Whole Wild World (37 page)

When I was younger, I'd asked Tata about the war every which way, but never got inside the bunker. The questions were easily turned away, albeit in five languages. I was asking why, when the matter was just as easily what or when or how or where. Who knew? Those traumas were locked away.

Why?
Rat
.

There were never ditties or couplets from Joso about those days. He'd not been ready to speak. I think he sensed, correctly, I would not have been able to understand the betrayals and barbarism, the wildness and sheer luck of it all. First a mere child lying in the grass, then a young man, self-assured and impudent, filled with plain facts and certainties about what the future would bring. Joso no doubt once had similar expectations; thwarted, a captive, unbroken, he got on with living.

It would take another decade, but Tata opened the door on his experiences. During Croatia's war of independence in the 1990s, he'd check the Croatian papers and see public notices of people looking for family members not seen since World War II; in some instances, he knew what had happened to the vanished.

‘That poor boy, just bones, shot in the back when he couldn't walk anymore,' he said, not conscious of his tears, pointing to a grainy picture of a young man in the Zadar newspaper's public notices: MISSING. ‘Left in a ditch on the side of the road.' Someone had to tell his people.

Tata had given up hope on the long death march, known as the
križni put
, or Way of the Cross, after Croatian soldiers surrendered to Allied forces in Bleiburg, Austria, in May 1945. Former Ustaše, members of the Croatian home guard, and displaced civilians were handed over to the Partisans. Malnourished and exhausted, Joso could not will himself to stand and keep up with two companions.

‘I told them “Just leave me here to die, you keep going”,' he said. ‘But they took turns carrying me the last 100 kilometres, until we reached the camp in Macedonia.'

Almost fifty years after that sorrowful journey, Joso returned to Ljubač in triumph, a hero and survivor welcomed by the entire village and a rag-tag marching band. I wasn't there to see his tears in 1992 as he was carried forth to the old house. But I was with Tata, Mama and my wife a few years later when he took us high above the village to show us the windswept remains of ancient walls that protected his ancestors from invaders. And I was there on a stifling September day in 2000, with Mama and Šime, as ‘the student' was laid to rest in the family plot, overgrown and nondescript, as was his wish. Tata's voice is the soundtrack guide to every unfamiliar street sign or word I struggle with on visits to the old country, his cadences melding sweetly to sound like my own.

Hearing more stories about his struggle and resurrection, as it were, I made sense of Joso's anger, the rages when we were picky with food. I was ashamed of how easily as a boy I'd dismissed my old man's opinions and learned wisdom, on almost everything. By knowing more about the causes and effects, I'd be awestruck by his endurance and spirit. We made way for each other. Such understanding came after trial and error on both sides; it was due to a softening of hearts and peace, at last, in the homeland. We are known to be a hard people, but we ripen with age. In my case, marriage and fatherhood did wonders for that.

My letter was from Fairfax.

‘I regret …'

Excellent lead, Mr Hoffman! Tells the story in two words. I say that now, but it knocked me sideways, a kick to the head I
should have anticipated if I were as experienced and streetwise as I purported to be. But there were also encouraging parts, I immediately told myself, even if they were distinctly pro forma: ‘You may wish to apply again next year. We do, in fact, give some preference to candidates with a year or so's experience in the workforce.'

‘Mama and Tata, looks like I'm going to uni,' I said, typically getting ahead of myself, changing tack, spotting an opening on the fly, master of a chaotic court.

When the HSC results came out in the new year, I had done just enough in those last days to steady the ship, scoring halfway between what I was probably capable of and the minimum Tata suggested would maintain family honour. Except in Croatian. I got 38 out of 100, bringing up the rear in a small field of runners.

Before my birthday, I finished
A Confederacy of Dunces
, as patently brilliant as it was troubling, and sad, given Toole's fate. I carried it as a fable about life and luck. Rejection could happen, it would happen, in career and friendships. Neither talent nor desire would be enough, I would say to myself when composed, so for God's sake get used to knockbacks.

I stole a glimpse, above the clouds. The map of possibilities stretched far, across time zones and a lifetime. At eighteen, I simply longed to reveal and risk my heart. I'd soon realise there was no precise formula for achieving uplift beyond pursuing things that opened my mind, disciplined my thoughts and, as Joso urged me, brought joy to me and others. I vowed to not blindly follow, to go at things my own way. That's the only edge.

At first, I'll look to America, with my curious, strong eye for distance. The other, with its lazy turn and close focus, will be fixed on shaping words into stories. Like Milenka, I'll try to notice, listen and remember it all, and keep the reader wanting more.

When the moment arrives, I won't be the boy trapped on the threshold of flight. This time, I'll be escaping into the wild.

Acknowledgments

Journalism is a demanding trade, like bricklaying with a deadline. Sentences are laid down like courses, one on top of another, aiming for plumb on shaky ground. Writing this book has been an act of amateur sculpture: bashing away at the calcified past with every sharp tool I could muster, peering around to examine hard-rock indents from different angles, taking a walk afterwards to wonder if it meant anything. This solitary task was made joyful because of the love and encouragement of my wife Mara, first reader and best friend. Our children Carla and Joe helped me to reconnect to my younger self, nowhere near as whole or worldly as they are. There's a radical school of thought that believes
12 Years a Slav
would have been a better title. Sorry Joe. If I got it half right, the indomitable spirit of my parents, both long deceased, should shine on every page. My brother Sam, the first person I call when a need arises, has never said ‘no' to me; naturally, he is to blame for all my shortcomings. At its core, the news game is competitive. Yet, in the trenches, it's simply story versus story; editors have an interest in making professional rivalry personal and unpleasant. As a career journalist I've been blessed at every turn with an abundance of terrific comrades. Their work and loyalty have inspired and sustained me, no one more obsessive, generous and loving than the late Elisabeth Wynhausen. I'd like to thank the classy team at NewSouth for their dedication in getting this book between the covers and into your hands. True to reputation, Phillipa McGuinness was first to see the contours and essence of a boy's family story and lit the fire for telling it. How lucky am I to have been guided by book world's Supercoach.