From the roof of the Gazi Husrev-beg Madrasa, if you look toward Ilidža, you can see the illuminated tower of the Sarajevo Cathedral. Beside it stretches Ferhadija Street, and a little farther on, Tito Street, where impatient drivers honk late into the night. From the third floor, through a small window that opens onto the slippery copper roof, we used to climb out after the dorm lights went dark and the night supervisor settled into his room, television on.
In the morning, he would wake us loudly for sabah—the early prayer—to which many responded groggy and unwilling. In attempts to avoid the bleary walk to the Bey’s Mosque, students resorted to remarkably inventive solutions. Ideas were never in short supply. Beneath the creaking bunk beds there was just enough space for a scrawny boy’s body to slip into, blanket and pillow included. Others locked themselves inside wardrobes. Some curled up and stayed there another two or three hours, until breakfast and classes, when roommates—by accident or on purpose—left them forgotten.
Our lives, then, revolved in the same circle, between the same walls, among the same faces, day after day. With clearly defined rules of behavior and movement. That is why, among other things, we sometimes escaped onto the roof. Or into some corner where we could be far from the probing eyes of dissatisfied professors. To the third floor—the so-called annex—where we smoked by a half-open window while one of us kept watch on the stairs. Without a lookout, it could happen that the steel figure of the headmaster would appear out of nowhere.
The headmaster was fear itself for anyone who crossed the line between what was permitted and what was forbidden. And there was, of course, far more forbidden than allowed. First you would hear his nasal voice, then his icy face would slowly appear—large black eyes, a piercing stare. A stare that made knees buckle and tongues knot.
“What are you doing, boys?” he would ask rhetorically, circling with his hands behind his back like a predator around stunned prey.
“Aha. Standing and smoking. Is that right?! Standing and smoking! Standing and smoking! Standing and smoking!”
I don’t remember him ever giving lectures like other professors did. He would simply repeat the same carefully chosen sentence—some phrase known only to him, pulled from some private context—so that without further explanation we knew exactly what awaited us the next day. At the very least: reduced conduct marks, conversations with the homeroom teacher and dorm supervisor. For a few minutes of relaxation, there would follow difficult talks with parents and the inevitable labeling.
From the direction of Trebević, if we turned toward the Bey’s Mosque, the wind was stronger. Our skinny bodies nearly slid. Fear of heights kept us away from the steep edges, from which you could see people on late-night quests for momentary comfort. On such nights, we too longed for the freedom that fluttering hearts of beardless teenagers found there. Being on the roof meant rising above the everyday.
If we sat down, it was more comfortable—for conversation and for cigarettes. In our hands, vending-machine coffee, which we blew on after every sip. In our gazes, an insatiable desire to spill out into the street. Into the night, until sabah. Only one black thought stopped us.
“What if Brada catches us now?”
We’d be flying out of school tomorrow—that’s what!
“Shut up and enjoy,” says one of us, bolder than the rest, and clearly more prepared for such ventures.
Brada is the new evening supervisor. A massive man with a serious, rounded face and a thick dark beard. When he walks, each step claims imaginary territory in the daily struggle with students. He knew all our boyish tricks and made that clear from the very beginning. In the first mornings alone, without hesitation, he dragged individuals out from under beds like sacks of flour. Those hiding in wardrobes he confirmed with a powerful fist that he knew they were there, calling them out by name.
On the way back, we are even quieter. We drag one foot after another, out of caution, out of fear that something might clatter and wake the entire dormitory.
“Let’s sneak in one more,” someone says.
“Come on, just one more and we’ll go.”
We light another, on the other side of the roof, from where the large madrasa gate is visible—the one we first walked through two years ago. Nearby, that small window through which we’ll slip back into safety, and then into sleep.
“Do you remember when Bošnjo said, at the first parents’ meeting, that this would pass for us boys in a snap?”
“I remember. How could I not?”
“You know what—Bošnjo talks shit, like always.”
“This will never pass for me. Never.”
“Four years, brother. Like forty.”
“Either way, it’s almost over, God willing.”
“God willing, of course.”
“Let’s go—who’s getting up for class tomorrow?”
“Bošnjo’s first for us!”
“Turčin for us—worse yet!”
When we slipped back inside, silently, we exhaled—unaware of the dark secret of the third floor. A sudden cough, moments later, revealed Brada’s massive figure and his bloated face.
“Peace be upon you, boys. Had a good talk?”
“Alright then—let’s slowly write a statement.”
“One by one.”