My Father’s Books

The Balkan Wall

116 The Bal­ kan Wall The bor­ ders in the Bal­ kans were a le­ thal sign not only of di­ vided coun­ tries, di­ vided riv­ ers, lakes, snow on the moun­ tains, but also of the di­ vided souls of the peo­ ple. The bor­ ders ached . . . The bor­ ders ­ stopped the flow of time for many peo­ ple, for fam­ i­ lies, for gen­ er­ a­ tions. The bor­ ders en­ slaved and de­ voured ­ people’s time. Be­ cause of those ac­ cursed lines in the Bal­ kans we were al­ ways in exile. We car­ ried the bor­ ders in our very core. Every war—and wars were fre­ quent in the Bal­ kans—­ brought with it new bor­ ders along who knew which route, sev­ er­ ing the land, the fam­ i­ lies, and life it­ self. “Bor­ ders, bor­ ders, curse them all!” was a com­ mon re­ frain in our fam­ ily. When my ­ mother first ­ crossed one of the ­ Balkans’ many bor­ ders fifty years ear­ lier, she could never have ­ dreamed, could never have be­ lieved, that so much time would pass be­ fore she would re­ turn to her na­ tive coun­ try to see the mem­ bers of her fam­ ily who re­ mained there and those born since she left. There were oth­ ers, older than she was, who did not live to see that day. The Sta­ lin­ ist re­ gime of my na­ tive coun­ try, which ­ lasted the long­ est of all other such re­ gimes and was the most con­ tempt­ ible in the Bal­ kans, fi­ nally con­ sid­ ered my ­ mother suf­ fi­ ciently old to be no ­ longer a po­ ten­ tial­ threat to im­ por­ tant state inter­ ests. Dur­ ing those years, the bor­ der was­ opened only for older peo­ ple, those with white hair, those whose peers on both sides of the bor­ der were ­ nearly all dead, those al­ ready tot­ ter­ ing up to the brink of death. My ­ father spent a long time con­ sid­ er­ ing ­ whether my ­ mother ­ should under­ take such a trip at this point in her life. He knew very well that a 117 trip there would cause her ­ greater pain than com­ ing home again. But there was no force that could stop my ­ mother from mak­ ing this trip she­ needed to make in order to com­ plete her life. My ­ mother had long ago­ crossed the bor­ der in her mind; now she ­ crossed the other bor­ der . . . The years of half a cen­ tury had taken their toll. She could not get hold of her­ self, she could not get ac­ cus­ tomed to her na­ tive land. She si­ lently ­ cursed her­ self over and over that she had ever under­ taken this trip. ­ Father’s words about the curse of re­ turn rang true. She said to her­ self that it would have been bet­ ter, in­ fi­ nitely bet­ ter, if she had gone to her grave with her old ­ dreams to con­ tinue her il­ lu­ sions there; per­ haps that would have let her see her na­ tive coun­ try and her kin more ­ clearly. But, what happened, happened. She had to spend two ­ months in her na­ tive coun­ try, not one day more or less. That is what was writ­ ten in red ink on her visa. Her close rel­ a­ tives and im­ me­ di­ ate fam­ ily who re­ mained there ­ showed her the great­ est pos­ sible at­ ten­ tion. As she later told her ­ daughters-in-law when she re­ turned, they held her in their arms, they ­ washed her feet in a basin of water and dried them. It was only with great dif­ fi­ culty that my ­ mother be­ came ac­ cus­ tomed to the good­ ness, the close­ ness, and the ­ beauty that sur­ rounded her. She went from fam­ ily to fam­ ily. Peo­ ple ar­ rived, rel­ a­ tives from both sides. Some she rec­ og­ nized, oth­ ers she did not. She was soon over­ come with tir­ ed­ ness and wor­ ries. My ­ mother, brave and ­ strong in life, forth­ right among dif­ fer­ ent na­ tion­ al­ ities when res­ cu­ ing her fam­ ily, ac­ cus­ tomed to var­ i­ ous ­ faiths and na­ tions, now, here, in her na­ tive coun­ try, felt...