"Aftermath" by Karenne Griffin
by Karenne Griffin
Something a bit different, a story set in Australia (sort of) ...
The shooting had started again. I stirred restlessly, too exhausted to wake properly. Maybe if I ignored it, it would go away.
But everything sounded wrong, Where were the church bells, the noise of passers-by in the cobbled alley, Mama singing tunelessly in the kitchen? My eyes snapped open, to be instantly dazzled by blinding sunlight. I reeled from the bed, my heart hammering as though it was trying to batter its way out of my ribcage. Where on earth was I?
Gradually it all came back to me. I was no longer at home. The gunfire must have been part of the turmoil of my dreams. My eyes grew accustomed to the sunlight, and I reached for my watch. It was late.
I washed and dressed with the speed of one unaccustomed to an en-suite bathroom all to oneself, and hurried downstairs as though every second saved would mitigate my laziness.
Uncle Peter had of course departed for work some hours earlier; an opulent lifestyle was not sustained through lying in bed. Tina and Mark were apparently making the most of the long summer school holiday, for they were nowhere to be seen. Or, more appropriately, heard.
Aunt Susan looked up from her magazine with a languid smile.
"Good morning, dear. Did you sleep well?"
"Yes, thank you," I replied with as much enthusiasm as I could muster. There seemed little sense in troubling her with my nightmares. "I am sorry to be so late."
She smiled. "There's no reason for you to get up early, Andreja. Now, what would you like for breakfast?"
I shrugged, still unaccustomed to the concept of choice. Sometimes I found it difficult to keep the worm of bitterness from gnawing at my entrails; it seemed unjust that these people should have so much, whereas at home they had next to nothing. The familiar lump rose dangerously in my chest, and I turned away until the tears ceased to well and I could trust my voice not to waver.
"Some toast would be nice, thank you, Aunt Susan."
Aunt Susan insisted that I take my breakfast out onto the patio, to sit in the swinging chaise longue with a small table at my side. The sun glared down even more ferociously without the house to protect me, and I could feel my whole
puckering as I squinted against the light reflected in sharp shards from the swimming pool. In Australia it seemed the sun shone continuously.
Australia: the lucky country. Full of lucky people. Including myself. I bit my lip. I was having difficulty feeling lucky with the weight of the recent past heavy on my heart.
Just seven weeks before, I had been at home in Koraseva with my parents, in the icy grip of the Bosnian winter. Bitterly cold; more so than usual for we had no heating other than an open fire. And now I was on the other side of the world, lulled by the warmth of the summer sun, yet tortured by the question of how my family was faring. I had written page upon page, pouring out my heart to my mother and father, but so far, nothing in return. I existed from day to day, helplessly paralysed by the knowledge that the soldiers could return at any time, kill Papa, find Mama in the secret space behind the cupboard under the stairs
Then there was Rado, my brother. I recalled how Mama had wept at his absence on his twentieth birthday. That her son should be called away to fight for an increasingly hopeless cause when he should be at home, enjoying a carefree youth, celebrating his birthday with his family, having a few drinks with his friends. By now, for all I knew, Rado could be lying dead on the frozen ground.
I turned with a start at the sharp click of the sliding glass door behind me.
"Just going shopping, Andreja. I won't be long," called Aunt Susan. "Is there anything you need?"
"Thank you, no."
I sank back into my seat, smiling remorsefully as her bright blue dress disappeared behind the glass door. It would probably be some time before she asked me to accompany her to the supermarket again. I had been quite unable to contain my emotions at the sight of such bounty: exotic fruits piled high like jewels in Aladdin's cave, row upon row of tins with bright labels, the heady smell of freshly baked bread, and a freezer that stretched away into the distance, filled to the brim with frozen vegetables.
We'd had frozen vegetables in Koraseva. Potatoes and carrots, blackened by the all-pervading frost, mushy and disgusting when thawed. By December Mama had resignedly begun serving up the vegetables regardless of the way they looked and tasted. Food was in short supply. With a deep sigh I wondered what they'd managed to scrape together for their Christmas dinner.
Christmas was a blur in my mind. I had been suffering acutely with the mental jet-lag of my sudden departure from Koraseva, safe in England with Aunt Susan's sister and her family.
I knew Papa had been hoping for some time to get me onto one of the trucks, but it all happened so quickly that by the time I had found my footing in the crush it was too late to protest at leaving my parents behind. There had been no time to tell them how much I loved them, how I would find a way I didn't need to close my eyes to visualise Mama and Papa standing together in the slushy street, waving frantically and entreating me to take care.
I recalled the terror and frozen discomfort of that incredible journey, relieved only a little by the jocularity of the British soldiers in charge of the evacuation convoy. We had driven through the night along roads made almost impassable by the weather and the continual passage of heavy vehicles, several times having to get out and pick our way through deep, treacherous mud as the trucks laboured onwards. I will never forget my terror of being left behind; my shoes were flimsy and unsuitable and it seemed as though the icy mire of Bosnia fought hard to keep me from escaping.
About eight the following morning we came to a halt. A solder explained in our own tongue that we were on the outskirts of Zagreb, but that they could take us no further. They pointed out the hall which would serve as temporary accommodation. I, however, quickly broke away from the throng and slipped into a nearby a nearby bakery to enquire they way to the main railway station. I paused only to check that my passport and money were still in place, in the cloth pouch Mama had fixed around my waist before hurrying me out into the street.
Later that day I crossed the Italian border at Trieste. It is not possible to adequately describe my feelings of relief tinged with regret and apprehension. Reluctant to squander my slender resources on a bed for the night, I bought a ticket onwards to London via Paris. Besides, had I stopped, perhaps the temptation to go back would have proved too great.
With difficulty I tried to pretend I was on the Orient Express, a wealthy woman making an indulgent journey to Paris for a little shopping. But by that time I was tired and sore, and my throat told me that I had the beginnings of a cold. Italy and France reeled past the window in a wintry blur, and eventually the train shrieked to a halt in the heart of Paris.
I refused to succumb to the wonder of Paris, instead driving myself onwards. London was my goal.
At Dover I was overcome by nervousness. What if they turned me away? I had no visa.
The Immigration Officer's eyes narrowed as he examined my passport. My tongue cleaved drily to the roof of my mouth as I struggled to produce sounds that resembled English.
I realised that although the man appeared stern, he was concerned for my welfare. His eyebrows took flight when I told him that I wished to stay only a short while in England as my Uncle Peter was paying my fare to join his family in Australia.
"What luck!" he exclaimed. "I've always wanted to go to Australia," he said, tapping details into his computer. "Now, who will you stay with in England?"
I gave him the name and address of the people who were expecting me, explaining that Mrs Wilson was the sister of Uncle Peter's wife. The immigration officer stamped my passport with a resounding thump, handing it back to me with a smile.
"Where did you learn to speak such good English?" he asked.
"At school," I explained, blushing hotly. "I wanted to be a teacher."
"I wish you all the best of luck, young lady," he added quietly. "I hope one day you'll realise that dream and become a teacher in Australia. But for now, enjoy your youth."
His sympathy turned on a tap, and my eyes filled with tears. I stumbled onto the platform for the London train and sat down, willing the tears to stop as I put my papers away.
I wanted to be a teacher
For many years I'd idolised my cousin Mira, who taught at the school in Listovan, the next village. I believe I was about twelve when I decided that I, too, wanted to teach. I enjoyed school. Upon completing my studies last July it had come as no surprise that I had been awarded a scholarship to attend college. But by the time September came around the war was a harsh reality, and my father pleaded that it would be best to wait another year. Perhaps by then all the problems would be solved.
I blew my nose wearily. There was just time to change some money and telephone the Wilsons before the London train departed.
Mr and Mrs Wilson were there to meet me in the crowd at the station. In a sudden panic I had wondered how we would recognise each other, but Mr Wilson held aloft a piece of cardboard bearing my name. The cosy blur of London suburbia seemed to go on forever and I fell asleep, waking with a jolt of surprise to find the car had pulled up outside their home. For several days I had no idea where Colchester was in relation to London.
I am ashamed to admit that I spoiled their Christmas dinner by bursting into tears as we bowed our heads in prayer before the meal. Uncle Reg (as he insisted I call him) had offered the plight of my family for God's attention, and although my parents and brother were never far from my consciousness, to mention them aloud proved too much. I sobbed endlessly on Aunt Sarah's shoulder as our dinners congealed before us.
As soon as the business world resumed after the Christmas holidays, Uncle Reg booked my flight to Australia and applied for my visa.
"Peter and Susan will collect you at Tullamarine Airport. Funny name, eh? It's near Melbourne, and not very far from where they live. Sarah and I paid them a visit a couple of years ago. Peter's done well for himself. Big house, swimming pool, two cars. Not like here." He pulled a rueful face as he cast his eyes around their home.
He reddened to the tips of his ears when I protested that he and Aunt Sarah were wonderful, and that their home was as warm and comfortable as anything I could have hoped for in my wildest dreams. That I would never forget how Aunt Sarah had lent me her clothes, including underwear, when she realised that I had nothing other than the clothes in which I had arrived. And the following day, after I had slept sufficiently, she had insisted on taking me to the local shopping centre, brushed aside my protests and treated me to new clothes and some make-up.
"It'll do you good, love," she'd explained. "When I'm feeling a bit low I find there's nothing like a new lipstick or a nice jumper to cheer me up. Besides, we don't want the folk in Australia to think we haven't been looking after you properly."
**********
A cool hand touched my arm. I was ashamed to find that I'd fallen asleep on the swing seat, my breakfast untouched.
"You'd better come in, Andreja," urged Aunt Susan. "You're not used to the sun, and we don't want you getting sunstroke."
I obeyed without question. Whatever this strange illness was, I wanted none of it.
Mark and Tina had returned.
"Yo, Andy!" muttered Tina, raising a hand without glancing in my direction. They were engrossed in a computer game which seemed to involve killing everything in sight, including each other.
Needles of irritation stung my nerve endings. "Please, my name is Andreja, not Andy!" I snapped.
She shrugged and pouted. "Well, someone got out of the wrong side of bed this morning! You'd better wise up. Aussies don't like fancy names. You'll be lucky if Andy is the worst thing anyone calls you."
Stunned, I headed for the kitchen and busied myself loading the dishwasher.
Aunt Susan smiled. "We don't expect you to pick up after us, dear. You don't have to earn your keep. Why don't you go and play with Tina and Mark?"
I forced a smile in return. "I have no interest in computer games. Besides, I find you much easier to talk with. Many things Tina and Mark say I am unable to follow."
Aunt Susan laughed, a deep, clear sound like the chuckle of running water. "You're not the only one! Oh, dear me!" She dabbed tears of laughter from the corners of her eyes.
"Before I forget, I've something to tell you," she said, suddenly becoming serious. My heart leapt; did she have news from home?
"I've been in touch with a friend who works at one of the big universities," said Aunt Susan. "She's interested in meeting you."
I was immediately on my guard. "Why?"
"If you're still serious about becoming a teacher, we'd better get some training arranged. Rhona can take you to the department where they can assess your qualifications and abilities. Would you like that, Andreja?"
"Oh, yes please!"
It seemed there was some hope for the future after all.
"She's coming over next Monday morning," added Aunt Susan. "Now this afternoon I think we should go out and buy you something to wear on Saturday night. You'll be very much in the public eye and I'm sure you'll want to look your best."
I had temporarily forgotten the fund-raising benefit which was to be held at the Croatian Club. Perhaps I was subconsciously pushing it to the back of my mind. I had to admit I was dreading it. Where was the girl who had looked forward eagerly to parties and celebrations? All I wanted to do was sleep and be alone with my thoughts.
My respect for Uncle Peter was immense, but no amount of respect could make me feel easy in his company.
Mark had at first taken a great interest in whatever I could tell him about the war, and we had pored over the newspapers together. But there was a side to Mark which I found distasteful. Maybe he was much like any other fourteen year old boy, but I was appalled by his interest in soldiers who tortured and raped their victims.
I froze when Mark first read me an article about rape victims who were now giving birth. I begged him to stop reading aloud, shaking my head and covering my ears with my hands.
"Gosh, Andreja!" he crowed. "Did they rape you too? Are you going to have a baby?"
Somehow I managed to deny any personal knowledge of such atrocities, and hastily found an excuse to leave the room. I reached the toilet just as the bitter vomit surged into my throat.
That night I avoided sleep for as long as possible, fearing my dreams. Try as I might, I could not suppress the memory of those horrifying days in August.
The night was hot and sultry. The fact that we had all the window shutters open to catch any passing breeze must have alerted Papa to the sounds of heavily booted feet on the cobbled streets. There was no time to make the house secure, but he bundled Mama and I into the space he'd made behind the panel in the cupboard under the stairs. I was sure he was making a fuss over nothing. I hadn't heard anything.
Then the gunfire started. Sharp retorts. Some close, some further away. Mama and I clutched each other, and she cried out, imploring Papa to take cover. Sounds of splintering wood and breaking glass shattered the night. There were shouts and screams.
After a couple of hours silence resumed, but Papa insisted we stay in hiding. He crept about, securing the shutters, and settled back to keep a vigil in the kitchen.
He knew what he was doing. Just before daybreak we heard the approach of many pairs of booted feet marching down the alley, knocking on doors and rousing the occupants of the houses. There was a sharp rap on our door. Mama held me close, imploring me not to make a sound or move a muscle.
We couldn't hear all that was said, but it appeared that the soldiers were going to stay in our houses until it was time for them to leave the village. We heard Papa tell them that his wife and daughter had gone to stay with relatives elsewhere, so he had room to put up a few men. I hoped desperately that Papa had removed any signs of our recent occupation. Had he thought to make my bed?
Mama and I lost track of time. I couldn't read my watch in the close darkness. Each time my stomach rumbled I was afraid that whoever was occupying our home would hear the thunderous echo from beneath the stairs. From time to time I heard Papa's voice, and was thankful to know he was still there. Surprisingly there had been no shouting, no disagreement. Papa was obviously doing his best to keep on the right side of the infiltrators.
Our hiding place was unbearably stuffy, and smelled musty. After some hours we allowed ourselves the luxury of sitting down carefully. Goodness only knew how long we'd have to wait before we could get out. Sleep seemed impossible.
After some hours, Mama patted my shoulder and whispered. "I'm sorry, Andreja, but I have to go "
I smiled, though she couldn't see me in the darkness. "That's all right, Mama."
My own bladder was giving twinges, and I knew I wouldn't be able to hold out much longer either. I didn't mind the warm wetness that spread beneath where we sat. So far we were safe, and that was all that mattered.
We must have dozed, for we were startled by the creak of the cupboard opening.
"It's all right, it's me," called Papa. "They've gone."
We blinked wearily in the sudden daylight as he led us, cramped, smelly and sodden, out of our hiding place. After a bath and a change of clothes we felt much better. It didn't matter that the bath water was cold.
Over tea and bread in the kitchen Papa filled us in on the events of the past thirty-six hours. He had been forced to accommodate two Serbian soldiers, both lads around Rado's age, possibly even younger. They were inexperienced, and under the influence of Papa's home brew had spoken a little too freely about their regiment's plans. We laughed with relief as he told of the hangovers they'd suffered, cheered by his apt revenge on their greed.
Papa locked up carefully before going off to report the information gleaned from the indiscreet soldiers to the local police chief. We'd all had a nasty scare, and he felt disinclined to take chances. Mama and I dozed fitfully in our chairs, thankful to have survived unharmed, but unable to relax completely until Papa returned.
Our relief was short-lived. When Papa returned there was something about his hurried step that unsettled me, and one look at his face confirmed my fears.
He sat down at the kitchen table and sighed deeply, shaking his head in disbelief.
"We were lucky. Those two lads were well-behaved. Others haven't fared as well. Old Otto is dead. They smashed up his shop. Other shops and houses have been wrecked. Gangs of soldiers were out in the night raping any women they found." He took Mama's hand. "One of them was Mira."
Mama and I gasped in disbelief.
"Where is she?" I cried.
"She's at home, resting. Maybe in a few days you can go and see her."
I found it very hard to take in the enormity of what had happened. Such things were unheard of in a small, close-knit community such as ours.
Mira appeared remarkably normal. I don't know what I expected; possibly that she should dress in black and hide herself from the public gaze. I found it difficult to know what to say. One could not very well ask for a blow-by-blow account of the attack, but unvoiced questions burned holes in my mind.
"I'd better to," I announced apologetically after half an hour of sparse conversation. "Please let me know if there's anything I can do."
Mira smiled, and thanked me for my concern.
Somehow she could still manage to smile late in October when Dr Panovar confirmed her pregnancy.
"I'm not an invalid, Andreja," she protested mildly. "Women get pregnant all the time. I'll be able to continue teaching for months yet."
**********
Our afternoon shopping excursion for evening finery passed uneventfully, and as we drove home I congratulated myself silently for not having caused a scene. We passed along uniform streets of low-lying, bland suburbia, golden in the relentless summer sun. The suburb where the Urdanovic family lived was aptly named Sunshine, though I couldn't help thinking it a bit trite. Perhaps Australia had no men or women of importance after whom to name their towns and suburbs.
Grandmother Urda didn't arrive until early on Saturday evening. Uncle Peter collected her from her home after he finished work. She lived only a few miles away, and I found it strange that this was the first we'd seen of her in the weeks I'd been with the family. When my mother's mother had been alive we'd seen her almost daily.
To my way of thinking, a grandmother had a face that was lined and creased with wisdom acquired by the passage of decades. She welcomed you onto her broad lap and enfolded you in her black, cloak-like garments. Clearly I had led a sheltered life.
Grandmother Urda was none of these things. She was small, slender, doll-like. She wore an elegant, beaded dress that must have cost a fortune, and her light brown hair was coiffed immaculately. Subtle make-up disguised the passage of the years.
She graciously took my hand, fixing me with her bird-like dark eyes, just like Uncle Peter's. I doubted that anything escaped the scrutiny of those eyes. I felt small and vulnerable, convinced that she could see beyond my fine new dress into the depths of my soul.
There was no time for conversation. Uncle Peter hurried us all into the car, where music chosen by Mark blared constantly. It took nearly an hour to reach the Croatian Club, by which time I felt sticky and stale. Mark's loud music had given me a headache. My new blue dress clung in wrinkles and my hair had wilted. We were ushered up a broad flight of steps, through an imposing doorway and into a vast hall. A sea of deep blue carpet kept a fleet of immaculately white-clothed tables afloat. The atmosphere was one of gloriously cool, air-conditioned calm. On the stage at the far end a band played a restful tune, to which a handful of couples trotted obediently around on the dance floor beneath. My throat felt dry with apprehension at the grandeur of the place.
We were escorted to our table, which we shared with an assortment of strangers. I was introduced proudly, proof of Uncle Peter's commitment to the good cause of the Croatian people. I kept any subversive thoughts in check as closely as possible, convinced that Grandmother Urda would know all.
Surprisingly I began to relax. It was good to be able to speak my own language again, and to meet other Croatians keen for news of home. Only some of the very young clung to English. The meal consisted of familiar delicacies, joys I had mostly forgotten in the privation of war.
When the meal was cleared away efficiently by a flock of waiters and waitresses, the speeches commenced. My heart beat urgently and my palms became clammy. Soon it would be my turn to speak.
I excused myself from the table, intent upon finding the powder room and making myself as presentable as I could.
My heart sank as I combed my hair; in the mirror I caught a glimpse of Grandmother Urda behind me.
She paused at my shoulder, a smile lighting the depths of her coal-black eyes.
"You have no need to be afraid of me, my dear," she began gently. "I know how you have suffered. I am one of the few who can imagine how it must feel to know that your homeland no longer exists in the form to which you were accustomed. Believe me, I understand."
She touched my arm with her cool fingers. "Come, let us return. It must be nearly time for you to make your speech, for you to explain to these spoiled children of the promised land exactly what is happening to their homeland."
Together we crossed the expanse of rich blue carpet. I held my head high, suddenly calm and confident in the company of an unexpected ally.
All eyes were upon me as I mounted the short flight of stairs to the stage, and I half turned, responding to Grandmother Urda's smile with one of my own. Starting with our own table, the entire hall burst into applause. I took a deep breath. The well-rehearsed words flowed from my mouth, and the crowd's appreciation fuelled my confidence. At that moment I knew the worst was behind me, and that from now on my life could only get better. Perhaps I would never see my family again, but it was up to me to live a life that would make them proud. I returned to my seat, conscious that at last the knot in my heart had loosened.