Friday, October 20, 2006 -- 11:44 AM

With fall back I feel like I can write truly again, though not always well. This is definitely one of those works in progress that may never be finished.

Our Last Winter

That was the year that winter was colder than any of us remembered, but we talked about it only rarely, and thought about it much less. On the last day of our winter I opened the door and stepped outside without thinking or caring much about the dead icy air that burned in my nostrils and that I could feel down into my lungs. "No regrets," I said wryly towards the grey Croatian sky as I lit a fast-burning cigarette.

The box-like concrete Bosnian buildings, each looking exactly like the next, followed me down the road and turned with me between the alleys. My footsteps desecrating the freshly fallen snow were the only sound I heard, and it was loud and redundant, slicing through the icy-crisp air. I stopped and waited and listened for anyone behind me before realizing that I was wasting my time. I looked up once more before knocking almost silently on the door.

The door opened for me into a small room, stale with old cigarette smoke, spilled vodka, and fresh sweat. The brothers Ivanic and Osvit were both there, and the other foreigner besides me, Olag the Russian, was the one who opened the door. No one looked anyone in the face and I walked to the table and sat down without breaking the mood.

"I saw him again" said Olag finally. "I watched as he brought more refugees to the camp and when he saw me he said nothing, only pulled a young Serbian woman from the group, kissed her on the neck and then shot her in the head. He did all of this without taking his eyes off of me. Svinja." As he said this his voice did not break, nor did he look up even in his profanity and I suddenly shivered.

"It will do no good," said Ivanic. "Your talking does no good and I am getting tired of it". He was a little drunk and nasty but it was not the vodka in him that scared me, it was the truth. For five weeks we had all been thinking what he finally said and I suddenly felt the cold everywhere.

Ivanic moved his hand over a small paper bag that sat on the table. I had never seen it before, but I already knew what was in it before he pulled out the revolver. His hands were shaking as he loaded it with three bullets, leaving three chambers empty.

"Enough, Ivanic," said Osvit, suddenly sitting up. "You are drunk and stupid."
"What do you think, brother?" he said playfully. "The odds are fifty-fifty, and I've always had a weakness for gambling. It's in my blood you say, like our father. Play with me now for one round. Play the odds as we did in the old days when they meant something." His mood was lighter than it had been in months, and very menacing. Olag stood up. "I will have no part of this, comrade. You don't have enough disciples to crucify yourself."
"Leave then, Pilate," joked Ivanic. "There is the door, Judas. You fucking Russian, go and spill your guts over the dead of my people." He was feeling clever and jovial and very justified and we all knew that the insult was sharp enough that everything we had worked towards together was finally severed. "Load the other three bullets and be done with it," Olag said as the door closed behind him. His footsteps faded into the grey cold.

"A cause worth death," said Ivanic, spinning the cylinder. "A death without honour. The death of our people. To death then, comrades," he said, lifting the bottle of cheap vodka, and without anyone moving towards him he lifted the pistol to his temple and pulled the trigger. The dry click of the hammer snapping onto an empty chamber sounded much louder than it was.

Without moving the gun from his head, he took a drink. He was smiling and I was suddenly in no mood for this. "What, comrade?" he asked, looking at my disgust. "Save the bullets for the war, right? You would rather we kill the Croats and have our people slaughtered even more? You know nothing. You are no Serbian," he said, and spat. I looked away from him, still disgusted, and he pulled back the hammer again, his mocking smile gone now. "Play some goddamn checkers if you don't have the stomach for this."
"Do what you must," I said, getting up. I walked outside and shut the door but it did not muffle the sound of the revolver going off in the least. Halfway down the alley it erupted again, and echoed sharply off the buildings. I stopped once more to light my last cigarette.

It was a very cold winter that year, but it was our last.