I.
The boy looked down from the old stone bridge at the water beneath. He saw his reflection: a wool cap to keep out the Spring chill, his chestnut hair poking out from under it, and his ears that he thought were too big for his head.
He heard his father’s booming voice somewhere to his left, near the butcher’s shop that occupied the ground floor of a graying four-story building. Though he wasn’t looking, he could sense the flow of people scurrying about their afternoon errands.
Bojan liked to join on trips to the market, even if most of the time he was lost in thought and not very helpful. To his father’s credit, he didn’t seem to mind. So, moments like this – Bojan daydreaming over the Ljubljanica River seemingly oblivious to the villagers hurrying past – were quite common.
Today, he was concerned about something he had heard the night before. As he does most nights, he was pretending to be asleep on the faded yellow couch that occupied most of their tiny living room. Though his eyes were squeezed tight, he was secretly listening to his father’s radio programs.
The static voice from the airwaves was agitated. The man described what was happening in Italy, 100 km away. From what Bojan could gather, the government there was bad and Yugoslavia’s leaders were concerned about a possible invasion. He kept saying the word, “fascism” but Bojan didn’t know what that meant. He made a mental note to look up the meaning next time his father took him to the library.
But then he remembered that the library was boarded up. He had just walked past it a few days before and took in the “Closed” sign covering the broad, chipped door. A new one had just been completed a kilometer away and the books still had to be moved over. He wondered when that would happen.
Just then, Bojan felt a hand on his shoulder and he jumped in fright. He looked up to see the face of his uncle, Omar, and his freckled face split into a smile, the gap in his teeth on full display.
Omar let out a booming laugh from under his bushy mustache, which was so much like Bojan’s father’s. Bojan loved to hear that laugh.
“What’s down there, Bojan?” Omar said with mock concern, making an exaggerated look over the edge of the bridge and adding his reflection behind Bojan’s. Bojan just laughed. He liked that his uncle used his real name instead of nicknames like Sport or Champ.
“I see your father’s over at the butcher’s,” he said, “What’s on the menu?”
“Just sausage, Omar. You’ll come over and have some tonight?” said Bojan.
“Ah, I can’t Bojan, I have a meeting,” said Omar with a giggle, “Every Sunday, my friends and I get together to talk about things your 12-year-old brain cannot even comprehend!”
“I bet I can!” said Bojan, who always wanted to be seen as a peer to Omar. “What’s it about?”
Omar’s smile faded and his skin tightened across his face as he leaned in close. He whispered, “Do you know what fascism is, Bojan?” His green eyes were fixed and all joking was gone from his face and voice in an instant.
Bojan nodded his head.
“Well, then you know that it’s a terrifying thing. It’s already taken over Italy. We’re meeting to make sure it doesn’t come to our kingdom.”
Bojan imagined fascism as a dark fog, rolling over the green hills and making people grey and miserable. He imagined it rolling through Ljubljana as he watched from the ancient castle walls above the city. His eyes grew big at the thought.
“Well, hopefully you won’t have to worry about that, Bojan,” Omar said, looking a little sheepish, like he had just ruined the innocent worldview of a child. “With me on the case, there’s no way those fascists would ever think about coming here!”
He laughed again, but this time it was different.
Just then Bojan’s father appeared behind Omar and put him in a headlock. Both were booming with identical laughter and Bojan took the moment to force himself to smile. All he wanted to do was be alone and have time to think about what Omar had just said.
“Where’d you pick up this ruffian, Bojan?” cried his giant of a father as Omar scrambled free, his mustache bent out of shape. “Are you coming around for dinner tonight, Omar?” He said, lifting his bag of paper-wrapped sausages in his thick fingers.
“You know I can’t, Viktor. I have… my meeting,” said Omar, with just a shadow of a glance at Bojan.
His father’s smile vanished and he looked at Bojan. “Did you…?”
“I didn’t tell him anything he didn’t already know, Viktor,” said Omar quickly.
“Alright… well,” said Bojan’s father. “We’ve got a few more errands to run, we better be going.” He smiled toothily at them, gesturing his massive hand toward Bojan. Bojan took it and they left Omar standing on the bridge, still with a forced smile on his face as he called out, “I’ll come for dinner tomorrow!”
By the time Bojan looked back from the other side of the river, Omar was gone, swallowed up in the crowd of shoppers.
II.
Bojan pushed away his gravy-stained plate and stretched his arms up over his head, letting out a groan. The sausages sat heavy and comfortably in his stomach and he felt sleepy. His father was finishing his dinner on the other side of the table, scrapping with his fork with just a bit of sausage stuck to his dancing mustache.
While his father had been cooking, Bojan had time to think. He stared at the wooden planks that made up the ceiling of his room as the light faded outside.
He tried to piece together what fascism was and what, if anything, it could do to their peaceful city. He knew some Italians, he thought. An Italian couple had been his father’s customers a few months ago. He had met them when his father had brought him along on the final day of installing the ornate new banister he had handcrafted for them. They were young, childless, and smiled a lot, especially when they weren’t sure what to say in Slovenian. The woman even gave Bojan a cookie that tasted like almonds. He had thought about the cookie many times. He couldn’t imagine those people being evil.
That was when he had been interrupted by the sound of sizzling sausages and his father announcing dinner was ready.
Now that dinner was over, and his father was noisily clearing the dishes, Bojan was looking forward to treating himself to a little more thinking time before pretending to be asleep and listening to the forbidden radio broadcast.
Just as he laid down on the yellowish couch, though, he heard voices out on the normally quiet street. Curious, he walked to the window and looked down from their viewpoint on the third floor. People, mostly men, were running toward the center of town, toward the market. Others were huddled outside of their homes, sticking to the shadows. It was dim, making the shadows look like rustling grass.
“Papa, what are these people doing?” asked Bojan.
His father sauntered over, drying his hands on a brown rag as he looked over his son’s head at the scene below them.
“I don’t know Bojan,” his father said, “The neighbors certainly seem excited, don’t they?
“It’s way too early to be celebrating Labour Day,” said Bojan, “That was the last time I’ve seen the street like this. But there aren’t any bonfires.”
Bojan looked over the buildings toward the market and he saw a glowing orange light. “Maybe that’s a bonfire over there, Papa? Are they celebrating Labour Day already?”
His father didn’t reply but just stared out into the humming night.
“Should we go see what the fire is about?” said Bojan.
“No, no, I’m sure it’s nothing at all,” said Bojan’s father, though he seemed distracted. “Bojan, what were you and your uncle Omar talking about on the bridge this afternoon?”
“He was telling me about his meeting,” said Bojan, trying his best to not incriminate his uncle.
“Was that all?” his father pressed, crouching down to Bojan’s level.
“He did say something about… fascism,” said Bojan, withering under his father’s gaze. “Something about it coming from Italy and that he’s trying to stop it.”
Bojan’s father sighed and held on to Bojan’s slight shoulder. “Well, I knew we’d have to talk about this at some point. Fascism is a kind of government, Bojan. It’s not great for most of its citizens. People in Italy are convinced that they’ve figured things out, but I’m not so sure they have.”
Bojan nodded. He loved when his father taught him about the world. He never felt like he was talking down to him, like his teachers at school sometimes did. He hated mathematics.
“And because they feel like they’ve got things figured out, they’re trying to tell us how things should run in Yugoslavia. But we’re not Italy, Bojan. And we don’t want them to tell us how to live, right?”
“Right,” Bojan said, nodding vigorously.
“Your uncle is just worried that might happen. We’ve heard rumors that Italy and Germany might decide to come here and force us to live like them.”
“But not nice Italians like your customers on Livada Street?” said Bojan.
“No, not like them. They’re good people who tried to get away from fascism because they didn’t like it,” said father, with a small smile.
“It would be sad if fascism came to them here too, wouldn’t it, Papa?” said Bojan, thinking of the kind lady and her almond cookies.
“Yes, Bojan, it would be very sad,” said Bojan’s father, again looking out the window toward the orange glow at the market. He paused and Bojan waited. Then it was like he had made up his mind about something. “I’ll just ring your uncle and see if he knows anything about what’s going on. He has a lot of friends who are getting information on this.”
Bojan turned to continue staring out the window as his father picked up the telephone and moved the rotary toward the number 6. Just then, there was a loud knock at the door. Bojan’s father stopped and put the phone down. Bojan watched his silhouette blankly face the door.
He silently strode across the room in a fraction of a second. As soon as the door was open a crack, Omar came spilling into the living room like he was made of liquid.
He was out of breath and his eyes darted around the room: first at his brother, then to the mostly cleaned kitchen and finally over to Bojan standing at the window, eyes wide for the second time that day.
“It’s… uhhhh…” he said, “It’s happening, Viktor.” He glanced again at Bojan as if asking permission.
Bojan’s father gave a sigh and said, “He already knows most of it already, Omar. Tell us what’s going on.”
“It’s the Rome and Berlin, Viktor,” said Omar breathlessly. “They entered the country earlier today and met nearly no resistance. They entered the city within the last few hours. I’ve heard they intend to set up Italian military offices here in Ljubljana.”
“Where?” asked Bojan’s father.
Omar leaned against the wall by the front door, “The new library.”
“Plečnik’s library? At the university?” said Bojan’s father, looking shocked.
“Yes, the fascist troops circled the city, broke into the government building, and surrounded the library. They intend to set up a war planning headquarters there because it’s new and empty. Viktor, they see it as the easiest place to move into.” Omar looked at the floor.
“What is being done about it?” asked Bojan’s father, making Omar’s head snap up.
“That’s what I came to tell you. We need men. When the soldiers retire to their encampment in Koseze, we plan to force them out.”
“How?” asked Bojan’s father.
Omar smiled tightly. “By making sure the building isn’t empty anymore.”
III.
Bojan and his father emerged from their apartment building wearing dark clothing and keeping to the shadows. Omar led them down the lively street toward the market at a fast pace. Bojan had to run to keep up.
“You stay very close to me, Bojan,” said his father. “I’m still not convinced I should let you come, but I think we might need you.”
As they went, neighbors approached Bojan’s father and uncle, exchanging hurried whispers. Despite his best efforts, Bojan couldn’t hear what they were saying. Some of the neighbors joined with them while others stayed behind in the quiet of the neighborhood.
A short distance from the market, in an ally with towering buildings on either side, Omar stopped and motioned for everyone to stay still and quiet. After a moment, a figure silently slunk around the corner of a building, away from the fading orange light. This time, Bojan had made sure he was close enough to hear what was said.
“They lit a bonfire in the square, right in front of the government building,” said the man, who was wearing a black wide brimmed hat and looked plain, unremarkable. “They notified the provincial government of their intention to occupy Yugoslavia indefinitely. They left for their overnight encampment about 30 minutes ago.”
“So, it’s now or never,” said Omar.
The man nodded solemnly.
Omar turned to the small gathering and spoke just loud enough for all to hear. “They’ve gone for the night. It’s now or never. Should we do this?”
The answer, both in nods and hissed affirmatives, was unanimous. Bojan felt a jolt of pride at his uncle and squeezed his father’s hand. He squeezed back.
Omar and the unremarkable man led the group around the corner and into the smoldering bonfire’s light. Besides the dying inferno, it looked normal for the late hour. It too was unremarkable.
After crossing the river, which looked like an unfathomable pit in the darkness, they found a much larger group of people fanning out along Gosposka street.
To the left, Bojan could just make out the new library building. It was mostly covered in red brick, Bojan remembered. But uneven pieces of grey stone jutted out from the red brick at random. It was massive and it made sense to Bojan that the Italians had chosen it for a headquarters. He would’ve as well.
Bojan was knocked out of his contemplation by his uncle Omar grabbing him by the shoulders and positioning him right next to his father, who was gazing down the street.
“Here’s your spot, Bojan,” said Omar with a smile and a hint of his old laugh. “Get ready because they’re coming.”
Bojan smiled back, then turned to look down the line of people that ran down the street. Hundreds of bodies lined up and disappeared in the early morning darkness. Bojan knew that the human chain ended at the old library on Poljane Street, about a kilometer away.
Soon, the books started coming. First just one at a time, but then two or three or four. Books were passing from person to person at rapid speed, but Bojan only caught sight of them between shadows. He took them from his father on one side and handed them to a man on his other side. Book after book passed by him this way. Eventually, all whispers subsided and all he could hear was the muffled sound of paper passing by hands.
In the quiet, Bojan was able to think for the first time in hours. He hadn’t considered that this might be dangerous until now and he looked out into the darkness. Directly in front of him was an alleyway that led down to the river, though he couldn’t see it now. The glass in the windows of the buildings on either side occasionally reflected the moonlight, casting an eerie glow toward him. He imagined soldiers stepping out of the shadows enveloped in the fog of fascism. He shuddered.
If soldiers were coming to invade their town and their country, Bojan wondered what they could possibly do to stop them. He knew that his people, the Slovenes, weren’t exactly fighters. They focused on poetry and art, not guns or bombs. What chance could they possibly have? How could they fight back and defeat fascism?
A cough somewhere in the darkness brought him back to his task. Could this be an answer? He and his fellow Ljubljančans were emptying the old library and transferring all the books to the new one. As uncle Omar had explained to him earlier that night, “If the fascists want a military headquarters, they’ll have to find one somewhere else. Hopefully they don’t want to occupy a building that’s already occupied with our books.”
Bojan couldn’t quite see how this was solving the problem of invasion, but as he noticed a faint light on the horizon, he grabbed another book from his father and passed it on.
IV.
Years later, the man stood on the same spot he had occupied for hours that spring night in the dark. He gazed up at the National and University Library now fully visible in the midday sun.
No longer a boy, Bojan’s chestnut hair was cut short, his ears fit his face, and he was a student at the University of Ljubljana. Whenever he could, he visited the library to study, to get lost in thought, and to remember.
That’s what he was doing as he approached the building. He remembered the next morning vividly. His uncle Omar came bursting through the door again, but this time with a booming laugh in front of him to announce his presence.
Bojan jumped out of bed, despite his tiredness, and ran to greet him along with his father. Omar excitedly told them what had happened with a huge smile stretched across his face.
That morning, the Italian fascists had returned to their new military headquarters to find a fully stocked library in its place. According to Omar, who’s friends had been watching closely, the Italians reemerged not too long after and took off in their jeeps.
Word quickly spread that they had another empty building on the outskirts of town that they could easily use to plan their occupation. The library was left alone.
At school that day, Bojan kept the secret of the night to himself. Though he was bursting to tell his friends what he had done, Omar and his father swore him to secrecy. All these years later, Bojan still hadn’t told a soul about that night.
During the war, Bojan would only occasionally see his hero and uncle, Omar, who was busy with the Liberation Front of the Slovene Nation. Sometimes he would pop back into Bojan’s life for a brief midnight visit, then disappear just as quickly as he had come.
Since the war ended, Bojan had only seen his uncle once. Right here, in fact, at the library. Omar had grabbed his shoulder while he was deep into a book, causing Bojan to jump.
“What are you reading down there, Bojan?” Omar asked with a booming laugh that drew frustrated glances in the reading room.
“Something your 40-year-old brain cannot even comprehend!” Bojan quipped.
Omar let out a mock gasp of outrage and pulled his nephew into a hug. When he was released, Bojan investigated his uncle’s face and saw lines that can only come from years of struggle and worry. He tried to memorize them.
He didn’t know where his uncle was now.
Bojan walked through the bottom floor of the library, which was dark and stuffy, completely encased in black marble. As he approached the stairway to the reading room, he thought again of that night. He remembered the questions on his mind as he passed thousands of books forward. His people liked poetry and art, not guns or bombs. How could they possibly fight back against fascism?
He reached his favorite part of the library: where the main staircase reaches the second floor reading room and everything becomes bright, with white marble and sunshine pouring in from the large, multistory wall of windows at the front of the room.
After all these years, he thinks he knows the answer, at least a little bit.
When the architect was designing the library, he had one guiding philosophy that he worked into the plans:
“From the twilight of ignorance to the light of knowledge and enlightenment.”
As Bojan basked in the light and opened his book, he thought to himself, “That is how you defeat fascism.”