Rose of Sarajevo Read online

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Text copyright © 1999 by Ayşe Kulin.

  Translation copyright © 2014 by Kenneth Dakan.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Previously published by Remzi Kitabevi in 1999 in Turkey as Sevdalinka. Translated from Turkish by Kenneth Dakan.

  Published by AmazonCrossing, Seattle.

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and AmazonCrossing are trademarks of Amazon.com Inc. or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781477824870

  ISBN-10: 1477824871

  Cover design by Salamander Hill Design Inc.

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2014905667

  To the indestructible Muslim Bosniaks, whose suffering lasted eight hundred years, and to the memory of my beloved father, Muhittin Kulin.

  CONTENTS

  INTRODUCTION

  SEVDALINKA

  MIGRATION

  APRIL 1987

  SEPTEMBER 1987

  SPRING 1988

  GAZIMESTAN, JUNE 28, 1989

  DISINTEGRATION

  INTRIGUE IN SLOVENIA AND CROATIA

  MARCH TO JUNE 1991

  JULY TO DECEMBER 1991

  SHIRT OF FLAME

  APRIL 5, 1992

  APRIL 8, 1992

  APRIL 9, 1992

  APRIL 10, 1992

  MAY 2–3, 1992

  MAY TO JUNE 1992

  ETHNIC CLEANSING

  MARCH 1993

  TREBEVIĆ, MARCH 1993

  TREBEVIĆ, MARCH 1993

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ABOUT THE TRANSLATOR

  INTRODUCTION

  This book tells the story of the heroic and honorable people who survived the horrendous war in Bosnia that took place from April 5, 1992, to February 26, 1996, during which Sarajevo was held under siege for 1,395 days, without regular electricity, communication, or water. Ten thousand six hundred Bosniaks—of whom 1,600 were children—lost their lives. Those who survived were pressured to accept the Dayton Agreement. With this treaty, 51 percent of Bosnia was left to Bosnia and Herzegovina, while the Serbs, who comprised only 34 percent of the population before the war, gained 49 percent of the land.

  SEVDALINKA1

  Sarajevo, September 1986

  Although Nimeta swayed in time to the song on the radio as she washed the dishes, she was feeling overwhelmed. Even her son had noticed how absentminded she’d been at breakfast.

  “Mom, that’s the third time I’ve asked you. Are you deaf?” he’d asked.

  “I’m a little distracted, dear. I couldn’t sleep last night.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m always like this when winter begins to set in.”

  “Winter doesn’t start in September, Mom.”

  “Well, it’s autumn. An in-between season. Winter will certainly be upon us soon enough.”

  Her son had given her a quizzical look, as though wondering whether she’d had too much to drink again the night before.

  For the past three years, she’d been drinking far more than any self-respecting woman should, and it was hardly surprising that her son realized as much, along with her husband, her friends, and her mother. An alert and quick-witted eleven-year-old, Fiko had developed fast in both body and mind. At times, under his sharp gaze, she was scared he could see right through her, straight to her heart. It scared her because she’d made a place in her heart for a love that shouldn’t be. When it had taken root, she’d done everything she could to keep it from growing, but to no avail. Perhaps if she and Stefan had lived in the same city, it would have been easier to part ways. They’d have seen each other every day at any hour, made love until sated, and been done with it—and each other. Or perhaps, living as they did in different cities, they’d have been unable to meet at all and drifted apart . . .

  But circumstances had conspired to snare them in a forbidden love, and Nimeta had turned to drink in an effort to conquer her helplessness and shame.

  “I’m leaving, Mom. Hana’s not ready yet, and I can’t wait for her. I’ve got an exam.”

  Fiko set their orange tabby, Bozo, down in front of his milk bowl.

  “Run along then, Fiko. I’ll drop Hana off at school.”

  Fiko kissed his tired, absentminded mother on the cheek, then hesitated at the door.

  “Is Dad coming home today?”

  “Yes.”

  As soon as Fiko had left, Nimeta slumped onto a chair at the kitchen table and rested her head on her arms. The moment she’d been putting off for years was swiftly approaching. She’d promised Stefan that she’d tell her husband about their relationship back when she’d first met him three years ago, but she had always found reasons to delay. First she’d pleaded that her children were too young. Then her father had fallen ill, and she hadn’t wanted to upset him. Next she’d decided to wait until Hana started school. She’d finally run out of excuses.

  “You’ve got to make a choice,” Stefan had told her recently. “I can’t go on like this. You must choose between me and your husband. I can’t stand the woman I love being married to someone else anymore.”

  “I’ll tell him I want a divorce. That I’m tired of our life together, of being lonely all the time . . .”

  “No, you must tell him the truth, Nimeta. If he doesn’t know there’s another man, he’ll never agree to a divorce. Don’t let him believe that it’s his fault. Tell him openly that you’re in love with someone else.”

  “That would kill him.”

  “In your religion, people only die at the appointed hour, do they not?”

  Nimeta had laughed. “Stefan, it’s not the angel of death that will kill me, it’s our love. And my sins will kill my husband.”

  Burhan would come home that night tired and dirty as always. Without even stopping to hug his wife or children, he’d head straight for the hot bath that Nimeta had drawn for him. Reclining in the steaming water, he’d try to recover from the exhausting two weeks he’d just spent up in the mountains. Then, as they sipped plum brandy at dinner, he’d describe every excruciating detail of the engineering project he was involved in—in which Nimeta had absolutely no interest. He’d do all the talking as always. And it wouldn’t ever occur to him to ask Nimeta what she had been up to while he was away, as though she didn’t have a career of her own.

  After dinner, he’d ask how Fiko’s lessons were going, appear to listen as Hana insistently sang the new school anthem, and cuddle Bozo on his lap while he watched television. Then he’d drag his wife to the bedroom and, after ensuring that their bedroom door was locked, he’d want to make love. That was always the most difficult moment of the day.

  Nimeta had once been madly in love with her husband, and she had shared his bed since the age of twenty, but these days she made all sorts of excuses. This evening, though, she knew it would be impossible to slip free of Burhan, who’d spent the last two weeks far from home. So she’d just have to drink enough plum brandy at dinner to send her head spinning.

  The only way out was for Nimeta to tell him she was in love with another man and wanted a divorce. Stefan had told her to tell Burhan the truth—many times—but still, how could a woman in her late thirties with a son grow
ing into manhood and a daughter still so young simply destroy her marriage of so many years? How could she explain it to a husband who was in no way at fault? How could she tell her children, family, and friends of her deception?

  “Mama, should I wear the blue blouse or the pink one?”

  Her daughter stood across from her, a blouse in each hand.

  “Wear whichever one you like.”

  “You tell me.”

  “Wear what you want. Can’t you see I’m busy?”

  “You’re just sitting at the table, Mom. What do you mean you’re busy?”

  “I’m thinking about something I have to write. You’re distracting me.”

  “They’re picking kids for the show today. I’ve got to look my best.”

  “Wear the pink one.”

  “Why?”

  “Hana! Children usually grow out of questioning everything by the time they turn four. Why are you acting like this?”

  “Why are you acting like this, Mama?”

  “Like what?”

  “Like you’re always in a hurry or thinking about something else.”

  Her daughter’s remonstrance stung. “I’m in love and I’m unhappy and I don’t know what to do,” wasn’t something she could say to her little girl, who stood there holding up her two blouses, her big blue eyes downcast.

  Nimeta reached out and gave her a hug. “Wear the pink one, because you always look pretty in pink. They’ll pick you today, Hana. I’m sure of it.” God could have the decency to make at least one member of her family happy, she thought to herself.

  The phone rang as she was stepping out the door with her daughter. She hesitated—Hana would already be late for school—but when the phone kept ringing, she rushed back in to answer it.

  “What’s taking you so long?” Sonya said. “Come quick. Incredible things are happening. We’re having a meeting in twenty minutes.”

  Nimeta dropped Hana off in front of the school and drove down from Alipašino to the television building on Bulevar Meše Selimovića.

  “Incredible things” were happening? What could be so incredible? Life had been stagnant for so long, everything seemingly predetermined, down to exactly how people lived, thought, and behaved—even how long they would live. She’d go to work every day, complete the assigned task of writing up news bulletins, and collect her salary; when the construction project wrapped up in Knin, Burhan would start working at another site somewhere else. The children would continue their studies. They’d take their summer holidays in Split and go skiing in Bjelašnica come winter. Their son would grow up to become an engineer just like his father, and just like her mother, their daughter would marry the boy she loved upon finishing university, bear him children, and resign herself to a life of boredom when that great love ran its course a few years later.

  How could anything “incredible” possibly happen in Nimeta’s world?

  She could tell Burhan that she was in love with another man and wanted to separate. Then she could pack her bags, abandon her home, and fall asleep in Stefan’s arms. When she woke up the following morning next to the man she loved, the spell broken, she’d remember her family’s reproachful words and stares, and then she could clamber onto the iron railing on the balcony overlooking the vivid autumn garden and plunge downward.

  Now that would be incredible.

  “Hey, what’s your problem? Watch where you’re going! How do people like you get licenses anyway?”

  Screeching to a halt, Nimeta rolled down the window and called out to the man she’d nearly crushed, “I’m sorry! It was my fault. My mind was elsewhere.”

  “Do your thinking elsewhere, not behind the wheel,” the man said.

  He had a point. For some time now, Nimeta had felt that everyone had a point. Was it because of her crushing sense of guilt? Everyone was always right about everything—except her. She was wicked, a betrayer of husband and children. Though Mirsada was the only person who knew the truth—and she sensed that her mother had guessed it—she seemed to be surrounded by accusatory eyes. But she couldn’t challenge the looks people gave her. No, she could only accept with resignation that all of them were right.

  Just the other day, Ivan, the head of the news production team, had said, “Something’s happened to you, Nimeta. You didn’t used to be this meek.”

  “Is that so bad? You used to complain I was too headstrong,” she’d pointed out.

  “I have to admit that I sometimes miss the old, fiery Nimeta,” he’d responded.

  Burhan missed the old Nimeta more than anyone. His boisterous and high-spirited wife, the tenacious defender of strongly held views, had been replaced by a mute, reluctant, and lifeless woman. Time could do that; it could change everything, crumbling all that stood in its path. Who had ever been untouched by time?

  While Burhan missed the old Nimeta, he secretly enjoyed returning home after long separations to a woman who was silent and still. He was often tired, and he’d grown accustomed to the peace and quiet that came with being on his own. In the past, he’d pretended to listen attentively as his wife tried to fill him in on her work in the media. But it bored him. The hectic pace, irregular hours, and tumultuous lifestyle were utterly alien to his world of plans and programs, facts and figures. The one thing he wanted above all else when he returned home was to feel the smooth, white skin of Nimeta’s body—now a little fuller than it had been fifteen years ago—against his, to bury his head between her breasts, to love her to his heart’s content and then sleep until morning, breathing in her scent. It was Burhan’s strongest desire, and it had stood the test of time.

  Nimeta parked her car and strode quickly to her office. She shut out the buzz of animated voices in the elevator. Her mind was on other things. Tonight . . . Things would come to a head tonight.

  She wasn’t conscious of arriving at the designated floor, turning left as she stepped out of the elevator, pulling out the chair at her desk and hanging her jacket on the back of it. She was on autopilot.

  “Nimeta, have a look at this.”

  One of the girls was handing her a faxed newspaper article. She glanced at the page number on the glossy surface and for the first time since she’d woken up that morning, the inner workings of Nimeta’s private world ground to a stop. She was thrust back into the real world.

  The September 24, 1986, issue of Belgrade’s Večernje novosti newspaper had run an excerpt of a memorandum prepared by Serbian academicians. It claimed that the Serbians residing within the borders of Croatia were in great jeopardy and that the failure to address this issue could lead to a catastrophic outcome for all of Yugoslavia. Journalists had long known that a proclamation of this kind was in the making. In fact, the secret police had informed President Ivan Stambolić that the Serbian Academy of Sciences and Arts had initiated such an undertaking. Stambolić, a Serbian nationalist accused by the Croatians and Slovenians of being overly partisan, and by his fellow Serbs of being insufficiently sensitive to Serbian interests, had expected the memorandum to contain certain socioeconomic criticisms of no particular concern. He’d been mistaken. Going far beyond the incitement of nationalism, the memorandum asserted that Serbs had been oppressed for centuries and appealed to the long-smoldering grievances buried in the hearts of every Serb.

  Nimeta sat down and took a deep breath. She read the excerpt again from beginning to end. Her instincts were unerring; three years earlier, she’d heard the far-off rumblings that had led to this memorandum. But like the once-distant patter of approaching footsteps, it was growing louder, drawing nearer and beginning to sound like the heavy tread of marching boots: the Serbs were preparing to play a dangerous game based on ethnicity. They’d begun playing with fire to further their ambition of a Greater Serbia. The first sparks were the continuously repeated lies that appeared in the Serbian press, the strident clamor over the supposed threats endured by Serbs everywhere.
The voices of unease and suspicion were growing louder across the land.

  She’d first heard them at the funeral of Aleksandar Ranković. Strangely, the chain of events that would throw both Nimeta’s private life and Yugoslavia into turmoil started on the same day: August 20, 1983.

  Nimeta had been sent to Belgrade to cover the funeral for Bosnian television. A secret police agent expelled from the Communist Party of Yugoslavia in 1966 for bugging Tito’s phone, Ranković had come to embody Serbian nationalism and the worst nightmares of the Albanians. After helping ultranationalism take root across the country, he’d died, as all mortals do. Tens of thousands of Serbs attended his funeral on behalf of ethnic Serbs living in all of Yugoslavia’s republics. A large press contingent watched this racist show of strength from a variety of vantage points. And that’s how, on August 20, 1983, Nimeta met Stefan Stefanoviç, a journalist from Zagreb.

  Reporters from every Yugoslavian republic except Serbia decided after the funeral to send letters of protest to the mayor of Belgrade at the time, Ivan Stambolić, for having failed to keep the crowds under control. Stambolić, who would become president of Serbia in 1986, had simply looked on that day in 1983 and done nothing.

  Along with the other journalists, Stefan and Nimeta had gone to the bar of a large hotel to have a postfuneral drink. Stefan’s dark eyes were locked on Nimeta’s blue ones all night. Though they were surrounded by people, she saw only him; among the babble of voices, she heard only his. She could feel the heat of his body. It was a sensation she hadn’t felt for many years, whose very existence she’d completely forgotten. For the first time in her life, she’d wondered what it would be like to cheat on her husband. What about Hana, her little girl, her baby? And Fiko, whom she adored . . . Still, she’d allowed this strange, dark man to engage her in conversation, to propel her to the dance floor, to pull her close, to breathe on her neck, to take her captive and transport her to other shores. When they’d returned to their hotel at the end of a long night in the bar, she’d been helpless to stop him from guiding her to his room, from unbuttoning her blouse, from brushing her breasts with his lips. She was on fire, and he could do whatever he pleased.