The Book of Blam Read online

  On liberation day—liberation from his superiors and therefore from himself—he had sense enough to remain alone at home, sending the custodian’s younger son out twice for provisions and looking out his large windows at Main Square, which was now packed with crowds of people hugging and kissing, waving flags, tossing flowers to soldiers, singing, firing cannon salutes, dancing the kolo, and cheering. Cheering in Popadić’s native tongue, which for three and a half years had been condemned to whispers, lamentation, or lying. Perhaps it was the cheers—so innocent in their exuberance, so of a piece with his pleasure-loving nature—that overcame the voice of fear the very next day and led him among the people. Or perhaps he was made bold by the lonely night after that lonely day, a night of bitterness and temptation, a night without human contact, without warmth, without conversation, without news, yet within arm’s reach of all these ingredients of life so essential to him.

  In any case, the next morning he bathed, shaved, put on his Sunday best and a light gray overcoat and hat, and stepped out into the street. He made his way to the curb, mingled with the crowd, felt on his face the breath of the cheering men and women, watched the People’s Army parade past, the jubilant young peasants in carts drawn by spindle-shanked horses decorated with banners and foliage. Soon acquaintances started turning up in the faceless throng. When Topalović, a wine and cheese merchant with a goatee and suspicious little eyes, to whom Popadić had given his business, sidled up next to him, all moroseness and concern for his shop, Popadić tried rousing him with a smile and some words of praise for the hale and hearty youth all around them. Topalović rewarded him by bleating the latest gossip into his ear, namely, who would be heading the municipal council, whose wives had agreed to take in which officers, and, incidentally, the fact that Popadić’s former underling, Većkalov, had been seen at city headquarters hobnobbing with the high command. This piece of information led Popadić to make a fatal move: even though Većkalov had worked at the paper as a proofreader for only a month and a half, having lost his job as a teacher with the coming of the Occupation, Popadić assumed he would be grateful to the man who hired him in his hour of need, so he took his leave of Topalović and headed straight for Town Hall.

  There, amid the whirl of men and women sporting uniforms, cartridge belts, and five-pointed stars, doors opened surprisingly fast before Popadić’s anomalous appearance, the military authorities responding to his queries politely though not quite knowing what to make of him and therefore sending him from room to room. Popadić came upon Većkalov in a small office on the third floor. Wearing a uniform, a partisan cap, and a new, dark handlebar mustache, Većkalov was attended by three men in mufti scraping and bowing before him. Većkalov gave a start at the sight of Popadić and immediately cut short his conversation with the civilians, who eyed the newcomer inquisitively as they filed out.

  “What in the world made you come here?” Većkalov shouted the moment they were alone, shooing Popadić to the door with both hands the way one chases away chickens or ghosts.

  But Popadić stood his ground and smiled. “I just wondered whether I could be of any use to you.”

  “You must be out of your mind!” Većkalov bellowed, horrified, and rushed to the door. “Leave this instant!”

  Popadić wavered, the smile frozen on his lips, but Većkalov flung open the door and cried out in a voice meant to be heard up and down the corridor, “Leave, I tell you, or I’ll call the guards!”

  Popadić turned white, put on his hat, and left.

  Back in the square, he stood lost in thought for a while, jolted now and then by the crowd; then he turned and headed slowly home. Just as he reached the Mercury, a young soldier with an automatic rifle over his shoulder approached and asked, “Are you Predrag Popadić?”

  “I am.”

  “Then come with me.”

  They walked along Old Boulevard—Popadić smoking a cigarette he had just lit, the soldier pointing his automatic at Popadić’s left side—accompanied by stares from passersby. Suddenly Miroslav Blam appeared.

  “Wait a second!” Popadić called out to the soldier and took a step in Blam’s direction, as though he wanted to explain what had happened, but the soldier immediately grabbed his arm and yanked him back to the curb.

  “You go off again like that and I’ll shoot,” he said, looking Popadić in the eye and giving him a poke in the ribs with the rifle.

  Once he had regained his equilibrium, Popadić took a careful look at the soldier. Then he shrugged, bowed his head, and set off, leaving Blam looking amazed, compassionate, and relieved all at once.

  Just beyond the Mercury they turned down Okrugić Street, which was deserted, passed a number of houses, and came out on Old Boulevard again. They crossed it and took Toplica Street to the former Jewish Hospital, which the Hungarian army, upon occupying the city, had emptied of patients and made into a barracks. Now it was swarming with partisans, and a partisan with a rifle standing guard in front of the wire fence nodded to Popadić’s escort and let them in without a word.

  They went into the courtyard, passing two tarpaulin-covered trucks, and entered the building through a kind of vestibule, the waiting room of the former hospital. The walls were still lined with white benches, though they were now occupied by young partisans cleaning their weapons and chatting quietly. At the far end of the vestibule a capless, middle-aged partisan sat at a small table that clearly did not belong there. Clouds of cigarette smoke, mixed with loud voices that seemed to be quarreling, wafted through the half-open door behind him. Popadić’s escort led Popadić to the table, where the stern, ill-tempered partisan took his identity papers and entered the necessary data into an exercise book that lay open in front of him. Then he ordered him to empty his pockets and went through the contents for a long time, returning everything but the wallet and the pocketknife.

  A phone rang behind the half-open door, and someone picked up the receiver and spoke. Suddenly the voices in the room fell silent, and a thin young curly-haired partisan wearing an officer’s uniform with no insignia appeared in the doorway. He looked around the vestibule and went straight up to Popadić.

  “Are you Predrag Popadić?”

  “I am.”

  The officer gave him a surprised, then a bemused look.

  “The editor of Naše novine?”

  “Yes.”

  The officer nodded and with a finger summoned a soldier on the nearest bench. The soldier jumped up, quickly reassembled the automatic that had been in his lap, and ran over to the officer.

  “Room 6,” the officer said, giving Popadić another curious look. Then he turned and went back into the room, shutting the door behind him.

  The soldier with the automatic took Popadić by the arm. “This way,” he said and led him down a long, well-lit corridor where several other soldiers were walking up and down with guns over their shoulders or at their chests.

  “Room 6!” he called out with the same bemusement as the officer, and one of the soldiers turned and unlocked a door. Popadić’s new escort took him to the door, poked him in the side with his rifle, saying, “In you go,” and Popadić crossed the threshold.

  He found himself in a large bright room full of people sitting on the floor. There was no furniture. He stood for a moment, stunned by the sight, but when the key turned in the lock behind him, he moved forward, careful not to step on anyone and searching for familiar faces. It was easy, because everyone was looking up at him. He immediately found several acquaintances and waved to them, but the figure that attracted his attention most was one huddling next to a closed window covered with curved wroughtiron bars. It was his political editor, Uzunović. He made his way to him, barely maintaining his balance, and held out his hand.

  “What’s going on here?”

  Uzunović shook his long, mournful head.

  “They’re shooting us.”

  “Impossible!”

  Looking around in disbelief, Popadić saw someone beckoning to him. At first
he thought of going over to the man, but when he saw it was Sommer, the German lawyer who had served on the Raid Commission Board in 1942, he simply waved back and sat down next to Uzunović.

  “Maybe you’ve got it wrong,” he said in a pleading voice. “They’ll have hearings first, investigations.”

  Uzunović shook his head again.

  “No hearings. Just firing squads. You’ll see.”

  He closed his eyes and dropped his head between his knees. Popadić lit a cigarette and stopped asking questions.

  From time to time the door opened, and a new person was pushed in by an unseen hand or entered reluctantly on his own. He would look around and either find someone he knew or remain standing by himself, but after switching from foot to foot for a while, he would eventually be humbled enough to find a place on the floor. The short autumn day soon came to an end, and since there were no lights and space was so tight, people started bumping into one another and quarrels broke out. The air grew heavy, and an irritated voice asked for a window to be opened, but when people sitting near the window tried to open it, it turned out to be nailed shut. Others went to the door to ask permission to go to the toilet. No one seemed to pay attention to them, but after a long while a guard opened the door and shoved in an old bucket. The pilgrimage that ensued cost many their places on the floor, but indignation was to no avail. No food or drink came, and no one thought of asking for any. Popadić held off going to the bucket until evening, when the stench reached even his spot near the window. By then people were stretched out—some drowsing, others merely exhausted from the ordeal—and he had a hard time making his way there and back. He returned to find Uzunović in a heap, his mouth wide open, sound asleep. Popadić crawled over to the wall next to him, thrust his hat under his neck for a pillow, leaned back, and soon dozed off himself.

  He was awakened by a commotion at the door. It was open, and a ray of light from a giant battery-powered light cut through the darkness. Behind it he could make out a tall, broad-shouldered partisan in a well-preserved German uniform shouting, “Silence!” though there was nothing but a low, sleepy buzz of voices in the room.

  “If I call your name, go out into the corridor,” the partisan said in his resonant voice, enunciating each syllable. “Do you understand? Only if I call your name. Nobody else.”

  He lifted a piece of paper to the light and started reading names. He called out each name loudly and clearly, then repeated it softly, as if to himself, until someone pulled himself up from the crowd and pushed his way over to him, past his massive body, which all but blocked the doorway, and out into the corridor. After the partisan had read about fifteen names, he lowered the paper and the light and left with no explanation. The door closed behind him; the key turned in the lock.

  Questions like Who? Why? How? surged from the lips of those left behind, because they all tried to guess from the names on the list what was in store for them. Their speculations were cut short, however, by a voice in the dark warning them to hold their tongues, and as they slowly, begrudgingly complied, they heard a motor revving up outside. “They’re taking them away,” someone muttered, expressing aloud what they were all thinking. It was the last comment of the night. The noise of the motor had made it clear that their fates were being decided not here but in a place they could not see, could not know, could not even fathom. All they could do was whisper their lamentations and final messages to one another. Some who had been particularly uncomfortable tried to find better spots for themselves; others stretched out again. Popadić remained against the wall, smoking.

  That night, three lists were read. Uzunović and Popadić were in the third. After squeezing past the partisan in the German uniform, they were immediately seized and shoved roughly against the wall by young, sweaty soldiers. When the partisan had finished reading the names, he counted the men and shouted, “Right face!” The soldiers hurried them out one by one into the courtyard, which was pitch black except for an occasional flash from the partisan’s light, and over to a truck whose back gate was down. Two soldiers hoisted them up and jumped in themselves, and someone on the ground pushed the gate back in place and fastened it with chains. Then the truck gave a rumble and jerked into motion, making a broad circle.

  Popadić wound up in the middle of the truck, and all he could see over the heads of his companions and from under the tarpaulin was a cloudy night sky without a single star. He had no idea where the truck was going, particularly as its headlights were off and it kept changing direction. Finally it slowed down and began to bounce through a series of potholes that sent its human load rolling across the wooden floor. The soldiers rattled their guns and ordered their charges back to their seats. Then it stopped, and the motor fell silent. There were voices outside, people calling to one another. The chains were undone, and the gate fell with a bang. The soldiers jumped out and ordered everyone to follow. The prisoners were surrounded by another group of soldiers—six, all with guns over their shoulders—then forced into a column, two by two, and pushed past the truck through a thicket.

  It was perfectly still except for the swish of their footsteps in the wet grass and the rasp of their breath, heavy from running. The air around them was motionless, and the trees stood out clearly against the dark gray of the sky. Then there were fewer trees and the column came out on a small clearing just as the horizon turned white and the first rays of the morning sun pierced the woods beyond and fell on the finely rippled surface of a broad body of water. They realized they were on a bank of the Danube. The soldiers called them to a halt. All around, the prisoners heard branches cracking, saw shadows flitting and human figures stirring among the trees. The soldiers in the escort left them in the middle of the clearing, moved back to the trees, and unslung their rifles. A man emerged from the shadows behind them, a short, thin man dragging his right foot and holding a double-barreled gun like a hunter. He went up to the column and waved the first two men forward a step, and when they complied he raised his gun and fired twice in a row. The men fell to the ground, moaning. Then he pulled the bolt back, and the cartridge cases fell out.

  “Who wants to be next?” he asked in a high voice.

  The light was growing stronger, coloring faces and clothing, and it was obvious by now that the man with the double-barreled rifle was very young, his chin smooth, his round, pug-nosed face the face of a child, though disfigured by a bright red scar that stretched from the left ear to the middle of the chin and had not quite healed. Limping along the column, he stopped at Popadić and cried out in his singsong voice, “Well, well! What have we here? A real gentleman! Who might you be?”

  Popadić gave his name.

  “And how many Communists did you shoot?” asked the young man in a low voice, as if confidentially.

  “None,” Popadić answered.

  “None, you say. But you lived it up while we died, you dog!”

  His voice cracked, and he raised his arm and knocked the hat off Popadić’s head.

  “Step forward!”

  Popadić stepped out of the column.

  “I have a special bullet for pretty boys like you,” he said, and stuck his hand into the pocket of the jacket hanging loose on his sunken boyish chest. After fumbling a little with the pocket, he came out with a long, pointed metal object and thrust it into Popadić’s face.

  “Know what this is?”

  Popadić shook his head.

  “Well, it’s a dumdum bullet, and when I plant it in your wavy locks your own mother won’t recognize you. You understand?”

  He hobbled a few steps back, inserted the bullet carefully into his gun, and took aim.

  “Mouth open!”

  Popadić looked confused.

  “Open your mouth, damn you! I’m going to shoot you in the mouth!”

  Popadić opened his mouth.

  “Wider!”

  Popadić opened his mouth as wide as it would go. The young man pulled the trigger. A shot rang out, and Popadić’s head burst apart. Thus pr
uned, his body stood straight on its legs like a tailor’s dummy for an instant. Then it slumped to the ground.

  *

  “Here we are, gentlemen, you can both get out.”

  “Here?”

  “Yes, here. But mind your feet. The ground is uneven.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr.. . . What did you say your name was? I thought we were going to Kać for me to give testimony. This is a swamp.”

  “The name of the man you are addressing is Leon Funkenstein, but do not blame him for ending up here instead of at Kać. It was my idea to bring you here. I am responsible for everything. I, Ljubomir Krstić. Also known as Čutura.”

  “But why?”

  “You will know soon enough. We need one more person before we begin. Let me see if it is time. Half past six on the dot. I am now going to whistle. Don’t be alarmed. It is a signal we once used in school. There. I hope that Blam is where I arranged for him to be and will soon appear.”

  “Who?”

  “You heard me. Blam. Oh, don’t start shaking. You are not going to see a ghost. I do not mean the late Vilim Blam, whose house you inhabited illegally. No, it is his son I have in mind. Miroslav Blam, alive and well, husband and father, gainfully employed.”