In the closet with the tapes, I also found his old notebook where he jotted down all sorts of things: appointments, telephone numbers and addresses, including all three addresses I had lived at in Champaign, and at the end several numbers, written in a barely legible handwriting. Upon closer inspection I realized one of them was the number of Raif Dizdarevic, former Secretary General of the Bosnian Communist Party. Then it struck me: these were all contacts he was collecting for my arrival. The barely legible handwriting, which sharply contrasted the neat handwriting of the previous pages, reflected his growing weakness during the last few months. My aunt, who remained at his side right up to his last breath, told me that as he was dying he would still jot things down and would constantly speak of his yellow book. The yellow book is an economic manifesto he co-authored with Yugoslavia's leading economists in the 1980s when he was a part of the commission (Kraiger's Commission) formed to design economic reforms which would transform socialist Yugoslavia into a modern social democracy. My grandfather was intensely proud of his work in this Commission as he was the only member of the commission who did not have an economics degree, but was still picked by the republic due to his achievements as an economist at Herzegovina's giant company Hepok, which produced wonderful wine and economically transformed the previously poor Herzegovina.
The scribbled numbers at the end of his notebook spoke of his determination to help me as long as he could keep a pen in his hand. When he could no longer do this, he took his recorder and spoke of his life. My aunt said he would remain locked up in his room for hours on an end and all she could hear was his voice broken up by silences, a few sobs, and even laughter. He knew his time was running out and he wanted to tell his story.
And it is a life whose ups and downs mirror the ups and downs of the very country in which he spent his entire life. Born in the rocky surroundings of the Dalmatian town of Split just a few years after Yugoslavia came into existence (in 1924), he never could make long-term friends as he constantly moved around. His father was a member of the Yugoslav Kingdom's police force the jandarme and an authoritarian who tolerated no dissent within his family. He eventually moved them to Serbia where he spent most of his childhood in the small town of Uzice which would later become the first Communist Republic when the Partisans took over it as Yugoslavia was being dismembered by the Nazis. As a kid my knowledge of his wartime experiences was scant. I only knew he was in the hospital in Zagreb due to his gland problems. It was only after this war and death of Yugoslavia that he dared tell his story.
As Croatia was taken over by the brutal Ustasha all young men were conscripted, including himself, into the regular military known as Domobrani (Home Defenders). His actual military experience is still unfamiliar to me (the tapes hold the answer), but at the end of the war he was captured by the victorious Partisans while they were liberating Croatia. He was one of the thousands who were trying to escape Croatia, fearing Partisan reprisals, and surrendered to the British at the small Austrian town of Blaiburg. In order to please Tito, the British returned all these fleeing soldiers to Tito's Partisans who then proceeded to massacre many of them. Miraculously my grandfather was interned at a camp in Italy where he was investigated for months by the all powerful Secret Police. After concluding he had done no wrong during the war, he was allowed to return to Mostar, given a job, and became a card carrying member of the Communist Party.
What I find fascinating about his wartime experience is that he hesitantly revealed the multiple layers of his past only as the country was falling apart. His story was a part of the larger mosaic of what I call second pasts which began to pop up all over Yugoslavia as the Communists were losing their grip on power and Yugoslavia was dismembered. People unearthed their memories in telling alternative histories that had been banned as taboos by the Communists. Fear, his position as an economist, and his genuine love for the new socialist Yugoslavia (he continued to hold Tito in great regard) convinced my grandfather that barricading this past behind multiple layers was not only necessary, but the right thing to do. Thus, his frantic recording of his memories and his insistence that I have them speak of human determination to tell a story. And to be heard.
One of the first and last things I did while in Mostar was visit his grave to thank him. At the grave I became engulfed into an enormous cloud of guilt for not being with him as he was passing away. I remembered the day I was told of his death. My father called me in Champaign to tell me the news. I was devastated and sad, but I didn't cry. I think the reason for this was the fact this his death was not physically traceable in the remote corner of my American world. I could not feel his absence in my cramped Champaign apartment. The first time I cried after his death was one Saturday morning while I was visiting my parents in Louisville and the regular Saturday phone call my mother had always had "with Bosnia," as we put it, never came. The silence of that Saturday morning was deafening.
The tapes will break the silence and help me tell his story.
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