Heritage of Smoke

  PRAISE FOR JOSIP NOVAKOVICH

  “Novakovich knows how to tell a story, and his prose has an easy, elegant velocity.”

  — The New York Times

  “Like Aleksandar Hemon and Ha Jin, short story writer Novakovich manages the feat of writing vibrantly and inventively in a second language, shaping English to the dictates of his satiric, folk-tinged storytelling.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “One of the most forceful and original essayists in the English language.”

  —Los Angeles Review of Books

  “Novakovich’s characters…are generous, flawed, violent, and rooted in an understanding of the earth.”

  —Montreal Review of Books

  “There are very few native-born English speakers who write as well.”

  — The Guardian

  HERITAGE OF SMOKE

  ALSO BY JOSIP NOVAKOVICH

  April Fool’s Day

  Yolk

  Salvation and Other Disasters

  Infidelities: Stories of War and Lust

  Ex-YU

  Shopping for a Better Country

  Apricots from Chernobyl

  Plum Brandy: Croatian Journeys

  Three Deaths

  HERITAGE OF SMOKE

  JOSIP NOVAKOVICH

  5220 Dexter Ann Arbor Rd.

  Ann Arbor, MI 48103

  www.dzancbooks.org

  HERITAGE OF SMOKE © 2017, text by Josip Novakovich. All rights reserved, except for brief quotations in critical articles or reviews. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without prior written permission from the publisher: Dzanc Books, 5220 Dexter Ann Arbor Rd., Ann Arbor, MI 48103.

  First US edition: January 2017

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Novakovich, Josip, 1956- author.

  Title: Heritage of smoke / Josip Novakovich.

  Other titles: Ex-YU

  Description: Ann Arbor, MI : Dzanc Books, 2017.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2016027570 | ISBN 9781941088661 (softcover)

  Subjects: | BISAC: FICTION / Short Stories (single author). | FICTION /

  Literary. | FICTION / War & Military. | FICTION / Cultural Heritage.

  Classification: LCC PS3564.O914 E9 2017 | DDC 813/.54--dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2016027570

  Printed in the United States of America

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  To Eva and Joseph

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  White Moustache

  Wino

  Dutch Treat

  Be Patient

  Rasputin’s Awakening

  Crossbar

  Acorns

  When the Saints Come

  Heritage of Smoke

  Eclipse Near Golgotha

  Wanderer

  Ideal Goalie

  Strings

  Remote Love

  In the Same Boat

  WHITE MOUSTACHE

  The Second World War ended eleven years before my birth, and by the time I could follow conversations, people still talked as though the war hadn’t ended. Silver-haired men limped in the streets like incompetent ghosts who’d lost the ability to float. Even then, I didn’t believe in ghosts, but that was the metaphor that worked for me as I looked at these broken men. Some of them used walking sticks, and all of them smoked, and as they contemplated the hardship of their retirement, smoke came out of their nostrils, mouths, ears, and hairs.

  Behind curtained windows, old women clad in black looked out into the streets, and the flimsy curtains created an illusion of smoke rising from the ground in which the remains of the war were buried. The remains weren’t buried well, and they emitted so much smoke and whiteness. Most houses were coated in white stucco, but they invariably changed to sooty gray and black and collected fine black particles on their windows. It was hard to breathe from all the soot and smoke and steam, and the men who walked in the streets cleared their throats and spat out green phlegm as though bits of clay had remained in them after their incomplete resurrections.

  One of these ethereal silver-haired men was Branko, my aunt’s husband. He’d moved to Zagreb and built his house of red brick. He locked his rusty iron door with several large clangy keys. At the age of fifteen I visited him, despite knowing that he was a relentless talker. He enquired about my grades and plans for the future, and was dismayed that I planned to become an architect.

  “What can you build in socialism that’s not ugly?” he asked.

  “Ugly can be beautiful if you look at it long enough,” I replied.

  “Why would you say something like that?”

  He left his mouth open, and I admired the fact that he had all his teeth, that his hair was thick, combed back in tidy waves. His head was disproportionately big and, like most people with big jaws, he had a loud voice. Maybe he was loud because he was half deaf from explosions in the war.

  As we were finishing a green bean soup, he said, “There are spirits all around us.”

  “I don’t believe in ghosts.”

  “You haven’t lived enough to know.”

  “I’m surprised that you, as a religious person, could believe fairy tales.”

  “If I didn’t believe in ghosts, how could I be religious? Religion is a host for ghosts, but there are wild ghosts, like the ones you can invoke in a séance. We had a neighbour like that when we started out. If you visited him, he’d try to terrify you by calling in the ghosts—well, one particular ghost.”

  “Oh, Branko, please don’t go into that again,” said my aunt.

  She and Branko never had children, and that made him (rather than her) hysterical. She quietly observed with a slight smile, her seemingly black eyes sparkling. Her braids were as thick as the ropes used for docking ships in the Rijeka harbor.

  “You stay out of it,” he said. “He needs to know. Communists aren’t telling the truth to these children.”

  She sat at a table in the next room, with the doors open so she could listen, and measured material for clothes, drawing a pattern with white chalk to dress an absent body.

  “Marxists are materialists, they don’t believe in spirits,” I said.

  “And you want to be like them?” Branko said. “Let me tell you, they’ve turned people into ghosts, and for them to teach you that there are no ghosts and spirits is another atrocity.”

  He drank Turkish coffee with muddy grains at the bottom of the cup. When his silver moustache emerged, it looked like a brush that had just been dipped into brown paint. He would now paint in broad strokes, from his hidden upper lip.

  After the war, Branko began, we couldn’t afford to have a home all to ourselves so we rented a room from Borovnik, a carpenter, between the synagogue and the Lutheran Evangelical church. The church was empty and its windows were smashed, and shards were scattered inside and outside of it. At the end of the war most local Germans were deported, and the few who remained didn’t want to be identified as Germans and nobody took care of the church. The synagogue was no longer a temple but a bowling alley for the foundry workers, and all day long you heard balls hitting pins and workers swearing sacrilegiously. One evening, just after I paid rent, I was sitting in my landlord’s kitchen drinking coffee when suddenly there was banging on the door—not soft banging, such as a fist coated in flesh would make, but sharp, like a stick or a bare bone hitting the wood.

  Borovnik smiled and said, “Won’t you open it for me? I’m old and it’s hard for me to get up out of my chair.”

  It was quiet now. Only his wheezing could be heard. He leaned, sitting on the edge of his ornately carved armchair, which had snakeheads for armrests. I stood up and opened the door, but there was nobody there. Right in front
of his doorstep, the cobbles stopped and dirt road began. There were no lights in the synagogue, and the large windows of the Lutheran church loomed empty. The chilly outdoors smelled like a dialogue of tomcats.

  “There’s nobody, just a cat,” I told Borovnik.

  “He comes here every night and knocks like that,” he said.

  “The cat? He’d have to be the size of a lion.”

  “No. The ghost. He doesn’t want to leave me in peace.”

  “How would you know it’s a ghost?” I asked Borovnik and closed the door. “Do you want me to lock it?”

  “You don’t have to. He wouldn’t want to come in. He hated it here when he used to live up in the attic.”

  “In the attic? Don’t give me such clichés, please!”

  I sat down and didn’t know what to say, and Borovnik stared at me with his reddish eyes. He wasn’t albino, but you wouldn’t know that by looking at him—his skin had become pale and the edges of his eyelids were translucent. His eyes were bloodshot from sawdust, and there was sawdust in the hairs of his hawkish nose.

  Suddenly there was another loud and sharp knock on top of the doorframe.

  I jumped to my feet and opened the door and there was nobody there, but the smell of the tomcat was even greater. I pulled the door gently but it slammed against the frame so that the house shook. The white mortar around the doorframe cracked further and some sand shuddered loose, trickling to the floor.

  My host rubbed his purplish hands. “Ha, what do you say now?”

  “I think there was a gust of wind, a change of seasons.”

  “Oh, no. The knock comes from far above the door—it’s a ghost, passing above the ground, like an angel of death in Egypt marking every house where a first-born should be slain.”

  Out of curiosity, I opened the door again and, out there, the wind was picking up and a dust storm was developing. From the dirt road, dust blew onto the cobbles and the evergreens in the hills whistled in distress.

  “See, it’s the wind,” I said. “Some branch got rattled.”

  “There’s no tree next to my house. There used to be trees but we cut them down in the war, in 1942, to stay warm. When you don’t have enough to eat in the cold, you need even more firewood.”

  Soon I learned who Borovnik’s ghost was. It was an angel of death marking a house in Egypt; he was right about that. A man’s death needed to be paid for with another death. Maybe Borovnik thought he was speaking allegorically, but there was no difference between the allegory and the events. Have you seen how large the Jewish cemetery on the outskirts of Daruvar is? If you look at the dates, most people there died in 1941 and 1942. Well, Borovnik was hiding a Jewish watchmaker by the name of Bergman.

  Borovnik cut a deal with the watchmaker; he would save him, in exchange for some woodworking labor and half of his watches once the war was over. During the day, he had Bergman work in the basement, making fine engravings in tables and armchairs. If Bergman complained, Borovnik threatened to turn him in to the Germans.

  One evening, the Ustasha army went through town with the Germans, and as a courtesy the Ustashas gave all their garrison space to the Germans and slept instead in the school, save for some who slept in private homes of people they knew. So several soldiers who trusted Borovnik as a peaceful carpenter came over to his house to spend the night. As they sat around the table and drank slivovitz, about a dozen clocks struck midnight in the attic, and they kept banging.

  “How many clocks do you have?” asked one soldier, and another, “Why are you hiding them in the attic? If we go up there and find that you’re hiding Jews, we’ll shoot you. We’ll find out anyway, so you better not lie. If you tell us the truth, we won’t shoot you.”

  Borovnik said, “I have a tenant up there just for a couple of days. I let him come up to fix a clock. Leave him alone and you can have all my slivovitz.”

  The Ustashas went up to the attic and dragged down Bergman, who blinked in the light. He was old but his beard was still black. They took him out, and maybe they took him to the train station and shipped him to Auschwitz or maybe they shot him in the woods. Anyhow, I couldn’t find his name in the Jewish cemetery later on. Borovnik’s story bothered me, so I wanted to find out where Bergman ended up. But I couldn’t find his name anywhere. It was as though he’d never existed.

  “The Ustashas took away all the clocks but this one,” Branko concluded. “This one. Borovnik gave it to me because he couldn’t bear listening to it strike. I couldn’t either, so I took out the banging mechanism. I let it run out of its tension and didn’t rewind it. I don’t like to listen to it tick. Even that is too loud, each tick like a bang, and that drives me crazy.”

  “Why do you keep it then?” I asked.

  “It looks beautiful. Just look at it.”

  It was true—the woodwork was amazingly convoluted, and if you stared enough into it, you’d see cat paws, with claws sticking out, and an owl head, and acorns.

  “You just don’t throw something like that away,” Branko said. “And the time, well the time stopped for us then, in that war. We pretend it’s gone on, but it hasn’t. It shouldn’t go on. And God hasn’t let it go on. The time is out.”

  “Come on. You’re overdoing it, don’t you think?”

  “Oh, you’re young and naïve. All your hair is black, how can you talk? Wait for your own horrors—and they will come, they will come—before you talk. Anyway,” Branko went on, “Borovnik had no peace for years after the war. Even his eyebrows and moustache turned white. Bergman knocked on his door every evening. A month after my first visit to him, Borovnik died. During the funeral, the otherwise indifferent and quiet white horses the town used for funerals went wild and dragged the hearse in a gallop. The wheels went off and the hearse turned over. Pallbearers carried the casket to the grave. They said it was incredibly light, that most likely Borovnik’s body wasn’t in the casket. I think it evaporated into a ghost. The animals felt that; they are attuned to the otherworldly better than most of us.”

  “Were you scared that Borovnik would haunt you?” I asked Branko.

  “I thought he would, but then, he was so ghostlike in his life, he probably didn’t want to duplicate it. Well, maybe the clock keeps him away.”

  “But your hair has turned white anyway. Why do you think hair turns white? Is it from worry? Lack of iron in the diet? Lack of wine?”

  “No. Worry doesn’t do anything. It’s from horror, pure horror. You wonder why my hair is all white, like Borovnik’s?”

  “You actually believe that Borovnik saw a ghost?”

  “I heard the ghost myself. Whenever I visited the carpenter, I heard the ghost. Borovnik joked that the ghost was fond of me, didn’t want to miss me.”

  Branko raised his eyebrows, in amazement that someone could be doubting his experience. His eyebrows looked like crow wings over two setting suns; his light hazel eyes looked like setting suns filtered through the vapors of the day, which rose high to form white clouds out of his hair, which, despite all the glow, didn’t reflect the color of the sun. While being a passive listener, I had all these images. Though he out-talked me and made it hard for me to participate in the conversation, he still couldn’t take away my looking and imagining.

  “There are many reasons why my hair turned white,” Branko continued. “There are a hundred things, each of which could leave me tossing in my bed for the rest of the nights God gave me. But I’ll tell you just two. Two brothers. And I won’t mention fathers and mothers.”

  In the meanwhile, my aunt had finished making patterns in the cloth and she came in to wash her chalky hands in the sink. She walked into the garden, and she came back with white and yellow roses, which she put in a blue vase, gingerly, so they wouldn’t prick her. Branko leaned over, burying his nose in the petals, and drew a deep breath, closing his eyes to better concentrate on the fragrance.

  My youngest brother was drafted by the Ustashas. My family wasn’t militaristic, and at that time you couldn�
�t be a pacifist or a conscientious objector, and you’d end up in whatever army came to town first. All these armies went door to door, dragging young men out, stealing whatever there was to be stolen, and anyhow, that is how my brothers ended up in two different armies. The soldiers walked into the house, saw my younger brother kneading dough for bread, and forced him to be a cook. My other brother, Nikola, hid in the shed and was later drafted by the partisans. Until late 1943, the youngest one kept boiling potatoes, while the men who came from the forests boasted of their courage and taunted him as their krumpiras. The potato man. The tide of the war was turning with the Germans not being able to afford troops in Yugoslavia, and they no longer helped the Ustashas keep their positions against the partisans and the Chetniks. Some of the best-trained Ustasha forces had been spent in the battle of Stalingrad. So my brother the cook volunteered to become an infantryman. He was shot in his first day of action, a bullet through his lower abdomen. It didn’t catch the spine or the kidneys. He was taken to the temporary hospital ward, in Daruvar, a blue building near the Catholic church. He was getting better, and his fever had subsided. The nurse gave him aspirin. He kept being thirsty and the nurse gave him seltzer water, which, together with the aspirin, ate through his wound.

  I came in and asked, “Where is my brother?”

  “He’s dead,” the nurse said.

  “Impossible. He wasn’t wounded badly and he was recovering.”

  “That’s all true, but he died. He drank seltzer water, his wound opened up, and he bled to death. We could do nothing about it.”

  “All because of seltzer water? Couldn’t you give him something else?”

  “He asked for it, and we didn’t know. Now we know. We won’t repeat the mistake.”

  “How will that help him?”

  It was clear by then which side was winning, and she probably contributed in her way, killing the wounded of the losing enemy. I couldn’t afford to pay for a gravedigger, and the old town gravedigger was away, digging who knows where, so I made the coffin from an old cupboard, cutting it in half. I dug on the hill, on the edge of the cemetery, into the clay. You know how fine the clay is around Daruvar—you can make the best bricks out of it. There was no funeral. Almost everybody who could walk was in some kind of army, and the townspeople were nearly all incapable of walking, or they hid in terror. The outskirts of the town smoked from mortar fire. At night, partisans shelled the town from the mountain. I dragged the coffin on a little cart myself, like a horse. I placed him in the ground and covered him. I was too tired to make him a cross.