Wall of Fire. Pam Stavropoulos

censorship of emotion, he can detect those for whom, like himself, the carnage is unpalatable rather than a source of gratification. Despite the range of possibilities in between, it seems the division of response amounts, in the end, to this.

      He calculates that two thirds of his compatriots experience at least no enthusiasm for what they are doing. The remaining third seem to relish it.

       And we all know who each other is.

      Confirmation of which side of the dichotomy to which a fellow soldier adheres is sometimes slow in coming, sometimes swift like a blade. But is always accompanied by a sense of danger as well as revelation. Knowledge of the other – as of the other in oneself – is itself hazardous.

      The greatest revelation and source of danger is the extent to which those in authority welcome and subtly reward (are they capable of subtlety?) those conscripts who are enthusiastic in execution of their `duty’. Not too enthusiastic of course. For all sorts of reasons, too overt a passion for destruction is not to be encouraged. At least when it is undisciplined.

      But those who can be `counted on’ always receive extra approbation and rations. Those like himself, who are merely quietly compliant, receive no such rewards. He marvels now that he could ever have been surprised by this.

       From where had these `superiors’ come?

      From what walks of life; what covert genetic strain? He is struck again by the inappropriateness of ordinary language. And of how the war has starkly exposed anomalies unremarkable in civilian life. Because other than in their capacity to organise terror (a feat in itself under altered criteria) in what ways are such men superior?

      And yet, given the inversions and reversals the war is precipitating, perhaps that indeed qualifies as superiority. Perhaps it is those who abjure human standards who most qualify for the term.

      There is one `officer’, in particular, whose taste for orchestrated terror is almost refined. Milos can imagine him late in the evenings; sipping schnapps like Nazis of an earlier period (we have our own varieties; it is all being revived). Listening to classical music while savouring the carnage of the day. And anticipating it on the morrow.

       Wasn’t Milosevic a former student of law? Karadzic a psychiatrist?

      The nexus between education and depravity is tight as a noose. He is glad his parents died of natural causes before the ascendancy of those two.

      And before his own shameful complicity in the madness they are fuelling. He doesn’t need to question from what walks of life the instruments of barbarity derive.

      They are plumbers, chemists, dentists and shopkeepers.

      They are lorry drivers and street vendors, garbage collectors and council officials.

      They are like himself. They are himself.

       Look what we have become.

       4. Lena

       22 October 1994 Dear Sasha,

       It’s strange how the war condenses everything, refracts it all from a single angle. And how previous plans and priorities seem so trivial when energy is focused on survival.

       I can’t believe that as little as a year ago I confidently envisaged a future. That any kind of life beyond the moment was foreseeable.

      You will want to know how I am coping. The answer is `not very well’. But qualification, like shades of grey, is inapplicable now. You either cope or you don’t.

       Besides, I don’t want to talk about it. Apart from my journal, writing to you is my sole source of solace and escape. I want to talk about anything but myself, and the mad desecration of this country.

       Did I say `country?’ That is another exploded category. Nothing means anything anymore. And notice I didn’t say `our’ country. I don’t know this place now. Which means I must never have known it, that all was an illusion.

       Could we ever have imagined from the kind of society in which we grew up that ethnic affiliation could literally mean life and death?

       Or that you could be killed anyway?

       But despite my desire not to talk about this, I know I must say something to allay your fears. Your last letter – dated over a month ago but only received yesterday – radiates the anguish of uncertainty.

      God knows what you have undergone these past few weeks. If the shoe were on the other foot – if it were I, not you, who is studying in New York (as it easily could have been – do you remember how we discussed who would go first?) I would be crazed with desperation and grief.

       So let me reassure you as far as I am able. And perhaps, in the process, attempt to reassure myself.

       I’m ok. I’m physically intact. Emotions are another story. But physically I’m ok.

       The siege was surreal. Its bizarreness even rivalled the fear. After a while routine just took over.

       Keep your head down. Keep the lights out unless absolutely necessary (if you still have the luxury of electricity, that is). Watch out for the young and older ones who can’t look out for themselves. We were lucky there were few young children in our block, and no babies. How others managed in such circumstances is beyond me.

       It seemed interminable, it passed in a dream.

       Do I need to say more? I don’t know if I can.

      It defies normal experience. There are no words or concepts which fit. Contrary to many in this city, I have sympathy for the foreign journalists who are trying to convey the enormity of it. Of course there is flagrant bias as well. But they can be subject to abuse from residents when no one outside here seems to care. Foreign media have become displaced targets for some. Maybe it’s easier to attack them than to confront the brutality we are inflicting on each other.

       One of the worst strains now is not hearing from Milos.

      Since his enlistment we have had practically no news. As you can imagine, mother is beside herself. Trying to calm her occupies much of my time now. Or maybe I should say trying to distract her. For she is already calm. Much too calm. You know how strong she is. And how internalised her suffering must be.

      Sasha, these few references to our shared knowledge are both consoling and desolating. I think of you always. Our love is proof that I am alive. It energises me to think of you over there studying (ok, I know the deepest part of you is still here). And that I don’t need to worry you’ll be killed in this insane fighting. Thank God you left- that it just happened you should leave – before these disasters befell. Otherwise you would have been in the army like Milos, and I’d be desperate about both of you.

       Sasha, my love. Remember all those arguments we had over coffee at Milena’s? (which no longer exists by the way. An essential part of our past has been obliterated). Remember all my vehemence about gender equity? Which you supported me in of course. And about the value of education?

      I would laugh except that it’s not funny. Now my highest aspiration – if I were capable of thinking about the future; if that concept, like so many others, still had validity – would be to be your wife and have your children. Yes, I say your children. Don’t ask me why, when I would have rejected such male privileging before.

       I dreamt a month or two ago that we were together. Away from here, I don’t know where. And that you had bought champagne because I was pregnant. The memory sustained me for a long time after. To think we put off marriage until your return!

       But I’m getting maudlin. And I don’t want to upset you more than I know you are already.