Everyone was nervous in those days; attacking each other on the street, in a café, on television, like a raging pack of wolves stirred by the smell of blood. While there was dancing and appeals for peace in front of the local radio building, the river Sava, in her lazy flow, spread the rapturous scent of gunpowder, whose source was somewhere upstream. The adults were cleaning rifles and oiling pistols and I was finishing Lundval’s book No Time for Heroes, which I did not fully understand, and getting ready for night fishing: torch, vest, bait box, reserve hooks, line, ‘Detroit Pistons’ hat; I adored them back then. Nastavite sa čitanjem