Jesam li mogao spasiti Brunu od udbaškog metka?

Zvonko Bušić vjerovao je kako dobre stvari trebaju biti dostupne svima. Ono za što je živio, radio i vjerovao, za što je podnio žrtvu, objavljeno je u knjizi “Zdravo oko”, koja je dostupna na Amazonu. pod nazivom “All Visible Things”. Poglavlje po poglavlje, kap krvi po kap krvi i život dan po dan objavljujemo svaka dva tjedna u 33 dijela – samo s jednim ciljem! Trajat će!

Drugovanje sa smrću

Prvo moje vatreno krštenje s američkom kaznionicom bila je kaznionica Atlanta. Vrijeme provedeno u istražnom zatvoru dok je trajalo suđenje bilo je nešto drugo. Kako se znalo da nisam kriminalac nego politički borac, tu sam imao gotovo povlašteni status, a upravitelj zatvora odnosio se prema meni i mojim suborcima korektno.

No federalne kaznionice su nešto sasvim drugo, podsjećaju na samostojeće gradove u kojima vlada zakon džungle. Kaznionica u koju sam stigao uistinu je podsjećala na grad, i to grad iz nekih drugih vremena – grad tvrđavu s velikom kupolom namjesto tornja katedrale, opasan zidom visokim 12,5 metara i stražarskim tornjevima kao kulama na bedemima, s velikim dvorištem namjesto trga. U dvorištu su bila brojna igrališta i uvijek mnoštvo zatvorskog svijeta. Afroamerikanci su igrali košarku, bijeli Amerikanci bejzbol, a Talijani i Francuzi, zapravo mahom Korzikanci, okupljali su se na boćalištu.

Južnjačka narav i sklonost „bućama“ prvo me privukla njima. Tu sam uživo upoznao „predloške“ po kojima je snimljen film Francuska veza. Upoznao sam ih, zbližili smo se i imali korektne odnose. U to vrijeme tu ubijen Niccolo Orsini, jedan od važnijih aktera te kriminalne priče. Navodno stoga što je propjevao u istrazi, premda na suđenju nije svjedočio ništa što bi mu se moglo zamjeriti.

U tom zatvorskom „gradu“ s oko dvije tisuće i trista zatvorenika posebno je bilo živo tijekom nedjeljne šetnje. Homoseksualci se našminkaju, vrte stražnjicama dok šetaju poput prostitutki u određenim ulicama zapadnoeuropskih gradova, crnci naganjaju košarkašku loptu, Talijani galame na boćalištu. Ljudski društveni život gdje god ga ima s vremenom poprimi slične forme, pa ni zatvor tu nije iznimka.

Baš nekako u to vrijeme broj ubojstava u američkim kaznionicama prevršio je nekakvu mjeru koja je vanjskoj javnosti izgledala podnošljivom. Samo u Atlanti bilo je 19 ubojstava tijekom samo sedam mjeseci. I sam sam bio napadnut, no o tome sam pisao u jednom od prethodnih poglavlja. Time Magazine imao je na naslovnoj stranici veliki naslov „Atlanta nije kaznionica nego klaonica“. Ta se kampanja zahuktala te je cijela stvar došla i do Kongresa, gdje se raspravljalo o stanju sigurnosti u zatvorima.

Zatvorski sustav je nakon pritiska javnosti morao nekako reagirati pa su ograničili kretanje zatvorenika, nije se više moglo ulaziti iz bloka u blok, a i izlasci u dvorište bili su regulirani strožije nego ranije. U Atlanti sam susretao i neke mafijaške bosove koje sam poznavao još iz istražnog zatvora. Imali smo korektne odnose jer su me poštivali zbog mojih načela iako ih politika nije zanimala. Ipak, kako već rekoh, najviše sam se zbližio s Korzikancima i Francuzima jer su oni u tom zatvoru bili jedini Europljani.

Kako svakog zatvorenika prati neki glas, a on se najčešće formira po naravi prijestupa zbog kojeg je završio u zatvoru i ponašanja u samom zatvoru, tome nisam ni ja mogao umaći. Mislili su da se razumijem u eksplozive pa su mi mnogi zatvorenici pristupali s idejom da im pomognem u bijegu ili da zajedno bježimo. Maštali su o bombama koje bih im ja mogao napraviti, a koje bi im otvorile put prema slobodi. Bio sam svjestan da me prate i da su neki od tih koji mi pristupaju sigurno provokatori pa sam na takve ponude uvijek odgovarao vrlo suzdržano.

Svejedno, jednom sam se prigodom u društvu jednog od njih, inače pripadnika Ku Klux Klana, takvih naglas čudio kako to da zatvorski travnjak posipaju umjetnim gnojivom. „Zar ne znaju da se miješanjem umjetnog gnojiva i benzina može napraviti razorna bomba?“ – tobože sam se pitao. Zanimljivo je da su vrlo brzo nakon tog razgovora u Atlanti prestali umjetnim gnojivom posipati travnjak, a također ni u drugim zatvorima nisam vidio da takvo što rade. Bilo je očito da je moj sugovornik ne samo deklarirani rasist nego i provokator, doušnik ili, u najmanju ruku, čovjek koji ne zna držati jezik za zubima.

Nisam u to vrijeme imao pristup telefonu pa mi se komunikacija s vanjskim svijetom svodila na pisma i posjete. Posjećivali su me Marijan Gabelica, Franjo Mikulić, bivši predsjednik Općine Jastrebarsko i politički disident, i mnogi drugi. Franjo Mikulić mi je čak došao s idejom koju su on i Bruno prethodno razmatrali. Ideja je bila luckasta i mogla je nastati samo iz velike nužde. Naime, radilo se o tome da se pošalje skupina hrvatskih boraca Ianu Smithu u Južnu Afriku gdje bi dobili adekvatnu vojnu obuku, to otplatili ratovanjem za Smitha i onda se vratili kao prekaljeni borci, spremni da nastave borbu za Hrvatsku. Da bi se uopće shvatilo kako je Mikuliću i Bruni takva ideja mogla pasti na um, treba imati u vidu kakvo je bilo to vrijeme.

Jugoslavija je uživala podršku i potporu zapadnoeuropskih zemalja i Amerike, Udbini agenti gotovo su nesmetano likvidirali političke emigrante, a u većinu emigrantskih skupina već su se bili infiltrirali doušnici i provokatori. Oni Hrvati koji se nisu mirili s takvim stanjem pokušavali su domisliti neki izlaz iz situacije, ali takav koji ne bio samo ljepši izraz za bacanje koplja u trnje. Svejedno, rekao sam Mikuliću da je ideja loša i da to nipošto ne čine jer će tako više naškoditi hrvatskoj stvari negoli joj koristiti. Smitha su već otpisale relevantne političke snage u svijetu, rekao sam, a Hrvatima je bilo dostatno Pavelićevo iskustvo s odabirom pogrešnih saveznika, ne treba im još jedno slično. Osim toga, ratujući u tuđoj zemlji za tuđe interese, naši bi borci samo kompromitirali čistoću hrvatske borbe za slobodu. Bio sam uistinu oštro protiv toga.

Kako je Mikulića Bruno i poslao k meni da čuje moje mišljenje o toj ideji, to se pitanje više, srećom, nije potezalo niti je pristupano njezinoj realizaciji. Uostalom, Brunu je uskoro sustigao udbaški metak. Kada je glas o njegovoj pogibiji došao do mene u El Pasu, kao sto sam već rekao, bio sam silno pogođen tom viješću, očajan i tužan sukobio sam se s jednim stražarom koji je iz puke dosade i zloće na meni pokušavao vježbati strogoću. Sve mi je još u glavi kao da se jučer dogodilo.

El Paso, Teksas, 17. listopada 1978. godine. Nakon što su me silom savladali i svezali, ugurali su me u neku malu mračaru i tu ostavili s lisicama na rukama. Pipajući u mraku nogama i rukama, zaključio sam da je ćelija potpuno prazna i da se mogu kretati po dva koraka naprijed-natrag. Tu jadnu šetnju nastavio sam do iznemoglosti. I danas se živo sjećam kako sam se tješio i sokolio glasno citirajući pjesmu Tina Ujevića „Hrvatskim mučenicima“, ponavljajući Kranjčevića stihove „Verige nam vežu ruke, krv se naša lije, / skršeno je naše tijelo, duša naša nije“, „Okovi su krila da se brže leti“, pjevajući hrvatske budnice a naročito onu „Zovi samo zovi, svi će sokolovi za te život dati“.

Dragi čitatelju, da me dragi Bog obdario talentom za pisanje kakav je imao F. M. Dostojevski, možda bih mogao vjerodostojno i zorno opisati tadašnje stanje uma i duha nepokornoga hrvatskog buntovnika i cijelu monodramu koja se odvijala u maloj mračnoj zatvorskoj samici na krajnjem jugu Teksasa, u gradu El Paso, na obali Rio Grandea. Kakve su mi se crne misli vrtjele po glavi, kakve teške boli su mi parale srce, koje drage uspomene oživljavale i sada donosile neizmjernu bol, jer sjećanje na sreću nije više sreće nego bol! Kakve sam sve razgovore vodio s dragim Bogom, s hrvatskim junacima i mučenicima, sa sudbinom, s ubijenim Brunom – dok su istodobno u Pariz na Brunin pokop tužnih srca pristizali hrvatski domoljubi sa svih strana svijeta, i dok je pozornost cijeloga svijeta bila usredotočena na Vatikan i izbor novoga pape Ivana Pavla II.

Zar nije velika i vrlo tragična ironija da 25 mjeseci nakon što smo našom akcijom prisilili takozvane demokratske medije da tiskaju manifest o potlačenosti hrvatskog naroda u domovini, o ubijanju hrvatskih disidenata i prvaka u slobodnome svijetu, brutalno ubiju Brunu Bušića, samoga autora manifesta!? Jugoslavenska totalitarna vlast još je jednom potvrdila ono na što smo svojom akcijom htjeli upozoriti svjetsku javnost. Kasnije sam u razgovoru s nekim hrvatskim domoljubima dolazio i do hipotetskog pitanja ne bih li, da sam odao istražiteljima da je Bruno autor proglasa koji smo bacali iz zrakoplova, Brunu spasio od udbaškog metka? Takve spekulacije polazile su od pretpostavke da bi u tom slučaju francuske vlasti sigurno uhitile Brunu i izručile ga Americi te bi i on, kao i ja, završio u američkom zatvoru, a to bi značilo da bi sačuvao glavu.

Kada god bih temeljito razmislio, dolazio bih da zaključka da bih mu tako više naškodio nego pomogao. Mogućnost da ga odam, naravno, nikada nije dolazila u obzir, no da sam čak imao i kristalnu kuglu pri ruci i mogao vidjeti budućnost, nikada ne bih spašavao Brunu od njegove sudbine tako da ga sakrijem u američkom zatvoru. Štoviše, takve bih razgovore uvijek završavao konstatacijom: „Ne, prijatelji dragi, ne razumijete vi to. Bruno se spasio! I njegova je smrt, koliko god tragična bila, lijepa, i dostojna sanjara i borca za idealnu Hrvatsku kakav je Bruno bio.“

Na putovima kojima smo Bruno i ja još kao dječaci krenuli smrt je od početka bila vjerna pratiteljica, na koju se konačno navikneš, gotovo se sprijateljiš s njom. I sam sam joj često gledao u oči, a ponekad je i zazivao. Sjećam se jednoga kriznog razdoblja u zatvoru nakon oslobođenja Hrvatske. Osjećao sam se odbačenim, zaboravljenim, činilo mi se da je sve bilo uzaludno. Najviše me boljelo što u oslobađanju Hrvatske nisam mogao aktivno sudjelovati niti sam u slobodnoj Hrvatskoj mogao barem na dan uživati, udisati njezin zrak, gledati njezine ljude, koračati slobodan slobodnom Hrvatskom. Osjećao sam kao da o meni još brigu vodi samo američki zatvorski sustav i to s jednim jedinim ciljem – da me slomi, raščovječi, učini sjenom nekadašnjeg mene. Došao sam do tragične spoznaje da me nikada neće pustiti i da smrt možda i nije najlošiji izlaz iz situacije u kojoj sam se našao.

Na tako depresivno raspoloženje nadovezala se još i nevolja s jednim nasilnikom koji je, nadahnut utjecajem jedne ideologizirane marksističke skupine, vrebao priliku da me ubije. Bio sam preko nekih svojih veza upoznat s njegovom namjerom. Ako sam želio preživjeti, imao samo jedan izlaz – ja sam morao ubiti njega. Veći dio svoga života živio sam opasno, a to je uključivalo i mogućnost da ubijem ili budem ubijen. Bog me sačuvao od toga da ikome mučki uzmem život, duboko usađeni katolički odgoj učinio me nesposobnim za proračunato, hladnokrvno ubojstvo. Ubiti neprijatelja u borbi jedna je stvar, a sasvim drugo nekoga smišljeno zaklati na spavanju ili na izlasku iz kupaonice. Razmišljajući o tome što učiniti, shvatio sam da mi je sam Bog poslao tog čovjeka kao rješenje, a ne kao opasnost. Bio sam očajan, ali nisam želio dići ruku na sebe čime bih svojim neprijateljima priuštio zadovoljstvo kao spoznaju da su me uspjeli slomiti. Stoga sam u svom potencijalnom ubojici vidio oruđe sudbine, on bi me mogao spasiti, to jest lišiti me života tako da ne moram sam na sebe dignuti ruku.

Gotovo zadovoljan tim rješenjem očajnog stanja u koje sam bio zapao, bez noža i bez namjere da se branim izišao sam pred tog čovjeka, prepriječio mu put i izderao se na njega puštajući da iz mene pokulja sav onaj nagomilani bijes i očaj: „Kolji, mater ti je…, kolji! Spasit ćeš me!“ Nikada nisam podnosio vulgarno izražavanje, ali tom trenutku psovka je priličila. Ne znam što je taj čovjek tada vidio u mojim očima, ni što ga je preplašilo u mojim riječima, znam samo da je podvio rep i udaljio se gotovo bježeći od mene. Nikada poslije toga nije pokušavao ostvariti svoje ubilačke namjere, štoviše izbjegavao me. Meni je pak taj događaj bio znak da još nije kucnuo moj čas i da Bog još ima neke nakane sa mnom dočim me ostavlja na životu.

Nekome tko živi životom običnoga mirnog građanina ovakvi se zaključci mogu činiti neobičnim, no kada se cijeli život krećeš opasnim stazama i upuštašu krajnje neizvjesne pothvate, naučiš, htio – ne htio, čitati znakove koje ti sudbina pokazuje. Možda u njima nema ništa više od slučajne koincidencije, no u ljudskoj je prirodi da svemu daje neki smisao, a ta potreba postaje jača što je nečiji život neizvjesniji, pustolovniji i izloženiji opasnostima. Kakogod, ta nerazmrsiva mješavina aktivizma i fatalizma ravnala je mojim životom i mojim djelima više i odlučnije negoli racionalno kalkuliranje. Međutim, to ne znači da sve svoje akcije nisam temeljito, podrobno i krajnje racionalno planirao, pripremao i izvodio.

Inače, gledanju opasnosti u oči poučio me jedan doživljaj iz djetinjstva. To iskustvu mi je u zatvoru i te kako dobro došlo. Ako ti u zatvoru nedostaje samopouzdanja ili se ne možeš ponašati kao da si sasvim siguran u sebe, u velikoj si nevolji. Lako možeš izgubiti život. Iskustvo sa zmijom koje sam doživio u djetinjstvu u tome mi je pomoglo, iako tada nisam imao pojma od kolike će mi velike koristi biti i u kojim okolnostima. Jednoga proljetnog jutra majka me poslala čuvati ovce, imao sam nekih sedam godina, a budući da sam oduvijek bio noćna ptica, pa sam i kao dijete ostajao do kasno budan slušajući razgovore odraslih, kad sam stigao do stjenovite čistine na našoj zemlji, još sam uvijek bio pospan. Legao sam na bok i smjesta zaspao. Kad sam se probudio, otvorio sam oči i tik pokraj sebe ugledao poskoka, glave u položaju za napad. Skamenio sam se, bio sam posve nepomičan, zaleđen na mjestu.

Instinktivno sam znao da će zmija, pomaknem li se, biti brža i napasti. Stoga smo se i zmija i ja samo međusobno promatrali, činilo mi se cijelu vječnost, a onda sam ja odlučio hiniti da spavam i zatvorio sam oči, obliven znojem, napeta tijela. Kad sam ponovno otvorio oči, zmija je još uvijek bila ondje, promatrala me još uvijek spremna na napad. Uzvratio sam joj pogled, oči u oči, misleći da mi nema spasa. Da sam barem imao kamen ili štap, ali nisam imao ništa. Na kraju sam odlučio polako ustati, kao da zmija nije moja neprijateljica nego prijateljica, veoma polako, uz mnogo muke, dopuštajući joj da prati svaki moj pokret. I nadalje je bila nepomična i spremna za napad. Okrenuo sam joj leđa, spreman na njezin ugriz, ali ona se o dalje nije pomakla. Nastavio sam se polako udaljavati, kada sam se okrenuo ona se vratila u normalan položaj. Dograbio sam štap, sad prepun hrabrosti, i pojurio za zmijom, ali ona je nestala među stijenama.

I tako sam se naučio nositi sa sukobima s drugim zatvorenicima. Ako ih fiksiraš pogledom dok ga oni prvi ne spuste, ako ostaneš odlučan i ne pokazuješ strah, ako ih samo gledaš ravno u oči i ne uzmičeš, najčešće će se povući. Ako se kolebaš, napast će kao poskok i gotov si. Tog sam jutra kad me majka poslala čuvati ovce bio ljut, ali to me iskustvo vjerojatno sačuvalo živim desetljećima kasnije u američkoj klaonici. Tako je primjerenije nazivati američke kaznionice. Premda, čovjek s vremenom na sve navikne, a u dušu se uvuče dosada i neka čama kojoj ne zna lijeka. Tako nas i gledanje smrti u oči s vremenom učini imunima na strah, ali i na ljepotu svijeta.

Mislio sam da ću kada izađem iz zatvora, uživati u svim stvarima koje su mi desetljećima bile uskraćene. Međutim, nije sve ispalo onako kako sam zamišljao. Puštanje na slobodu ponovno je uhićenje, ista vrsta nepodnošljivoga i bolnoga preseljenja iz jednog stanja u drugo, koje uništava dušu, rutinu svakodnevnog života i zamisli, ne obećavajući i ne dajući ništa zauzvrat. Kažem – ništa, jer to što bivši zatvorenik zatekne u vanjskom svijetu toliko je zbrkano, neshvatljivo i strašno koliko i netom uhićenoj osobi kada se prvi put suoči s paklom zatvorskoga svijeta. I onda kada si vani, s užasom shvatiš da ti nedostaje igra sa smrću oči u oči, red i rutina, onaj savršeni poredak utemeljen na ravnoteži straha i nagona. Smrt je prijateljica, gotovo ljubavnica, no nezgoda je što joj se možeš približiti tisuću puta, ali poljubiti samo jednom. Odavno je se ne bojim, štoviše sve mi je bliža.

Sjećam se jednoga sna u zatvoru Leavenworth. Sanjao sam da je silna svjetlost uz tresak raznijela zidine zatvora s jedne strane, a na obzoru se ukazala bliješteća kupola nečega nalik svemirskome brodu. Svi moji zatvorski drugovi u strahu su se tiskali u onaj dio zatvora koji je još bio zaštićen ogradom s triju strana. Čudio sam se zašto uzmiču pred slobodom. Tolike smo sate proveli smišljajući fantastične planove za bijeg, a oni, eto, bježe od porušenih zidova zatvora i boje se slobode. Uvjeravam ih da krenu sa mnom prema onoj kupoli, a oni s užasom u očima otklanjaju i samu pomisao na to. Na kraju sam krenuo sam, lagan, oslobođen i gotovo sretan. No što je bila ta kupola, nikada nisam doznao jer sam se probudio. Nekako ćutim da se u tom snu zrcale neke duboke dvojbe iz moje podsvijesti, makar ih ne znam odrediti. Ili ne želim.

Dragi moj Pereciću, posljednje što si mi rekao o svojim sjećanjima bilo je da ćeš „pustiti čitatelja da sam prosudi”. Brinulo te koliko vjerno pamtiš događaje iz prošlosti, s obzirom da su se neki zbili prije mnogo desetljeća, i hoće li ti čitatelji oprostiti omaške sjećanja. Čitatelj sad pred sobom ima težak zadatak jer ti si ova sjećanja počeo svojim vlastitim nezamjenjivim glasom i sjećanjima, a ja sam ih primorana dovršiti svojim, čineći od njih „naša” sjećanja. Iako, nisu li sva zapravo naša, još od onoga davnog dana u Beču, kad smo se prvi put sreli?

Zato će mi čitatelj možda dopustiti da govorim tvojim, našim glasom, jer ti sada možeš komunicirati samo na načine koje mi ne možemo dokučiti. Čekaj! Jesi li to ti maloprije zašuškao lišćem ispred kuće?

Zvonko Bušić

EN

Zvonko believed that good things should be shared with everyone. What he lived, worked for and believed in, what he sacrificed for, is presented in his book “All Visible Things”, which is available on Amazon. Chapter by chapter, drop of blood by drop of blood, and life day by day in 33 parts – with only one goal! He will live on…

Consorting with Death

My first trial by fire in an American prison was in Atlanta Penitentiary. The time I spent in pre-trial custody had been totally different. As it was known that I was not a common criminal but a political prisoner, I had an almost privileged status, and the warden behaved toward me and my co-defendants in a correct manner. But federal penitentiaries were something else; they are like autonomous cities where only the laws of the jungle apply. The prison I ended up in really did remind one of a city, but from some other era – a fortress city with a big cupola resembling a cathedral tower, surrounded by a dangerous 12.5 meter high wall and guard towers set along it, with large grounds in the middle instead of a square. On the grounds were several playing fields and there were always a lot of prisoners there. The blacks played basketball, the white guys baseball, and the Italians and French, mostly Corsicans, gathered around the bocce ball field.

I was drawn first to them because of their southern temperaments and tendencies, and also learned firsthand all the inside “details” on which the movie “French Connection” was based. I knew all these people, became close to them, and had good relations with them. At that time, Niccolo Orsini was killed, one of the important figures in the above-mentioned crime story, allegedly because he had started to “sing” during the investigation, although at trial he did not testify to anything that could be considered harmful.

In this prison “city” of about 2,300 prisoners, it was particularly lively on Sunday afternoon walks. Homosexuals did themselves up and strolled around, wiggling their butts like the prostitutes you would see in any western European city, blacks were shooting hoops, and the Italians were yelling on the bocce field. Human social life, wherever it is, assumes similar forms, and prison is no exception.

Around this time, the number of murders in American prisons had grown to such an extent that it was no longer acceptable to the public. In Atlanta alone, there were 19 murders in a period of only seven months. I, too, was attacked, and described that incident in an earlier chapter. Time magazine had on its front cover, “Atlanta is not a prison, but a slaughterhouse”. The campaign heated up and the topic came up before the U.S. Congress, where the issue of security in the prisons was discussed. The prison system was forced under pressure from the public to react in some way, so it began to limit the movement of prisoners; we could no longer go from block to block, and time spent on the recreation field was strictly monitored and controlled.

In Atlanta, I met up again with several Mafia bosses I had known from pre-trial time. We had good relations, because they respected me for my principles, although they were not interested in politics. But, as I mentioned, I was closest to the Corsicans and the French, as they were the only Europeans in the prison. Since every prisoner arrives with a certain reputation usually based on the type of offense and his behavior in prison, this was also the case with me. They believed I had some knowledge of explosives, so many of them approached me with the idea of my helping them escape or that I escape with them. They fantasized about the bombs I would make for them which would pave their way to freedom.

I was aware I was being monitored and that some of those who approached me were surely provocateurs, so I was always very reserved with regard to these “requests”. Nonetheless, one time when I was in the company of one of these people, I expressed surprise at the fact that the prison grass was sprinkled with artificial fertilizer. “Don’t they know that a destructive bomb could be made by mixing artificial fertilizer and gas?” I asked in supposed amazement. It is interesting that soon after this conversation, they stopped using this fertilizer in the Atlanta prison, and as far as I saw later, they stopped using it in other prisons as well. It was clear that my interlocutor was a provocateur, snitch, or someone who could not keep his mouth shut.

At that time I had no access to the telephone so my communication with the outside world was limited to letters and visits. Marijan Gabelica, a loyal friend and supporter, visited me, as well as Franjo Mikulic, the former Jastrebarsko city council president and political dissident, along with many others. Mikulic even came to me with an idea he and Bruno had discussed earlier. It was a foolish notion, and could only have come in a moment of apparent desperation. The idea was that a group of Croatian fighters would be sent to Ian Smith in South Africa to be militarily trained, and then repay the training by fighting with Smith before returning as seasoned warriors to continue the struggle for Croatia. To even begin to fathom how such an idea could have occurred to Franjo and Bruno, one has to keep in mind the situation at that time.

Yugoslavia enjoyed the support and back-up of western European countries as well as America, UDBA agents were freely liquidating our political emigrants, and most of the emigrant groups had been infiltrated by spies and provocateurs. The Croatians who could not accept this state of affairs were constantly searching for an escape from the situation, but not one which would be tantamount to “throwing in the towel.”

At any rate, I told Mikulic that it was a bad idea and not to do it because it would damage Croatia more than it would help. Smith had already been written off by all relevant political forces, I said, and Croatia had already had enough experience with Pavelic’s choice of the wrong allies; we didn’t need any repeat of that.

Besides, by fighting in a foreign country for foreign interests, our people would only compromise the righteousness of the struggle for Croatian freedom. Since Bruno had sent Mikulic to me to hear my opinion, which was negative, the plan was thankfully not pursued and never brought up again after that. Besides, an UDBA bullet caught Bruno soon thereafter.

As I wrote earlier, the report of Bruno’s death reached me in El Paso, Texas. Devastated and saddened by the news, I got into a conflict with one of the prison guards who, out of sheer boredom or wickedness, tried to exert his “power” over me. I remember it all as though it were yesterday. El Paso, Texas, October 17, 1978. After the “goon squad” attacked, subdued, and handcuffed me, I was shoved into a small, dark cell and left there, still cuffed.

Feeling my way around in the dark with my hands and feet, I concluded the cell was completely empty and that I was able to move only two steps forward and back. I walked back and forth for what seemed like forever. And today, I have a vivid memory of how I comforted and gave myself courage by reciting loudly a poem by the renowned Croatian poet, Tin Ujevic, “To the Croatian Martyrs” and repeating stanzas by Kranjcevic. “Our hands are tied, our blood is flowing, our bodies are bowed, but not our souls… the chains are wings to help us fly faster….” Or singing Croatian reveilles, especially this one, “Just give us the call, and we will give our lives for you!” Dear readers, if God had blessed me with the talent of a Dostoyevsky only then would I be able to describe adequately and accurately the state of mind and spirit of this incorrigible Croatian rebel and the entire monodrama that developed in this small, dark prison cell in the deep south of Texas, in the city of El Paso, on the shores of the Rio Grande. What dark thoughts were swirling around in my head, what horrid pain shot through my heart, what precious memories came forth, but bringing with them immeasurable agony… because memories of joy no longer bring joy but pain! Oh, the conversations I had with God, with Croatian heroes and martyrs, with Destiny, with murdered Bruno. And all at the same time that Croatian patriots with heavy hearts were arriving in Paris from all over the world for Bruno’s funeral, and the attention of the world was focused on the appointment of Pope John Paul II in the Vatican.

What a tragic irony that 25 months after we had forced the so-called democratic media to publish our manifesto on the oppression against the Croatian people and the murders of Croatian dissidents and leaders in the “free” world, Bruno himself was murdered, the author of this manifesto! The Yugoslav dictatorship once againconfirmedits crimes, which we, through our action wanted to expose to the world.

Later in conversations with certain Croatian patriots, the hypothetical question was raised as to whether I could have saved Bruno from UDBA’s bullet if I had confessed to the investigators that he was the author of the manifesto we had thrown from the airplane. These speculations came from the assumption that in that case, the French authorities would have certainly arrested Bruno and extradited him to America where he would, like me, end up in prison, thereby saving his life. But whenever I would give it deeper thought, I would conclude that it would have hindered rather than helped him. Of course, I never even considered giving up his name, but if I had had a crystal ball to see into the future, I would never have saved Bruno from his fate by hiding him away in an American prison. What’s more, I would always conclude such conversations with this, “No, dear friend, you don’t understand. Bruno saved himself! His death, tragic as it was, was beautiful, and worthy of the kind of dreamer and Croatian freedom fighter that Bruno had always been!”

Death was a constant companion on the paths Bruno and I took when we were still children, so one becomes accustomed to it, even becomes friends with it. I myself have often come eye to eye with it and sometimes even called it out. I remember one period of crisis in prison after Croatia gained its independence. I felt rejected, forgotten, and it seemed that everything had been in vain. It hurt me the most that I had not been able to actively participate in the liberation of Croatia, or even spend a single day breathing her air, seeing the people, walking free throughout free Croatia! I felt the only ones concerned for me were the American prison authorities, and with only one goal: to break me, dehumanize me, make me a mere shadow of my former self. I came to the tragic conclusion that I would never be released, and that death was perhaps the best exit from the situation in which I found myself.

Added to this was the trouble I was having with a violent black prisoner who, inspired by the teachings of some fringe Marxist group, was lurking around for an opportunity to kill me. I was informed of his intentions through some of my connections. If I wanted to live, there was just one option: I had to kill him first. Most of my life was lived dangerously, and that also included the possibility that I would have to kill or be killed. Thank God I was spared from having to take somebody’s life, and my deeply ingrained Catholic upbringing prevented me from ever having the capacity to commit a cold-blooded, calculated murder. Killing an enemy in battle is one thing, but to slaughter somebody intentionally as he sleeps or takes a shower is entirelydifferent.

Pondering over what I should do, I realized that God had sent me this man as a solution, not as a danger. I was in despair, but did not want to raise a hand to myself, as that would give my enemies the satisfaction of knowing they had succeeded in breaking me. Thus I saw my potential murderer as a tool of Destiny who could save me and take my life so that I would not have to do it myself. Almost pleased with the resolution of my state of despair, I stepped out in front of this guy, without a knife or the intention of defending myself, and blocked his way. Then I began to yell at him, releasing all my suppressed rage and anger: “Kill me, motherfucker, go ahead! You’d be saving me!” I never used such vulgar language, but at that moment it seemed appropriate. I don’t know what the guy saw in my eyes, what it was that scared him in my words; all I know is that he slunk away from me, almost running, tail between his legs. He never tried later to implement his murderous intentions and in fact avoided me entirely.
I saw this event as a sign that my time had not yet come, that God still had plans for me and had therefore kept me alive. This conclusion might seem strange to someone who lives the life of an ordinary citizen, but if you travel along dangerous paths your whole life and get involved in extremely unpredictable actions, you learn to recognize, whether you want to or not, certain signposts of Destiny.

Maybe this was all just sheer coincidence, but it’s human nature to look for meaning in everything, and this need becomes stronger the more uncertain, endangered, and adventurous one’s life is. Whatever the case, this inextricable mixture of activism and fatalism characterized my life and actions more decisively than any rational calculation. Meanwhile, that does not mean that I didn’t rationally plan, organize, prepare, and perform my actions.

Actually, I learned from an event in my childhood the ability to look Death in the eye. This experience was of great benefit to me in prison. If you lack self-confidence in prison or if you don’t act as though you are totally sure of yourself, you’re in big trouble. You can easily lose your life. An experience I had with a snake in my childhood helped me with that, although back then I had no idea how much use it would be to me later under different circumstances. One spring morning, my mother sent me to watch the goats. I was seven years old, and since I had always been a “night owl”, staying up late reading or listening to the conversations of the grown-ups, I was still sleepy when I reached the rocky clearing on our property. I lay down on my side and immediately fell asleep.

When I woke up, I opened my eyes and saw a viper right in front of me, head poised for attack. I turned to stone, totally frozen to the spot. I instinctively knew that if I moved, the snake would be faster and would attack me. So the snake and I just looked at each other for what seemed like an eternity, and then I decided to pretend I was asleep. I closed my eyes, covered in sweat, my body tense. When I opened my eyes again, the snake was still there, still poised to attack. I returned its gaze, eye to eye, believing I was doomed. If I at least had a rock or a stick, but I had nothing!

I finally decided to get up slowly, as though the snake were my friend instead of enemy, very slowly, with a lot of effort, allowing it to follow my every movement. I turned my back to it, prepared for its bite, but it did not move. I continued walking away slowly, and when I turned around, I saw it had returned to its normal position. I grabbed a stick, now full of courage, and ran toward it, but it disappeared between the rocks.

And that’s how I learned to deal with conflicts with other prisoners. If you stare at them until they drop their gaze, if you remain decisive and stand your ground, just look them straight in the eye without moving, they usually back down. If you waver, they attack like a viper and you’re finished. I was angry with my mother that morning when she sent me to watch the goats, but that experience probably kept me alive decades later in the American slaughterhouses, which is a much more appropriate description of the American prisons.

But a person gets accustomed to everything eventually, and then a boredom and ennui creep into the soul for which there is no cure. And in time, looking Death in the eye makes us immune to fear, but also to the beauty in the world. I thought when I was released from prison that I would enjoy all the things I had been deprived of for decades. Meanwhile, it did not turn out as I had imagined. Release from prison is another kind of arrest, the same type of unendurable and painful movement from one state into another which destroys the soul and the routine of everyday life and thought without promising or giving anything in return. I say this because what a former prisoner is confronted with in the outside world is every bit as confusing, incomprehensible, and horrific to him as his initial arrest and initiation into the hell of the prison world.

And then when you are “outside”, you realize with horror that you miss the intimate confrontation with Death, the routine and order, the perfect system based on a balance between fear and instinct. Death is your friend, even your lover, but the problem is that you can approach it a thousand times but kiss it only once. I haven’t feared it for a long time now; what’s more, I feel closer and closer to it.

I remember a dream I had in the Leavenworth Penitentiary. I dreamt that a blinding light accompanied by a crash shattered the prison walls on one side, and on the horizon there appeared a glowing dome resembling a spaceship. All my prison friends gathered together in fear in the part of the prison that was still surrounded by three walls. I was amazed that they were moving away from freedom. We had spent so much time making fantastic escape plans, and now they were running from the destroyed prison wall, fearing freedom. I try to persuade them to come with me toward the dome, but they turn away in terror at the mere thought of it. I ultimately go alone, leisurely, free, and almost happy. But what that dome was, I never found out, because I woke up. Somehow, I believe this dream reflected certain deep dilemmas in my subconscious, although I am unable to define them. Or do not want to.

My Darling Pretzel,
The last note you write for these memoirs was that “you would let the reader judge for himself”. You were concerned about how accurately you have recalled events from the past, as some had taken place decades ago, and whether the readers would forgive you any possible errors. Readers now have before them a difficult task, because you have begun these memoirs in your own irreplaceable voice and I am forced to finish them in mine, making them ultimately “ours”. But aren’t they really ours, since that long ago day in Vienna, the first time we met? So the readers will perhaps permit me to speak in your, our voice, since you now communicate in a way we can no longer capture. Wait! Was that you just now, causing the leaves to tremble on that big oak tree?

Zvonko Bušić

Ključne riječi #hrvati u američkim zatvorima #Zdravo oko #Zvonko Bušić