His hands gripped the steering wheel as if they were an "extension" of his body and his gaze could "read" the asphalt as if it were a map of life. As an international transport driver, he has covered countless kilometres, seen cities that most people know only from photographs and met people who have stayed with him more than any other place in his life, at home or in Europe. He simply believed in people who leave good footprints.
But life has its own plans. Always. That's how, at the tender age of 25, he found out he had diabetes. Married life had barely got off to a good start. He also had two young children at home. He was a young man, full of energy, but his body was beginning to set limits. At first he thought he would adapt - regular meals, less stress, more rest. But the reality of trucking life knew no compromises. He knew he would have to (re)leave the wheel.
That could have been the end of his story on the road, but Rajko was a man who always found a new way. If he could no longer drive, he helped those who could. He became a mechanic - not just out of necessity, but out of a desire to remain part of the world he loved. His workshop became a refuge for many - not only for trucks and cars, but also for people looking for help or a chat, sometimes just a place to put their worries aside for a while.
One of those evenings you never forget happened in the middle of winter. He was called from the road where a lorry was stuck in the snow. The driver, exhausted and desperate, knew that unless someone helped him, he would not get to his destination. Rajko did not ask, did not weigh whether it was worth it. He took his tools, put on his old jacket and went out into the night.
When he reached the truck, he saw a man sitting behind the wheel, bent over the dashboard, with a look that reflected despair. Rajko knocked on the window, the driver flinched.
"Come out," he called.
"It won't work," replied the driver, his voice hollow. "Too much snow, too much ice."
Rajko nodded and reached into his pocket. He took out his old knife and started scraping the ice off the tyres. Slowly, but with great patience. When the driver joined him, they shoveled the snow together. The work was exhausting, their fingers numb from the cold. When the tyres were finally free, Rajko stepped back and nodded.
"Try it now," he said.
The engine roared, the wheels skidded, but then caught. The truck moved forward, slowly at first, then faster and faster. The driver looked in the rear-view mirror and saw Rajk standing at the side of the road, arms folded, breathing mist rising in the cold night.
Later, when he wanted to say thank you, he was no longer there.
He never sought recognition and did not believe too much in grand gestures. His help was not a matter of philosophy or life principles, but a simple truth - if you can help, you help.
When he left this world in 2015, he seemed to have gone as quietly as he had lived. But that was not the case.
When I drive at night and look up at the sky, I know that he is watching me from up there. Not as a fairy tale or a memory, but as a part of me. His (life's) journey never ended - it just took a new form.
Rajko was not just a driver, he was not just a mechanic.
He was and is my grandfather. My brightest star in the sky.
Zala Krupljan, 1. 3. 2025
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