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called our army the Ustashi. They fought against Tito’s partisans, who were all over the place. The Danish Regiment was actually only meant to be in Croatia for a few months for training, along with the other units from the Nordland Division, but they were immediately dispatched to fight the partisans. It was a terrible conflict, with no mercy shown on either side. Partisans hung from every lamp post. German soldiers who were taken prisoner were killed and castrated. None of this did my father’s bad nerves any good. Only one thing kept the soldiers going: there was plenty of food in Croatia – the Good Lord has blessed us in this respect. They loved the Croatian fruit and vegetables. And they loved the dancing in the square at Sisak on a Saturday night. This was sometimes possible, despite the war. The soldiers danced with the local girls on the warm summer evenings and that was how my father met my mother. At a dance in the soft darkness of a Croatian night in the middle of the war. One tends to forget that pleasures are most intense when the horrors of war are at their height. When were Sarajevo’s women loveliest? When was their make-up most immaculate? When were their dresses at their most elegant? During the worst bombing raids. Mankind’s gift for survival never ceases to astonish me. It’s such a banal story really. At a time when death and rape were as certain as the fact that the sun rises in the east, they fell in love. Throughout their lives they would tell us children how blissfully in love they had been, despite the sounds of gunfire in the night. Despite theindescribable horrors they experienced and the blood there must have been on my father’s hands. I have a picture of them. They look so happy. My father was a fine figure of a man. My mother was a beautiful young woman. The Danish Regiment was transferred to the Russian front in the November. By then I was the tiny, growing fruit of their love.’
    I sat there, rapt and expectant. I had a number of questions I would have liked to ask, but I was so intrigued by her account, although it was, in fact, a fairly common wartime story. There must be thousands with similar tales to tell. It had all happened so many years ago that it hardly seemed to have anything to do with me personally. She asked for another cigarette, took a gulp of her wine and continued in the same soft voice. She had a habit of tugging her right ear lobe, usually when she came to a part of her story which seemed to affect her. Otherwise she appeared to have full control over her emotions and the narrative devices she was employing.
    ‘The outcome of the war was, of course, a foregone conclusion . Germany lost. Tito won, and Croatia was incorporated into Socialist Yugoslavia. Some said that Tito the Croat had betrayed his own country. But maybe it was the best thing that could have happened. For a few years at least. Although it was no fun being on the losing side. My mother had not been directly associated with the Ustashi, but still. She had been a secretary for the system and she had gone out with a soldier in the Waffen SS. She was interned for a while, but even though brutality is an inescapable part of life in the Balkans, she was not abused. Maybe the guards’ hearts were softened by the tiny infant at her breast. Me. What do I know? Maybe she never told me the truth. She had received no word of my father. He had written several letters to her from the Eastern front. Tender letters, but also missives from which even the censors could not delete the hopelessness and the knowledge that the war was lost. My mother accepted the protection, as it was called, of one of the new socialist officials who had taken over. Shegot a new job. He got her body. For a couple of years it was a good deal. I do not remember him. He may have been purged, while my mother was cleared. Or forgotten. The new job was very much like the old one, only the masters were different. I have no memory of that