In the snow-covered wood above the road old Galib Prolaz, ‘the Yugoslav’, like a sleepwalker, was chopping the timber into small blocks that he would later take home. Propped against his wheelbarrow was his hunting rifle, an heirloom from his father, who under Tito had used it to fight the Germans.
      Galib had a wife, Raza, and two daughters: Svetlana, named after Stalin’s daughter, and Fata. Both were still unmarried, although they were well over thirty. This caused resentful gossip among the villagers, and behind his back they said he thought he was too good for them. Sometimes he heard the whispering behind him. But he had little to do with the village: his house was on the edge of it, in a plum orchard. Only on Fridays did he go down to the village to attend the mosque.
      When the first rumours of night-time massacres reached the village, he had stubbornly denied them; he was a Yugoslav and would always remain one. Every morning his wife still made his sandwiches and he went cheerfully to the town hall, where he worked in the registry.
      The bullying had started almost imperceptibly. At times his papers would go missing, at others someone would have moved his desk. During lunch his table became increasingly empty. He was blamed for the disappearance of three blank passports, which, as everyone knew, fetched a fortune on the black market. After that Galib had the table to himself. But they didn’t dare fire him, though less and less work landed on his desk.
      Till one morning it proved impossible to travel to town. The Muslims had been driven out of their homes in the night. At least, that was what Alija, Hamzić’s son, had told him on the way. Galib had returned home with his briefcase and his sandwiches. He said to his wife that it really was war now.
      Not long after, in his own village, ‘the man from Marrakech’ had disappeared; he was blue like the men who lived in the southern Atlas Mountains. No one knew his name or where exactly he came from. ‘Marrakech’, he would say with a vague smile when asked. He’d appeared in the village one day and had never left. He lived on what people gave him and led an unobtrusive life, until his sudden disappearance. The man from Marrakech sparked a panic. The following night all the Croats had to leave the village head over heels.
      Since then Galib had worked on his vegetable plot, cut wood and fetched water from the stream. Fortunately, he still had a couple of goats that gave plenty of milk. He had always bred goats in his spare time. He even won prizes with them, but he had never thought they would come in handy like this. What he had always tried to prevent had happened after all: he, the proud civil servant Galib Prolaz, the Yugoslav, had become a farmer among farmers.
      For a while he drank rakija with the men of the village. His pride seemed finally to have been broken. But when they started saying that all Croats were ‘Ustašas’, and what they’d do if they got hold of one, he’d got up, upturned the table and sent the cards flying through the bar. The bar owner had tried to throw him out, but Galib had warded him off with his strong hands and shouted: ‘I’ll always be the Yugoslav.’
      ‘Dangerous words,’ said the mullah later.
      After that Galib withdrew into his house and lived on what the poor land provided. At the beginning of winter he had sold his train collection. In that way he hoped to survive to the end of the war, although he could feel the strength slowly flowing out of his body. If he had not been taking care of his wife and daughters, he would long since have lost heart.

 

He chopped doggedly on. There was snow in the air. Just one more day and then he wouldn’t need to come out for a while.

 

From: King of Tuzla, you can order the book from the Order link in the top right hand corner on this page.

About the English edition

 

King of Tuzla tells the story of service in the Balkans vividly, as only a soldier who served there can relay. The book is a must for the library of any military enthusiast or historian. - Stephen Phillips Blog

 

‘The book is a cracking read and I flew through it in a couple of days. Arnold Jansen op de Haar has obviously written this book from the heart...’

 

‘What Arnold has wonderfully done is included little stories from the locals about their lives and the effect the wars have had on them.’ - Winstonsdad’s Blog

 

'The characterisation of Tijmen and his fellow officers is effective. Tijmen himself is an intriguing character...'

 

'There are ... some lovely images and gorgeous rhythms ... this poignant description of Tijmen’s flat: "Eight years in the same flat, where time’s mechanism had jammed. No-one had been loved there."' - Whispering Gums Blog

 

About the Dutch edition

 

‘A great addition to Dutch literature.’ – Hans Warren in several regional newspapers

 

‘A great debut.’ – Trouw (main quality Dutch newspaper)