Dead Stories

The evening found Tabiani, the Italian Royal Vice-Consul in Banja Luka, a young and very attractive man, in a very odd sort of mood. One could even say that he was excited. Even though he knew that most local Ustashi called him some very disparaging names behind his back - wop, cat-eater, womaniser, troubadour, paparazzo, hair-greaser - he paid no attention whatsoever to it. He was entirely aware of himself, his masculine charm and appearance. Very often, he felt provocative and voluptuous women's looks directed at his face, occasionally he really felt a desire to stare back just as voluptuously, but... he had his goal, he knew precisely why he had come to this Balkan den in the middle of nowhere, among these half-wild people. Although he never really showed it, they inspired a kind of repugnance in him. Particularly towards these rough Ustashi, even their high-ranking officers. Their first and last word was - slaughter. Slaughter and blood. And he was forced to listen to them talk, to utter sounds of approval, to smile as he listened to their boastful obscenities, even though bouts of nausea overcame him in the course of such conversations. Obscenities, why, no, not obscenities but their all too open savagery verging on cannibalism! What could one do: he had been told back in Rome, while preparing for this job, that he was free to think whatever he wished about them but that he was not to oppose them on any account.

Still less was he to inspire any doubt concerning the true nature of Italy's alliance with them. He had been there for half a year, but only now did he see and feel clearly how sensible and wise those bits of advice had been. Tonight, then, the German Cultural Association and Hitler Youth, that is, Deutsche Kulturbund and Hitler-Jugend, were throwing a gala party at "The Bosnia" hotel. He had accepted the invitation, out of civility as much as out of duty. Yes, duty! It was his duty to listen, eavesdrop, converse, gossip if need be, charm, support, deny...

All of the above depending on the circumstances, the collocutor and the needs of the moment. And tonight, everything is just about perfect. A big, bow-legged, thick-set Ustashi officer, head set deep between the shoulders, big eyes under thick eyebrows, comes up to me, saying in the most broken Italian imaginable: "Italiano, io sono Ustashi! Capisco! Mazzare, tuto Serbo mazzare. Tuto, tuto mazzare. Capisco! Io sono vive in Italia..." Something like: "Italian, I am an Ustashi! Slaughter, slaughter all Serbs. Slaughter them all. Slaughter, understand! I used to live in Italy..." I see that he is drunk, swaying, hardly able to remain upright. From his glass, filled to the brim, wine spills, dripping onto the expensive rug. One of those local primitives, I think to myself, smiling at him. I raise my glass so that the two of us can clink our glasses in the manner of true allies. We drink up. I pat his wide shoulders. He does likewise. Then he starts whispering into my ear, trying to be friendly. If I understood his Croato-Italian well, and I believe I did, this is what he said to me.

After the last German units had left Banja Luka a month ago, the Croats - the Ustashi and their gendarmerie - were entrusted with the task of defending the town against rebels. The main task of the Croats so far had been to clear the surrounding mountains and woods of Serb rebels. For that purpose, he said, the newly-arrived Ustashi unit had immediately imposed very strict safety measures. The curfew was extended from seven o'clock p.m. to seven o'clock a.m. According to this giant of a man, it was of particular importance that they, at least a thousand Ustashi, had come here from Zagreb, requisitioning local flats and barracks. What I consider to be of particular interest is that it is an Ustashi battalion, consisting of four companies. And not just any companies either, but four companies from the Headman's Personal Guard. He added that the make-up of the battalion was as follows: one armoured and one cavalry company, the remaining two being storm troops, infantry units. There were no big differences among them: they all slaughtered, like the Tuscany Wolves. He'd probably heard of the Tuscany Wolves in Brescia, or was it Lipari, where the so-called old Ustashi had been before the war.

Not wishing to interrupt him, I listen to him very carefully, all too carefully, just to encourage him to go on. And he rambles on and on and on, spraying spittle into my face, the unbearable stench from his mouth full of decaying, crooked teeth filling my nostrils. He did not know for certain who their Commander was, but he thought it was Colonel Stanzer. If that was the case, he was a truly remarkable man: always the first when it came to slaughter, regardless of age and nationality. Also, that the new Commander's lodgings were in the same place where those of General Fortner, the Commander of the German Division stationed in the town, used to be. At the former Governorate Head Office. He also told me this, the idiot that he was: that now, following the arrival of the Ustashi from the Headman's Personal Guard, there was going to be a great operation of clearing the area of rebel forces. Even that, he said was not all. The whole town would be purged of all sorts of suspects, those opposed to the Ustashi regime, all those who might be helping the rebels. Or merely sided with them. The remaining Serbian villages in the vicinity of Banja Luka, he kept whispering while I felt as if I might vomit my mother's milk any moment, would be rased. And not just those in the immediate surroundings. They would be swept away, he said with particular emphasis, by the iron broom of Doctor Viktor Gutic, the former Ustashi Stožernik for the region of Croatian Krajina, now the Great Župan with the Ministry of the Interior in Zagreb.

Today, he said, a great operation of slaughtering the Serbs had been carried out. A magnificent operation: about two thousand of them had been slaughtered between six o'clock in the morning and two o'clock in the afternoon! Banja Luka, which some insisted on calling Little Belgrade, and its surroundings, were going to be purged spotlessly clean! Just like that, he said, showing off on account of being privy to such top-secret information. For the purpose of adding credibility to his words, he placed his right index finger upon his thick lips and slipped a large scroll of paper into my pocket with his left hand as additional proof. "We are - he hissed - proven allies. Italy has protected and fed our Headman and us. That is why there must be no secrets between us. All the Serbs on this list are already on their way towards the heavens above!" He laughed gaily, boisterously, as if he had just told a very funny joke. I laughed, too, although I didn't feel like laughing at all. Then, O gods, I felt the gaze of a woman upon my face. I say "felt", because that is precisely what happened: even before I saw it, I felt it caress my face in the manner of a gentle breeze. Long blond hair, warm blue eyes, a slightly chubby face, long neck. In addition to that, a bulging pair of young breasts, a waist like that of a dragonfly, a lovely pair of legs, like those of a doe... I couldn't restrain myself. I might have let a deep sigh out of my breast. All of a sudden, I felt burning hot volcanic lava crawling up my spine, I felt myself burning all over, I felt a dizziness starting to overcome me... O Apollo! Only now do I realise that the great hall is seething with motion: what with the orchestra playing Strauss, "An der schönen blauen Donau", red-faced couples whirling round, ladies' necklaces and the medals on the breasts of Ustashi and German officers glittering. On a few tail-coats as well. At one moment, my gaze was intercepted by that of my drunken collocutor. He just opened those bloodshot ox-like eyes wide, spat onto the carpet contemptuously and moved away from me, mumbling incomprehensible swearwords.

Now I am all alone again, in my Vice-Consul's office, with my mixed feelings. Yes, mixed! Full of pleasure that I responded manfully to the challenge of that lovely German angel, yet deeply depressed on account of having betrayed my sense of duty. Therefore, I ask myself, as if what had happened between my little angel and me had happened in an instant, in a dream: What are you, Vice-Consul Roberto Tabiani? An employee of the Royal Government of Italy or a petty womaniser and seducer, lecher? Roberto, you are not a Consul ulis, one of the two highest-ranking officials of the ancient Roman Empire. Nor are you a Consul suffectus, a consul substituting for another Roman consul. Still less are you a Consul rogare, a candidate for the Consul of Rome. Well, what are you, then? A mere Vice-Consul, a diplomat of the lowest rank! That's what you are. And what about your ambitions, promotion, the mission entrusted to you... To hell with everything! Let me finally take a look at that allegedly confidential document given to me by that conceited Neanderthal.

A census made for the purpose of the distribution of food and other necessities! A census made for the purpose... What's this supposed to mean? That Balkan bandit might have been merely pretending to be drunk. Or stupid, for that matter. And yet, he planted this document on me. Laughing in my face. A census made for the purpose of distribution of food... No, it can't be! And yet, he said in no uncertain terms that all those included in this list were already on their way to the heavens above. Whereupon he made a slashing movement across his neck with the palm of his hand. As if he were slaughtering someone. One should generally doubt their words, except when they talk about slaughter. Is it possible that all these unfortunates from the list made for the purpose of the distribution of food have been slaughtered? Good God. And last night's do... Was it supposed to be a ball given in honour of that ghastly event, a vampires' ball? Let me have a look at this list, after all!

THE VILLAGE OF DRAKULIC

Glamocanin Gajo, born in 1884, wife Joka, 1886, daughter-in-law Djuja, 1903, daughter-in-law Mara, 1909, grandson Boško, 1920, granddaughter Dušanka, 1923, granddaughter Darinka, 1925, granddaughter Jovanka, 1927, granddaughter Sava, 1928, grandson Milan, 1929, granddaughter Radojka, 1931, grandson Ostoja, 1932, granddaughter Radojka, 1933, grandson Slobodan, 1936, grandson Borislav, 1939, granddaughter Gordana, 1939, granddaughter Vasiljka, 1940... 1940!? December 1940. A girl, aged one year and how many months? Fifteen months? Impossible! What sort of apparition have you sent my way tonight, O Lord? Will they not stop even at slaughtering babies in their cradles? Impossible!

Glamocanin Stevo, head of family, 1906, wife Djuja, 1909, son Božo, 1924, son Jovo, 1926, son, Ratko, 1928, daughter Joka, 1930, daughter Bosiljka, 1933, daughter Darinka, 1936, son Drago, 1939, mother Joka, 1876...

Glamocanin Mico, head of family... Glamocanin Uroš, head of family... Glamocanin Lenka, head of family... All of this is just a huge mess in my head. Everything's mixed up: names, surnames, years of birth. Everything. Nonsense! That Ustashi Sergeant Major, or whatever his rank was, must have been putting me on after all. A list for the purpose of the distribution of food or slaughter!?

Mitrovic Ilija, head of family, 1878, wife Savka, son Branko, 1922, daughter Nevenka, 1926, daughter Jeka, 1929, son Milorad, 1934, son Filip, 1936... How many of these Mitrovics there are!

Mitrovic Cvijo, head of family, 1919, wife Boja, 1920, daughter Milena, 1938, son Nikola, 1940, son Djordje, 1942... Djordje, just born, a new-born baby. Djordje, that's Giorgio! My youngest brother is also called Giorgio. Giorgino-piccolino...

Giorgio, Giorgio, my sweet little one,
I'm back from town, my shopping done.
I've bought you cakes, so don't you cry,
I'll sing my little baby a sweet lullaby.

Mitrovic Joka, head of family, 1923... Mitrovics, Mitrovics... Ah, Mitrovics! Here's another Mitrovic. Mitrovic Cvijo, head of family, 1918, wife Boja, 1920, brother Djordje, 1921, sister Nevenka, 1925, son Nikola, 1938, daughter Bosiljka, 1940, daughter Rosa, 1942... Why, Rosa had been born just before the slaughter. How horrible, just born...

Brkovic Trivun, head of family, 1880, wife Stoja, 1891, son Jovo, 1914, son Djuro, 1916, daughter Nevenka, 1920, daughter-in-law Jovanka, 1910, grandson Mirko, 1930, granddaughter Mara, 1934, grandson Pero, 1936.

Brkovic Mile, head of family, 1882, wife Andja, 1886, son Jovan, 1916, son Branko, 1918, daughter Jovanka, 1920, daughter-in-law Kristina, 1915, grandson Jovo, 1935, granddaughter Ruža, 1937, grandson Trivun, 1939, grandson Savo, 1941... There are many of these Brkovics, too...

Brkovic Simo, head of family, 1910, wife Spasenija, 1912, son Gojko, 1931, daughter... Brkovic Luka... No, not Brkovic but Brkic! Why aren't they all either Brkovic or Brkic? Never mind, although it's no use, I imagine all these elderly Brkovics and Brkics as moustachioed, good-natured old men. Taciturn, meek, pondering their life filled with hardship. A short while ago, in the village of Šargovac, on the occasion of the Orthodox Christmas, I saw children leaning over a bowl of cicvara, a local dish made of maize. Anyone who did not see his reflection in it, they explained to me, would not live to see another Christmas... The same goes for Luka Brkic, head of family, 1890, wife Mara, 1892, son Milan, 1922, son Simo, 1924, daughter Bosiljka, 1927, son Marinko, 1929, daughter-in-law Ljubica, 1923, and grandson Ostoja, 1940, they won't live to see another Christmas. Nor, for that matter, will Brkic Trivun, or Brkic Milica, or Brkic Jovanka... Who's next?

Peric Ilija, head of family, 1903, wife Vida, 1909, son Milan, 1930, son Uroš, 1932, son Mladjen, 1934, daughter Milena, 1935, daughter Mijoljka, 1937, daughter Smilja, 1938, then Stankovic Risto, head of family, 1901, brother Nikola, 1903, Stankovic Milan, head of family...

How many Stankovics are there, for God's sake? Ten families? That's right, ten...

Todorinovic Jovanka, head of family, 1903, daughter Vukica, 1920, son Vladimir, 1923, daughter Darinka, 1926, son Ostoja, 1928, daughter Milica, 1930, son Jovica, 1939, Son Djuro, 1936, son Vaso, 1938...

Todorinovic Mile, head of family... Todorinovic Trivun, head of family... How come all Serb family names end in "-ic"? At least those I've seen so far. What have the poor people from this list done wrong, what has that bandy-legged Ustashi Sergeant Major got against them? What are they guilty of in the eyes of the Ustashi authorities? I've heard that there hasn't been the slightest incident in those villages ever since the beginning of the war. That the villagers were peaceful people, loyal to this state. Peaceful and loyal, and yet, if what the Sergeant Major has told me tonight is true, they had to die. Why? Is it merely because they were Serb and Orthodox and not Croat and Catholic, like the Ustashi? Is that truly a sufficient reason for wishing somebody's death? And not just wishing but seeing to it that they get killed. Slaughtered. Lord preserve us! Let me read on...

Kuruzovic Milan, head of family, 1903, wife Milica, 1903, daughter Joka, 1925, daughter Djuja, 1927, son Petar, 1929, son Risto, 1931, son Mirko, 1933, son Spasoje, 1935.

Kuruzovic Jovo, head of family, 1882, wife Jovanka, 1884, son Ostoja, 1910, son Milan, 1913, daughter Djuja, 1916, daughter Mara, 1918, son Stojan, 1920.

Kuruzovic Dušan, head of family, 1906, wife Mijoljka, 1910, son Ratko, 1930, son Simeun, 1932, daughter Djuja, 1934, daughter Jovanka, 1936, daughter Radojka, 1938, daughter Spasenija, 1940.

Kuruzovic Risto, head of family, 1882, wife Milica, 1886, son Rajko, 1913, daughter-in-law Dragica, 1915, grandson Jovo, 1936, grandson Nebojša, 1938, grandson Ljubomir, 1940, daughter Staka 1942.

There are many of these Kuruzovics, too, ten or so households, each one plentiful, sad to say...

Peric Ilija, head of family, 1903, wife Vida, 1909, son Milan, 1930, son Uroš, 1932, son Mladjen, 1934, daughter Milena, 1935, daughter Mijoljka, 1937, daughter Smilja, 1938.

Piljagic Stevan, head of family, 1880, wife Joka, 1882, son Jovo, 1912, son Rade, 1915, daughter-in-law Milosava, 1917, son Dušan, 1919, daughter-in-law Slavka, 1920, son Dragoje, 1922, son Uroš, 1924, son Jovica, 1926, daughter Marija, 1928, son Ostoja, 1930, daughter Jovanka, 1933, son Ostoja, 1935, daughter Ružica, 1937.

Piljagic Dragan, head of family, 1884, wife Djuja, 1888... Piljagic Pero, head of family, 1882, wife Joka, 1884... God, how many of these Piljagics there are! Such an awful lot of them. Thirteen households. Thirteen! And everybody here believes that number thirteen brings bad luck... It seems to have done so in their case...

Piljagic Miloš, head of family, 1890... Piljagic Jakov, head of family, 1908... Piljagic Stevan, head of family, 1880, wife Joka, 1882, son Jovo, 1912, daughter-in-law Radojka, 1914, granddaughter Ruža, 1935, grandson Pantelija, 1937, granddaughter Jelena, 1940, son Rade, 1916, daughter-in-law Bosijlka, 1918, grandson Boro, 1938, granddaughter Borka, 1940, granddaughter Radojka, 1942, grandson Pantelija, 1942. Twins, poor little twins! Brother and sister, new-born babies, slaughtered...

Tunjic Damjan, head of family, 1888, wife Mara, 1891, daughter Milica, 1914, son Milan, 1916, daughter Andja, 1918, son Pero, 1920, son Drago, 1922, daughter Joka, 1924, daughter Djuja, 1926, son Ostoja, 1928, daughter Danica, 1931.

Torbica Miloš, head of family, 1876, wife Stana, 1878, daughter Milica, 1914, son Luka, 1916, son Nikola, 1918, son Vaso, 1920, daughter Joka, 1924, son Jovo, 1926, son Stojan, 1928.

Peric Ilija, head of family, 1880... I've seen his name already! No, this is another Peric Ilija, after all: his wife is Vasilija, 1884, daughter Sava, 1912, son Spasenije, 1915, daughter Stana, 1917, daughter Milica, 1920, son Djuro, 1922.

Radenkovic Petar, head of family, 1880, wife Joka, 1884, daughter Stana, 1916, son Jovo, 1920, son Ilija, 1922, son Djuro, 1924.

Vukobrat Djuradj, head of family, 1880... Kamber Simeon, head of family, 1902... Cvijetic Stanko, head of family, 1888... Cvijetic Milan, head of family... Vukovic Jovanka, head of family... Mihajlovic Mitar, head of family... Kojic Ratko, head of family... Another Kojic Ratko, head of family... All those households are large, very large indeed...

Karan Milan, head of family, 1903, wife Milica, 1903, daughter Joka, 1927, son Jovan, 1925, son Djuro, 1929, son Kosta, 1931, son Novak, 1933, daughter Nevenka, 1935, son Vaso, 1937, daughter Staka, 1939, son Spasoja, 1940, daughter Ljubica, 1942.

Savanovic Jovan, head of family, 1885, wife Stoja, 1888, son Petar, 1913, son Ratko, 1915, daughter-in-law Djuja, 1916, son Mladjan, 1919, daughter Mara, 1922, daughter Milja, 1925, son Danilo, 1928, daughter Radojka, 1930, granddaughter Rada, 1936, granddaughter Mijoljka, 1938, granddaughter Kosa, 1940, granddaughter Rosa, 1939, grandson Ostoja, 1937, granddaughter Smilja, 1941, grandson Ostoja, 1940, granddaughter Ilinka, 1936, grandson Uroš, 1938, grandson Savo, 1940.

Savanovic Cvijo, head of family, 1890, wife Jovanka, 1892, son Branko, 1922, son Milan, 1924, daughter Bosiljka, 1926, daughter Mara, 1928, daughter-in-law Djuja, 1923, grandson Jovan, 1938, granddaughter Jelka, 1940, granddaughter Persa, 1942... Why, this one, too, is a new-born baby...

Cušic Filip, head of family, 1878, wife Stoja, 1880...

Cušic Ilija, head of family... Cušic Djuradj, head of family... Cušic Mara, head of family, 1900, daughter Danica, 1922, son Dušan, 1925, son Boro, 1928, daughter Nada, 1930, daughter Gospava, 1932, daughter Rosa, 1934, daughter Jela, 1937, daughter-in-law Sretenija, 1925, granddaughter Borislava, 1941, granddaughter Smilja, 1942... Yet another poor new-born baby!

Stolic Nikola, head of family, 1885... Stolic Risto, head of family, 1888... Blaženovic Jovan, head of family... Malinic Savo, head of family, 1880... Popadic Simo, head of family... Katalina Simo, head of family... Katalina Dušan, head of family... Amidžic Stojan, head of family... Karan Djordje, head of family... Karan Stevan, head of family... Stijakovic Petar, head of family, 1888, wife Marija, 1887, son Kosta, 1910, son Vaskrsije, 1911, son Miloš, 1913, daughter-in-law Danica, 1908, daughter-in-law Jovanka, 1912, daughter-in-law Živka, 1916, granddaughter Jeka, 1927, grandson Djuro, 1929, grandson Živko, 1931, grandson Rajko, 1934, granddaughter Grozda, 1937, grandson Djuro, 1939, grandson Mirko, 1939, grandson Drago, 1940, granddaughter Zorka, 1931.

Sredic Stojan, head of family, 1878. Poor old man! Maybe he lived on his own!

Kocic Mara, head of family, 1905, son Jovica, 1924, son Ljubo, 1925, son Drago, 1929, daughter Djuja, 1933, daughter Joka, 1936, daughter Slavka, 1939.

Djuric Milan, head of family, 1910... Good God... Is it really possible that all those poor people are dead? Dead! How come - dead? Why should they be dead? No. That's not possible. That hideous man made an ugly joke, after all. Just a joke, of course... No, he wasn't joking. When they talk about slaughter, they never joke. Never have. So far, at least, that is. Never...

THE VILLAGE OF ŠARGOVAC

Todorinovic Ratko, head of family, 1890, wife Petra, 1895, son Simo, 1922, son Marko, 1924, son Mladjan, 1920, son Mile, 1928, daughter Mara, 1930, daughter Radojka, 1933, daughter Danica, 1935, daughter Petra, 1938.

Todorinovic Gojko, head of family, 1899, wife Dragica, 1905.

Todorinovic Gajo, head of family, 1909, wife Bosiljka, 1913, son Mirko, 1936, son Jovo, 1938, daughter Djuja, 1940... I've already come across these Todorinovics a short while ago. What was the name of that village? Doesn't matter. If they have all been slaughtered, nothing matters to them any longer. Nothing...

Todorinovic Simo, head of family... Šešic Dušan, head of family... Šešic Djuro, head of family... Šešic Vid, head of family... Šešic Mile, head of family... Šešic Mladjen, head of family... Šešic Dane, head of family... Šešic Djuja, head of family... Šešic Stojan, head of family... Milakovic Rajko, head of family... Milakovic Djuja, head of family... Ševa Savo, head of family... Ševa Dosta, head of family... Ševa Dragica, head of family... Ševa Stanko, head of family... What's all this: Šešics, Todorinovics, Milakovics, Brkovics again? The Ustashi probably wrote down the names going from house to house, in no particular alphabetical order, just so that the slaughter should be carried out as quickly as possible... If all those people really are dead, it is something that utterly defies comprehension. I just don't understand it...

THE VILLAGE OF M*TIKE

Matike, Motike, Mrtike, Mrtvike...? I can't make it out... Why, this is blood! A blood-stain. Vampires! A bloody trace of a vampire. Maybe that's what they are, these Ustashi - vampires? That Sergeant Major is a vampire. His teeth are like those of a vampire. As are his eyes, for that matter. Now I'm sure that he is a vampire. As a child, I read about Count Dracula, the vampire. He killed people, he impaled them, slaughtered them. He sucked their blood through a reed. These Ustashi all look like vampires to me. Nonsense! I'm talking nonsense. Pure nonsense. Vice-Consul Roberto Tabiani, you have taken leave of your senses in this spooky night, you have gone mad. Stark raving mad...

Vasic Risto, head of family, 1888, wife Jovanka, 1889, son Petar, 1919, son Mirko, 1921, son Nikola, 1923, son Mladjan, 1925, son Stojan, 1928, daughter-in-law Milosavka, 1917, grandson Milorad, 1936, granddaughter Radojka, 1938, granddaughter Zora, 1939...

Vasic Cvijeta, head of family, Vasic Lazar, head of family... There are a lot of these Vasics, too, such an awful lot of them, eleven families... Vasic Ilija, head of family, Vasic Mihajlo, head of family... Blood! A drop of blood... The year of birth can't be made out... Wife Vasilija, 1884, son Djuradj, 1907, Vasic Petra, head of family, 1886, Vasic Djuradj, head of family, 1882, wife Milica, 1887, Vasic Djordjija, head of family... Blood again! This is scary! Vasic Milan, Vasic Cvijo, Vasic Ilija... Also heads of families. Used to be...

Todic Djuradj, head of family, 1878, wife Stoja, 1879, son Stanoje, 1901, son Kosta, 1906, daughter-in-law Jovanka, 1904, daughter-in-law Jovanka, 1907, son Tomo, 1920, granddaughter Zorka, 1925, grandson Milenko, 1927, granddaughter Grozda, 1928, grandson Milan, 1930, granddaughter Dušanka, 1932, granddaughter Dragojla, 1932, grandson Borislav, 1935.

Todic Rade, head of family... Todic Pero, head of family... Also, Todic Kosta, Trivun, Petko... The rest is illegible, all of it. Possibly burnt through? Who knows...

Maleševic Pero, head of family, 1872, wife Rista, 1873, son Vaso, 1901, son Petar, 1903, son Dušan, 1910, son Mirko, 1911, son Rade, 1913, son Petko, 1915, grandson Branko, 1918, grandson Ljubo, 1919, grandson Dragan, 1923, grandson Slavko, 1929, grandson Mladjan, 1931, grandson Vukosav, 1933, grandson Milorad, 1928, grandson Milan, 1923, grandson Dragoljub, 1938, grandson Tihomir, 1938, daughter-in-law Jovanka, 1896, daughter-in-law Milica... Blood again, can't make out the year of birth. Nor can I do so in the case of daughter-in-law Ljubica, daughter-in-law Gospava, daughter-in-law Radojka, daughter-in-law Stana... My God, the same thing in the case of granddaughter Zorka, granddaughter Marica, granddaughter Milosavka, granddaughter Cvijeta, granddaughter Joka, granddaughter Ljeposava, granddaughter Dragica, granddaughter Radojka, granddaughter Dragoslava, granddaughter Mirjana... A rivulet of clotted blood has obliterated their years of birth. O Providence, save me from going mad! How many people were there in this family? How many? Why, I'm already referring to them as if they are truly dead. Thirty-four of them dead! Thirty-four in a single family. Thirty-four dead bodies, thirty-four graves, thirty-four coffins, thirty-four funeral services... Funeral services? What funeral serivces, that's impossible! I've known for a long time from the Ustashi documents that Serb priests have been slaughtered. What funeral services, for God's sake! What am I to do now? Shall I stop reading this, at least until morning? Shall I get just a little sleep? Morning, they say, is always wiser than evening. Never mind... I'll read this through, I have to. But the list of the people slaughtered in Mrtike, if that's what it is called, is not the end of it. Part of the name of the village is smeared with blood. Yes, blood... There's also the list of victims from the Rakovac coal mine. Miners, then. But this is insane. Why would they slaughter miners in this cold? We're all freezing anyway... I don't understand a thing. Madness, sheer madness! Here come more Brkovics - Lazar, head of family, Djordjo, head of family, Pavo... B-r-k-o-v-i-c-s! Good-natured, moustachioed elderly men from my imagination. Imagination that might be turning sick now...

Kovacevic Stevo, head of family... Kneževic Sava, head of family, son Mitar... Šešic Stojan, head of family... Miljevic Ljubo, 1874... This one lived on his own, like a stump struck by a thunderbolt... Blood again, making it impossible to see either names or surnames, anything. Just blood, absorbed by the paper, turned black. I feel the smell of blood. And death. Is it really the smell of blood and death? Am I hallucinating, talking nonsense? Talking to myself, inside myself. Sober up, Vice-Consul Tabiani, sober up, man...

THE RAKOVAC COAL MINE

Ordinal numbers, surnames, names, full dates and places of birth, birth registry numbers. Even birth registry numbers! Lest they should make mistakes in their orgy of slaughtering, most likely. So that they could be quite sure that no Serb would escape them. Or that they should be able to boast to someone about how conscientious they had been. They like boasting. About everything, really, their evil nature in particular. But, O God, what possesses a man, his powers of reasoning, that he should start boasting about being conscientious when it comes to slaughtering? A conscientious criminal, a man endowed with reason, one who goes about committing crimes in a most conscientious manner! Can this be? Perhaps! If these poor miners are dead, too, it most certainly can. What are their names? Not are! What were their names? Yes, what were their names...

Beric Stevo from some place called Rekavice, Cenic Lazar from Pavlovac, Dragojevic Dušan from Pavlovac, Dragojevic Branko from Cokor, Djuranovic Mitar from Pavlovac, Pajic Vaskrsije from Bukvalek, Gajic Novak from Piskavica, Goronja Jovo from Banja Luka, Jovic Mirko from Borkovic, Javorac Ciro form Han-Kol, Mihalovic Djordjo from Little Prnjavor, Macanovic Manojlo from Cokor, Miloševic Ostoja from Bukvalek, Macanovic Stanoje from Cokor, Macanovic Nikola from Cokor, Mirnic Dušan from Cokor, Ninkovic Milan from Pavlovac, Ninkovic Mitar from Pavlovac, Ninkovic Dušan from Cokor, Narandžic Miloš from Motike, Pavic Dušan from Motike, Ratkovic Branko from Bistrica, Saradžic Vaso from Bukvalek, Šutilovic Pantelija from Piskavica, Tadic Trivun from Motike, Tica Vukosav, Tica Stanko and Trkulja Stojan from Pavlovac, Vucic Jovan and Vucic Sretenije from Cokor, Vasic Djordjo and Vasic Cvijo from Motike, Kovacevic Cvijo from Piskavica, Grujic Mirko from Piskavica, Vucic Lazo from Cokor, Todorinovic Simo from Šargovac, Savanovic Ratko from Drakulic, Maleševic Petar from Motike, Lajšic Dušan from Svodna...

Why, how many of these unfortunates are there? All their lives, from the ground into the ground, from below the ground back to the ground! And now, finally, into the ground. All sixty-five of them at once. That's what it says here. Dream or reality? A bad, horrible dream. If it's reality, it's even more horrible. Thousands of innocent people dead. All in a single day. And in a single place, as it were.

So many different turns of events in a single night, this night! The ball, music, dancing, merriment, that little German angel, a woman out of this world... And then this roll-call of the dead, thousands of them. You, who had nothing to do with it, hear them moaning in this crazy Balkan night, imagine their life stories. No longer life stories but dead stories. Horror! What horror, Roberto Tabiani! And what are you to do now, Roberto? Robertino, that's what my mother calls me even today. Mother? Where is my mother? My good mother, Christina. Can she have any idea of my torment in this cursed Balkan slaughterhouse? On this cursed soil, where people have been slaughtering one another for centuries. They slaughter one another like wild animals: without any clear motive and for no apparent reason... Oh, you poor Royal Vice-Consul, Roberto Tabiani! Where have you come to pursue a diplomatic career? Among beasts? And to attend their savage balls, vampire balls. Yes, vampires...

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Copyright © 1998 Jovan Babic
Copyright © 1998 Zaduzbina Petar Kocic, Banja Luka - Beograd