The Balkan Sisters

By Snjezana Marinkovic

The Legend says that Dracula, the Balkans’ Devil, was buried at the isolated Snagov Monastery not far from Bucharest, Romania. History has it that the Monastery was a torture chamber. Near to the end of the twentieth century, killing fields spread around this beautiful peninsula and most of them were in Yugoslavia, the biggest country in this part of the world. Many people never escaped from those bloody prisons. Even today, when they no longer exist, screams coming from the sites of the prisons are loud and painful. They remind us that even walls can’t keep secrets; they share stories of haunted souls that refuse to let peace breathe freely. The difference between you, me and them is that they are trapped in the darkness of their ghost towns and we are following the shadows of our ignorant world. Nevertheless, in the belly of our Earth Mother, they wait for us. When you hear the doorbell it will be too late to run or to hide. They will be pushing through. They will be delivered right before your eyes. As your path closes, their path will be a wide open way of possibilities.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Snjezana Marinkovic
• Release date: Mar 27, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370676064

Snjezana Marinkovic

When I write, I am living my dream; when I make a living, I am dreaming of writing.

Book preview

The Balkan Sisters

BY

Snjezana Marinkovic

Copyright © 2016 by Snjezana Marinkovic

Smashwords Edition

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including emailing, photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author.

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual events or locals or persons, living or dead is entirely coincidental.

For peace from heaven and happiness on earth

My grandmother and my daughter

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Foreword

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Foreword

I had heard of the Prison on the Bare Island (Goli Otok) before I could even pronounce it. The expressions on grownups’ faces when they talked about it gave me the reason and ability to imagine the terror lurking behind its doors before I was mature enough to know that fear has its own distinctive and powerful smell. I believed that when you dream beautifully your only enemy is some villainous nightmare that fades away quickly. At that time, I was still unaware that humans are the main predators of other humans. I didn’t know that for some, killing somebody else’s dream is like a breath of fresh air. Then, Angela knocked on the window of my imagination and unfolded her story before my eyes. With her help, I am now faster than ever, moving toward an understanding that even those who reciprocate our love have demons living inside of them. As they feed those demons on pain caused to others, the curse that exists between the past and the future, land and sea, words and silence, continues. Unintentionally, but purposely, they cherish a bitter side of desire. And they always feel welcome in places where love and peace have gone missing, never to be found again. They are called observers because instead of their hands and their tongues, they use their eyes to spread suffering.

Chapter 1

EVERY JOURNEY MAY BE DIFFERENT,

BUT EACH OF THEM HAVE SIGNS THAT LEAD TO AN END

Half an hour away from a tiny Croatian coastal town, the ship silently rode the Adriatic waves. It carried a hundred and two passengers. Among them were scientists, doctors, academics, detectives, interns and one guinea pig, a woman lying on a long wooden table, a rusty iron net draped over her body. Sea corals surrounded her head like a snow-white pillow, their strange power keeping her body and mind awake. She was the only patient on board the ship; the only person they needed to gather information from. Her body was small and colorless, her eyes hidden inside their own deep tunnels. Still, the other passengers, mostly the young men, gave her a wide berth, as if instinctively pushed away by an enormous degree of fear.

The majority of those surrounding the woman stood and watched her, but some moved busily about, stepping on her black curls which brushed the flaky, reddish floor. Tubes, beakers, basins, boards covered with codes and numbers, and stacks of paper littered the cabin. Occasionally the woman broke her eerie silence with fragments of words, the meanings of which were indecipherable by those around her. With each utterance, the sound of her voice was merely a numbing squeak. Now, as her time on earth neared its end, she wanted desperately to reach for all the remnants of her courage, a receiver through which she was going to take her last breaths.

Sir, this is everything we could find in the house so far. One of the men handed a thick bundle of yellowed papers to another.

Let’s see, said the other man, taking the papers. Spectacles covered a large part of his eggy face, and he spoke in a low voice. Keep your eyes peeled for all of the shark’s movements and record anything that may come out of those jaws, he commanded.

We will respect all of your orders, sir!

You better. The burly man turned with a swish of his long black coat.

The assistants glanced hungrily at the papers in his hand, but they did not have the privilege of taking a break from their work. He could feel their eyes fixed on his moving feet as though nailed to them but he didn’t care. This case was too personal for him, and he didn’t desire any company. Nobody should be around when I read this, he thought. His face rested in a strange shadow, while his neck seemed to be sinking to the floor. He could hardly wait to step into another room and close the door behind himself. Solitude would assist him in putting all pieces together better than anything else.

First Letter to Myself

I have always had the feeling that my life has been nothing more than a dream. Nothing seems to be real; my age, my surroundings, my background, and my relationships with other people. I was probably never true to myself. I never understood my feelings. I didn’t even try to apply my hopes to things I desired because I was more afraid of getting used to something than I was of experiencing a sudden loss. Then, one day I woke up and realized that surrounded by the mechanisms of a mere existence was one beaten soul, dying in pain. But it didn’t matter, as long as I could remember everything that you said, mother. I remember each of your words, not only them, but also the tone in your voice; those conscious and unconscious gestures of yours, always reminding me of how cruel life had been to you. Mostly, I remember how often you would escape into your special dream. You may have hidden it from everyone else, but you shared it with me. That very dream carried you through the toughest times. Your story never included the following lines and never in your life had you been very descriptive about anything, but every time I looked into your eyes I could see all those beautiful things you yearned to reach from where you sat behind the bars in your prison of disappointments and fears. I could cry endlessly for what happened to you, but I may just as well smile, because you lived, and you gave me a chance to live too.

In my mind, it was the summer of 1940. A man opened the door of his Volkswagen Beetle for a smiling lady. She beamed at him not only in response to his action but also because she loved him dearly. He wasn’t tall, dark and handsome but she didn’t get to choose how she felt about him by his looks. Rather, the more time she’d spent with him, the more she had grown to adore his stuck-out chin, small round eyes, and bumpy cheekbones. In fact, as time had gone by, she had become amazed by his voice and the way he listened and looked at her when she had something to say. She didn’t mind his occasional absentmindedness. Like anyone else, he could slip unawares into his own strange world. Her intuition, combined with the love boiling and rushing through her veins, had led her to the conclusion that he was the one.

She could be eighteen and he twenty-nine--it didn’t matter. The honesty, respect, and understanding between the two of them were enough and at the beginning of 1941, they had their first child. The delivery took place at their little home at the end of the tiniest street in the city. On that day, the house had been lit with the warm glow of a fireplace, but somber, an atmosphere that reflected the sobering stillness of their newborn.

World War II was underway and mounting in intensity each day. Not that it was of any concern to the Kingdom of Yugoslavia, which was strong enough to fight off any intruder. Yet, instead of staying with the Yugoslavian partisans, Tomo, her husband, became a deserter. For the subsequent four years that he spent in hiding, his woman survived on prayer. In 1945, Tomo was caught, somewhere between the Bosnian forests and Herzegovina’s gravels, and was taken to Goli Otok as one of its first prisoners. That was the last anybody heard of him. Seventeen years passed before the woman married another man. With him, she had her daughter, yours truly. Little did she know, three decades later would find both of them entering a war camp. In my memory, it was summer of 1992 and the Yugoslavians were fighting for anything and everything but brotherhood and unity. They became their own worst enemies, and fighting off their neighbors had proven easier than trusting them.

At that time, the prison Goli Otok had already closed, but Yugoslavia itself had become something far worse. Every person in the country was living behind the bars of fear, and the hopelessness that it breeds. We had lost our faith in anything better than that.

An insistent banging on the door prevented the man from sinking deeper into his study of the revelatory pages. He lifted his head and listened for a moment. Suddenly, his eyes became fixed on an oscillating candle flame as it was introduced to a rapid gust of cold air.

The sweat beading on his forehead seemed to freeze instantly.

Whatever it is, it can wait. The words were shouted, but his voice was shaky.

After another much stronger bang on the door, it was evident that the mysterious visitor’s wish to be inside was more fervent than the man’s plea to be left alone.

He stood from his chair and strode across the room. Jerk! he spat. But before he could touch the knob the door had opened, and in rolled the fog, bringing two grim-faced men with it.

I guess my orders don’t apply to empty-headed people like you, the man growled.

It’s about…we received a call from Mostar… one of the men said nervously, swallowing hard on unsaid words.

What the hell about Mostar? The man paused, then fixed the two detectives with an angry glare and continued, I don’t want to hear anything about it.

It’s…

Are you deaf? Or maybe crazy? he interrupted sharply.

They found your son… he’s…

The elderly man held up his hand to indicate that he should stop talking and closed door without a sound.

Chapter 2

AS WE ARE LOSING THAT WHICH WE LOVE,

WE MIGHT BE REACHING FORWARD

BUT THE WHEELS OF LIFE ARE TURNING BACK

"Can you hear me? Open your eyes… Please, wake up! WAKE UP! I’m begging you! Don’t leave me!"

Ma’am, step back! a man in white yelled at me.

Could you tell me if she is going to be okay? I was squeezing the words out of my painfully dry throat without looking at him.

We are doing our best to help her. His tone was somewhat cold, although it sounded more reserved than unfriendly.

I looked him straight in the eye. She is innocent, you must know that.

This isn’t the courtroom. Once again, I am asking you to step back. I could tell he didn’t want me here, to the point that he was about to yell again, and louder this time.

Can I…?

My lips seemed to freeze unexpectedly and my extended hands were sinking underneath an invisible, yet stifling weight.

The elevator door opened and closed so quickly that I could no longer see the faces and hear the voices of the people. Before my eyes were only my hands, which remained extended, reaching for what I couldn’t touch.

Distantly, as though through water, I could hear what sounded like tears falling between dry autumn leaves, the sound growing and swelling around me. Then, suddenly, dozens of shiny stars spread across the stone floor of the hospital. At first, I thought I was hallucinating, until realizing that they were still glittering on the floor, and I bent down and began collecting each of them on my palm. Those were the pieces of a necklace I gave to my daughter exactly a decade ago, on her birthday. The fear that I was never going to see my child alive again took hold in my chest, threatening to overwhelm me completely. But I couldn’t afford to think that way. There must be a reason she was the only survivor. Something or someone out there saved her and she was a good person who deserved to live on this earth. I believed this.

I closed my eyes, and shame began to replace the blind terror. I had feared since Angela left the States months earlier that something bad would happen, but I couldn’t do anything to bring her back. Now, I wanted to bring her back from a coma and, back home. For the first time in many years, I began to pray aloud.

As I walked toward the exit, the lights in the hospital hallway became weaker and weaker. People were still leaving and entering the building. The noise had been expanding and subsiding but in my mind there was a flow of varying images and sounds, all decorated by her face, so little, so beautiful, so close to my fingertips; yet, at the same time so far from my touch.

Angela, pick your stuff up. I am tired of stepping on all the things you leave everywhere. Help me, darling keep this place in order. Let’s make this home of ours nice.

I will clean this entire room tomorrow after school, Mom.

I raked a hand through my hair. Don’t procrastinate again.

Please, give me just one more day.

You’ll just say the same thing tomorrow.

Not this time, I promise.

We’ll see about that.

I’m different.

From whom?

From people you knew.

I know you are.

Trust me, mom, I will surely do this. I am not like my father, who, ran away from his responsibilities. I want to make your life easier. I will always do my best for you. You are my world. I love you so much.

My eyelids started lowering as the child spoke. I took a couple of steps toward that beautiful girl. Gently I pulled her into the nest of my arms. My heart swelled with the desire to express everything I felt in just a few words, but as I expected, my voice failed me in that moment. Only my thoughts were full of the words I needed, words that were slowly moving on old, cracked roads into the deepest valley my past held. It felt as if I was there once more, reaching toward the pain in one woman’s heart that I just could not erase.

The room held more lights than space. Inside, the only indication that the women huddled together were still alive was the sound of their crying. The beauty their faces had once held was long gone; it had been replaced by bruises, blood, and deep claw marks. Their vulnerability was too evident. By the morning, some of them continued to cry and some shut their eyes in a motion akin to the drawing of the curtain that closed on the movie that had been their lives. Nevertheless, even death didn’t bring with it that long-desired relief because most of them already possessed another life inside of them, a life that will continue their curse.

There were nine of them yesterday but one is missing today. The youngest woman, a girl of fourteen years, never came back from one of those late- night shows. Each of them knew how it felt to stand stripped down in the lineup and wait; trembling in fear, to discover from what direction a finger would be pointed at you. The awful and painful dance they had to perform burdened the heart heavily. Under such a heavy weight of shame, every bit of their existence was wrapped in darkness. Some broke into pieces like the fragile glass that too many had taken a sip from.

I tried as much as possible not to think about that girl nor the others who never returned. I didn’t want to know what was going to happen next. I only prayed for death to come and get me before they did.

For a moment, I was distracted by a woman sweeping the floor with her knees. She collected pieces of her ripped clothes. When she was done, she put them between her small, naked, body, a body glistening with sweat, and the cold, damp floor. Some of it the woman used to cover up her bare chest and the visible traces of blood around every orifice of her body. Then she placed shaky hands on the bruises on the inside of her thighs. She lay in the fetal position, pinned to the ground as if it was her only source of life; her eyes were closed but it was apparent that she had been crying.

I wanted to move closer and touch her. Warming up under a blanket of shared tears was very familiar to me. Suddenly, I yearned to break the silence in the room and comfort each woman with words, with a strength that all of them lacked, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t stop thinking about those sticky chairs I was soon going to kneel against and the tables’ dust that lingered still in my nostrils. I wore a veil of shame because everywhere I turned, I could only see images of myself doing nothing but obeying them as they squeezed the last drops of self-worth out of me.

In the next room, men were singing loudly. The door opened; three of the other women and I were taken out roughly, by strong fingers around our arms. Within my tunnels of pain, I didn’t scream for a miracle or for help; once again, I screamed for the escape that didn’t lead back to my old life but to a new, shorter path to death. With each of these visits, I smelled more the precious scent of the end that I could soon afford to wear. Then all my senses started shutting down, except my vision and hearing, which became stronger than ever. I was able to see clearly all those faces and gruesome smiles that progressed into intrusive sounds of laughter. I hoped that each of them was smiling for the last time. I wished that strongly enough that it became my obsession.

Dear child, I love you so much as well, my voice finally cut through the heavy air created by silence.

I know, Mom.

That night, there was more curiosity in my daughter’s eyes than ever before. I took her hand, holding it gently between mine. In response, she folded her warm arms around me, tilted her head forward and kissed me.

I’ve waited very long to do this…

I cleared my throat and turned my head to the side. A long moment passed before our eyes met again.

Now, I want to tell you something because I think you’re ready to listen and mature enough to understand.

The girl's eyes searched mine warily. Okay, Mom.

"It all started when a barrage of hard knocks woke me in the middle of night. My mother opened the door, she hadn’t slept since my father had been taken to the war camp and it had been four long weeks already. We feared the worst, expected better, and hoped for the best. I heard a man’s voice saying to her that the time had come for us to leave the house. Then, someone stepped into my room.

The next thing I remember was the abandoned house, dirty mattresses on the floor. Soon, more women started arriving. Like the two of us, they were just pushed in before the door was shut behind them. Each of us was too scared to fix our eyes on somebody else’s fearful face. We just sat there, one body occasionally, reluctantly brushing against another, breathing in the dusty silence that clouded the air. I was nineteen, seven years older than you are now.

What happened there?

Everything that I wish never to remember.

Tell me, Mom.

I will. I let out a weary sigh. I will.

Did they treat you like the slaves were treated here in America?

"My child, when hungry, the tiger will run after a deer until it takes the fatal bite out of the throat of