Island of The World Read online

“My son,” says his father rubbing his eyes, “it is one thing to defend. It is another thing to attack and degrade . . .”

  “What do you mean, Tata?”

  “I cannot explain it to you now. Later I will tell you, after we have seen the sea.”

  There is no more time for questions because they have arrived at a stable where people can leave their donkeys and carts. Father pays a few coins to the man who looks after the animals. He will feed Svez while they are gone. They joke with each other, trading a few details about their lives. He is a Croat, and it turns out that he grew up in a village near Rajska Polja. Now he lives in the city and hates it. Then they talk about the gunshot. Who was firing upon whom?

  “I don’t think he was after Italian blood”, says the stableman in a quiet voice. “Though he’d like some of that too. If he shot an Italian you can be sure their soldiers would be stampeding through the city like pigs at slaughter time. Still, they’re not Germans. If he had killed a German you can be sure they’d be rounding up hundreds of people right now to shoot them in reprisal.”

  Father purses his lips. “The Italians have imprisoned thousands in camps”, he says in a voice just above a whisper. “They have been shooting hostages too. At Primošten they shot and stabbed eighty people in retaliation for the death of fourteen sailors.”

  Suddenly father catches himself and glances over at Josip, who is studiously observing the other animals in the shed. He is listening, though he pretends not to be.

  The stableman lowers his voice: “Maybe he was Ustasha. Maybe Chetnik. Maybe Partisan. With everyone carrying guns, who can tell! I hear the Ustashe are after a Chetnik chief who crept into town last night. Maybe it was Baćović.”

  “Who is Baćović?”

  “He’s one of Mihailović’s gang of murderers. On their way to Makarska they burned several Croat villages and killed all the men and boys fifteen and older. They tortured and killed three Catholic priests too.”

  Father frowns and puts a finger to his lips. The man nods. He gives Josip a dry fig, a great treat. The boy chews it ravenously, eyes shining with euphoric pleasure. The man gives him another, which Josip packs into his mouth even as he chews the first, eyeing his benefactor’s pockets in hopes of more.

  “The children must eat”, the man says to father. “They are our future, they are our hope.”

  There is more discussion about travel to Split, which Josip ignores because a goat has nibbled the donkey’s ear and a quarrel has broken out between the animals. It is very funny.

  That night they sleep in a room for travelers—a big room attached to the stables. Josip is a little frightened of the strangers who are lying so close on the other cots, but his father reassures him and holds him snugly until he is asleep. In the morning they walk about the city. Father agrees to risk a little time, although the autobus that will take them to the coast departs within the hour. They walk back and forth on an arching stone bridge connecting two ancient towers on either side of the river. It soars in the middle, but to Josip it seems no higher than a hillock on the pastures of home.

  “Castles?” he asks pausing in the center of the span to gape at the towers.

  “Yes, like castles. Guard towers on the river.”

  “It is very, very wide”, he says peering down into the water.

  “It is narrow.”

  Josip does not respond, for in his mind he is now standing on the topmost battlement, brandishing a sword, or shooting arrows down into the ships of invaders.

  Then a race to catch the autobus. Josip has never seen one before. It is a tremendous thing, like a beast that eats people, then spews them out alive. There are a lot of people inside it. His father pays some coins to the driver, who is standing by the door with an anxious look and the palm of his hand open. They find an empty seat for two persons halfway to the rear. When the beast roars, coughs black exhaust, and begins to move, Josip’s eyes widen as the seat bounces him up and down.

  “Oh!” he cries, half in amazement and a little fear, half in delight.

  His father smiles and puts an arm around his shoulders to keep him from banging against the glass window. The bus plunges along at a terrifying speed and lurches as it rounds corners of the mountain road, which is very narrow.

  “How far is it to the sea, Tata?”

  “As the crow flies, Josip, it is only eighty kilometers. We are too late to catch the bus that would have taken us directly to the coast at Ploče. Now we will take a different route, northwest through the mountains. It is longer and slower, but we are in no rush. Are you in a rush?”

  Josip grins. “I am not in a rush, Tata.”

  “Good. This way, also, we will pass through Široki Brijeg, where Fra Anto became a priest. It is a school for boys and a seminary. It is also a great shrine in honor of the Assumption of Our Lady into Heaven. Many Franciscans live there.”

  “Will we meet them?”

  “No, the autobus will pass through the town, but we can see the church and the school up on a hilltop. It is a blessed place.”

  The bus rumbles along, up and down on the winding and unwinding roads, which are better than the roads leading to Rajska Polja, but still rough. Now and then the bus stops and must back up, sometimes a kilometer, to allow oncoming army trucks to pass. It bounces all the way, backward or forward, squealing and rattling. It is a great thrill. There are animals on the bus. Chickens in a crate. A few goats tethered to the legs of the seats. A piglet in a burlap sack elicits Josip’s sympathy, for though the weave of the cloth is rough, permitting air, the top is tied with twine, and the piglet is thrashing and squealing.

  The road plunges down into a valley full of trees, and there on the heights of a promontory is a big church made of fine yellow bricks, with several large buildings about it. Beyond are fields and groves of fruit trees. The bus stops below to drop off a few passengers and pick up others. Then it roars and continues on its way.

  So, that is where Fra Anto was a boy, thinks Josip. Yes, he must have been a boy at one time, long ago. Then a seminarian, and then a priest. This is a good place.

  “There are more than a hundred thousand books in its library”, says father. “Great scholars teach there, friars who studied in Paris and Budapest. Someday, Josip, perhaps you will study here.” He makes a sign of the cross as he looks back to the church, just as the bus climbs out of the valley and leaves everything behind.

  Hours pass. Old men begin arguing in subdued voices that grow louder as the journey stretches on.

  The word Chetnici again. Ustashe too is repeated. Also HSS and NDH and Domobrani. None of these or other subjects seem to be happy ones. The old men are worried. A king is mentioned—Petar. The old men approve of the Croatian Peasants’ Party, but think it has been destroyed. They do not approve of the king who has run away, but their dislike of Ustashe and Chetnici is greater.

  “Do we have a king?” Josip asks his father. “I did not know we had a king.”

  “He is in exile”, his father whispers. Again he whispers. This is strange. Tata never whispers. None of the men of Rajska Polja whisper. Only women whisper, and then it is usually with smiles for happy secrets, new babies sprouting in their mothers’ bodies, or youths and maidens engaged to be married.

  The autobus driver honks his horn, and a roadside donkey barely escapes from its path. Across the aisle, two old women pray the Rosary. Smaller children watch every passing detail of the scenery, their heads held high and mouths wide open. The youngest are nursed at their mothers’ breasts. Some of the women, the poorest, do not cover themselves with shawls. Josip disapproves of this exposure, though he is fascinated.

  The bus stops at a narrow ravine that cuts the road. Its stone bridge has collapsed, and only two wooden beams have replaced it. The driver gets out, scratching his head. His passengers spill out while he is trying to decide if he should risk a crossing. The ravine is no more than three meters wide, and it is not very deep, but to fall into it would precipitate a longer plunge down
the mountain side. The passengers scatter into the roadside bushes, startling flocks of small golden birds. Joseph observes their flight, pondering the patterns they make in the air.

  The driver widens the distance between the two planks, measures with his eyes, sighs, and shouts for everyone to get back on board. Father suggests to him that this is not a good idea, because, if the tires slip off the beams, a lot of people will die.

  “You think it’s better for me to die alone?” asks the driver with an offended tone.

  Father looks back at him with an expression that is usually readable only by his wife and child: the one he uses when he does not wish to speak his mind. It says, “So far beyond rational thought is your attitude, that nothing I can say will change it. A lifetime of reasoning with you would not alter your amazing inability to comprehend reality.”

  So, everyone but his father and Josip gets back on board. Except for the murmur of prayers, silence reigns as the autobus rolls slowly across the ravine. It arrives safely on the other side, and everyone within it bursts into applause. Josip and his father walk across while the bus waits for them. The driver graciously, without comment, opens the door for them to climb in. The journey resumes.

  An hour later, a barricade brings the bus to a stop. There are about a dozen Italian soldiers waiting there with their rifles cocked. Three of them get on board and go up and down the aisle inspecting every face. Silence reigns. They question a young man, and unsatisfied by his answers, drag him out of his seat and push him through the door into the arms of the waiting soldiers. The Italians get out, then wave the bus onward. The silence continues for a time, and then a chorus of muttering begins. An old woman bursts into wails, though it is uncertain if she is related to the young man. Other old women go to her and comfort her.

  “Why did they take that man?” Josip whispers into his father’s ear. He is learning to whisper.

  Father flashes a warning look at him: the look says, Be silent!

  Not long after, the road makes a wide curve, then descends more steeply. Another curve, and father says, “There it is. The sea.”

  Josip presses his face to the window, his eyes straining, mouth open like a baby, head stretched high on his thin neck. Beyond the folds of the foothills the sea is the shape of a feather held sideways at arm’s length. The sun is glinting on it, but he notes how blue it is, a shade of blue he has never seen before.

  “What do you think?” his father asks.

  He cannot think. He can only see it, only drown in its presence, for it grows and grows. It is bigger than the world, this sea.

  Now the bus rushes down the last incline and screeches to a halt where the mountain road meets another road, one that runs along the coastline. Josip and his father gather their belongings, stumble through the chickens and children and goats, reach the open door, and hop down into the dust. The engine roars, the bus turns right and begins to chug into the north toward Split.

  “Why do we stop here?” Josip asks.

  “Because I am going to show you the sea. In Split we will see it too, but it is a harbor with many wharves of stone and cement, and it is not so nice. Here the sea is as it was when Odysseus sailed upon it.”

  The road is hundreds of meters above the shore. They shoulder their baggage and leave the road, making their way down a steep incline through a grove of olive trees. The hill is rough underfoot but less stony than the pastures of the mountains. Trees and wild plants grow taller here. There are many flowers, some of them new to Josip. The air is hotter and drier. The sun beats down. They stop beneath a tree and in its shade drink from their water-skins. But neither of them wants to rest. They press on, picking their way through outcroppings of white stone, clumps of thorn, and low bushes bursting with red flowers.

  At last they arrive at a cliff and stop to survey the terrain in search of a way down. On its crest is a tree that Josip does not recognize. Round golden fruit litter the grass beneath it. Josip throws himself onto his knees and picks one up. Oh, such a color!

  “It’s an orange”, his father says. “Can I eat it?”

  “You can try. But it’s a winter orange, very sour.”

  Josip carefully bites into the skin, spews it out with a look of disgust. But the smell makes him dizzy with desire. He peels the rest with his fingers and sinks his teeth into its flesh. It is very wet inside. Oh! It is sweet!

  His father picks up one of the windfalls, peels it, and splits the insides into pieces shaped like a quarter moon. He nibbles one, then spits it out.

  “These are really sour”, he says.

  Josip divides his into moons and gives one to his father. “This one is sweet”, he says.

  Father bites into it, spits it out, and makes a face. “Even more sour!”

  Convinced that his father is joking, Josip eats the remainder of his own, then opens another and eats it. He has eaten six by the time he is full.

  “Sour?” asks his father.

  “Sweet”, Josip replies.

  Now they are ready to undertake the final stage. Going with caution among the jumbled rocks of the cliff, they traverse it at an angle and, within minutes, are standing on a beach of smooth white stones, millions upon millions of them, the largest as big as a dove’s egg, the smallest like peas. There is no wind, and the ocean is calm, yet it heaves continually. It is breathing. It casts gentle sighs upon the shore where a lip of water rises and falls back, leaving a line of wetness.

  Josip runs forward to touch it, his heart beating wildly. He is totally in love for the first time in his life. He loves it all—the water, the new sounds, the little stones, the vastness of the space above the sea, the sense of infinity that opens up before him. He has never seen so much sky gathered in a single place.

  He kicks off his shoes, strips off his clothes down to his undershorts, and wades in. He grins in surprise, shouts inarticulately, a half laugh, half cry. Jumping up and down, splashing, feeling with his toes the underwater bed of round white stones, the spray on his bare limbs, the heat of the sun, he is so happy. He knows now that he can penetrate the infinite. It would be worth drowning in it just to have this moment of play. He takes a few more steps, pressing against the sea’s power, and now it swells above his knees.

  “Josip, that’s enough. Come out, it is very cold.”

  Oh, it is so warm!

  “Please, Tata!”

  “A minute only. I don’t want you to catch a chill.”

  All sounds, especially the voice of caution, fade away because of the impelling command of the sea and the force of his youth. He thinks of nothing, only feels it. There is ecstasy in his face and exultation in his heart. He flings his arms high above his head and runs forward. Laughing, he plunges in.

  Underwater, it is not necessary to think about breathing, because it is full of light: blue light and white light and golden light. He opens his eyes, the salt in the water stings them, but this is fine, this is part of it. He can see lacy weeds moving backward and forward, and a school of little yellow fish darting about, a crab walking away on its tiptoes, a purple star crawling.

  Then his body is seized, the arms of a giant squid wrap around him and heave him up into the air. He gasps for breath, struggles to escape, for he has read about giant squids.

  But it is his giant father, standing in water up to his neck, dragging-swimming back to shore with Josip in his arms.

  The man drops his son onto the white stones, and the boy lies on his back with arms stretched above his head, eyes closed, grinning like a madman. His father sits down beside him, his shoes and clothing soaked. He removes them and spreads them around to dry in the sun. He does not look pleased. He says nothing, just watches the distant horizon, where a ship with red sails is passing from south to north.

  After a while, father lies down on his stomach, head on his forearms, and dozes. Josip sits up and watches the sea. He can see Argo far out, can hear the shouts of the Argonauts. Monsters are trying to seize the ship and pull it down forever.

>   Bird songs mix with the sound of surf. Not songs, really, but chirping and cheeping. It is familiar to him because there are swallows in the mountains too. He glances around trying to find them. Farther along the shore stands an embankment of sand, part of the cliff face, about ten meters high. The swallows are there, darting in their unique way, soaring sometimes, and plunging. They have wings and tails like no other bird. Josip jumps to his feet and heads toward the cliff.

  Standing at its base, he sees that the swallows have made homes in the wall of hard sand, hundreds of holes. Now and then little heads pop out for an instant, take a look around, and then go back in. Birds on the wing swoop down and enter this or that hole, others leave. There are probably chicks inside. It’s a very busy place.

  Josip has been entranced by them since his earliest years. Their qualities are sufficient cause for this, but there is, as well, the name they share. The lastavice are family. He has learned that this is of no interest to them. The admiration is not mutual. They are as elusive as other birds, but swifter and smarter. He has tried to capture them at various times, with no good results. They have dive-bombed him at nesting time. They have sat on the roof of Svez’s shed, observing his activities out of the corners of their eyes, scolding him or discussing him (he is never sure which), as he gazes out of the bedroom window. If he climbs to the roof of the shed, they fly across to the roof of the house. If he climbs to the roof of the house, they fly to the shed. They devour enormous amounts of insects, a habit for which all human residents of Rajska Polja respect them. They hunt at nightfall. They are small but amazingly courageous. They fear nothing, not even the alpine eagles, or the crows, or the vultures. They regard the earthbound domestic hens with pity or perhaps with lofty disdain. It is possible that their estimation of people is the same. They are never, never, interested in contact.

  Josip imitates their calls, which draws their attention. The patterns of their flight, their arrivals and departures, change for a minute before returning to normal. Then, remembering that the sea is near, he leaves the swallows, goes back to the shore, and sits down by the edge of the surf. A wind has risen over the water. The sea is now making waves, and the stones are chattering. Whenever a wave comes in, it strains to reach his feet, but he has cleverly placed himself so that it can only touch his toes for an instant before retreating.