Since yesterday’s start of the Russian invasion of Ukraine, I’ve been struggling with my PTSD from the Croatian War of Independence, and horrendous sadness for Ukrainian children. Today, I broke down when I saw children in shelters — wearing masks. No child should ever be forced to sit in a shelter while their home is being bombarded, trembling for their life, and wondering if their loved ones will survive. Let alone during a pandemic, wearing a face mask and not being able to breathe. I sat in a shelter during an air-raid in Zagreb 30 years ago, and never recovered — in spite of the fact I experienced this only once, and that time we weren’t bombarded. My heart goes out to all my fellow Croatians who heroically endured the war, and to the people of Ukraine trembling in shelters right now. Good always wins.
This the last chapter of my memoir “Titoland” in which I describe that experience.
The End
A warm Sunday afternoon in early autumn. A low sun fills our apartment with golden light. Tiny freckles of dust glitter in rays of sunshine. Peace. Somewhere far away I can hear children playing. Mama is asleep on the couch. Antique furniture frames her beauty. My mother, the Sleeping Beauty. Tila is curled up in the corner, snoring quietly, barely audible. The regular rhythm of her breathing is very calming.
I am doing my homework. I am drawing. I am content and happy.
Suddenly a quake shakes me with a force I’ve never felt before. It is different from an earthquake — it is unnatural, aggressive, intentional, destructive, evil.
A fighter jet flies directly above our house at unbelievable speed. The house trembles. Our life trembles, shaken by hostile waves of killing technology. Our life is shivering.
They are here. We jump up and wait, everything freezes. The peace is back. But now, it is not golden. It is grey and ice cold.
Then the siren starts howling. A sad and painful sound. Horrific. A dying beast. We have only heard it once before, eleven years ago, when Tito died.
Now we know it is serious. The bombs are ready. Mama tells me to take the dog, while she runs through the apartment, collecting whatever seems important. Jewelry box, money, documents.
We run to the basement. Everyone is running to the basement. Five floors seem like forty. Endless.
The basement is painted white, it is cold and lit with one neon lamp. Life is metallic blue. The neighbors prepared the room for this situation months ahead. It is cleaned up, empty. Chairs and benches lean against the walls. We are paralyzed by fear. No one says anything. Someone has a radio. A serious voice announces what we already know: Zagreb is under attack.
I am sitting next to my mother, the fear makes my whole body shiver. My heart is racing, beating wildly, irregularly. It wants to jump out of my chest, escape. I am completely frozen. I am fear. I am pain. I am the war. The destruction, terror and death.
All the pictures I’ve seen in last months pass in front of my eyes — debris, corpses, people shivering in lakes of their own blood, dying in front of my eyes, like fish out of water. I see our house as a ruin. I see the whole city as a ruin. I don’t want something to happen to my mother. She is worried about me. She hugs me, holds me tight, talks to me, tries to calm me. But she is also scared. Her beautiful big eyes are wide open, her face pale, she is cramped. I squeeze out one sentence: “We must leave for Vienna as soon as this is over. I can’t do this.“
We sit in the basement for many long hours. I don’t know how many. Time does not exist. We are listening to fighter jets above our heads — the destroyers of our country. With every approach of a plane, we cramp, hold our breath and wait for bombs. Every now and then, the neighbors and mama exchange a couple of words, short and quiet. They talk about what could be waiting for us. The conversation stays on the surface. The situation is scary, but we pretend that soon, everything will be ok again. They don’t want to scare the children. The children are more relaxed than the grown ups, they talk to each other, try to play. They don’t know the images. They don’t know the picture of death.
Eventually peace returns. It lasts and scares us just as the planes before it. Then finally the siren. It is over. We breathe out. We return to our apartments, speechless and happy they are still there. Mama and I immediately begin to pack. Only the most important things, only for a few days, until the situation calms down. I take my pink ballet bag and fill it with dance stuff, underwear, some T-shirts and jeans. Only for a few days. We call papa. I call Barbara and ask her if she wants to join us. She doesn’t. Why would she — it is going to be over very soon.
The next train to Vienna leaves at midnight. We call a cab. By now it is dark. Zagreb is completely blacked out. Only a few cars on the street. We are driving slowly, the headlights are covered with cardboard with tiny holes in the middle. The city is full of heavily armed soldiers. We are stopped over and over again. It is dark, I only see the soldiers when they are already standing next to the car. I see the uniform and the huge rifle. The drive takes forever. Time has different dimensions. Zagreb disappears in the blackout. The darkness doesn’t allow me to properly say goodbye to my city.
The old train station form the time of the monarchy is blacked out and filled with soldiers. The scene looks unreal, like one of mama’s film sets. We manage, in spite of the darkness, to buy tickets and find the train to Vienna. The train is empty, we are sitting alone in a dark compartment. It stinks of cold cigarette smoke. We have to wait, we arrived much too early. We are numb from fear. My mother is silent in the darkness. Even the dog is too scared to make a sound. We leave at midnight. The empty train to Vienna wakes to life and starts rolling, slowly. I feel that something important is happening. My life is taking off.
Destiny has a presence, a form. It is noticeable, I can almost touch it. It is dark, it is cold and uncertain. Not a happy appearance.
When we reach Slovenia, the lights are switched on. We are so exhausted, we immediately turn them off so we can sleep. The feeling of security acts as a sedative.
The first rays of sun wake us shortly before we reach Vienna. Houses, trees, cars dash in front of our window. We look out. We can’t connect what we see with what we carry in us. A different reality. Not ours. A dream? A peaceful world. Bright, carefree, quiet. So close and so different. There is no war here.
Finally the train stops at Vienna’s South Train Station. Papa is waiting at the platform. The train station is plunged into warm morning sun. The three of us embrace, mama and me still numb from fear, uncertainty and exhaustion.
A new life begins.
