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  SHOPPING FOR A BETTER COUNTRY

  SHOPPING FOR A BETTER COUNTRY

  Essays

  JOSIP NOVAKOVICH

  SHOPPING FOR A BETTER COUNTRY. Copyright © 2012, 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 - 1334 Woodbourne Street, Westland, MI 48186.

  www.dzancbooks.org

  These stories previously appeared in slightly different form and sometimes under different titles in the following publications: “Dead Fathers Society” in World Literature Today; “The Art of Coughing” in Briar Cliff Review; “Berlin Journal” in Post Road; “Blue Note” in Opium; “Five Easy Pieces in Moscow” in St. Petersburg Review; “Literary Tombs” in Prairie Schooner; “My Hungary” in Nowhere Magazine; “On Sleeping” in Gihon Review; “Ruth’s Death” in Boulevard; “Shopping for a Better Country” in Witness; “Carthage, Algiers, and Fes” in St. Petersburg Review; “Sumka 43–A Captive Cello” in Boulevard; “Vukovar” in Water~Stone Review; and “Balkan Express” in Boulevard. The author is grateful to the journals’ editors for publishing the essays and for granting reprint rights.

  Book design by Steven Seighman

  eISBN: 978-1-936873-28-9

  First edition: April 2012

  Printed in the United States of America

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  For Eva, Jeanette, Joseph and other émigrés

  CONTENTS

  Shopping for a Better Country

  Dead Fathers Society

  Terrible Twos Travel

  Ruth’s Death

  On Raising a Prodigy

  Five Easy Pieces in Moscow

  Sumka 43—A Captive Cello

  Blue Note

  The Art of Coughing

  On Sleeping

  Friendship Addiction

  Carthage, Algiers, and Fes

  My Hungary

  Vukovar

  Two Croatias

  Berlin Journal

  Why I Can’t Write Erotica

  Literary Tombs

  Balkan Express

  Acknowledgments

  SHOPPING FOR A BETTER COUNTRY

  SHOPPING FOR A BETTER COUNTRY

  IN 1966, A MAN FROM MY HOMETOWN, whom I admired despite his certified insanity, managed to spend twelve hours abroad. He had cut the plywood above the toilet in the train from Zagreb to Vienna, and he crouched there for twenty-four hours. He had no sense of time, except that he knew it would have to take a long time to get abroad, to the free West. After twenty-four hours, he left his perch, expecting to be in Vienna, but he was where he started, in Zagreb. He had not seen Vienna, but the fact that he had been there made him exotic to me. This was his third attempt to escape Yugoslavia, for which he was rewarded by two years of treatment in the insane asylum. The official political reasoning was simple: if you wanted to leave a healthy society like socialist Yugoslavia to live in the decadent West, you were insane.

  My older brother Vladimir, who later became a doctor, wanted to escape to Albania when he was twelve because he had heard that it was impossible to visit and leave Albania, so our father couldn’t get to him there. Our father, a clog maker, exploited his older children for childhood labor, which was a normal thing in those days, but my older brother resented having to work four hours a day and not having any time for homework. Vlado hopped onto various trains, missing the direction entirely; he was returned by the police from the Austrian border after the entire family had begun to grieve for him, taking him for dead.

  Later on, Vlado regretted that he hadn’t emigrated right after his medical studies the way several of his friends did, becoming wealthy in Switzerland and the States.

  I had heard of men who were shot while trying to run across the border to Austria, but also of men who had managed to be smuggled out among potato sacks, and who later became prosperous Americans. The most famous émigré preceded our political system: Nikola Tesla. We had a saying: Nikola Tesla sjeo na vesla, otiso u Ameriku i otkrio elektriku. Nikola Tesla sat on a vessel, sailed to America, and discovered elektrika.

  So it was my dream that when I grew up, I would emigrate, which seemed to be the ultimate achievement.

  I wanted to be away from my country for many reasons. The popular quasi-folk music, with lots of wailing, tormented me. (This was long before Bregovic and Kusturica would make Yugoslav folk music fusion with gypsy and rock elements such a world-wide phenomenon.) I didn’t like the communist propaganda (such as that we were unselfish people while the Westerners were warped by their greed), nor the constant ridicule of religion to which I was exposed as a Baptist. A history teacher once ordered me to stand up in front of the class and asked me, Are you selling opium? Don’t you know it’s illegal? What do you mean? I’ve never even seen the drug, I answered. You are selling religion to us; don’t you know that Marx said, Religion is the opiate of the masses? Religion is for cowards.

  There were only three thousand Baptists in the entire country, and we were regarded as sectarian zealots; the law prohibited proselytizing in public places, yet what is a Baptist without proselytizing? Now I resented the church as well for pushing me into compromising situations (such as the public conflict with the teacher) and for trying to excommunicate me when my friends and I formed a rock band. I wanted to be away from my home church just as much as I wanted to be away from our socialist state, which boasted of “the dictatorship of the proletariat.”

  However, going abroad proved to be easier than I had imagined. To resolve unemployment problems and to attract hard currencies, Tito opened up our borders and allowed Yugoslavs to go abroad as guest workers in Germany and France. In 1976, I went to Vassar College as a transfer student, and remained in the States to study religion and philosophy at Yale. In the college dining halls, whenever my fellow students learned I was from Yugoslavia, they almost invariably asked me how I managed to escape. They expected me to be an exile, and my tale of easy and legal departure in the role of a student seemed to be a letdown. Moreover, repeating the same answer bored me—I believed conversation should above all be entertaining—so I came up with stories of swimming across the Drava River under gunfire. The second question, which usually followed, was: Is your family still in Yugoslavia? What do you mean by still, I’d snap back. Not everybody plans to come to America.

  I felt offended that my country was put down like that, and wanted to offend my fellow conversationalists’ assumptions of political and cultural superiority vis-à-vis the East.

  Away from Yugoslavia, suddenly I found it in many ways more appealing than before. I had hoped to encounter a lot of rock and jazz in the States, and instead heard disco everywhere. Instead of communes and conversations about free love and peak experiences, I often entered predictable conversations about communism vs. capitalism. The sheer unquestioning simplicity of the widespread American patriotic narcissism put me on guard. Whenever I walked off campus, I saw many American flags, more flags per square mile than anywhere else.

  What my fellow students found incredible, however, was my new plan to go back to Yugoslavia after spending a few years in the States. They stared at me as though I was crazy, and a friend of mine, a pre-med student and son of an orthopedic surgeon, well supplied with all sorts of pain killers and other drugs, concluded that since I was so insane I wanted to go back to communism, I needed treatment: first talk therapy, and then drug therapy, morphine, pot, speed, and if all else failed, acid.

  That Americans on the average seemed to be patriotic put me off. At school and at home in Yugoslavia, I was taught not to distinguish between patriotism and nationa
lism; the word patriotism was an attempt to present the same ugly nationalist phenomenon of favoring your country over others; patriotism was a patriarchal swindle that made it easy to recruit soldiers to shed the blood of other peoples. In our socialist education, nationalism was equated not only with the bourgeoisie but also with Nazism, and Croatian nationalists, invariably, with Ustashas, the Croatian fascists who committed many atrocities in the Second World War. Yugoslavia was constantly on guard against Croatian and Serbian nationalists. who could blow up theaters and commit other acts of terrorism, as they occasionally did.

  In elections in America, everybody had to prove their patriotism above all, which seemed strange to me. I was raised with the slogan, Workers of the World Unite, and the idea that it was progressive to be international. Here one had to be reactionary, regressive, to pass muster as a politician. The requisite and unquestioning love of the Constitution, the Bill of Rights, and the flag struck me as very similar to the Christian fundamentalist love of the Bible and the Cross, but even more dogmatic.

  I had no serious reason to fear going back to Yugoslavia at that time, and I was tempted to go back. Yugoslavia was a prosperous country—with the highest standard of living in the Communist Bloc—like America would be at the beginning of the third millennium in the West. Yugoslavia had borrowed a lot of money from the International Monetary Fund and wasn’t returning it yet, nor intending to return it. (Does America really intend to return fourteen trillion dollars, our national debt, owed mostly to foreign banks?)

  However, Yugoslav prosperity seemed to be temporary. Tito was ill, and there were speculations that the country would fall apart violently as soon as he died. The slogan there was, After Tito, Tito. We were raised on many slogans, such as Brotherhood and Unity, and after being brainwashed for twenty years, I actually believed that Yugoslavia was a solid country even for a few year’s after Tito’s death, until ethnic bickering intensified in the late 80’s.

  Since I could return to Yugoslavia but remained in the States, I was actually in voluntary exile, which had some psychological similarities to a real, involuntary one. It wasn’t exactly a luxury exile because I never had much money, and prior to getting a green card I had no right to work. Since I was lazy, it was actually a good excuse not to take up any jobs but to scheme how to remain a student. When I visited rich acquaintances of mine in Seattle and we rode in a jeep into the mountains, everybody contributed for gas and food but I didn’t. Later, three people complained to one of them, who was closest to me, that they had grown to hate me because I never paid for anything; I was an exploiter. Now I can see their perspective. At that time I was filled with financial self-pity. I envied them that they could afford to go to one of the last Led Zeppelin concerts, and I couldn’t afford a ticket. I envied that they could go to a restaurant—I could eat only bread with milk from the stores. I was skilled in not spending money. I had hitchhiked to Seattle, and would hitchhike back to New Haven.

  I couldn’t afford hotels, so I slept in bushes near churches in my travels, and in Boise I was so tired that I slept in the middle of the street like an alcoholic (though I couldn’t afford a drop, and at the time had no interest in drinking). In front of a bank, in the center of town, I sprawled on the warm summer asphalt and slept for five hours, and nobody bothered me.

  I probably could have gotten odd jobs, but I was scared that the INS would find me out and I would be thrown out of the country. No identity information was computerized yet, and the system was loose—there were many illegal immigrants, seven million, according to the New York Times estimates. This was before the amnesty program to offer permanent residency to many illegal aliens.

  I finished my studies at Yale Divinity School and continued my education as a graduate student in philosophy, in the Ph.D. program, because I didn’t know how to get a job or even how to work. Having been raised in the worker’s state, I was a shirker rather than a worker until I dropped out of school and got a green card.

  My saga of being an immigrant is neither a touching one nor a difficult one. I enjoyed hanging out in this country. I never considered myself to be an exile. My fellow students, professors, coffee-shop acquaintances in New York—nearly all of them asked me how it was to be an exile from the Communist Bloc, and I usually answered that I was not an exile, that I would return to Yugoslavia to become a psychiatrist—that I was sufficiently screwed up to become a psychiatrist.

  Later, when I began to publish books with Graywolf, I didn’t talk with my publicist about the details of my biography, and she put on the cover, “Croatian-born writer-in-exile.” I guess that sounded good to her, and it was too late for me to complain and make her job miserable, so I let it pass. The word exile was supposed to be magnetic, to validate what I was saying, to lend the heft of suffering to my otherwise frequently satirical and silly writing. Yet I hated to see the word applied to me. I knew I had not earned it. At the same time, suddenly there were many exiles from Yugoslavia as the country was falling apart and going to hell.

  I didn’t know that even my mother would be an exile. She took a night train to Switzerland where my brother Ivo lived and studied theology at a Baptist seminary—she wasn’t in a camp but still she couldn’t go back to our hometown as long as it was under Serbian siege. My sister-in-law’s mother was there as well; she felt threatened as a Serb in my hometown. My mother felt threatened as a Croat. And the two poor women were so much under the sway of these perceived and misperceived threats that they had many political arguments and had to be separated, placed in different rooms, to guarantee peace.

  I returned to Croatia to see what was happening there. I had to go through UN checkpoints; the bus I rode in sported several bullet holes. I saw houses set on fire and visited relatives with howitzer holes in the walls of their homes. They refused to become exiles. The experience of smoke, fire, tanks, checkpoints, felt exilic enough, however. By not going anywhere, they were more displaced than they would have been by shifting into the comfort zone of a prosperous country. An old man near my hometown claimed that he had no need to travel. He had lived in eight countries and in one house. He remained faithful to the previous regimes, and thus felt like an exile most of his life, without going to the train station. He still loved the Hapsburg Emperor Franz-Josef.

  It is quite likely that I have gone through fewer real changes than that old man in my hometown. I could live in several countries yet remain in essentially the same mental landscape. Maybe I have not become an American. Incidentally, I just gave a talk in Moscow, an event sponsored by the Croatian Embassy and American Cultural Center, and a man in the audience asked me whether I could feel like simply an American and be aloof from the Balkans while the war was taking place. I answered, On the contrary. The war affirmed that I could never be simply an American, that I would always also be Croatian and even Yugoslav, and that I was far from aloof, but had obsessively suffered the news from the war on the short wave radio, newspapers, internet, phone, and in person, traveling there as much as possible.

  The United States used to be the perfect country for exiles, second best after France. In France, you could be an exile with style, and fit perfectly in the café culture; if you came from Eastern Europe, you wouldn’t be considered a social inferior but Bohemian, an ally against the Germans, and so on. In Germany and Austria, my impression was that you couldn’t feel comfortable as an exile because of chauvinism, particularly North vs. South. I could speak German fluently, and during my month-long visit to Vienna, a man in a tavern commented, So, you are a Yugoslav but intelligent. It was both a compliment and an insult—a compliment to me and an insult to my original country. I never felt that kind of chauvinism in the States—people didn’t expect me to be stupid simply on account of coming from Eastern Europe. Here, it was still Europe, not the second-hand Europe, Slave Europe, even if it was Slav. For Germans, Croats and Serbs were mostly cheap labor, despicable lower-class trash.

  In most of Western Europe, I couldn’t be a European. In Ger
many and Austria, people laughed on several occasions when they learned I was from Yugoslavia. Dutch people on a train laughed about Yugoslavia, and had some filthy anecdotes about bathrooms to retell. My sister lived in Germany for thirty years, working as a cardiac clinic nurse, and she speaks better German than Croatian, but she never feels at home there. She is still a Gastarbeiter, guest worker, no matter what.

  Maybe, like that old man near my hometown who had lived through eight different regimes, I could remain in one place and see how it changes. The States are changing. Strangely enough, I am beginning to feel like an exile when I go to a polling station in PA and people hold placards approving attacking Middle Eastern countries, supporting the troops. Imagine if in Nazi Germany people said, Look, we know the war is wrong, but we love our boys and we support them. It’s the wrong time to withhold our support now that they are struggling for German ideals, defending Auschwitz. The comparison is extreme, but why support the troops in an unsupportable war?

  I feel like an exile when I think of going to the hospital and see what the bills would be. Recently, I took an AIDS test at State College in Pennsylvania because that was a requirement to go to Russia for half a year as a Fulbright fellow. The secretary was alarmed that I wanted to take the test, and she even declined to test my wife unless she first went through psychological counseling. Jeanette said, Wait a minute, this is simply for a visa requirement. The check-in person and the nurse didn’t believe her. The level of suspicion is high now in the States. When I talk on the phone with my brother Ivo, who is a theology instructor at Baylor, he invariably wants to talk politics, and I hear clicking in the background, and I say, Why talk politics, just remember where we are!

  I used to have that experience with my older brother Vlado in Yugoslavia: I would want to expound my political views, but he would point to the phone, and say, Why talk politics, remember where we are. This is not America. How things have changed! Now I tell my brother Ivo, Remember where we are. This is not Croatia!