“What in the world made you come here?” Većkalov shouted the moment they were alone, shooing Popadić to the door with both hands the way one chases away chickens or ghosts.
But Popadić stood his ground and smiled. “I just wondered whether I could be of any use to you.”
“You must be out of your mind!” Većkalov bellowed, horrified, and rushed to the door. “Leave this instant!”
Popadić wavered, the smile frozen on his lips, but Većkalov flung open the door and cried out in a voice meant to be heard up and down the corridor, “Leave, I tell you, or I’ll call the guards!”
Popadić turned white, put on his hat, and left.
Back in the square, he stood lost in thought for a while, jolted now and then by the crowd; then he turned and headed slowly home. Just as he reached the Mercury, a young soldier with an automatic rifle over his shoulder approached and asked, “Are you Predrag Popadić?”
“I am.”
“Then come with me.”
They walked along Old Boulevard — Popadić smoking a cigarette he had just lit, the soldier pointing his automatic at Popadić’s left side — accompanied by stares from passersby. Suddenly Miroslav Blam appeared.
“Wait a second!” Popadić called out to the soldier and took a step in Blam’s direction, as though he wanted to explain what had happened, but the soldier immediately grabbed his arm and yanked him back to the curb.
“You go off again like that and I’ll shoot,” he said, looking Popadić in the eye and giving him a poke in the ribs with the rifle.
Once he had regained his equilibrium, Popadić took a careful look at the soldier. Then he shrugged, bowed his head, and set off, leaving Blam looking amazed, compassionate, and relieved all at once.
Just beyond the Mercury they turned down Okrugić Street, which was deserted, passed a number of houses, and came out on Old Boulevard again. They crossed it and took Toplica Street to the former Jewish Hospital, which the Hungarian army, upon occupying the city, had emptied of patients and made into a barracks. Now it was swarming with partisans, and a partisan with a rifle standing guard in front of the wire fence nodded to Popadić’s escort and let them in without a word.
They went into the courtyard, passing two tarpaulin-covered trucks, and entered the building through a kind of vestibule, the waiting room of the former hospital. The walls were still lined with white benches, though they were now occupied by young partisans cleaning their weapons and chatting quietly. At the far end of the vestibule a capless, middle-aged partisan sat at a small table that clearly did not belong there. Clouds of cigarette smoke, mixed with loud voices that seemed to be quarreling, wafted through the half-open door behind him. Popadić’s escort led Popadić to the table, where the stern, ill-tempered partisan took his identity papers and entered the necessary data into an exercise book that lay open in front of him. Then he ordered him to empty his pockets and went through the contents for a long time, returning everything but the wallet and the pocketknife.
A phone rang behind the half-open door, and someone picked up the receiver and spoke. Suddenly the voices in the room fell silent, and a thin young curly-haired partisan wearing an officer’s uniform with no insignia appeared in the doorway. He looked around the vestibule and went straight up to Popadić.
“Are you Predrag Popadić?”
“I am.”
The officer gave him a surprised, then a bemused look.
“The editor of Naše novine?”
“Yes.”
The officer nodded and with a finger summoned a soldier on the nearest bench. The soldier jumped up, quickly reassembled the automatic that had been in his lap, and ran over to the officer.
“Room 6,” the officer said, giving Popadić another curious look. Then he turned and went back into the room, shutting the door behind him.
The soldier with the automatic took Popadić by the arm. “This way,” he said and led him down a long, well-lit corridor where several other soldiers were walking up and down with guns over their shoulders or at their chests.
“Room 6!” he called out with the same bemusement as the officer, and one of the soldiers turned and unlocked a door. Popadić’s new escort took him to the door, poked him in the side with his rifle, saying, “In you go,” and Popadić crossed the threshold.
He found himself in a large bright room full of people sitting on the floor. There was no furniture. He stood for a moment, stunned by the sight, but when the key turned in the lock behind him, he moved forward, careful not to step on anyone and searching for familiar faces. It was easy, because everyone was looking up at him. He immediately found several acquaintances and waved to them, but the figure that attracted his attention most was one huddling next to a closed window covered with curved wroughtiron bars. It was his political editor, Uzunović. He made his way to him, barely maintaining his balance, and held out his hand.
“What’s going on here?”
Uzunović shook his long, mournful head.
“They’re shooting us.”
“Impossible!”
Looking around in disbelief, Popadić saw someone beckoning to him. At first he thought of going over to the man, but when he saw it was Sommer, the German lawyer who had served on the Raid Commission Board in 1942, he simply waved back and sat down next to Uzunović.
“Maybe you’ve got it wrong,” he said in a pleading voice. “They’ll have hearings first, investigations.”
Uzunović shook his head again.
“No hearings. Just firing squads. You’ll see.”
He closed his eyes and dropped his head between his knees. Popadić lit a cigarette and stopped asking questions.
From time to time the door opened, and a new person was pushed in by an unseen hand or entered reluctantly on his own. He would look around and either find someone he knew or remain standing by himself, but after switching from foot to foot for a while, he would eventually be humbled enough to find a place on the floor. The short autumn day soon came to an end, and since there were no lights and space was so tight, people started bumping into one another and quarrels broke out. The air grew heavy, and an irritated voice asked for a window to be opened, but when people sitting near the window tried to open it, it turned out to be nailed shut. Others went to the door to ask permission to go to the toilet. No one seemed to pay attention to them, but after a long while a guard opened the door and shoved in an old bucket. The pilgrimage that ensued cost many their places on the floor, but indignation was to no avail. No food or drink came, and no one thought of asking for any. Popadić held off going to the bucket until evening, when the stench reached even his spot near the window. By then people were stretched out — some drowsing, others merely exhausted from the ordeal — and he had a hard time making his way there and back. He returned to find Uzunović in a heap, his mouth wide open, sound asleep. Popadić crawled over to the wall next to him, thrust his hat under his neck for a pillow, leaned back, and soon dozed off himself.
He was awakened by a commotion at the door. It was open, and a ray of light from a giant battery-powered light cut through the darkness. Behind it he could make out a tall, broad-shouldered partisan in a well-preserved German uniform shouting, “Silence!” though there was nothing but a low, sleepy buzz of voices in the room.