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made up, just enough to cover quick conversations with
the neighbour across the hall.
‘Would you like some coffee?’
*
‘You know, I recognized you straight away. You’re a chip
off the old block, even with the Slovene accent. You even
stand like him; and those eyebrows. You couldn’t hide,
even if you were God.’
Mediha Babić, who had worked at the local town hall back
in the day, put on some coffee, offered me some biscuits
and a glass of homemade elderberry cordial. These treats
functioned like a time machine for people like me,
bringing us back to our childhood. I sat at the table in a
huge two-bedroom apartment, filled out by this elderly
pensioner. It was worn, but tidy. I could see the town of
Brčko through the window. Like most Bosnian towns, it
was much more beautiful from a height than it actually
looked at ground level.
‘Nice view you have here. You can see the whole town.’
‘Oh, I can see the town, Vladan, my boy. I just don’t
recognize it anymore. So much of this new world. I’d
forgive them for being Serbs. My husband was a Serb, too.