Island of the World: A Novel

Prologue

I am old. Time has revealed itself and shed its pretense of eternity, though it is of course contained within eternity. I clean the hallways, take out the garbage, try not to be irritated by the roar of ten million automobiles, and by the jackhammers that are breaking up the street outside the front door, only to lay down another stratum of tar for future generations to dig up. This is a big city, and though I have lived within it for close to forty years, I still do not understand how it survives.

Its people display an astonishing variety of colors, languages, temperaments, and ratios of good and evil (as is everywhere), but they do not seem unhappy. Neither do they contemplate the body of the world. Its foundations are below them, they believe, in the concrete and tar, the pipes and wires. During my time among them I have noticed this delusion particularly. Seldom have I encountered the few who are awake, who cast their gaze to the real foundations, which, as human beings should know, are above.

Soon I will leave this place and return to my first home. Perhaps I will find myself waiting for me there. Is this a candid admission that I have failed to know myself? Yes, of course it is. What else is there to learn save that we know almost nothing? I am not referring to biographical data, but to something more important, the character of presence that appears to be displacement, as a stone or tree displaces air as it fills space. That I am a displaced person is true enough. Yet this is true of all men, each in his way. What is to be learned of me now rests in memory, the interior, a country that contains ranges of mountains and their shadowed vales, the beds of alpine glens, the crevasse and its fall from which there is no return, and the summit from which one does not wish to return.

Why do we in memory seek ourselves, when it is ourselves who shape the memories? The truth is, we shape and are shaped. In the beginning we unwittingly find our forms, as the first steps of a child. Later we take our longer strides, with secret timorousness, preferring a crowd of companions. Then, in time, we go farther out into the world with blind and knowing willfulness, with good intent and ill, alone inside ourselves. For in solitude the blur of safe indistinction becomes sharp and dangerous identity. Then, when identity has sealed its form, we seek union with the other islands, within the island of the world.

Of my life I can only resort to pictures. It began, as most lives do, with warmth and milk and love.

The village was hidden from the world. At least it thought itself so, for it was ringed by peaks, and its people assumed that a valley suspended so high above all others was exempt from tribulation. We the young believed this. Our elders encouraged the illusion. They did not want to rob us of our joy and perhaps desired to share in it a little. And so the mountains were the meridians of all creation. The brook that came to us from the upper crags ran unfailing, clear and swift between the houses. The little fields and flocks fed us well. From other places men of wisdom came from time to time and taught us of the world beyond, which was a place of fear and confusion. For us, the children of Rajska Polja, which is the fields of heaven, their accounts seemed more remote than the tales of Anthony and Francis, who could talk to fish and birds.

In this place where we first appeared, we did not doubt that love is the path of ascent. We did not think of it, as we did not think of the air we breathed. In time our flesh received instruction as we grew, and our hearts and our souls. We came to know that love is the soul of the world, though its body bleeds, and we must learn to bleed with it. Love is also the seed and milk and the fruit of the world, though we can partake of it in greed or reverence.

We are born, we eat, and learn, and die. We leave a tracery of messages in the lives of others, a little shifting of the soil, a stone moved from here to there, a word uttered, a song, a poem left behind. I was here, each of these declare. I was here.

THE MOUNTAINS

1

That summer, three gifts come to him.

Because the entire year has been full of interesting events, it is not clear at first that they are gifts. The first is the journey he makes with his father to the sea, leaving the mountains behind, though they cannot be left behind really, because they reach as far as the waters of the coast, and tower always in the composition of his mind. The sea itself is the second gift, for it is not an aspect of the world that he has seen before. The third is the miracle of the swallow. This last gift, it seems to him, is the least of the three.

Josip, tomorrow you will see a great thing, says his father as they rise by candlelight before dawn, putting on their clothes beside the stove while mother makes a fire. You will see the waters of the Adriatic.

Is it like a lake? Josip asks. He has seen photographs of the ocean in one of his father’s books, but it is hard to tell its size from them.

Much bigger than a lake.

How big is it, really, Tata? he presses with earnest curiosity, for he believes that his father has an answer for everything.

It is beyond measuring, Josip.

Is it as big as the sky?

That is a difficult question. When you go there you will see that the sky above it is greater than the sky above our mountains.

Josip furrows his brow in concentration.

This I do not understand!

You must see it with your own eyes and then you will understand.

The boy closes his eyelids and touches them with his fingertips.

The sea will show you many things, Josip.

Fish?

Yes, fish, says his father, smiling, as he lights the oil lamp above the kitchen table. But more than fish.

Squid? He has seen a picture of squid and read a little about them.

Perhaps we will see a squid.

With a spear I will catch one, and we will cook rice in its ink.

First you will have to catch one.

Will we play in the sea?

We will play in it.

Miro, interjects his mother, do not let him be too . . .

Too?

Too like himself. If you see him about to throw himself into deep water, stop him.

I will stop him, laughs his father.

He cannot swim. He is nine years old, and he cannot swim.

Marija, if we do not play in the dangerous surf, we will drown in puddles.

She scowls and crosses her arms—her usual response whenever her husband is too witty.

No one swims in Rajska Polja, Josip pipes, except in the rain.

"You and your friends pretend to swim, says his mother, kissing him on the forehead, but if it was anything more than rain, you would drown, you would die, and how would you like that!"

I wouldn’t drown, says Josip, cramming bread into one side of his mouth and tilting a crock of warm milk toward the other. He chokes on it, coughing and sputtering.

Already you’re drowning! cries his mother.

As they eat the remainder of their meal on the little wooden table beside the window, the roosters begin crowing. A slice of red flame slips over the crest of the mountain, drawing in its train a veil of pink. His father’s eyes wander toward it.

Rose-fingered dawn, he murmurs.

"Will we bring The Iliad or The Odyssey with us? Josip asks. Will you read aloud to me when we sleep at the sisters’ convent?"

Finish chewing before you speak, says his mother. Miro, please, enough of war.

It is an old, old war, Mamica, Josip pleads. "The rage of Achilles is very interesting."

We will bring no books, the father answers. "Instead we will see with our own eyes what Odysseus saw. We will see the waters he sailed upon in Argo."

Will we see monsters?

That is always possible.

The sun is just rolling over the ridge of Zamak mountain by the time Josip and his father are ready to go. In the yard the night-chill lingers, and the smell of sheep droppings is pleasant to the nose. While his father leads Svez the donkey from the shed behind the house and harnesses him to the cart, Josip gazes down the lane, which is the only street in Rajska Polja. Two dozen houses are scattered haphazardly along its muddy ruts. Most of them are made of field stone, a few of wood, many with their back walls under the slopes of the hills. On both sides of the village, pastures rise to the east and the west. Beyond the grass there is forest, and above the trees high bare ridges merge with sharper peaks.

Svez is harnessed and snorting little bursts of frosty breath.

Onto the cart his father loads the carry-box with a food bag and sheepskin water flasks. When those tasks are completed, he opens his arms wide and drops to his knees. He and the mother and Josip kneel with their arms around each other and pray that God will give a safe journey and for a blessing on everything that will occur between the going and the coming. They all make the sign of the cross and stand, brushing dirt from their knees. Then father bows to the stone church at the end of the street, kisses his wife, and lifts Josip onto the plank where they will sit.

Bye-bye, Mamica, Josip waves. I will miss you very much, but I must go and see the world.

Of course you must go and see the world, my Josip. And you must come home again too. I will make a beautiful supper.

"I will explain to him, Marija, that The Odyssey is all about a man trying to get home again."

She folds her arms and smiles into her husband’s eyes, but man and boy can see that she does not like them to go away, even if only for a few days.

Pray for a door to open, father says.

I will pray. In Split, there are many good people. Stay away from soldiers. And beware of gypsies.

There are good gypsies.

I know, just as there are good beggars and bad beggars. But we cannot afford to give our few coins to frauds. A schoolteacher’s income . . .

In the city there may be jobs, new schools. It would be better for him . . .

Him, Josip knows, is the singular object of their affection, their only child—himself.

Father flicks the reins, and Svez reluctantly hobbles forward, pulling the creaking cart slowly along the lane and out into the eastern pasture toward the mountain pass. All around them the peaks are white, the morning birds swim in the liquid air, and the purples, reds and yellows of meadow flowers sway in the wind. The air is scented by the pine trees above the schoolhouse and combed by the oak forest on the mountain slopes, and the bell in the church begins to ring with laughter.

Theirs is a small valley, higher than most in the region, containing little more than a hundred souls. It is not long before they leave it behind and enter the folds in the range that lead downward to the coast.

By noon they arrive at the nearest village. From there they go by another route, no longer a path but a track of rutted dirt. There is a lot of up and down, though they are slowly, slowly winding their way lower in the mountains. When the sun sets, father pulls off into a grove of trees sprouting new leaves. They are hidden from view; no one passing by would know they are here; there are no houses to be seen in any direction. A fox barks, and night birds call to each other. The stars are very bright. The chill settles in quickly. It is the first time in many years Josip sleeps with his father, curled inside his arms, wrapped in a blanket. It feels warm and safe.

Before dawn they resume their journey, passing into the lower foothills of a narrow gorge flanked by brutally sharp ranges. Now the rutted dirt is firmer underfoot and becomes a road with a noisy creek babbling beside it. The sun is high in the sky by the time the gorge opens up and enters a wider valley. Here the creek flows into a river. Father directs Svez across a clattering wooden bridge and then turns right onto a gravel road that runs beside the river.

The Neretva, says father.

It is very big, says Josip, with wide eyes.

At this point it is not so big. It grows as it nears the coast.

They proceed along the road for many hours, and occasionally they must plug their ears against the roar of trucks that father says are going north to Sarajevo, and of others going south to Mostar. The valley through which the river passes is like a canyon, its lower slopes covered with low brush and small trees, growing barer as the cut in the earth soars toward the great white peaks.

At one point his father pulls the cart to the side of the road, and they walk down to the riverbank. How dark the water is, more silent than the mountain creeks, more powerful too. They kneel on a patch of sand to fill the water-skins. When Josip’s is full and the cork firmly in place, he stands and notices a boat floating a few meters downstream, tethered to a bush by a rope. This is the first real boat he has ever seen. It is nothing like the pictures of such vessels that he has looked at in books. It is shaped like a knife blade, two man-lengths long, and painted blue. This blue is unlike the other blues that he loves, such as the sky or the flashes on a lastavica. This blue is like the robe of a king.

Oh, he breathes, opening his mouth and spreading his arms.

His father is standing beside Josip, looking down at him with a small smile of amusement.

So, you want to go fishing?

Josip shakes his head.

You are really staring at that boat. Would you like to have such a boat?

Yes—rather, no! To possess it is not what he is thinking. He is merely loving its shape, its color, and the way it floats as if weightless upon the swift green water.

Tata?

Yes?

Are we like this?

Like what?

"Are we boats?"

His father laughs, then shakes his son’s shoulder. No time for daydreams, Josip. We’d better get moving if we want to reach Mostar by nightfall.

So, Svez ambles steadily along the road, and the motion of the cart induces drowsiness. An hour or two pass while Josip dozes with his head leaning on his father’s shoulder. When he opens his eyes, he sits bolt upright and points.

Look, Tata, castles!

On promontories above their heads, enormous towers of stone jut toward the sky, the solitary fortresses of giants who guard the river.

His father smiles. They are natural formations, Josip, made by God, not by man.

By evening they arrive at a city—Mostar. It is enormous. Dozens of streets, like a hundred villages all pushed together. Josip stares in wonder. Everything about it is a beauty and a shock. The many people, the market, the colorful buildings, and the needles of Muslim prayer-towers on one side of the river, the church spires on the other. Soldiers in different uniforms patrol the streets, guarding the post office and bank. On these buildings the Italian flag is flying. The soldiers’ faces are not quite the same as the faces of the people of Yugoslavia.

As their cart crosses a square, a gunshot echoes against the buildings. Seconds later, a man runs past, into the shadow of an alleyway. He is carrying a hunting rifle tipped by a bayonet.

Ustasha? his father whispers.

Why do you whisper to me like that, Tata?

In cities there are many ears, Josip.

Is that man with the gun a bad person?

He may be one of the Ustashe.

What is Ustashe?

A group of Croats who fight our enemies. But they are wrong in some of their thoughts and their actions.

Why are they wrong in some of their thoughts and their actions?

They are very brutal.

Maybe he is not a Ustasha. Maybe he is a shepherd who is guarding his flock. Father scowls.

Do wolves come into big cities like this? Josip asks, gazing longingly after the place where the shadow disappeared. Maybe he has seen a wolf.

Yes, I think he has seen a wolf.

And will he kill it, if it attacks the sheep?

He will.

Then he is not wrong in his thoughts and his actions.

Father says nothing, just shakes his head.

What kind of wolf is it? A big one?

Yes, very big and growing.

A black wolf or a gray one?

Maybe a Chetnik wolf, his father mutters distractedly, as if to himself.

What is a Chetnik?

Josip has, on occasion, overheard the men of the village using this word. They do not like the young to listen when it appears in their conversation.

My son, says his father rubbing his eyes, it is one thing to defend. It is another thing to attack and degrade . . .

What do you mean, Tata?

I cannot explain it to you now. Later I will tell you, after we have seen the sea.

There is no more time for questions because they have arrived at a stable where people can leave their donkeys and carts. Father pays a few coins to the man who looks after the animals. He will feed Svez while they are gone. They joke with each other, trading a few details about their lives. He is a Croat, and it turns out that he grew up in a village near Rajska Polja. Now he lives in the city and hates it. Then they talk about the gunshot. Who was firing upon whom?

I don’t think he was after Italian blood, says the stableman in a quiet voice. Though he’d like some of that too. If he shot an Italian you can be sure their soldiers would be stampeding through the city like pigs at slaughter time. Still, they’re not Germans. If he had killed a German you can be sure they’d be rounding up hundreds of people right now to shoot them in reprisal.

Father purses his lips. The Italians have imprisoned thousands in camps, he says in a voice just above a whisper. They have been shooting hostages too. At Primošten they shot and stabbed eighty people in retaliation for the death of fourteen sailors.

Suddenly father catches himself and glances over at Josip, who is studiously observing the other animals in the shed. He is listening, though he pretends not to be.

The stableman lowers his voice: Maybe he was Ustasha. Maybe Chetnik. Maybe Partisan. With everyone carrying guns, who can tell! I hear the Ustashe are after a Chetnik chief who crept into town last night. Maybe it was Baćović.

Who is Baćović?

He’s one of Mihailović’s gang of murderers. On their way to Makarska they burned several Croat villages and killed all the men and boys fifteen and older. They tortured and killed three Catholic priests too.

Father frowns and puts a finger to his lips. The man nods. He gives Josip a dry fig, a great treat. The boy chews it ravenously, eyes shining with euphoric pleasure. The man gives him another, which Josip packs into his mouth even as he chews the first, eyeing his benefactor’s pockets in hopes of more.

The children must eat, the man says to father. They are our future, they are our hope.

There is more discussion about travel to Split, which Josip ignores because a goat has nibbled the donkey’s ear and a quarrel has broken out between the animals. It is very funny.

That night they sleep in a room for travelers—a big room attached to the stables. Josip is a little frightened of the strangers who are lying so close on the other cots, but his father reassures him and holds him snugly until he is asleep. In the morning they walk about the city. Father agrees to risk a little time, although the autobus that will take them to the coast departs within the hour. They walk back and forth on an arching stone bridge connecting two ancient towers on either side of the river. It soars in the middle, but to Josip it seems no higher than a hillock on the pastures of home.

Castles? he asks pausing in the center of the span to gape at the towers.

Yes, like castles. Guard towers on the river.

It is very, very wide, he says peering down into the water.

It is narrow.

Josip does not respond, for in his mind he is now standing on the topmost battlement, brandishing a sword, or shooting arrows down into the ships of invaders.

Then a race to catch the autobus. Josip has never seen one before. It is a tremendous thing, like a beast that eats people, then spews them out alive. There are a lot of people inside it. His father pays some coins to the driver, who is standing by the door with an anxious look and the palm of his hand open. They find an empty seat for two persons halfway to the rear. When the beast roars, coughs black exhaust, and begins to move, Josip’s eyes widen as the seat bounces him up and down.

Oh! he cries, half in amazement and a little fear, half in delight.

His father smiles and puts an arm around his shoulders to keep him from banging against the glass window. The bus plunges along at a terrifying speed and lurches as it rounds corners of the mountain road, which is very narrow.

How far is it to the sea, Tata?

As the crow flies, Josip, it is only eighty kilometers. We are too late to catch the bus that would have taken us directly to the coast at Ploče. Now we will take a different route, northwest through the mountains. It is longer and slower, but we are in no rush. Are you in a rush?

Josip grins. I am not in a rush, Tata.

Good. This way, also, we will pass through Široki Brijeg, where Fra Anto became a priest. It is a school for boys and a seminary. It is also a great shrine in honor of the Assumption of Our Lady into Heaven. Many Franciscans live there.

Will we meet them?

No, the autobus will pass through the town, but we can see the church and the school up on a hilltop. It is a blessed place.

The bus rumbles along, up and down on the winding and unwinding roads, which are better than the roads leading to Rajska Polja, but still rough. Now and then the bus stops and must back up, sometimes a kilometer, to allow oncoming army trucks to pass. It bounces all the way, backward or forward, squealing and rattling. It is a great thrill. There are animals on the bus. Chickens in a crate. A few goats tethered to the legs of the seats. A piglet in a burlap sack elicits Josip’s sympathy, for though the weave of the cloth is rough, permitting air, the top is tied with twine, and the piglet is thrashing and squealing.

The road plunges down into a valley full of trees, and there on the heights of a promontory is a big church made of fine yellow bricks, with several large buildings about it. Beyond are fields and groves of fruit trees. The bus stops below to drop off a few passengers and pick up others. Then it roars and continues on its way.

So, that is where Fra Anto was a boy, thinks Josip. Yes, he must have been a boy at one time, long ago. Then a seminarian, and then a priest. This is a good place.

There are more than a hundred thousand books in its library, says father. Great scholars teach there, friars who studied in Paris and Budapest. Someday, Josip, perhaps you will study here. He makes a sign of the cross as he looks back to the church, just as the bus climbs out of the valley and leaves everything behind.

Hours pass. Old men begin arguing in subdued voices that grow louder as the journey stretches on.

The word Chetnici again. Ustashe too is repeated. Also HSS and NDH and Domobrani. None of these or other subjects seem to be happy ones. The old men are worried. A king is mentioned—Petar. The old men approve of the Croatian Peasants’ Party, but think it has been destroyed. They do not approve of the king who has run away, but their dislike of Ustashe and Chetnici is greater.

Do we have a king? Josip asks his father. I did not know we had a king.

He is in exile, his father whispers. Again he whispers. This is strange. Tata never whispers. None of the men of Rajska Polja whisper. Only women whisper, and then it is usually with smiles for happy secrets, new babies sprouting in their mothers’ bodies, or youths and maidens engaged to be married.

The autobus driver honks his horn, and a roadside donkey barely escapes from its path. Across the aisle, two old women pray the Rosary. Smaller children watch every passing detail of the scenery, their heads held high and mouths wide open. The youngest are nursed at their mothers’ breasts. Some of the women, the poorest, do not cover themselves with shawls. Josip disapproves of this exposure, though he is fascinated.

The bus stops at a narrow ravine that cuts the road. Its stone bridge has collapsed, and only two wooden beams have replaced it. The driver gets out, scratching his head. His passengers spill out while he is trying to decide if he should risk a crossing. The ravine is no more than three meters wide, and it is not very deep, but to fall into it would precipitate a longer plunge down the mountain side. The passengers scatter into the roadside bushes, startling flocks of small golden birds. Joseph observes their flight, pondering the patterns they make in the air.

The driver widens the distance between the two planks, measures with his eyes, sighs, and shouts for everyone to get back on board. Father suggests to him that this is not a good idea, because, if the tires slip off the beams, a lot of people will die.

You think it’s better for me to die alone? asks the driver with an offended tone.

Father looks back at him with an expression that is usually readable only by his wife and child: the one he uses when he does not wish to speak his mind. It says, So far beyond rational thought is your attitude, that nothing I can say will change it. A lifetime of reasoning with you would not alter your amazing inability to comprehend reality.

So, everyone but his father and Josip gets back on board. Except for the murmur of prayers, silence reigns as the autobus rolls slowly across the ravine. It arrives safely on the other side, and everyone within it bursts into applause. Josip and his father walk across while the bus waits for them. The driver graciously, without comment, opens the door for them to climb in. The journey resumes.

An hour later, a barricade brings the bus to a stop. There are about a dozen Italian soldiers waiting there with their rifles cocked. Three of them get on board and go up and down the aisle inspecting every face. Silence reigns. They question a young man, and unsatisfied by his answers, drag him out of his seat and push him through the door into the arms of the waiting soldiers. The Italians get out, then wave the bus onward. The silence continues for a time, and then a chorus of muttering begins. An old woman bursts into wails, though it is uncertain if she is related to the young man. Other old women go to her and comfort her.

Why did they take that man? Josip whispers into his father’s ear. He is learning to whisper.

Father flashes a warning look at him: the look says, Be silent!

Not long after, the road makes a wide curve, then descends more steeply. Another curve, and father says, There it is. The sea.

Josip presses his face to the window, his eyes straining, mouth open like a baby, head stretched high on his thin neck. Beyond the folds of the foothills the sea is the shape of a feather held sideways at arm’s length. The sun is glinting on it, but he notes how blue it is, a shade of blue he has never seen before.

What do you think? his father asks.

He cannot think. He can only see it, only drown in its presence, for it grows and grows. It is bigger than the world, this sea.

Now the bus rushes down the last incline and screeches to a halt where the mountain road meets another road, one that runs along the coastline. Josip and his father gather their belongings, stumble through the chickens and children and goats, reach the open door, and hop down into the dust. The engine roars, the bus turns right and begins to chug into the north toward Split.

Why do we stop here? Josip asks.

Because I am going to show you the sea. In Split we will see it too, but it is a harbor with many wharves of stone and cement, and it is not so nice. Here the sea is as it was when Odysseus sailed upon it.

The road is hundreds of meters above the shore. They shoulder their baggage and leave the road, making their way down a steep incline through a grove of olive trees. The hill is rough underfoot but less stony than the pastures of the mountains. Trees and wild plants grow taller here. There are many flowers, some of them new to Josip. The air is hotter and drier. The sun beats down. They stop beneath a tree and in its shade drink from their water-skins. But neither of them wants to rest. They press on, picking their way through outcroppings of white stone, clumps of thorn, and low bushes bursting with red flowers.

At last they arrive at a cliff and stop to survey the terrain in search of a way down. On its crest is a tree that Josip does not recognize. Round golden fruit litter the grass beneath it. Josip throws himself onto his knees and picks one up. Oh, such a color!

It’s an orange, his father says. Can I eat it?

You can try. But it’s a winter orange, very sour.

Josip carefully bites into the skin, spews it out with a look of disgust. But the smell makes him dizzy with desire. He peels the rest with his fingers and sinks his teeth into its flesh. It is very wet inside. Oh! It is sweet!

His father picks up one of the windfalls, peels it, and splits the insides into pieces shaped like a quarter moon. He nibbles one, then spits it out.

These are really sour, he says.

Josip divides his into moons and gives one to his father. This one is sweet, he says.

Father bites into it, spits it out, and makes a face. Even more sour!

Convinced that his father is joking, Josip eats the remainder of his own, then opens another and eats it. He has eaten six by the time he is full.

Sour? asks his father.

Sweet, Josip replies.

Now they are ready to undertake the final stage. Going with caution among the jumbled rocks of the cliff, they traverse it at an angle and, within minutes, are standing on a beach of smooth white stones, millions upon millions of them, the largest as big as a dove’s egg, the smallest like peas. There is no wind, and the ocean is calm, yet it heaves continually. It is breathing. It casts gentle sighs upon the shore where a lip of water rises and falls back, leaving a line of wetness.

Josip runs forward to touch it, his heart beating wildly. He is totally in love for the first time in his life. He loves it all—the water, the new sounds, the little stones, the vastness of the space above the sea, the sense of infinity that opens up before him. He has never seen so much sky gathered in a single place.

He kicks off his shoes, strips off his clothes down to his undershorts, and wades in. He grins in surprise, shouts inarticulately, a half laugh, half cry. Jumping up and down, splashing, feeling with his toes the underwater bed of round white stones, the spray on his bare limbs, the heat of the sun, he is so happy. He knows now that he can penetrate the infinite. It would be worth drowning in it just to have this moment of play. He takes a few more steps, pressing against the sea’s power, and now it swells above his knees.

Josip, that’s enough. Come out, it is very cold.

Oh, it is so warm!

Please, Tata!

A minute only. I don’t want you to catch a chill.

All sounds, especially the voice of caution, fade away because of the impelling command of the sea and the force of his youth. He thinks of nothing, only feels it. There is ecstasy in his face and exultation in his heart. He flings his arms high above his head and runs forward. Laughing, he plunges in.

Underwater, it is not necessary to think about breathing, because it is full of light: blue light and white light and golden light. He opens his eyes, the salt in the water stings them, but this is fine, this is part of it. He can see lacy weeds moving backward and forward, and a school of little yellow fish darting about, a crab walking away on its tiptoes, a purple star crawling.

Then his body is seized, the arms of a giant squid wrap around him and heave him up into the air. He gasps for breath, struggles to escape, for he has read about giant squids.

But it is his giant father, standing in water up to his neck, dragging-swimming back to shore with Josip in his arms.

The man drops his son onto the white stones, and the boy lies on his back with arms stretched above his head, eyes closed, grinning like a madman. His father sits down beside him, his shoes and clothing soaked. He removes them and spreads them around to dry in the sun. He does not look pleased. He says nothing, just watches the distant horizon, where a ship with red sails is passing from south to north.

After a while, father lies down on his stomach, head on his forearms, and dozes. Josip sits up and watches the sea. He can see Argo far out, can hear the shouts of the Argonauts. Monsters are trying to seize the ship and pull it down forever.

Bird songs mix with the sound of surf. Not songs, really, but chirping and cheeping. It is familiar to him because there are swallows in the mountains too. He glances around trying to find them. Farther along the shore stands an embankment of sand, part of the cliff face, about ten meters high. The swallows are there, darting in their unique way, soaring sometimes, and plunging. They have wings and tails like no other bird. Josip jumps to his feet and heads toward the cliff.

Standing at its base, he sees that the swallows have made homes in the wall of hard sand, hundreds of holes. Now and then little heads pop out for an instant, take a look around, and then go back in. Birds on the wing swoop down and enter this or that hole, others leave. There are probably chicks inside. It’s a very busy place.

Josip has been entranced by them since his earliest years. Their qualities are sufficient cause for this, but there is, as well, the name they share. The lastavice are family. He has learned that this is of no interest to them. The admiration is not mutual. They are as elusive as other birds, but swifter and smarter. He has tried to capture them at various times, with no good results. They have dive-bombed him at nesting time. They have sat on the roof of Svez’s shed, observing his activities out of the corners of their eyes, scolding him or discussing him (he is never sure which), as he gazes out of the bedroom window. If he climbs to the roof of the shed, they fly across to the roof of the house. If he climbs to the roof of the house, they fly to the shed. They devour enormous amounts of insects, a habit for which all human residents of Rajska Polja respect them. They hunt at nightfall. They are small but amazingly courageous. They fear nothing, not even the alpine eagles, or the crows, or the vultures. They regard the earthbound domestic hens with pity or perhaps with lofty disdain. It is possible that their estimation of people is the same. They are never, never, interested in contact.

Josip imitates their calls, which draws their attention. The patterns of their flight, their arrivals and departures, change for a minute before returning to normal. Then, remembering that the sea is near, he leaves the swallows, goes back to the shore, and sits down by the edge of the surf. A wind has risen over the water. The sea is now making waves, and the stones are chattering. Whenever a wave comes in, it strains to reach his feet, but he has cleverly placed himself so that it can only touch his toes for an instant before retreating.

His knees are under his chin, arms wrapped around his legs, as he gazes out at the horizon, without a thought in his head. He is drowsy and feeling very peaceful. For a time he closes his eyes and listens to the surf. As he is resting in this way, a swallow makes its high chipping sound nearby. He opens his eyes.

It is suspended in the air a meter in front of him, facing him, its wings tilting this way and that as it floats on a draft. Josip opens both his hands, offering a perch, though he knows it is futile.

The swallow flits forward and alights on his fingertips. Josip ceases to breathe.

It flutters a little, settles. He has never seen one this close. It weighs next to nothing, it is warm, and through the trembling of its tiny feet he can feel its heartbeat. He knows that he cannot, must not, seize it. The swallow has come of its own accord and will depart in the same way. He must not hasten this moment, which he feels is the most important of his life.

The swallow grows completely still, perching tentatively, with extreme delicacy. It is regarding him with a fathomless attention, just as he is regarding it.

Who are you? he breathes at last.

Still the swallow does not depart.

Where have you come from?

For a few seconds only—seconds that might stretch into the eternal—the boy and bird look into each other’s eyes, reaching across the gaps between the ranks of creatures. Then, without warning, the swallow flashes and is gone before the eye can follow.

Where are you going? Josip whispers.

2

Josip and his father sleep under the orange tree. His father has made him unload his pockets, which are crammed with the white stones he has collected from the beach. He will take them home to remember the sea. They are stacked in a little pile not far from his hand.

Wrapped in their blankets, listening to the surf, they watch the stars over the Adriatic. They pray together, and in a sleepy voice father recites some lines from Homer, about the sea. Josip blinks, and it is morning.

Cheese and bread, and more oranges for breakfast.

Sour? his father asks.

Sweet! shouts Josip, jumping into the air.

The father smiles as he watches his son carefully loading the round white stones into his pockets. When that is done, they head up to the road.

They walk along it for a time, Josip rattling and clicking with the sound of the shore in his pockets. A horse-drawn cart comes clipping and clopping out of the south. The driver, an old man with silver moustache, stops and offers them a lift. His face is dark brown, his eyes as blue as the ocean. The tips of his moustache are so long they touch his chest.

It’s twenty-five kilometers to Split, if you’re going to Split, says the man. Do you intend to walk all that way?

We are going to Split, the father replies with a smile. And to ride with you, sir, I can see would be a great pleasure.

The man chuckles, an entire face full of wrinkles, and says, Come up, then!

Josip asks for permission to sit among the boxes of vegetables on the flat open back of the vehicle. His father and the driver agree, after eliciting promises that the boy will not run around or eat any vegetables. His father sits in front beside the man. Josip lies back on a heap of straw between crates of turnips and onions, listening for any conversation that might develop.

The discussion is vague at first, as if his father and the driver are feeling their way through treacherous territory. Both are Croats, but it seems that his father is more careful in his speech with strangers. There is mention of the Italians, the Germans, and the British. Josip has heard these words before and has seen a German soldier. More than a year ago, one passed through the village alone on a motorbike, stopped, opened a map, and asked directions. Josip’s father, who speaks some German, informed the soldier where he was. Rather, where he was not, for the cart track leading to Rajska Polja threads its way through an unimportant range leading nowhere. This barely passable route ends in a mountainous cul-de-sac and is of no strategic importance whatsoever. The soldier shook his head, gunned his motor, turned the bike in a half circle and, after disappearing through the mountain pass, was never seen again. The people of Rajska Polja refer to this incident as the invasion.

Josip understands that foreigners have armies on the soil of Yugoslavia, and that some of their soldiers have penetrated close to the fields of heaven, but no farther. He knows that the Germans and Italians are friends with each other but sometimes quarrel, and that they hate the British and another enemy called Americans. As the cart rumbles along toward Split, Josip learns as well that the Chetniks are not wolves but men who hate the Germans and Italians and who also hate the Croats and Muslims, and that the Ustashe hate the Serbs, and that most of the Chetniks are Serbs. The Partisans are Croats, Slovenes, and Serbs, and all want a free Yugoslavia, but each in a different way. The Communists are a different kind of trouble altogether, though some of these are Chetniks and some are not, and some are Partisans and some are not. Most Croats do not approve of the Ustashe, who are very cruel to their enemies, but they feel that the Chetniks are a greater menace. The Ustashe want a separate nation for the Croats, but they work with the Germans and Italians, who occupy different parts of Yugoslavia. Most Croats want an independent nation for Croats, which has been declared by the Italians, but it is no more than a puppet state.

What is a puppet state? Josip likes puppets; his father makes them with him out of his mother’s spare cloth and large oak nuts, and Josip paints the faces on them. The old man says that some people want the united kingdom of the Serbs, Croats, and Slovenes to be restored, and it is not difficult to tell by his tone that he thinks this may be a good idea. His father replies that even if it were revived, it would not really be a natural kingdom, it could never hold together and be a true democracy, considering the nature of Serbs, who always work to dominate everything. The old man agrees and points out that it was the Austrians who caused all the troubles, long ago, when they started that other war because a Serb killed one of their princes. Why start a war over a madman? he wonders. Very strange.

His father speaks about a place called Versailles, of which the old man has heard nothing, and about the need for a Catholic democracy in Croatia, and how nations can thrive when people respect their differences and do not kill to solve their problems. He adds that it is possible here, and they must all work for it. The old man isn’t quite so sure about that, but he admits there are a lot of things he doesn’t understand, because he is a farmer and all he knows is the bit of soil that’s his own.

That’s kingdom enough for me, he jokes, and Josip’s father laughs, claps him on the shoulder.

Though their conversation is extremely confusing, his father seems to understand it all, and this surprises Josip greatly, for until this moment he had heard nothing of these matters.

Split is a mighty city, enormous. If Mostar is a hundred villages pushed together in one place, this is a thousand villages. Its streets are hard and flat, paved with cobblestones or concrete. There are many motorcars and trucks, countless people milling about in all directions. And here too Italian soldiers patrol the streets.

The cart must stop for a few minutes, blocked by a traffic jam of army trucks and horse-drawn carts. A group of German officers strolls along the boulevard in conversation with a single Italian officer whose black uniform is decorated with medals and braid. Behind him, two other Italians in simpler uniform are smirking and gesturing to the young women they pass on the sidewalk.

Look at them flirting with the girls! says the farmer. What an army! Do you know what the Italian word for retreat is?

No, father shakes his head.

"Avanti!" and the farmer goes off into peals of laughter. His father smiles. Josip has noticed the frequency of his father’s smiles and laughter during the trip. Clearly, he is enjoying himself very much. The knot of traffic untangles itself, and they move on. The farmer drops them at a marketplace by the waterfront, where many sea-going vessels have crowded into the small harbor, fishing boats and ships of war with cannons poking out of them in all directions. Here there is no beach, only cement quays.

Facing the long promenade is a huge old building that his father says is a palace.

Is that where the king lives? Josip asks.

No, the king lives in Belgrade, or he used to, before the war. The emperor Diocletian built this palace and lived here in the fourth century, more than sixteen hundred years ago.

It is very old.

Yes, very old. Come, let’s see it.

So, they pass through a gate and into a tunnel underneath the palace walls and up some steps into an open square surrounded by Roman buildings, his father pointing out details and explaining all the way. In the center is a building with mighty pillars capped by a dome.

This is the cathedral, the church of the archbishop of Split. It was built by Diocletian to be his tomb. Christian slaves built it. All day they worked like animals to lay its stones, and at night they were locked into the cellar beneath it. Now it is our Catholic cathedral. It is also the tomb of the bishop of this region who was martyred by Diocletian. No one knows where the old emperor’s body ended up.

That is very, very interesting, says Josip, with furrowed brow and distant look.

What are you thinking? his father asks with mild amusement.

I am thinking that God has the final word.

This is a saying of his mother’s: God has the final word.

The emperor should have been nicer to the slaves, Josip adds.

Well, he wasn’t. He killed them all after they built this fine resting place for him.

That is hard to believe, says Josip with a look of disgust, though he does believe it, because his father has told him.

Now it is his father’s turn to furrow his brow. His eyes grow distant as he looks to the mountains towering above the city, beyond which lies his home.

Tomorrow I will take you to Solin, the ruins of the Roman city just outside Split. There we will see the place where the martyrs died.

Profound feelings fill Josip, solemn and silent, as if the rhythmic swell of the ocean has been suspended and all motion in the surrounding city has ceased. He is looking at the sky, up beyond the pillars and dome of the cathedral, beyond the peaks of the mountains. He is brought back to the earth by the cheeping of small birds, which he notices have made mud nests in the cornices of the pillars. They are swallows, and it seems to him that they must surely recognize him, because of his name, but also because yesterday their emissary made a visit to his fingertips, and they will surely know this. Their sounds grow boisterous as his father shakes his shoulder and says, Let’s go in and pray.

But the big doors, which are covered with wooden carvings of the life of the Savior, are locked.

Father kneels down on the steps. Josip kneels beside him. Father presses his forehead against the door. He prays silently, his lips moving, his eyes open. There is worry in the eyes, and also something Josip has never before seen in his father’s face—fear. The exhalation of the man’s breath trembles, and a vein in his neck pulses rapidly. Then his father gets to his feet, smiles broadly at his son, and says in a cheerful voice, Now we will go to see your aunt.

For the first time in his life, Josip realizes that his father shields him from many things, with a confident manner that he does not always feel. This is a revelation so unexpected, so absolutely clear, so undeniable, that it leaves him stunned. He now sees his father’s true strength, his greatness. Miro Lasta is a man shorter than many in Rajska Polja, nearly bald, not as lean as most fathers, not as physically strong. His face is not handsome, and he wears thick eye glasses when he reads. He is respected by all, yet he is not admired in the way that men of better appearance are. Now, however, Josip understands that his father is Odysseus.

They walk many blocks and enter a street filled with big houses. One of them is the convent where his mother’s sister lives. They ring the bell at its iron gate, and a nun comes and lets them into the front garden. She is dressed all in white, not like the brown Franciscan Sisters who every few years come to Rajska Polja in summer to teach catechism. She takes them up the marble steps of the old house and into a hallway that is shining with a light Josip has never before seen. It is like gold, but darker, less yellow. Their shoes tap loudly on the stone floor, and the air is full of a scent that is like the incense Fra Anto uses at Easter. At the end of the hall they come to a big statue of Jesus pointing to his heart. His father and the Sister bow to it, make the sign of the cross. Josip does the same and follows them into a room that contains a polished wooden table and several chairs upholstered with fine cloth. A purple rug softens the sounds of their steps. On the wall is a single picture, a painting of the Mother of God with many swords in her heart. Josip stares at it, then walks about the room keeping his eyes on hers. Her glance follows him everywhere. She is sad, but it’s plain to see that she likes him. The sister leaves, and father sits down with a sigh, staring at the floor.

Tata, is my mother’s sister nice?

Father raises his eyebrows and nods. Yes, she is. All the Sisters are very fine women. Are you nervous? Don’t be. She is our family and much like your mother.

Still, I feel shy. What will I say to her?

Don’t worry about what to say. You have met her before.

I have never met her before!

When you were a baby we brought you here to show you to her, and to consecrate you at the shrine of St. Josip.

Ah, then she has seen me before.

Yes.

But I no longer look like myself.

Father pauses and furrows his brow, because embedded in Josip’s statement are philosophical subtleties. He is about to reply when a little bell rings on the other side of a window in the wall, a window that opens to the interior of the convent. Its wooden cover is drawn aside, and the smiling face of a woman in a white habit cries out in greeting. Josip gasps, for it is the face of his mother. He knows that this woman must surely be his mother’s sister, but still, it is a surprise. As she and his father take each other’s hands and exchange warm greetings, Josip observes that she is unusually beautiful. He remembers his mother’s face and realizes her beauty for the first time. There are tears in the nun’s eyes; she laughs and cries at the same time. Mamica does that, too.

And this is Josip, she turns to him. Oh, he is the image of his mother! says the nun, offering her hands to him through the open window. Josip steps forward and comes to attention manfully. He gives one of her hands a single shake and nods his head, once, like a gentleman. This makes her laugh. Her eyes dance, her cheeks shine and flush red—as red as his mother’s do when she has had a little wine after Midnight Mass at Christmas and Easter.

This is Sister Katarina of the Holy Angels, his father says, your aunt, your mother’s sister.

I am very pleased to meet you, Josip Marian, she says, adopting a formal manner herself, though she is smiling and does not let go of his hand. Indeed, she takes it in both of hers, making him feel a little uncomfortable, for she is, after all, something of a stranger. She tousles his hair. His grandfather’s color, she says fondly.

Yes, says his father, and we can thank God that he has inherited his looks from your side of the family.

Oof, Miro, she scolds him, Marija was lucky to catch you.

"I caught her!" he declares in the gruff emphatic voice that is the tone he uses when making a silly joke.

"Yes, yes, that’s right. Marija knew the great secret of all good marriages. You must chase a boy in such a way that when you have caught him, he will think he has caught you!"

His father and the Sister are still laughing and wiping tears from their eyes when another Sister brings a tray to the window, loaded with cups and things to eat. Josip swiftly seats himself at the table.

There is tea for him, coffee for his father, a plate of sweet baked goods, bread and butter, a bowl of raisins and dried figs. Josip cannot believe his good fortune. All reticence simply dissolves. He loves this nun. He will love her forever.

Let us eat, she says. They pray grace and then eat.

A single square of chocolate sits in the exact center of the plate, surrounded by sweet biscuits. Josip stares at it with yearning. He can smell it. His nose twitches, and his mouth begins to salivate. In another second he will drool. He might even lunge toward it and gobble it down before they can stop him, and he would be quite willing to live with the consequences. However, Sister Katarina of the Holy Angels says, The chocolate is for you, Josip. Please take it.

He obeys. It is gone.

Let it melt slowly, she advises, then it will last longer.

But, too bad, it’s already in his stomach. It has left a streak of ecstasy down the back of his throat.

Chocolate, says his father. Where did you get it?

It’s Swiss chocolate, she replies, her expression flowing subtly into the kind of evasiveness that only the holy can accomplish without approaching the borderline of falsehood.

Swiss? his father says, with raised eyebrows.

She sighs, and her defenses collapse. "An Italian soldier came to the convent last December. He was not a bad young man; you could see in his face he didn’t like being an invader, and I thought too that he didn’t like being in the army. He asked to see the Mother Superior. That was very hard for her because her brother in Zadar was in the Molat concentration camp, and no one has had word of him since he was arrested. He is a priest who spoke against them from the pulpit. But she agreed to see this boy. When they met he begged the prayers of the community for his mother who is a widow in Italy and has no other support than him. He said he did not want to do any evil and asked our prayers that he would not be killed so he could go back home and look after his mother. Mother said the whole community would pray for him. This was hard for the Sisters because the Italians have taken away so many people, thousands, and we know some of the missing. But we all did pray for him. He returned a week later and told us he was being transferred back to his homeland within a few days. He brought us the chocolate, enough for a square for each of the Sisters. He knelt down on the floor and asked Mother to bless him. She did. Then he stayed on his knees and could not raise his eyes to us. In a voice like a little boy, he asked us to forgive