I am writing this on Veterans Day, and I’m thinking of my grandfather, Robert Bruce McMullen. He was the tank captain of a battalion of seven men in the second wave of the D-Day Invasion on Omaha Beach in Normandy, France. His tank was on a landing ship that was bombed by the Nazis while it was approaching the shore. The boat capsized and the tank turned upside down in the water. Because of military chain-of-command, his battalion told him that, as a captain, he had to exit the tank first. He swam down out of the tank portal, then straight up to the water’s surface, and emerged in the middle of hell. With mortar and shells falling around him, he swam to shallow water, the ran up the shore with gun firing. Miraculously, he was not killed, but captured and taken prisoner.
That was June 6th, 1944. My grandfather survived, but he never saw those seven men again.
Why mention such a famous historical date? Well, history is forgotten easily. As I learned in Zagreb this summer, some would rather celebrate the wrong side of history.
And it started because of silly beer.
Love Beer / Hate Fascism
During my first few days in Zagreb, in May, I frequented Craft Room. I made acquaintances with the bartenders and the chefs. One night, as they were closing, and I finished my last beer, one of the chefs picked up a black t-shirt that caught my eye. A graphic showed a mug full of beer smashing a Nazi swastika. Around this graphic were written the words: “Love Beer / Hate Fascism.”
Given my grandfather’s history, I loved the shirt. I told the chef my grandfather’s war story. He offered it to me as a gift.
I refused several times, but he insisted. So I accepted the shirt. Throughout the summer, in Croatia and Slovenia, I wore it often and didn’t think much of it. But on the 31st of July, it was the cause of an event which made Zagreb’s local news, featuring, wellwellwell, this jebeni American.
Before that night, only once did I feel worried about my safety while in Zagreb. In June, on the Sunday evening after I finished my run to The Garden Brewery, I went to Vahalla Bar. The manager told me it wasn’t a good idea to be running around Zagreb with my Belgrade Hash House Harriers athletic shirt, since it had Serbian Cyrillic written on it. I hadn’t thought of that. But also, a month later, this manager asked me why the hell I was still in Croatia. Not the most hospitable guy. Several of my drunken nights that ended at Vahalla Pub were probably grating his nerves.
Other than that night, I’d not felt in danger while traveling in Croatia. That hot Saturday night in July was my last in Zagreb before I went to Zadar to relax for a week at the seaside.
Although my Airbnb was close to the bus station, I wanted to finish early. My bus was in the morning. And the Airbnb in Zadar had accepted my reservation, but hadn’t answered my message confirming the check-in. I was concerned from the lack of a response and wanted to arrive ahead of time. I had no mobile data in Croatia, only Wifi access.
An American Couple & A Japanese Freak
Before I met the American couple at Vahalla Pub, I heard them speaking at Craft Room earlier that night. Earlier, I had met a Japanese hippie tourist who was also into craft beer. We were chatting when the couple sat at a table next to us. She was a white girl, with purple and pink dyed hair, who hails from Maryland and has a voice like an angel. He was a brown guy, Akash, an Indian-American from California who loves film and hot sauce. As liberal as I am, I’m still Midwestern, and their West Coast behavior made me look like a conservative hillbilly.
You may ask me really oh-come-on why does it matter what their race or politics is. The idea of Pivoslavija is to show that, in The Balkans, regardless of politics, ethnicity, race or history, everyone loves good beer. Unfortunately, this night, these issues very much mattered when everything went wrong.
First, when the couple sat next to us at Craft Room, I just took them for typical tourists visiting Zagreb’s popular Opatovina Street. But when, by chance, they were next to us again at Vahalla Pub, I figured they could be craft beer fans. I asked them what beer they were ordering. They weren’t much sure and asked for a recommendation.
We ordered a round: IPAs, of course. We got to know each other. The Japanese guy was the chattiest of us – he had been coming in-and-out of The Balkans for many years. He was into psychedelic something, possibly that night. The couple was on their first trip to The Balkans, so they listened and soaked everything in.
Due to the COVID regulations, everything closed at midnight, so we made a plan. The couple wanted to stay out late, since they were on holiday. I remembered a park where locals would stay and drink outside until the morning hours. It is immediately south of the National Theater, so I suggested we stop by Harat’s Beer Boutique on the way, buy a few craft beer liters, then go to the park. The park is a rectangular amphitheater, meant for outdoor theatrical presentations. Five levels of wide granite terraces form a border which descends to an open grassy lawn in the middle. An abstract statue sits in the center.
We bought beer, then walked to the park. For about an hour, we had a great time.
We met a group of Croats there who were curious to talk with an odd group of foreigners. Hey, look at this: a pierced and tattooed Japanese guy, a brown American with a purple-haired girlfriend, and an American who lives in Belgrade and speaks Serbian? The Croats joined us.
One of the guys was doing a photojournalism project about Zagreb nightlife during the COVID era. Since all the bars closed at midnight due to the pandemic, this park had become the nightlife, and he was taking photos. The group enjoyed our liters of craft beer, except the one I had. I had gotten a sour saison beer, which isn’t a good start for beer newbies. I set off to do a loop of the park and see if anyone would help me with the bottle.
Hey, it’s sour, but it’s free beer. We’re all drinking here.
Don’t We All Love Beer?
I sat down at one corner of the terrace. I chose the highest level, saw a group of guys sitting there, and started chatting with one of them. Our conversation was short.
“You guys are drinking. Want to try this beer? It’s different.”
“No,” he responded coldly, “We don’t want your beer.”
“Ok, don’t we all love beer?”
“Yes, what about the fascist?”
At that point, I realized the four guys I was talking to all had shaved heads. They were staring at my black “Love Beer / Hate Fascism” t-shirt, with the beer mug proudly smashing the swastika. I spoke my mind anyway.
“Well, I don’t like fascism. I like beer.”
He didn’t answer. Without warning, he sucker-punched me in the right temple, then grabbed my shirt and start ripping it down the middle. I swung a right hook at his head, hit his ear, then he returned a jab at my nose. Blood splattered on the ripped shirt. It didn’t hurt, and I shouted, “What the fuck, Nazis?”
I’m not stupid. Four guys fighting against one are bad odds. I wanted to spend the next week laying on a sunny beach in Zadar, not comatose in a hospital. So I ducked down, and swept my foot under the guy’s right leg to catch him off-balance. He tripped and fell backwards. Those two years of Capoeira and Muay Thai fighting paid off. I tried to use the moment to escape, but the other three guys were already on top of me.
For a moment, fists rained down on my shoulders and head. Then I heard a voice shouting in English, and I was alone. Were they scared?
I recognized the voice. It was Akash. He had seen the fight and was running over to help me. Clearly, the Nazi skinheads had a bigger problem with him than me. They were running straight at him.
I heard them shouting, “Cigan, cigan.” Which brings me back to the reason why race is important in this story. “Cigan” translates as “gypsy” in most Slavic languages. These skinheads had (wrongly) thought that my Indian-American friend was a gypsy – AKA a Roma – which in Europe automatically merits him more hatred than me, a white Antifascist American.
It got strange after that.
I stood up and saw the four Croats pushing Akash to the ground in front of the statue. They began kicking him. The statue was at the center of the amphitheater, in clear view of a hundred or so people drinking there. It was, literally, a show. Some of the other Croats who we had met earlier were running to the scuffle to intervene.
Suddenly, I heard not a shout, but a rabid scream.
The Maryland white girl, Akash’s girlfriend, was running into the fight with her arms flailing. She was shouting something like, “Thatsmyboyfriend, getaway, fuckers, agggghhhh.” Wow. That’s true love: fight for your man. But shit, she’s going to get herself killed.
Then, nothing happened.
The Nazi skinheads vanished. They scattered before the girl like a hurricane. She was left alone next to her boyfriend. She kneeled, kissing him and caressing his hair. He hardly had a bruise, and I was already running to them and hollering for more. So there. Nazi fucks are cowards and can’t fight. And I guess, their code is: We beat Americans, Antifascists, gypsies, and other minorities, but no, we won’t hit women.
Such gentlemen.
The Croats with our group apologized profusely. “Unfortunately, we have a lot of these idiots in our country, Uztase Nazi history and etc. etc.” I wasn’t so sure. I have lived too long in Serbia and heard too much of Serbs being demonized for their history, while Croats got off Scott-free. Croatia has beautiful beaches so…hey, the tourists forgive them for their nationalism.
The Japanese tourist had disappeared. I never saw him again. Akash and his girl were shaken, but uninjured. Although I had been punched in the head and the nose, I felt fine. However, the guy doing the photojournalism project showed me some photos he had taken of me. Jesus Christ, I look horrible. I was like punk icon G. G. Allin at his live shows. My nose and forehead were splattered in blood. It was waterfalling down my chest, which was completely exposed since my shirt was ripped almost completely to my waist. The Nazis had more of a problem with my t-shirt than with me personally. I still have that shirt. It’s a great souvenir.
This didn’t piss me off. You expect this behavior from Nazi skinheads. When the police arrived, then I got angry.
Police Or Fascist: What’s The Difference?
Someone had called the police to report the fight. We were in the middle of an amphitheater with nearly a hundred people watching the spectacle. Someone was going to report it.
The police did not sound concerned about a group of Croat nationalists attacking American tourists unprovoked. Their priority was to give us foreigners Breathalyzer tests to prove we were drunk. As if everyone else in that park wasn’t drunk on a Saturday at 1am? Yes, I was drunk. The police document made for another unique souvenir.
No, the police’s reason for the attack was what enraged me. They told us it’s not good to be a foreigner in Zagreb in August, which is high tourist season. Most local Zagrebians are not in the city since they are at the seaside on holiday. Zagreb is empty. The Nazi, fascist, nationalist groups take advantage of the depopulated city to go out and attack foreigners, gypsies and other minorities when there are less witnesses to see these hate crimes. It’s normal here, and you ignorant foreigners should expect that.
Tell that to the Croatian Board of Tourism. “Foreigners, come to Zagreb during the summer. You have a better chance of getting beaten by Nazis than the rest of the year.”
After the police left, one of the Croats called an ambulance. He quipped, “Yeah, those police probably know the nationalist guys who hit you. They’re celebrating with a beer now.” Half-heartedly, I chuckled. I didn’t see a need to go to the hospital. But when the paramedics arrived, they told me that I was hit on the head and there could be internal damage. Well, I’m already brain damaged, so it can’t be much worse.
Before I left, I thanked Akash and his girlfriend for their help, and said I would really appreciate this trip to Zadar the next day. They said they were also going to Zadar later in the week, so we agreed to meet under (much better) circumstances.
I went to the hospital, chatting all the way with the paramedics. They said, yesbutyouknowourhistory it’s like that, we collaborated with Nazi Germany, and many still think they were right. It annoyed me. At the hospital, the doctors X-rayed my head and bandaged my wounds. There was no internal damage. I will have to spend the first few days in Zadar with gauze wrapped around my head. That will make for an interesting tan line.
The doctors kept me in the hospital until around 7am, when I told them I needed to leave so I could check out of my room and get my bus to Zadar. One of the doctors was finishing his shift, so he walked me to a tram stop that would take me to my place. The sun was rising.
He sighed, “Yes, it’s bad here. But those guys in Zadar are real savages, real peasants. They will fight me if they hear my Zagreb accent. Good luck.”
He left me at the stop. An old lady sat on the bench. She stared at my bandages while we waited for a tram to arrive. I pointed at my head, said, “Nationalists,” and smiled. She smiled back.
