Vanda Vučinić’s father came to Motovun last week. They had not seen each other for a while, and so he drove all the way from Sarajevo for a brief reunion. About my age, he spent a few years in Moscow after the recent war in Bosnia. A charming raconteur, he told a group of Vanda’s friends assembled at Klaudio’s about some of his experiences there. “I will never forget one winter day,” he said at some point, “when it was at least minus thirty Celsius.” As he was driving through Moscow, he found himself behind an open military truck full of recruits. “Rosy-cheeked, they laughed all the time,” he smiled to himself. And then he looked around the table: “Right then and there I realized that no-one could ever beat these boys on their own soil.” Vanda’s father left a few days ago, but his story still comes to me at least twice a day. It is as though those rosy-cheeked boys have been etched onto my mind.