Miljenko Jergovic - Mama Leone

When I was born a dog started barking in the hall of the maternity ward. Dr. Sreko ripped the mask from his face, tore out of the delivery suite, and said to hell with the country where kids are born at the pound! I still didnt understand at that point, so I filled my lungs with a deep breath and for the first time in my life confronted a paradox: though I didnt have others to compare it to, the world where Id appeared was terrifying, but something forced me to breathe, to bind myself to it in a way I never managed to bind myself to any woman. Recounting the event later, first to my mother, and then my father, and as soon as I grew up, to friends, they brushed me off, said I was making stuff up, that I couldnt have remembered anything, that there was no way I couldve started drawing ontological conclusions the first time I cried. At first I was pissed they thought me a liar, and I wasnt above spilling a few bitter tears, hitting myself in the head, and yelling youll be sorry when Im dead! With the passing of years I calmed down, having figured that this world, of which I already knew a little and could compare with my experience and my dreams, was predicated on mistrust and the peculiar human tendency to think you a total idiot whenever you told the truth and take you seriously the second you started lying. This aside, relatively early on, when I was about five or six, I came to the conclusion that everything connected with death was a downer and so decided to shelve my threats of dying, at least until I solved the problem of Gods existence. God was important as a possible witness; hed be there to confirm my final mortal experience and he could vouch for me that I hadnt lied about the one in the delivery suite.

Does God exist? I asked my grandma Olga Rejc, because of anyone I met in those first six years of my life, she seemed most trustworthy. For some people he does, for others he doesnt, she replied calmly, like it was no big deal, like it was something you only talked about all casual and indifferent. Does he exist for us? It was most diplomatic formulation I could manage. The thing was, Id already noticed how my family placed exceptional value on my socialization efforts and loved me talking about stuff in the first-person plural: when are we having lunch, when are we going out, when are we coming down with the flu. . at least at the outset I thought questions of faith would be best set in this context. For me, God doesnt exist, she said, I cant speak for you though. It was then I learned about truths you only spoke for yourself and in your own name. I was pretty okay with all this, though less than thrilled I hadnt been able to resolve the God question off the bat.

Ten years later I still wasnt straight with God, but Id figured the moment Grandma decided he didnt exist. It was early spring, everyone was out somewhere and Id stayed back at home alone. As usual I started rummaging through their wardrobes. I never knew what I was looking for but always found something, something linked to the family, Mom and Dad, Grandma and Grandpa, something theyd tried to hide from me from some reason. Their private histories were so dark, or at least they thought them so, and my investigative spirit so very much alive, that after a few months work on their biographies I knew way more from my secret sources than they ever told or admitted to me in the rest of my life put together. My starters curiosity soon turned into an obsession, and then into a mania. Id be disappointed if I didnt turn up something juicy or dirty. I wanted proof my father was a homosexual, my mother an ex-tram driver, Grandpa a spy or at least a gambler whod lost half of Sarajevo in a game of Preference. I loved them all, you have to believe me, but even more I loved the little testimonies of things theyd wanted to hush up so theyd make it into heaven if only in the eyes of their son and grandson.

But that was the day I discovered the false bottom in the big bedroom wardrobe. I lifted up the base and found a carved wooden box, a round glass container, and a green folder full of documents. I laid everything out on the rug, heaved a sigh, and opened the box. It was full of dirt. Regular brown dirt with little stones and blades of long-dried grass that disintegrated to the touch. They wont be planting flowers in this dirt, I thought, and then, not without some trepidation, sunk my fingers into the box to explore. But there was nothing there, just pebbles, grass, and all this dirt. You wouldnt believe the amount of dirt that can fit in a wooden box. Much more than youd think. You want to picture what Im talking about, then tomorrow grab a cardboard box I mean, I doubt youve a wooden one at hand go to the park, and fill it up with dirt. You wont believe your eyes!

I moved on to the glass container. It held a pocket watch, a ring (it was too big for my ring finger, I tried it on), this miniature metal figurine of some saint, a tie pin, and a little booklet by Anton Akerc, printed in Slovenian, the pages the thinnest Ive ever seen. The only other things were these two green army buttons with spread-winged eagles, which gave me the heebie-jeebies because I had the feeling Id seen them somewhere before.

Before opening the folder I stopped to think of all the stuff youre not supposed to know about in life. I wondered about the secrets that have to stay secret so the world makes some kind of sense, but since I couldnt remember any, I decided to push on. The folder contained three bits of paper. A birth certificate in the name of M.R., a baptism certificate in the name of M.R., and a telegram that read: We hereby inform you that private M.R. perished in battle against a Partisan band on September 10.

M.R. was my uncle. I knew he died in the war, and I knew he wasnt a Partisan, but Id never dreamed that he was the enemy.

I put everything back in its place and closed the wardrobe. Closing it, I knew nothing in my life would ever be the same as before I discovered the false bottom. I also knew my investigations into the family were over. Now it was time for asking questions, but only of those who questions wouldnt hurt and who could answer them without leaving a bloody trail in their wake.

I waited for days for my chance, but it never came. Grandma almost never left the house, and when she did Mom wasnt there, and Mom was the only one I could ask. She didnt know her brother. She was born four months before he died, and although he never saw her, he gave her her name. Grandpa had wanted to call her Regina, but M. wanted his sister named after a tree native to Bosnia. The trees native to other countries too, but we didnt care about other countries because they were just places Grandpa, Uncle, my father, and everyone else went to war.

I went to see Mom at work. Can we have half an hour alone? She frowned, and I could already tell what she was thinking: hes going to admit hes a druggie, hes got some girl pregnant, he got his fourteenth F in math, hes a homosexual. . I wagged my index finger left-right, though we hadnt yet said a word. I sat down. Everythings fine, just give me a second. But Mom just got more wound up. I had to get it out before she jumped out the window and broke her leg. Me: I opened the wardrobe. Mom: It had to happen sometime. Me: I found something. Mom: What? Me: Everything. Mom: Even the dirt? Me: From the grave, right? Mom: Please, just one thing. Dont ever tell her. Me: I know. I came to you.

The part of the story that follows I learned back then, from my mom, and it goes something like this. When he finished high school, the same one Id attend fifty years later, my uncle got the draft. Because he spoke perfect German and had a German grandfather, they put him in a unit formally part of the Wehrmacht but made up of our people. They sent them to Slavonia in Croatia. My grandpa combed the city in a blind panic, badgering one acquaintance after another in one office after another, just trying to get his son out of the army. But of all his connections, only a Communist one proved any good. A friend, a manager in the railways and member of the resistance, told him how it could be arranged for M. to desert his unit and be taken in by Bosnian Partisans a couple of kilometers from his base. Grandpa was all for the idea, but when he relayed it to Grandma, she got scared. For a start she thought in his German uniform the Partisans would shoot her son on sight, and even if they didnt, hed be sure to lose his head in a Partisan one. More to the point, she was of the view that he was safer being the enemy. Grandpa tried to persuade her, but it did no good. He hollered so loud the whole apartment shook, desperate because he himself wasnt sure what was best, but also because he was certain how it all might end, who had justice on their side, and who would win the war. Mom of course had no idea what all Grandpas hollering was about, but Im sure he hollered the exact same thing when I was just a boy and he told me the story of the Second World War: