TE22 Potpourri

Lejla Kalamujić

Call Me Esteban

“I’ll take that,” I reply, “and a mineral water.”

strokes its cover, and says, “So, everyone’s in there. My Roza too. I’m the only one missing.” ** Locomotive 3 WeenterCroatiaatnightandsitonthetracks. There’saclanging sound as the workers remove the locomotive of Republika Srpska. We pass through customs while waiting for them to attach the locomotive of the Republic of Croatia. Jakov and I sit in the dingy fluorescent light of the snack bar. He reminds me of my grandfather. I rarely talk about him, but tonight, on the old Olympic Express, I tell Grandpa’s stories to this man named Jakov. He was another good man orphaned after the Second World War. From Kozara. His parents were killed in the village. The state raised him. Eventually he embraced Grandma’s hometown as his own. Her family became his. A third conductor enters. White shirt, navy pants, cap on his head, black bag hanging from his shoulder. I hand him my ticket, he thanks me, inspects it carefully, runs a finger over it.

There’s an old man sitting there too. He’s drinking rakija. A book and hat on the table in front of him. I sip the scalding coffee. Grounds stick to my tongue. We wobble gently. I stare out into the night. It obscures our path, as if ashamed. The locomotive squeals, the wheels sputter.

“In Tito’s day it was much better,” declares the old man.

The waiter exits carrying a tray with bottles of beer and cola. Having lost his interlocutor, theoldman turns tome. He smiles weakly. “You’re from Sarajevo?” Something about him seems familiar and close. I nod, and he picks up his hat and book, taking a seat next tome. His name is Jakov. He’s from Belgrade, where he’s now returning after burying his sister yesterday in Sarajevo. His book is an old photo album, the directory and compass of his life. On the first page are blackand- white photographs of smiling people. Jakov leafs through it ever more slowly. “My child, I now have more people under the ground than above it.” His parents and brother were killed at Jasenovac. His fingers slowly turn to pages with color photos. “That’s Roza, my sister. We were the only two to survive that war.” He takes a deep breath. Keeps leafing through the album. We arrive at pages without pictures. Instead there are obituaries. Roza’s is the last among them. “And then war came again. Roza in Sarajevo. Me in Belgrade. Fate.” Silently we look at the smiling Roza. The old man closes the funereal book, 228

“To Šid?” he asks.

“To Šid,” I reply.

Jakov takes out his ticket. The conductor thanks us and moves on. I can’t stop talking aboutmygrandpa, who lovedTitoalmost as much as he loved us. When he was eight years old he was 229