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I almost smiled. There was something sweet about the
whole situation, if she was telling the truth. Mrs. Babić’s
free newspapers, which were intended for the eyes of a
war criminal, might vicariously make Mrs. Babić a war
profiteer. This struck me as funny, and I had to stifle a
smile. It was even funnier to think of General Borojević
hiding under an assumed name borrowed from his
favourite singer, Toma Zdravković. It made some poetic
sense that he might identify with Toma’s hit song,
‘I
Touched the Bottom of Life,’
but I couldn’t wrap my head
around why anyone in their right mind, and in present-
day Brčko (at least the Brčko I’d read about in my
research), would want to be called by the Croatian name,
Tomislav. Maybe Nedelko figured this would make him
less suspicious, since who would imagine hunting for a
guy called Tomislav for having burned down a Croatian
village?
‘Do you happen to know where Mr. Zdravković can be
found now?’ ‘Why do you want to know?’
Mrs. Babić put on her suspicious face again, and I
remembered that my cover story had nothing to do with
Mr. Zdravković, but was about returning a wallet.
‘No reason, I just... I knew him... by sight... ’
Her look told me that I was back in her book as a druggy
begonia burglar. She examined me with a scrutiny and