Thus Spoke My Grandfather Mehmed

(about those who rarely spoke)

My father, Ahmed Bunoza, lived most of his life as a sensible and respected man. He was quiet and solitary, but a real effendi, and a gentleman. His shoe shop was always filled with people who’d drop in for business reasons or for no reason, just for a smoke and a few words with my father. Few words because Ahmed’s lips always held seven or eight nails, for tacking shoes, tight between them. He would pull them out one by one as needed and with short, systematic movements tap them into whatever footwear he was working on. When finally he’d run out of nails, then he would offer a brief word or two before putting a new set into his mouth. Perhaps these nails got him used to his own silence, accustomed to listening before speaking. Even his fingers were short like his speech, but I loved those fingers, for there were no wiser or more skillful hands in the whole town.

I enjoyed hanging about in Ahmed’s store, sitting in the corner, reading the Qur’an or pretending to, inhaling the thick smell of shoe-glue that swam in the air. That was the smell of my father; he dragged it with him long after he was done with work. He was never in a hurry. He was methodical in everything he did and was, even eating – chewing his food with gusto and making exact breaks after each bite he swallowed. I often brought lunch from home to his shop. Then, Ahmed would lock the door, lower the curtains on the windows, and wouldn’t let anybody bother him until he was done eating. Visitors and customers were used to the effendi’s habit and they would let him be, as long as Ahmed had his curtains down. It was his precious and sacred time alone that even I couldn’t share.

Folks named him Ahmed–Effendi, and this nickname followed him for so long that few people in the bazaar knew his real last name. But everybody knew him, and there wasn’t a single person in the bazaar that didn’t spend some time in his shoe shop, the town’s ragtag and lords alike. And they all had a passion to share their troubles and thoughts with my father, because it was known that Ahmed–Effendi kept things to himself, and advised only when asked to do so. This way, father knew what everyone in town was drinking and eating, who was hungry and who was planting seeds with the devil. He was a mobile treasure of bazaar secrets. His wisdom, wit and loyalty to the human soul were far known, so that even the neighbour-town’s imam often came into the store to hear Ahmed–Effendi’s opinion. So it was for a while…

At some point, the devil captured my father’s soul, and he squandered the shoe shop and all of his possessions, except for our house and a bit of land around it. People wondered at first, then sympathised, but eventually accepted him as a loser, ridiculing and treating him like the town’s fool. It was quickly forgotten that the same fool once was a model of prudence and probity. Such stories are not uncommon in Bosnia, but it is rare that a bazaar not fathom the real reason of someone’s downfall.

It was thought that Ahmed–Effendi was hit by midlife crisis; that he heard more than he could bear and knew more than he could grasp; that the cold from the Salonika front where he had fought on the side of Austro-Hungary and been thrown in a Serbian dungeon finally caught up with him. Whether he had been captured indeed or he had surrendered to the Serbs was unknown, just like everything else related to Ahmed–Effendi.

Soon enough, one of many pieces of gossip grew into a complicated story. It would be unjust to claim with certainty that my father lost his mind because of his hidden passion for a married woman, but all the actions that he undertook since this gossip came out speak in defense of a mysterious love.

The whole town murmured about this beautiful woman, Aisha, long before my father supposedly fell under her spell. When the merchant Osman brought her to town, her name was Darinka. She was from the Eastern orthodox faith, a Serb, but Osman gave her a Muslim name, Aisha, and married her.

Darinka was a widow of an indebted landlord whose body had been found floating in the Bosna river after some gamblers’ dispute. Nobody ever knew if the landlord threw himself into the river or someone else did it for him. But there he was: cold and swollen, his face immersed in mud, hooked by a branch and stranded in the shallow of the shore. His beautiful wife and young daughter were left to deal with the debtors. And one of those vultures was Osman, the merchant. The dead landlord, apparently, owed Osman more than he could pay back and for that reason, some say, he was gambling in the first place – but he soon lost everything he had. Osman proposed a deal to Darinka: if she married him and converted to the Mohammedan faith, then her daughter got to keep the house and the plum orchards around it. Thus, Darinka became Aisha and moved from the village into our little town.

The whole deal was great gossip-material for our folks. Very soon everyone was talking about Aisha’s Christian faith and her haunted beauty; a curse that had, they said, impoverished and killed her first husband. Yes, it is her beauty that brings trouble everywhere it shows, whispered Ismael, the watermelon-vendor who travelled with his horse-drawn carts everywhere and who knew everyone. To make matters worse, Ismael claimed that the people of Darinka’s former home were happy to see her go, for she brought only confusion and calamity to their otherwise peaceful village. Many honest men fell under her spell, just as the dead landlord had. Ismael claimed that Darinka’s father had put a price on her beauty and sold her to the landlord for many golden ducats. Therefore, she was cursed. And now their daughter inherited the same beauty Darinka had, and the village would not find peace for as long she lives there… Besides, everyone knows that converting to Islam against one’s will is not the Muslim way and nothing good can come out of it. This was enough of a reason that many began disapproving of Aisha’s case overnight. Men were intrigued and women were disgusted. Soon after, another ‘truth’ came out: Osman had threatened to send his men to set Darinka’s house on fire, along with those inside, if she didn’t settle the debt. She was ready to die rather than give up the property. In order to preserve the land and transfer it to her daughter, Aisha accepted Osman’s proposal. As if she had much of a choice. Well, whatever the truth about the trade was, no one seemed happy about it. Except for Osman, at least for a while…

This merchant Osman was a rude and arrogant man. He was ugly, fat, and lame in one leg. These flaws made him a devious and nasty person with whom it is better not to mess around. Such a man would trample over dead bodies just to make room for himself. He had never married before because he knew no woman could love him for what he was. Yet he longed for a successor. Rumor had it he was paying women to sleep with him, but none of them gave him a child. Bitter and disappointed, Osman saw a chance for some happiness in his trade with Darinka. She seemed offered to him from God alone. But divine gift or not, Aisha did not spawn Osman any offspring. This brought more shame to Osman’s great ego and pride. His moronic jealousy and anger towards everyone and everything only grew.

And here is where Ahmed–Effendi, my father, comes into the story… No one knew for sure how his mysterious love started, or for that matter if there were any truth in the town’s belief that it even happened. But when gossip tells a tale there is always more than one cause behind anything.

One version said that Ahmed–Effendi saw Aisha in the bazaar and fell in love with her right then and there, without knowing who she was. Another version was more detailed: one day, ignoring our custom that women do not interact with men in public, Aisha brought her shoes to Ahmed–Effendi’s shop for repair. It was just the time when the Effendi would put his curtains down. Aisha’s beauty was so captivating that one glance at her was enough for Ahmed–Effendi to forget his ways and go nuts. It was said she’d been seen visiting the shop a few more times, mostly in my father’s lunch break, when nobody was around. Folks hadn’t made a big fuss about it, except some nasty talk about Aisha’s behavior, until Ahmed sold his shop to merchant Osman.

At first, people guessed that Ahmed sold his property to get the money for a pilgrimage to Mecca. As a devoted Muslim, this was father’s life-wish. And as a pilgrim upon his return, Ahmed–Effendi would gain some ludicrous legitimacy to take Aisha in marriage. Though others claimed the pilgrimage was Osman’s idea; a proposal that would get Ahmed distanced from Aisha for a while, until Osman set things in order. But this explanation wasn’t dramatic enough for the bazaar’s people, so another one occurred soon after. Rumor has it that Osman heard about Aisha’s visits to my father’s shop and decided to challenge Ahmed’s devotion to Aisha. The merchant offered Aisha to Ahmed , if he sold him the shop and the land on Bosna river inherited from my grandfather. Honest fool that he was, Ahmed–Effendi signed over his shoe shop to Osman, forgetting that Osman was anything but honorable. As soon as Osman took over my father’s possessions, he bribed the notary and made a new, forged contract, gave my father some money to make it a legal sale, and dismissed the whole thing like it never happened. My poor mother urged Father to buy his shop back from Osman, and Ahmed tried, but Osman had already resold the shop. And little by little, Father spent all his money on alcohol.

Still, devastated though he was, Ahmed–Effendi did not give up. He began hanging around Aisha’s window, singing love songs, night after night howling like a lonely wolf through Osman’s neighborhood. Whether he sang for love of Aisha or for hate of Osman, it didn’t matter to me and my mother anymore, for Ahmed spent more time at the married woman’s sidewalk than his own home.

Osman of course sent his people to threaten Ahmed–Effendi and make him keep quiet, so that more than once my father was brought home beaten and battered to a pulp. But as soon as he got back to his feet, Ahmed would continue with his pathetic singing, ever crazier and bitterer in his grief. As for Osman, he got so sick with jealousy that he ordered Aisha to wear a veil over her face and detained her in the house, to languish there like a princess in a tower.

Father rarely came home anymore. They would drag him back to us when they found him tumbled down in some ditch, almost dead from brandy. He slept and ate wherever he could, borrowing a little mercy from people who used to owe him a favor, or from those who would help him for the sake of his former reputation. But all remaining goodwill would soon to be gone. Even his nickname, Effendi, faded out in eyes of the bazaar-people, for Ahmed–Effendi every day became more of a poor Ahmed and less of a respected effendi. Eventually he lost his name altogether and gained a new nickname: Flask–Effendi. As Flask–Effendi, his skull was beaten more often and no one brought him home anymore. I became ashamed of my father, for he was far from the man I used to know. I was nineteen by then, but I rarely spoke to people my own age and stayed away from the bazaar as much as possible. Truth be told, I was disgusted even by the thought that such a drunken hobo could be my father. I blamed him for our poverty, for mother’s sickness, for my awkward shyness, and most of all for befouling our family’s name. That was when I realized that love does not have a rational explanation, but that it’s rather a human weakness that is current and constant only until the experience is completed, an illusion that cannot be comprehended; it is a bubble that bursts as soon as you touch it. The pain that love causes is stronger and more lasting than the satisfaction it provides. I thought this as I watched my father drowning himself in his own shit, seeing a human weakness that I didn’t want to meet in this life. And I swore to myself that no one would ever impose themselves so on my mind… It was only later, when love really came to me, that I found you don’t choose what you never asked for… That spear hits you regardless of whether you have your guard up or not.

But soon I became a shield myself. The war with Germany was inevitable, and I would inevitably be recruited. Since I had only ever had few friends and had lost even those because of my father’s shameless behavior, the only compassion I could find was in old effendis who used to hang out in our mahala. They knew about my father but never mentioned him, at least not while I was present. They were our neighbors and they were dear to me. They were already old while I was a child and I couldn’t imagine them ever having been young. I grew up watching effendis going up and down our street, stopping at our gate and conversing with Father while he sat on the veranda drinking coffee with my mother. This is how we learned what was new in town, who died overnight, who got married, or who was in trouble with the law. Sometimes, when the information they possessed was not for mine or my mother’s ears, they would wave Ahmed closer. So my father would walk to the gate and there they would both lean there and quietly discuss the matter at hand. They seemed to know everything, they seemed wise and cunning. Young and unexperienced, still fearful of the world around me, I had a great appetite for any word of kindness that would caress my ego and accept my presence without prejudice. The months before the war with Germany started in Yugoslavia were hard on me. I didn’t care about the Germans advancing onto our borders, for I had bigger troubles; my father had broken my heart, put my mother to shame, and our isolation was often a burden too heavy to carry on my shoulders. So I looked up to the effendis for companionship.

A few of them would come out just before dusk, hunched and slow, cardigans loosely hung over their shoulders, berets carelessly tilted on their scalps, and their hands interlaced behind their backs. They would greet each other with a nod, sit on the bench, take out their bags of tobacco and begin to roll thick cigarettes. Their patient finger-work seemed almost a religious ritual that could free them of any and all troubles accumulated during the day.

After the first emission of smoke, the oldest effendi, Ismet-Beg, would emit one short ‘Yah’, and then the youngest would answer affirmatively with an even shorter ‘Yah’, as if their truncated utterances carried in them all known calamity of this world. Thus began and ended their every conversation. And between those two crucial yahs occurred the mentions of the pricks in their loins, immoral neighbors, and the political situation in the country.

These old men, who lived in what was then the Kingdom of Yugoslavia, for the past fifty years of their lives have seen the Austro-Hungarian monarchy, felt the impact of the Balkan wars, been part of the First World War, witnessed the creation of Yugoslavia, and then, by the end of the thirties, the next war was already knocking on the door. They survived the numerous armies and foreign soldiers that passed through their land, and attested to Bosnia as a paradox that always finds its way through history. Each one had lived many lives… Big and heavy words were unnecessary; each of them knew the suffering of the others, for it was the same as their own.

To me it seemed like they were speaking in code. ‘Heard the latest, my effendi?’ one of them would ask Ismet-Beg. ‘Yah,’ Ismet-Beg would indifferently respond. ‘I doubt that these ones will last any longer…’ the other one would add. ‘Same shit – different stink,’ the third one would offer. ‘Yah…’ Ismet-Beg would sadly wrap up the topic. Then they would move on to something else, repeating their pattern of grunts and agreements. Endlessly. There was little use of names, as every one of them knew what and whom they were talking about. Everyone but me. I would listen quietly and later think loudly as I stretched my legs down the narrow streets of the mahala. I was amazed how these ordinary and illiterate people discerned life. They would never talk much but would always say more than enough. It seemed like someone was whispering this wisdom into their ears as they slept.

I recall the news of Bulgaria’s pact with the Nazis quietly sneezed through our mahala and that night nobody stepped out of their securely fastened doors. The war was on Yugoslavian borders and people silently panicked, as if it might burst into our little town that very moment. The next day, a few women, their heads veiled haphazardly in bright silks and the floral patterns of Muslim scarves, walked up and down the streets, exchanged their salaams, and went about their business. In the late dusk, when the blue of the dying day was giving away its last breath, the effendis sat on a bench and began to roll their cigarettes. Their faces were covered in darkness. Even the moon couldn’t see their worried eyes. Though soon enough, I realized that the meandering narration of the effendis did not teach me to speak the truth but, in fact, showed me how to be quiet about it…

Meanwhile, Ahmed continued his charade. Deep in alcohol’s madness, he would bark around and badmouth respectable people from the bazaar. He continued sinking deeper when everyone thought that for him it was impossible. The mockery that went around at first behind his back and then straight to his face opened his Pandora’s box: all the bazaar’s long-kept secrets. He started spreading around the deepest fears and immoralities of the town’s lords and leaders. Using every chance he could get in public, he cursed the king and ‘the entire kingdom of Yugoslavia’, spitting on ‘all the historical executioners of Bosnia’ – the Pope, the Turks, the Serbs, and Austro-Hungarians alike; they were ‘all alike, criminals and executioners.’ Of course, no one in the bazaar stayed indifferent to the gossip and accusations. Yet people were so afraid of Flask–Effendi’s jabbering that no one would mention any of this even in private. People knew that Flask–Effendi spoke the truth, but they ignored it as much as possible, blaming alcohol and madness for his babbling. Most of them would pretend not to hear anything. Still, there were those who’d carefully listen and who knew that Ahmed might have been crazy but he was not stupid.

The only ones that got some enjoyment out of this travesty were the town’s riffraff and alcoholics themselves. They enjoyed Ahmed’s downfall and welcomed him into their circles just to make fun of him and feel better about themselves. As soon as they got him drunk, they would rush him to talk about his forbidden love and to gossip about the leaders of town. Flask–Effendi would then become the main attraction and source of information, a fool for entertainment who’d keep all the simple souls laughing. So my father lived, ate, drank and slept from day to day…

I saw my father only once more, when I was drafted into the royal army in March of 1941. Surprisingly, he came sober to see me off, stopped at the gate and called out for me. I hadn’t expected him, and it was only when I heard his voice that I realized that I did want to see him. Perhaps I longed for his calming voice and intelligent words, if there were any of that left in him, and craved relief from my worries about the upcoming war with someone who could offer peace, advice, anything…

He kept a dry twig between his lips, just like he used to hold nails, perhaps to have control over his words. His face did not reveal anything except the old age that had overwhelmed him so quickly. We both knew we were seeing each other for the last time. Father hugged me tightly and cursed life straight into my ear, adding that this country is dammed and that is why Bosnians always go to war for someone else’s benefit – it’s the devil’s work! He did not wish me luck, didn’t kiss me, didn’t relieve any of my burdens, just patted me on the shoulder, looked me in the eye briefly, and whispered, more to himself than to me, ‘Eh, my son…’ Then, he turned away slowly and waddled down the street. I stood there, watching him disappearing down the rocky road…

At home, my mother was crying for me. Although it hadn’t been officially proclaimed, she knew that I was going to war. My mother prayed to God every day, all day long, speaking out loud her prayers and fears – that I could not kill a bug yet alone a human being, that my soul was soft and my mind uncorrupted, repeatedly asking Allah Almighty what we were to do anyway against such a powerful enemy as ‘Hitrel’, which was how she pronounced Hitler’s name. I tried to comfort her, told her what I knew were lies – that everything would be over soon, that I’d be back before she knew it, that the government would sign a capitulation and everything would be the same as it was when we were annexed by Austro-Hungary. Mother then started crying even harder, as if she had already lost me and was trying already to get over her grief for me. It was as if she were putting me into the ground while I was still alive.

The next day, along with my peers from our town, I joined the small troop of men that waited for us by the desolate Austro-Hungarian train station. Only a few of them had weapons and uniforms, the rest were poor and lost fellows just like us. I knew all the boys from town. We’d had different religious upbringings, different dreams and expectations, and yet in this fog and on this road we were all same. The officer welcomed us with a traditional Serbian greeting, ‘May God help you, heroes!’ and commanded us onwards. We formed columns of two and marched quietly through the slush of melted snow on the muddy road. Men joined us at every village we passed and our troop grew bigger. Yet everyone was so quiet that only our uneven steps rattled through the wilderness.

As I gazed down the foggy road ahead of us, I thought again of my mother, and of Bosnia slowly receding behind me. I kept thinking about what my father told me. He’d nailed those few words into my mind the same way he used to nail the soles of shoes. There was nothing else he could tell me. It was utterly peculiar that some thirty years ago he had fought against the nation that I was now going to defend. Father’s meager words gathered some strange importance to themselves and carved thoughts into my mind that would accompany me for the rest of my life. Once again, I saw my parents before my eyes, smiling with joy, and I cherished the image for as long as I could. I was afraid of the Germans and of the unknown and remembering the past warmed my heart … but the winter was cold and the road long. Luckily, I had a pair of good leather boots; the only thing I had left from my father Ahmed-Effendi. They were one size too big but still seemed to fit me just right.