The Bridge Between

By Milos Lekic

The Bridge Between is a story told by Mickey, the main character. At first, he is a young boy growing up in the predominately Christian western side of Mostar, Yugoslavia. His young years are marked by childish naivety and happiness, mischief and first love. His grandfather introduces him to the magical history and the significance of the Old Bridge, which connects the two halves of the city. Mickey eventually falls in love with Leila, a Muslim girl from East Mostar. The two are separated as the war begins. Mickey is drafted and forced to watch as the city, the Old Bridge, and his whole world are torn apart.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trafford Publishing
• Release date: Oct 10, 2012
• ISBN: 9781466956384

Milos Lekic

He was born in the same country where this book takes place. Although he works as an orthodontist, this work is an attempt to answer those age-old questions that everyone can relate to: who we are, where do we come from, and why we are here.

Book preview

The

Bridge

Between

MILOS LEKIC

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© Copyright 2012 MILOS LEKIC.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written prior permission of the author.

isbn: 978-1-4669-5637-7 (sc)

isbn: 978-1-4669-5639-1 (hc)

isbn: 978-1-4669-5638-4 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2012918414

Trafford rev. 11/06/2012

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Contents

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Dedication

For all those whose dreams faded and destinies changed

Part 1

The Summer of ’82

Marshal Tito

My story begins in 1982, the summer when I first felt love. I was twelve years old, and my voice was changing. My whole body was changing. With hormones running through the roof, I felt stronger and bigger than anyone, but I couldn’t understand why my muscles weren’t as big as my father’s and why 350 push-ups a day didn’t make them grow like my grandma’s sweet cookies.

In my hometown of Mostar, Yugoslavia, summer brings an exquisite array of life—all varieties of flowers and scents. Mostar was the unofficial capital of Herzegovina, a triangularly shaped region in the south of the Yugoslav republic of Bosnia. Herzegovina is a very small part of the European landscape, but it is one of the merging points between Eastern and Western cultures and religions. For a teenager full of hope and belief in a bright and endless future, this place where living history fused with modern times was the center of the universe.

The city of Mostar is located inland, in the heart of Herzegovina, about a two-hour drive from the seacoast, but I could have sworn that I could smell the Adriatic on a windy day. Every time I saw a cedar, I was convinced that the sea was hiding right behind it. I don’t know why, but the sight of the sea always meant that the summer was really beginning. It was usually a time when my family went off to vacation on one of the hidden gems of our coast.

This particular summer, though, was different from all the previous ones. It was the first time I noticed girls. Yes, girls, those angelic and beautiful creatures my grandpa said one can’t live without. This summer, somewhere in my heart, it all became magically entangled, the scents of roses and lilies with the sight of girls. For the first time, I noticed that girls—like fresh, ripe plums and apples in my orchard—had all blossomed. I thought that this would be a good year for both girls and apples.

I had just finished my seventh grade of elementary school. We closed out every year with the cheers such as So long, school, I never loved you anyway. Some of my mischievous classmates would start a fire, burn all the books, and skip over the flames. This was too radical for me, but I joined them and watched their shenanigans. A particularly crazy character was Goran. He was the strongest and the craziest kid in our class, the one who picked fights with kids from older classes. He also got into altercations with anyone in our neighborhood just to make sure he was the strongest. Most of the kids were afraid of him, but I wasn’t.

Back in third grade, we had gone as a class on a weeklong winter excursion. The main sleeping chamber had enough beds to accommodate all the boys in our class except for two, who had to be placed in an extra room. The teacher picked Goran to be one of the two—a natural choice given his ability to incite a fight or a shouting match with anyone else at any time. I think she wanted to have a full night’s sleep without worrying about him.

Who will volunteer to stay with Goran in the separate room? As she asked the question, everyone swallowed hard and looked down. For some reason—to this day, I don’t know why—instead of looking down, I looked at Goran. It was the first time that I saw rejection and disappointment in his eyes. He’s also just a kid, I thought. Well, I don’t have all day. Who will stay with him? Don’t make me ask another time. If I do, everyone will have a written assignment due this very day.

Ms. Klara, I will stay with Goran. I couldn’t believe what I had just said.

She smiled. Thanks, Mihajlo. Get your bags, and I will show both of you to your room.

I will never forget the anxiety I felt as we were walking to the room. What did I just do? It’s like I went against all the advice my mother had given me: Stay out of trouble. Be with people who will make you better, not worse. With those words ringing in my head, I walked into our bedroom thinking that I would surely become a gangster, or a hooligan at least, that very night.

Goran looked at me and said, Hey, Mihajlo, thanks for staying with me. I’ll call you Mickey from now on. Is that OK?

Sure. It sounds better than Mihajlo. I was still uneasy.

That night, we stayed up all night. We had more fun than the rest of the class, I am sure of that. We called ourselves half brothers, like two best friends from a famous Yugoslav cartoon. We chanted what we thought were old Turkish songs, which sounded like gibberish and made no sense. We became best friends. I think I was his only friend.

From then on, everyone called me Mickey, and no one could touch me. The next day after a morning class, we played outside in the snow. Some of the boys had brought their wooden sleighs to the excursion and were sledding down the mountain. I forgot to bring my sled, and as I watched others flying down the hill, I naturally yearned to be one of them. It was that childish wish to have the other kid’s toy, even for a few seconds and despite the obvious fact that it may not be that much fun. Envy starts out when we are young and if unchecked always grows bigger and more dangerous as we get older.

Hey, Mario, can I borrow your sled for one ride? I asked the first kid that came down.

No, get your own sled, he said. It was a crushing blow, one that kids are so good at giving each other. I think that Goran saw me, and he saw the same rejection I had witnessed in him the day before.

What? Mickey, do you want to go sledding?

Sure, but I forgot my sled.

Wait one second. Mario, can I go on a sled ride?

Mario looked at him with fear. Sure, but… His voice trailed off as Goran pushed him off his sled. The teachers didn’t see any of this.

Here you go, Mickey, go sledding. Mario is OK with it.

Thanks. I watched Mario stand there, crushed. I couldn’t refuse Goran now, but I didn’t want Mario to be sad either. Hey, why don’t you go? After all, Mario gave you the sled.

No, you go. I’ll watch you. And he did. He watched me climb all the way up the hill and come down. No one could wipe the smile off his face. Go again, go again, he kept saying the whole afternoon. I eventually got Mario to sit with me. It was tight, but the sled held us both and went faster.

Once we came back home from the trip, I was untouchable. Everyone knew that if they messed with me, they had to answer to Goran.

And on that day, when my classmates were running through the burning books, I had a feeling that some of them wanted to call me a coward. It just didn’t seem safe to run through the fire. And books were considered sacred in my family, so coming home without any was not an option. No one dared insult me, though, because they knew that they would pay. It was interesting growing up in Yugoslavia. There was a pecking order among boys from the weakest to the strongest, and I was somewhere in the middle.

Don’t worry about them, Mickey, Goran said. They are just jealous because you are one of the top students in our class. Screw them. Your parents are smart. Don’t burn your books like us.

Now that I look back on this moment, I think that he always knew right from wrong, but somehow he always chose the latter. The difficulty, of course, was that despite knowing the difference, life would make so many of those choices for us.

The last Friday in June was our school’s honors and awards night. As part of the evening’s festivities, my class had the privilege of performing as a choir. We sang some famous communist songs including Comrade Tito, We Pledge Allegiance to You and Young Partisan Girl. We performed as Tito’s pioneers, with our red scarves and communist hats prominently displaying the red five-point stars.

As I was getting ready, Grandpa told me, My dear son, you have to understand how proud I am of you for wearing your uniform.

But, Grandpa, it kind of looks funny. I mean, I am twelve.

So what if you are twelve? he said, slightly upset with my shamefulness.

No, I mean I would rather wear something cool.

That is the coolest outfit. I was only three years older than you when I wore the five-point star and a uniform. I spent five years walking the mountains around us with Tito and other Partisans.

Grandpa, I know. I didn’t mean to be insulting, but—

No buts! Son, you have to understand what this all means. It is more than you, more than looking cool. It is a symbol of our struggle against the Nazis. It is a symbol of the country we built with our very own hands.

I know, Grandpa. You are right. I didn’t want to upset him.

Come here, my sunshine. He gave me a kiss on the forehead and proceeded to tie my scarf. He placed my hat a little off-center. Here, a little off to the side, like that. Now you look like a real Partisan. You would make Grandma so proud. The year before, we had lost Grandma to cancer. I had been too young to fully understand what was going on. Nonetheless, it was my first experience of death and loss. I felt angry at watching someone I love wilt away from the inside, from this cancer, the invisible killer, which took so long to claim its prize. With the death of my grandma, a part of my grandpa was lost forever, and he was never the same.

That night at the school gymnasium, as I got my diploma with three other classmates who also had straight As, I could see the excitement and happiness in my parents’ eyes. They were both filled with pride. Grandpa, on the other hand, couldn’t care less for marks. Instead, his moment came when we started singing, Comrade Tito, we pledge our allegiance that we will not waiver from your path… I could see Grandpa’s face glowing under the gym lights. It was an orderly trickle of soldier’s tears coming down his cheeks. He remained expressionless, as if each tear was honoring a fallen friend and his still face was a formal salute to those left behind. Now that I think of it, I have seen my stoic grandpa cry only twice before—when Grandma died and two years before when Marshal Tito died. I vividly remember the day of his death.

Shh. Everyone be quiet! he ordered as he turned on the radio.

Dear listeners, today on this saddest day for our country, we are terribly grieved to announce the passing of our Marshal, Tito.

I can’t believe this, my mom said and began to cry. In fact, everyone was crying—Mom, Dad, Grandma, and Grandpa.

We have lost a great man, Grandpa said. I knew it had to happen sometime, but this is so sudden. I wanted to tell him that Tito had been sick for a while, but I knew it wouldn’t matter. No one was prepared for this. The people of Yugoslavia had held him as a beacon of shining light since the war.

This is not going to be good for us, Grandpa went on.

What’s not good, Dad? my father asked.

This, what just happened.

Well, Dad, it had to happen sometime. Father tried to bring some reason into the room filled with sadness.

You don’t understand, son. This is not good for us.

Why? My father started to look confused.

Because, son, you have known only Yugoslavia, a place Tito held together. But I have seen this place before and during the war, and I know it better than you. It is a damned place that can bring out the worst in people. On these hot Herzegovina stones, people can quickly become like vipers and explode at any time.

Oh come on, Dad, you are just saying this because you are upset.

Mark my words, son, they will destroy this country. Grandpa’s words were beginning to scare me.

Who, Dad? What are you talking about? Father asked.

Who, you ask. People who look like us but will want power. They will squander everything we built.

OK, sure, Dad, my father said, looking at him as if he was talking nonsense. I remember feeling some sort of unease for the rest of the day listening to Grandpa’s words about people who look like us breaking up the country. I couldn’t understand then how insightful Grandpa was and how naive Father was.

On our way home from the awards night, my mom and dad wanted to hold my hand.

Mom, Dad, come on, I am twelve years old. Do you know how embarrassing this is?

Come on, son, just this time. We are happy and proud.

I finally consented, but as we turned into our street, Grandpa smiled and said, You two, let him go. He doesn’t want his friends seeing him.

My parents let go, and I turned to Grandpa. Thanks. Once again, he had saved me, as he had so many times before.

That night, I stayed out playing soccer with Goran and other kids from the neighborhood until 9:30 p.m. It was the latest I had ever stayed out. I remember a feeling of pure happiness that night. School was out for the whole summer. This happens only once a year. It felt like fifty billion Fridays put together. It was pure, uninhibited, unconditional freedom.

Mickey! my mom yelled out the window. Come inside. The only words that could stop this magical night rang out.

After a late supper, Grandpa came into my room. Son, before you go to bed…

What is it, Grandpa?

I think that you are now old enough to go to the bridge.

The bridge? Which bridge?

Our Old Bridge, Grandpa replied in a quiet, intriguing voice.

But, Grandpa, I’ve gone to the Old Bridge many times before.

Not like this, son.

Like what? I became more excited.

I will tell you tomorrow.

Oh come on, Grandpa, tell me now. What is it? I couldn’t hide my curiosity.

It’s a mystery, a big secret. Grandpa smiled, looking amused at my efforts to figure out what he meant.

What secret? My imagination was being teased.

Tomorrow. He smiled as he left the room and closed the door.

Out of school and with a mystery to look forward to. This was one of the precious few nights in my life when I fell asleep with a smile on my face.

The Mysterious Old Bridge

The next day, I woke up feeling elated. It was like floating on feathery clouds. Some of the previous night’s euphoria had worn off, and it