Fallen Fighters

Southern Serbian town of Nis (pronc. Niish; Naissus Roman era). Four kms. out a little settlement called Komren that was now a suburb of the city. There if not in the city proper, second largest in Serbia, Slavo had been a minor celebrity in the 60s and 70s.
         Thirty years in Australia and 25 - 6 visits through the period (interrupted only by a jail term), including the time of the NATO bombing. Other migrants saved their money for second houses.
         In front of Bab's TV we had argued about Milosevic, Clinton and Blair. Argued about the Arnauts, the Shiptars down in Kosovo; about reports carried in the Serbian media of uranium-tipped bombs.
         The return during the bombing campaign took three days via Budapest and then bus along the precarious roads. Slavo could not sit tight in Melbourne watching the spectacle; back there he would share the fate of the others. No kind of reasoning could dissuade.

 
Getting off the bus from Belgrade (2 ½ hr. express) the man at the luggage counter knew Grandad Slavisa alright. All the Roma around the place knew him, had a smile and a crack for Slavko whenever we visited the piazza in particular.
         Almost seventy meant little in Slavo's case with his vehemence and restlessness unchanged.
         Part of the renown had been gained in footballing days when Slavisa had been a star in Nis’s local league. Lad played with heart the old guys reported, knew how to roll it. It had been odd hearing the testimony from witnesses of that age. Was it No. 9 Slavo said he had worn?
         — Ja sam za njih bio izmisljeni igrac, when a little fit of boasting took hold. For them I was a ____ player.
         The term was unusual for an imperfect speaker. Izmisljeno was ordinarily "made-up".
         Both Slavo and his side-kick Uros got to Australia through football. Cika Danilo the butcher in Acland Street had brought out the pair. Cika Danilo was one of the chief sponsors of Footscray JUST; club President the Dalmatian Cika Ante at the other end who established The Vineyard behind 

Luna Park.

  
 Mates from primary school, Uros was half Roma, his mother straight-out gypsy. Truth be told, many of the people in the region had something of the Roma. Nislije were commonly put down by fellow Yugoslavs as cigani. (In her Bury Me Standing Isabel Fonseca records the highest concentration of Roma in Europe in Macedonia, south of Nis. The old Roma song raises at death people who had been on their knees throughout their lives.)

                                                                               

 
Since the visit there had been only sporadic phone calls, usually at St. Petak at the end of October when the feast day was recalled. (As well as birthdays we shared the feast day and early loss of fathers.) From Singapore there had been perhaps three calls, one of which revealed the stroke. Njesam ja onaj koji sam bio. I'm not the man I was. One arm was paralysed or part-paralysed; earlier Slavo had badly cut a hand on roof iron helping at a renovation in Spotswood.
         There was relief hearing of a friend's tears when Slavo was visited in the hospital. There had been kindness and compassion.  A great lover but also fierce hater, Slavo had become estranged from son, grandchildren, nephew and others. Periodically Slavo and Uros did not talk. At the time of the visit there had been only minor skirmishes.
       

Uros lasted ten years in Australia; as soon as a disability pension had been wangled he was away. Unlike Slavo, Uros couldn’t hold down a job. Through the 80s you saw Uros nights in the tram-stop on the corner of Brunswick/Gertrude drinking plonk with the blackfellas. On the park Uros had been known as the Assassin, less for his footballing skills than memorable cursing. Mowed down on runs along the wings, Uros would assail the offender as only Roma knew how. Slavo collected at least one beating at the Rob Roy opposite the tram-stop defending his loudmouth pal.
         Bit player on the field, Uros’s true talent was musical. Weddings, birthdays and parties brought nice earnings for the piano-accordionist. Slavko often drove and showed the gathering how requests were made for tunes. SLAP! spittle-moistened fifty displayed on the maestro’s forehead.
 

 Uros played for us on the second night in Nis. Warm mid-June on Uros’s back porch, partner Ziza adding voice when she knew the words and the lyric captured. From the end of the table Slavo provided occasional third harmony.  Ziza was somewhat restrained in the circs and asked for less raucousness. Some years before after his return from Australia Uros had enticed Ziza from her first husband, the neighbour over the back fence. An hour into the playing the neighbour began to return fire from his side with similar old favourites on what must have been a cassette recorder that Uros had no difficulty out-gunning. From the side of the case long thin fingers danced over buttons. Becoming muddled occasionally, Uros peered around the front of the instrument to straighten himself out. For all that he was engrossed in his performance, it was difficult to believe Uros was deaf to the sour old bugger’s shenanigans over the back. Despite the heat, before starting Uros had asked Ziza to fetch a vest from indoors to lighten the load on his shoulders. Eyelashes long like fingers, lips and nose: in a certain aspect, in particular moments and movements, there was something of the Assassin in Uros, something of the blade. When there was no room for pause the cigarette rested in crook of thumb and forefinger. Uros could not have weighted more than 40 - 45 kgs. Giving Ziza the lead and encouraging, the accordion flew in her direction as far as it would reach and returned elastically from a rise. Thin and tuneless in voice, when Ziza retreated or didn’t know the words, Uros filled the breach with his low murmur, relying on the touching lyrics for his effect. In the passages where the three muted, rasping voices joined together the subterranean swell of feeling overflowed.

 

After the stroke Slavisa had wanted to return to Australia. In Nis the medical provision was poor. Slavo had sent the doctors and nurses u picku materinu, into the cunt of their mothers. The extended stay on the equator was difficult to comprehend. We had rarely talked on a telephone. During the 2009 leg to Boka cousin Leka's appreciation of Slavo had hit the mark. Pun srca, full of heart, Leka had commented. Slavo over-awed many and had burnt numerous bridges.

                                                                                         
Through the impromptu concert on the patio outside Uros’s back door a screeching came up from the dark on the other side of the house that was put down to chooks. A couple of days later Uros showed his adjacent vineyard and orchard beyond. One side of the house there was a vegetable garden and on the other a sty and large chicken coop. In the light of day the fowl was seen to be made up of ducks, turkeys, chickens and fast-moving pesky pheasants, the latter said to be deadly for snakes and rats. It had been the pheasants that had let out the tearing shrieks through the playing.

         The others seemed acclimatized to the odour. A large cage of turkey chicks hung a couple of metres from our table, the light within the cage throwing shadows on the house when there was movement within. Underfoot a pair of dogs—one of which died the day after—nuzzled our legs and a number of kittens made movement precarious.

         Uros played the store of old folk songs in his repertoire. Some of the core themes returned again and again in various forms: love and heartbreak, fate and nevermore, sons and mothers, the café and drink. A mother reported the unfaithfulness of her beautiful daughter-in-law to her son, who let it pass, so besotted was he with his wife. Surprising turnarounds came one after another in the verses. The recourse to the café and bottle, grief and its term, the domain granted love and beauty found uncommon reconciliations one after another. Verses stabbed more deeply with the knowledge they could not be retained beyond that night.

         Uros, Ziza and Slavo sang the old favourites in discordant, moving chorus; there was little time for glossing and clarification. It was a surprise to find Uros in such fine form. Younger, cleaner-living, sober friends had peeled off long ago. Slavo and Uros often joked about their drinking. After a heavy night they mock-berated one another. Slavo exhorting: — We’re not going to drink any more. Uros: Nor any less either.
 

One day near the end of the stay there had been three separate deaths to mark. The morning held the first anniversary of Slavo’s brother Petar’s passing. Slavko was not attending at his nephew’s after the visit to the grave because he had unaccountably been left off the list of mourners on the commemorative notice. We followed the neighbours and relatives slowly in the car while they trudged up to the graveyard. Everyone brought along an offering, the men a bottle of rakija and women trays of food. After the priest rattled his verses each man and woman did their round, taking care not to miss anyone in the circle. During the course Uros passed close-by with perfect deadpan: Mother be fucked! Why was I born thirty years too soon?
         Mid-morning, prior to departure for the cemetery, the news had come that another pal had passed. Vlasta Peceni - Baked Vlasta—not to be confused with Vlasta Gumeni - Vlasta Rubberman—had suddenly expired on the eve of the commemoration for Slavo’s brother.

         Slavo had mentioned this Vlasta in the days prior. A telecommunication company was trying to erect a transmission tower adjacent Slavo’s property in the midst of dense housing. This had roused neighbourhood protest that found Baked Vlasta the most formidable opponent.

         Like a number of other relatives, neighbours and acquaintances of Slavisa’s, Baked Vlasta had served time (thereby possibly the moniker). Mostly the crimes were of theft and larceny; sometimes serious violence. In protesting the tower Baked Vlasta had threatened both council officers and police. The young officials had been reminded of Vlasta’s earlier incarceration. All their addresses could be easily discovered, Vlasta had warned.

         Early in his prison term years before Baked Vlasta had managed a remarkable escape. That day the judge at his trial was paid a surprise visit, the trembling man taken in hand and shown the long knife Vlasta had brought along. No need alarm; judge not to be harmed. Vlasta simply made the man swear the next time he was sitting in judgement he would give the accused fair chance to explain himself and tell his side of the story.

         Baked Vlasta had seemed perfectly well the day before. Slavo and Uros took bottles of rakija to the widow offering condolence, only to learn there of another death that same day, another of their acquaintance, this one from footballing days.
                                                                           

After the grandkids had been sent to the cunt of their blind mother news from Nis dried up. Phone calls were problematic and always unsatisfactory; once or twice attempts found no answer at the house. (The mobile was usually used only by pre-arrangement.) For a time a young neighbor provided a link, before word came they didn’t see Cika Slavisa anymore. Another burnt bridge; Slavo’s fierceness unchanged. Two or three mails to the elder grandson drew no reply.
 

We drove 3 - 4 kms. to Upper Komren to pay our respects. As the lads were plenty pokiseni, soaked by then a driver had been needed. Further out from Nis there were more barns, orchards, green cornfields and browning haystacks. At the house the deceased was laid on a table in what must have been the living room, body covered by blanket and additional towels on top. Because of the odour, Slavo informed. Mid-June was still short of summer proper and nights cooled quickly. A portable air-cooler to which the bereaved son regularly added water rattled at the head of the casket, old women in widow’s weeds making up the circle. We went to stand under a large fig where a number of men were gathered, among whom was found a star of the old team. Careful and scrupulous in judgement, Slavo gave this “Johnny” the title of champion—an astute play-maker, highly skilled dribbler who never lost the ball. The men in the group continued to hold their former teammate in high regard. It was apparent Johnny continued to reign in Upper Komren for other than sporting talent, his quiet, unabashed way of collecting tribute giving the clue.
 

At the luncheon tables Slavo was outstanding company, a brilliant host, brilliant talker and raconteur. The stories followed one after the other seamlessly—peasant and office workplace stories, bawdy tales, tales of orphaned youth, games away at distant villages and army service. The delivery was all, vital, quick and perfectly paced, irreproducible on paper. A gypsy caught in extremis in the city drops his load on the pavement. O-oh! a copper. Quickly the hat for cover. The man on the beat enquiring was told a champion pigeon needed to be brought home. Could he hold on a sec while a cage was fetched?… Jesus touring the Holy Lands with St. Peter in company, the pair arrived at the house of the Good Samaritan. Warmly welcomed, food prepared, entertainment and sleeping quarters provided. In the night the Samaritan looked in on his guests. Finding himself aroused, the chap falls upon St. Peter unawares and quickly takes his pleasure, hapless aspostle enduring and keeping mum for understandable reasons. Nevertheless, thereafter St. P. decides he will remove himself from the place and assume the position against the wall. Wouldn’t you know it? Come back for seconds, the Samaritan chooses the unfortunate once more as he reasoned he had done the other previously. I tako je Sveti Petar platio kajgan. Again all difficult in translation. Proverbially, St. Peter paid a high price for kajgan, bread in old or regional Serbian.
                                                                          

The deceased had been an occasional player in the team. Johnny told of a game when the deceased’s father came looking for his son to help with the work at home. Before the father could sight him off the lad ran from the field to hide in the corn until the old man resigned. Uros asked one of the others the age of their friend. Turned out he was two years younger—born in Slavo’s year. Uros had been drinking the whole day, he wanted company. Words followed with Slavo. The pair had no restraint when they cussed each other. Even the most outrageously offensive fucking of the other’s mother was not out of bounds. I fuck you in the mouth, I fuck your sister, father, brain, bum, elbow, your all. A comic duet regularly reprised.
 

Two other outings at Nis taking in historical monuments.
         Belgrade, the capital of Serbia and former Yugoslavia, is a large, cosmopolitan city with a mixture of peoples and customs. As much as the renowned Serb heartland of Sumadija (lit. Forest), Nis in the south held the historical core people. Even during Tito’s reign there would be argument what constituted the true, authentic Serb; in the diaspora of course this was standard disputation. (Yet it would be Nis that rose earliest against the Milosevic regime.) 
         A few kilometres out of town we found the site of the last stand of one of the greatest Serbian heroes, Stevan Sindjelic, leader of the region in the uprising against the Ottomans in the nineteenth century that finally, after five hundred years—in Serbia’s case; six hundred for Greece—liberated the Balkans. 2009 was the bicentenary of the battle.
         King Alexander had built a modest monument to commemorate the battle of Cega, where Stevan Sindjelic, surrounded and out-numbered—betrayed too by the Russian Tzar’s separate peace—fired into his gun-powder to take with him the body of besieging Turks.
         An old pal of the boys named Miroselac (Village Peace-Maker) was the custodian; in order to deliver his spiel smoothly fellow needed to be lubricated, Slavo said. The monument was in the form of a tower from whose height the lie of the original battlefield could be seen. Remaining unsettled, with the help of some maps the folds of the green fields hinted at the distant event.

 
Another mail from Johor Bahru on 27 October was finally answered in the middle of January by the eldest grandson. (Facebook and Instagram had replaced earlier communication.) Two long sentences, before the third announced in the standard form, Nazalost imam tuznu vest—sorrowful news. Like in the old days in Spotswood when signal events from the old quarter were relayed to us two or three months after the event. A subsequent mail a few days later too dated the passing the previous May.

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By his example Slavo taught boldness, firmness, freedom and ease.

         On his final attempt at the disability pension the psych. doc. needed persuading; some little coaching in preparation had employed Slavo’s own best principles.

         There was no staying put in the chair. Rather than being answered questions were turned back on the inquisitor. A basin in the consulting room was used for hand-washing and on departure a farewell kiss planted on doc’s forehead, or either cheek it may have been.
         While the government airline JAT operated Slavo always got his 150kg bags aboard.

         At any confrontation challenges needed to be met immediately and no back-down.

         Before any figure of authority equal rank was always and immediately assumed. — Ne pusta on kisu, He doesn't make rain, Slavo reminded.

Later in the week we drove a few kilometres along the road to Sofia to see Cele Kula—the House of Skulls. Following the battle at Cega the Turks had severed the heads of the Serbian fighters and to terrify the populace mounted them on a crude stand. Originally there were nine hundred heads, the guide reported, which corresponded to the cavities in the four metre square honeycomb that had been raised. The structure would have taken a pair of labourers little more than a day to complete. Again, King Alexander had sanctified the heroes, covering the brittle old monstrosity with a Victorian crypt that was entirely disproportionate and misconceived. Slavo recollected a visit in youth when he maintained the House of Skulls had stood at that time naked and exposed, outside any cover. The guide said many returned with the same false memory. In the new millennium only a dozen skulls remained, including what was reputed to be Stevan Sindjelic’s own, now encased in glass. Relatives had taken away their own for burial; over the years mementoes were also taken, the guide informed.