Tomb Evaders

Thursday, Oct. 10, 2001
When I told my friend Ivana, who works as a political analyst in Belgrade, that I wanted to visit Josip Broz Tito's grave, she scrunched up her face as if I'd opened a bottle of sour milk under her nose. "Why would you want to go there?" Ivana sniffed. I told her that I'd imagined the grave of Yugoslavia's leader from 1945 to his death in 1980 to be a Balkan Graceland of sorts. She strongly disputed the comparison of Tito to Elvis.

Other friends had similar reactions. In fact, no one that I talked with in Belgrade had been to the Josip Broz Tito Memorial Center for years. Those old enough to be in school shortly after Tito's death recalled their enforced class trips. Younger Belgraders simply didn't care. Whether or not the place was open, or at what hours, was a mystery.

It wasn't always this way. Tito's funeral and burial on May 8, 1980 was an international event that attracted numerous foreign leaders from East and West (not to mentioned the "non-aligned" nations) to pay their last respects. Ultra-nationalist Serb politician Vojislav Seselj held a May 1991 rally at the center to demand the removal of Tito's remains to Croatia. In 1995, Slobodan Milosevic's government announced plans to close the Memorial Center and the adjacent Museum of the Revolution of the Yugoslav Peoples and seize their assets.

Despite her misgivings, Ivana accompanied me on my pilgrimage. Ten minutes out from the city center, our cab driver dropped us along the busy Boulevard of Peace. The center was open, but seemingly abandoned. As we trudged up the hill in warm autumnal sunshine, we happened upon a single armed soldier at the entrance. He told us that the park was taking an "unscheduled pause" in operations, and that we should wait for half an hour.

We ambled over to the museum, which was shut tight, and sat on a nearby park bench. We talked a little about Tito, and Ivana opined that it was good that the Marshal was such a legendary hedonist. "It was a softer totalitarianism as a result," she noted. "It is better for people if a dictator enjoys himself."

Forty minutes later, the "unscheduled pause" ended, and we sauntered up to the "House of Flowers" in which Tito is buried. It's the only building in the center that remains open. There was a bit of Graceland feel to the place, particularly in the parallel lanes (with directional arrows) and the odd statuary tucked between the shrubs and shuttered buildings. There was something sad in its massive emptiness; the center was clearly built to accommodate hundreds, if not thousands, of perpetual mourners and tourists.

For the few who do visit, Tito's white marble grave sits in the center of an airy glass and stone pavilion. On this afternoon, the tomb's gold letters glittered in the bright sunshine, and a dying bunch of flowers and a tiny wreath rested forlornly on it. Only five other people showed up during our visit. Two were Croats, and three were young Belgraders in T-shirts and jeans, out for a lark. Judging by the guest book, this particular Saturday was among the memorial's busier days. Only ten or so of the pages were filled in two months, many by Slovenes visiting Belgrade for their nation's World Cup qualifying match on Sept. 5. The comments ranged from sentimental greetings to "The Old Man" or the "Boss" to a more analytical take by one visitor, who noted, "The only sin of which you are guilty is that you died."

Ivana was correct, however, when she insisted that Tito's memorial isn't Graceland. Perhaps Belgraders' studied neglect of Tito's tomb is rooted in that fact. Elvis' mansion is the ultimate nostalgia trip, a harmless personality cult rooted in America's affection for celebrity, rock 'n' roll and imagined innocence. After six decades under two less innocent cults of personality, including one who proved so difficult to topple, Serbia seems to have chosen a temporary and comfortable amnesia over remembrance of its painful past.