The Serbs Chose War, Ruth Mitchel 47. ORPHANS OF THE GUNS WE WOMEN were never out of sight of the male guards who could see us either through the peep-hole or through the opened door. We had never a moment's privacy while dressing, or sleeping. These men were always in and out of the cell, sometimes bullying, sometimes brutally skylarking or joking. Often very pretty girls were brought in; many were Jewesses who at first were given only ten days in prison for not wearing the yellow armband. Then the guards would stand teasing for hours in the cell at night. Complaining only made them worse. But Flora Sandes knew how to handle them. She possessed a wonderful fund of Serbian swear words which she launched at the guards with such devastating effect that while she was there they behaved almost respectfully. This really magnificent old lady of sixty-seven, stocky, weather-beaten, with short-cropped white hair, was one of the two Englishwomen who had been officers in the Serbian Army in the last World War. She wrote two books about her experiences. She was an officer still, and when this war came to Serbia, she went out again in spite of a recent operation. With her regiment of infantry she marched ten days until they were surrounded and captured and her feet gave out. She was taken in an ambulance to a German military prison hospital. A few days later a friend visited her, bringing women's clothes. She went into the lavatory, changed, and calmly walked out of the prison. She was free for a few weeks and was then brought into our cell. We spent pleasant hours, misery forgotten, discussing our experiences among the Serbs. Her husband, a White Russian, was also in the prison, desperately ill. Her anxiety about him, her efforts to catch any smallest glimpse of him, were agonizing. At last we heard that he was considered too ill even for that hole where illness was paid attention to only if it was a nuisance, and that he was to be removed to a hospital. She expected him to die: she must be allowed to speak to him before he went. As head woman it was my business to make any necessary requests. So, in spite of the forbidding yells of the guards, I went to the office and found Hahn fortunately alone. I said to him: "This woman is an army officer as you are an officer. She has only been loyal to her oath as you are loyal to your oath. She is old-as old perhaps as your own mother. Her husband, whom she loves as your mother loved your father, is going to die. For the sake of the mother who bore you and the principles she once taught you, you must allow this old lady to speak once more to her dying husband. Will you permit her to be in the yard as he passes through?" At that time he was still friendly to me. He did not look up. He hesitated as if about to say something sharp, then surlily he agreed. I got Flora into the yard. Out stumbled her thin, dying husband, supported by a stick. He fell on the bench; his head bowed as he coughed. She sat beside him. She put her hand on his arm, and the strength of a beautiful love that flowed from her and seemed to envelop him was almost a visible aura in the dingy court. They looked at each other speechless with old and well-worn love. Roughly he was removed. He died a few days later. She was released as an overage officer. She sent me back into the prison some wool, with which I knitted-with love in every stitch-two pullovers. I have them still and shall always treasure them. "Moj muz" (pronounced "moy mooj")-"my man, my husband." Like a soft undercurrent, a never-ending refrain, the words ran through the days and the endless nights. "Moj muz" . . . in the morning when the women climbed to the window (someone had to be on watch at the peephole and hiss sharply if the guard approached our door) to see if he was still among the men let out, cell by cell, to walk in single file round the little yard. Their figures made dim reflected shadows, forever turning, forever wheeling slowly round on our ceiling. Always, when I think of the prison, I still see those shadows endlessly wheeling on the ceiling. "Moj muz" . . . as, frantic with anxiety, they climbed at two o'clock every night up to the crack, their trembling bodies pressed together to watch the gate, the exit which meant-the end. So dim was the light that only by some characteristic shape or movement could a man be recognized. Night after night, sometimes in twos and threes, sometimes in herds, fathers, brothers, sons, mothers, sisters, daughters would go out, their warm hearts to be chilled in the cold, blood-saturated earth. The guards were usually grimly silent on these occasions as they prodded the silent men to their death. Straight and quietly those Serbs of all walks of life marched out with the firing squads: there was never a cry; never once did a Serb break down. But in the cell the stillness was so complete I could actually hear the pounding heartbeats of the trembling women I was holding up. "Moj muz," a woman would breathe and sink down, and I would lay her on the straw. In a few minutes now-a volley, too far, thank God, for us to hear it. And she would be a widow. When would her turn come? Soon. And she would go-silent, dazed, upheld like her husband by the knowledge that her only crime was her love of Serbia, of liberty. A name is barked into the dark cell. A woman-N., or D., or F., or one of the many others-rises without a word, fumbles for her coat, and while the other women lie speechless with grief, she goes to the door. One moment she staggers against the wall as the light strikes down on her from the corridor where the guard stands impatiently glowering, rifle on shoulder. She raises her head sternly. One moment more we see the silhouette of our companion, a Serbian woman going out to execution. Then she is gone-forever. "Moj muz"-she will rejoin him. If there is another existence it must surely be more kindly, more merciful than this German hell on earth. May you receive the only reward for love and courage you would ever ask for, dear Serbian wives-to meet again, and for eternity, "moj muz." There was something worse, even worse than this. Something so agonizing I hesitate to try to tell about it, knowing my words cannot convey the pain, the unfathomable grief of it. That was the visits of the children. About once a fortnight the children of the prisoners were allowed to come to the gate just to look at their parents. If the prisoner had somehow managed to get cigarettes with which to bribe the guard, the children could run in for a little hug, while the relative who brought them remained outside. The mothers and fathers would stoop to catch and raise their children in their arms. Their faces transfigured by the most fundamental, most enduring passion with which nature has endowed us, they touched, with hands trembling with love and despair, every part of the little bodies. They mumbled broken, age-old words of sweet endearment, the children laughing as they patted their fathers' and their mothers' hair, kissed them and pulled their ears, wondering at the running tears. For the last time these mea and women had what they loved more than their own lives in their arms. These, the very heart of their hearts, must stay behind-to what dark fate in a devastated, ruined land ? It was just-unendurable. One could steel oneself to any other suffering, but this pierced every armor of pride, of strength, of resolution. I gave my promise to these so unjustly suffering Serbs that if I came through alive I would return and spend the rest of my life looking after these, their children. I told them that not I alone, but my countrymen too, and all the freedom-loving nations of the earth, with America and Britain in the lead, would stand with hearts warm and strong behind me. That promise passed not only through the prison, but throughout Serbia-where my word is good. A strong belief in American generosity was the last thought of hundreds, of thousands of dying men and women: it eased in some measure the death pangs of a glorious army of martyrs. It will be for us now to justify their faith, to cherish and bring up their children in freedom to worship the memory of those who died for their love of liberty. I pledged my word and the honor of my country. I am sure, I know well, I shall be justified. Previous Chapter | Content | Next Chapter The Serbs Chose War, Ruth Mitchel