15 May 1992, Friday - Erased

“Tell them also about my son! His father doesn’t pay child support and now the poor kid doesn’t even have citizenship! And I have...”

Zala put down the receiver. She hated the sound of it, the slight vibration in the receiver, the plastic in the palm of her hand, and especially her inability to just let it ring.

Perhaps...

It couldn’t be.

Other erased people called and told her their stories. To begin with, she listened and consoled them, then she just put the receiver next to the phone and stared out of the window, without seeing anything. So much misery, for what? Why were they talking to her? She couldn’t even handle her own problems.

She ended up putting down the receiver after the first few sentences. She no longer wondered where they’d got her number and was no longer amazed at how many there were. The sense of isolation and extreme loneliness remained and slowed down her movements and thoughts.

There were calls from madmen too, cursing and swearing at her and putting the phone down even before she did, as if they were afraid she might be able to trace them.

A neighbour stopped her on the stairs, hesitated for a while and then said, “I just wanted to say... it isn’t right what they did to you.”

She nodded at him, he hid behind his door, and she wondered why she was standing there, why she had even come out of the apartment. Now that she had, she went to the shop and stood among the shelves like an alien.

Mark called a number of times. She recognised him by his breath and the sound of her name stabbed into the pit of her stomach. She put the phone straight down, but slowly, softly, so that the hastily dropped receiver would not hurt him.

On Thursday, he stood outside her door. She saw him through the peephole. He begged her to talk to him. She leant with her cheek against the veneer and closed her eyes.

His voice. How she loved his broad American accent that reminded her of the prairies she saw in films. Father would sometimes take her with him to see John Wayne. “What a man, son!” he always said as they left the cinema. Zala had always thought Wayne looked old, fat, and ill.

Mark must have been leaning against the door, a few centimetres away from her, but she could not comprehend what he was talking about, except that he was leaving tomorrow but would be back, that the lawyers were working on it, and he...

She was stirred by silence. She opened the door and he had gone. All that remained was a trace of his scent

Mother called and told her in an accusatory tone that Father had stopped going out for walks and doing his morning exercises. He sat in the room all day, had brought a chair to the window and smoked.

‘The window is his black ceiling pressing down on him,’ she thought and didn’t say anything. Mother didn’t dare ask her to come round, and she didn’t offer to.

She, too, stood by the window.

* * *

“Passengers for Frankfurt, please make your way to gate 4!” a female voice announced and Mark moved. His shoulders drooped and his left hand hung limply by his torso, holding the boarding pass, while his right pulled a small suitcase. He went past the luggage handling desk and the girl at the counter smiled at him again, as she had done when he checked in. Perhaps his face was miserable enough to awaken her maternal feelings.

Or she was just told to smile, especially to those traveling first class?

Anancient airplane, a sort of wooden spider contraption, was suspended from the ceiling of the ridiculously small airport. A TV screen had been placed in the corner, from which a voiceless Christiane Amanpour reported from Bosnia - someone had turned the sound right down. She disappeared for a moment and a pale red shot of a burning house appeared on screen, with a darker red CNN sign beneath it.

Mark stopped and stared at the screen until the journalist reappeared.

The voice on the loudspeaker announced his final boarding call.

He walked on slowly, the wheels on his case rattling as he stepped toward security, but then his body automatically turned back toward the TV screen.

Christiane Amanpour, CNN, Bosnia.

He rushed to the phone booth, groaning with the pain in his ribs.

He began searching though his pockets, found a coin and dialled Zala’s number. He knew he had time for just one word, perhaps.

* * *

“Our child is saved.” She heard Mark’s voice on the other end of the line and could not hang up.

“What?”

“I managed it. The CNN journalist Christiane Amanpour herself would like to do an interview with you. Tomorrow or the day after, yes. She will come up from Bosnia and prepare a hard-hitting story about you, about the theft of the child, about the Erased. Slovenia will not see the European Union any time soon.”

“Mark... really?”

“Of course. Have I ever lied to you? I told you I was a problem solver. I always succeed. I always come up with the right plan.”

“Mark... Mark...”

“I must go. I am being called for my flight. Zala? Good luck! Keep me informed. Oh, there is one other thing...”

“What?”

“I spoke with a business partner. The Japanese count on their fingers by starting off with an open hand and folding each finger as they count. Do your best!”

Click.

Suddenly, she could cry again. Tears came to compensate for all they had missed over the last few days. They would not cease and she encouraged them, for they brought hope.

* * *

Mark picked up his watch and wallet from the conveyer belt at security and pulled his case along.

“What a lie, what a terrible lie!” he whispered to himself and hoped that nobody could hear him. He did not look up until he was sitting on the plane.

* * *

She wiped the windowsill, ran across to the cupboard and began to polish it. Perhaps she should take all the books out and dust them? What if they want to shoot here...

Her gaze drifted toward the faint stain on the carpet. Perhaps she should smear ketchup over it to make it appear darker? She was horrified with herself. What if she tried to clean it again? No, she did not want to lie either way.

They were coming to film her! CNN! Hope was a vampire; it could rise even from the grave.

She closed her eyes, imagined Mark and sent him a kiss. He must be on the plane by now, something she had never experienced herself – her family transport had been the car with the luggage tied to the roof rack. Her bad relationship had paralyzed her in areas she would never have imagined: the creature on the sofa had stupefied her, tied her to himself like a dog on a chain. Trieste by train was on the outer limits of home turf.

Christiane Amanpour, CNN!

She needed to go to the hairdressers!

No, was it better if she appeared as... as what?

She ran to the bathroom and looked at herself in the mirror.

Her cheeks protruded, her eyes were sunken and her face elongated; disappointment and sadness had performed plastic surgery on it. Her clothes hung from her.

She slowly returned to the living room.

The windows, at least she could clean the windows. She could not remember whether she already had done so – she had a feeling that she had been rushing around the apartment all day, tidying up without finishing anything. She inspected the glass close by and it seemed clean.

From the corner of her eye, she noticed what appeared as a blue stain driving into the yard.

She focused to see a police car drawing to a halt. Another drew up behind it and parked in the narrowest part of the entrance.

Three policemen stepped out of the first car, two out of the second.

‘My phone was bugged!’ she thought. ‘Mark was not careful enough! Despite his own warning! They will try and stop me appearing on CNN. I’ll disappear.’

She ran to the front door of her apartment, grabbed the bag she had prepared at Nikola’s insistence, quickly slipped on a pair of ballet flats, and stepped out into the corridor.

She heard them push the front entrance open.

She lay low and waited.

They were talking.

The lift was coming up.

She tiptoed to the railing and peeked over it. A human shadow next to the entrance was clearly visible.

Keeping right against the wall, she tried as quietly as possible to run down the stairs.

When she heard the lift pass the floor she was on, she also held her breath.

Another floor lower.

The lift stopped and the doors opened.

They rang her doorbell.

She stood on the stairs just above the ground floor and didn’t know how to get past the shadow toward the cellar or the side exit.

She moved into the corner and waited.

“Miss Jovanovi ć ?” the voice above her said and she heard knocking.

“Miss Jovanovi ć , we know you are at home, open up!”

She moved backward up the stairs to the first floor.

The policeman tried the handle and the door opened.

‘I forgot to lock the door!’

“Miss Jovanovi ć ?”

They hesitated and then entered.

Zala pressed the call button on the lift. She couldn’t recall it being this slow.

She opened the door and pressed the basement button. She squeezed into the corner by the door and sensed the traction cable tighten.

The lift creaked and began to descend, only to stop on the next floor down.

The door opened and a neighbour with her dog entered. The puppy saw Zala and went mad. It transformed into a ball of tangled fur with teeth.

“Come on, Spot!” the neighbour said. “This is Miss Jovanovi ć ! Don’t bark at her! It’s only Miss Jovanovi ć !”

A uniformed figure stepped into the foyer behind them.

* * *

They sat her on the back seat between two policemen, though they did not restrain her. She stared at her wrists as if she were missing the handcuffs. Her blood, ready for a fight that reason knew was pointless, was pounding in her ears. Her senses sharpened, on the lookout for any chance of escape. The bodies on either side of her pressed against her alternately every time the driver sped up through a curve in the road, though he did not switch on the siren.

They drove straight past the turning for the Centre for Asylum Seekers and continued toward the centre of town. Fear tiptoed into Zala, first she felt it as a tingle, then it settled in and began stomping around in metal boots.

* * *

The marble building looked like a quarry, huge and dark. Only one policeman accompanied her and walked by her side, indicating the way through the maze of corridors by lifting his right hand slightly. Reaching a padded door, he knocked on the frame and opened it. He did not enter himself, just made way to allow Zala through.

When she entered, he closed the door behind her. The room was so big, one could fit two of her apartments into it and still have enough room to rent to a student. Opposite the entrance was a massive desk and behind that a tiny figure, a fair-haired young man who appeared lost inside all this space. Even his suit seemed too big for him. Zala walked toward him and he watched her, his eyelids blinking regularly.

The parquet floor creaked.

To the left and right of the desk, state flags hung on metal stands. From a picture on the wall, the President gazed at her over the bags beneath his eyes.

She stood in front of the young man and thought, ‘A probationer!’ She was confused – why had they kidnapped her only to bring her to this pale-faced trainee with acne spreading across his cheeks like a bloody galaxy?

“Please, sit down,” he said, and she heard how he tried to speak from the chest, at least an octave lower than nature had intended.

She sat on the wooden chair with black lacquered hand rests and a red velvet seat. The antique thing creaked under her weight.

The trainee held his palms on some papers held together by a brown paper folder, nothing more than a thin wrap.

‘The dreaded file,’ Zala thought, ‘that is what this is.’

“Zala Jovanovi ć ?” The young man looked at her properly for the first time. His eyes were also pale, blue like a feverish sky.

“That’s correct,” she answered, with unintentional formality.

“Your application has been approved.”

Zala narrowed her eyes in distrust. “What application?”

“For citizenship on the basis of special state interest.”

The trainee spoke in a monotone, as if he had spent all his life doing nothing else.

“What interests? What are you talking about?”

“You have applied for citizenship based on special state interest and your request has been granted.”

His hand moved across the paper and Zala was unsure whether he wanted to show her something or whether the hand was just escaping his dead voice.

“Can you explain that in plain language?” she said.

He was already reciting:

“Article Thirteen of the Citizenship Act of the Republic of Slovenia states that citizenship of the Republic of Slovenia can be obtained by a person of full age, if this is of special state interest due to scientific, economic, cultural, national, or similar reasons.”

She did not dare allow hope, that damned sensation, to surface once again, but she just had to ask, “In short, you are returning my citizenship to me?”

“No, we are giving you a new one.”

“Because I serve state interests?”

“Yes. The responsible ministry has given a positive opinion and the government has confirmed.

Allow me a personal remark: You are well naturalised anyway – I note your Slovene is perfect.”

She wasn’t sure whether he was making fun of her. She observed him for a while but he remained blank.

“Indeed, that I am,” she commented. “I still do not fully comprehend the reasons. Scientific, cultural, and what else was it you said?”

“The article speaks of people who can benefit the State in some way because of their achievements. You are in the arts category. That includes actors, for example, or...”

He paused, as if looking for the right words, and Zala hated him. What a fucking sadistic idiot!

He added: “...TV personalities.”

“Aha!” she grimaced. Was this the result of her first performance or were they more afraid of the CNN interview and international shame?

The young man pushed a piece of paper across the desk and held out a fountain pen for Zala.

She stretched out her hand and paused. “Where is the trick?”

“Madam, I do not know what you are implying.”

“What do you want from me, really?”

“Nothing. You will gain citizenship, because it is in the interest of the State that you have it, and you will have it for as long as it continues to be of state interest for you to have it.” She nodded.

“I get it. If I were, for example, to begin to organise the Erased into an association, a movement, or a political party, then it would no longer be in the interest of the State, right?”

The young man only stared at her.

“My child or all the rest, that’s what it’s about? You are buying my compliance!”

“Madam,” he said, “the decision is yours.”

She nodded.

“What about the CNN interview?”

For the first time, something flickered in his eye for a moment; this did not, however, show in his voice. “There will no longer be any need for it, will there?”

“Ah, bugging does work! You’re afraid of Mark’s connections!”

They stared at each other for a long while. The young man appeared transparent, like a newborn progeny of the marble that surrounded him.

Zala sighed.

“If you decide to accept, you sign here, here, and here, please, to receive the decree. I have the decree right here. Three signatures.”

With slow movements, he began placing the papers in front of her. “With this, you then go to the town hall to get your documents.”

“Identity card, passport? Health insurance, job, all sorted out?” she asked.

“Of course.”

“My child... will await me in the hospital as if nothing happened?”

“He will be there after 17:00 hours,” the trainee said and, after a fraction of a second, added: “Nothing did happen.”

Zala stared at the papers in front of her.

“And that’s it? That’s all? This isn’t some sadistic game of yours? You aren’t going to screw me again, are you? I know it’s not your fault, that you’re just a trainee who has been given a task everyone else is avoiding. But...How often I have imagined the people who did this to us! People who press a button and erase lives. Only they know how many of us there really are!

And then they make fun of us.

I wanted to see their faces.

Who are these people?

I wanted to see the face of the State.

What kind of a face does the State have?

And now I see it.

I see downy facial hair that’s hardly worth shaving. You also missed a bit behind the ears.

I see acne on the cheeks.

I see that you cut yourself because of it.

I see you have a cold sore about to appear.

I see all this and ask myself: Is this the face of the regime? The face that presses the buttons?”

* * *

The Director of the Maternity Clinic sat in her chair, her head lowered. Only her hands clenched into fists expressed the force with which she was controlling herself.

“Please enter the child’s name and you will receive the birth certificate by mail,” she said.

Zala was murdering her with every look. She thought the air around them might ignite with their mutual hatred. “Aren’t you going to give me the questionnaire about how satisfied I am with your services?” she said.

* * *

The baby yawned. Only once he closed his mouth did he look at her, first with one eye, then the other.

“Marko,” Zala whispered. “Marko!”

With her middle finger, she gently tickled his tummy.

He puckered his lips, stuck out his tongue, bringing his right hand to his brow.

She gently put her finger in his hand, allowing him to grab hold of it, feel her.

He pulled a face and she was not sure whether he was about to cry or smile. His tongue was searching for food.

She wanted to tell him everything, all at once, right now. Overwhelmed by emotion, she could not find the words. A few times she opened her mouth to speak, closed it again, then she realised her lips were moving exactly the same way as the baby’s, that they were together, connected, that there would be time for all the words; now the priority was feeding.

Breast-feeding in peace, without haste and uncertainty, no need to hide, no more fear. Something so completely normal, almost sacred.

She spoke his name quietly on repeat, long after he was already fast asleep.

* * *

When she stepped into the corridor holding baby Marko, Nikola gave a huge smile.

“That took a while. I wasn’t convinced until now that it would really happen!”

“Well, I was able to sign for you, so the document is the right one. But yes, I can hardly believe it either..”

As they walked down the corridor, a familiar-looking nurse approached from the opposite direction. The computer screen she was carrying jogged Zala’s memory – it was the receptionist from the night she had come to give birth.

She could tell that the nurse was trying to recall her face too.

“Oh,” the woman said, “it’s you! So everything got sorted out in the end? You know, it’s not our fault when things like this happen. We’re just people – and we have to do what the computer tells us.”

* * *

On 26 February 1992, the Republic of Slovenia’s Ministry of the Interior erased 25,671 people.

To this day, the problem is still not completely resolved for everyone.