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Authors: Dan Fesperman
Tags: Fiction
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must have looked pretty pale. And in a few more days I stopped going there altogether. So we would meet instead in other places, more normal places, and we became friends.â
That was all Vlado cared to hear on the subject. He started to speak, but Haris raised his hand.
âPlease. Another beer. I pay, you listen. I am through with the part about your wife, but I had to tell you that much, so you would know.â
The bartender put down another round, Haris another crumpled bill.
âLater I heard more about this man, Popovic. It wasnât the name he used here, and people who knew him said he had gone back, back to Bosnia and the fighting. He had his own unit, his own men with their own black uniforms and a nickname. Popiâs Lions. But by then I had a life again. I was working in old buildings. Painting, or stripping out insulation. Paid in cash at the end of every day, or sometimes not paid. My sister didnât care. She stayed at home, quieter than ever, the TV on. After seeing Popovic that time she wouldnât leave the house again. But I kept working. And, yes, sometimes I saw Jasmina.â
It was the only time Haris came close to raising his voice, a brief note of defiance.
âThen, in early â94, the person sheâd been waiting for came home. And for me, that was the end of Jasmina. She called meâonly onceâ and said good-bye, said good luck. And for a while it seemed that was the end of life. So I kept trying to find jobs. Made a little more money. And forgot about women, and even forgot about this Popovic. Until three weeks ago, when I saw him again. Iâd heard about him some, like lots of people. Someone had told me that in the last year of the war heâd been at Srebrenica when the city fell, leading his unit again, helping round up men and boys. Looting, killing, doing whatever it is he did. Other people said later he must have gone to Belgrade, or even to Kosovo.
âBut now it was peacetime and there he was near the same bus stop as before, this time walking across the street toward the U-Bahn. He was in a hurry. Before Iâd always worried I might not recognize him if I saw him again, that his face might have gone out of my head for good, just to torment me, but even after more than four years I knew him right away, and knew that he hadnât seen me watching him. So I followed him, got on the U-Bahn a car behind his. Watched him through the windows and got off at the same stop. A long ride, a couple of changes. Then half an hour of walking and heâs on the Kuâdamm. And by now Iâm looking out of place, Iâm sure, a grimy Bosnian on this nice street of shops and theaters. The West Berliners with all their money and bored expressions, and Iâm half a block behind him, trying not to lose him.
âHe goes into the KaDeWe, the big department store, and for a few minutes I couldnât see him. I thought Iâd start crying right there in the store if I lost him after all that. Then I saw his head across the counters, heading toward an escalator. He went to the café, upstairs at the top of the store, all those plants under a glass roof. He sat down. He was waiting for someone, so I went to another table. I had to buy something, or they would have kicked me out. I took five marks out of my pocket for a coffee, and it drains me for the rest of the week.â
Vlado couldnât help but think of the bottle of Chanel, which must have drained him for a good month.
âI watch him eat his schnitzel, his pastry, his Coke, and his coffee. He spends what must be twenty marks just having a snack, and he keeps looking at his watch until finally a woman comes and sits down with him. Nice-looking. Probably a Bosnian, but I couldnât be sure because I couldnât hear what they were saying. But she was done up. A nice dress and black stockings. Lipstick. Very nice, and she was his. She belonged to the rapist, the killer. Gave him a
That was all Vlado cared to hear on the subject. He started to speak, but Haris raised his hand.
âPlease. Another beer. I pay, you listen. I am through with the part about your wife, but I had to tell you that much, so you would know.â
The bartender put down another round, Haris another crumpled bill.
âLater I heard more about this man, Popovic. It wasnât the name he used here, and people who knew him said he had gone back, back to Bosnia and the fighting. He had his own unit, his own men with their own black uniforms and a nickname. Popiâs Lions. But by then I had a life again. I was working in old buildings. Painting, or stripping out insulation. Paid in cash at the end of every day, or sometimes not paid. My sister didnât care. She stayed at home, quieter than ever, the TV on. After seeing Popovic that time she wouldnât leave the house again. But I kept working. And, yes, sometimes I saw Jasmina.â
It was the only time Haris came close to raising his voice, a brief note of defiance.
âThen, in early â94, the person sheâd been waiting for came home. And for me, that was the end of Jasmina. She called meâonly onceâ and said good-bye, said good luck. And for a while it seemed that was the end of life. So I kept trying to find jobs. Made a little more money. And forgot about women, and even forgot about this Popovic. Until three weeks ago, when I saw him again. Iâd heard about him some, like lots of people. Someone had told me that in the last year of the war heâd been at Srebrenica when the city fell, leading his unit again, helping round up men and boys. Looting, killing, doing whatever it is he did. Other people said later he must have gone to Belgrade, or even to Kosovo.
âBut now it was peacetime and there he was near the same bus stop as before, this time walking across the street toward the U-Bahn. He was in a hurry. Before Iâd always worried I might not recognize him if I saw him again, that his face might have gone out of my head for good, just to torment me, but even after more than four years I knew him right away, and knew that he hadnât seen me watching him. So I followed him, got on the U-Bahn a car behind his. Watched him through the windows and got off at the same stop. A long ride, a couple of changes. Then half an hour of walking and heâs on the Kuâdamm. And by now Iâm looking out of place, Iâm sure, a grimy Bosnian on this nice street of shops and theaters. The West Berliners with all their money and bored expressions, and Iâm half a block behind him, trying not to lose him.
âHe goes into the KaDeWe, the big department store, and for a few minutes I couldnât see him. I thought Iâd start crying right there in the store if I lost him after all that. Then I saw his head across the counters, heading toward an escalator. He went to the café, upstairs at the top of the store, all those plants under a glass roof. He sat down. He was waiting for someone, so I went to another table. I had to buy something, or they would have kicked me out. I took five marks out of my pocket for a coffee, and it drains me for the rest of the week.â
Vlado couldnât help but think of the bottle of Chanel, which must have drained him for a good month.
âI watch him eat his schnitzel, his pastry, his Coke, and his coffee. He spends what must be twenty marks just having a snack, and he keeps looking at his watch until finally a woman comes and sits down with him. Nice-looking. Probably a Bosnian, but I couldnât be sure because I couldnât hear what they were saying. But she was done up. A nice dress and black stockings. Lipstick. Very nice, and she was his. She belonged to the rapist, the killer. Gave him a
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