Jozo Brandić is six years my junior. Sitting at Tomica’s, we are reminiscing about the egalitarian period of Yugoslav socialism, when we were both quite young. “I remember one trip to Belgrade,” he says. One of his brothers got seriously ill, and he was sent to one of the best hospitals in the country, which was in the capital. “My father took me, too, so I could help look after my brother.” They came to a large waiting room full of people. “When the doctor appeared, he didn’t ask who’s first.” Jozo pauses and turns toward me: “Instead, he asked who’s from where.” When he was told where each family was coming from, he decided on the order of examinations. A family from Macedonia went in first. Jozo’s family, coming from Bosnia, went second. And people from Belgrade had to wait longest. “The doctor knew we had many train connections to catch on our way home,” Jozo concludes with a big grin. “Yup,” I nod, “but it was all over by the early Sixties.”