But it was easy to come to such a conclusion. The Marshal was an extremely vain man. So much so that he believed nothing bad could ever happen to him. Whatever he did, whatever he ate, no serious illness could befall him. He felt so sure of himself, so untouchable—even by death. And that is the symptom of a grave illness that is closely connected to power. In fact, Koki thinks that it comes from having absolute power. But the paradox of such power is that it clouds not only your judgment but also your image of yourself. You begin to think that “living forever” is not only a metaphor; you begin to live that metaphor!

The most important characteristic of the personality cult is that a person believes in his own immortality. After he died, one of his doctors was here, and Koki heard him say that the Marshal did not believe he was dying. “What, amputate my leg? I'd rather kill myself!” he said angrily when the doctors told him he would need an operation to save his life. What kind of life would that be? Koki knows that the Marshal loved traveling, and he could see how humiliating it would be for him to travel like an invalid! A crippled old man! And how could he lead his people, who were accustomed to a strong, decisive, imposing person? It would look disgraceful. So it took quite some persuasion to get him to agree to surgery. He wanted to be the only one in charge of his destiny, like God. And even when he survived that first surgery, the Marshal was not aware of death looming—he spoke about his future plans, Koki heard. For him, death was an abstraction; it concerned others—not him. Yes, he said that “one is immortal because of one's deeds,” but this did not apply to him. Mind you, on his deathbed his barber dyed his hair every second week! That is what Koki calls wishful thinking. A sad picture comes to Koki's mind from those times, a photo with his two sons from the hospital in Ljubljana. The Marshal's last photo. Koki could see on their faces that they were worried and sad, that they knew what he did not want to comprehend, that this was the end.

Koki also thinks that at the beginning others were to blame for adoring the leader. But later on, he himself became responsible for accepting that adoration, for believing in it. One of the dangers of the Marshal's attitude toward the future was reflected in his perception of himself as being irreplaceable. That perhaps determined the destiny of his beloved country, Yugoslavia: He was hardly capable of imagining its future without him. Therefore, he did not prepare his successor. To create a successor would have meant that he recognized the fact that he was on his way out. But wouldn't that mean defeat? Perhaps even an offense? He could not stand competition; therefore, he eliminated anyone who had the capacity of eventually replacing him. Another characteristic of his personality cult was that he could not be criticized—a luxury others didn't have.

Then, in the late seventies, a so-called collective presidency of eight men, who would rotate in ruling the country, was created. But this eight-headed monster survived only a short time before the country collapsed into its bloody wars.

Well, well, of course Koki knows that in telling you all this he is being indiscreet. But, after all, the Marshal is dead, and this way he gets some extra food. He is a pragmatic tourist worker, and this is the only reason he is talking to you (by the way, give him a piece of your apple; he loves apples!). Koki, the Marshal's parrot who speaks five languages, and is a conversationalist and entertainer of movie stars and statesmen, of queens and dictators, reduced to the role of a clown for a fistful of peanuts now. Sad, very sad . . . no wonder Koki gets depressed sometimes. But then, there is You Tube, his favorite Web site. Koki asks an old zookeeper to bring him to a computer at the reception desk of the hotel. The keeper knows that when Koki gets sentimental, he asks a young receptionist to show him films of the Marshal's speeches and interviews. Or—if Koki is really in a gloomy mood—even of his funeral. Strange, you might think, that a depressed birdie would watch the funeral, yes? But let Koki tell you, it actually lifts our spirits, the zookeeper's and Koki's. This is because they can remind themselves how much the Marshal was loved and respected. Regardless of current claims to the contrary, every single man and woman cried when the Marshal died. Imagine that moment, when more than twenty million people cried! It was splendid, just splendid to see. Koki remembers how on May 4, 1980, life stopped in the whole country, which was much bigger then. And how people behaved as if they had lost their father, which in a way was true.

Yes, Koki knows that you are about to ask him why they cried for the old dictator, with his royal splendor and his personality cult? For good reason, though: He gave them a good life. Most of the people in Yugoslavia were peasants who had moved to cities after World War II but remembered their hard lives in the villages. The Marshal spoiled them. Like him, they enjoyed life far beyond their means. That is why the political opposition never blossomed in this country. People were satisfied with their lives, with their standard of living. They were happy to travel abroad. To wear blue jeans and Italian shoes. To read foreign books and newspapers, watch movies and TV programs from the West. With these crumbs of freedom Yugoslavia differed from the Soviet bloc countries. How little a difference it was—and how big at the same time!

Yet, this moment of his death and the paralysis of the whole of Yugoslavia was perhaps the finest moment, the height of his personality cult. Just as if the Marshal belonged to some great royal family, say the Romanoffs or the Habsburgs. If only the Marshal could see it, Koki is sure he would be really pleased with himself. Over 200 foreign delegations attended his funeral, as well as 127 heads of state. Whether you believe it or not, that was more than at Churchill's or Kennedy's funerals. Maybe because he was the symbol of a “third way” at a time of polarization for many poor nations, regardless of the fact that this way led nowhere in the end. Anyway, the whole world was in Belgrade that day, as we used to say here at his residence at Brioni. Yes, his funeral was quite a spectacle, and it made Koki proud. Even more so because Koki knew some of the attending dignitaries personally. In a way, if one could forget the sadness of the occasion, it was a magnificent event. Surely never to be repeated for any of the buggers whom Koki would later see on this island in his long life.

No doubt, the citizens of the many small states that emerged from the breakup of Yugoslavia will judge the Marshal's role in history and the controversies surrounding his rule. These days, Koki hears that they are asking themselves whether he was a great Communist leader or a crook—as if the two were mutually exclusive! In the end, let me tell you that Koki doesn't want to get involved in such matters. Koki the parrot, his court jester, knows only that he did not need to beg for food back then. He performed for food, yes, but he did not beg.

No, thanks, I've had enough of your peanuts for today. Now, fuck off and go wash your feet!

M
y name is Tosho, Tosho the Dancing Bear. My stage name, that is; otherwise I am Todor. As in Todor Zhivkov, our beloved Bay Tosho, our Tato. I was named after him by a toothless old Gypsy Roma fittingly named Angel. Angel belonged to the only nonintegrated people in Europe, the one that managed to resist the Communists' attempts at social engineering to create “new men”—as well as any other kind of social integration. He bought me from hunters and brought me up and trained me to dance. His family had owned bears for seven generations; we were their only source of income. Angel loved Todor Zhivkov, the first secretary of the Communist Party, the president of Bulgaria, and the most reliable ally of the USSR in the Soviet bloc. He is one of those who claims that during the thirty-three years of Zhivkov's rule he felt more of a human being than he does today. By that he means that all of his eleven children went to school, even if only for a year or two. Health care, housing, employment opportunities, and social welfare—all of it was more available to his people before. Nowadays, however, said Angel, in the new, united Europe we are being persecuted more and more. Not only in Bulgaria, but all over Eastern Europe. In Hungary and Slovakia, in the Czech Republic, Romania, and Slovenia we are being expelled, beaten, stabbed, forcibly sterilized, shot dead, or burned alive in arson attacks. Our kids are still placed in schools for the handicapped, which predetermines their future . . . But maybe his memory is failing him. Anyway, twenty years after Zhivkov has been gone from power, he still keeps a newspaper clipping of Bay (Uncle) Tosho's photo taped on the wall, right above his black-and-white TV set.