The next morning at seven thirty, Dejan and I were standing at the bus stop with our backpacks. Other kids walked by and looked at us, and some waved, surprised, but nobody asked anything. Somebody would tell the teacher they’d seen us there, I was sure. The only other person waiting was a high school student who was late getting to Čakovec and was looking tensely through her notebooks. Dejan said the driver would probably ask us where our parents were.
“Right. So what do we say?”
“Dunno.”
“Well… maybe we go to Čakovec tomorrow, maybe my uncle can drive us,” I said, scared and overwhelmed, just as the bus came around the corner, brakes screeching. The high school student got on and flashed her monthly pass. I froze, but Dejan, as if this were nothing unusual, looked toward a store and spotted Katica Fiškališ coming out the door with her basket. He waved to her and called: “Bye, bye, Granny! See ya!”
Katica stood on the threshold and waved uncertainly back at us. Dejan stepped onto the bus and showed the driver a purple five-thousand-dinar bill with Tito’s face on one side and the city of Jajce on the other.
“Čakovec?”
The driver pulled a small handle twice, and out popped two tickets from the machine. I passed the driver, eyes fixed on the floor.
“Boys, will somebody be there to meet you in Čakovec?”
“Yep,” I answered, “my daddy.” The bus pulled out. I sat in the third row of seats on the right side, happy we were on our way. Dejan reached into his bag and took out a bologna sandwich. Dropping crumbs all over the seat, he explained he always had to eat when he went on a trip. The two of us talked and giggled with nervous energy all the way to Čakovec, and people turned to see who was gasping so loudly with laughter.
At the imposing state building, we walked past the guard at the front door, the two of us little boys with our checkered schoolbags, and stood there for a spell, watching the police. I suggested that we stand in line at one of the windows. Dejan didn’t know how to read yet, but I already knew most of the letters, so I managed to make out most of the sign for the line for “__EHICLE REGISTRATION.”
“What are you doing here?” asked an irritable woman’s voice from somewhere above us.
“Hello,” I said, turning toward the source of the unpleasant sound. “We’s here for ehicle registration.” Above us, leaning over the counter, loomed a large policewoman. She was almost as big as Dejan’s dad. When she leaned over, I saw she had a pistol on her belt. Her thick black hair was in a ponytail, with one lock hanging down on either side of her face, not quite touching her chin. She glared at us sternly and asked question after question, paying no attention to the other people waiting.
“Who’s with you? Where are your parents? Why aren’t you in school?”
We couldn’t speak, we were so scared, so she came out from behind the counter, grabbed us by the arms, and steered us into the hallway, then took us into a room with a few desks covered in files and a big old-fashioned filing cabinet. She set us down like pups, each on a chair. There were two young policemen waiting there; one was skinny and pale, the other was chubbier. Unlike the behemoth who’d dragged us in, they talked normal, like us. Later I heard someone call the first guy Dragec, and the other Stankec. Their funny nicknames made them sound familiar and friendly, like neighbors. Stankec had tousled hair with a cowlick, as if it were running away from his red-flushed face. He seemed nice enough, though; I decided as much as soon as I heard him talking like us.
“What’s up, Milena, rustle up a coupla suspects? Enemies of the state?” We sat, perched halfway on the chairs because she hadn’t let us take our bags off. “Whose are these little skeezickses?”
“How would I know? What are your names? Where are you from? Can you talk?”
“My name’s Dejan Kunčec.”
“And I’m Matija.” I had to swallow hard before I could finish. “Matija Dolenčec.”
“What are you doing here?” she yelled louder.
I started to explain, but she interrupted again.
“Where are you from? Boys, explain to me this minute what you’re doing, coming to a police station! Or do you not understand what I’m saying to you?”
“Let ’em be, Milena. They’re scared to death. Slow down. Dejan, right? Dejan, tell us where’re you from and what you call your mom and dad. Where are they?”
Milena sat across from me. She huffed impatiently, making her chest swell and her nostrils flare. I thought she was going to punch me. I looked her straight in the eyes because I was suddenly beyond caring. All the rooms I’d ever been in merged into that one space, all the lumpy wallpaper, all the creaking parquet floors and the shabby furniture. This was just how I’d pictured the room where the government would be holding my dad.
Dejan gave his father’s name and said where we were from, and Dragec suggested that Milena find the phone number and dispatch a patrol car to fetch our folks.
“So tell me, boys, what could have possibly brought you here by yourselves, all the way from home?” Stankec asked, offering us wafer cookies from a box.
“The bus,” I said.
Dragec guffawed and thumped his fist on the desk.
“And? What for?”
Dejan glanced at me, and at first I didn’t know how I could explain it, so I muttered: “I don’t care, go ahead and lock me up, too.”
“Now why would we do a thing like that? Did you filch something? Break a window somewheres? Run a person over?”
“Naw. I came here to tell you my dad ain’t never said anything against the government, and he only went to German Mass at church, and he never built a cottage. Never did none of that!”
While I was speaking, Dragec and Stankec glanced at each other, and their faces darkened.
“Wait a minute, hold your horses now. What’s your daddy’s name?” Stankec asked me solemnly.
“Gusti.”
“Dragec, look for an August or Augustin Dolenčec.” Dragec stepped out, and we were left alone with Stankec. He offered us pretzel sticks, and we nibbled them in silence for a bit. “Matija, where’d you come up with this? Anybody say stuff like this to you?”
“You locked up my daddy ’cause you reckoned he was saying bad things against the government and going to Croatian Mass…”
“…and building a cottage, right. But why? Did somebody come and take him somewheres?”
“Nope, in the village they said he’s dead just so I’d think he was, but I’m sure he’s alive. I came here to get him, and my granny says the government takes you away if you’ve got too much or you say bad things against the government or…”
“…or you build a cottage. I know, so you said. Matija, I’m pretty sure we ain’t locked up your daddy.”
At that point, Dragec and Milena came in and called Stankec over. Milena no longer looked as if she’d eat us alive. She even winked. They spoke in hushed tones, but since I was nibbling pretzel sticks and wafer cookies, I didn’t hear most of what they were saying.
“…if that’s the guy, he’s died…”
“…don’t say nothing to the kid…”
“…right, let his mother do the talking…”
“…no need for social services…”
I didn’t care what they were saying. I was happy I’d had the gumption to go as far as I had, and the room was even beginning to look a little less awful.
Stankec finally came over, and this time he was even kinder.
“Boys, nice of you to come by, but your parents are waiting for you outside.”
Dejan trembled a little, but he stood up and went to the door. Milena extended her hand, so we could part as friends. Stankec took me by the shoulder, leaned over, and said: “Friend, hey, boss, hold on a minute. Listen. Believe you me when I tell you your daddy ain’t in jail. The government wasn’t after him, not a bit. You oughta be looking for him somewhere else. Talk with your mom, and… do you go to school?”