WIND OF CHANGE by SCORPIONS. Story by Jovan Ivancevic

 

Novi Sad, Yugoslavia (now Serbia), 1991

“Could you translate the song for me and help me learn the words?”

I am about to say what song, but in her current poor life there is only one song. All day the cassette is in the recorder, playing. It is the first time somebody has asked that, and I am a little proud that my knowledge in English is finally paying off.  The young ones tag along, both our siblings, her much younger sister and my brother – appropriately Scorpio in the zodiac. Pretty fast they all have learnt the song, most popular these days. Wind Of Change. One should praise the teacher, me of course. However, the truth is with so much repetition of the song, even the local cats would learn it real easy. And to add, there is nothing else to do, except a little schooling and waiting, and an awful amount of waiting for the news.

I follow the Moskva
Down to Gorky Park
Listening to the wind of change
An August summer night
Soldiers passing by
Listening to the wind of change

 Waiting for some good news, since the parents of the girls, Lara and Sara, are trapped back home, or to be precise, in the basement underneath the skeleton of the house, shelled and destroyed like everything in that ghost town – Vukowar. Even part of its name, in English, is bound to the worst possible human activity, which is at the same time very lucrative, heroic and desirable. I will be another piece of meat for the grinder out there, as soon as I am eligible; I will be 18 for Christmas.

The world is closing in
Did you ever think
That we could be so close, like brothers
The future’s in the air
I can feel it everywhere
Blowing with the wind of change

 Whole of Europe is uniting once again, but we are fighting and squabbling once again. Many ordinary people are caught between those warmongering minorities, forced to choose a side – if you aren’t with us, you are against us. Primitive and crude and very true in the world where guns are a virtue. One hundred men are needed to build a house, but only one, crazy and deranged, to obliterate it. Over here, things are different, since the builders are all gone and destroyers have prevailed.

Take me to the magic of the moment
On a glory night
Where the children of tomorrow dream away (dream away)
In the wind of change

 There are eight of us now, four original and four refugees. Nobody likes that word. Mother is the only one working, so she is out all day. Grandma, originally from Vukowar. The girls are her nieces, only descendants left from many of her brothers who perished in WWII. She is again in those days, praying to God to save the parents and at the same time wondering what will happen to Lara and Sara. The other pair of refugees is a cousin and her son, my age, but totally unconcerned about the situation, and the whereabouts of his own father.

“Let’s go to a club. Madonna is coming,” he says to me, out of the blue.

“Madonna is just the name of the night club. There is no news about your dad. Your mum is in agony. Anyhow, we don’t have any money.” I’m trying to avoid leaving in such tragic times.

He finds the means, so we go. We are enjoying ourselves and having a good time listening to some fine tunes, and only 40km away, there is fighting, barbaric struggle. Nobody cares, especially my “homie”. One girl talks to me, a special bulletin from the front. Apparently, over there it is “popular”, for husbands and wives of “mixed breed”, to decapitate a former lover’s head in the bedchamber. Very patriotic and the only way to prove one’s endearment of one’s homeland. In such a manner, as a replacement to my late father, I would be compelled to do it to my mother as my own patriotic duty, as she is also “one of them”. I shiver uncontrollably. Nothing better to cure one from patriotism than to listen to such nonsense.

“You are very poor, the whole region I mean,” my cousin tells me on the way back. Nothing about his father, just that. We aren’t all the same. That is clear.

Walking down the street
Distant memories
Are buried in the past forever
I follow the Moskva
Down to Gorky Park
Listening to the wind of change

 Back home, things are getting nasty. It is bound to happen, when there are too many people locked together. Sara won’t do her lessons, although I have repeatedly urged her to pick up the textbook.

“I want my mother. You aren’t my mother. Boohoo.”

That does it. Without thinking I grab her ass and slap it several times. More boohooing and a lot of crying. That happens when you put an inexperienced juvenile in charge. How to explain to an eight year old child that her mother is gone, probably dead in that stupid and silly war, or as they call it on the news – conflict?

Dark thoughts are all over me, as I remember another war story. Apparently, our guys are “forces”, which is an oxymoron in one word if it is possible. They can’t protect themselves, but they are sent there to guard and shield civilians. At least, that is said on the news, which we are watching all day and all night long.

“What is for breakfast, darling?”

 “Omelet with the wounded in bandages.” Or:

 “English breakfast together with the shelling of the old city of Dubrovnik.”

Any news, any contact to find out whether they are alive and kicking. In that story, which that girl from the club, Natasha, shared with me, our glorious “forces” were out of firewood. They used to take it from locals, whom they were supposed to defend. Out in the open, in the trenches, one could shelter someone from the enemy but not from the elements as well, as winter is coming. It is already October. It is one guy from my hometown`s turn, as he is gone to protect fellow Serbs from those bad Croatians. At least, the news, our encyclopedia, our mother and father, our Bible, is teaching us so. There is no need to elaborate on it, we are supposed to listen, obey and act accordingly.

The precious firewood is land-mined. Winter is harsh both on the locals and their protectors. The poor soldier had no chance. What was his last thought as he reached for the firewood? What was the last song he listened to? The Show Must Go On or Sympathy For The Devil? A cruel world this is.

A hand touches mine. Her eyes are red but she is smiling:

“Put on the song. I want to listen.”

The song replaces her mother. It gives shelter, hope and protection.

Children are amazing. Only half an hour later everything is forgotten and forgiven.

Take me to the magic of the moment
On a glory night
Where the children of tomorrow share their dreams (share their dreams)
With you and me
Take me to the magic of the moment

 Mother and father come after the city is liberated/occupied. It differs from your point of view, or the nationality of your blood cells. Again – the news. We are all celebrating, but 200 wounded people are shot behind the hospital.

The children can’t release their mother from the hug. Crying and smiling at the same time. Mother doesn’t talk much. She is always watching over her shoulders for Sara. She tries to spare the child from war stories. Maybe it is a mistake. After everything, maybe it is better to get it out in the open. But I say nothing; nobody does. Grandma is crying, even more than before. Her brain can’t comprehend the happy event, for too long it was feeding on disaster.

“Whoever was a good, proper man before the war, was the same during,” the only thing mother shares with us, catching a scarce moment when Sara is out of the room.

As I listen to the song, once again, all alone, I don’t desire the wind anymore, but a hurricane. A hurricane that will carry off all the weapons and all the wars of this world into oblivion.

Stereo Story #561