WOMEN Monique Kostelac
T
here’s a moment in a war that seldom few know about. An unnerving peace, a calm after the storm unknown to those who haven’t experienced it. The moments following the firing of the last bullet, and the fading of the final barking orders. It’s when soldiers begin to retreat from the trenches, and civilians vacate city bunkers. The soldiers walk off their battlefield, a field they played on as children, often with those they were against in battle. Vukovar, a town on the Croatian-Serbian border, saw the first of a conflict that Europe hadn’t witnessed since World War II. The Yugoslav War forced friends to become enemies, turned former countrymen against fellow countrymen. Schoolmates—who had known each other since they were toddlers and who had spent endless nights celebrating the Yugoslav basketball team’s impending global dominance—now shot at one another. Streets and homes they once shared, where friendly gatherings were commonplace with the soundtrack of their local musician—a man often with an uncanny ability to play every instrument he could get his hands on—playing folklore music and the laughter of children as they ran around playing soccer, were now stained with their own blood. ***
I didn’t think I’d be spending the day before my 22nd birthday fighting in a war that had already been going on for two years. After climbing out of a trench, I light a cigarette and lean against the brick wall of a home. A crisp waft of smoke weaves through the winter air in front of me. The sky is a pale grey, a dull backdrop to the crumbling buildings around me. The rain had stopped and started throughout the battle, attempting to wash away the crimson that trickled through the streets. I hear the sound of a stream running nearby and look to my feet, my muddied boots becoming surrounded by a flow of water. I look up ahead and see a neighbour dumping buckets of water on the road. The crimson begins to disintegrate amidst the tiny stones and dirt. ‘Marija!’ a voice calls out to me.
I turn and spot Goran, my uncle, and walk over to him. A cigarette hangs out from the corner of his lips, and his ragged Adidas gear mixed with army camouflage is coated in mud. ‘Come on, let’s go get some food. Teta Mara and all them are cooking up some paprikaš. They told me to get you first because ... Isuse, Maro. Your head!’
My brow furrows and I glance at my reflection in a window. There is a gash that runs along the left side of my head, in line with my ear. I can’t pinpoint the moment when it may have happened; I didn’t feel anything. Perhaps it was the adrenaline. ‘Come on, they’ve set up a nursing station nearby. Ankica is there. She can patch you up.’ ‘I swear, Striko Goran. I have no idea how I got this. I can’t feel anything.’ He chuckles. ‘You’re my niece. I expect nothing less.’
We walk through an alleyway that leads to another part of the village. It’s like a whole new world. Locals stroll through the streets. Soldiers huddle around barrel fires, smoking cigarettes and cackling at shared memories. Children run out of bunkers and into the muddied streets, grateful at their newfound freedom from the captivity. It seemed like life has been rebooted here again. The waning heartbeat has become regular again, pumping life through the town.
20
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