Every city, and often a place, has its own trademark. The Tower of Pisa, the Big Ben in London, the Eiffel Tower in Paris, the Statue of Liberty in New York ... The Peas in Kozara Puteva ...

I guess it was called Rajko, al, as he was dragged in dusty streets lurking with a cognac, someone nicknamed his nickname "Rajče" so I remember it.

The story is just like Balašević, because Rajče "has everything, nothing to do". I mean, his intent was extremely good. He packed up one day, kissed his wife and children, and went out into the white world to make some money and grab the neighbors in a new home in BiH. Nothing in Rajče was bigger and brighter than Zagreb, but he wanted the refuge to be found in Kozara Puteva by the "jarana" who had already put their way to a better future. Stoned by the bright lights of the highland, Rajca celebrated his wages with beers and lilac wafers, so the dinar intended for the plaster and roof of the house in Bosnia slowly began to melt in alcoholic waves and morning haze.

Because of her throbbing through the Quartovsky streets, the children experienced it as a kind of buggy mana:

"Let's go, go to Rajas", they often heard from their mouths.

But he never was afraid of me. Instead, he infinitely pushed me ...

Although, I guess, no one has ever seen a triumphant one, they all liked it (except the scared kids). He was a good, pure, and lost soul who for the sake of his weakness the family forever abandoned. The quart, however, is never.

I do not know, actually, or where he slept, even though in some of his mornings I could find out about his stuffy little body surrounded by "cobwebs" of Badel's cobwebs, skewed by the canal or the "Food" - then the only shop. But I know well who cared for his "styling" and kept him shaved and cropped.

My dad.

A self-styled master-bridal hairdresser, Brico, who with high professionalism in the garage beside the olive-grove "spit" almost the whole neighborhood, (all the same hairstyle) was always happy to cut Rajceta. Free, of course. I remember my old man always offering him a cup, but only once. Because only two were enough to end up at Rajetta's end, losing contact with reality and equilibrium. Dad was able to listen to his life for hours, and I would often be strolling around in the garage because of the fascination with their relationship "lifted the ears". And this scenario would always end the same thing: The crusts from a dirty coat honestly wind up millennia, and the old man pushes them back into his pocket.

I do not know exactly how and where he died. I just know that a special historical stage of my quash has died with him and that his trademark still seems to be remembered today. And hope that the worse, in a better world, even though he built a house in dreams. Big, biggest, what BiH did not see until now ...

Author: Snježana Vučković