3

My name was Ruža and this is my story. A dead story. One among two thousand three hundred dead stories. Our stories, each and every one of them, died with us. All in a single day: on Saturday, February 7th 1942, according to the Gregorian calendar. All of us Serbs from Drakulic, Šargovac, Motike and the Rakovac coal mine were slaughtered then. Slaughtered between four o'clock in the morning and two o'clock in the afternoon. In a single working day of slaughter. That's right: in a single working day of slaughter! No more, no less. We were slaughtered by the Ustashi brought over from Zagreb for that purpose. The local Ustashi helped them wholeheartedly. We had heard nothing about their arrival from Zagreb. We neither knew nor sensed anything. In my village, Drakulic, things went on in the usual manner, most ordinary indeed. In fact, the older people talked, in low voices and very rarely, about some rebels. That they blew up the railway line at night. From Banja Luka, all the way to Zagreb. There were no rebels from Drakulic, they said, so we had nothing to fear. But that no-one should go to Banja Luka unless it was absolutely necessary: many Serbs had been slaughtered there. Even now they still slaughtered, killed them. On one occasion my mother, in a very low voice and very worried, mentioned the names of some villagers - Nenad Todorinovic, Djurdje and Kosta Glamocanin, Ratko and Krstan Stankovic, Miloš and Ilija Piljagic, Mitar and Dušan Mitrovic. She said that the Germans had captured them, that nothing was known about them, O God. They were all young people, in their prime of life...

Somehow I never bothered to remember those stories. I was only seventeen years old, I was pretty. The prettiest girl in the village, so they used to tell me. There was only one thing I dreamed of: a wedding! Five years before, I had seen a wedding for the first time and it was unforgettable. Vaso Mitrovic, called Zele, from our village, married Dušanka Perduv from the village of Budžak. It was a great wedding ceremony, very solemn, enchanting. Like a fairy-tale. More of it later. Now about my dream of getting married. Of being picked by a good man - clever, considerate, handsome, from a good family. Of being loved by that man and his family, of me loving them in return. Of it being talked about by everybody everywhere. Of giving birth to many children - healthy, well-fed, chubby, clever. Of having them follow me around, tiny and peeping like chickens. Of some of them resembling ducklings: bow-legged, running and toddling about, dressed in colourful children's clothes. Of giving them the loveliest names. The girls would have names like Ljuba, Jagoda, Malina, Milica, Ružica, Savka, Nada... The boys would have names like Ljubomir, Dragan, Milan, Milovan, Milenko, Bogoljub... And then some people would ask: whose children are those, so neatly dressed and clever? And others would answer: why, those are the children of Ruža Stijakovic!

It was a custom in our village to call a woman by her maiden name even after she had got married. So they remained Piljagic, Mitrovic, Todorinovic, Brkovic, Katalin, Glamocanin, Kocic, Stijakovic till their dying day... Those brought over from other villages would be referred to as the one from Zmijanje, Slatina, Ljevcan, Župa... If she was an honourable woman, a bride would be the pride of her family and her native village. If not, however, she would shame her family and her native village for a long time.

Occasionally, daydreaming like that, I would stare at the sky: I would follow the clouds, cotton-white and gossamer-like, driven by the wind, rushing across the blue of the sky. Depending on their shape and size, I would assign them various roles: this is the bridegroom, this is me, this is the best man, this the brother-in-law, this one's the bridesmaid, these are the witnesses... If thunder and lightning ensued while I was at it, it wouldn't bother me in the least. I would imagine that my wedding guests were shooting in the air, that the sound of thunder was actually that of horses' hooves: those were the usual noises accompanying our wedding celebrations. The better known the families, the noisier the wedding celebration tended to be! And as for that particular wedding, Dušanka and Zele's, everybody in Drakulic talked about it for years. They both looked beautiful, incredibly beautiful. She was all in white, a white veil and white shoes. He was wearing a dark, town suit with a tie and a handkerchief in his breast pocket. The bride had been dressed up for the wedding, they said, by Joka Cvijetic, and her hair had been done by a real hairdresser from town, Stojanka Mihajlovic. And we, young girls and boys, curious and unruly, followed the wedding procession all the way to Budžak, to the Perduvs' home. We followed them, running around like mad. Kids' stuff! I remembered all the important wedding guests: the witnesses were Drago and Jelena Roguljic, Vid Mitrovic and Djuradj Mitrovic were in charge of the wedding procession and celebration, Branko Piljagic was the flag-bearer, Jovo and Koviljka Stijakovic were the best man and the bridesmaid... As was the custom in our village, the best man and the bridesmaid were the last couple to have been married in the village. They had to be good-looking, as good-looking as possible. And from a well-respected family. It was believed that this would result in the newlyweds' offspring being good-looking, healthy, honest and clever. A wedding was considered to be a most important event with us, especially for the couple's families. That's why Zele's brothers Milan and Mladjen attended the wedding, as did his sister Mara with her husband, Jovan Milanovic from Rebrovac. Dušanka's mother, Djuja, a widow, kept a watchful eye on her children - sons Rajko, Mitar, Uroš and Stanko, daughters Mara and Dragica. She bade them attend to things with her eyes only; they had to show themselves in the best light to the future in-laws, the relatives and neighbours. It was essential not to do anything that might put them to shame, be it but an insignificant oversight.

Momo Stijakovic played his big harmonica. It shone, glittered as if made of silver. The kolo whirled. The sounds of music, singing and shouting everywhere. Rifles and revolvers going off. Brandy bottles and flasks going round, tables full of all sorts of food and drink. That, too, is something where the bride's family must not disappoint today. So that no-one should leave their home hungry or thirsty, or say something bad about them. No way, God forbid!

Vid and Djuradj Markovic, who were in charge of the proceedings, demanded that the bride should finally be taken out of the house. They looked very solemn, important. They insisted that they wished to see who they had come for and why. That the Perduvs had something that belonged to them, the Mitrovics, they believed...

- Who shall take care of my sister, in sickness and in health? - asked Mitar Perduv, Dušanka's brother, also very solemnly.

A general uproar ensued. In quick succession one joker after another would call out from among the wedding guests, claiming that he was the one, the bridegroom. Mitar would look him over, ask him something or other, then gently reprimand him and send him back into the crowd. The crowd, in its turn, teased the false bridegrooms, nudged them, laughed at them boisterously. Vid Markovic, the master of ceremonies, who had to see and hear everything, signalled to Zele to step before his future brother-in-law.

- I shall take care of your sister - Zele said resolutely, approaching him - in sickness and in health.

Once again there was shouting, jokes at the expense of the bride and the bridegroom. One of the guests threw a handful of coins onto the bride's head and her white veil. The children rushed after the fives, tens, crowns, half-dinars and dinars, trampling everything around them. They crawled underneath the guests' legs, searched the long grass, scratched through the soil. The bride's relatives slowly bid her farewell.

As for myself, obsessed with dreams about my future wedding as I was, I wanted to remember every detail, to know everything. So that I should make no mistakes when my own turn to marry came. I therefore watched everything carefully out of the corner of my eye, committed every detail to memory. Dušanka's mother, Djuja, whispered something to her for a long, long time, she must have been giving her advice. Others hugged and kissed her. The master of ceremonies demanded that the guests should prepare for departure for the Holy Trinity Church in the town. The wedding ceremony, they said, was to be performed there. The flag-bearer, Branko Piljagic, led the procession, riding a horse. He held high the flag with the big Royal coat of arms. He resembled very much an illustration from my Serbian reader: Boško Jugovic, the hero of the battle of Kosovo, the one from the epic folk poem about the ten Jugovic brothers and their father, old Jug-Bogdan. It was November, a rather strong wind was blowing, the flag fluttered all the time, as if it was whispering something or other to the wedding guests. The flag-bearer was followed by a car, wherein the wedding witnesses, the Roguljics drove, then the two Mitrovics in charge of the proceedings. They were followed by six carriages. Six carriages, no less, full of wedding guests! I had never seen anything like that before, I swear by the Blessed Virgin. Seven wagons followed, horsemen, cars... I watched them approaching the town, imagining that this was my wedding, that these were my wedding guests. And that the people on both sides of the road were watching me, sizing me up, admiring me and the wedding procession...

I may have said or exclaimed something then, without thinking. For my brother Miloš grabbed me by the arm rather roughly, asking what I had said. I replied that I had said nothing, not a single word, that he must have imagined it. All confused, I tried to come up with something in the way of justification. He obviously didn't believe me, he told me curtly that I was lying and ordered me to go home with him at once. If a girl is pretty and well-developed, even though she may be only twelve, she is regularly watched over by some household member when she goes out of her own village, so as to prevent any undesirable encounters, anyone from accosting her or saying something that might be unbecoming to her. She, of course, had to obey that person without a word in the way of protest. So I obeyed my brother immediately, although very unwillingly. Together with the others, I went back to the Mitrovics' home, to wait for the return of the wedding party from the church.

The house of Stevan Mitrovic, Zele's father, who, as they said with obvious respect, had fought on the Salonica Front, was a big one. The yard, now full of merry people, was enormous, too. Or so it seemed to me then. And the wedding procession?

Ahead of everyone else, a carriage approached the house, going very fast, announcing the arrival of the procession. The kolo came to a stop immediately, the music stopped, the garrulous crowd stopped talking. Everybody gathered at the fence to watch, like jackdaws.

- It must be Djuradj Glamocanin, none other but him! You can bet your life - a big man whom I didn't know shouted - it's Djuradj. No-one has a better carriage or better horses than him. Shall we bet, here's fifty, that it's him...

The big man waving a fifty-dinar note stopped shouting, went silent all of a sudden. Even if he had been shouting, nobody would have heard him. The bride's white veil and dress could now be seen clearly, that was what everyone had been waiting for. And since the bride was in that carriage, then it had to be the Mitrovics' carriage, not Djuradj's!

The last one to get down from that carriage was the bride, Dušanka.

- Give her an apple to throw over the house! Let her do it so we can see that she is a strong, healthy bride and that the Perduvs have not given us a sickly girl, God forbid! - Vid Mitrovic, the master of ceremonies, shouted merrily. The bride took the apple with her right hand, kissed it three times, then put it in her left hand. Having crossed herself three times, she put it in her right hand again, then threw it. The apple flew over the roof of the house in a tall arc. The flight of the apple was accompanied by deafening cheering coming from our curious, simple-minded villagers.

- The bride, as you can see, our beloved brothers and sisters, is as fit as a fiddle! Let our daughter-in-law now enter our house with God's blessing! - Vid Mitrovic was heard again.

Stoja, Dušanka's mother-in-law, stood by the threshold, covered with a white sheet for the occasion. Her face was radiant with joy but her gaze was fixed: would her daughter-in-law step on the white sheet, soil it? No, the bride bent down, folded it deftly and quickly, then handed it over to her mother-in-law, having kissed it three times. The latter responded by smothering her with many kisses, saying:

- May you find happiness in this home! God bless you, my dear child. From now on, you are my child, I am your mother. Come into your home, daughter of mine... Take these grains and scatter them around: may you bear healthy and honest grandchildren to me, may our fields yield a rich harvest, may our cattle multiply, may we have as many friends as there are grains in your hand coming into our home. Come into your home, daughter of mine!

Stoja's words were drowned by the sounds coming from the singers and musicians, those of rifle shots and the general uproar.

A branch is torn from a tree
And our lovely Dušanka from her mother...

- That's Joka Mitrovic singing - an older woman, one of the Piljagics, shouted into my ear - I am sure of it. Quite sure. There is no voice like hers, my dear...

From the other end of the yard, the voice of Joka Mitrovic was heard loud and clear:

The bride's as lovely as they get
Everybody kissed her, you can bet
Only Zele they wouldn't let
But Zele is a clever one
Last night he got the kissing done...

Joka and the group of girls around her hadn't quite finished when a group of male singers and tambouritsa players were heard - Mitar Mitrovic, Miloš Piljagic, Mirko and Nikola Kuruzovic, Kosta and Vaso Stolic, Nenad Todorinovic...

O Jovan of Belgrade town
Get up, it is burning down.
About Belgrade I care not
A sack of woe I have got.
I married a girl last night
This morning she's taken flight...

One of the male singers, letting out ear-piercing shrieks, fired a revolver several times in quick succession. From the other end of the yard, somebody fired a few times in reply. Two shots from a double-barrelled hunting rifle were heard as well; they sounded as loud as gunshots. I just stood there, transfixed, obsessed with that dream of my own wedding. And filled with fear, fear that I might betray my thoughts, for I knew I was too young to marry yet, fear that I would be made fun of wherever I went. At home, in the village, at school, where I was studying to be a shop assistant.

- There's my Ruža, Ružica, Ruška, my sun, my beauty... - I was startled out of my reverie by a familiar voice, that of my mother. She asked me about my brother, Miloš, where he might be in that crowd. I answered in a most confused, incoherent manner. That we had come back from Budžak together, all of us from Drakulic, that he would be somewhere nearby...

Inside, I felt an irresistible urge to throw my arms around her neck, to confide in her, tell her everything, then cry my heart out. She took me gently by the hand and asked:

- Have you seen Zele's bride? She is more beautiful than the Blessed Virgin, do forgive me, dear God. Isn't she? Come on, dear, let's hear Darinka Smiljanic, Milica Kuruzovic, Petra Stolic, the two Milanovic girls and the three Maras - Mara Piljagic, Mara Stijakovic and Mara Stolic. You, my daughter, should also learn how to sing...

Sing softly, sweet nightingales
Lest my dearest should wake up...

I am not of this world now, so possibly you down there find this long description of my dream of getting married boring. Quite likely! However, in the course of my all too brief earthly life I never saw anything more beautiful than that wedding, it is my most cherished memory. That is why I wish with all my heart that our village weddings should not die with us. In a nutshell, I wish that those weddings should come alive in people's memory. For we, who are telling our dead stories now, are just like flickers of fireflies in the night, moments in the infinity of time. I believe that our dead voices, our dead songs, the dead sounds of our tambouritsas and harmonicas still roam this village and the countryside. They ought to be revived, for they were slaughtered even though they were guilty of nothing whatsoever. My innocent childish dream of getting married should be revived as well and continued. When Dušanka and Zele got married, as I've already said, I was only twelve years old. My mother told me this, too, then: that she loved this village, Drakulic, from the bottom of her heart. Much more than Slatina, where she was born. She explained this to me: that Djuradj Glamocanin had the best and fastest horses, the best and newest carriage. That everybody knew that, that nobody doubted it in the slightest. And yet, he hadn't arrived there first. Why not, she asked me. And gave the answer herself immediately. That was what people there were like: when there was some celebration or other at a neighbour's house, they paid their respects in every possible way. That, to them, the joy of their neighbours was like their own. That was why Djuradj Glamocanin, the future head of the greatest and wealthiest family in Drakulic, let the Mitrovics' carriage arrive there before his own. To end with, she said that I should always bear this in mind: that we should feel joy at the joy of others. And never succumb to envy, spite, the ugly wish to get hold of something that belongs to others through dissemblance. She made me feel very ashamed by those words: just because of my silly wish to be in Dušanka's place, to be the bride.

Afterwards, I watched, without a shred of envy, how they took Dušanka's furniture, clothes, shoes and gifts off the wagons. She gave out, I distinctly remember, twenty-one shirts and God knows how many towels, handkerchiefs and socks. The wedding guests and the groom's family gave her many gifts in return. Most of all, money and gold. She also got a lot of money from pouring people water to wash their hands and distributing sweet brandy. The wedding feast lasted long into the night. And the next day - the bridesmaid's feast. That's what it was called with us.

Of my death I know very little. As for what preceded it, that I cannot forget. Never. It was morning. A clear morning, so cold that you felt something snap inside you. High piles of frozen snow. The Ustashi drove us out of the house, into the yard. An elderly Ustashi, an officer, presumably, called the roll.

- They are all here! - he said curtly, a contemptuous smile on his face. "Now we'll distribute the food to them..."

The other Ustashi, around ten of them, stood around us. They shifted some mace-like things from one hand to the other. Some kept their hands below the armpits so as to warm up their frozen fingers.

- Start bashing, the Almighty is watching you! - the officer shouted.

The Ustashi, like one, swung those little maces, hitting the members of my family on the backs of their heads. Screams, moans, cries for help were heard. Then bayonets flashed, blood gushed from people's necks, death rattle sounds were heard. Beside myself with fright, I screamed, taking a step towards my mother. I was the only one who didn't get hit by the mace.

- Get that piece of ass, that tasty ewe, that's what I need! Look how lovely she is, like a freshly picked fruit... Let me get a bite... - their commander shouted, grabbing me by my right arm. Another one grabbed my left arm immediately. They brought me down.

- Oh, no, you won't run away, so help me Jesus Christ and the Blessed Virgin, not even if you had a royal crown on you head! - the officer went on. Groaning and panting, he tried to lie between my legs. I feel a terrible stench coming out of his mouth. Much like the smell of old, rotten cabbage leaves. In summer. With the last vestiges of my strength, I managed to free myself by wriggling from under him. Then I felt a heavy blow on my head. I started sinking, sinking sinking...

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Copyright © 1998 Jovan Babic
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