The Europe Challenge

The village library was located directly above the public toilet.

 

The whole property was built by the villagers themselves, in another country which was once called Yugoslavia. A cinema, theatre, video club, and a pub were located in the grounds, while the library was on the first floor. There was even a dance room, or something like that, on the floor above the library, but I never went up there because it had long been abandoned by the time I arrived. The stairs were dark and filthy, but—believe it or not—the top floor did offer a shelter for forbidden lovers whom we sometimes saw through the library doors as they were sneaking up and down.

 

When I got the job as a village librarian, I didn’t want to stay there, stuck in a place between the toilets and the pigeons. I was in my early 20s, a philosophy student, mostly worrying about the next exam. I was relatively familiar with this library from before, since my childhood, as I did love books. But I didn’t like the library, even more so the way it was so unwelcoming. As a child, I knew some books were ‘forbidden’, usually at the librarian’s discretion: they were too big, too expensive, or too serious for a child. I’d sometimes try to reach them, but the treacherous squeaking old wooden floor would always tell on me, and the librarian would show up instantly behind my back, with her glasses down her nose, warning me to go back to the children’s section.

 

The library itself didn’t have a toilet or running water. Behind the shelves, there was an old chair with a bowl, a jug of water, and a dried-up bar of soap. Right next to it was one of those electric portable stoves to make coffee or tea. By the time I had started working there, the library had its first computer, placed on a heavy wooden librarian’s desk. The computer was turned on almost all the time, but I barely remember what its purpose was, as the connection was poor, and the library didn’t even have an e-mail address.

 

I don’t know if I liked it more to work in the mornings or in the afternoons. Mornings were busier, so the time passed quickly. But I had to get there by 7 am, which is always a downside for a student. In the mornings, Eva, the cleaning woman, made sure to remove all the traces from the night before: broken bottles, empty cans, and any organic stuff on the stairs leading up to the library. The smell of a strong cleanser and urine filled the entrance. I loved Eva. She would always wait for us with a cup of warm tea and a fresh pack of daily papers. Now, that was the smell that I liked. The afternoon shift meant that I could sleep longer, but also that the day would stretch endlessly, like a lazy dough. It also meant that the loud music and the noise from the pub below would make it impossible for me to study.

 

Oh, yes, that was something I was doing in the library. In between sweeping dust from the shelves and rearranging books, and manually doing the library’s statistics (you know, writing down how many people came in, how many of them were children, how many adults, who was a Serb and who was a Hungarian, etc.), I was studying. The time at the library seemed more bearable during the summer. Some local people would come up to check on the daily papers or to borrow a book, usually a classic novel or a love story. But when the winter came and it started getting darker early, almost no one would come in. Well, except The Professor.

 

He was a retired history professor, who allegedly retired early due to some sort of inappropriate behaviour. Rarely would he borrow a book, but most of the time, he would just bring in a load of unsorted papers and documents, explaining, well shouting, that it’s the material for his next big history book. Sometimes, when he was in a good mood, he’d talk about history with such enthusiasm and knowledge, but other times, he would come in upset about some publisher who denied his life’s work and he’d end up curled up on the floor, crying. I’m not sure how this may sound, but I’d let him do his ‘thing’ for a while and it usually worked better than trying to reason with him. Besides The Professor, there was also a Lady Poet. She would also visit the library. But she wasn’t a poet. Or maybe she was. It’s confusing. Sometimes, she’d say that she’s a painter actually and burst into laughter. She’d come dragging in old torn bags, filled with clothes and food that she had been given or collected along the way. At times, the Lady Poet would just sit silently. At other times, she would talk about how she travelled the world when she was younger and then listing the names of various small villages nearby. ‘Have you ever been there?’, she would ask. ‘Of course you haven’t, you’ve seen nothing!’ She would make fun of me.

 

The Professor and the Lady Poet were the first to stand out in a group of villagers who came to the library. As the days went by and my university degree was getting closer, it seems that I began paying more attention. Not everyone who comes to the library wants to read.

 

I had fewer exams to study for, and soon I felt bored with the daily statistics and dusting. I noticed a very serious-looking man coming in, regularly. He’d always be so specific about the books he wanted to read—all serious literature. I started wondering what he does in life, surely something important. ‘He’s an alcoholic, no job, divorced. Never sees his son’, someone said. I couldn’t grasp it.

 

Then, another one, a woman from a well-respected traditional family. Gold chains with crosses and engraved saints around her neck were proportional to the guilt she probably felt. I don’t know. Librarians don’t judge. Once, she asked me to read a story that she had written and to give my opinion of whether it could be published. The story was autobiographical. I knew this after reading only a few sentences where she was describing, in detail, events and people that we both know. The main subject of this story was her own ongoing love affair. Wanting to hide her identity, the writer signed the story with a pseudonym (it was the name of a saint). I was struggling not to give out any sense of familiarity with the story as she was closely watching me while I was reading. ‘People will know this is about you’, I said. ‘Thank you’, she responded and never mentioned the story again.

 

A very angry man once came in, shouting and addressing me in an inarticulate manner. A day before this incident, I had phoned his home to remind his daughter that the deadline for returning the book is long overdue. I didn’t know that his wife had left him, and took his daughter a few days before returning the call. He didn’t know that the library wasn’t part of a mischievous plot by his now former wife. This is what he told me apologetically after I’d made tea for him.

 

In all these and many more situations with different kinds of library visitors, probably those about whom we, the librarians, especially in small communities, never talk about in public, I rarely felt essentially threatened. Maybe just uncomfortable, as I was young, and I didn’t know what a librarian should do or say in such situations. Such as at times when the Genius would visit. He was a lawyer from a big city, but something had happened, and he lost his license. Some say he burnt down his own house. He didn’t seem like a pyromaniac to me. He was always reading philosophy books and Russian poetry. And he called himself ‘the Genius’, so I can’t take the credit for his soubriquet. The Genius claimed he was the smartest man in the village. Fluent in German and Russian, he’d start naming all the books that he’d read. It was a special treat for him to come to the library right before closing time. He’d show up with a riddle or a maths problem, saying that he’d let me close the library only after I’d solved the task. So, I played along, trying to solve the mysteries that he has brought me. ‘Ha! I’m still the smartest man in the village! I know you think you’re smarter than me, but you’re not!’ If I was able to give the right answer, the Genius would reward me with an apple, and leave.

 

The library is a public place, everyone is welcomed.

 

But soon, I started realising what the library was, or should be.

 

‘Ok, you can take this heavy book, but you might not understand everything that’s written in it, so you can ask a parent to read it to you. I’d also recommend you take another one, this nice picture book—it’s also about the planet Earth, and it’s written just for you, so you can read it and tell me all about it when you come in next time.’

 

More and more children were coming into the library, eager to talk about what they had read. Soon, the librarian’s desk was surrounded with children sharing their stories about the books, their school days, and their family situations. The library became so busy and loud that the owner of the pub below complained!

 

The children were curious—they were sharing, so naturally they expected me to share stories as well. So, I told them about the cosmos, the wonders of nature, about dinosaurs and, well, about witches and vampires, of course, and fairies and life in a castle. Some of the parents complained about their children not coming home after school but going to the library instead. So, to make things right, I decided to form a drama workshop, which would be held on a specific day, at a specific time. It was all improvised. In fact, I had realised that most of my practical librarianship had to be improvised, as in the mid-2000s there was no training for librarians in pedagogical methods (I’m not sure if there’s enough training in this field even today). The drama workshop for children is ongoing. We started with Shakespeare, who else?! I adapted ‘Romeo and Juliet ‘and ‘Hamlet’ to make them more child-friendly and, right before Christmas, we had our first public performance. The library was filled with families and children wearing hand-made gowns and costumes, and we had our first library Christmas tree. Well, it wasn’t really a tree. It was a wooden coat stand covered with green cloth, on which we attached paper ornaments and lights!

 

But, while the library was vivid and alive, there were various challenges that we had to sort out. Without a toilet and other necessities, and with a pub right below, it became hard to have any gatherings. So, we decided to start a petition.

 

A couple of years before I started working in the library, it was decided by the local government that one of the buildings, which was used as a space for refugees in the 1990s, should be for the library. This premise was down the main street but was standing there empty and abandoned, as there were no funds, or care, to restore it. My colleague Erno and I, with the help of many friends and local people, started collecting signatures for the petition to draw attention to the condition of the current library, asking the government to secure means for the renewal and adaptation of the abandoned premises. In 2008, the library was relocated to a newly adapted building—the nicest one ever! The community gathered to paint the walls and refresh the old furniture. The new floors shone under the modern lights and the big windows gave space to many plants—the library’s own rainforest! Now, the village library has not one, but three toilets, four sinks, and a little kitchen! It even has a special corner for children, and a little train filled with picture books. Above our small library stage, we printed out and hung Tesla’s quote ‘If you want to find the secrets of the Universe, think in terms of Energy, Frequency and Vibration.’ And the library vibrated so well.

 

Many highly respected and famous people in Serbia—writers, actors, and artists are guests at the library. Literature nights, lectures, multimedia presentations, school lessons, concerts, workshops, and exhibitions, all became a weekly event. Our drama workshop for children had over 60 members at one point and the children were performing not just in the library, but also at local festivals and other events. Some of these talented children won drama and recital competitions, too. We’ve also formed the library’s handcraft workshop for all generations.

 

Along the way, somehow, I forgot that I ever wanted to leave this library. In the end, I did leave, but to another library, to lead the Department for the Advancement of Librarianship. You remember, the librarianship, the same one I was improvising all the time?

 

But I must confess whenever I’d think about the story, I have just shared with you, I’d usually think in terms of how I have changed the library. You know—me. I did it. It feels embarrassing now to think that.

 

Only now have I realised that in fact the library has changed me. It has changed my life. All the children, but also all the people, you know, all the big names that I’ve met: The Professor, the Lady Poet, the Alcoholic, the Genius, and many others. They all made me look up from the books. Oh, and don’t let me finish without a proper cliché: At the library, in between the book stacks, I met my life partner. But that’s another story. Also, life-changing.

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About the Author

Marijana Đaković (born in Serbia, 1982) currently leads the Department for Librarianship at the Bečej Public Library, with extensive experience in education and library services. Holding degrees in philosophy and librarianship, she is passionate about promoting human rights and cultural initiatives. Marijana is a dedicated community organizer, known for her work in project management, education, and fostering cultural and artistic programs.