Grbavica
By ryanwilliam
- 580 reads
Eye contact; she couldn't help but wonder if she, so normal to
herself, seemed as mysterious and foriegn to this man as he appeared
before her.
People were basically the same, she guessed, but if one looked close
enough and for long enough a period of time, you could see the
differences.
A picture would never express these differences but a video, maybe a
minute long, could show them in all their meaning and beauty.
He spoke clearly and with a peaceful confidence while she mumbled
beneath a head lowered with shame and held in place by the insults of
war. He was clean; she had not showered in weeks, maybe months - time
was lost, everything was lost to her. It was best to turn her eyes
away, she thought, no sense in making friends; war was not a situation
for heros or comrades.
The scent of slivovitz was strong. A woman beside her surely celebrated
before leaving. The friends and family she must have left behind made
Lara's heart ache now as it did then.
She missed the sweet plum taste of slivovitz and daydreamed about
kissing this woman beside her, if only for a brief taste of a life that
had long since been bombed from existance.
This woman placed a soft hand on Lara's clenched fist, peering deep
into bleeding eyes with a warmth and compassion that felt out of place
and intrusive.
"Zdravo...blesanica ka za mir hodja...? Nsaj ni plazenka...plazenka na
Bosnia mi zedrievko..."
Lara thought it strange a woman she did not know would attempt to
console her; odd enough she spoke at all but much more so considering
her friendliness and kind words.
Lara wondered if her appearance was this obvious and felt almost as
though her tired clothes and unkept features spoke to those around her
even before she did. Lara tried to remember what it was to shower
before bed, how it felt to put on her makeup and fix her hair just so
in the mornings but all these memories had escaped her. She couldn't
imagine how it felt to complain about taxes and bitch about broken
nails although she was almost certain that she had, before.
Maybe someday, she imagined, it will be possible to look back at this
time, at the war, and remember nothing.
What a pleasant fantasy this would be but do not expect anything, she
reminded herself; always best to expect the worse and never be
dissapointed.
"Nezad slika Grbavica, dobro dosli na Grbavica..."
Lara felt the vibrations rise from the steel wheels of the train,
through the framework, and into her feet. They passed through her body,
her bones splintered into dust, scattering her thoughts and leaving her
silent, cautious.
The rattle was the same; it stirred a memory of bombs, shrapnel and
tears from a place in her mind she'd tried desperately to forget.
A deep breath and from the window she stared out with dark eyes;
seemingly empty and yet somehow full of stiletto heels, landmines,
grapes and roller skates.
She could see herself in the anxious women waiting on the station
platform. She imagined her feet in those shoes, her body in that dress,
her face with those colors.
Lara glanced up towards the sky; she was surprised to see similarities.
The sky over Grbavica was the same sky which she saw last over
Sarajevo; the very same. She had somehow imagined there could be a
different sky outside the siege: something gold or maybe
diamonds.
Lara turned her eyes slowly towards those disembarking the train;
followed them with her nervous glare - across the hall, down the
stairs, onto the platform. All the clean people were joyous to be
'reunited'; what a painful word. A word she realized would never hold
any meaning in her life, only in death.
Lara stomped her feet; she wished the vibrations wouldn't end. Her eyes
filled with tears, beautiful as a sky of diamonds. The bombs, the
shrapnel, the tears, the war, the destruction, the chaos, the tension,
the anger, the sadness, the grief - the train - the vibrations. Maybe
she hadn't lived a war; maybe she had just fallen asleep on this train
to Grbavica? Another deep breath and, again, the window.
The clean people were staring at her now and she knew if she left the
sanctuary of that seat, on that train, she would fall into a maelstrom
of questions and comments and useless words strung together by people
who, to this very day, still had white tableclothes and fluffy bathroom
towels...
"Any news of Illdjza district?"
"This is a picture of my wife, Elna, she works as a Professor at the
University of Physics in Sarajevo - have you seen her? Do you know
anything?"
"Is it true about the concentration camps?"
"This is Dzana, my granddaughter and here is a photo of my son Milan.
They lived on Mula Musjabene in the Raljovac district, just a few
moments from Butmir Airport, do you know anything?"
"My wife, Sonja, here she is. She went to Sarajevo to buy furniture the
day the war began. It has been three years now and nothing, do you know
something, please, someone?"
Lara closed her eyes and was amazed to find visions and images of
Sarajevo on the backs of her eyelids. The daydream was vivid, full of
color and romance and endless nights cowering in the basment of an
apartment highrise with a pillow over her face and plaster dust falling
all around her. The vibrations in her imagination were so strong and so
soothing; they made her lips curve into a smile of sorts and she
recognized this as the key to her happiness. Lara simply couldn't
decide which direction she was running; towards bombs or trains.
She knew without experiencing Grbavica that it could, in no way,
compare to the paradise, the life she once enjoyed in Sarajevo. She
felt genuine peril and guilt now at having left behind her happiness
and even the most joyous memories brought with them a deeply seeded
terror. Her first kiss...the concentration camps...her sixteenth
birthday party...the death marches...her old Madonna CDs...the rape
camps.
In the first days of the war Lara would feel pain for every building
that fell, every street which was deserted as though it was her own
torso that was toppled, her own veins that were drained. Sarajevo was
as much a part of her as any limb, any thought, any dream and now it's
very existence was in jeopardy.
She remembered the shock and amazement during those first weeks of
conflict, "We hosted the Olympics for God's sake!" they would say,
"This can't happen here."
She wished she knew or understood or had any response to the questions
she was unable to answer; she imagined even a battered life in Sarajevo
would suit her more than a pale, shallow existence in a mountain
village with people who would never understand true emotion until
Grbavica fell into dust around them. Perhaps to die with her soul was
better than to live without it?
And then she thought of the Academy of the Arts. She pictured the great
stone buildings in her mind and instead of stunning masterpieces
spanning centuries of artistic ideals - she saw her Mother. She saw a
bloodstained, white gown glowing under the sharded pieces of a diamond
necklace. She could still smell the scent of burning hair and flesh and
could still hear the muffled screams of those around her.
Sarajevo was dead; she understood then she could never go back - if she
tried she would see it not with her eyes but with her memories. Every
crowded cafe would bring nervousness, every loud sound would hold her
heart tightly and every smile would be emotionally exhausting.
She stood now, on the platform, staring up into the familiar sky
without knowing why she had stood up from that seat, why she had
decided to disembark at Grbavica.
As the train grinded and creaked to a start she let her eyes close
slightly and her vision blur, mumbling a tearful farewell to her
thoughts, her past and her aquaintences.
When she opened her eyes to the world again she was amazed to feel
rejuvenation and contentment. Her heart seemed free of chains and her
mind felt empty and carefree. As she stepped into the train station,
head held high, she looked around at all the little cafes and boutiques
and wondered if fashion had changed much since she last went
shopping.
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