Smiles to herself.nAuntie Rula says it doesn’t looknright, a girl eating sausage on the street.nShe doesn’t know how it helps mynpoems:nKnockwurst, blutwurst,nKnocking on a heartnReady to burst.nSensation sweet,nLove’s ache keener.nI only know it,nEating wieners.nShe sits and tats.nStrange to be writing poetry in thenmidst of so much violence. A war’snbroken out: Bulgaria, Greece, andnMontenegro have attacked Turkey,nand Serbia’s overrun Albania. ThanknGod I’m Croat. Still, Uncle Nathan’sngone off to the front. “War or no war,”nhe says, “people still need postcards.”nAuntie Rula’s very brave, and Irena’sntoo busy with her suitors to care muchnat all.nPause.nI don’t have any suitors. Oh, it’s sillynreally. I have my studies and my poetry.nI don’t have time for boys.nShe turns and it is a year later.nAugust 12, 1913. I’ve met a boy! Anyoung student I met on the trolley. Indropped a turnip, he picked it up andnasked if I’d like to go for a sausage. Insaid yes, and suddenly felt as if all ofnZagreb were watching me! While wenate, we talked about the war. NownSerbia’s attacked Macedonia, so Bulgaria’snattacked Serbia, so Greece, Turkey,nand Rumania are attacking Bulgaria.nGavvy — his name’s Gavrilo —nhe’s Serbian. But I don’t care! I don’tncare if the whole world knows!nShe walks upstage and turns. She isncalmer now; her voice lower.nValentine’s Day, 1914. Today I amna woman. I have known love, I havenfound peace, a peace nothing in thisnworld can destroy. Each night as I leaventhe house, Irena says, “Seeing yournSerb again?” How I pity her with hernhard lips grown crusty at the cornersnfrom drinking too swiftly from the cupnof love.nShe turns and is quite exhilarated.nRing, bells, ring! Sing, heart, sing!nOh, blessed, blessed day! Gavrilo’snasked me to marry him! Auntie Rulansays I’m to wear the same Croatiannwedding harness Grandma Porochnjiknwore on her wedding day. Uncle Nathannwill lead me through the streets ofnZagreb and each maiden will offer mena carrot as I pass. So it’s settled, then!nI’m to become Mrs. Gavrilo Princip!nJune 15, 1914. Gavrilo’s edgy lately,nspending less time with me and morenwith that Serbian crowd of his. Is it thenengagement? I throw myself into mynpoems. More philosophical now: isnrhyme necessary? And then I wonder:nwhat ever happened to Mama?nDejection turns into exasperation. Shenmops herself with a handkerchief.nJune 25. Heat unbearable. Zagreb ancesspool. Gavrilo and I argue in cafe —nhim with that Serbian nonsense again;nme with my rhyme schemes. Says henneeds space, going to Sarajevo for ancouple days. The Archduke’11 be passingnthrough. Maybe the excitementnwill do him good.nShe turns and exasperation has becomendespair.nJune 28, 1914. I can’t believe it!nThe Archduke has been assassinatednand all the papers say Gavrilo did it!nNow Austria-Hungary’s declared warnon Serbia, Germany’s declared war onnRussia, and France and Great Britainnhave declared war on Germany. Irena’snjust gloating!nOh, war! War!nWhat is it good for?nShe turns and, through an adjustmentnof her shawl, she is once again AuntienRula. Her eyes are moist with tears.nRULAnAbsolutely nothing. The next daynPatsy left Zagreb for a small farm justnoutside Vlonjic where she lived alonenfor the rest of her life. Did I say alone?nNo, she was never alone. She alwaysnhad the goats.nShe struggles against the tears.nWhen she died, in the cellar wenfound over 2,000 poems — and everynone of them rhymed. What courage!nThe Eastern European folk musicnswells as she blows out the candle andnthe lights fade.nBom in Wisconsin, Jeffrey Flssmann isnnow a performance artist living innNew York City. Copyright © 1988nby Jeffrey Essmann.nPUBLISHINGnnnThe World of thenSmall Pressnby Thomas McGoniglenIf your local bookstore does not stocknWittgenstein’s Mistress by DavidnMarkson, Guilty by Georges Bataille,nAltazor by Vincente Huidobro, Compactnby Maurice Roche, Space innMotion by Juan Goytisolo, J-57 bynPaul Metcalf, Concierto Barroco bynAlejo Carpentier, or Cold Tales bynVirgilio Pinera, you’re living in a culturallyndeprived area.nAll these books were published duringnthe last year by small literary presses.nIn France bookstores are seen asncultural resources, but here in thenStates we make do with B. Dalton’s.nUnfortunately, the best way to determinenif a bookstore is a literary bookstorenis by counting the number ofnbooks they carry from the small literarynpresses. The above list would be anrough measure. If I said there were 20nbookstores in the whole country thatnhad these books in their normal stock, Inmight be exaggerating.nIf your local bookshop has even thenslightest literary pretensions, it willnmake an effort to stock the BlacknSparrow Press editions of WyndhamnLewis, Jack Spicer, and CharlesnBukowski. If not, maybe we shouldnremember that both Hemingway andnJoyce were introduced to the world vianthe small press. I won’t retell the wholenhistory of the small literary presses, butnI think it can be taken as a given thatnthe small press is the home for whatevernliterary culture we have. (There is,nof course, another whole world outnthere filled with books like How tonWash Your Face See Jesus And LivenForever . . . sending many a clevernentrepreneur whistling to the bank.)nBut let’s go back to the basics. Allnpublishing shares certain mechanicalnJANUARY 1989/49n