Aleksandar Tisma - The Book of Blam

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.