The Petrovaradin Bridge was the first of many bridges destroyed in the NATO aggression on Yugoslavia. From March 24th - when the raids started - until June 10th , more than 100 bridges have been bombed and emolished. The story about the Petrovaradin Bridge was written the day after the Danube swallowed this bridge in Novi Sad. A little more than a week later it appeared in the Belgrade "Politika" daily, and soon after it was translated into a number of languages. First it was published by the Chinese newspaper Global Times, and then by the most illustrious Chinese literature magazine Riders. The Petrovaradin Bridge was a specific symbol of the city that lost all its bridges in the war against Yugoslavia.. |
(Note about the author) |
TALE OF A BRIDGE I particularly liked to watch the bridge from the stone terrace of the
Petrovaradin Fortress towering over the Danube. I made a habit of
taking all my guests there for what I used to call "a cup of coffee and
a breathtaking view", but I also enjoyed sitting alone beneath the clock
tower and watching the "iron prince". As I was leaving, I used to stop
at the point where the bridge would disappear from the horizon to take
one last look at it, as if I we were parting forever and as if I would
never return there. Now I just can not imagine the vista without the pretty
old bridge nested in it. I can't picture myself sitting on the fortress
bastion beneath the clock with big roman numerals on it. Why are bridges
so often victims of war? Why do chimneys survive and bridges fall? Is it
because of their beauty and pride, because of their elegance and sublimation,
because they stretch across space and time. I noticed a number of times
that chimneys remain intact though the entire house has been reduced to
rubble. Just the chimney. The house, its doors and windows - gone. Just
a small part of the roo remains, the chimney perched atop like a raven,
like an ominous sign. Dark, silent, solitary. Like a scarecrow in the night.
On the other hand a bridge snaps in the middle, like a bone, or in the
highest point of its arch. When I was in high school, first in Novi Sad,
and later on in Sremski Karlovci, the Petrovaradin Bridge became very special
to me because of an event that took place when I was 11 or 12. At that
time I used to spend nearly every weekend in Petrovaradin with my
sister and her husband a rich and reputable goldsmith. Joseph. There, I
mentioned his name for the first time after so many years. Today I think
of him with respect, wondering why he - a Catholic brought up strictly
- took an Orthodox wife, from a poor family - there were four of us, fatherless
children. Thinking years later about the house I used to visit, I always
remembered the look I was given in that household, making it quite clear
I was not a welcome guest. That's why I spent most of my time in the street,
watching the other boys play. I don't want to sound unfair, because
all those people have been long dead, but that is how it was. Children
never forget. They rarely understand the meaning immediately, but later
on everything falls in place, acquiring its true meaning, revealing itself
in full light. My sister's house stood in a long street winding downhill
towards the Danube. Svacic Street. Right across the street stood the Catholic
church with its wide churchyard where children always played. Especially
on Sunday and on church festivals. I used to spend hours watching them
with admiration, desperately wanting to join them. After a while they accepted
me in their company. Children particularly value certain skills, and I
was a good swimmer and used to play soccer quite well. Like any boy in
a new environment, I did my best to assert myself going just a step further
then they did, being fatherless, free of parental constraints and somewhat
a wild one. I was a match for them in every sense. Still, one thing I couldn't
learn: walking on hands. I remember well Vinko's round, joyful, restless
face. Mostly his face. I also remember he was thin, rather short, and had
crooked legs - I think. He spoke very little and was always on the move.
What he particularly stood out for, was his capability to "walk" on his
hands. He used to move around very swiftly in such an awkward position
- upside down, and not only on level ground but on slopes and even church
steps. For him it was a natural position he liked to use to win the admiration
and the respect of the other boys. We all ended up practicing to
walk head down, but no one could come near to great Vinko. In Indjija,
where I used to live at the time, I spent endless hours practicing
the "hand walk" startling the roosters in the yard. Seeing me head down
they "realized" something was wrong backing away puzzled or even ruffling
to fight. Dogs followed me around the fields, abandoning their territory.
Sticking close they stared at me - their head turned in bewilderment -
waiting for something to happen, or sniffing the ground around my face
thinking I was sniffing around as well. After such hard practice
I used to go to the churchyard in Petrovaradin - my hands stronger and
my technique improved - hoping I could finally face the challenge. I was
getting better and better. But no one could beat Vinko. We made a bet to
"walk" across the Petrovaradin Bridge. For us it was partly a game and
partly one of those childish challenges that the elders often think illogical
and unreasonable. Having managed to slip away from their strict parents,
a large group of boys reached the bridge. Vinko and I started from the
Petrovaradin side, crossing over to Novi Sad. After just 20 meters, Vinko
was already well ahead of me. He could not only stay upside down for a
long while, but was also a very quick "walker" - nearly running on his
hands. I fell over several times landing on my feet, but kept at it. Quite
aware that I could not compete with Vinko I went on determined to cross
the bridge and triumph against myself. The boys that were initially divided,
half of them cheering Vinko on, the others rooting for the challenger,
soon left me behind. I thought for a second and then ran towards the festival
moving across the bridge. I joined the group and started clearing the way
for Vinko, commanding "left-right, left-right". Soon the other joined my
coxing. "Left-right, left-right" echoed across the bridge blending with
the cheers to create an unusual sound like the howl of the wind storming
over the rooftops and the villagers. Vinko huffed and kept walking. His
big "performance" was suddenly propped by the sound of the ship's siren
from a barge passing under the bridge. The sailors, roused by the shouts
above them, followed the "event" with curiosity, cheering from the deck
and tooting the siren in sign of support and excitement. The sound scaled
the iron structure, winding between our legs and clinging to the protagonist,
staring into his face or rising above our heads to get a better view.
And then the voices of the sailors reached us from beneath, as if they
were taking part in all of this thanks to this peculiar sound-telescope.
The clamor on the bridge and under it, and the incessant bellowing of the
ship's siren, attracted the attention of the people walking along the quay.
Many of them rushed towards the flaming ball spinning and rolling slowly
towards the Novi Sad bank. No one heard the cries: "Hey, the train
is coming! The train!" The train from Sremski Karlovci always slowed down
just before the bridge crossing it very slowly. The engineer had no trouble
stopping when he saw the big crowd ahead. Passengers crowding at the carriage
windows and stairs jumped off rushing to the middle of the bridge to see
what was going on. Some of them climbed on the roof and ran towards the
locomotive, hopping across the gaps between the carriages. We started cheering
"Vinko, Vinko". Each step he made was accompanied by our cries. Our enthusiasm
swept away those that had only joined us, and soon they were cheering too,
clapping their hands, not really knowing why or who for. Still everyone
was aware that something outstanding was taking place, something joyful
and exciting, making so many people happy and smile. At the end of the
bridge, on the Novi Sad bank of the Danube, Vinko suddenly flipped onto
his feet, slowly rose getting up on his tiptoes, and then put two fingers
to his lips to let out a triumphant whistle to the skies above. He then
rose his hands victoriously, laughing joyfully, while we were hugging
and kissing him like in a trance. Our duel was marked by his crowning and
a boyhood friendship one never forgets. My childhood adventures in Petrovaradin
soon ended, as my sister moved to Sremska Mitrovica. I stopped going to
Svacic street. I never met Vinko again, but I kept the memory of a nimble
and cheerful boy, who could not only walk on his hands, but also had the
courage to jump on a train moving across the bridge. He had a way of leaping
on the train - like a circus performer hopping on the horse galloping in
a circle - grabbing on to the bars as he jumped on the first step of the
carriage. He was an excellent swimmer, a great ball player, a courageous
leader in all our adventures on the hillside beneath the Petrovaradin Fortress
or in its underground tunnels where amazing stories of ghosts of ancient
warriors had their roots. I still remember him reciting at church festivals
and his flaming eyes as he sang in the church choir - holding his head
proudly. In the autumn of 1961, when I enrolled in the "Moshe Piade" high
school in Novi Sad, I visited Svacic street in search of my childhood companions.
I learned that Vinko had died in an accident. He tried to jump on a train,
slipped and was run over. I just could not imagine it happening and I never
thought of Vinko as someone that is no more. Four years later - I remember
that spring day; I was a senior of the Sremski Karlovci high school
- my sweetheart and I skipped our math class and went o er to Novi Sad.
We took a walk along the Danube quay where there are always many strollers
when the weather improves after a long winter. I kept glancing at the bridge,
which had a magnetic attraction for me. Without a word, I took my girlfriend
up there to the bridge, took of my jacket and my shirt, flipped onto my
hands with my knees flexed and started "walking" without any hesitation
towards the Petrovaradin side. Advancing slowly, but completely relaxed,
I controlled my moves with agility. My girl was startled at first, then
started giggling and shrieking joyfully, bobbing around me, applauding,
and finally cheering me on passionately as I was nearing the middle of
the bridge heading towards the other side, encouraged by th passers-by
moving aside and shouting "bravo". She then got to her knees to follow
my marathon closely and kept whispering to me: "Please, don't give in,
just a little more", as if my adventure belonged only to her - like some
sort of rare and precious gift. At the end of the bridge, as I nearly reached
my goal - the spot from where Vinko and I headed towards the Novi Sad bank
so many years ago - I stopped for a moment, swaying. The people watching
me feared I might fall, that I would not make it. My girl was also speechless.
Suddenly, surrounded by silence I let out a cheer just like Vinko, and
accompanied by the enthusiastic cries of the crowds and my girl I "dashed"
the remaining five meters. I then stood up, raised my hands and whistled
like Vinko to the sky, laughing as she was kissing and hugging me with
tears of joy in her eyes. Then, on Petrovaradin Fortress terrace, beneath
the big clock tower, I told her story about Vinko, and she cried
and kissed me again, sniffling. Memories of Vinko came back again, now
that the old Petrovaradin Bridge has been destroyed. All night
long I have been listening anxiously like some helpless animal, trying
to catch every sound. I refuse to sleep as if my vigil will shelter someone
or something from the bombs. My first thought this morning: what did they
bring down tonight? Which bridge? The one on the Danube near Beska? The
Pancevo Bridge? Or the tramway bridge across the Sava? The Gazelle Bridge
we are all proud of? The Branko Bridge, next to my son's apartment?
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