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My imagination was vivid, and I liked to abuse it when it
came to the ladies, but this time, I’d reached an impasse.
Nadia’s voice numbed me, and I stopped midway through
my first invented sentence. I could feel how much good
an honest conversation with her would do me now. I
could use an ally in this suddenly and harshly true story
in which I found myself. I missed her attentive listening.
I missed her rational summary of my incoherent words,
her sharp conclusions, which I was too blunt to draw
myself. Nadia was a whole lot smarter than me: younger,
more naïve, but cleverer. I even thought, for a second,
about turning around and driving back to her. But I was
too stubborn. I wasn’t the kind of person to give up before
the end of a story.
*
The information on what exactly had happened at
Višnjići was sparse, even online. There was probably a lot
more detail in Croatian newspapers back in the ‘90s, and
certainly there were people around who knew a lot about
it, but I had no idea who to ask, and how much they
might want to tell. From what I had managed to piece
together I knew that on 13 November 1991, the Third
Corps of the Yugoslav People’s Army, under the
command of General Borojević, looted and burnt down
the village of Višnjići, near Vukovar. In the process, they
had murdered thirty-four unarmed villagers, including
children, women and old men. They had buried the