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her back on them, so she wouldn’t have to see them
dance.
*
Years before, my mother – then a young pedagogy
student from Ljubljana – had arrived in the city of Pula
just before ten in the evening. Her head was glued to the
window of the little green train, watching with increasing
excitement as the thousands of lights that first glittered
in the distance, grew larger and closer and then
morphed into shapes. She knew that, somewhere in the
midst of those lights, on Platform 2 of the Pula train
station, Lieutenant Borojević awaited her, dressed in his
army uniform and carrying a single red rose, which he
tossed nervously from one hand to the other, leaving
tiny thorn-tracks in his palms. It was like this every time,
and part of her felt that it would be better if he didn’t
bring her a rose – after all, it cost enough to earn her love:
Lieutenant Borojević had to buy time off-duty with a litre
of grape schnapps for Captain Muzirović, so he could
remain with her until 4am, when the green train
returned to Ljubljana. But Borojević was a gentleman,
and thought it only appropriate that an officer of the
Yugoslav People’s Army welcome his ‘Slovenian girl’ with
a rose, and then take her to the ‘Hungarian café’ for cake
and lemonade, hold her hand as they walked along First
of May Street and across the forum, kiss her cheeks at
half past three and wish her a safe journey home. Who