'The killer is dead!' he said to them, in German, and they toasted one with him. Then the man pinched Vratno's arm and said something my mother said sounded like this:
Bolje grob nego rob!
Better a grave than a slave!
And Vratno looked startled, but not very - only a little; perhaps because he hadn't thought that he looked very much like a Yugoslav of any kind, sitting talking German, as he was, with a Viennese lady.
But the man went on: a little Serbo-Croat, and
a little German now and then - he was being polite to Hilke. He also put his arm around my father and, my mother guessed, wanted him to come for a drink somewhere, alone. But Vratno said, in German, how he didn't really want to leave his wife, even for a short while, or for a drink or two - or even to meet some more homelanders. But the whole thing was very gay until the man said something my mother said sounded like this:
Todor.
Just that, once or twice - all by itself, or in sentences of Serbo-Croat. Vratno looked startled again - this time, even very startled. But the man kept smiling all the time.
It was then that Vratno very rudely tried to whisper to my mother without the man hearing; it was something about how she should go to the ladies' room, find an open phone and call Watzek-Trummer just as quick as she could. But this man kept laughing and slapping Vratno's back, leaning over between my father's face and my mother's - so they couldn't really whisper with success.
It was then, my mother said, that the other man came in.
Hilke Marter-Javotnik had maintained that he was the biggest man she ever saw, and that when he came in, my father leaned across the table and kissed her hard on the mouth; got up, then, looked down at his feet, hesitated - but the first, smaller man said, in German, 'Your wife is very lovely, but she'll be safe - with me.' And Vratno looked up at the huge man and walked past him, right out the door.
The big one, whom the little one called Todor, went right out after my father.
The worst thing about the big one, my mother said, was that his face was lopsided - sort of chewed or blown off - and flecked with bluish scars; some, jagged, stuck like gum on his face, and some were of silver thinness, deep enough to tug and wrinkle the surrounding skin.
There wasn't anything wrong with the little one. He stayed and had a drink with her; then he went to bring back Vratno, he said, but never came back himself. And neither did my father.
My mother said that the Grand Prix racer was still parked in front of the Serbian restaurant, so Ernst Watzek-Trummer and Grandfather walked up to get it, chatting with Russian soldiers along the way.
'A big man,' Grandfather said to the soldiers. 'I think his name is Todor Slivnica. He's got bad scars, was grenaded in a car once. He's with my son-in-law, and maybe with another man too.' But no one had seen a soul - except, earlier, my mother walking home with a Russian soldier, the most gentlemanly-looking one she ran across; she'd dared to ask that he walk her home. He was a young one; in the last block, he'd held her hand, but I guess that was all he wanted.
The soldiers along the way had seen no one else all evening.
And when Grandfather and Trummer got to the Serbian restaurant, there was the racer outside, and inside there was a singer singing Serbo-Croat, and couples or dark groups of men clapping and singing along from their tables. Very gay.
But Watzek-Trummer thought the whole Serb joint was in league. He shouted. 'Todor Slivnica!' And the singer stopped; she wrung her hands. No one accused Watzek-Trummer of being rude; the waiters just shook and shook their heads.
They were about to leave when Grandfather said, 'Oh my God, Ernst.' And pointed out an enormous man sitting alone at a table by the door; he was beginning to eat a custard out of a little glass dish. They'd walked right by him when they came in.
So they moved in on the man, whose face the candlelight made as multi-colored, and multi-shaped as a semi-crushed prism.
'Todor Slivnica?' Watzek-Trummer asked. The big man smiled and stood up - an awesome yard, it seemed, above Grandfather and Ernst. Todor tried to bow, as if he were little.
My grandfather, not knowing any Serbo-Croat, could only say, 'Vratno Javotnik?'
And Todor let the blood flush his scars, made his whole face blink neonlike; taking up the little glass dish, he scooped the jiggling custard into his paw and spread his fingers out flat, with the custard quivering like a rare gift under Grandfather's nose, and then brought his other fist down on it - fop! and squeech!
Then Todor Slivnica sat down and smiled, a dollop of custard sliding into one of his deeper-grooved scars. And he gestured - to the custard on the walls, to the custard all over the table, all over Grandfather and Ernst, and even smoking on the pulled-low overhead lantern. Everywhere there was custard, Todor Slivnica pointed and smiled.
Where is Vratno Javotnik? Why he's here, on your nose, and here, on the lantern overhead - and even here! In space.
So Watzek-Trummer had remembered that, has kept it all straight in his mind, to interpret - the riddle of where my father went is tied up in Todor Slivnica's symbolic gestures. Todor, among other things, was known for his sense of humor.
The Twentieth Zoo Watch: Tuesday, 6 June 1967, @ 6.30 a.m.
AN INTERESTING THING. O. Schrutt has changed his clothes! Or not changed them, exactly, but he's disguised them. He's got a rain slicker on; it covers his nametag and epaulettes. And he has neatly, purposefully untucked his pants from his combat boots. It almost looks like he's wearing regular shoes - or, at least, just lifters.
O. Schrutt is getting ready for full daylight, and for the keepers who'll relieve him. O. Schrutt is not stupid; he takes good care of his indulgences. O. Schrutt will not likely be appearing as an addict in public. He's had his fix; he can outwardly endure a nonviolent day.