The Cat I Never Named: Chapters 1–5

I don’t have to look to know they are Četniks, the most vehement Serbian nationalists. They are dressed in black with weird tall hats. The men have beards, wild hair, and hate in their eyes for anyone who’s not Serb.

It’s not a big deal, she replied with an indifferent shrug.

They jangle like marchers in a macabre parade as their belts and bandoliers full of ammunition clang.

My parents are naive—good, hopeful, innocent.

They fervently believe that humankind is fundamentally good.

I go up to him now and put a tentative hand on his shoulder.

The radio on the counter drones the news in a tedious way that is easy to ignore, like the voice of an uncle who never stops talking but never says anything interesting.

As we walk in the dappled shade of the lindens, we say hello to our neighbors, known and unknown.

From person to person we go, Tata handing out bills from his meager stash until they are almost gone.

Over her arms I can see a portrait of two men who look very much alike, with ruddy cheeks and cheerful smiles, obviously father and son.

Like any teenager, I believed that I had suffered deeply. Jam deprivation, the cruel teasing of some of the Serb kids, the blatant unfairness of teachers.

To have mountains of homework on a balmy evening when daylight stretched so late and I could hear my friends outside was the epitome of suffering.

And the deepest sorrow, the one so profoundly etched on my soul it is almost buried, my older brother’s death.

Inside I smell all things delightful: chocolate, hazelnuts, burned sugar, vanilla. For just a moment, the day’s troubles are gone, banished by delectable scents.

Holding my head high (and the precious cake on the far side of the tanks) I march past them, tall and proud and aloof.

I try to think of the brightest, happiest thoughts: the taste of decadent Sacher torte.

Still, this cat is a pretty little thing. Most of her body is creamy white, but there is a calico patch over exactly half of her face.

The kitty is rubbing my leg with her soft cheek, and her touch is so reassuring, so affectionate—so normal in this world gone awry—that I forget I don’t like cats and reach down to stroke her head.

She rests her pink nose against his knuckles, then in one sinuous movement rubs against his hand.

Though the rest of her is scrupulously clean, I can see mud caked between her toes.

For years, before and after the birth of their children, they scrimped and saved to build it.

Tata follows behind her, carrying a plate of red pastrma and sliced cheese so we can make our own sandwiches. He sets it down with a flourish and says in his courtly way, “And now, girls, Dino is going to visit a friend, and we adults will retreat upstairs and leave the house to you. Don’t burn it down.”

My mother, stylish and slim with a modish haircut, adds, “Don’t worry. These young ladies are adults themselves.”

Later, I bring out my guitar, and we sing terrible renditions of Madonna and even more George Michael.

I take up the knife, but when I’m poised to cut the first slice, memories flood me.

But my friends don’t catch the nuances of what I say.

Politics, conflict, the war between Serbs and Croatians, we only mention in the abstract. I’d like to open their eyes. They should know how close this is coming to us.

But when I look at her, there’s something resigned in her face. I’ve seen that look before spring-cleaning, and before exam time. It is a look of the unpleasant inevitable.

“Did you bring your pencils? No? Even after I reminded you twice.” I sigh, but my irrepressible brother is unrepentant.
“Why should I bother to remember when you always have ten pencils, extra sharp?” he asks, holding out his hand.

Inwardly, I’m mulling over facts like a statistician, weighing odds about the future.

In Bosnia, most of the Muslim families are secular. We are Muslim by heritage, but after decades of Communist rule very few people actually practice the religion strictly.

But she is prattling on about Tatiana, about our handsome friend Mirza, about makeup.

Do you want to be a backward people forever? I give you a chance to better yourself, and you squander it with your willful ignorance!

The rest of us Muslims she treats with outright contempt. She hates me especially.

As we walk past Daliborka’s desk, I lament that I completely forgot to study my geography last night.

Then, effortlessly, I rattle off not only the major rivers but their tributaries, adding asides about the chief agricultural products grown in each region.

As class starts she settles her oversized 1970s glasses more firmly on her nose, and in her clear, concise way teaches us a new principle.

It is a math theory I’ve never encountered before, but thanks to her lucid style I understand it almost immediately.

My teacher plays us a record of Mozart’s Requiem, but I can’t pay any attention to the majestic and sorrowful music of the master.

“If you don’t like it in Belgrade,” Tata cajoles, “after a while maybe you can go to my brother in Slovenia. You remember him, the one with the mustache?”