There was the question of the odd name. A few days ago, from a passing reference, the reminder came of the formal Zorica; usually Zora, Dawn.
Bešna came from bela, white, from her grandmother Gospava. In youth Bešna had been especially fair-haired. The oldies often devised names for their kin and many never called their children or grand by their proper names. Likely the old evil eye superstition at bottom.
More than forty years ago in the two or three meetings when she called around to her parents’ flat, it was Bešna in particular of the four children of cousin Peko who left an odd and unusually strong impression.
Eldest male Branko was Branislav, literally protector of the family feast day; and by extension, protector of its honour. The eldest male was always hope for the future too, of course.
A big lad who turned out a notable footballer, the first from Kraljevo to win national representation. Centre-back, 195cm. Forty years ago the height had not been so apparent.
The whisper had emerged at the time that Branko had needed to sort out his eldest brother-in-law, as his sister Bešna was being beaten.
Jelica was a nurse, later specialising in surgery. Forty plus years ago she too came to greet the visitors arrived from the coast, the first of her father’s clan ever to visit. Jelica had followed Bešna into nursing; the elder specialising in what was termed at the time, defektni childcare.
Youngest son Moki, Tomislav, from the line of old Serbian Medieval kings. Not the usual Tomo or Tomi. Moki.
Moki was the first of the siblings on the scene of the accident. At a marked pedestrian crossing a taxi had mown down his two sisters.
Jelica had already gone off in an ambulance and Moki found Bešna on the trolley about to be loaded into the back of a second.
Conscious and not so badly injured, it initially appeared, Bešna recognised her younger brother.
Njesam ja valjda nešto pogrešila.
Surely I wasn’t at fault.
These years later at mentions of Bešna, youngest Moki, now in his early 70s, would often start with tears. Because he did not do enough for her, he explained.
When the reported words at the crossing were cited to elder brother Branko, who had of course heard it at the time of the accident, he replied, Uvjeh je bila odgovorna. She (Bešna) always had a sense of responsibility.
It was night when the accident occurred. In some jurisdictions even forty-four years ago, in such circumstances the driver would have been jailed, regardless of any plea and argument. Pedestrians struck on a designated crossing, invariably the driver is guilty of reckless negligence.
It was a remarkable thing for a victim to say after she and her younger sister were run down like that. How could she have been at fault? Not keeping proper lookout?
Forty years before Bešna’s responsibility had been to welcome her father’s pair of first cousins, who had arrived from afar. It was her responsibility to meet them, greet them, offer hospitality and extend all kindness. This could only be done in her person, without aids of any kind. Her father and mother, the latter of whom she most closely resembled, could not have prepared her in any way. Apart from their example and manner perhaps.
The elder two, Bešna & Branko, were born in Kosovo. Younger pair Kraljevo, a town two hours outside Belgrade. The remainder of their lives all four would live in Kraljevo, apart from Branko’s decade away coaching football in China, and later Kuwait.
All four children, in their thirties forty-four years ago, strove to greet their father’s family with fitting respect.
At the end of the five or six day stay, during which accommodation had needed to be made for them, various gifts were presented, among which was a fob watch and two or three books.
The major gift was a woollen jumper that Peko’s wife Kosa had knitted during the stay. That was the reason for the searching looks from the woman around the dining table.
For her part, the eldest Bešna only gave of herself, by some inner stirring and rousing.
Two of three polite questions came from her. Responses were received with a slight inclination of the head.
Bešna sat emitting a kind of receptivity that was centred in her posture, her long pan face, in her eyes, in her pregnant quiet and stillness.
In this Bešna imitated her father Peko’s hospitality. Some afternoons Peko wore his suit jack over his shoulders like a stole. There were few words from him. A turn in his chair seemed to draw immediate, subtle attention. Through the whole of the stay of the guests the entire family kept up a solicitous fixed attentiveness and regard.
Moki’s eldest granddaughter, named for the marigold, told of the improvised tales grandad Peko produced for her in childhood. The man clearly had a flair for words. For the welcome of his guests in the early ‘80s, the year after Tito’s death, all the ceremonials for this kin come from afar were conducted with an unspoken feeling that worked like a gravitational force.
Bešna had acquired some of the knack. Something more than the sister two years junior, who attempted to follow the lead.
During the reunion forty-four years later it was learned Peko’s mother Gospava, back in the early ‘50s most likely, had travelled alone by horse and donkey to pay a visit to kin on the Montenegrin coast, over 400kms away. It was on her return some couple months later that Gospava learned of the death of one of the thirteen children to whom she had given birth, only five of which survived into mature adulthood.
Father Peko had passed by the time of Bešna’s accident and Kosa the mother developed dementia soon after. In Australia the news of Bešna’s passing lagged a number of years.
Kraljevo, Serbia
