Monday, October 08, 1984

Zadnji razgovor sa djedom Bogdanom

Bogdan Golmajer                                     17.3.1902 - 2.9.1984
sin Žarko Golmajer                                          1928 - 26.12.1998
kćer Đurđica (Đeka) Cvitanović                1.3.1924 - 12.5.2009

Popodne smo otišli posjetiti djedu Golmajera. Bio je lijep sunčani dan sredine kolovoza. Ušli smo u njegovu sobu (jedinu sobu u stanu) i ja sam se zaustavio, zaprepašten. On je izgledao kao da su ga tog dana prenijeli iz Jasenovca. Ležao je nepomičan, šlagiran i lagan kao pero - 35 kila, možda, sa divljim pramenom crne kose, i sa neobrijanom četkicom prosjede brade, i upaljenim crvenim ocima.

Ja sam se sjeo uz njega i počeli smo razgovarati. Bio je potpuno svjestan; očekivao me je. Njegove oči su ostale nepomične. Dugo me nije pogledao - možda je prošao cijeli sat prije nego sto je okrenuo oči na mene. Njegov glas, kao i snaga njegovog života, je bio slab, i treperio je u mraku, daleko od mene, kao plamenćic svijeće. Rijeci su dolazile polako, nejasne - tiše i tiše, dok se nisu sasvim zaustavile. Nakon nekog vremena bi se rijeci vratile, i mi smo nastavili. Iza nas su žene glasno govorile, i ja sam ih morao zamoliti da pređu u kuhinju, tako da bih ga mogao čuti. Ja sam mu neko vrijem pričao o Danskoj - o ljudima, o poljoprivredi, o povijesti zemlje. Bogdan me je dugo ozbiljno slušao, a zatim mi rekao da je treća knjiga na lijevo na stelaži od danskog pisca, da se zove "Seljaci". I zbilja, treća knjiga na lijevo se zvala "Seljaci", no pisac je bio poljak.

Ja sam ga zamolio da mi priča o svom životu. I tako mi je on polako počeo pričati o svojem djetinjstvu, o svojoj djeci i ženama, o svom radu kao komunist, o ratu, o logorima i deportacijima, o radu poslije rata:

"Nismo mogli duže razgovarati prošli puta, a htjeo sam... moja prva žena je bila Ljerka, kćerka general Filipovića - onoga koji je osvajao Bosnu. Prekrasno je igrala klavir. Umrla je od raka. Treća žena mi je bila ..."

(glas mu je nestao. Drugu ženu nije spomenuo.)

"u Jasenovcu su je ubili... četvrta je bila Katica... trebao sam ženu da djeci pomognem... rođen sam u Buzetu... fašisti došli, otjerali nas u Sloveniju... talijanski u školama... ja sam pobjegao... u Zagrebu me našao moj direktor,"

(Žarko kaže da je to bio Nazor, ali Bogdan ga nije ni jedanput spomenuo imenom.)

"doveo nas četri u novu učiteljsku školu u Karlovcu. Dobili smo banovinsku potporu za siromašne đake, kuhala nam upraviteljica, a građani nam skupljali odjeću. Tamo sam postao komunist. Proganjali su me. Bio sam učitelj u Banatu pred rat - Nijemcima i Rumunjima. Ne znam dali su me uopće razumjeli. Kad su Nijemci napali SSSR, znali smo da će biti rat, i skupljali smo oružje i medicinske zalihe. Ja sam bio potporučnik. Vida"

(Blagica? nisam siguran da sam ga čuo, jer mu se glas opet ugasio.)

"i ja smo prebacivali i partizane i ranjenike - ljekar je bio u sljedećem selu. Tu smo dugo bili uspješni - onda nas je neko izdao, uhapsili su nas, odveli u Bjelovar, a od tamo u Jasenovac... Vida je također bila zarobljenica. Partizani su napali Jasenovac - ustaše su bježali... sve su ih postrijeljali... a ti koji su jos bili za radnu snagu su poslani u Linz, i od tamo u Mauthausen... Djeku sam vidjeo na kolodvoru... rekao sam joj da ne dođe do vlaka, jer su ustaše trpali obitelji u konvoj... "

(Đeka: "Meni su poručili da će doči konvoj iz Jasenovca, i da im Crveni Kriz - međunarodni, onaj isti kao danas - može dati odjeću i medicinske zalihe - i da će moj otac biti u konvoju. I poručili su mi da je opasnost da će ustaše i obitelji stjerati na vlak. On je bio kao sad - trideset kila je bio - ali je bio jedan od jedinih pet šest koji su bili dovoljno snažni da prenose kufere do vlaka. Oci su mu bile velike i zarile su. Kazao mi je da je upravo prebolio tifus, ali da je to tajio, jer bi ga inače oni ubili. Da su mu rekli da samo jedanput dnevno jede i pije vodu, jer bi ga nakon gladovanja ubila hrana. 'Nemoj ici do vlaka, jer će ustaše utjerati na konvoj - stoj ovdje'. I tako sam ga ja vidjela zadnji
puta, vjerovala sam.")

"... Jasenovac... Njemačka... natrag Dunavom... u Beč... rusi nam dali propusnice... sa vlaka uzeli švercere i trgovce i na mjestu ih strijeljali... nama dali njihova mjesta... mi ukrali tri teleće koze na granici... u Đurđevcu sve uništeno, sve odneseno... seljaku koji je nas vozio su tamo oduzeli auto... ja uspjeo donijesti cijelu kozu do Budrovca. I tako prošla epopeja: kroz strah i lukavštinu i krađu... Došao sam u Zagreb... nakon deset dana su me pozvali da idem u kupke - bile su u Daruvaru - i odmah su me zaposlili... bolje sam se osjećao i tako je i to prošlo... iz ministarstva rada - otvarao nove škole, ustaške zatvarao. Đeka i Žarko su bili kod doktora... Živana sam vidjeo samo jedan puta u mom životu, kad sam radio u Daruvaru... on je autom prošao - nisam htjeo da me vozi - bio je direktor tvornice cipela... Onda kad je tebe rodila - imali smo u tim toplicama školu za zanemarenu djecu... ja nju stavio za upraviteljicu škole, uzela je lječnicku stranu..."

Bilo mu je teško govoriti, sa pola lica paraliziranim.

"...to blato koga se ti sjećaš - to je bilo u Mikleušu, kod Cinkati. Ti si vidjeo ovcu, i onda ozbiljno primijetio 'Nisam znao da su krave tako velike'..."

(Zapravo, već nisam siguran dali mi je to rekao Bogdan, ili Katica.) Ja sam ga pitao sto se s njim desilo '48, kod Informbiroa:

"... imali smo sastanak. Ja sam rekao: 'Kuda Tito kreće, tud mi.' ... prosli smo rat... rekli su mi da će me staviti za direktora/povjerenika tvornice bombona u Slavenskoj Požegi. Ja sam to odbio: 'Ima mladih stručnjaka, neka to oni vode.' Otuda sam premješten u Zagreb u ministarstvo rada. Zadaci su bila otvaranja svih vrsti poljoprivrednih imanja..."

(to je kraj mojih zabilješka o našem razgovoru.)

Mi smo se na koncu pozdravili, ja sam mu obećao uskoro pisati iz Svedske. Na izlazu se Katica rasplakala: njoj je teško vidjeti Bogdana tako slabog, i ona je sama bila na granici ljudskih snaga. Ja sam je zagrlio, poljubio, i tako smo otišli do Zarka i Slavice.

Bogdan je izdahnuo 2. rujna dok ga je Đeka čuvala. On nije bio svjestan, i umro je brzo i jednostavno. Đeka je tužna, mnogo vise sada kada se vise ne brine o njemu, i bacila se opet na svoj rad: putuje mnogo na teren.



Notes:
 
Ponosimo se školom u Budrovcu
            (ovo je škola)
"...  u školi su se izmjenjivali brojni učitelji kojih se i danas mnogi stariji mještani rado sjećaju: učiteljice Justina Rasinec, Dragica Benkek, Ljubica Kolar i Marija Puškaš, učitelj Ivan Litvić, učitelji Vida i Bogdan Golmajer. Oni su poučavali do kraja drugog svjetskog rata. Nastava je održavana na hrvatskom jeziku, a trajala je 4 do 5 godina. Prema žigu u spomenici zvala se „Državna narodna osnovna škola u Budrovcu“.
Učitelji i bračni par, Vida i Bogdan Golmajer, su na žalost, pred kraj drugog svjetskog rata doživjeli tragičnu sudbinu. 18. 3. 1944. uhićeni su u svojoj školi i otpremljeni u ustaški logor Stara Gradiška, a zatim u logor Jasenovac. Učitelj Bogdan transportiran je na prisilan rad u Njemačku, odakle s vratio 1945., dok se učiteljica Vida nije vratila iz Jasenovca."
Mauthausen was liberated 2. May 1945 by Americans. There were approximately 60,000 survivors. One of the camp's survivors was Simon Wiesenthal. Mauthausen was classified as a so-called "category three camp". This was the fiercest category, and for the prisoners it meant "Rûckkehr unerwünscht" (return not desired) and "Vernichtung durch arbeit" (extermination by work).

Thursday, May 24, 1984

Night at Bolshoi

                                                         Moscow
Thursday,                                    24 may 1984 
   Kostya, having been told that I am moving to Whattabore, wants to know whether I am married. I told him I got divorced six days ago. Kostya lights up: "It is good to be free in Sweden, yes?"

Friday
   Wolfgang and I are subsisting on a diet of black caviar and Georgian champagne. Wolfgang keeps saying ecsatatically "You know what this lunch would cost in the Russian Tea Room? It would cost a hundred and forty dollars, that's what it would cost!"
   Wolfgang is dreaming of getting a joint appointment: half year Moscow State University, half year Livermore. It would keep his CIA men busy. We are also supposed to buy a bust of Lenin for his office. I have taken him to a special department store, where one can buy medals, decoration ribbons and similar gear. For a few ruh-bles one could start looking a little bit like Marshal Ustinov. Our contacts say that a Hero of Socialist Labor medal could be gotten on the black market. Orden of Lenin, however, would be difficult to acquire; there are fewer of them, and they are solid gold.

Saturday
   A gaggle of physicists discusses women. S.P. Strinck: "I like them all, regardless of legs." S.P. has an interesting hair style; the hair grows up from sides and is pasted to the top of the skull.
   Scott is in a quandary. He has two tickets to the Bolshoi Ballet, and he wants to fuck. The problem is Professor Porcogrande. "Me, I know culture." Here he comes. "We are going to the circus tomorrow" he says, concupiscently pleased with himself. Scott heaves a sigh of relief.

Sunday
   The curtain goes up, and up in the mists Maya Plisetskaya flaps her hands in a manner of seagull's wings. Scott and I glance worriedly at each other: "This is a ballet fit for Professor Porcogrande." I glance to my left, and I see Ludmila. Scott, too, has spotted her, and has forgotten both the seagull and Porcogrande. Phosphorescent with desire, he is scanning backwards through his memory banks. Nothing remotely like Ludmila all the way back to Stillwater, Oklahoma. Ludmila has a beautiful elongated face, with Slavic cheekbones, long thin nose, large blue eyes, fine lips. Could be the star of War and Peace, or Love and Death. At the intermission she walks away from us, tall, thin (yes, thin! The Sphericity Conjecture refuted), a perfect Checkov heroine. We are hot on her tail - I lose Scott in a miasma of spherical thighs - only to find him chatting up the mother in German. "Das ewig weiblische sieht uns hinan, etc., etc.". "Ludmila seems to breathe nothing but Russian" he whispers to me, thwarted. Ha! I am rolling out my best Russian, Ludmila is all smiles, and it's all wrapped up. I cannot believe my good stars - the most beautiful wo. since Kansas City, and all mine. I already see us speeding in a black Volga to her parents' dacha, for a champagne and caviar weekend together.
   Porcogrande, eat your heart out!
   The curtain goes up again, and I wait impatiently for the intromission. On the stage - no, that is impossible! - Wolfgang is shuffling Plisetskaya around, trying to fit her in with the other furniture. (Ludmila's mother noted with pride that Plisetskaya is fifty-nine). It is unmistakably Wolfgang: that flowing hair, that wild look, that overbearing emotion, that unmistakable grace. That's how he spends his evenings, claiming all the while that he is having interesting discussions with Khorbatovs, Lifshitzes and the like!
   Wolfgang drags a dead seagull around the stage (ah! that's why the ballet is called "Seagull"!"), and it is the end. Ludmila is smiling at me over her shoulder. She is being dragged away! The lights have not gone on yet, but the mother has a firm hold on Ludmila's biceps, and is navigating her toward the exit. There is no moment to lose. While they are still throwing flowers at Plisetskaya, Scott and I are jumping over the chairs, and we intercept them in the lobby. Mother takes a firmer grip, looks me straight into the eye, says very clearly "Do-svi-danya!" and - and they are gone! Vanished into Biblioteka Imena Lenina subway station! I am crushed. Scott, you laggard, what did you do? You were supposed to work on the mother!
   We look in a daze at a Membermobile (a Politbureau member chauffered black Volga) pulling away, with a blonde outstretched diagonally across the back seat, and an officer cap in the rear window.

Monday
Wolfgang has established a reliable method for gauging the relative importance of Russian scientists. Zheldovich, a hero of socialist labor, can get a paper xeroxed in five minutes. Lihshitz - half an hour. Sinai - several days. Kostya - forget it.
   Today, I am omitting caviar from my dinner - I dine champagne, only. The television is full of Marshall Ustinov's bemedaled chest, and endless rows of smiling komsomolets in military uniforms. At nine o'clock a rocket launcher arrives at the square in front of the hotel, and fireworks celebrating the trillionth congress of the Komsomol start. With split second precision they go up and explode simultaneously over some twenty different Moscow squares. It is as cheerful as the third world war. I go to bed and sink into nightmares.

Tuesday
   Professor Porcogrande makes no bones about it: "I do not like public transportation, and I won't take it." Kolya has finally dredged up a yellow Volga station wagon, commensurate to Professor Porcogrande's rank. Upon arrival of the vehicle, Professor Porcogrande is overcome with childlike joy, and he, his wife and Professor von Weissecker are whisked off to the Institute of Crystalography, where they wait the next half hour for us pawns to join them.
   Today is the Polyakov day. Any conceivable two dimensional conformal model is being solved exactly. A brazen Armenian in the first row asks a stupid question: "To what physical systems do these exact solutions apply?" Loud laughter.
   Wolfgang keeps bedazzling babushkas. This is the second babushka who wants Wolfgang to marry a nice Russian girl. "I have worked for 53 years, and now your president wants to kill me. Why? This is a beautiful city, this is a good country. Don't you listen to radio? He is threatening us with atom bombs!"
   We wished we knew why Wolfgang's president wants to bomb her off the face of this earth.
   Wolfgang remembers a nice restaurant on the Kalininsky Prospekt. We are immediately seated, and black caviar, red caviar, sturgeon and assorted meats appear magically on the table. I am starting to feel uneasy: "Excuse me, would it be possible to have a look at the menu?" Oh, the menu? Of course. I have a look: this will put us back some thirty thousand ruh-bles. The procession starts. First the waiter - would we like to change some dollars? No, thanks. Two for one? No, no thanks. Next is a young man who can get us caviar at half price. Then somebody unintelligible who purports to be Israeli, wants ?. The bill comes to the forty two thousand ruh-bles: both caviars are counted twice. (Soviet physicists earn some 250 ruh-bles a month). I object - we get twice as much caviar for less ruh-bles at the Acadamy Hotel (oh, yes, we know our caviar). The waiter explains that this is the top class restaurant.
   However, Wolfgang has a way with Soviet waiters. He lays forty two ruh-bles on the table, looks at the waiter firmly and says: "Well, if that is the case, we will have to take the bill with us." The waiter wavers for a moment, then answers "We do not want any trouble", returns ten ruh-bles, and crumples the bill in his hand.

Wednesday
   Wolfgang dazes still another bevy of Russian speaking Russian mathematicians with his compact way of expressing himself in English. Every fifteen minutes or so Sinai gets up and translates into Russian: "He is still talking." We leave them stunned, and Kostya speeds us off in what should have been Professor Porcogrande's Volga (eat your heart out, Professor Porcogrande) to the Kremlin's Palace of Congresses. Madam Butterfly is seventy and perfectly spherical, but sings beautifully. Pinkerton, the putz, drops her for an Aeroflot stewardes. The Aeroflotess is of the exemplary Soviet build: granite shoulders, and cylindrical the rest of the way to the ground. Seeing this, Madame Babushka hari-kiris herself, and rolls forward, though retaining the same height - her face is now in front, at about waistline level.
   Wolfgang and I are overtaken and separately whizzed off to distant parts of Moscow by two muscovite maidens: 1.) Eighteen year old Natasha; 2.) Nineteen year old Kira. The age factor has now reached two. We do not count each other's gray hairs any longer.

Thursday
   Wolfgang does it again. Answering the question starting with "Your determinant...", he forgets to answer "The beautiful exact determinant of Sonoffvitch...". So much for contracts with doctor Faust.
   Doctor Faust is now a center of boundless adulation.
  We proceed to a party with thirty seven physicists, Sasha Polyakov, and one beautiful woman, hitherto referred to as Lena. Wolfgang very much taken by her. Wolfgang: "She has beautiful eyes." I: "Yes, she has two eyes." and so on. We promptly kidnap her ("She doesn't speak English" observes Wolfgang, thwarted), and drag her through subways across entire Moscow to Kostya's apartment. There Wolfgang turns his back to her and spends the evening explaining DOE and Army contracts in great detail to puzzled Russian intellectuals. Lena bites her nails while Wolfgang makes statements like "University is business. US is a bad country. My president is a prick." At two we taxi her across Moscow again.
  Few fast impressions:
  This subway, too, has girls with walkmen. The city has ravens instead of pigeons. There are many men with identical black business briefcases, even Kostya has one of those. Vastly fewer books are being read in subways than only two years ago. All apartments are in total chaos. My maiden subjects me to acrobatic dancing to mindless disco, this circumventing intromission. She is made out of rubber, but my bones are creaking. God, have we become old!... Wants me to make five children with her. Has a wonderful movie-making mother who seems to be my age. What am I doing here? Everybody is paranoid about telephone taps, especially our maidens. Every day we walk by a semicircle of horrendous Stalin period buildings, which turn out to be the setting for Solzhenitsin's "First Circle". Lena has told Wolfgang about her Volga factory job; the diet is only vodka and bread, many children born deformed. The country is covered with places like that, where nobody is allowed to come.
   At the airport, Professor Porcogrande is the first in the passport control queue, and I am last. This will be set straight at the heaven's doors. The plane takes off, and the professor claps in still another attack of childish joy. Is there a chauffeured black Volga waiting for him at the Acron airport?