case probably a man named Sinan.
After this discovery, whether I wanted to or not, whether it was pretentious or not, I felt the call to write something about these two people in one body. The question of double identity attracted me at the beginning exclusively as a problem of the dual national identity and religion of an individual. And with the entrance of Sinan the builder into Mehmed Pasha’s life, there was the possibility of a double identity in two men. Thus, the double identity of two people in one body at once could have multiple meanings: it was even possible to divide the separate individuals into two personalities, but it was also possible that the complete (or even partial) similarity between two people led them to melt into one!
Now, back to my address. The foundations of this building in the Dorćol district of Belgrade, were laid beginning in 1914 (again, the First World War!) according to the design of Petar Bajalović, and the building was completed in 1924 in the so-called Serbian-Byzantine style with elements of the Wiener Secession, which is a rarely used combination in the architecture of Belgrade. It could be called the place from which I speak, both in the literal and in the symbolic sense. If I would add to that the sense of writing, liberated, and here and there my own impudent attitude, then I could add something else as well. The historical heritage of Ottoman-Islamic architecture left behind by Sinan is not the only connection between the past and present. There are others: for example, the wordplay of the Serbian names Bajo/Bajica – a future vizier of Turkey, the most powerful empire at the peak of its might while he was alive – with the surnames of the Serbian architect of my building, Bajalović, and the author of this book – V. B. (whose surname, after its Germanisation by Maria Theresa in Vojvodina long ago, was closer to Bajalović’s surname than to Bajica’s name). Then, the fact that my home rests on the remains of that ‘enemy’ culture of the time, with its modern address being the ‘Street of Emperor Dušan’, named after a Serbian ruler from the 14th century, called ‘the Great’, who made Serbia the greatest it had been in its history, not only territorially speaking, just as Suleiman the Magnificent did for Turkey with the zealous aid of Bajica/Sokollu Mehmed Pasha two centuries later. Thus, that is the building from which I speak, whose square tower at the very top carries an inscription, in large letters, saying that it belongs/belonged to the Society of St. Sava (the greatest of Serbian Saints, and also the most important secular figure).
History especially favours the greatest, the strongest, the most powerful and all the other ‘mosts’. This book, however, has a different purpose: to ask, for instance, whether any of these ‘mosts’ from the preceding paragraph ever came into conflict here, did they meet? And why? If the answer to any of those is ‘yes’, then the book asks how, and what happened before that, and after that, then again how, and perhaps even why... In this case, even the name of the place where these thoughts occur to me, the Dorćol district of Belgrade, is of Turkish origins (Dort-jol), suggesting even linguistically and literally that this is (was) a place of meeting, of gathering and remaining, because in Turkish it marks four roads or, if you will, the crossroads.
In summary: this book deals with gathering the probable and certainly the ephemeral.
Meanwhile, history still stands steady as a monument.
By moving his family from the small town to his brother’s place in the village, his father thought that they were saved from the Turkish menace; that gathering up of small Serbian children to send to various parts of Turkey, and even to the court, in order to make elite soldiers of the Empire out of them. However, he did not know that the Herzegovinian, Sandžakbey Skender Ornosović, had been given orders from Constan -tinople that every few years he was to trawl Bosnia and Herzegovina and ‘to collect a thousand children in the ‘blood tribute’ and take them to the palaces…’1 And that had meant an additional problem: in order to fulfil such a high quota of specially gifted children, which had been increased after the capture of Belgrade in 1521 due to heavy losses in the siege, the bey had to gather up older children as well, which had not been usual practice before that time. Just how strictly this duty was being enforced could be seen by the persistence with which, this time, he did not pardon the parents who hid their children in the forests, or even those who intentionally maimed their offspring because they thought that the Empire would not need them that way. Even in these drastic cases, the agas did not desist. They even visited the monasteries and took young men who were preparing for monkhood away from their books. Among them was Bajo Sokolović, taken by force back to the village of Sokolovići from the monastery of Mileševa; an Orthodox theologian far from being a child, a tall young man almost eighteen years old. In addition to his learnedness, there was a single factor that also went in his favour: he came from a noble family and therefore especially desirable for the tribute in blood. The fact that he had studied the Christian word of God was also not a barrier for the Ottomans. At one moment his Father Dimitrije found out just how special his case was: the head captain, Mehmed-bey, admitted that a special order had been given so that his Bajica would be taken by the tribute to the capital of the empire. Comforting him by saying that his son was destined for an important place and even more important works, he told him that the proof of that was that Bajica had been asked for by a certain Sokolović who had been taken away in an Imperial caravan some twenty years before. That man’s name was now Deli Husrev-pasha. His younger brother had also gone not long ago, and was now called Mustafa. Husrev had advanced very quickly at the sultan’s court, arriving at a position where, as a pasha, he could make important decisions as well.
All of these were additional reasons why his father and his cousin – a monk of Mileševo – together with the leader of that monastery, Božidar Goraždanin, could convince none of the agas not to take Bajica away, not even with their pleas or their money. In the end, he had to comfort himself as a parent with the fact that they left his two younger sons with him: the Turks kept firmly to their own rule that only one male child could be taken from a given home.
Though nothing, of course, could lessen the pain of their parting, it might be said that it was hardest for Bajica. He was the only one leaving, everyone dear to him was remaining together, so that they were at least partially protected from the heavy weight of loneliness that he was carrying as they said their good-byes. In addition, being forced to leave his home, he was driven into the unknown while his entire family remained where they belonged.
On the long journey through Serbia and Bulgaria, he was only able to think about all that he was leaving behind, and of all the things that yet awaited him. The first drove him to tears, the second caused him to be afraid.
Completely exhausted by his continual crying that occasionally broke into wailing, and then into sighs, deep and loud, at one point he finally ran out of tears – there simply were no more. He could go on crying only within himself.
If he only knew then what a huge part of his life he would actually spend like that – within himself – perhaps it would have comforted him. If he had perchance said publicly and out loud at the end of his life that he had spent the largest part of his life within himself – no one would have believed him. And why would they? His life was an example of living to a ripe old age, despite being cut short. At the same time, his life was so public and important that any other life, or anyone else’s life, could not even draw close in comparison.
The ruler’s every move was so highly visible to the general public and to every individual in the empire that the regularity of making public decrees, acts and appearances, the making of proclamations, travelling, going to war, receiving high dignitaries, punishing the disobedient, frequent hunting trips and Lord knows what else, all made it seem that the great vizier had no time to do anything for himself, much the less to have a private life. Yet, of course, he had more than enough time to be his own person. The frequency of his public duties (of which, in truth, a large part was done by the servile apparatus of the empire, and not by him personally), and especially
