Кристиан Новак - Dark Mother Earth

“And then they lock him up?”

“Yep, in jail, till he gets better. But there’s no reason for you to be worried. You’re a couple of troublemakers, but I won’t be reporting you.” And the three of us laughed, one with the voice of an 18-wheeler, and two with sparrows caught in their throats.

“But what about if somebody, like, hasn’t stolen anything, but, say, wants to build himself a cottage because he’s got so much money, or he goes to Croatian Mass in Germany, or says something bad about Yugoslavia?”

Dejan’s father got all serious and crouched down.

“Why ask me that, boys?”

“Just because,” said Dejan, and his eyes slid inadvertently over to me, then quickly back to his dad.

Dejan’s dad looked up into the air as if considering what else he might put on the grill, then started to say something, then stopped.

“If the man’s got a good soul”—he looked at me, then paused, then spoke again—“well, he’s got nothing to be ’fraid of with the police. If he has money and wants to build himself a cottage, well, he ain’t stolen it from nobody… Somebody who goes to Mass, he ain’t stolen from nobody… But against your country, you ain’t supposed to say bad things, you know? Never ever. Your daddy…” He sighed and then went on more slowly and gently. “He was a good man, and the police’ve got no call to arrest him. We people here in Međimurje, we work hard, nose to the grindstone; we ain’t troublemakers, and we’re happy with our lot, see?” He looked toward the road, and I thought he wouldn’t be saying that if other grown-ups had been around. Men didn’t talk like that. They cussed the unions and the local government and talked about how the ref was a jerk and should go to hell.

He stroked me on the back of my head and, louder and sounding relieved, said: “Now, why’re you asking me silly stuff like that?”

Dejan had his answer at the ready. “Oh, no reason in particular, we just wanted to know what happens to people who say things against Yugoslavia. Not Međimurje people, but, y’know, the Slovenes from across the Mura, or folks from over in Zagorje. Or Hungarians and Italians.”

Dejan’s dad stood up and turned to go back to the red crocodile of a car and muttered: “First they’re taken to the police station in Čakovec, then maybe to jail in Lepoglava, or maybe to Goli Island. That’s where they send the ones who are enemies of the working people.”

As Dejan made his toy car pounce on the Parcheesi-piece enemies of the working people (and Goran Brezovec), I sat at his desk and pretended to inspect the countries on the globe. I didn’t have a tissue, and sniffling would have exposed the fact that I was crying, so I cried into my sleeve. Dejan, without looking away from the Parcheesi men he’d carefully lined up, declared: “Tomorrow we skip school. I’ll take the money out of Gramps’s wallet, and we’ll take the bus to Čakovec and go to the police station. By next Sunday, you and your dad and me and mine’ll be at the soccer game, drinking sodas and talking about how the ref is a jerk.”

The next morning at seven thirty, Dejan and I were standing at the bus stop with our backpacks. Other kids walked by and looked at us, and some waved, surprised, but nobody asked anything. Somebody would tell the teacher they’d seen us there, I was sure. The only other person waiting was a high school student who was late getting to Čakovec and was looking tensely through her notebooks. Dejan said the driver would probably ask us where our parents were.

“Right. So what do we say?”

“Dunno.”

“Well… maybe we go to Čakovec tomorrow, maybe my uncle can drive us,” I said, scared and overwhelmed, just as the bus came around the corner, brakes screeching. The high school student got on and flashed her monthly pass. I froze, but Dejan, as if this were nothing unusual, looked toward a store and spotted Katica Fiškališ coming out the door with her basket. He waved to her and called: “Bye, bye, Granny! See ya!”

Katica stood on the threshold and waved uncertainly back at us. Dejan stepped onto the bus and showed the driver a purple five-thousand-dinar bill with Tito’s face on one side and the city of Jajce on the other.

“Čakovec?”

The driver pulled a small handle twice, and out popped two tickets from the machine. I passed the driver, eyes fixed on the floor.

“Boys, will somebody be there to meet you in Čakovec?”

“Yep,” I answered, “my daddy.” The bus pulled out. I sat in the third row of seats on the right side, happy we were on our way. Dejan reached into his bag and took out a bologna sandwich. Dropping crumbs all over the seat, he explained he always had to eat when he went on a trip. The two of us talked and giggled with nervous energy all the way to Čakovec, and people turned to see who was gasping so loudly with laughter.

At the imposing state building, we walked past the guard at the front door, the two of us little boys with our checkered schoolbags, and stood there for a spell, watching the police. I suggested that we stand in line at one of the windows. Dejan didn’t know how to read yet, but I already knew most of the letters, so I managed to make out most of the sign for the line for “__EHICLE REGISTRATION.”

“What are you doing here?” asked an irritable woman’s voice from somewhere above us.

“Hello,” I said, turning toward the source of the unpleasant sound. “We’s here for ehicle registration.” Above us, leaning over the counter, loomed a large policewoman. She was almost as big as Dejan’s dad. When she leaned over, I saw she had a pistol on her belt. Her thick black hair was in a ponytail, with one lock hanging down on either side of her face, not quite touching her chin. She glared at us sternly and asked question after question, paying no attention to the other people waiting.

“Who’s with you? Where are your parents? Why aren’t you in school?”

We couldn’t speak, we were so scared, so she came out from behind the counter, grabbed us by the arms, and steered us into the hallway, then took us into a room with a few desks covered in files and a big old-fashioned filing cabinet. She set us down like pups, each on a chair. There were two young policemen waiting there; one was skinny and pale, the other was chubbier. Unlike the behemoth who’d dragged us in, they talked normal, like us. Later I heard someone call the first guy Dragec, and the other Stankec. Their funny nicknames made them sound familiar and friendly, like neighbors. Stankec had tousled hair with a cowlick, as if it were running away from his red-flushed face. He seemed nice enough, though; I decided as much as soon as I heard him talking like us.

“What’s up, Milena, rustle up a coupla suspects? Enemies of the state?” We sat, perched halfway on the chairs because she hadn’t let us take our bags off. “Whose are these little skeezickses?”

“How would I know? What are your names? Where are you from? Can you talk?”

“My name’s Dejan Kunčec.”

“And I’m Matija.” I had to swallow hard before I could finish. “Matija Dolenčec.”

“What are you doing here?” she yelled louder.

I started to explain, but she interrupted again.

“Where are you from? Boys, explain to me this minute what you’re doing, coming to a police station! Or do you not understand what I’m saying to you?”

“Let ’em be, Milena. They’re scared to death. Slow down. Dejan, right? Dejan, tell us where’re you from and what you call your mom and dad. Where are they?”

Milena sat across from me. She huffed impatiently, making her chest swell and her nostrils flare. I thought she was going to punch me. I looked her straight in the eyes because I was suddenly beyond caring. All the rooms I’d ever been in merged into that one space, all the lumpy wallpaper, all the creaking parquet floors and the shabby furniture. This was just how I’d pictured the room where the government would be holding my dad.