Read Online Sarajevo Marlboro by Miljenko Jergovic - Free Book Online
Authors: Miljenko Jergovic
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awkwardly, âOh, for fuckâs sake, MiÅ¡o, Iâm a Serb too.â
When he didnât respond, Velija the Footballer stood up and was about to say something to MiÅ¡o, whom heâd already patted on the shoulder. But it was too late â the boxer jumped at Velija and delivered an almighty punch, the likes of which Bosnia had never seen before. Unsurprisingly, Velija the Footballer collapsed in a heap on the floor.
âPlease, MiÅ¡o, donât,â pleaded Meho the Paratrooper, on the verge of tears. âItâs a dreadful shame.â
âWhat is, you baboon?â MiÅ¡o replied.
âIf you donât know, whatâs the point in my telling you? But think of the trams â and think of the rest of us. Itâs a great shame when you talk like this.â
MiÅ¡o the Heart looked alarmed, as if he really had suffered a heart attack. He fell back into his chair, white as a sheet, with an utterly vacant expression on his face. The incident was over in a couple of minutes. It wasnât even long enough for a tram to go by.
Zoka the Barman poured brandy into a glass and took it over to MiÅ¡oâs table. For a while nobody else moved and the bar-room was as quiet as a grave. MiÅ¡o began to wipe away his tears â and then a crowd of people gathered round his chair. But nobody could think of anything to say. Outside, in the distance, you could hear machine-gun fire and the sound of explosions. Suddenly you noticed that the trams were passing by without ringing the bell. It was as though each soul in the room was passing from one body to another and changing into something that was painful and unrecognizable.
That night the regulars parted without a word. The following day a shell exploded in front of the Kvarner, breaking its window. The local hooligans climbed into the bar and ran amok, destroying the place and stealing the booze. Most of Zokaâs customers never even came back to see what was left of the Kvarner. Perhaps they moved on to other bars or ended up in another story.
The ex-boxer from Slavija in Banja Luka was shot on the bridge by the First High School. Some witnesses claim the bullet went straightthrough MiÅ¡oâs heart. Others say he was struck in the head. The daily newspapers wrote about yet another well-respected athlete who had been cut down by the enemyâs hand. And thatâs all, folks, except to add that most of the trams in the depot were hit by incendiary bombs and are now burned-out wrecks.
Slobodan
It was 1944 â and the future was uncertain. Bogdan and Mira spent the nights having long and painful discussions until it was finally decided to terminate the pregnancy. By pulling strings, Bogdan managed to get an appointment with a German doctor who performed abortions in secret for the rich women of Sarajevo. The operation went ahead as planned, but Miraâs belly continued to grow. By the time the couple realized that the fetus had escaped the scalpelâs blade, it was too late. Months of anxiety ensued: would the baby survive? Or would it be abnormal? Would it have two arms and two legs â and two heads?
On the day that Sarajevo was liberated Mira gave birth to a boy whom the couple named Slobodan, which means âFree.â As the last German units withdrew from the city, abandoning their weapons andtheir self-esteem, the newborn baby started to cry like any other infant. Mira gleefully changed his first dirty diaper as a story about the parish priest who had been lynched in the street was doing the rounds. The boy smiled for the first time the day the last Chetniks were captured in VuÄija Luka and led in handcuffs through the city. It seemed that Bogdan and Miraâs anxieties had proved to be unfounded. Perhaps God had intended the birth of Slobodan to herald a more prosperous age in which comradely hugs and outstretched arms would no longer be used to hide the fist of fear.
As the first wave of
When he didnât respond, Velija the Footballer stood up and was about to say something to MiÅ¡o, whom heâd already patted on the shoulder. But it was too late â the boxer jumped at Velija and delivered an almighty punch, the likes of which Bosnia had never seen before. Unsurprisingly, Velija the Footballer collapsed in a heap on the floor.
âPlease, MiÅ¡o, donât,â pleaded Meho the Paratrooper, on the verge of tears. âItâs a dreadful shame.â
âWhat is, you baboon?â MiÅ¡o replied.
âIf you donât know, whatâs the point in my telling you? But think of the trams â and think of the rest of us. Itâs a great shame when you talk like this.â
MiÅ¡o the Heart looked alarmed, as if he really had suffered a heart attack. He fell back into his chair, white as a sheet, with an utterly vacant expression on his face. The incident was over in a couple of minutes. It wasnât even long enough for a tram to go by.
Zoka the Barman poured brandy into a glass and took it over to MiÅ¡oâs table. For a while nobody else moved and the bar-room was as quiet as a grave. MiÅ¡o began to wipe away his tears â and then a crowd of people gathered round his chair. But nobody could think of anything to say. Outside, in the distance, you could hear machine-gun fire and the sound of explosions. Suddenly you noticed that the trams were passing by without ringing the bell. It was as though each soul in the room was passing from one body to another and changing into something that was painful and unrecognizable.
That night the regulars parted without a word. The following day a shell exploded in front of the Kvarner, breaking its window. The local hooligans climbed into the bar and ran amok, destroying the place and stealing the booze. Most of Zokaâs customers never even came back to see what was left of the Kvarner. Perhaps they moved on to other bars or ended up in another story.
The ex-boxer from Slavija in Banja Luka was shot on the bridge by the First High School. Some witnesses claim the bullet went straightthrough MiÅ¡oâs heart. Others say he was struck in the head. The daily newspapers wrote about yet another well-respected athlete who had been cut down by the enemyâs hand. And thatâs all, folks, except to add that most of the trams in the depot were hit by incendiary bombs and are now burned-out wrecks.
Slobodan
It was 1944 â and the future was uncertain. Bogdan and Mira spent the nights having long and painful discussions until it was finally decided to terminate the pregnancy. By pulling strings, Bogdan managed to get an appointment with a German doctor who performed abortions in secret for the rich women of Sarajevo. The operation went ahead as planned, but Miraâs belly continued to grow. By the time the couple realized that the fetus had escaped the scalpelâs blade, it was too late. Months of anxiety ensued: would the baby survive? Or would it be abnormal? Would it have two arms and two legs â and two heads?
On the day that Sarajevo was liberated Mira gave birth to a boy whom the couple named Slobodan, which means âFree.â As the last German units withdrew from the city, abandoning their weapons andtheir self-esteem, the newborn baby started to cry like any other infant. Mira gleefully changed his first dirty diaper as a story about the parish priest who had been lynched in the street was doing the rounds. The boy smiled for the first time the day the last Chetniks were captured in VuÄija Luka and led in handcuffs through the city. It seemed that Bogdan and Miraâs anxieties had proved to be unfounded. Perhaps God had intended the birth of Slobodan to herald a more prosperous age in which comradely hugs and outstretched arms would no longer be used to hide the fist of fear.
As the first wave of
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