A Covenant of Poppies

Chapter 43

DUKE'S NOTEBOOK

MAR. 3 – Krdn

CROATIA’S POPULATION

78.1% Croat

12.2% Serb

0.9%Muslim

0.5%Slovene

0.1%Roma

0.001% Jew

Like the night of my arrival there was a get-together this evening and the small house once again filled with noise, laughter and enticing aromas. Soon enough the women drifted to the kitchen leaving the men to the living room. 

I passed Ulrika in the hallway as she tried to slip past me. "Want company?" I asked, trying to stay away from the living room. My uncle still hadn’t acknowledged me, and I wanted to avoid him. Ulrika shook her head and slipped out into the darkness. I made my way towards the main room and tried to keep away from my uncle. Before the party Aunt Marjia told me, "Don't worry. Give him time and before you know it, your uncle will be yipping like a puppy at you." 

Petar caught my eye and nodded a greeting. From somewhere a slivovitz appeared and was pressed into my hand. An older man with a furrowed brow, offered, "You are loyal boy to come so far." Another echoed something similar. These were my uncle’s friends, Bogdan, a Croat, and Orhan, a Muslim, both of whom I’d met previously. Flanked by full ashtrays and rapidly-emptying bottles, accepting drinks and compliments as they were handed to me, I felt as much at home here as I did anywhere. America and Belgrade moved someplace far away, tucked in for the night.

Suddenly, a large man tottered forward on Aunt Marjia’s carpet and felt tension surge through the room. He was shouting about the lack of work at the factories and swaying drunkenly. "Our supervisor tells us, ‘look busy.’ We’ve got no work orders. Nothing to do. Where is this ‘busy’ supposed to come from?"

"From the soil, Manislav," Bogdan advised. "It helps us through the hard times."

"Work will come when Tudjman gets rid of Belgrade," cried another.

Another neighbor, Ljubic, hollered, "If that madman, Babic, doesn't kill everyone first." This comment was met with boasts and laughter. 

"It’s not the Serbs fault we've got no exports. Give them that, at least," Uncle Phillip’s voice sounded ruffled. 

"Perhaps you’d like to give them Knin too!" Manislav added loudly. "Is that what you want, Phillip?" Manislav took a step in his direction, causing my uncle to step from the wall. 

"Tudjman is standing up to Belgrade," Manislav said, "and for that we should kiss his feet." Manislav flipped over the coffee table in front of me, spewing slivovitz and cigarette butts upon my aunt’s lavender carpet. He emptied an ashtray and spread its contents with huge, flattened hands. "Here's your Yugoslavia, Phillip." 

I felt my uncle's eyes flick over me. 

"That thief, Milosevic, wants this portion for Serbs." Manislav drew a shape in the ashes. "Here, he wants to take Montenegro and Bosnia and cede the rest to the Slovenes and Macedonians. What will Croatia be left with? Nothing!"He banged the table with his fist. "Do you want that Serbian bastard to have his way?" 

Phillip made no answer. 

"What have we got after decades of hard work?" someone asked.

Phillip said darkly, "we have each other." 

There was silence as an unmistakable wall arose in the room. "It's easy to talk nonsense when your loyalty lies with traitors," Manislav said to my uncle. "You'll have bastard grandchildren soon, Phillip."

At that cue, Petar stepped towards his father while Andric appeared out of nowhere. Phillip said calmly, "Time to leave, Manislav." 

"I'll leave when your daughter stops spreading her legs for traitors." Manislav spat into the ashes. Andric’s fists arose and Manislav cried, "Call off your dogs, Phillip." 

Philip laid a hand on Andric's arm and one on Marco's, who’d just appeared. Meanwhile, Manislav stomped toward the door, the party over. The wives moved alongside their husbands, saying good-bye. At once, I felt my uncle’s eyes alight upon me. I had, without realizing it, stepped up alongside my cousins, my fists poised.

Philip raised his glass, his expression gracious. For an instant, I felt I was looking into the eyes of a kinder version of my father. "Welcome, nephew," my uncle said, tilting his glass. 

 In the early hours of the morning I awakened to find myself curled on the couch. Men hunched in shadows around me, muttering to one another. I made out Petar and my uncle talking with Orhan and Bogdan, the last holdovers. I strained to hear their conversation without bringing attention to myself.

"They'll come around, Phillip," Orhan said in a low voice, "but if you don't fix your problem don't expect them to stand by you. They’re scared." 

"The Serbs in Vukovar are flouting the law," Petar answered. "Rumor is, the army will be sent in."

"Bogdan," my uncle asked, "What do you say?"

"I say Ulrika is too young to marry. Send her away."

"Orhan, is this what you would you do?"

He paused before giving his answer. "Unquestionably, Phillip."

Phillip turned to Petar, who nodded in agreement. 

"What about the boy’s family?" Phillip asked.

"They live in Grad Laka near Boselo Gora," Petar answered. "Been here for eight generations."

"Eight generations," Bogdan said. "Can it be we have all become frightened old men? Phillip, I tell you if my daughter came to me and said she wanted to marry out of the faith I would say, Allah, help me but I must prevent this. Because no child is safe among mad men. Phillip, if Ulrika insists, you have no choice. Do whatever is necessary."

"I’ll come speak to them with you," Orhan offered. 

"No. Petar and I will do it." Phillip was firm.

"When?"

"As soon as it is light."

"Better keep Andric and Marco out of this for now. The thing to do is like Bogdan says, send her away," Phillip said.

"We'll speak to the family," said Petar, concluding the meeting. "They'll no doubt feel as we do."

Orhan bent to pick up his cap from the floor. It was loden green and had a feather in its brim. "If that doesn’t work," he said, "return with Andric and Marco and we’ll join you."

A flash of light illuminated Marjia’s plump frame in the doorway. Her attention went to the overturned coffee table with the spilled ashtrays and broken glasses. "Look at what you’ve done," she cried. "Oh, what a mess!"

Philip answered calmly. "Yes, Marjia, a mess is what we have. We'll take care of it." 

It all had been decided.

I fell back, troubled. Had a conversation really taken place where Ulrika’s fate was determined without her knowledge? There was a rustling nearby and I awoke to the sight of my uncle in the chair facing me. Outside, the sun was catching the curtains' curly edges, as my uncle’s face broke into a smile. "Tell me, nephew, how are you enjoying your visit so far?" He asked this as if we were in the middle of a pleasant little chat.

Yes, I was in a country of madmen for sure.