Mama Leone (13 page)

Hans comes in hollering
Hey Franjo, what's up, what's down
, and gives Grandpa a hug, backslapping him so hard I always notice how full of dust Grandpa's back was before Hans beat it out of him.
Madame Olga, you just get more beautiful, like Greta Garbo in
Ninotchka, Hans bows and kisses Grandma's hand. Only Hans and actors in black-and-white films kiss women's hands, I mean, maybe there are other people who kiss them too, but not in my life. Then he comes up to me:
you've still got blond hair, if you're blond the next time I see you I'll teach you German so you can hit on a Berlin girl
. He takes me in his arms, throws me in the air, and catches me. Every time I'm scared I'll get stuck up on the ceiling and stay there like the saints in Sarajevo Cathedral.

Staka stands to the side smiling, just waiting with a bag full of presents. She always gives me a bar of Braco chocolate because she thinks I'm the little boy on the cover, and I always tell her that I'm not, but it never helps. That's Staka for you: She believes what she believes and that's the end of it. Grandma says she couldn't be with Hans if she were any different, but I don't get what that is supposed to mean.
Why couldn't she be with Hans otherwise? I don't know, probably she couldn't be his wife or couldn't travel to Drvenik with him unless she was sure that I was really the boy on the chocolate packet.

The only time Hans stops shouting is when he talks to Grandma and Grandpa in German. Then he's quiet like everyone else. He says he didn't learn to speak our language but to shout it, and that if he had to speak it, he wouldn't know a single word. Nobody believes him when he shouts that, but everyone laughs. Staka laughs along too, and I think that it's real love when you can laugh along with someone even though you see them every day and you've lived with them your whole life or maybe a bit less.

Hans became a German soldier when he turned eighteen and he came to fight in Yugoslavia. When I was little, two, three, four, I'd always look out for Hans in Partisan films because no one ever told me they were all actors and that in a film nothing's real, but even then I knew none of them were Hans because they all died and Hans was still alive.
Hans, were you at Sutjeska
, I ask him.
I was, I was
, Hans yells,
twice, with Staka and without Staka . . . And did you kill Sava Kova
č
evi
ć
? . . . I didn't, I shot up into the treetops, you know, into the pines. I was afraid of killing . . . So who killed Sava Kova
č
evi
ć
? . . . I don't know, there were lots of Germans, and when there are lots of people, it's hard to know who's killing whom
.

When the war finished, Hans got taken prisoner. He worked building a factory in Smederevo, Partisan Staka keeping watch on him
through the crosshairs. Back then he didn't know how to shout in our language, but there, from a distance and staring down the barrel of a machine gun, he told Staka he loved her, and when she somehow understood what he was saying she loaded the gun and sought permission from Commandant Joža Beraus to execute the prisoner. He said there had been enough killing, confiscated her rifle, and decreed that henceforth she had to keep guard unarmed. Staka bridled and burst into tears, and Commandant Joža gave her a hug and said
lassie, you're fifteen years old, and you've got no idea what that weapon'll do to your sweet little finger, the one that wants to pull the trigger. You're angry with me now, but one day you'll say thank you, Uncle Joža
.

So it went, Partisan Staka guarded the prisoners, and every morning Hans clutched at the air in front of his chest, made the shape of a heart with his fingers, and blew the heart to Staka. She got mad and reported him to the commandant and got a chiding for her trouble:
you should be ashamed of yourself, are you a Skojevka or are you not? You're there to guard the prisoners, not to worry about their flirting
. Things went on like this a whole six months, until one day Hans wasn't a prisoner anymore and showed up at the construction site in an ugly gray suit and with an army satchel on his back. He stood before Partisan Staka, took a piece of paper from his pocket, and read aloud:
I apologize if I offended you, but I loved you and loved it most when you were on guard to stop me escaping. I will always remember you
.

Staka spat at his feet, but not hard: just hard enough for him to get
the message that she was a Partisan, and that he'd been an occupying soldier. Come the next day she was desolate without him.
My heart has gone
, she said, and someone reported her.
Enough's enough
, said Commandant Joža,
I've had it up to here with bloody kids who want to kill one minute and fall in love the next
. He sent Staka packing, her Partisan days were over.

Hans left for his city, but when he got there his street, his parents, his sisters, none of them were there anymore; everything lay in ruins, and what wasn't in ruins was dead. Without a single living relative, Hans was left all alone.
Back then I could have been a German or a Chinaman, it was all the same, you're nothing without your kin
. Staka was the only one Hans had, so he swung his step back to Yugoslavia. They put him straight in jail. Hans told them he wanted to be a Communist. They asked him why he wanted to be a Communist, and he said it was because of the working class and because he'd been left all alone in the world, and as a good Communist he wouldn't be alone anymore. They said
very well then, you can stay in Yugoslavia, but don't let us catch you spying
. Hans said he wouldn't spy and headed for Smederevo to look for Staka.

I don't know what happened next, just that in the end they got married, and that Commandant Joža Beraus was their best man. At the wedding they sang “All men will be brothers” and began the life that came after the one where Hans had been a fascist and Staka a Partisan who wanted to write his death sentence. I don't quite know how all
this came to pass and neither do Grandpa and Grandma. Grandma says
they're both crazy
, and Grandpa says
they're not crazy, it's the times
. They philosophize like this after Hans has drunk all the beer, given us our hugs and kisses, and gone off with Staka to sleep in their camp trailer.

It's not actually a camp trailer because Hans has concreted around it and built a little hut alongside. In front of the house Staka has planted a lemon tree and an oleander tree and roses and marigolds. It's such a motley mix that Grandma says it's as ugly as Hans himself and I say it's as funny as Hans himself. Their weekend house is the strangest place in Drvenik and the building inspectorate has twice come from Makarska to demolish it because they think it's an eyesore scaring off tourists, but they didn't demolish it because Hans has a building permit. They said
signore, don't yell at us
, and then they left. Grandpa says they're just looking for a loophole in the law and that in the end they'll demolish Hans and Staka's little hut, and Hans says that much worse things could happen, and it would just mean he and Staka would have to start a new life. Hans thinks there's only one thing for every misfortune or unpleasantness suffered: to begin a new life. Grandpa says this is brave, and Grandma says that it's dumb.

It's such sorrow we don't have children
, says Hans,
everything is peachy, but that's so sad
. Then it's like the cat's got Grandma's and Grandpa's tongues, and they look at their hands laid out on the table as if they're somehow guilty or have done a number on someone because they've had three children.
There's joy without children too
, says Grandpa.
Of course, of course there's joy, but there's so much sorrow without children
,
Hans howls back.
You know, children grow up, get married, and leave, you end up on your own again
, Grandpa tries to get Hans to quit it.
You can be happy on your own too, but without children, without children, there's such sorrow
, Hans nods his head.
You get older and forget you brought them into the world
, Grandpa sticks to his tune.
Whether you forget or not, there's still joy, but Franjo, buddy, there's such sorrow without children
, Hans howls back, and I know that all hell's going to break loose any minute. Grandpa's getting edgy – his asthma, according to Grandma – and boy does he go for it when he finally blows his top.

He bangs his fist on the table knocking over Hans's beer. Grandpa's bellowing in German, Hans grabs his hand, I'm crying, God what's wrong with me, why am I crying. I'm crying because I'm scared, I'm scared because Grandpa's knocked Hans's beer over, and Hans is cute and funny, he's Grandpa's friend, and now Grandpa's yelling at him, Grandma's hugging Staka, Staka is smiling like someone who's misplaced their smile, no one notices me, and Grandpa just keeps yelling, Hans grabs his other hand, saying something to him softly in German in a voice much quieter than Grandpa's now hoarse one, and I don't understand anything, not a thing.

Grandpa's breathing heavily and I've hidden myself under the table from where I'm sneakily looking at Hans. Hans has his head in his hands and his elbows on the table in the puddle of beer. His face is serene like he was dead, just his droopy bottom lip quivering sometimes, like a tamarisk leaf in the wind. Grandma's gone into the yard with Staka. Nothing happens for a while: It's just the two of them, one
who's breathing, the other with a lip quivering in the wind. I want to slip outside, but they'd see me. They must think I'm not here. And it's better I'm not here. Sometimes it's so good you're not here that you really wish you weren't there until everyone starts to smile again.

A tear runs down Hans's face, turns at the nose, and descends on his plumpy tamarisk lip. Then there's a second drop on the other side of his face, again turning at the nose and falling on his lip. Then a third and a fourth. Hans is funny even when he's not making a joke, like something sweet and dear that makes you smile.
I'm sorry, Franjo, I didn't know, I just wanted to say how sad it is without children, I didn't know I'd upset you
. It seems Hans can actually speak our language quietly.
You didn't upset me, it's just the southerly, and that I can damn hardly breathe
, said Grandpa,
and you, little man, out from under the table, scram. Eavesdropping on your elders' conversations, you're a bloody disgrace
.

I ran into the yard. Grandma was showing Staka our bougainvillea. Staka was stroking a leaf with her index finger, the same finger she'd wanted to kill Hans with.
I'm going to play
, I said, and ran out onto the road. Grandma whispers
lucky the little one doesn't understand German
. I heard that because I always hear her when she's whispering. She doesn't know how to whisper so I don't hear. However quiet or far away she is, I can always hear her whispering, and when you whisper it's because there's a secret to be kept, it's just that this time I don't know what the secret's about, what I wasn't supposed to hear, why it's lucky I don't understand German, what Grandpa yelled at Hans and why he got so
mad at him just because Hans said how sad it was without children. I can't make head or tail of any of this, but one day I'll find out and then I'll tell everyone.

The next year the building inspectorate demolished Hans's weekend house. I mean, they demolished the hut, the camp trailer they hauled up on a big truck and carted off to Makarska. The concrete foundation, mangled roses, and uprooted oleander and lemon trees were all that was left. Grandpa phoned Hans and Staka in Smederevo. He said
don't cry, my dear
, and then switched back to German. I only understood two words,
Kamerad
and
Freunde
. The first he said coldly, the second warmly, so I thought the second word sounded lovely and meant something like
see you soon
, and the first word sounded cold and meant something like
they found a loophole in the law and demolished your house
. But Hans wasn't afraid of cold words, just like he wasn't afraid of the cold sea. Hans is never cold. He's not even cold when crabs freeze in the February shallows.

Hans and Staka never came to Drvenik again.
Idiot Kraut, he says you can never go back where they demolished your house
, said Grandpa, sitting down to write Hans a letter.
What do you want to say to Hans, dictate it to me
, and it was then I had to compose my first letter:
Dear Hans, thank you for not killing Sava Kova
č
evi
ć
, it's cold here like the cold when you sit with your bare bottom in an empty bath. We've all caught colds without you. You're funny, be funny for us again
.

The almond trees bloomed in February and Grandpa said
here we go again, spring in midwinter
. He said that every February, never getting used to winters finishing so early at the seaside, the rules of nature of a lifetime no longer applied. The rules didn't apply because he wasn't in Travnik, where in February the snows fall on Mount Vlaši
ć
, and he wasn't in Sarajevo, where they cover Trebevi
ć
, Igman, and Tolmin, the whole world a whiteout. He was in Drvenik now and the only things to go white were the blossoming almond flowers, which he called the buds of spring. He'd sing
snow falls on the buds of spring
and we'd all think nostalgia had got the better of old Franjo, and that he was summoning his native soil to leap the Biokovo range and cover the sea in snow.
Do
you think the sea will ever freeze over?
I ask.
I don't think so, but it's possible . . . Does something that's possible ever happen? . . . Of course such things happen. That's why we say it's possible . . . So the sea will freeze over? . . . I don't think so, but let's say it does. What's it to you? . . . Well, then we could walk across the sea to Su
ć
uraj. You could buy a newspaper and then we'd come back . . . We can buy a newspaper here . . . Yeah, but it's not the same. We've never walked to Su
ć
uraj, but if the sea froze over we could . . . That wouldn't be a good thing. The fish wouldn't have any air . . . But they don't need air. What do they need air for when they don't breathe? . . . They need air. You'll learn this stuff at school. If the sea froze over the mackerel would die, and then what would happen to the dolphins, it's not worth thinking about. Dolphins are like humans, they come out of the water to breathe . . . Where do they get out, on the beach? . . . No, they jump up above the surface, breathe, and then dive back down again. They're very practical . . . Why don't they come right out, wouldn't that be better than all that jumping? . . . They'd die if they were always out in the air. Their skin needs the sea, their lungs the air. They don't live in the sea or out of it, they live somewhere in between . . . Like we do? . . . What do you mean, like we do? . . . You know, we don't live in Sarajevo or in Drvenik, but somewhere in between, because you'd die of asthma if we were always in Sarajevo . . . You could put it like that. I'd die because I'd be breathing fog and smog . . . And do dolphins feel sorry they're not always out in the air? . . . Why would they feel sorry about that? . . . Because you're always sorry about not being in Sarajevo and that you don't get to see the snow fall or the whiteness of the mountains anymore . . . I'm not sorry about that . . .
Then why do you start singing about snow falling on the buds of spring the minute the almond flowers blossom? . . . Because that's my song and I've got every right to sing it, even if it doesn't snow and the sea never freezes over
.