Zvonko Bušić o ženi svoga života: Često se pitam jesam li joj dostojno uzvratio?

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…

BEČ MOJE MLADOSTI

Moralne dvojbe mogu biti i vedrije naravi, da ih u trenutku kad se događaju gotovo i ne doživljavamo takvima. Emigrirao sam 10. lipnja 1967. nakon Deklaracije. Bio sam aktivan u studentskom životu skupljajući potpise podrške Deklaraciji. Već su tada postojale naznake kako bi me mogli uhititi i, da budem iskren, nije mi se trunulo u komunističkim zatvorima. Znao sam još tada, ako jednom i zaglavim u zatvoru, ne želim da to bude a da nisam napravio ništa konkretno.

U Beču sam se odmah uključio u rad hrvatske političke emigracije. Bilo je to burno revolucionarno vrijeme, živjeli smo punim plućima. Tada sam upoznao i Julie. Drugovao sam dosta s Benjaminom Tolićem, zajedno smo planirali ići u Ameriku i tamo djelovati. Njemački sam jezik solidno naučio već za deset mjeseci. Volio bih da mogu reći da je to bilo zbog njemačke filozofije, međutim najjači motiv za učenje njemačkoga bile su djevojke. Bio sam mlad, pun života i one mladalačke žudnje za darovima koje život mladima nudi u izobilju. Oko mene isto tako mlad i lijep svijet, studentarija, prekrasan grad i one specifične vibracije šezdesetih.

Ono što je Bruni bio Pariz, meni je bio Beč. Tako je za mene njemački postao jezik ljubavi, a francuski mi nikada nije sjeo i nikada ga nisam dobro savladao, premda sam ga počeo učiti još u školi. Prije nego sam upoznao Julie hodao sam s jednom Švicarkom, koja je u Beč došla u okviru neke studentske razmjene. No ubrzo sam shvatio da ju nije motiviralo studiranje, nego želja da se još malo iživi prije udaje. To mi je, naime, nakon nekog vremena i sama priznala. Već je bila zaručena i imala je ugovoren datum vjenčanja. Budući muž bio je liječnik, situiran, sjajna partija! Ja sam joj, realno rečeno, došao kao egzotična, balkanska poslastica pred uplovljavanje u miran život švicarske više srednje klase. Iskreno, i meni je u tom trenutku odgovarao takav aranžman.

Odabrao sam život revolucionara, borca za hrvatsku stvar, a to je gotovo isključivalo zasnivanje obitelji. Kada čovjek jednom preuzme odgovornost za ženu i djecu, onda ne može samo tako ušetati u zrakoplov i nonšalantno obavijestiti osoblje i putnike da je zrakoplov upravo otet. Dakle, ona je imala svoje razloge, a ja svoje, i tu je naš odnos bio vrlo korektan. Međutim, nakon nekog vremena, počelo me kopkati – što ako zatrudni? Ona pak nije imala takvih briga. Pa što, rekla je, sigurna sam da će moj budući muž biti dobar otac!? Teško mi se bilo složiti s njezinim načinom razmišljanja, ali ona je na njega imalo pravo. Ipak, zamolio sam je da mi obvezno javi ako naša kratkotrajna veza bude urodila plodom. Pristala je. Dogovoreni znak bila je boja kojom će biti ispisana adresa na njezinom pismu. Ako bude plava, sve je u redu, a ako bude crvena, dijete je na putu. I doista izvjesno vrijeme nakon što se vratila u Švicarsku dobijem njezino pismo, adresirano crvenom bojom! Koješta mi je proletjelo kroz glavu u tom trenutku, međutim u pismu je pisala da se samo našalila i da je sve u redu.

Nikada se kasnije nismo sreli, ni čuli jedno za drugo. Tijekom dugih godina američkoga tamnovanja, priznajem, nekoliko sam se puta poigravao mišlju da negdje u Švicarskoj raste i odrasta u zreloga čovjeka, moje dijete, moja krv. No čak kada bi u Švicarskoj ili gdje drugdje i postojao čovjek koji nosi moje gene, ja kroz njega ne bih nastavio živjeti, jer čovjek nije samo biološko biće, on je kulturno biće, pripadnik određene kulture koja presudno obilježava njegov način mišljenja, osjećajnosti, mentaliteta. Ako što ostane od mene u ovostranom, to će biti moja borba za hrvatsku državu, ideal kojemu sam posvetio najveći dio svoga vremena i energije, i moja djela u tom smislu, sa svim svojim dobrim i lošim učincima. Držim da u tim djelima preteže dobro nad lošim, ali na povijesti je, kao i uvijek, da dadne konačan pravorijek.

Nikada se nisam držao čistuncem, prolazio sam kroz krize kao i svi ljudi, padao sam, bio na rubu, ali uvijek sam se nekako dizao, obnavljao energiju, nalazio u sebi snage da se radujem životu i u svemu što me okružuje nalazim neki dublji smisao. Ipak, bečki dani nakon svih ovih godina ukazuju se kao svjetlom okupana pozornica jedne, unatoč svemu, sretne mladosti. Konačno tu sam upoznao i Julie, ljubav svog života, čudesnu ženu koja me slijedila i u vatru i vodu, ali ne kao podanica, nego kao samosvjesna i ravnopravna osoba. Da sam kretao nekim drugim, mirnijim stazama, do toga susreta vjerojatno ne bi ni došlo. Mirne duše mogu reći da mi je život hrvatskoga borca za slobodu puno toga uzeo, ali mi je još više dao.

Julie je i danas uza me kao živi dokaz toga. Često se pitam jesam li joj dostojno uzvratio, jesam li joj dao barem dio one radosti koju je ona nesebično davala meni? Ne znam, teško je razumjeti. U materijalnom smislu nisam joj dao ništa vrijedno spomena, priuštio sam joj obilje nevolja i patnje, konačno i dugogodišnji zatvor, u kojemu se nikada ne bi našla da me nije upoznala. Ipak, činjenica da je ostala uz mene i u najtežim trenutcima i da je moj ideal prihvatila kao svoj vlastiti i poistovjetila se s njime govori mi da sam joj dao nešto što joj je bilo vrjednije od zajamčene materijalne sigurnosti i mirnoga građanskog života u Americi.

Sjećam se jedne zgode iz bečkih dana kada je u jedan restoran, u koji smo zalazili mi hrvatska mlađarija, po nečijoj preporuci navratio jedan našijenac iz Zagreba. Bio je na proputovanju, novopečeni emigrant, po struci liječnik, pun sebe, namjeravao je u Australiju ili Ameriku. U razgovoru je prilično nadmeno komentirao naš idealizam, premda se prikazivao većim neprijateljem komunizma od nas samih. Na pitanje kako se osjeća dok, vjerojatno zauvijek, napušta domovinu, odgovorio je onom latinskom da je domovina tamo gdje nam je dobro. Na to je planuo nepopustljivi Benjamin Tolić ustvrdivši: „Je, tu latinsku kod nas u Slavoniji prevode kao: gdje ima više žira, tu ide svinja!“

To je bio Benjaminov način, tvrdoglav i britak, nikada nije odstupao od načela, pa makar to koštalo i njega i one oko njega. Takav je valjda bio od djetinjstva. Rano je ostao bez oca koji je kao hrvatski vojnik poginuo u Drugome svjetskom ratu. Djed ga je zbog toga posebno volio i odnosio se prema njemu na poseban način. Kada bi za ljetnih praznika dolazio iz Slavonije, gdje mu se majka odselila s novim mužem, djedu u Hercegovinu, djed ga je dočekivao kao velikoga i dopuštao mu ono što drugim unucima nije. U djeda je bila jedna rodna šljiva na koju je Benjamin polagao, rekli bismo, ekskluzivno pravo. Jedne prigode djed mu ipak prigovori što se popeo na šljivu da bere još nedozrele plodove. To ga je toliko razljutilo da je uzeo sjekiru i posjekao šljivu. Kada je vidio što radi, djed požuri prema njemu ljut da je iz njega sijevalo. Međutim, kad ga je vidio onako još nedorasla, s povelikom sjekirom u ruci i munjama u odlučnim očima, djed se raznježi i umjesto da ga grdi, reče: „E, nek si je posjekao, ti si moj, moja krv!“.

I danas kad sretnem Benjamina, potegnemo tu priču iz njegova djetinjstva. On se žesti što sam višnju pretvorio u šljivu, jer radilo se zapravo o višnji, a ja mu odgovaram da lijepe priče posvajam kao vlastite, pa onda u njima ponešto i promijenim. Višnja mi se, kažem mu, nikako ne uklapa u ukupni doživljaj, šljiva mi više paše, bolje zvuči. U ovim svojim ispovijestima nastojao sam ipak da ne mijenjam prečesto višnje u šljive, nego da se držim činjenica koliko god to ponekad bilo teško. Život naime nikada nije složen kao pripovijest, više je nalik kaotičnoj brzici nepredvidivih slučajnosti. Ipak, s vremenom, kroz niz naoko nevažnih odluka, čovjek nošen snažnom idejom uobliči vlastitu sudbinu. Koja sagledana a posteriori može izgledati dosljedno i cjelovito. To jest bujica se s vremenom slije u prepoznatljivo korito. No, sudbinu treba zaslužiti.

Kad sam Benjaminu pričao kako sam potrošeni novac od prodanih smokava u Posušju nadoknadio krumpirom iskopanim iz usputnih vrtova, ustvrdio je da je to bio krumpir s njiva njegova djeda iz Osoja kod Posušja. Taj sam stari dug nadoknadio bocom vina. A držim da sam bio na dobitku u toj transakciji jer sam uz krumpire, koje smo ukućani i ja davno pojeli u Gorici, dobio i priču o djedovoj višnji, ili šljivi. Tada nas je mučila kronična besparica. Naši gastarbajteri su voljeli naše društvo pa su nas često zvali da zajedno popijemo piće. No teško je bilo piti vino na gladan želudac i zabavljati društvo šaljivim zgodama, pa smo obično odlazak na vino uvjetovali prethodnim odlaskom na kakav-takav ručak. Koliko god to danas zvučalo neobičnim, malo gladi dođe kao svojevrsan začin studentskom životu.

U takvim trenutcima znali bismo posjetiti kojega od naših gastarbajtera ili starijih emigranata, najčešće Milana Bušića. On je emigrirao kao sarajevski student. Bio je aktivan u hrvatskoj emigrantskoj politici, ali iz pozadine, konspirativno i bespotrebno se ne ističući. On je konačno bio i najzaslužniji za moj prvi odlazak u Ameriku, s ciljem da podignem tamošnju emigrantsku političku aktivnost na višu razinu. Jednom smo tako, gladni kao vukovi, Benjamin Tolić i ja banuli kod Milana pitajući ga ima li nas čime ponuditi. Kako mu je hladnjak bio prazan, a malo se htio i našaliti na naš račun, on nam reče da ima samo dva kilograma limuna. „Daj!“ – rekosmo uglas nas dvojica. Kada smo Benjamin i ja navalili na limun, Milan se čudom čudio kako netko može jesti sâm limun, a da mu se pritom lice ne iskrivi u grimasu. Na kraju je kapitulirao i iz obližnje trgovine nam donio pravi obrok.

Kadagod bih se nakon bečkih dana čuo s Milanom, prisjetili bi se toga događaja i slatko se smijali. Bio sam seljačko dijete, i tijekom različitih faza u mom životu to sam vidio kao veliku prednost, ali i kao peh. Još prije nego što sam otišao sa sela, vidio sam svoje okruženje kao primitivno, prožeto oskudicom i teškim životom. Mašta je u oskudici potrebna za gotovo sve – ona kao da raste s oskudicom jer je čovjek prisiljen zamišljati ono što želi. Mnogo onoga što sam zamišljao došlo je iz knjiga. Još u ranoj dobi privlačile su me knjige svih žanrova, ali u mladosti sam najviše uživao u pustolovnim romanima, kao što su, primjerice, romani o Robin Hoodu, sjećam se Gilbertova i Dumasova, ili knjiga o Divljem zapadu, ali i one knjige koje su se bavile egzotičnim i čudnim životom izvan moga dosega i razumijevanja, poput onih likova u Balzacovim romanima, Hugoovim Jadnicima, Zločinu i kazni F. M. Dostojevskog.

Kada sam konačno napustio selo otišavši na studij u Zagreb, to je bilo kao da se preda mnom rastvorila knjiga svijeta, život o kojem sam dotada samo čitao, nisam više morao zamišljati, postao sam dio izmaštane stvarnosti. Moj stariji brat već je studirao u Zagrebu i sa sobom me vodio na različita mjesta. Odmah sam primijetio da sam neprimjereno odjeven i da me „Purgeri“ pogledavaju s visine, kao da je odjeća neodvojiva od čovjeka. Ali kad sam počeo razgovarati s njima, o literaturi ili filozofiji, uvidjeli bi da pred sobom imaju više nego ravnapravna sugovornika. Kasnije, kada sam otišao na studij u Beč, bio sam samouvjereniji pa sam odvažnije prilazio elegantnim djevojkama, očito uspijevajući ostaviti dojam kulturna i obrazovana mladića, kojemu je njegovo balkansko podrijetlo dobro dolazilo kao svojevrsni višak s prizvukom egzotike. Neke od njih uvele su me u svoje svjetove, bogate svjetove viška i luksuza, i premda sam bio fasciniran, vrlo sam brzo shvatio da to nije i ne može biti moja stvarnost.

Unatoč njihovu bogatstvu i obrazovanju, članstvu u elitnom klubu zapadnoeuropske kulture, doduše umiruće, nije mi se činilo da bolje ili dublje razumijevaju život. Bio sam razočaran jer većina takvih djevojaka u meni nije vidjela eventulno obrazovanog i načitanoga mladog čovjeka, koliko egzotičnu zvjerku iz nepoznata im dijela svijeta, nešto što je zanimljivo istražiti jer je „opasno“ i „prijeteće“. Na kraju, ispalo je da su one šokirale mene onim primitivnim i tjelesnim u čovjeku, a ne ja njih. No nikada nisam razmišljao o tome da upoznam američku djevojku. Svi mi s Istoka tada smo imali pojmove o Americi kao zemlji obilja, zemlji punoj prilika, o pustolovnom Divljem zapadu, ulicama meda i mlijeka gdje svatko može biti predsjednik i ostvariti američki san, o individualizmu i slobodi. Sve je to bilo lijepo i krasno, ali sebe nikada nisam zamišljao s američkom djevojkom.

I kad sam prvi put vidio Julie na glavnoj bečkoj ulici, nisam imao pojma da je ona Amerikanka, samo sam uočio da je drukčija, nekako neobična. Bila je odjevena u stilu kakav dotada nisam vidio, u nekakvoj crvenoj plastičnoj kabanici s komadom kože vezane oko struka. Nosila je šešir koji joj je pokrivao kosu, za koju se ispostavilo da je duga i plava, što ju je činilo još egzotičnijom. Bila je s omanjom, tamnokosom prijateljicom, šetale su ulicom, zaustavljajući se pred izlozima. Slijedio sam ih neko vrijeme pokušavajući shvatiti kojim jezikom govore, ali nisam mogao biti siguran.

Konačno, kada smo se zaustavili ispred pješačkoga prijelaza, pitao sam je na njemačkome jeziku dolazi li iz Engleske. Ona se okrenula prema meni i potpuno otvoreno, kao da joj mama nikada nije rekla da ne razgovara sa strancima, odgovorila: „Ne, ja sam Amerikanka“. Također na njemačkom jeziku. Njezina me prijateljica ignorirala i činilo se kao da je iritira što Julie odgovara na moja pitanja. Ipak, ja sam ustrajao. To je bila američka djevojka, dakle zanimljiva djevojka! Na rastanku sam dobio njezin broj telefona i obećao da ću je uskoro nazvati. Činilo se da je previše ne brine hoću li joj se uistinu javiti. Naravno, to sam učinio već sutradan.

Na mome životnom putu – od Gorice, preko Zagreba, Beča, Europe i Amerike, pa natrag do Zagreba, Rovanjske i Gorice – Beč ostaje kao prozor u svijet, suncem obasjana vrata koja vode u obećavajuću pustolovinu. Naknadnim razočaranjima usprkos. Ako je rodna Gorica oblikovala moj djetinji doživljaj svijeta kao datost koju rođenjem zatječemo, doživljaj koji kasnije, htjeli – ne htjeli, nosimo sa sobom kao svojevrsni pečat kojim ovjeravamo sva životna iskustva, onda je Beč oblikovao moj doživljaj svijeta kao prostorne, geografske činjenice i poprišta na kojemu svi igramo svoje bogomdane uloge.

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…

The Vienna of my Youth

Moral doubts can also be of a lighter nature, so that when they happen, one is hardly aware that they are doubts. I emigrated on June 10 1967, after the Declaration. (Note: The Declaration on the Status and Name of the Croatian Literary Language was a document brought by Croat scholars in 1967. It contributed significantly toward conserving the independence of the Croatian language inside Yugoslavia, because the Yugoslav authorities later grated its demands in 1974, after mass imprisonments, etc.). I was active in student life, collecting signatures of support for the Declaration. Even then there were indications I was going to be arrested, and to be honest, I was not prepared to rot in a Yugoslav prison. I knew if I ended up in prison, I would want it to be for something concrete I had done. In Vienna, I immediately got involved in the activities of the Croatian political emigrants. Those were stormy revolutionary times, and we lived to the fullest. It was then that I met Julie. I was hanging out a lot with Benjamin Tolic and we had been making plans to go to America and become active there.

In nine months, I had succeeded in learning German quite well. I would like to say that it was due to my interest in German philosophers, but the strongest motive for learning German was girls. I was young, full of life, and had that youthful yearning for the abundant gifts life offered. I was living in a young and joyful world, studying, in a beautiful city, and feeling the vibrations of the 1960s.

Vienna was to me what Paris had been to Bruno. So for me, German was the language of love; French never sat well with me and I never learned it well, although I had started studying it in high school. Before I met Julie, I was going out with a Swiss girl who had come to Vienna on some kind of student exchange. I soon found out she hadn’t come to study, but to live it up a little before getting married. She told me this herself after we had been together a short time. She was already engaged and had set a wedding date. Since her future husband was a doctor and well situated, it was a good match. Realistically speaking, she considered me more like an exotic, Balkan treat to enjoy before plunging into the quiet life of a middle-class Swiss wife.

Actually, such an arrangement suited me well at that time. I had chosen the life of a revolutionary, a fighter for the Croatian cause, and that more or less ruled out establishing a family. Once a man accepts the responsibility for a wife and children, he cannot just walk onto a plane and nonchalantly inform the staff and passengers that the plane has just been hijacked. So she had her reasons and I had mine, and our relationship was clear-cut. However, after a certain time, I began asking myself: what if she got pregnant? She had no concerns on that score. So what, she said, I’m sure my future husband would make a good father! I cannot say I agreed with her way of thinking, but she had a right to it. I still asked her to let me know if such a thing occurred after our short time together. She promised she would. The agreed-upon signal would be the color of the ink she would use to address letters to me. If it was blue, the coast was clear, but if it was red, that meant a child was on the way. And then, after her return to Switzerland, I received a letter addressed in red!

All sorts of thoughts swirled around in my head at that moment, but in the letter itself, she said she had only been kidding and that all was OK. We never saw or heard from each other again. During my long prison years, at times I played with the thought that somewhere in Switzerland, I could have a child of my blood, growing into a mature adult. But those were just illusions. Whatever the case, even if there were a person carrying my genes in Switzerland or somewhere else, I would not continue to live through him or her, because a person is not just a biological being; he is also a cultural being, a member of a certain culture that determines his way of thinking, his sensibilities, his mentality. If anything of me remains of me in this world, it will be my struggle for the Croatian state, the ideals I dedicated myself to for most of my life, my energy, my acts, with all their positive and negative aspects. I believe the positive acts predominate, but history, as always, will issue the final judgment. I never pretended to be a puritan, and I experienced crises like everyone else. I failed, was on the edge, but somehow always got up, renewed my energies, and found the strength to take pleasure in life and discover a deeper meaning in my surroundings.

Still, the Viennese days, after all these years, still appear to me, in spite of everything, bathed in the bright sunlight of a happy youth. After all, in Vienna I met Julie, the love of my life, a miraculous woman who followed me through fire and water, not as a supplicant but a self-assured and equal partner. If I had traveled down other, quieter paths, our meeting would probably never have taken place. I can say with a clean conscience that the life of a Croatian freedom fighter has taken much from me, but given me much more. Julie is still with me today as living proof. I often ask myself whether I have given her enough back, even a small part of the joy she has so unselfishly given me. I don’t know, it is hard to understand. In a material sense, I have not given her anything worth mentioning. I have caused her a lot of pain and suffering, and finally a long prison term, which would never have happened if she had not met me. But the fact that she stuck with me during the most difficult times, adopted my ideals as her own and identified with them, tells me that I gave her something much more valuable than material security and a quiet, ordinary life in America.

Another incident I remember from my Viennese days took place in a restaurant where all of us young Croatians hung out, and one day a newcomer from Zagreb showed up. He was passing through, a new emigrant, doctor by profession, full of himself, who intended to emigrate to either Australia or America. As we chatted, he made rather pompous comments about our idealism, although he professed to be a greater enemy to Communism than we were. When we asked him how he felt knowing he was probably leaving his homeland forever, he answered in Latin that “the homeland was where you felt good.” The unstoppable Benjamin Tolic fired off. “That’s right. If you translate that Latin the way we would in Slavonia, it would go like this: swine always snort around an acorn patch.”

That was Benjamin’s way, hardheaded and sharp, never swaying from his principles, even if it cost him and those around him. He had probably been that way since childhood. He lost his father at a young age, a Croatian soldier who had died in the Second World War. Because of that, his grandfather worshiped him and had a special relationship with him. When he would go to Herzegovina for summer vacation from Slavonia (where his mother had settled with her new husband), he would greet him as a fellow adult and allow him to do things his other grandchildren were not allowed to do. His grandfather had a big plum tree to which Benjamin had exclusive rights, so to say. One time his grandfather nonetheless scolded him for climbing the tree and picking fruit that had not fully ripened yet. That made him so mad that he took an ax and cut down the tree. When his grandfather saw what he was doing, he ran over in a rage. But when he saw the little boy with that huge ax in his hands and fire in his eyes, his grandfather softened and, instead of scolding him, said, “Oh who cares if you cut it down… you’re mine, my flesh and blood.”

When I see Benjamin today, we always bring up that story from his childhood. He gives me a hard time about it because I turned the cherry tree into a plum tree, but I answer that I always adopt nice stories as my own and then change them around a bit. A cherry tree just does not fit into the overall experience, a plum tree is better, it sounds better. In my own stories, I try not to change cherries into plums too often, and keep to the facts, as hard as it is at times. Actually, life is never as well put together as a story; it more closely resembles a chaotic assembly line of unpredictable coincidences. Nonetheless, through a series of seemingly insignificant decisions, a man who is carried along with a powerful ideal forms his own destiny. Which, seen in retrospect, appears to be consistent and compact. That is, a storm which in time flows into a bay. But you have to earn your Fate.

When I told Benjamin how I made up for the money I spent from selling figs in Posusje by digging up potatoes in fields along the way, he insisted they came from his grandfather’s fields in Osoje. I repaid this old debt with a bottle of wine. I still feel that I got the better deal in the transaction because along with the potatoes my family and I ate so long ago in Gorica, I also got the story of his grandfather’s cherry, or plum tree. But we were always plagued by lack of money. Our guest workers enjoyed our company so they were always inviting us for drinks. It was hard to drink wine on an empty stomach and entertain everyone, so we insisted that we had to be taken out for something to eat beforehand. But as strange as it might sound today, a little hunger somehow added spice to student life. At such times, we had the habit of visiting some of our guest worker friends or older emigrants, most often Milan Busic. He finished school in Sarajevo and emigrated shortly thereafter. He was active in Croatian émigré politics, but mostly behind the scenes, conspiratively, and not openly unless necessary. I can attribute my first trip to America to him, with the goal of raising the then émigré political scene to a higher level.

Once, hungry as wolves, Benjamin and I burst in on Milan, asking him what he had to eat. Since his refrigerator was empty, he jokingly told us that all he had was two kilos of lemons. “Give them up!” we told him in unison. When we attacked the lemons, Milan was amazed how we could eat them like that and not have a sour twist on our faces. He finally gave up, went out to the store, and brought us back a real meal. Later on, after our Vienna days, we would be in touch with Milan, recall that episode, and have a good laugh.

I was a village child, and during various phases of my life, I would see it either as a great advantage or as a stroke of bad luck. Before I left the village, I regarded my surroundings as primitive, a life plagued by poverty and full of hardship. Imagination in the midst of poverty is necessary for almost everything – as though it thrives on deprivation because one is forced to imagine what he lacks. I was drawn to books of all kinds at an early age, but in my youth, I enjoyed adventure novels the most. For example, Robin Hood, Gilbert, Dumas, but also books about the Wild West, or those who wrote of exotic and unusual lives outside my range of experience and understanding, such as the characters from Balzac’s novels, Hugo’s Les Misérables, and Crime and Punishment by Dostoyevsky.

When I finally left my village to study in Zagreb, it was as though a big book of the world had opened before me, a life which I had only read about before. I did not have to imagine anymore, I had become a part of that imagined reality. My older brother was already studying in Zagreb, so he would take me with him to various places. I immediately noticed I was not dressed properly and that the locals looked down on me, as though the clothes made the man. But when I began talking to them about books, authors, philosophy, they saw I was a good conversation partner. Later when I left to study in Vienna, I was much more confident and didn’t hesitate to boldly approach elegant girls, and often succeeded in creating the impression of a cultured, education young man whose Balkan origins gave him a sort of glamour and exoticism.

Some of them introduced me to their worlds, wealthy worlds of luxury and excess, and although I was fascinated, I realized quickly that it could never be my reality. In spite of its abundance of wealth and education, membership into the club of elite Western European culture did not seem to me to provide a better or more profound understanding of life at all. I was disappointed because most of these girls did not see in me so much an educated, well-read young man, as some exotic beast from an unknown part of the world, something that would be interesting to explore because it was “dangerous” or “threatening.” In the end, they shocked me with their physical primitivism instead of I them.

But I had never thought about meeting an American girl. All of us from the east had certain impressions about America as a land of plenty, full of opportunity, the Wild West adventures, streets of milk and honey where anyone could become president and achieve the American dream, the individualism and freedom… It was all well and good, but I never imagined myself with an American girl.

The first time I saw Julie on the main street of Vienna, I had no idea she was American; I just noticed she was different, somehow unusual. She was dressed in a style I had never seen, in a red plastic raincoat with a piece of leather tied around her waist. She was wearing a knit hat covering her hair, which seemed to be long and blonde, making her even more exotic. She was with a shorter, dark-haired friend, walking down the street, stopping in front of shop windows. I followed them for awhile, trying to figure out what language they were speaking, but I wasn’t sure. Finally, when we stopped at a streetlight, I asked them in German if they were from England. She turned toward me, and totally open, as though her mother had never told her not to talk to strangers, said, “No, I am American.” Also in German. Her friend ignored me and seemed irritated that she had answered my question. But I persevered. It was an American girl! When we parted, I had her telephone number and promised to call her soon. It seemed as though she wasn’t too concerned about whether I would or not. Of course, I called her the next day.

On my life path – from Gorica, through Zagreb, Vienna, Europe, and America, and then back to Zagreb, Rovanjska, Gorica – Vienna remains my window into the world, a sun-diffused door leading into adventure. Even despite later disappointments. If Gorica shaped my childlike conception of the world as something given to us at birth, a conception – like it or not – that we carry with us as a kind of marker through which we test all our life experiences, then Vienna formed my concept of the world as a factual entity, a geographical space, a stage upon which we all play our God-given roles.

Zvonko Bušić

Ključne riječi #Julienne Bušić #Zdravo oko #Zvonko Bušić