Incidents of Life

By Molly Odegard Nikolic

Modern times and the results of war and betrayal bring about stirrings that will redefine several lives. Troubled hearts and historic events, rich with haunting feelings of the loss of love, rock the foundations of each character, and through it all, eventual survival. Each life is made up of a number of incidents, which bring famous writer Bosk

• Language: English
• Publisher: Molly Odegard Nikolic
• Release date: Feb 10, 2023
• ISBN: 9781960197306

Molly Odegard Nikolic

Being a professional actress is not an easy career, but when you’ve been bitten by the acting bug, you’re doomed. Why do I say doomed? Because it can take away so much of what normal life is about. I’m talking about the ordinary things in life, like a stable married life with children and a home. I don’t know if I was born with the acting bug or did it come later to me, but it certainly ruled the first part of my life. I look at the world of theater and film—oh, I guess they say movies now—and I see the same thing happening. What’s it all for? For fame and money, that’s what. It’s a purely selfish endeavor. In my early days, they hadn’t discovered the idea of genetic forces leading people into things unknown. I do understand that Freud played with this field, but regular people didn’t know about it. We all just did what we did. Often people are looked at because of preconceived notions or what was an established family tradition. You swam alone, going into uncharted waters of your own desire and making. Well, that’s what I did. Am I sorry? Partially. I left my first husband for it, and I gave up my one and only child.

Book preview

Incidents of Life

Copyright © 2023 by Molly Odegard Nikolic

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

ISBN

978-1-960197-29-0 (Paperback)

978-1-960197-30-6 (eBook)

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Molly Odegard Nikolic thanks:

1. Dejan B. Nikolic - for his plot suggestions, encouragement, support and help.

2. Sarah Whelan Blake - for her typing, knowledge of theater and wonderful friendship.

3. Dr. Fred W. Blanche - for his super support, friendship, willingness to listen to me read the text and his excellent advice.

4. Dr. Nenad Obradovic - for his private remembrance of what happened to him during WWII.

5. Bob J. Joha - for sharing his difficult remembrances during WWII.

6. Kendra Karaklajic - for her knowledge of publishing, lovely friendship and encourangement.

Chapter

1

Harrison Charles Barkley walked over to the newly painted fireplace and threw his cigarette into the fire. Enough. I’m not going to do this anymore, he said out loud, determined what life had chosen for him was now going to be changed. His life had to go forward. He couldn’t let himself stagnate. He wasn’t the type. Vesna would always be with him, in his heart, where it mattered.

Harrison plopped himself down on the over-stuffed, blue velvet armchair which sat across from the fireplace. It was early fall in Madison, Wisconsin. Sitting there he could hear the autumn wind blow through the old oak trees outside the window, their leaves rustled loudly. The sky was gray, giving the late morning a lighting making one think it was afternoon, even though the clock on the mantle showed 11:42 A.M. A light, cold drizzle fell adding to the feeling of winter being just around the corner. Harrison lit another cigarette.

Cigarette in hand, his mind took him back to beautiful Vesna Petrovic, the woman of his desire. She’d begun to seem almost in another time and place to him now, almost like a dream which was fading away.

Half way around the world Vesna’s mother, Jelena Petrovic, decided her life also had to go forward. She like Harrison, had let things stop and hadn’t yet come to the point of getting on with life. The loss of her daughter, her one and only child, was more than she could bear.

She and Harrison were lost together with the death of Vesna. Vesna was totally loved by both her mother and fiancé. Her death had created an unthinkable void that had put these two people into such a deep place of mourning that nothing could seem to pull them out. My God, it’s been six months, he thought.

He took another drag. He wasn’t going to let her leave him. He could still see her high cheek bones and haunting brown eyes. He still remembered the feel of her ivory velvet skin and could hear the music of her voice. Her sexy smartness was still all around, but he could also hear, maybe even louder, the whimpering she made during her last moments. God, would it ever stop haunting him? Why wouldn’t that memory leave him? There it was, horror coming out of nowhere, destroying them. He’d never been happier before a long shiny knife came, ending everything; their lives, their love and their existence together.

He took several deep drags of his cigarette, shuddering as the remembrances uncontrollably flooded over him. They were all so fresh, violent and cruel. He almost wanted to cry, but couldn’t. It even hurt too much for tears, so he sat there dragging on that cigarette. It didn’t help. Vesna was gone. Dead at the hands of some lunatic who, out of no good reason Harrison could understand, had stabbed her as they walked the streets of Sarajevo. It happened so fast that all Harrison remembered was the crazed man wore a deep red colored fez.

Just a short seven months before, Harrison had been in Belgrade Yugoslavia, translating the works of Yugoslavia’s pearl, the famous prize winning novelist, Bozidar Arandjelovic. He’d been sent there by Professor Andre Bledman of the Slavic Department of the University of Wisconsin and Arandejelovic’s good friend from World War II days, to continue to translate the twelve books that had created a marvelous career and reputation for this very talented Yugoslav man.

Andre Bledman had met the distinguished writer several months before the end of WWII when they found themselves together as prisoners of war in the Osnabrück prisoner of war camp.

Friendship usually didn’t happen there, especially under such circumstances, but these two had found one which had lasted through the years. Bledman had always made a point of telling his classes about his friendship with Arandjelovic, about the camp and mostly how wonderful it was that it was all over now. War was hell and the camp was too. These two men were living proof that out of all that evil, not everything good was destroyed.

Harrison had been called into Bledman’s office that morning for a coffee and a chat.

Black, thank you sir, Harrison said.

Black for me too, the seventy year old professor agreed. Harrison I don’t seem to have enough time to even live my life these days.

I know what you mean sir. Me too. I used to think I’d have much more time for thinking and research, or if not researching, pursuing ideas, Harrison said, getting a cup of coffee from the Professor.

Time, it’s almost an illusion. The older I get, the faster it goes. Right now I’m knee deep in translating Arandjelovic. To finish it will probably take me another two or three years. He’s terribly interesting, but detailed. That’s where the time goes, in the details. This brings me to the conclusion that I need help. Would you be interested in going to Belgrade, working with Arandjelovic and getting this project under control? the older man said, looking at the younger one with a look of almost begging.

Oh my God, sir. Yes, I’d love to, Harrison said, without thinking. Arandjelovic is a hero of mine. I’ve wanted to meet him since I first read him in high school. And now to have the chance to work with him, I just don’t have the words.

Good, then it’s settled. Bledman smiled, adding Thank you dear boy. I’ll have everything ready for you on Thursday.

No, thank you sir, Harrison said, also smiling.

Saturday afternoon, Harrison found himself sitting between flights at Kennedy. Nervously he checked his ticket, making sure it was still in his pocket. He did the same for his passport thinking, God if I ever lose this I’m really up shit’s creek.

Touching his pocket he was comforted by the bump bulging from within. Walking over to the window he stared out at the planes sitting nearby, musing about the trip, where he was going and the people he would meet. His thoughts were broken by the scratchy announcement of Flight 63 boarding at Gate 12. He picked up his bag and his trusty typewriter, an old Smith Corona, a graduation gift from Professor Bledman. Bledman had told him he’d started his career with it and he wanted to pass it on to someone worthy. Every time he used it he hoped his work would make the professor proud. So far Harrison felt he had. The boarding was slow but finally they were on their way. After a fabulous take off, the best part of the flight as far as Harrison was concerned, the continual noise of the plane’s engine lulled him into a daydream state letting Harrison think of his mother. Pretty Meg Olsen Barkley had married Charlie Barkley right out of high school. They’d been in love since the seventh grade and had known each other since age four when Charlie’s family moved from Nebraska to Davenport Iowa to start over after the great depression. Meg’s father, Justin Henry, J.H., as he was called, and his wife Darlene had come to Davenport to work in the new hotel as operators of the dining room and kitchen.

It was unusual for a man to let his wife work, but those were unusual times with unusual circumstances, and Meg knew her kitchen theories would work and she wanted to prove them. It was through long hours everyday, especially the extra hours at night and on holidays that Charlie worked which allowed them to eventually buy the hotel and make it into as good a standard as any hotel in New York City. It was also the time alone at night that sometimes made Meg lonely and restless for company. Dad, why did you put up with what she did? That fellow, I knew it wasn’t right, he thought remembering a talk with his father about the nights his mother was off taking care of business, as she put it. He hated waking up in the morning finding she wasn’t there and some sort of breakfast waiting on the kitchen table with a little note from his father telling him to have a smart day at school and to be a good boy. Then further thoughts of the mornings he’d found her not able to get out of bed to help him get dressed or give him breakfast before he went to school, she was too tired, crept in.

She was so lucky you forgave her, Dad. I wonder if I could do it to my wife, but she was the sweetest mother when we were together, she smelled so good. Through it all, I do miss her.

His thoughts went on as he remembered his father, Charlie. Charlie’s life hadn’t been easy, one of three children, born to overly strict Episcopalian parents, Edna and Cyril Barkley, who’d come to this country from the city of Eastleigh, about sixty miles southwest from London where Cyril had been a teacher and Edna a governess to the children of a countess, who’s name had been lost through time. When they arrived to Nebraska Cyril found work in Fremont, again as a teacher allowing Edna to become a mother and raise their three children. Edna tried to get her children to like school, but they weren’t very interested in it, except Charlie. Her husband’s interests lay in teaching and being with people. He was the kind of man who had a lot of people around him all the time, where Meg’s life was directed to the home and family leaving her to dream of what and who was outside her four walls and her one indiscretion.

As the plane flew all of a sudden it dropped in altitude jarring Harrison from his thoughts, but reminding him of the time he almost lost the opportunity to go to school. He remembered being about eighteen then. His father had been at home one day when a fellow Meg knew, from the grocery store, came drunk to the house arguing with her about not going to talk to his sister as she had promised to do. One word led to another and the next thing Harrison knew was he was caught in the middle of the burly man and his mother, who was hitting the man trying to get back the money he’d found in a jar while threatening her with a small paring knife in the kitchen. He quivered a little as he remembered how the fellow had pushed him down the basement stairs after taking the two hundred dollars they’d saved for his education. He still had a scar on his forehead from landing on an extra piece of board that stuck out from the last step. Luckily Charlie came, took back the money, threw the guy out the front door and chased him down the street threatening to shoot the bum if he ever showed up again. It was a long night for Harrison as he heard his mother explaining things to her husband. Finally peace came when they came to an agreement that there would be much more time spent together and that Meg didn’t have to help everyone who came asking.

Harrison wondered what ever happened to the people of those days. He hadn’t heard anything about them in years, he was glad of it, thinking the past was a good place for many things. Slowly the daydreaming state put him to sleep. It was still dark when he was awakened as his seat mate climbed over him to open the overhead luggage compartment to get his sweater, then climbed back to sit down.

As the dawn broke Harrison began to see the first sights of land. He eagerly watched as a number of small towns and villages, the first to be seen in Europe began, to extinguish their night lights in the gray light of the early morning clearly showing him they were now flying over solid ground. Looking down he could see the muted bustle of the waking towns as they slowly began to come to life again, it all looked so orderly. Proceeding over Europe was like flying over a green and dark brown calico quilt, interrupted by the Alps then more quilt, finally reaching Surcin, the Belgrade airport just outside the city. The weather was gray and fall like, as it had been in Madison. Looking out the window and onto the large fields surrounding the airport he saw they were prepared for spring planting. He began thinking about Belgrade’s name, white town, remembering that some scholars thought it could have meant north town. His thoughts changed as the plane touched the runway and everyone applauded. He wondered why no one did this in the states, but he followed suit. The stewardess got on the intercom saying, Dobro dosli dragi putnici, stigli smo na Beogradski areodrom. Stigli smo na vreme. As she spoke her voice quivered with static, but her welcome to Yugoslavia was clear. Once inside the terminal, to his surprise, he found himself in a very big, modern airport. As he walked through it he noticed the white walls were painted, mural style, with large black figures of people happily going and coming. Interesting way to greet travelers, he thought, as he followed the painted walls. He liked the light heartedness shown by the paintings. It was refreshing not to see advertising anywhere.

Once through customs, he went on to find his luggage. Bringing it out to the street he easily got a taxi, a big clumsy Mercedes cab driven by a young man wearing an open collared white shirt and a well worn brown leather jacket. When he told the driver he wanted to go to Hotel Tas the driver, a good looking young man in his early thirties, spoke to him in English, recognizing his American accent right away.

It was a fairly lengthy ride from Surcin to the hotel. He sat back listening to the driver who wanted to know all about everything in America, saying he hoped to go to visit New York and Hollywood one day, going on and on about how he wanted to go to Texas and the west and how he hoped to meet a pretty American girl and marry her. Harrison just listened, smiling to himself.

Belgrade was an impressive city with a rough history, reminding one of a troubled pretty girl with many foster parents. First being held by the Celts, Romans, then the Byzantines and the Serbs and after 1521 the city became a major fortress of the Ottoman Turks for nearly three hundred years, until they lost control in 1804 to Karadjordje, the Serbian leader of the liberation rebellion against the Turks. The driver continued to say Yugoslavia had suffered many wars largely due to its geographic location. It was perfectly situated for commerce to flow east to west or west to east, letting the armies follow the same path, this included the soldiers of the third crusaders lead by Frederic Barbarossa to the holy land in the eleven hundreds. As he listened he began to feel a little sorry for those people they endured such a violent history. They were obviously tough his sorrow then turned to respect.

Arriving at the hotel he found it to be small, but quite comfortable, nothing fancy, located inside Tasmajdan Park in the heart of the city. The reception desk was expecting him and after he’d given his passport and checked in he was taken up to his third floor room. It was a small room with two beds against the far wall joined at the top by a light oak headboard which ran almost the entire length of the wall. Each side of the bed had a small bedside table which was also connected to this wooden piece. The carpet was a gray beige, the bedspreads a light blue gray as were the curtains, a light sheer drape went behind them covering the window. A small bathroom tucked just behind the doorway had one of the most unique tubs Harrison had ever seen. It was more like a chair than a vessel for reclining, he had to sit in it, he liked it. The toilet was also an unusual piece having the flusher on top of the tank, pull it up and all was taken care of. The room had a large window which looked out onto the hotel’s grounds.

Harrison soon learned that Mr. Arandjelovic lived a short walking distance away, in fact when he looked out his window he could see the small street where the writer lived. Harison put his bag on the only chair in the room opened it and unpacked his things. He then got the writer’s phone number from his wallet and picked up the phone to call him. The hotel operator got on the line. A moment later the phone rang.

Molim-hallow, the writer’s sister’s adopted daughter, Branka, answered on the second ring.

Good day, Harrison said using, he hoped, his best Serbian, Is Mr. Arandjelovic at home?

Yes, just a moment, his niece answered. Uncle Bosko, Uncle Bosko. The telephone, someone wants to talk to you, she called.

Yes, yes. I’ll be there in just a moment, he answered, putting the newspaper he was reading down and going to the phone.

Hello, Bozidar Arandjelovic here, he said in his usual loud phone voice.

Good day, Mr Arandjelovic. I’m Harrison Barkley. I’m Andre Bledman’s assistant, he said.

Oh yes! Mr Barkley. You’re here already. Andre wrote me you’d be coming.

I got in today. I’m staying at Hotel Tas, Harrison said.

Tas, oh that’s good. It’s very close to me. You speak our language pretty well. Andre said you would.

Thank you, sir. May I come to see you? When would be a good time?

Come this afternoon around five for a drink, the write said. It’s Thursday, our open house day.

Thank you. I’ll be there, Harrison answered. Good bye.

Good bye. he said hanging up the heavy, black, boxy, 1950s style phone, habit let him bang it as it fell into it’s cradle, he called, Branka, Branka.

Branka came in from the kitchen where she’d been busy making stuffed cabbage rolls, one of the good things brought by the Turks so long ago.

Yes?

We’re having a special guest this afternoon. Do you remember me telling you that Andre wrote saying he was sending a young man from the University of Wisconsin to translate my work? Well, he’s here. I’ve invited him for five this afternoon, Bosko told her.

Oh I’m glad he’s here. Lunch will be ready in about an hour, she said going over to the breakfront which held many of the souvenirs Bosko had collected from his travels when he was captain in the merchant navy. She took out two small glasses, bringing them over to the table covered by a fine white tablecloth Bosko’s mother had made. She put one down in front of each of their regular places. She then went back into the kitchen and brought back a bottle of cherry brandy which Vanja Zimovnov had made. Vanja had gone to the naval academy and been in the Royal Navy with Bosko, but after the war in 1948, had been imprisoned as a result of vicious rumors against him due to his birth place-Russia. He’d spent twelve years in the dreadful Goli Otak island prison, sentenced to the cruel punishment of breaking rocks. Upon his release, he was befriended by another Russian refuge, a doctor and his wife and taken to live on their small estate on the outskirts of Belgrade. There he took care of the grounds and got into making wonderful wine and brandies from the fruit they got from the orchard in the back of the property. Pouring a little of the deep, almost maroon colored liquor into each glass, Branka toasted, To life. Bosko returned the greeting, drinking down the liquor in one gulp.

Uncle Bosko, do you think this young man will ever be able to make sense out of your helter skelter papers? Branka asked, her beautiful brown eyes questioning. She knew how long they’d lived with his work and seriously doubted anyone could bring calm, much less order, to it.

I don’t care if he does or not. The books just need to be translated into English. The Italian and French translations went well and Vesna is doing a good job with my current volume. I’m lucky to have such a good assistant, so you don’t worry.

I don’t need to worry. I just worry that you don’t overdo. I’m glad Harry is here, she said.

Who’s Harry? Bosko asked.

The new young man. That’s what I’m going to call him. Harrison is too complicated and long, Hair i son-too long. Harry will do just fine, Branka said smiling, she liked the name, it sounded so foreign.

Good, call him whatever you want. Let me know when he gets here, Bosko said not caring what Harrison would be called.

Yes, Uncle Bosko, she said in a teasing way, smiling broadly at him. She was crazy about her uncle. They were more like wonderful friends than niece and uncle, sharing silly secrets, laughing out loud in the middle of lunch for no reason simply a look passing between them prompting things. He was the father she never had and she was his darling girl.

Branka, did Vanja call? He said he had something to tell me. he asked.

No, not yet, she answered hearing the phone ring. She got up to get it. Recognizing Vanja’s voice immediately she called her uncle.

Vanja, Bosko greeted him. Good day.

Good day, Bosko. About the research material you need from Sarajevo, I can’t go with you to get it. I broke my leg yesterday afternoon. Slipped on some water in the kitchen, Vanja explained in his recognizable Russian accent.

Oh God. I’m sorry. Do you need anything?

No thanks. It is kind of painful though, he said somewhat weakly, looking for a little sympathy.

I know just the cure, his friend said.

And what’s that? Vanja asked brightening up.

I’d like you to meet my new translator, an American from Wisconsin. His name’s Harrison but, Branka is already calling him Harry. I’ll try to bring him around one day, Bosko said.

That would be good. Will you watch the soccer game on TV tonight?

Maybe, have to see how things go with Harry. Branka invited him for a drink tonight. Maybe he likes soccer too.

You’re busy, as always. I’m sorry I can’t go with you. Bring the young people anytime, Vanja said signing off.

OK. Bye. Take care of that leg, Bosko added, hanging up the phone.

Branka, Vanja broke his leg.

What? How did that happen? she asked.

He slipped on some water in the kitchen.

Poor dear. What about your plans to go to Sarajevo together? she asked knowing full well Bosko wanted Vanja to help him do some research at the university there.

He can’t make it. You know a broken leg at our age isn’t easy. I’m really sorry, now I’ll have to ask Harrison, maybe he can.

I don’t see why not, he’s here to help you, anyway Vanja was just going along to keep you company, she said.

That’s right. All right, I’ll ask him when he gets here.

I’ll probably scare the kid off with all that’s needed to for me.

Could be worse, she answered. Uncle, set the table. I’m bringing out the sarma, Branka commanded him. He willingly obeyed. Stuffed cabbage was one of his favorites. He had loved the way his mother had made it but no one made it better than Branka, she was a master in