Iz memoara Zvonka Bušića: Stvar s pogibijom nedužnog policajca bila je namještena!

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”. Taj djelić hrvatske povijesti odsad ćete moći čitati svake druge srijede na hrvatskom i engleskom jeziku, na portalu dijaspora.hr. Poglavlje po poglavlje, kap krvi po kap krvi i život dan po dan u 33 dijela – samo s jednim ciljem! Trajat će!

VOJVODIĆEVE CIPELE

Konačno mi valja ispričati i priču o samoj otmici. U životu većine ljudi, čini mi se, postoji nešto kao prijelomni događaj, nešto oko čega se u koncentričnim krugovima vrte svi njegovi dotadašnji i budući postupci, pokušaji, djela i nedjela, misli, nade, snovi, uzleti i klonuća. Čovjek bi se možda poželio ponekad i oteti utjecaju tog središta vrtnje, živjeti neki sasvim drugi život, ali kad se jednom taj sustav vrtnje, nalik Sunčevu sustavu, uspostavi, izlijetanja iz orbite nema. To je ono što nazivamo sudbinom, čovjek joj se možda može i oteti, ali isplati li se proživjeti život izbjegavajući vlastitu sudbinu, ne biti dostojan vlastite sudbine? Mislim da ne.

Usputno sam se i u prethodnim poglavljima doticao otmice, no u ovom poglavlju pokušat ću podrobno raščlaniti taj događaj, kao i sve ono što mu je neposredno prethodilo. Svjestan sam, naravno, da je moje viđenje samo moje i da, bez obzira na činjenicu da sam ja osobno ključni protagonist toga događaja, ne mogu polagati pravo na konačnu i jedinu istinu o tom slučaju. Konačno sve što napišemo postaje neka vrsta književnosti, priče, te je stoga i nužno subjektivno viđenje stvarnosti. Viđenje koje osim subjektivnosti boluje i od naknadnog sređivanja kaotičnoga poretka stvarnog svijeta, svijeta događaja, u razložan i u skladu s nekakvom logikom sređen tekst. No, krenimo nekim redom.

U Ameriku sam prvi put došao 1969. godine. Najzaslužniji za moj odlazak tamo bio je već spominjani Milan Bušić. Namjera nam je bila pojačati političku aktivnost među tamošnjim hrvatskim emigrantima i skupiti određena sredstva za eventualne akcije. Osim toga i moja veza s Julie prirodno me upućivala na odlazak u Ameriku. Te prvotne aktivnosti svodile su se uglavnom na vatrene govore na okupljalištima hrvatskih emigranata i djelatnost u emigrantskim organizacijama. Uvijek sam nastojao povezivati različite organizacije među Hrvatima u svijetu ne vezujući se ni uz jednu od njih previše.

Tako sam, primjerice, u Vancouveru 1973. godine održao svojevrsno predavanje o uzrocima i posljedicama pada Hrvatskog proljeća. Bio je to više domoljubni govor negoli prava analiza povijesnoga događaja. Veći dio vremena u Americi provodio sam u Oregonu, budući da je Julie bila Oregonka i tu joj je živjela obitelj. Ljeto 1973. proveli smo u Gearhartu, priobalnom, turističkom mjestu, stotinjak kilometara udaljenom od Portlanda. Julie je radila u restoranu, družili smo se isključivo s njezinim društvom s obzirom da u Gearhartu nije bilo Hrvata. S nostalgijom se sjećam tih dana, opuštene atmosfere mladenačkog druženja, otkrivanja jednog drukčijeg svijeta, bez Udbe, paranoje i tipično hrvatskih emigrantskih briga.

Ta četiri mjeseca pomalo sam se bio udaljio od one revolucionarne grozničavosti koja me pratila još od bečkih dana. Kupao sam se, pecao, odlazio s Julie i njezinim društvom u restorane, na zabave. Jednoga jutra probudilo me kucanje na prozoru, bila je to Juliennina najbolja prijateljica. Julie je već bila otišla na posao, a ja sam još bio u krevetu. Kada sam otvorio prozor, nenadana mi gošća reče da me traži neki tip iz Washingtona. Čovjek je došao u restoran u kojem je Julie radila i pitao za mene, pa je Julie nju poslala da me probudi jer je ovaj najavio da će me posjetiti kod kuće.

Ispostavilo se da čovjek radi za obavještajnu službu Secret Service, a želio je razgovarati sa mnom zbog Brežnjevljeva dolaska u Kaliforniju. Bio je ljubazan, upoznao me s činjenicom da prate moje kretanje, budući da sam na njihovom popisu potencijalno opasnih osoba, te da me moraju provjeriti, naročito s obzirom na činjenicu da sam i sâm nedavno bio u Kaliforniji.

Nakon godinu-dvije umro je netko iz šire Julieine obitelji, na pogrebu je njezina majka u razgovoru s jednim bliskim rođakom na njegovo pitanje o Julie rekla da se Julie nedavno udala. „Za Zvonku Bušića“, ispali ovaj kao iz puške. Otkrilo se da je upravo on bio taj čovjek iz Washingtona koji me posjetio u Gearhartu. I na neki način pomutio mir i opuštenost tih ljetnih dana uz malom mjestu uz obalu oceana, podsjetio me da nema opuštanja i bijega sudbini. Julie i on se međusobno nisu prepoznali jer se godinama nisu viđali. Kasnije je doznala da je radio čak i za CIA-u, u jedinici u Bijeloj kući, a ne za Secret Service.

Nakon ljeta odselili smo u Portland. Julie je odlučila diplomirati jer joj je ostalo nekoliko ispita, a ja sam radio kao konobar. Često sam s njom dolazio na Portland State University, gdje sam upoznao profesora Langhammera, šefa katedre povijesti, s kojim sam se sprijateljio. Često smo raspravljali o svjetskoj povijesti i aktualnim procesima u svijetu, a jednom prigodom zamolio me da održim predavanje na njihovom fakultetu o Hrvatskom proljeću. Kako tada još nisam dovoljno dobro znao engleski, predavanje sam držao na njemačkom, a Julie je simultano prevodila. Predavanje je, čini mi se, studentima bilo zanimljivo, a neki su postavljali i pitanja. Međutim, bilo je očito da o Hrvatskoj ne znaju osnovne stvari, i tako sam tko zna koji put osjetio kako smo zakinuti zbog nedostatka pravih informacija o našoj zemlji, ali i potpunoj nebrigi svijeta prema malim narodima.

Te 1973. kladio sam se s profesorom Langhammerom da će se dvije Njemačke ujediniti za najviše dvadesetak godina, a on je tvrdio da se to neće dogoditi u idućih sto godina. Bio sam u pravu, ne stoga što bih bio bolji poznavatelj i prognozer povijesnih procesa, nego iz razloga što sam bio životno zainteresiran za takav razvoj situacije. Njemačko ujedinjenje značilo je pad Istočnoga bloka, a takvo što omogućilo bi pad komunizma u Jugoslaviji. Dakako, pad komunizma značio bi pak da se i Hrvatskoj pruža prilika da se istrgne iz „bratskoga“ zagrljaja.

U Portlandu je postojala hrvatska zajednica pa sam se ponovno aktivirao na političkom planu. S druge strane svakodnevni život nosio je svoje, osjećao sam kako ću uskoro morati odlučiti što uopće želim od života i kako dalje živjeti. Julie je zatrudnjela i po prvi put nakon bijega iz Hrvatske ozbiljno sam razmišljao o tome da se konačno skrasim i započnem živjeti mirnim, obiteljskim životom. Bila je to istodobno i odbojna i zavodljiva pomisao, premda sam negdje u dubini duše osjećao da je moj put već zacrtan. Nakon što je Julie imala spontani pobačaj, dvojbe su nestale. Prepoznao sam to kao Božji znak. Idem dalje, nastavljam nesigurnim i nepredvidljivim putem hrvatskoga borca za slobodu.

Kontaktirao sam Marijana Gabelicu, koji je tada bio u New Yorku, i opet se intenzivnije angažirao u emigrantskom političkom životu. Uskoro sam, točnije početkom 1974., otišao u New York i obnovio stare veze. Gabelica je bio moj vjenčani kum. Julie i ja crkveno smo se vjenčali u New Yorku 1976. godine, a vjenčao nas je fra Rafael Romić. Tada sam upoznao i kardinala Franju Kuharića koji je blagoslovio naš brak. Nakon toga sam ga još sreo i nakratko s njim razgovarao u lipnju 1976. na Bodenskom jezeru, gdje sam bio s Brunom. Kada sam se već, usput rečeno, odlučio na akciju i s Brunom utanačio sve detalje oko Proglasa.

U New Yorku mi je posao našao Milan Vojvodić, nadzornik za održavanje jednog kompleksa zgrada u kojima su živjeli imućniji Njujorčani. Zaposlio me kao vozača lifta, posao koji mi je, kako ispada, najviše odgovarao. Na takvom sam poslu imao dosta slobodnog vremena pa sam mogao nesmetano čitati, proučavati literaturu i kovati planove za buduće aktivnosti. Vojvodić je bio osebujan, zanimljiv čovjek, rodom iz Kutjeva.

Kao 16-godišnjak 1945. godine dospio je pred komunistički sud jer je nosio hranu „križarima“. Sudac ga je strogo pitao: – Zašto si nosio hranu razbojnicima!? – Časni suče, razbojnici su ovi drugi, ovi koji su me uhvatili, a ne oni tamo u šumi, oni kojima sam nosio hranu, ono su pravi, čestiti ljudi! – odgovorio mu je Milan, i zaradio doživotnu robiju. Međutim, uspio je pobjeći iz zatvora i pješice se probiti do Austrije. Prelazeći Alpe, poderao je ionako stare cipele pa se slobode dočepao izranjenih nogu, što mu je ostalo u sjećanju za cijeli život. Otada je postao, na neki način, opsjednut starim cipelama.

Milan je bio čovjek koji nikada nije lagao, uvijek je govorio ono što mu je na srcu. Kada su ga novinari New York Timesa nakon otmice pitali o meni, s obzirom da mi je bio poslodavac, on je, umjesto da kaže nešto neodređeno, budući da su mu njegovi poslodavci mogli predbaciti kako mu se moglo dogoditi da zaposli terorista, prostodušno rekao: – Nije Zvonko nikakav terorist, on je najbolji čovjek kojega sam u životu sreo! Njegova je omiljena uzrečica bila „Nema Hrvatske bez starih cipela!“.

Teško je bilo dokučiti što mu to točno znači jer Vojvodić svoju uzrečicu nije objašnjavao, smatrao ju je samorazumljivom. Dobro ga upoznavši, zaključio sam da je uzrokom te uzrečice bila njegova trauma tijekom bijega iz komunističkog zatvora, koja je prerasla u svojevrsnu opsesiju starim cipelama, no njome je, držim, htio izraziti i svoje neslaganje s tadašnjim načinom djelovanja političke emigracije, to jest uvjerenje da hrvatskoj borbi treba pristupiti na nov, potpuno drukčiji način. Sintagma „stare cipele“ svojom je apsurdnošću u kontekstu spomenute uzrečice trebala prodrmati slušatelja, šokirati ga kako bi hrvatsko pitanje sagledao u novom svjetlu. Vojvodić je po prirodi bio fantast, imao je nekakvu svoju organizaciju pod nazivom Hrvatska revolucionarna mladež, koja je postojala više u njegovoj glavi nego u stvarnosti. No ako i nije uspijevao artikulirati odgovarajući novi način i organizaciju borbe za hrvatsku stvar, bio je i te kako svjestan da je nov pristup hrvatskoj borbi za neovisnost neophodan.

E taj novi, nazovimo ga „Vojvodićev pristup“, vrzmao se i po mojoj glavi. Nakon bijega iz Jugoslavije Milan je našao namještenje kao vrtlar u američkome veleposlanstvu u Beču. To mu je pomoglo da uspije ishoditi dopuštenje za odlazak u Ameriku. U Americi se oženio Kubankom, udovicom, majkom šestero djece, koja je kao i on pobjegla od komunizma. Tako je to dvoje ranjenih ljudi, bjegunaca od ideološkog zla, našlo nešto nalik ako ne sreći, ono barem miru u američkom velegradu. Vojvodićeva opsesija starim cipelama očitovala se brojnim prijedlozima za akcijsko djelovanje.

Jednom me, kada je u Americi gostovala neka jugoslavenska delegacija, nagovarao da mu se pridružim u akciji koju je sam smislio. Nakrcat ćemo hrpu starih cipela u njegov auto, on će voziti, a ja ću cipelama gađati jugoslavensku delegaciju. Nisam pristao jer mi se to činilo odveć šašavim. Kasnije, puno kasnije kada je onaj irački novinar gađao Busha cipelama, sjetio sam se Milana i pomislio kako bi on bio sretan da je to doživio, da netko politički protest izražava bacanjem cipela.

Kada je u časopisu Danica objavljen dirljivi članak o hrvatskoj udovici čiji je muž bio hrvatski vojnik, Vojvodić se oduševio. Naime, sve što je ta sirota žena uspjela sačuvati od svoga poginulog muža bile su stare vojničke cipele. U tim cipelama, koje je donijela sa sobom i u Ameriku, ona je posadila cvijeće, zalijevala ga suzama, njegovala ga brižno iz godine u godinu, držeći ga na prozoru kao jedinu uspomenu na pokojnog supruga. Za Milana je to bio znak spasa za Hrvatsku.

Već idućega dana nakon što je pročitao članak, poslao je nepoznatoj gospođi dvije tisuće dolara, a tisuću dolara Danici. Za usporedbu koliki su to bili novci može poslužiti podatak da je moja tjedna plaća u to vrijeme iznosila 145 dolara. Milan je mene prozvao „starim mladićem“ želeći na taj način reći da, iako sam mlad, razmišljam mudro kao starac. Naravno, to je važilo za naš pomalo iščašeni emigrantski svijet, većina ljudi nesklonih revolucionarnim pustolovinama ne bi dala ni pišljiva boba za moju tadašnju „mudrost“. Uglavnom, i ja sam njega zvao „starim mladićem“. U čemu je, čini mi se, bilo i više logike nego u njegovu tituliranju mene, budući da se on, iako ne više mlad, zanosio idejama o Hrvatskoj revolucionarnoj mladeži.

Jednom smo se zgodom kladili oko toga tko će dulje izdržati bez cigareta. Dogovor je bio da onaj tko prvi uhvati onoga drugoga s cigaretom u ruci dobije 200 dolara. Ja sam relativno lako mogao prekinuti s pušenjem, kada god bi mi se prohtjelo, premda bih se nakon određenog vremena uvijek iznova vraćao pušenju. Milan je, međutim, bio strastveni pušač i nije mogao bez cigareta. Zato se valjda i kladio nadajući se da će tako doskočiti svojoj ovisnosti. Prošlo je nekoliko dana, ja sam prestao pušiti, međutim on, čini se, nije. Doduše, nisam ga uspijevao uhvatiti na djelu, no oko njega se, kada bi izašao iz stana, širio miris duhanskoga dima. No kako je dogovor bio da ga moram uhvatiti na djelu, nisam mu mogao nikako dokazati da puši, odnosno da sam dobio okladu. Kako je on stanovao na prvom katu, dosjetio sam se kako ću mu doskočiti.

Prislonio sam ljestve, koje smo imali za slučaj požara ili slične potrebe, uza zid zgrade, tik do njegova prozora. Uspinjem se do prozora i vidim ga kako s užitkom povlači dimove iz cigarete. Kroz smijeh mu viknem da je izgubio okladu. On mi nakon prvog iznenađenja dobaci: „Bit će nešto od tebe, stari mladiću!“

U New Yorku sam postao predsjednik Međudruštvenog odbora hrvatskih organizacija, čija je svrha bila koordiniranje zajedničkoga djelovanja različitih hrvatskih emigrantskih organizacija. Vodio sam tako tribine uglednih hrvatskih emigranata poput Danijela Crljena i Ive Korskog. Te 1975. godine Bruno Bušić je emigrirao iz Jugoslavije i nastanio se u Londonu. Tamo je jedno vrijeme pisao za Novu Hrvatsku. Julie je u to vrijeme radila u školi, predavala je engleski stranim studentima. Tadašnja djelatnost u rascjepkanoj i paranoičnoj hrvatskoj zajednici sve me više frustrirala. Udba je pružala svoje pipke za mnom i u Americi.

Progonili su me na dva načina. Tajanstvenim noćnim pozivima i prijetnjama, te puštanjem glasina da radim za njih. To me silno pogađalo. Bojao sam se da će me ubiti i to prikazati kao obračun među hrvatskim političkim emigrantima. To im je bio omiljeni način prikazivanja smrti onih koje su odstrijelili njihovi agenti.

Nisam želio tako završiti, ne u nekoj mutnoj situaciji koja bi se mogla tumačiti ovako ili onako. Kad je već umirati, neka to bude junački, dostojno zavjeta koji sam si zadao još u djetinjstvu. Ideja i osnovni koncept otmice zrakoplova rođeni su za moj trideseti rođendan, na poslu, tijekom noćne smjene, 24. siječnja 1976. Bila je to noć odluke, noć koja je presudno odredila cijeli moj daljnji život, ali i živote nekoliko drugih ljudi, znanih i neznanih. Izdvojit ću četiri ključna razloga koja su me dovela do te odluke.

Prvi od njih svakako je moja davno izražena želja da napravim nešto veliko, nešto što će značiti ne samo meni, nego i narodu kojemu pripadam. Drugi razlog, koji na određeni način proizlazi iz prvoga, bila je ona već spominjana platonovska želja da se nadživi vlastita smrtnost, da se iza sebe ostavi neki trag. Treći razlog bila je svijest da bi odustajanje od borbe, povlačenje u miran građanski život, značilo izdaju samoga sebe, izdaju davno zacrtanoga puta i onog zavjeta iz djetinjstva. Četvrto i daleko najvažnije, boljelo me krivo prikazivanje Hrvatske u svijetu, naročito prikazivanje Hrvata u američkim medijima.

Da bi probili tu medijsku blokadu, naši su ljudi morali plaćati i po 15 do 20 tisuća dolara za oglase u američkim medijima kako bi plasirali svoju istinu. A u tu istinu opet nitko nije vjerovao s obzirom da je bila prezentirana u plaćenim oglasima! To se, mislio sam, može promijeniti jednom hrabrom akcijom koja će koštati puno manje od plaćenoga oglasa. Objavit će oni to i besplatno, štoviše bacat će i naše letke iz svojih aviona iznad Europe i Hrvatske u tadašnjoj Jugoslaviji! Tako sam odlučio te večeri. Da bi se nešto uspjelo pokrenuti u našoj borbi za hrvatsku istinu, potreban je, zaključio sam, drukčiji pristup. U tome je moj prijatelj Milan Vojvodić bio potpuno u pravu.

Tijekom svih mojih zatvorskih godina, često sam se u mislima vraćao toj sudbonosnoj noći u New Yorku na svoj trideseti rođendan, kada je u mojoj glavi rođena ideja i donesena odluka o akciji s američkim putničkim zrakoplovom. I danas se živo sjećam svih moralnih dvojbi, filozofskih pitanja i odgovora na njih. O tome koliko je bilo politički mudro i moralno opravdano poslužiti se baš američkim zrakoplovom, već sam u nekoliko navrata govorio i još će o tome biti riječi. Sada ću ovdje po prvi put javno i otvoreno iznijeti neke misli koje su mi te noći prolazile glavom, jer uistinu želim svima, a posebno dobronamjernim čitateljima pojasniti zašto i kako je rođena tako radikalna ideja i donesena tako ekstremna odluka.

Oni koji su makar donekle poznavali mene i moj životni put, koji su pročitali Ljubavnike i luđake, kao i oni koji pažljivo čitaju ova sjećanja, u svojoj mašti mogu lakše pretpostaviti o čemu sam tada sve razmišljao i kakvo je bilo moje duševno stanje i raspoloženje. Jednostavno, osjećao sam silnu potrebu okrenuti novu stranicu života, zakoračiti u novi i nepoznati svijet, ili sam se morao povući od svega što sam do tada radio, pobjeći u neko nepoznato mjesto i ostati pasivan čovjek. Sva moja dosadašnja iskustva i promatranja života i svijeta dovodila su me i intelektualno i intuitivno do uvjerenja koje mi je omogućavalo moralno-političko pravo na jedan takav poduhvat, to jest da kao čovjek i Hrvat imam pravo na takvu akciju. Nije to bila moralna oholost mladog Raskoljnikova, nego prije gesta očajnika koji se žrtvuje da bi se iskupio, umaknuo besmislenom traćenju života na banalnosti.

Navirala su mi pitanja – tko sam, gdje sam rođen i rastao, kamo idem, što je smisao moga života, zašto živim, o čemu sanjam i čemu se nadam? Bio je to svojevrstan, vrlo iskren i samokritičan razgovor sa samim sobom. Osjećao sam da se nalazim na prekretnici svoga života, na nekom velikom raskrižju, i moram donijeti odluku kamo, kuda i kako dalje. Bio sam zabrinut i u duši sam osjećao veliki nemir i strah, svejedno bio on opravdan ili paranoičan, osjećao sam se kao čovjek kojega nosi nabujala rijeka života, rijeka koja ga svakoga trena može razbiti ili progutati, ali ako i preživi, ne zna kuda. Pogled unatrag, inventura svega što sam iskusio, naučio, proživio, nije me ispunjavala naročitim zadovoljstvom i ponosom, morao sam priznati da je u mom životu bilo puno promašaja, lutanja i padova, nereda, naivnosti, gluposti, umišljenosti, besmislenosti, kao i prepuštenosti bujici života.

Težak i naporan život hrvatskog prognanika. U Austriji sam pokušao ostvariti nekakvu egzistenciju radeći razne poslove, pokušao sam završiti svoj studij u Beču, ali životne su me neprilike odnijele dalje prema Americi. Tamo sam radio slične stvari i uključivao se u aktivnosti hrvatske političke organizacije, putovao po raznim gradovima Kanade i Amerike, držao rodoljubne govore, sudjelovao na prosvjedima, i sve me to nije zadovoljavalo niti je urodilo očekivanim plodovima. Sve mi se činilo kao Sizifov posao. Osjetio sam veliku potrebu, u Nietzscheovom smislu, za ponovnim procjenjivanjem svih vrijednosti. Matoš je pisao da je lakše biti kralj nego čovjek, a ja bih dodao da čovjek ne može biti čovjek dok ne pobijedi samoga sebe, svoj sebični ego. Na to je mislio i veliki Goethe kad je pisao da ono pojedinačno u nama mora nestati da bi se pronašli u beskonačnome i vječnome, i da je pravi užitak odreći se sebe, žrtvovati se.

Čini mi se da je najveća tajna ljudske prirode i najveći paradoks ljudskoga života u tome da upravo oni najnesebičniji pojedinci najstrastvenije traže svoj vlastiti spas. Mislim da se samo u tom smislu mogu shvatiti veliki primjeri žrtvovanja – Horacija dok je branio most protiv etrurske vojske, spartanskog kralja Leonidu u Termopolima, Nikole Šubića Zrinskog u Sigetu, Eugena Kvaternika Rakovačkog, branitelje Vukovara. Razmišljajući u tim dimenzijama, te sam se noći posebno sjetio obećanja danog u mladosti nad Matoševom Starom pjesmom i sjetio se poruke Antuna Branka Šimića, pjesnika iz mog podneblja – „Čovječe, pazi da ne ideš malen ispod zvijezda“. Tih sam dana kod Immanuela Kanta naišao na jednu zanimljivu misao: „Onaj tko se pretvori u crva, ne treba biti iznenađen kada se na njega nagazi.“ Nisam pristajao na ulogu crva, niti sam mogao podnijeti da se ona nameće cijelom mom narodu. Dakle, morao sam nešto poduzeti da barem pokušam promijeniti takvu ponižavajuću situaciju, pa makar me to koštalo i glave.

Namjeravao sam izvesti spektakularnu a humanu akciju, bez ijedne mrlje, da nitko ne može prigovoriti da se radi o bezočnom terorizmu, da je nitko ne može ni na koji način kompromitirati. Zato i danas mislim da je stvar s pogibijom nedužnoga policajca namještena. I umrijet ću s tim uvjerenjem.

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. From now on, you will be able to have access to this part of Croatian history every other Wednesday and print it out free of charge, in Croatian and English, on the dijaspora.hr portal. 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…

Vojvodic’s Shoes

The time has come for me to tell the story of the hijacking itself. In the lives of most people, it seems there is something like a turning point. Something around which are twirling in concentric circles all his past, present and future actions, his failures and successes, thoughts, dreams, hopes… Even though one might sometimes want to escape from the influence of this orbit and live a completely different life, once it is in place – like the solar system – there is no escape. This is what we call Destiny, and a man can perhaps escape it somehow, but is life worth living in denial of one’s own Destiny? I do not think so.

I mentioned the hijacking in passing in previous chapters, but in this one, I will attempt to analyze the event in detail, as well as everything that preceded it. I am aware, of course, that this is only my perspective, and even though I am the key protagonist, I have no claim to possessing the ultimate and only truth in this matter. Ultimately, everything we write becomes a kind of literature or story; necessarily, a subjective view of reality. A view that suffers from a subsequent editing by the chaotic order of the real world, together with a logically formed text.

But I’ll take it step by step now. I came to America for the first time in 1969. The most credit for my departure can be laid on the afore-mentioned Milan Busic. It was our intention to increase the political activity of the Croatian emigrants there and collect a certain amount of money for potentialactions. Besides that, my relationship with Julie gave me additional incentive to go to America. These first activities consisted mainly of fiery speeches given at various meeting places for Croatian emigrants and activities in their various organizations. I always attempted to unite these different organizations without associating myself closely with any of them. For example, I gave a speech in Vancouver, B.C. in 1973 on the causes and effects of the failure of the Croatian Spring. But it was more a patriotic speech than a genuine analysis of an historical event.

I spent most of my time in America in Oregon where Julie was from and where her family lived. We spent the summer of 1973 in Gearhart, a small beach town about 100 kilometers from Portland. Julie worked as a waitress at a friend’s restaurant, and we spent time only with her friends, since there were no Croatians in Gearhart. I recall those days with nostalgia, the relaxed atmosphere, the new world I had discovered, without the Yugoslav secret police, the paranoia, the typical concerns of a Croatian emigrant. Those four months distanced me a bit from the revolutionary fervor that had followed me since my Vienna days. I swam, fished, went to parties and restaurants with Julie and her friends.

One morning I was awakened by a knock on the window. It was Julie’s good friend, Hazel. Julie had gone to work already and I was still in bed. When I opened the window, my unexpected guest told me a gentleman from Washington, D.C. was looking for me. The man had come to the restaurant asking about me, so Julie had sent Hazel to wake me up, because he planned on coming to the house. It turned out he was a Secret Service agent and wanted to talk to me about Brezhnev’s upcoming visit to California. He was pleasant, but let me know that my movements were being monitored, considering I was on their list of potential “dangerous persons”, and that he had to check me out. Especially since I had just returned from a short trip to California.

A few years later, one of Julie’s relatives passed away, and her mother was talking to her cousin after the funeral, who asked about Julie. She told him she had gotten married recently. “To Zvonko Busic” he blurted out. It turned out that he himself was the “Secret Service agent” who had visited me in Gearhart, disturbing the peace and quiet of those summer days in the small coastal town, and reminding me that there was no respite or escape from Destiny. Julie and he had not recognized one other, since they had not seen each other for years. We found out later that he was actually with the CIA, the White House unit, and not the Secret Service.

In the fall, we moved to Portland. Julie intended to finish her university degree and lacked only a few credits. I found a job as waiter in a big hotel. I often went to the university with her, where I became friends with one of her professors, Franz Langhammer, head of the Foreign Languages Department. We often discussed world history and current world events. On one occasion, he asked me to hold a lecture on the Croatian Spring. Since I did not know English well at the time, I gave the talk in German while Julie translated for me. The students found the lecture interesting and many asked questions. However, it was clear they lacked even the most basic knowledge about Croatia, and I was again reminded that there was a great lack of information about us, and that the world wasn’t really concerned about small nations.

At that time, in 1973, I made a bet with Professor Langhammer that Germany would reunite before twenty years had passed, but he insisted it would not happen for a hundred years. I was right, but I didn’t really care about being the better analyst of world processes; I had a real personal investment in such a possibility. German reunification would mean the fall of the Eastern Bloc, and would enable the fall of Communism in Yugoslavia. This, in turn, would mean that Croatia would have the possibility of breaking free of the embrace of the so-called “brotherhood”.

In Portland, there was a Croatian community, so I reactivated myself politically. On the other hand, everyday life took its toll, and I felt I would soon have to decide what I really wanted from life and how to organize it. Julie got pregnant, and for the first time after leaving Croatia, I thought seriously about settling down and leading a quiet, family life. It was a repelling while at the same time seductive thought, even though I felt in the depths of my soul that my path was already set. After Julie had a miscarriage, my doubts disappeared. I saw that as a sign from God. I would continue on along the uncertain and dangerous road of the Croatian freedom fighter.

I contacted Marijan Gabelica, who was then in New York, and became intensively engaged again in the emigrant political life. Soon we left for New York, at the beginning of 1974, where I renewed old ties. Gabelica was best man at my wedding, as Julie and I got married in the church in New York in 1976, with Father Rafo Romic officiating. (The civil ceremony had taken place in 1972 in Frankfurt, Germany). At that time, I met Cardinal Kuharic, who blessed our marriage. After that, I met and spent a short time conversing with him in 1976 in Bodensee, with Bruno. At that time, I had already decided on our action and was ironing out with Bruno details about the Declaration text.

Milan Vojvodic, the manager of a building complex where wealthy New Yorkers lived, offered me a job as elevator operator, which turned out to suit me very well. I had a lot of free time, so I could read, study, and make plans for future actions. Vojvodic was a unique and interesting guy, born in Kutjevo, Croatia. As a 16 year old, he ended up in Communist court because he had carried food to dissidents. The judge asked him severely why he had carried food to those outlaws. “Honorable Judge,” he answered, “the other guys are the outlaws, the ones who arrested me. The ones I carried food to in the forest are good, honorable people!” He was given a life sentence. He somehow managed to escape from prison and reach Austria. Crossing the Alps, he tore up his already old shoes, and arrived in freedom with severely wounded feet. This is an experience he never forgot. From that time on he was somehow obsessed with old shoes.

Milan was a man who never lied, who always spoke what was in his heart. When journalists from the New York Times asked him about me after the hijacking as he was my employer, instead of something indeterminate (his employers could have held against him the fact he’d employed a “terrorist”), he answered without inhibition “Zvonko is not a terrorist! He’s the best man I’ve ever known!”

His favorite saying was “There can be no Croatia without old shoes!” It was hard to know what he meant by that, since Vojvodic never explained the phrase, which he considered self-explanatory. Since I had gotten to know him well, I concluded the saying was a result of the trauma he had experienced during his escape from the Communist prison, which had then grown into an obsession with old shoes. I also think he was trying to use it to illustrate disagreement with the mode of action of the political emigration; that is, point out the necessity for an entirely different approach. The phrase, “old shoes” was intended by its absurdity to shock the listener into looking at the Croatian issue in a different light.

Vojvodic by nature had a vivid imagination, and had formed a group called the Croatian Revolutionary Youth, which existed more in his mind than in reality. But if he himself hadn’t succeeded in articulating an appropriate, new approach to the Croatian struggle, he was nonetheless aware that a new approach was needed. So let us say the “Vojvodic approach” began to ferment in my mind.

After his escape from Yugoslavia, Milan found a position as a gardener at the U.S. Embassy in Vienna. That helped him to obtain a visa to go to America. There he married a Cuban woman, a widow with six children who had also fled Communism. Two wounded souls, both escapees from ideological evil, managed to find something resembling happiness in this big American city.

Vojvodic’s obsession with old shoes manifested itself in a number of proposals for actions. Once when a Yugoslav delegation was visiting America, he persuaded me to join him in an action he had come up with himself. We were to load a bunch of old shoes into his car, he would drive, and I would throw shoes at the Yugoslav delegation. I refused because I considered it a bit too crazy. Much later, when that Iraqi journalist threw a shoe at President Bush as a sign of disrespect, I remembered Milan and thought how happy he would have been to see someone expressing political protest by throwing shoes.

Once when a certain article appeared in a Croatian diaspora newspaper about a widow of a Croatian soldier, Vojvodic was excited. Why? It seemed all the widow was able to save from her dead husband was a pair of old military boots. She had planted flowers in these boots, which she’d brought with her to America, and had watered them with her tears, nurtured them year after year on the window sill, the only memory left of her late husband. This represented to Milan the only salvation for Croatia. The next day after reading the article, he sent the unknown woman two thousand dollars, and a thousand dollars to the newspaper. For purposes of comparison, my weekly salary at that time was 145 dollars, so that was a considerable amount of money.

Milan always called me the “old kid”, meaning that even though I was young, I often had the wisdom of an older person. Of course, that applied mainly to the stormy emigrant world; most of the people with an aversion to revolutionary adventures wouldn’t give a lousy bean for my supposed “wisdom”. But I also called Vojvodic an “old youngster”. This to me was more logical than what he called me since he, though not young anymore, was carried away by the idea of the Croatian revolutionary youth.

One time we made a bet on who could go longer without a cigarette. The agreement was that the first one who lit up would owe the other two hundred dollars. I was able to quit pretty easily, although I would always start up again. Milan, though, was a passionate smoker and could not go without cigarettes. So he probably made the bet in order to force himself to quit his habit. A few days passed, I quit smoking, but it seems he did not. I did not actually catch him in the act, but when he would come out of his apartment, he would smell of smoke.

But since the agreement was that I had to catch him in the act, and I had not been able to do that, I couldn’t win the bet. Then I came up with a plan. Since he lived on the first floor, I leaned a ladder on the wall that we kept in case of fire, placing it right up against his window. I climbed up to the window and saw him puffing away happily. I yelled out to him that he had lost the bet. After the first shock of seeing me, he added, “You’re going to make something of yourself, old kid!”

In New York, I became the president of the Board of Croatian Organizations, whose task was coordinating the joint actions of the various Croatian emigrant organizations. I led round tables with respected Croatian emigrants such as Danijel Crljen and Ivo Korsky. In 1975, Bruno Busic emigrated from Yugoslavia and took residence in London. There he wrote a while for New Croatia. Julie was at that time working as a professor teaching English to foreign students. The activities back then of the splintered and paranoid Croatian community really frustrated me. The UDBA had stretched out its tentacles toward me even in America, harassing me in two ways. Nighttime calls and threats, and also the spreading of disinformation that I worked for them. That affected me immensely. I feared they would kill me and represent it as being a “settling of scores” between Croatian emigrant groups. This was their typical way of explaining the deaths of those their agents had murdered.

I did not want to end up in some murky situation which could be interpreted in a variety of ways. If I were meant to die, then at least let it be bravely and worthy of the oath I had taken long ago as a child. The idea and basic concept of the hijacking was born on my 30th birthday, during my night shift, on January 23, 1976. It was a night of decision, one that would determine the rest of my life and that of many other people, known and unknown.

I will single out four key reasons that brought me to this decision. The first was certainly my long ago expressed wish to do something significant and meaningful in my own eyes, but also for the nation to which I belonged. The second reason, which grew somehow out of the first, was the aforementioned Platonic desire to transcend my own mortality, to leave a mark on the world. The third reason was the awareness that abandoning the struggle and retreating to a quiet, civilian life would mean betraying myself, the path I had chosen, and the oath made in my childhood. But the most important of all these reasons was how Croatia was falsely portrayed in the world and especially in the American media.

In order to break through this information blockade, our people were forced to pay 15-20,000 dollars for a simple advertisement in the American media in order to present the truth. And nobody believed this truth because it came in the form of a paid advertisement. I was convinced this could only be changed through a bold action costing a lot less money than a paid advertisement. They would publish it for free and what’s more, would throw our leaflets from their planes over Europe and Croatia, into the then Yugoslavia! That is what I decided that night. In order to succeed in our struggle to present the truth about Croatia, a different approach was needed. My friend, Milan Vojvodic, had been completely right about that.

During all my prison years, I often thought back to that fateful night in New York on my thirtieth birthday, when the idea was born and decision made on the hijacking of an American plane. I still vividly recall today all the moral doubts, philosophical issues, and how I responded to them. As far as how wise or moral it would be to utilize an American plane, I have explained this already and will mention it again. But first I will publicly and openly present some thoughts that went through my head that night, because I want to explain to everybody, and especially the well-intentioned reader, why and how this radical idea and extreme decision came into being.

Those who know anything about me and my life, and have closely read Lovers and Madmen as well as these memoirs, can easily imagine my thoughts and psychological state at that time. I simply felt the pressing need to turn a new page in life, enter into a new and unknown world, or else retreat from everything I had done thus far into some unknown place and be totally passive. All my experiences and observations on life to that point brought me to the intellectual and intuitive certainty that I had a moral and political right to undertake such an action, as a human being and as a Croatian. This was not the moral arrogance of the young Raskolnikov, but the gesture of a desperate man sacrificing himself, redeeming himself from a pointless waste of life on banalities. I was consumed by questions – who am I, where was I born and raised, where was I going, what is the meaning of my life, why am I living, what are my dreams and hopes? It was a very honest and self-critical conversation with myself. I felt I had come to a turning point in my life, a crossroad, and had to decide where and how to proceed.

I was worried and felt great discomfort and fear in my soul, regardless of whether it was justified or a result of simple paranoia. I felt like a man being swept along the rushing river of life, a river that could at any moment destroy or swallow him up. And, if he survived, wouldn’t then know what to do next. In retrospect, after taking an inventory of everything I had done, learned, experienced, I was not particularly satisfied or proud, and had to admit that there had been many failures, a lot of naivety, stupidity, conceit, senselessness, and that I’d often simply succumbed to the flow of life. The difficult and demanding life of a Croatian exile. In Austria, I attempted to create some kind of stability doing various jobs and completing my studies in Vienna, but existential problems finally took me to faraway America. There I had similar jobs and also became involved in the activities of Croatian political organizations, traveled to various cities in Canada and America, gave patriotic speeches, participated in demonstrations, but none of it satisfied me or produced the desired results. It all seemed like the trials of Sisyphus. I felt a great need, in Nietzcheian terms, for a transvaluation of all values.

The Croatian poet Matos wrote that it was easier to be a good human being than a king, and I would add that this also can only happen if one conquers oneself, one’s selfish ego. The great Goethe also wrote about this, that the individual within us must disappear before we can find ourselves in the endless, the eternal… that it was a true joy to abandon and sacrifice oneself (ego). It seems to me that the greatest secret of human nature, the greatest paradox of human life, is that those who most passionately sacrifice themselves also are most passionately seeking their own salvation. I believe this is the only way we can fathom the great historical examples of sacrifice. For example, Horace defending the bridge against the Etruscan army, the Spartan king Leonidas at Termopolis, Nikola Subic Zrinski at Siget, Eugen Kvaternik and the Rakovacki Uprising, or the defenders of Vukovar. Thinking in those dimensions, I recalled that night the promise I had made in my youth in regard to Matos’ poem, An Old Poem. I also thought about the message of Antun Branko Simic, a poet from my area, that man “should not walk humbly beneath the stars”…

At that time, I also came across an interesting thought from Immanuel Kant: “If someone becomes a worm, he shouldn’t be surprised if someone steps on him.” I rejected the role of worm, and I could not allow the role to be imposed on my people, either. Therefore, I had to do something to try to change this degrading situation, even if it cost me my head.

I intended to commit a spectacular but humane act, without a blemish, so that nobody could say afterwards that it was an act of cold terrorism and in that way compromise the action. That is why I believe to this day that what happened concerning the death of the innocent police officer was orchestrated. And I will die with that belief.

Zvonko Bušić

Ključne riječi #Julienne Bušić #Ljubavnici i luđaci #Zvonko Bušić