My War Memoirs: The Curfew Club (Chapter 18.)

 

The Curfew Club

The click of the cue ball against the eight-ball was sharp, decisive, and final. “And the black ball in the middle hole!” I declared, the words ringing out with a triumphant, slightly artificial bravado. The black sphere tumbled into the pocket. Victory.

Jura and I slapped a high-five, the contact hard and satisfying, a moment of primal camaraderie that tasted nothing like the anxiety of the last 48 hours. Around us, the humid basement air buzzed—a low, dense sound of laughter, clinking glasses filled mostly with soft drinks, and the steady thump of a bass line trying desperately to anchor us to something normal. Marky Mark’s track, "Good Vibrations," pulsed with an anachronistic energy.

We retreated from the table, giving way to the next team, who were already placing their meager piles of chips along the polished wood edge. Gajo, perpetually cheerful, was already making his way toward the bar. “Losers pay,” he yelled over his shoulder, the war’s tension momentarily eclipsed by the trivial victory of a game.

Leaning against the sticky, worn bar counter, I sipped my Coca-Cola, the icy sweetness a clean contrast to the smoke and cheap cologne that saturated the air. None of us drank alcohol; we were soldiers on standby, and even this stolen joy had limits.

After the incessant stress of the trenches, this was essential: a psychological reset. We had spent the entire day preparing for tomorrow’s departure toward the front line in Ivanovac. Jura, strict and unyielding, drilled me for almost three hours on military posture and marching protocol. I was a quick study, knowing there was no margin for error. We were resting for the remainder of the early evening in our makeshift barracks (the school) when Gajo, with his innate, infectious joy, burst into the room: “Guys! There’s an incognito club operating here in town from four to eight. Let’s go?”

“But we’re on standby, Gajo!” Jura cut him off sharply, genuine concern in his voice. “What if they urgently call us in as reinforcement?”

“We have the Motorolas (walkie-talkies) with us! They’ll let us know if anything happens,” Gajo waved him off, already pulling on his jacket. “Besides, the club is maybe two hundred meters away. We’ll sprint back in two minutes!”

“I’m coming too,” chimed in the comrade who was lying next to us, visibly bored.

For the outing, I pulled on a black turtleneck that fit me perfectly and my Avirex pilot jacket. I looked more like a film hero, an unconventional special defender. This was a strict violation of the rules—if the military police had stopped me, they would have sent me straight back to the barracks, as this was not the official HV uniform. I was in breach, but we all knew I had to make do this week since I didn't have a spare uniform.

As we entered the club, the tall bouncers at the door, which looked like a bunker entrance due to the dirt bags piled around it, simply sized us up and then smiled. “Hello, our boys. Come in and have a good time!” Being treated with that deference, that recognition of our sacrifice by the civilians, was gratifying and melted away the subtle shame that clung to us. And so we found ourselves here, packed in by the bar, even dancing a little, though it was shoulder-to-shoulder.

This very joy held the core of the absurdity, the bizarre psychological dissonance of our wartime reality. Just a short walk from the trenches, here in the heart of Čepin, where the crump of distant shelling was a common background noise, two hundred people were crammed into a low-ceilinged basement. They were sweating and dancing between four and eight in the evening. This club, a bunker disguised as a disco, was a sanctuary—its windows and entrance choked with dirt bags, its mood defiant. It was a brief, necessary suspension of reality, a collective, unspoken agreement that life had to continue, even if existence felt like a borrowed grace period.

Then, the music shifted. The DJ, without warning, cut the American dance track and the opening, mournful strings of Prljavo kazalište’s "Ruža Hrvatska" filled the space. The effect was immediate and profound. The low murmur died instantly, replaced by a sudden, reverent silence.

As the chorus built, "Ružo, moja Ružice, sve sam suze isplak'o, noću zbog tebe" (Rose, my Rose, I cried all my tears, at night because of you), the entire room moved as one body. Every voice, from the most hardened veteran to the youngest civilian, merged into a single, aching roar. Hands shot into the air.

“To our brave Croatian defenders who are with us tonight and defend our homes!” the DJ’s voice cracked over the speakers.

The applause hit us like a wave. We—Jura, Gajo, the comrade, and I—instinctively lowered our heads. It was a shy reflex, a strange blend of pride and deep, heavy unworthiness, as if the sacrifice we were prepared to make was simply our job, not something worthy of this public outpouring of love.

“And for those who are no longer here,” the DJ continued softly.

In the ensuing silence, the click of lighters echoed in the suddenly dark room, dozens of tiny, flickering flames raised like secular candles. In the light, I could make out the sharp, wet glint of tears in the eyes of the people around us—a sacred, public moment of communal grief that cut through the club’s forced gaiety. The phrase refers to a song that served as an unofficial anthem of Croatia, which, in addition to themes of love, also spoke of the Homeland/Fatherland.

It was then I felt Jura’s tap. “Keka, the black one with the short hair is looking at you.”

I turned, my heart hammering a sudden, faster rhythm. She was stunning—short black hair, eyes the color of dark earth, looking directly at me with an unnerving, open confidence. I smiled hesitantly. She smiled back. The moment demanded action, a speed the front line had taught us. I moved toward her.

“Hey, hero. Haven't seen you here yet,” she said, her voice bright, barely audible over the return of cheerful dance music.

She was direct, brave, and vital. My black turtleneck and Avirex jacket must have been what drew her eye. “You’re well dressed, unusual. Top Gun stuff, Tom Cruise?” she raised an eyebrow, taking a measured sip of her drink.

“Oh, believe me, the story is more complicated,” I managed, feeling acutely self-conscious yet strangely powerful.

We talked for almost an hour. She was close, her body language radiating an immediacy born of wartime. A few times, her fingers brushed my hand; once, her palm settled warmly on my chest as she emphasized a point. Her touch felt real, solid, a tether in the chaos. There was no pretense, only the raw, urgent connection of two people acknowledging the fleeting nature of the present.

The music suddenly cut out, the high-energy beat dying in the middle of a synth riff. Eight o'clock. Curfew.

The main lights died, plunging the tightly packed room into a heavy, absolute darkness. I felt, rather than saw, her movement. In that profound, momentary void, lips met mine. Quiet. Slow. Soft.

It was a kiss that wiped the world away. I disappeared briefly, not just from the unexpected intimacy, but from the sudden, powerful knowledge of why this was happening. I was the uniform, the defender, the temporary embodiment of safety and hope. It was a profound acknowledgement of sacrifice, channeled through desire.

The lights snapped back on five minutes later, a blinding, vulgar fluorescent blast. She had already pulled away, melting skillfully back into the crowd toward the cloakroom.

“You’re beautiful, so beautiful, but you’re also a baby!” she called out, a husky whisper that still managed to cut through the sudden, frantic exodus of the crowd. “I hope I’ll see you here again.”

She rushed off with a friend who gave me a quick, complicit nod. I stood there, lost in the confusing, heavy aftermath, still feeling the faint pressure of her lips.

“You’re a seducer!” Jura laughed, hitting the back of my head, Gajo doing the same on the other side. “You’ve only been on the battlefield for a day and you’ve already caught a girl!”

I didn't catch anything, I thought, rubbing the back of my neck. This just happened to me while I was a passive observer of the whole thing. As we walked out of the bunker-like entrance and into the cold, empty street, heading back to the school, I shook my head. Unable to reconcile the sweet, lingering taste of her kiss with the silent, heavy threat of the night ahead.