Stillness of the Sea (10 page)

“Did any official, under whatever authority, tell your husband that he was under suspicion or that he was being investigated?”

“No, never.”

“Did your husband ever mention in your presence that he was afraid of being taken away for questioning?”

“No, never.”

After the midday break, Mr Bloom, the prosecutor, takes over. He too wants to speak about the French soldiers.

When did they leave the house of her parents-in-law, he asks. She answers that they left just after her husband was arrested.

“From the moment of your husband’s arrest, soldiers were no longer stationed in the house next door – is that correct?”

“Yes.”

Mr Bloom gives her a sidelong glance and then ostentatiously shakes his head.

“Mrs Šimić, at least at that point in time, it must surely have occurred to you that the soldiers were in your in-laws’ house for six months because they were ordered to arrest your husband and also obtain as much information as possible about your nephew Marić, who – as you know – is charged with having set fire to the building in question.”

“No, I didn’t. I truly had no idea. I only knew that they were staying in our house, but I didn’t know why they were there.”

“Previously, in connection with questions concerning your nephew, you said, ‘I’ve heard that he’s supposed to be involved in arson, but I don’t know anything about it. I wasn’t there. I haven’t seen him.’ I’d like to ask you now
when you first heard that Milan Marić had been involved in acts of arson?”

“I don’t know. Stories began doing the rounds and the newspapers were on to it. My brother-in-law once showed me an article, but by then I was already living in Belgrade.”

“During this trial, we have heard other witnesses state that several houses were set on fire. So, referring to what I understand you to have said earlier, you believed that people died during the fire of which you spoke, that is, the house fire in Pionirska Street. Is that right?”

“I don’t know who died.”

“Do you believe that people died during the fire you’ve spoken about?”

“I read about it in the paper afterwards. I don’t know anything else. I wasn’t there.”

“I would like to know if you believe that people died there or not.”

“I assume they did. I’ve no idea, not really. I don’t know.”

She feels under pressure, that much is obvious, the tone of her voice has changed. It sounds dismissive, nervous and despairing at the same time. Perhaps she didn’t realise that her statement could be used against her husband. Perhaps now, in the presence of judge and prosecutor, she has become aware that appearing in court won’t help him.

He believes her. She doesn’t know if people died or not. She must have read about the deaths of the Hasanovićs; if a newspaper gives the name of a suspect, it will surely also report any fatalities. But she forgot, because she didn’t want to know. She never questioned anything. She wouldn’t have wanted to know if her husband was involved in this crime. When he was arrested, she didn’t
enquire about the charge. Was that for fear that he might be guilty?

During the past weeks, he has reflected again and again on what he would have done in Ana’s place. It’s so hard to imagine one’s own father as a murderer, or an accomplice to murder. A murder that he denies any part in. Shouldn’t his son be ready to believe him? Should it be up to the son to investigate his father’s guilt or innocence? Who would insist upon a son searching for evidence against his father?

Mr Bloom keeps his eyes fixed on Ana’s mother.

“In a year, how frequent would his drinking bouts be?”

“It varied. He could often go for five or six months without alcohol, but at other times he wouldn’t last that long.”

“When he was drinking to excess, were you able to discuss things with him? Could you speak to him about matters concerning your daughter or your house?”

“Why do you ask? Of course I could. Early on when he drank hard, it wasn’t easy, but then he’d stop and everything would be normal again. So, yes, we could talk together.”

“Have you ever quarrelled with him when he was drunk?”

“No.”

“Did he ever shout at his daughter while drunk?”

“No, he’s crazy about his daughter.”

“I note that, according to you, the only problematic aspect of your husband’s drinking was that he stopped eating and lost weight. Apart from that, there seems to have been no other ill effects for his family. Have I understood you correctly?”

“Yes. Only that it was bad for him. That his health was affected.”

“Mrs Šimić, you have mentioned earlier that your husband found the sight of hurt or crippled people extremely troubling. My next question concerns his role as a host. When there was something to celebrate and you planned to serve up chicken, or perhaps lamb or pork, presumably your husband, as the man of the house, would slaughter the animal?”

“You’re right that it’s our custom to slaughter a lamb or pig on such an occasion, but Zlatko never did it. He just couldn’t make himself do it. Every time, we had to ask a neighbour. I remember that when the soldiers who lived in our house had something to celebrate and wanted grilled lamb, we asked our neighbour because Zlatko didn’t have the heart to kill a lamb or a chicken. Zlatko has never slaughtered an animal.”

“Do you know the reason why?”

“He has an aversion to that kind of thing. He doesn’t like it at all. The very thought of killing an animal is a torment for him.”

Šimić looks on impassively as he follows his wife’s performance. He sits straight-backed and soberly
dressed,
his hair neatly combed. Unresponsive and
unemotional,
just intensely attentive. In the gallery, many clearly feel ill at ease. Mrs Šimić’s last few sentences have triggered a restiveness you can’t miss: in the row in front, a man puts his head in his hands, another removes his headphones. In his row, someone’s foot is jerking and a woman leans back in her seat and closes her eyes.

The judge tells Mrs Šimić to leave the court. She looks around for someone to help her and is escorted out by one of the attendants. No doubt she meant well, but
now seems to feel lost. Just before she leaves, she turns towards the defendant and tries to catch his eye. He stares fixedly into space. The judge asks for the next witness to be called.

On the way back from the Baltic coast, he decided to turn off the motorway. He wanted to show her Müritz, the great lake. For many years, it had been the place he went to when the winter in Berlin, with its constant drizzle and grim, grey buildings, made him so depressed that nothing seemed any good. He tried to remember his usual route, but roadworks forced him to follow a diversion. Then, believing that he recognised the road they were on, he almost missed a turning and had to brake sharply. Too late, he noticed the car behind him and realised that his manoeuvre had almost landed it in trouble. He waved apologetically.

They could already see Lake Müritz in the distance. He had read somewhere that the name was derived from a Slav word,
morcze
or “small sea”. Ana took her feet off the dashboard. Later, he would often wonder why he’d taken Ana to Müritz and only wished he hadn’t. He had simply wanted to show her a beautiful place and decided on an impulse.

“You’ll like this,” he said and, at that very moment, there was the loud whine of a car engine closing in. He glanced in the mirror. A blue Golf with darkened windows, the car which his earlier carelessness had forced to make an emergency stop, was now hanging on his tail.

“What’s up?” Ana asked.

“Just some nutter,” he told her.

She turned round to see.

“What does he want?”

“To scare us a little. Look, he’s overtaking us now.”

In the side-mirror, he saw the car pull out. As it drew alongside, the passenger window opened and they could see two men with smooth-shaven skulls in the front seat. The Golf accelerated, got back in lane and stopped in front of them. He thought for a moment of moving out to overtake, but there was an oncoming car in the other lane. He had to stop.

“What do they want?” Ana asked and locked the doors from the inside.

Four men climbed out of the blue car, one by one. All four wore bomber jackets and rolled-up jeans over high boots. Two of them stayed by their car, one on each side, and one of them went to stand at Ana’s door.

He saw Ana’s hand grip the door handle. The man on his side of the car knocked on the window. He briefly considered putting his foot down on the accelerator, but that would have meant running over two of them.

“Step outside,” said the skinhead who had knocked on the window.

He held onto the steering wheel and stared straight ahead, trying to breathe calmly. One of the two men in front of the car used his foot to pump the bumper up and down. He drew a deep breath and reached out to open the window, but Ana cried, “No! Don’t!”

“So, what do I do?” he asked.

“Whatever you do, don’t open up.”

The guard on the driver’s side banged on the roof with the palm of his hand, once, twice and a third time, before bending to look inside their car. He stared at Ana, then at him. “Come on,” he said. “I must do something. We can’t just sit and wait.”

“Drive. Drive off, they’ll jump away fast enough,” Ana whispered. He felt alarmed – naturally, who wouldn’t be
in a situation like this? There were four of them and each one was physically stronger than he was. He wound the window down. As he did, he saw Ana close her eyes and clutch at the edge of her seat with her free hand.

The skinhead stared quizzically at him. Then he said, “Look, man, you screwed up. You admit that?” He reached into the car, opened the door and said: “Get out.”

Ana’s eyes were still closed.

What would happen if he didn’t get out, if he simply sat there?

“Come on, out.” The man’s voice sounded more aggressive now.

He got out.

“Good. Now, you apologise for what you did.”

He glanced into the car and realised that Ana was watching him from the passenger seat. He held onto the open door. “I’m really so…” His voice cracked and he had to clear his throat. “I am really sorry.”

“Sorry for what?” the skinhead asked, glancing at his mates.

He felt himself blush and glanced quickly up the road in the hope of seeing another car. “I’m really sorry,” he then said, “that I braked the car right in front of you.”

The big man in bomber jacket and boots scrutinised him. He can still remember that man’s gaze, his dark eyes. And he still remembers what he thought at the time: these eyes, with their hint of melancholy, don’t fit the scenario. The perception would stay with him, even though, a moment later, he saw only the cold stare of superiority.

“Where are you from?”

“Berlin.”

“What I mean is, are you German?”

“Why do you ask?”

“You look a bit like an Eyetie or a Yugo.”

He glanced at Ana. And said, “Yes, I am German.”

The man seemed to think this over. Then he looked at his mates and nodded in their direction. They all climbed into the Golf and drove off.

After a while, when the Golf was well out of sight, he got back inside. “I’m so sorry,” he said, without meeting Ana’s eyes.

And she said, “You shouldn’t have opened the window.”

The next witness, called once Ana’s mother left the
courtroom
, turns out to be male. Ana hasn’t come through that door. That’s enough for him. He has no idea who this man is, and isn’t interested. He takes off his headphones and leaves.

He walks to the beach and finds a place to sit in one of the many cafés, picking a seat from where he can look out over the sea. He orders a pot of tea and stays until darkness falls. Before he goes, he asks the waitress the way to the prison. She shrugs. But surely everyone in the world has heard of the Scheveningen prison for war criminals? “It must be somewhere nearby,” he says. “I guess so,” she replies, “but I’ve no idea.” She looks to be in her early twenties. “Have you never heard of the war crimes tribunal?” She picks up his cup and puts it on her tray. “Yes, I’ve heard of it.” She looks at him briefly. “Was there anything else?” He shakes his head.

It’s colder now, even though the wind has died down. He finds a hotel reception and asks for directions. The man behind the counter quickly checks him over. “You want the United Nations Detention Unit, right?” He nods. The man mentions a couple of street names, and then
repeats them in the same order: Gevers Deynootweg, Zwolsestraat. There’s a bus, he adds, but it’s walking distance. Take the first on the left and go on until you come to the park, then walk through the park. Perhaps, he thinks, it would be better to wait until daylight, but he sets out anyway, in what he hopes is the right direction.

He has to ask twice on the way, but reaches the prison. Tall brick walls. It looks like a fortress. Walls protecting the inmates from the outside world.

He read in a book about the court that the prisoners, who are all charged with war crimes, have created their own private reality behind the walls. It is a world free from ethnic conflicts, where Serbs, Croats and Muslims cook and play games together, and sign birthday cards to each other’s relations. The members of this community have fought wars against each other, massacred people of one ethnicity or other, causing distrust among the survivors. Now they get on perfectly well together, as if they want to mock their victims’ suffering.

Šimić’s cell is somewhere inside this building. Fifteen square metres equipped with shower, WC, washbasin and table. He is allowed to use a computer, but not to connect it to the Internet. He can watch television in his native language, has access to a lending library and also courses in arts, languages or sciences. Perhaps Šimić sits there now with the others, having an evening meal in the kitchen. Or he might be reading quietly.

It occurs to him for the first time that Ana probably visited her father during the week she was away. That was the week just before they went to the seaside together. She never told him that she planned to travel anywhere. It was only when he asked her if she’d like to come along and see a friend on his birthday that she
said she wouldn’t be around. He asked where she was going. Belgrade, she said, just for a few days. It disappointed him that she hadn’t let him know that she was going away, and so soon too. He pointed out that he could have come with her, if only she had told him earlier.