The Washington Post
December 26, 1992
SARAJEVO, December 25 – Karlo and Janja Pelzl went to Christmas Mass this morning, but they went to separate churches. It had nothing to do with religious differences or a marital spat.
The Pelzls were afraid that if they went to the same church and it was bombed, then their children would be left without parents. And so they improved the odds by going to separate churches. One of them might be killed, but probably not both.
But there was no bombing or shelling at either of the masses. It was a Merry Christmas for them, Sarajevo style.
For the past three months, the Roman Catholic Pelzls — members of the war-ravaged republic’s Croat minority — have been getting ready for Christmas. In a city under siege, their preparations have proceeded with military precision, as though they were readying an ambush that would be thwarted if the Serb nationalist forces besieging the city found out about it.
Food has been salted away since summer. Nuts for the baklava were kept in a kitchen cabinet. Smoked ham that a friend gave them last month was put aside as the family continued its macaroni diet. Wood was stocked up to ensure that Christmas cakes could be baked in their makeshift stove.
Money was saved so that, when the moment came, they could afford to buy a few eggs on the black market to make dessert pies. In normal times, they would buy about 200 eggs so that there would be lots of sweets for their friends — Catholics, Muslims and Orthodox Christian Serbs alike — who always stop by to wish them well on Christmas Day.
This year, they bought four eggs.
They usually have a big Christmas Eve dinner centered around fresh fish from Janja’s hometown of Bosanski Brod on the Sava River in northern Bosnia. But Bosanski Brod is occupied by the Serbs, and Sarajevo is surrounded by the Serbs, so this year there was no fresh fish. There was, instead, a can of tuna they had received from an aid agency.
“Our celebration is usually loud and happy, full of singing, but this year that atmosphere was missing,” said Karlo, who is a director of a Croat cultural center. “It was not the right time for singing. . . . But we would have felt miserable if we didn’t celebrate Christmas.”
Karlo goes to church every week, despite the bombings and sniping, and he reads the Bible regularly. In a measure of the tolerance that belies the fact Sarajevo is being torn apart in the by communal hatreds, Karlo also reads the Koran. There are many worthwhile things in it, he says. His Koran is kept next to his Bible.
As usual, the Pelzls stayed home on Christmas day and served cakes to the friends who stopped by. Two foreign journalists were among the well-wishers, and over a glass of plum brandy the talk turned to their three children. The war has interrupted their eldest son’s dental studies. Once the war is over, Slaven, 21, wants to complete his courses and leave Bosnia.
“There is no future here,” Slaven said. “My affection for Sarajevo is one thing. But life is another.” His parents nodded their heads sadly.
The visitors had brought unimaginable delicacies from the outside world — a banana and four tangerines. When the fruits were unveiled, the Pelzl family’s jaws dropped, almost as one. There was a gaping silence that a train could have driven through, then giggles and an almost embarrassed acknowledgment from a family well-off enough to have a piano in the living room. They had not seen a banana since the Serb siege began nearly nine months ago.
The talk turned to faith. Was their trust in God rattled by the savagery that has raced across Bosnia — the mass rapes and killings, wanton destruction and so on? There was a shaking of heads. Janja glanced at the statue of the Virgin Mary that stands next to their Christmas tree and near the shrapnel holes in the living room walls.
“I believe even more strongly in God,” Janja said. She clasped her hands together, almost in prayer, and added: “I can’t explain why, but I believe more than before.”
