My War memoirs: The Scent of Freedom and Heavy Feet—Return to Našice
The center of Našice was glowing that day with a strange, almost surreal light. Maybe it was just the contrast to what I had left behind—the grayness of Ivanovac, where the earth smelled of fear, dampness, and death, and the sky was nothing more than a leaden lid over scorching gun barrels. Here, in my town, the air felt different. It was thin, clean, filled with the scent of spring and something I had only then, at eighteen with a rifle in my hand, learned to recognize as absolute freedom.
Every breath felt like a victory. I walked slowly, not because I wanted to soak in every inch of the familiar storefronts, but because my legs felt like lead. My boots, still caked with Slavonian mud that refused to let go, struck the asphalt with the rhythm of a weary old man. My uniform, two sizes too big, hung off me like someone else's skin. It was filthy, greasy from weapon oil, and soaked in that specific, clinging smell of the trenches that gets into your pores and doesn't let go for days.
I felt like a foreign object in the hum of everyday life. People passed by, cars honked, and the town lived its own pulse while I gripped a military bag in one hand and my rifle in the other, a heavy rucksack hanging off my back. As I walked, I felt the stares. They were looks of respect; strangers nodded at me, old men would touch the brims of their hats, and women would briefly close their eyes, likely sending up a silent prayer for the child carrying a weapon bigger than himself.
But there were other looks, too. The ones that dropped to the ground, the ones that darted away. Men in their prime, who suddenly became very interested in window displays or their shoelaces, knew that I knew. They knew that while I breathed this air with relief, somewhere near Vinkovci and Osijek, hell was still swallowing lives, and uncertainty hung over all of us like a guillotine. What if they fall? What if the smell of coffee from nearby cafes is replaced by the smell of burning here, too?
In that internal monologue, half-delirious from lack of sleep and the adrenaline slowly draining from my veins, I nearly collided with a man who was a walking institution in Našice. Moka.
He had worked at the municipality forever, a man in his late thirties, tall and thin, with that characteristic gait where his legs swung out to the sides like shovels. Moka was the guardian of that old Našice spirit—that specific slang where vowels stretch like chewing gum on hot asphalt, and cynicism serves as armor against any kind of seriousness.
"Well, Keee-kaaa, heavens above, what are you do-ing in that uni-form two si-zes too big?" – came that recognizable drawl of his, sounding like a song and a taunt all at once.
He stood in front of me, crossed his arms over his chest, and sized me up from head to toe with those half-closed eyes of his.
"Who’d you steal that uniform from? Come on, take it back where you found it!" – he continued in his style, not giving me a second to catch my breath.
I laughed, a genuine laugh, for the first time in who knows how long. His cynicism was medicinal. It reminded me that I was still just that kid from the neighborhood, not just a number in the 132nd Brigade.
"Oh, Moka, this is all mine. They didn't have smaller sizes, you know how shortages are. They said I’d get a new one tailored when I get back," I answered him, trying to match my voice to his cheerfulness.
"But Keka, that rifle is bigger than you, heavens above! Shouldn't you be in school?" – he asked, this time with a shadow of shock in his voice.
"School’s over, Moka. I’m in the 132nd Brigade!" – I squared my shoulders as much as my tired frame allowed. Pride momentarily erased all my fatigue.
"The 132nd my foot! Go home and get to college! Does your grandfather know where you are?" – Moka blurted out, swearing with that peculiar tenderness reserved only for the closest kin.
"I left him a note on a piece of paper. I guess he knows; I’ll find out now when I walk into the house," I said, as the image of my grandfather—an old officer—and that little scrap of paper that likely meant the end of his peace of mind flashed through my head.
Moka suddenly went quiet. He looked toward the sky and crossed himself slowly, the way people do when they rarely pray but suddenly believe deeply. He lit a cigarette, took a long drag, and sized me up again.
"Dammit, isn't there anyone else to go, that they’re sending you and kids like you to war now... Why doesn't your father go, or an uncle? Why you, a goofy kid like this, a snot-nosed, skinny stick of a boy!"
"Well, why don't you go to war, you're just the right age for it!" – I poked at him.
"Keka, don't mess around. You know I'm clumsy," – he replied.
"Yeah, that's the easiest way out!" – I didn't let up, teasing him further, knowing he wouldn't take offense. Honestly, I did intend to call him out a bit since I was going to war and he wasn't. Why was he giving me a hard time and acting surprised? But Moka was my good neighbor, and I knew the answer in advance.
He hugged me, hard—one of those brief, masculine hugs that say more than any speech on the radio. He walked off down the street, flailing those legs of his and swearing out loud so the whole street could hear. I knew Moka wasn't the type to pick up a rifle. Maybe he couldn't, maybe he didn't know how, or maybe he just loved life too much in its pure, untainted form to soil it with war. And that was okay.
But as I continued toward home, that scent of freedom began to take on a bitter taste.
I reached the front of Šoip’s pastry shop. That was the heart of our social life. Right next to it was the Paradise disco—our "Paradajz," as we jokingly called it. The place where the latest hits played, where we learned about girls, and where we escaped reality. Today, Paradajz was a shelter, a place to hide from planes, but it still functioned as a club in the evenings and during the day.
And there the four of them stood. My generation. Guys I had shared school benches with, shared fears of exams, and first bouts of stupidity. Two were just walking into Šoip’s for coffee, dressed up, smelling good, with a carefree attitude that felt like an insult to me at that moment. The other two were coming out of Paradajz with beer bottles in their hands.
They spotted me. In an instant, time seemed to stand still.
One of them stayed standing outside. The other three... they just hung their heads and walked past me without a greeting, showing visible discomfort. These same guys had bullied me only a few months ago, calling me a "Chetnik" and a "Serb" just because I stood up for my neighborhood friends who were of the "wrong" nationality. They also resented me because my grandfather was a former JNA officer. I, a man from Lika, with blood from Perušić and Brinje, was their target because I refused to hate on command. My other grandfather, an old follower of Radić, would be turning in his grave if he knew about this.
And now? Now I was the one returning from the front line, with a uniform that smelled of the trenches and a rifle cold as ice, while they—those "Great Croats"—were going for coffee and beer, hiding behind doctor's notes and fictitious college enrollments just to avoid the draft. Many managed to pull strings so they wouldn't even have to serve the regular mandatory military service, which didn't even involve war.
I watched them through the window of Šoip’s pastry shop. I saw their faces, those tiny expressions of unease they tried to hide behind sudden movements and an exaggerated interest in the powdered sugar on their cream cakes. I felt my ears burning. My anger wasn't hot; it was cold and sharp, sitting like a stone in the pit of my stomach.
"Why did those guys disappear?" – I asked the acquaintance who had greeted me, trying to keep my voice from trembling with rage.
The guy, the only one with the decency to stay, shrugged, visibly ashamed of his friends. "Well, you know how it is... you know you guys had that run-in before. They’re uncomfortable."
"They’re uncomfortable?" – I repeated, the word sounding absurd against the backdrop of the dampness of Ivanovac. "And why didn't you guys get a draft notice? Why aren't you going?"
The acquaintance started with the standard repertoire of excuses I had already heard ten times in these five hundred yards of walking through the center. "Yeah, well... you know, some are going to college, others have health issues—sugar, blood pressure, back problems... and so on."
I looked him straight in the eyes. "Wait, so not a single one of you four 'Great Croats' is going to pick up a rifle? Not one?"
"Come on, Srele, don't be like that," – he started to squirm, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. "Everyone has their reasons, you know how it is, everyone chooses their own path."
"Chooses their own path?" – my voice was full of bitterness now. "You guys bullied me for six months. I hid around town so your crew wouldn't beat me up for being a 'Chetnik.' And look at me now. I’m coming out of the mud, defending both your ass and theirs while you play tough guys here with a beer in your hand. I have every right to be angry. I have every right to be furious."
The guy hung his head. He was genuinely sorry; I could see it. He wasn't evil; he was just part of a pack that sought out a victim to prove a greatness they didn't possess.
"You’re right," – he muttered. "I’m sorry. We shouldn't have bothered you. You didn't do anything wrong. I apologize on my behalf... I don't know about them."
He turned and went into the pastry shop, leaving me alone on the sidewalk. Through the glass, I saw them sitting in silence. No one dared to look up. These were my peers, kids I should have been planning nights out with and talking about girls, yet we had become strangers separated by an invisible but insurmountable canyon.
I looked toward the Paradajz disco and remembered Šnicla. That local hustler, that petty schemer who set me up with Micko, the owner of the "Song" cafe. Micko, whom I respected immensely, a man who brought a breath of Europe to our Našice through those tapes from Slovenia. "Funky Box"—those magic words on labels meant you were listening to what the world was listening to right that second. Šnicla ratted me out to Micko, saying I had stolen tapes while I was bartending at Song, when in reality I just had my own with my own music, on which I’d stuck similar labels for fun because it sounded cool. And just like that, I ended up on the blacklist. I couldn't work at Paradajz, which was my biggest wish back then. Micko and Bole—people I respected deeply because they gave me a chance as a kid to work in the best spot in town. And that was taken from me because of another lie.
And Šnicla was probably somewhere inside Paradajz now, or in some shelter, with another fake certificate in his pocket. None of those "big shots" saw the battlefield. Their courage ended at the edge of the bar, and their patriotism was measured by the amount of beer consumed and the loudness of the slurs hurled at those who were different.
And me? I’m from Lika. The blood of those who do not retreat runs in me. My father from Perušić, my mother from Brinje... that Lika stubbornness and sense of justice were my only compass. How wrong they were in their assessment. While they called me a traitor, I carried more love for this country in me than they could ever imagine. How that hurt.
I stood there, rifle in hand, and for a moment a crazy thought crossed my mind. I could go inside. I could drive them all out, line them up in front of Šoip’s, and make them feel at least a fraction of the fear we feel under the shelling. The butt of the rifle felt so heavy and so justified in that moment—to strike them with it.
But then I felt something under my fingers. A rosary.
It was around my neck, tangled in the dirty collar of my uniform. I raised my hand, touched the cross, and kissed it. The rage began to evaporate, leaving behind only a deep, heavy exhaustion and a kind of sad peace.
"Dear God, give me the strength not to strangle them," – I whispered to myself. "They’re worse to me than those shooting at me in Ivanovac, because these people are shooting their own people in the back with their cowardice."
I moved on, leaving the pastry shop, Paradajz, and their bitter coffees behind me. Every step toward home felt lighter. I realized a great truth that afternoon in Našice: war doesn't change people; it only reveals them. It strips the masks off those who swear by their Croatian identity while betraying it with cowardice, and it strengthens those who stay quiet and do what must be done.
Now I had new friends. My fellow soldiers from the 132nd Brigade. People who don't ask who your grandfather was or where your last name comes from, but whether you covered the right flank when the shooting started. That was my new family.
I arrived in front of my house. The smell of smoke from the chimney, that familiar creak of the gate... that was my blessing. I was a "gušter," the youngest in the unit, a child in a uniform two sizes too big, but I was back. I survived Ivanovac and, more importantly, I survived the return to my town without becoming like them.
Freedom could be felt in every inch of the air. Not because of those drinking coffee, but because of those who know the price of that coffee. I walked into the yard, leaving the war at the door but carrying the truth in my heart. I was a defender. At eighteen years old, I had a clean conscience. And that was all I needed to sleep peacefully, for the first time after two weeks of hell.
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