A grand race in a country that once was

by Isabella Chen (Spain)

I didn't expect to find Serbia

The simple white building rose out of the mist, standing over a low rise in the land. Its brutalist architecture spoke of a different time and different values. We stepped out into the bitter cold of January, wondering where my husband had taken us. "What is this place?" I asked. The fog was heavy, and I could feel its chilly tendrils seep through my coat. A sliver of anxiety rose in my stomach as I saw the last of our cab disappear behind a bend. "You'll see," Danijel said to my sister, her boyfriend and me. "I hope you guys will like it." He seemed a little nervous as if worried we wouldn't like where he'd brought us. We entered the building. It was as simple on the inside as it was outside. I finally deciphered where we were, from the few plaques lining the walls of the modest lobby. The House of Flowers is an ethereal place. Light streams in from its glass ceiling, filling the mausoleum even on the greyest of days. A passage, lined with tropical plants (a luxury, given Serbia's harsh winters), leads from the main entrance straight to the imposing slab of marble centred in the other end. Printed on its surface, in gold letters, is the name "Josip Bronz Tito, 1892 -1980". A giant of the 20th Century and one of the most important figures of the Cold War, his name today stirs either feelings of fondness or animosity. But for those who make the pilgrimage here, including my husband, Tito remains a memory of a better time. While exploring the alcoves surrounding the grave, we came upon a collection of six batons. In these six batons, I learned the history of Yugoslavia. Each baton had passed through countless hands, from children living in large cities like Belgrade to those from small villages in the provinces. Each had travelled miles in a specific year for the Relay of Youth, to arrive into Tito's hands for his birthday. The final baton which ran the last race in 1987 is particularly poignant. Made of clear acrylic, it is unadorned, save for eight red dots, symbolising blood, and a falling leaf imprinted with the star of communism. Four years after it completed its race, Yugoslavia fell apart, violently. Leaving the tranquillity of the House of Flowers, we made our way to the Museum of Yugoslavia a few meters up the hill. There is a musty smell here, and it feels like we have stepped into an attic filled with wonderful curiosities. Its simple architecture reminded me of a country barn, an effect which made the treasures inside all the more unexpected. Here, in this plain, unassuming place, lay gifts to Tito from every nation. Among its collection are lunar fragments from the Apollo moon landing, and an Egyptian statuette from the 6th Century BC. As we walked through the long hall, surrounded by cabinets filled with priceless things, we came to a chest housing many batons. There was a great variety of them, from simple wooden rods to silver sculptures inlaid with glass. "Youth Relay Batons", the sign informed us. "Hey!" Danijel said, surprised. "I carried one of these!" "What? Which one?" I asked, excited that the dusty objects in front of me were a part of his living memory. "Oh, ah, I was probably between seven and ten, so it's one of these". Danijel gestured to the batons in front of him. "You can't remember which one you carried?" I was shocked. "It must have been such a grand event! How could you forget?" He pondered over the three batons. I could feel him trying to recall the weight and feel of it in his hands, all those years ago. In my imagination, a scene formed: of a little boy, poised and ready to run his stretch of road, excited to represent his city. After some moments, he sighed. "You know, all I can remember was how terrified I was of dropping it." Later on, while sipping coffee in the museum café, I listened in on the conversations of the other visitors. Although I couldn't understand the language, I could feel the nostalgia in their voices.