Sladjana stood in the darkness and looked out over the low stone wall and beyond the hillside that drops to rusty railroad tracks and the slow sweep of the Sava River. She pointed to the black skyscraper, there, across the river, near the Hyatt, which is next to the Intercontinental Hotel, in the part of town that is, in a way, full of comfort. There was not a single light on in the skyscraper. Sladjana told me to look at the top floors, which were even blacker than the rest. That, she said, was where the bombs fell.
And then Sladjana, a tall twenty-nine-year-old with an easy laugh, a woman who minds her own business and spends her days programming in Microsoft's C++ computer language, began to talk about the sounds of war.
"You should have heard them, three-ton, five-ton bombs," she said. "So loud!"
Sladjana told me how she and her friends—and hundreds she did not know—had gathered here, on the cracked pavement in the tired park on the promontory at the north end of the city. They had danced in the dark, defiantly, as the moving stars high, high up in the sky dropped the bombs that rocked that skyscraper, set it on fire, and turned out the lights.
Then Sladjana cupped her arms and hunched her shoulders, an imitation of herself cowering from a blast in the daylight of a Sunday morning. Most of the bombs, that springtime before last, fell during the night. But a few times, four or five, she said, they landed on Sunday morning. And that was when Sladjana, alone in the kitchen, shuddered over her coffee.
Sladjana is a friend of a friend whom I met for the first time on a clear, crisp evening five days after the revolution. After a tense entry at the airport—"you are going back to Vienna," the border guard threatened at first—I had my visa and was in the capital of the country that kicked out the man who led his people through a dark decade. I met Sladjana in a busy square near the towering statue of Knez Mihajlo on horseback, which is set upon a block covered in Cyrillic graffiti, including a black bumper sticker with that famous phrase even I understood: "He's finished!" The first thing Sladjana had said after shaking my hand was, "Come on, I'll show you where we watched the bombs fall." She did that, and then we turned, at half past ten, and headed through the park toward the city center.
We walked along a wide pedestrian street, also named for Knez Mihajlo, the prince who helped drive out the Turks centuries ago. Sladjana and I passed a Benetton store, Levi's, and Gianni Versace. I stopped at a red wooden kiosk and flipped through pirated CDs: Tom Jones, Jennifer Lopez, and a local horn band from the south. A man sold brown paper bags full of popcorn—fifteen cents for a small, thirty for a large—from a plastic booth built in the shape of a cartoon rabbit. I stopped for a moment next to a fountain and turned in a circle. Three young men gently slapped each other on the back in greeting. Two women passed, arm-in-arm, strolling.
Sladjana and I moved on and she told me that her parents had always made sure that she lived comfortably. She was able to study and enjoy time with her friends. She never had to travel to the wars and fire a rifle, or kill, or step over the dead. But she did have to listen to the leader's message: this country must fight; this country does not need anybody. For her, that message was the hardest part.
"We knew we didn't have to live alone. So why?" Sladjana said.
A few minutes later, while crossing a small square near the Parliament building where the leader lost his people, Sladjana stopped.
"This is where I was standing," she said. "I was crying from the tear gas."
She described the crush of the shoulder-to-shoulder crowd that drew tighter as the hours moved from one to two to three on that rainy afternoon less than a week before. She pointed to the far side of the wide boulevard in front of the Parliament. The men from the countryside came from that direction, she said.
We crossed the boulevard and a swath of dead grass. There was no one here in the shadows beneath the Parliament. I stepped over broken glass and looked through iron bars into the burned rooms. We climbed the steps, and read again that graffiti: GOTOV JE! This was where the crowd charged in, finding the doctored ballots, tossing portraits from the windows. Three dogs wandered up the steps, then down. We walked around the corner of the building and across the same lawn where the police had turned, heads ducked, eyes wide, shoulders lowered in a run of flight, not pursuit.
We headed down a side street. Leafy branches hung low. Small cars sat along the right curb. It could have been, in this light, Paris. We passed four policemen, dressed in blue jackets and blue pants, out walking the beat. The police had stopped a driver. They were asking questions.
Sladjana told me that during the winter months four years before she had stood alongside thousands of others in the big square, not far from Knez Mihajlo and his horse, thinking, "I am in a free country." Then the police, that time dressed in helmets and flack jackets and carrying sticks, charged across the square. She told me how she braced, bent, as the police rushed past.
Then Sladjana and I crossed that square, past the fountain and back among the kiosks and the popcorn in the rabbit. I bought a piece of pizza and Sladjana and I sat on a bench next to a concrete planter. Sladjana told me this is her favorite spot. She was happy and joked about the leader she hopes is gone for good.
Was he smart? Of course he must have been, Sladjana said, if he was able to control his people—his enemies and his allies—for all those years. But in the end, she reasoned, he was not smart enough. She talked of other dictators who have lasted longer.
She laughed and said, "Slobo is stupider than Saddam."
I took the last bite of a flaky pastry filled with sharp, salty cheese, the last gulp from a cup of plain, fresh yogurt, and decided to go see where Slobo lives. When I decided this, I was sitting in a plastic chair at a plastic table on a plastic green carpet outside a bakery in a residential neighborhood further up the Sava River, a mile or so from the center of town. When I got to the street, I walked for ten minutes before I flagged a taxi, a black, four-door VW Rabbit. I settled into the backseat, which had that swaying, tipping quality of so many of the backseats in this place, and told the driver, named Dejan, also age twenty-nine, what I would like to do. Dejan had short black hair and wore a black shirt, black jeans, and black sunglasses. He spoke with a gentle voice and seemed happy when he told me he knew the way to the gated driveways and hidden houses.