Short Stories

by the same author

A STORY OF TWO EUROPES
written and published in 2023
2nd Prize at the Writers’ Festival of Belgium Short Story Competition

ZERBST, DUCHY OF ANHALT, GERMAN EMPIRE, 1911

When Hildegard let out her first cry, it could be heard all the way to Zerbst Castle, the childhood home of the legendarily strong-willed Catherine the Great. On that hot August day, the officers and their families living at the barracks, including little Hilde’s parents and siblings, paused for a moment, taken aback by the newborn’s powerful voice.

Contrary to Ida’s and Otto’s worries, the late and unexpected addition to their family of four was anything but frail. Like the Prussian Princess Catherine II before her, this roly-poly girl was less of a cherub and more of an ebony-haired lion cub, in accord with her astrological sign. Her dark, sparkling eyes and vivacity brought great joy to her family. As the household’s baby, she learned to walk to the sound of her brother and sister playing the piano, and of her father playing the violin, when he wasn’t busy providing for his family as a royal gunsmith.

They often reminisced about those happy days when, just a few years later, the First World War broke out and put an end to their brightness and happiness. Her mother’s light-hearted nature gave way to a furrowed brow, while her father seemed to be ageing by decades.

As Europe’s lands were changing hands, and one set of rulers was exchanged for another, the family’s relatives slowly made their way from their native Danzig and Strassburg to cities within the new borders of Germany. And yet, despite the heavy atmosphere at home and the rationing of food, Hilde always managed to keep her spirits up. The lively girl was light on her feet, was known for her nimble fingers on the piano keys and, as the most gifted swimmer on her team, she dove into the twenties and thirties with all her heart.

After successfully finishing her music studies, she finally found the time to look closer at her many admirers. And there he was, Otto! Not only did he bear the same name as her father but he resembled him, too. He was tall, slender, elegant, and full of wit. He may not have been a musician but some called young Otto a finance artist.

MASLINICA, ISLAND OF ŠOLTA, KINGDOM OF SERBS, CROATS, AND SLOVENES, 1922

On this first day of spring in Maslinica, a tiny village on the Adriatic island of Šolta, Marija gave a final push, and her baby came into this world. She was a welcome girl in a family with three boys, and was named Vesna after the Slavic goddess of spring. Her first cry was more of a whimper, as she was a puny little thing.

Island life was hard, but Vesna’s parents did all they could to make sure she survived the first years, which were critical for kids on Šolta. Three more siblings followed her into this tight-knit family. The Mediterranean climate was harsh. The summers were arid, and the winters humid with icy winds.

Like all the children around her, Vesna had to work as soon as she could walk, carrying large baskets filled with fish on her head, and selling the day’s catch from village to village. Still, she was allowed to go to school, and during those delightful hours spent in a small classroom with thirty pupils of all age groups, she came to be known as the brightest mind. Across the island, she was renowned for her beauty and clear singing voice.

One day, an Italian sailor, himself from a musical family, heard her sing and begged Vesna’s family to let her attend a music academy in Zagreb. But she was needed at home. Food and money were scarce, and the family could not do without their hard-working wiry girl. The island, though unrelenting, also offered the young girl moments of laughter and joy.

She was only thirteen when she gazed upon a handsome sailor, native to Maslinica. She enquired about him and learned that his name was Nikola, that he was twenty-two and unattached. He was well known for being honourable, hard- working, and smart. Vesna soon fell in love with him and decided that one day she would marry him.

KIRCHHAIN-DOBERLUG, PROVINCE OF BRANDENBURG, GERMAN REICH, 1944

In the final stages of the Second World War, Hilde’s home was occupied by Russian officers on their victorious march towards Berlin. The young mother of two was saved by music in more ways than one. The commanding officer, a passionate music lover, forbade his men to touch Hilde as long as she agreed to play for them every night. She was one of few women in the region whose virtue was spared by the Russians.

One evening, as she was desperately trying to breastfeed her baby, the officers called for her to come play the piano. She reluctantly put her daughter back in the crib and made her way downstairs to play with a heavy heart.

The only thing that kept her going was the letter she had just received from Otto. She had not heard from him in months, and her growing fear for his safety had become almost unbearable. While playing Brahms, Chopin, Beethoven, and some Russian folk dances that evening, she was thinking of her husband’s letter.

Hildchen, dearest,

Many months have passed since I was last able to sit down and write. I think of you and our children every day. Has our baby come into this world yet? How very much I long to see all of you! I do hope that you are all well. And you, my dearest, how are you bearing being the head of the family? What you must be going through! I wish I could have taken you far away before this war started, to keep you safe from all the suffering.

I have just been posted on a paradisiac island in the Adriatic Sea. In normal times, I could have considered myself lucky to be here.

But I cannot enjoy anything as long as this war continues and I am far away from you. I try to remain healthy, even though the Italians took all the food when they left the island. A few days ago, we received the order to evacuate the locals to the mainland. I spotted a young woman with thick black hair, just like yours. She was heavily pregnant, and I made sure she was able to make it aboard the ship that was taking them to safety. She reminded me so much of you.

The news we receive from the home front worry me exceedingly. Be patient, dearest, I am sure that I will soon be able to join you. For now, I wish you courage and strength until we are united again.

With all my heart,
Your Otto

A tear rolled down her cheek as she remembered the scream of air raid sirens in unison with her baby girl’s first cry. How could Otto imagine what his daughter’s first days on Earth had been like? Hilde had left the hospital on the outskirts of Berlin with her newborn in her arms, to join her two-year-old son, left in her sister’s care in Zerbst. That very day, the Berlin streets had been on fire from heavy Allied bombing, and she had started to doubt whether they would make it out of this inferno alive. Somehow, she had found the strength to walk with blistered and bloody feet, finding shelter for a few hours in some basement. She had even managed to shut out the sound of bombs for a moment, by closing her eyes and remembering her Italian honeymoon with Otto. In the end, Hilde and her baby had found their way back to her family, and her son had finally met his little sister, Birgit.

As a Russian officer sat down by her side to accompany her at the balalaika, Hilde was brought back to the present moment. She finished playing this last piece at the piano and then folded the lid over the keys. While walking up the stairs that night, Otto’s hearty laugh rang in her head, and she smiled.

SPLIT, REGION OF DALMATIA, KINGDOM OF YUGOSLAVIA, 1944

Vesna was sitting in a dark basement, which served as a bomb shelter, as she lit a candle. She pulled out a piece of paper and pen and started writing a letter to her beloved, away fighting their just war as a Yugoslav Partisan.

My love,

I don’t know where you are. I hear about the savage battles against the occupier and the Ustashi, and I tremble for you. My Miko, I don’t know if this letter will ever reach you or if you will ever know that we have a son. I did not really want to bring a child into this world, which is on fire, but he was determined to be born.

If only we could have been married before you had to leave for the front, my mother wouldn’t have thrown me out. She didn’t believe me when I told her you were going to marry me. I thank the good Lord for your mother, who took me in as one of her own. How I cried, my Miko, remembering all the dreams we had that might never come true. But now, my only concern is keeping our little boy healthy and strong.

I named him Miroslav, in the hope that peace will return very soon and bring you back to me, safe and sound.

I dearly miss you. I love you. I pray for you.

Come back to me soon.
Your Vesna

MASLINICA, ISLAND OF ŠOLTA, FEDERAL PEOPLE’S REPUBLIC OF YUGOSLAVIA, 1946

As he stood on the deck of the boat, bringing him home after years of gruesome battles, Nikola locked eyes with a sprightly boy of two, whom he recognised right away as his son. Vesna and Nikola were married that year.

It wasn’t the wedding Vesna had dreamed of as a young girl. It took place at the town hall instead of St. Nicholas Church, she was wearing a simple skirt suit instead of a traditional wedding dress, and, of course, she had never imagined that their son would already exist and be attending the ceremony.

Thereafter, the couple never spoke of their wartime ordeals. Vesna never told her husband how their son had almost died because she had no milk, as a result of hunger and stress. She also kept silent about the days and nights spent in basements, in complete darkness, while bombs were falling over their heads; when she thought she would go mad.

Nikola never said a word about the horrors he had witnessed while fighting a guerrilla war against armed and structured armies. Vesna would never know that he had had to kill men with his bare hands. Only his nightmare screams, which continued for years, reminded them of those years they tried so hard to put behind them.

BRUSSELS, KINGDOM OF BELGIUM, 1974

As she licked the stamps for the letters to their parents, Birgit looked over at Miroslav. He smiled back and winked.

‘Here we go!’ she said, before putting the sealed envelopes in her bag and leaving their house to post the letters. The contents of both were the same, but one was written by Birgit to her mother in German, while the other was in Croatian, and was written by Miro to his parents.

Miroslav means the celebration of peace.

Dear family,
The day you have all been waiting for is finally coming. At long last, Birgit and Miroslav are getting married!

We are delighted to invite you to our wedding, which will take place at the Saint- Gilles town hall on 30 August 1974. We dearly wish to have you by our side for this important event, so we will send you tickets to travel to Brussels.

And a special guest will be with us that day. Not fully baked, not fully ready, but somehow there, you will be able to welcome your first grandchild in the making. Hurrah!

We send you all our love and await you with open arms in our new home.

Birgit and Miroslav

Hilde arrived at Brussels-Midi Train Station, after a six-hour journey from Hanover. She had been living there since 1951, after illegally crossing the East-West border to join Otto in Western Germany. Upon her arrival in Brussels, she pushed along two heavy suitcases, filled with gifts and food, on a trolley.

Birgit met her at the station, and as they sat in the car, Hilde started complaining, as always, about the tiresome journey. But then, she turned to her daughter and told her how radiant she looked.

At the same time, Miroslav was picking his parents up from Zaventem Airport. It had taken them twenty-four hours to travel from the island of Hvar, where they had been living since 1950; first via Split by boat, then via Zagreb by car, and finally to Brussels by plane.

It was their first time on an aeroplane and their first visit to Belgium, where their eldest son had moved for his doctoral studies. When they spotted his curly head in the crowd, they went to hug him, his mother commented on his pale complexion, as usual, and then they were off to Saint-Gilles.

That evening, just one week ahead of the wedding, they all gathered around Birgit’s and Miro’s plentiful dinner table. Luckily, the parents shared their love of good food, wine, and a great sense of humour. The young couple had feared that communication between their parents would be difficult, due to linguistic and cultural barriers. But with Vesna’s basic knowledge of German, thanks to the German tourists they rented guest rooms to each summer, with Nikola’s fondness of physical comedy, and Hilde’s infectious laughter, everyone was in high spirits.

After dinner, Vesna helped clear the dishes from the table, and on her way to the kitchen, she noticed some framed pictures on the wall. One portrait caught her attention. She held her breath as her hand flew over her mouth.

‘Who is this?’ she asked.

Birgit returned from the kitchen, looked at the picture, and replied, ‘This is my father. He died in 1956.’

Vesna asked how he died, and Birgit explained that he had never recovered from his time as a prisoner of war in Russia.

Vesna looked at the photo more closely and slowly said, ‘I know this face!’ She walked back to her chair, followed by her daughter-in-law, who looked perplexed.

The generally cheerful atmosphere at the table gave way to a heavy silence.

Looking at the four questioning faces, Vesna recounted her memories of the evacuation of Šolta in 1944, mere days before Miroslav’s birth. She hadn’t been able to get on the ship because the gangway was broken, and she was too heavy to jump over the large gap. Several German soldiers, wanting to save time during this emergency clearance, had said she should be left on the island. But one soldier of higher ranking had insisted they get a stretcher to carry her onto the ship.

That night in 1974 in Brussels, Vesna recognised Otto as the soldier who had saved her life and that of her unborn child, thirty years earlier.

In December 1974, a little black-haired boy was born at St. Peter’s Hospital in Brussels. He was named Mikula, after his paternal great-grandfather. He grew up in multicultural, multilingual Brussels, speaking French at school, German with his mother, and Croatian with his father. He was raised with a deep awareness of his cultural heritage, both good and bad. He learned to live with the weight of the Nazi German past, and with the disintegration of the Yugoslavia he loved.

Mikula always preferred to look to the future rather than to his family’s complicated past. He lived his life in the present tense until his own daughter started asking questions about her heritage. So, he decided to write the story of his grandpar- ents for her; of the three grandparents he had gotten to know, who all died just years apart from each other, and that of the grandfather he only knew through anecdotes told by relatives. When he was done transcribing the extraordinary interwoven paths of these two sides of his family, he agreed to take his daughter on a journey to find her roots.

First, they travelled to Hvar, to Vesna’s and Nikola’s graves, where they had been laid to rest, side by side. Then he took her to where Hilde’s ashes were buried alongside her long- gone husband’s, in Lower Saxony.

On their way back home, the father and his young daughter talked about the countries Mikula’s grandparents were born in, which no longer existed. They talked about wars and peace, despair and hope, and about all the personal tales that will forever remain untold. The girl looked over at her father and concluded that somehow, his family’s history was that of two Europes that became one.

Short story published as part of a collection of short stories that you can ORDER HERE

MAKE US SHINE
written in 2023

Childhood dreams

When I was seven years old, I had a day off school, so my mom took me to work since she couldn’t find anyone to look after me. She was working at the European Parliament as a secretary, and she had to prepare hundreds of copies of reports for political party members. This was before the age of computers, so all the documents had to be printed, copied, stapled, and inserted in envelopes by hand. My task for the day was to staple huge stacks of paper with an impressively powerful electric stapler. This was so exciting that I enthusiastically announced to my mother that I wanted to be a secretary, too, when I grew up. My mother laughed and, with a slight look of dread, replied: “Please don’t.” I later came to understand that she had quit working as a freelance journalist to raise her kids and, as a single mom, she had traded in her passion for the secure and stable job of secretary.

If there is a God, (S)He must have been listening to me that day, because, for thirteen of the past twenty-five years, I have been a secretary – or “assistant” as we are now called. I can’t help but note that God must have been sleeping when I said, with equal fervor, that I wanted to be an opera singer, a dancer, a Chinese translator, and many other professions I dreamed of doing over the years. But the fact is that being an admin assistant was a profession that always allowed me to find employment in between gigs in creative sectors, which was my true passion all along.

The long and winding road

After a three-year flirtation with the world of political science, during which I pictured myself someday writing a comparative biography of Hitler and Stalin, I realised that I was much too intense and emotional for the world of politics. I was full of ideals and dreamed of changing the world in any modest way I could, but revealing new perspectives on what drives humans to become monsters through political analysis was not going to be my path. Since my overactive brain had always found reprieve in music and dance, which immersed me in other worlds, it didn’t take too long for me to figure out that I could change perceptions and minds through the arts.

My journey took me to theatre and film, and soon enough, I was working on musicals, which I expected would become my career. There, I found my place among people who were as intense, committed, and passionate as I was. But, as anyone who has ever worked in performing arts can tell you, regardless of your talent or willpower, not many manage to earn a decent living working in creative fields, especially as writers or directors. And so, I was happy enough to easily find temporary jobs as an assistant in between contracts on plays and films.

One day, after work, as I was changing to go to rehearsals, I remember laughing at my “costume change” from a proper, square assistant to a somewhat flamboyant artiste. Although I was never interested in being an actress, I felt like I was playing a part when working in offices. I had my “super assistant” outfit, was wearing my assistant’s smile on my face, and always pretended to be a little bit dumb. No boss wants an assistant who outsmarts him or her! But I often enjoyed these short-term contracts, because they were teaching me different ways of doing things. With each new contract, I gained knowledge about many industries, which helped me to better understand how the world works. In these interim positions, I was also often seen as a savior of sorts, which was very gratifying, as I was mostly hired to replace someone on sick leave or a sudden departure. I was a crisis solver who loved creating a pleasant atmosphere in the office, so I was welcomed with open arms into each new company or organisation.

Nonetheless, I had always assumed that one day, I’d end up living on what I was earning as a writer-director, and later a cultural activist. Being an assistant was never a career choice for me. It was something I was doing to cover the financial gaps left by my chosen occupation. Unfortunately, my dedication to causes and arts always surpassed my ability to negotiate a good salary for myself, even when I was my own boss. Over the eight years that I ran my non-profit organisation, whose mission it was to demystify Roma and combat antigypsyism through cultural events, I made sure everyone got paid – except me.

Motherhood

When I was in my thirties, I moved back to Europe and found that interim jobs were more scarce on the old continent. So I got a long-term contract as an assistant and decided that I would just quit as soon as I could live on my cultural activities. But before that happened, I became a mother.

Giving birth to a daughter made me realise that I didn’t want her to follow in my footsteps. I didn’t want to see a third generation of girls in my lineage become an assistant despite herself. I was intent on showing her that another path was possible, so I started a small business. I was struggling to make ends meet, having to endlessly prospect for new clients, working evenings and weekends. I really did enjoy my work, but it was hard raising my child while trying to get the business off the ground. So I joined an association of mothers who are entrepreneurs to find support from other women in the same situation as me. We were all very enthusiastic and idealistic, but when I asked them how they managed to combine work and family life, almost all of them replied that their partners were the primary breadwinners in their homes. This was not the case in my home.

Not long after that, I went from being an entrepreneur mum to being a solo entrepreneur mum. My husband and I got divorced and he moved abroad. That’s when I realised that I needed to find a stable nine-to-five job again if I was going to be there for my daughter. So, despite all my principles and ideals, I accepted yet another contract as an assistant – something I had vowed never to do again. Unless I really had to.

Icarus

This time, though, I joined an exciting company, whose values and employees inspired me. I didn’t particularly like my job as such, but I was learning a lot from my highly skilled colleagues, and the fast-paced and dynamic work culture was like a shot of adrenalin for me. Soon after I was hired, I came to understand that my job was much more than that of a regular assistant. I quickly came to wear three hats for the price of one. Although my multiple roles were not reflected in my salary nor my agreement, it did make my daily work increasingly interesting. As my boss Delphine, who was a few years my junior, was on a prolonged leave of absence, I was encouraged to get involved in lots of projects as part of my work. I started gaining visibility in the company, and I was hearing rumours that I might transition to the role of a coordinator. Finally, I saw a possibility for me to move upwards from a position of assistant. But then, Delphine came back. She soon realised that I had been spreading my wings under her peers’ mentorship, all the while also receiving excellent reviews from my colleagues across the board. This made her visibly nervous.

Administrative Professionals Day

So on one April 17th, also known as Administrative Professionals Day*, she sat me down and explained that the part of my role that had been extended to include more autonomy, responsibility, and visibility, would be amputated. I would revert to an ever more administrative position. She announced that I would be supporting a second manager, and any project I had become involved in as a coordinator would have to be aborted. I felt like I had been punched in the gut. When she saw my face, she asked why I wasn’t happy about this, since she had warned me during my initial job interview that my work would not be creative. As she got up to leave, she turned around and added: “By the way, happy Assistants’ Day!” I gave a hollow laugh, to which she replied, with no trace of irony: “Don’t laugh. You are very important… because you make us shine!”

I believe she meant it as praise, as she didn’t possess the empathy needed to realise how condescending she sounded. This one sentence awakened in me an overwhelming feeling of bitterness and cynicism. It was a mix of anger and sadness, at how my position meant I had to swallow degrading comments without having the option of replying if I wanted to keep my job. As a single parent raising my child by myself, I couldn’t afford to explain to my boss how her comment was the opposite of a compliment. How the fact that she saw any admin assistants’ only value in making “their betters” shine implied that we were not entitled to having our own ambitions. It meant that the way we did our work, rather than making us shine should solely be reflected in our managers’ worth. And yet, in that very company, all the assistants were extremely smart and resourceful, mostly far above average on any level of the corporate ladder. Some were indeed valued and praised by their bosses for it. But many were not.

Putting things into perspective

Over two decades of professional experience, I juggled between the roles of assistant and those of theatre director, producer, and festival founder. I had been invited as a renowned speaker at events across Europe and Canada and had been a resourceful and subservient assistant in various companies and NGOs. I had been the one who was applauded and the one who brought beverages into meeting rooms for Board Members. This gave me a unique perspective on the experience of being managed by Delphine who, to this day, remains the worst boss I’ve ever had – even though there were several who were close seconds.

The experience of being an assistant taught me a lot about people and how they behave when they are in a position of power. There truly are only two ways to lead. One is by controlling and pushing others down, and the other is by guiding and pulling others up. Managing does not mean that you are superior. I have had proof enough of that with several of my bosses. What it should mean is that you have the skills and abilities to manage people towards reaching goals that, when a team functions well, have been identified collectively.

What was most surprising to me with Delphine was that she played by the rules of foregone centuries. According to her set of values, directors, and managers were part of the elite or ruling class in a professional context, while assistants were servants. We were there to serve, obey, and make “our betters” shine, just as servants are expected to make the family silver shine.

Give her flowers

Another Assistants’ Day that comes to mind happened a decade earlier. While on my way to work, I saw a banner above a flower shop that read: “Failing to give your assistant a raise, give her flowers”. I took a picture of it not because this line felt exaggerated, but rather because it was so brutally honest while being passed off as humour. It felt very much like a cruel joke on all of us assistants.

It so happened that a mere two months earlier, I had come to work and done fourteen-hour workdays in preparation for our annual conference, despite being sick. I had gone above and beyond to ensure that everything would be ready for the conference and that it could run smoothly. After all my efforts, and even after having done a chart detailing how much money my business decisions were saving the organisation, instead of a raise or a bonus, I was given… flowers. That bouquet remained on my desk at work until it dried up so that I could finally put it in the bin – where it belonged. My then-boss, who was incidentally also a woman, seemed offended that I did not want to bring the flowers home. Like Delphine, she could not imagine that to me, that lovely bouquet was a reminder of the thick glass ceiling that assistants could not break through to access higher positions, regardless of their qualifications. It was a symbol of my place as a lower being within that structure; one who should be contended with flowers instead of monetary compensation. I sometimes wondered if she would have given flowers to me, had I been a male assistant.

The cannibals

In the assistants’ world, we tell each other jokes highlighting the fact that we are the overlooked base of every organisation and corporation. My favourite one is about a group of cannibals who infiltrate a company, disguised as regular employees. One by one, they eat the white-collar workers, until one day, an emergency meeting of the cannibals is called by their leader. He shouts out: “Which one of you idiots ate the VP’s assistant? Because of you, we will be found out!” One member timidly raises his hand. The enraged leader adds: “Why did you have to go and eat someone whose absence will actually be noticed?!” I still love that joke because, while working as an interim assistant and doing temporary replacements in various companies, I have seen the non-negligible repercussions an assistant’s unplanned absence can have on the whole structure.

The assistants are the first line of defense, they are the filters and organisers for the decision-makers of the company. They know and keep all the secrets, hence the term “secretary”. They make sure that the right people get meetings with the bosses, and they gently filter out unwanted contacts. They are the go-between and the edge smoother for the boss and staff. Often, they also do all the research to allow their boss to make informed decisions on any given issue. Therefore, they truly are essential to any organisation.

She has cats

And yet, assistants are often still treated as an easily replaceable human resource. Assistants are often picked based on their typing skills, their ability to use Microsoft Office and their looks. They should also preferably be either junior, to not expect a high salary, or quite senior, to not risk getting pregnant during their contract. Another former boss meant to be reassuring when he gladly announced that the new assistant he was planning to hire, despite being in her early thirties, had cats and would therefore be unlikely to get pregnant anytime soon.

I have seen very few companies where a short-sighted approach, hiring underqualified assistants, or preventing upward mobility for assistants, was left behind in the twentieth century where it belongs. Even when the company culture supposedly promotes advancement for all office staff, it makes an exception for administrative assistants. Again, I wonder if this would be the case if these roles were not held by women 90% of the time. We all know that women are still generally less inclined to lean in and that they are more likely to choose roles that are low enough on the social ladder to provide flexibility, allowing them to be mothers as well as breadwinners.

Being an assistant is a valid and valuable choice for many individuals, and they should be treated with the respect and appreciation they deserve. They should also be paid according to their true value to the company, which is rarely the case. Assistants are essential to the proper running of absolutely every organisation, group, or corporation. However, there are also many assistants who, by learning unique skills as part of their role, and by being particularly observant, extend their knowledge about the organisation beyond what is required of them, and they sometimes wish to move on to roles higher up the ladder. These employees should have the same opportunities to grow as any higher-ranking colleague, from coordinators upwards. But both of these options are still rarely practiced in companies across the globe.

Today, as I am taking a much-needed creative break from money-earning jobs once again, I can only hope that I will not have to go back to being an assistant in the future… not because I think poorly of them (or us), but rather because the world around still looks down on, and truly underestimates these essential professionals.

*“Administrative Professionals Day (also known as Secretaries Day or Admins Day) is a day observed yearly in a small number of countries. (…) The day recognizes the work of secretaries, administrative assistants, executive assistants, personal assistants, receptionists, client services representatives, and other administrative support professionals. Typically, administrative professionals are given cards, flowers, chocolates, and lunches.”

Source: Wikipedia

Share this: