Belgrade Noir

I looked at this young woman who every day remembered the trauma she’d experienced when she was only nine. They took her father and killed him around the same time I had returned from America. Actually, it was my second return. The first time I went to America was in 1987 when I got a scholarship to improve my English and finish high school there. I returned, served in the army, then enrolled in law school in Sarajevo. I went to America from a normal, healthy country, and in just two years — one of which I spent in America, the other in the army — the country started to fall apart and it seemed like there was no hope for it. In the spring of 1990 I went back to America, and this time I enrolled in a sociology program at Vassar College in Poughkeepsie, New York. Everything there was great, while everything in my homeland was already seriously going to shit.

And although both my mother and father are Serbs — respectable and wealthy people, the director of a bank and a lawyer — I didn’t feel like a Serb until the beginning of the war. I had a Yugoslav passport, I served in the Yugoslav army, I stood for the Yugoslav anthem, and I felt proud of seeing Yugoslavia’s flag fly when our athletes won medals.

Then the country started to fall apart and everyone did some fucked-up shit. Serbs made up the country’s majority, so most likely did the most shit, but they were far from being the only ones. In America, however, and especially since the siege of Sarajevo began, a consensus was reached that Serbs were guilty for all of it, at least judging by newspapers and TV reports.

Nađa’s father was definitely killed by Serbs. I asked her what she wanted from me. She said that she wanted to find and identify Vojvoda so she could send that information to the prosecutor’s office in Sarajevo. Allegedly, there was an investigation that’d been open for a while but they didn’t have enough information to indict anyone. Nađa took out a purple 500-euro bill that the local punks call a Gaddafi because the Libyan dictator supposedly had a weakness for them, and would hand them out to waiters and musicians when he was in a good mood. She asked if that would be enough. I nodded my head and asked if she wanted a receipt. She smiled for the first time since she entered my apartment.

“No need. You look like a trustworthy guy.” She took out a business card and set it on top of the bill. “Here’s my number and e-mail address. Call me when you find anything out, but don’t mention any details except in person. When you call, I’ll come over.” Then she stood and slowly walked out.

How did she feel when she thought her father was still alive? I remember I was completely unhinged when the siege of Sarajevo began because I didn’t know what was happening with my parents. But thanks to connections and money, they were able to reach Belgrade by the summer of 1992. It’s not that as Serbs they had any major problems in Sarajevo until then, but there was suspicion and provocation. In any case, they were lucky to have escaped the city in time. Still, a lot of our relatives, like many of my schoolmates, stayed in Sarajevo.

In the fall of 1992, after two years of being an excellent student, I practically gave up on my schooling in America. I almost never went to lectures. I incessantly watched television and read newspapers, and at school I fought with colleagues who repeated stereotypes about “Balkan savages” without thinking. Ironically, I only confirmed those stereotypes with my aggression.

I drank a lot, and the American prices for alcoholic beverages took a chunk out of my student budget. In the spring of 1993, I realized there was no way I could pass my exams, nor did I feel particularly motivated to take them. When I called my family in Belgrade, it seemed like they were good: Dad was working again in some bank, though not as a manager, and Mom had succeeded in getting a job in the office of one of Belgrade’s best attorneys. I knew that they’d managed to get most of their savings out of Sarajevo. I decided to return to Belgrade — if it’s possible to return to a city you’ve never lived in, only knew from a few short visits, and knew as the capital of your home country, Yugoslavia, which no longer exists.

And yes, my parents told me that I had fucked up by coming back, but on some level they were also happy. I guess that’s why they gave me the cash for this apartment. They were living in a big apartment in New Belgrade that had enough rooms to make one mine, but they understood that at the age of twenty-five and after three years of living on another continent, I just couldn’t share an apartment with them. They gave me enough pocket money to live off of. Out of love for them, I enrolled in law school in Belgrade, though I had even less motivation to study here than I did in America.