4

My name was Milovan. And this is my story. A dead story. One of two thousand three hundred dead stories. Our stories, each and every one of them, died with us. On the same day: 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! We were slaughtered by the Ustashi brought over from Zagreb for that purpose. The local Ustashi helped them wholeheartedly. We had no idea that they had arrived here from Zagreb. We neither knew nor sensed anything. Before the slaughter, we, the Serbs of Drakulic, had lived in peace. We had lived in constant fear that we might not live to see the next morning, and yet we had lived in peace. We had caused no problems for the new powers-that-be: we had given them whatever they had demanded, we had obeyed their orders, we had not reacted when they offended us in any way. We had not protested against anything, nor had we been in touch with those rebel forces. We had been completely obedient. Why - elderly villagers, serious people, would ask - should they do any harm to us? Friar Miroslav, the parish priest from Petricevac, often came to the village. Occasionally, he wore an Ustashi uniform with a belt and a revolver hanging from it. On top of all that, he had a strap with a leather sheath containing a small knife on his shoulder. Sometimes he was accompanied by priests who were entirely unfamiliar to me. They usually remained silent, so that to us they looked like Friar Miroslav's attendants, silent shadows of his.

- This small knife is called a stab-knife. The Ustashi stab-knife, don't you forget it! Isn't it lovely? - he would ask us gaily, playing with the knife as if it was some kind of toy. "And so - he would go on calmly - you still celebrate your patron saints' days. And other religious holidays of yours, of course. And you think that there exists nothing nicer and greater than your patron saint's day. You still believe in it because you don't know that such beliefs are pagan, barbaric. That is why, it seems to me, you refuse to be converted to our Holy Catholic faith. We shall see, we shall see..."

He would take out the knife again, throw it up in the air, then catch it deftly with his right hand and put it back into its sheath. On one occasion, I remember distinctly, he took his revolver out of its holster. It was shiny and black, it shone with a certain black sheen. He put it on the palm of his right hand, squinted at it with his left eye, smiling. All of a sudden, he gripped it with his fingers, cocked it. Then he quickly took aim and fired at a young apple-tree. Then again, and yet again.

- You, old man - he said to Uncle Mitar casually - go and see where those bullets went!

Uncle Mitar obediently toddled off to the tree, some ten metres away, bent down slowly, then called out:

- Here they are, all three of them, I swear by St Sava, my patron saint! You aim well, priest, couldn't be better. There's no denying it... - shouted Uncle Mitar, who was a little deaf, pointing at the white holes on the bark of the apple-tree with his right index finger.

- There are some who are better than me, I assure you. And when they shoot at living targets, they have no equal, believe you me. You'll see for yourselves, oh yes, you will. Just you go on celebrating your patron saints' days. And enjoy yourselves. Yes, yes, enjoy yourselves - he added mysteriously.

No-one in the village took the priest's words seriously at first. Even before that, passing through our village, be it on his way to his flock in Motike or on his way back from Motike, he would occasionally voice some reproach, rebuke somebody or other in passing. There were also Serbs living in Motike. They spoke nothing of Friar Miroslav, either ill or well. That was why our villagers took the Friar's words like the mere grumbling of a priest. From last summer onwards, however, when stories of the mass slaughter of Serbs became more and more frequent, they stopped taking them lightly. A dull, hollow fear took hold of them. Stories of strange nocturnal occurrences multiplied, too, so no-one walked about the village after dark without a very good reason for doing so.

- There I was last night, going home from the direction of Arman. It was rather late, I got held up looking for a young bull... Suddenly I heard the sound of a baby's crying coming from a bush. It did sound like a baby crying in its cradle. What was that supposed to mean, a baby crying here at this time of the night? Dear God, I said to myself and crossed myself three times. The crying stopped. I had made no more than three steps further when the crying started again. I crossed myself again, the crying stopped. I started running up the hill as fast as my feet could carry me and heard a woman's voice scream to my left. I looked in that direction, the moon had broken through the clouds just then, and what did I see: a young woman standing two or three metres away from me. She had no head on her shoulders, blood came gushing out of her neck. She was awash in blood. She held her head in her right hand and her baby in her left hand. And then the head said to me: "Old man, take this child and run. I see that our village is dead, all of us have been slaughtered. For God's sake, save this baby so that our seed shall not be destroyed. Save it, I beg you!" - she said, crying loudly, running out of breath. Tears as big as hazelnuts ran down her face covered with blood. That's all I can remember...

That's the story Uncle Mitar told on the eve of the slaughter, after they had brought him home all petrified with fear and confused, given him some brandy and wrapped him up in blankets to keep him warm. Everybody about the house except me was very nervous, but they all tried to reassure and console my good uncle. I tried to console and encourage him, too, but I didn't believe him. Having finished three years of teachers' training school, I felt myself to be above chimeras and, as I thought, mindless superstition. In a way, not being able to believe him even made me sad. How was it that I couldn't believe him, Uncle Mitar, who fed me, a most kind elderly man, much respected by all the villagers. My father, as he had told me, had been killed in the battle of Kajmakcalan, and my mother had remarried. I had remained an orphan. He was both a father and a mother to me. He had sent none of his own children to, as he used to say, a higher school, but he did send me. I feel guilty even now because I doubted Uncle Mitar's story about my father's death, there at Kajmakcalan, but I couldn't believe that either. For we were poor, we could hardly make ends meet. The families of World War One heroes got pensions, we got nothing whatsoever. Still, he had me enrolled at the teachers' training school in Banja Luka. He often said to me: "Your father was a Serbian hero, you are going to be a Serbian teacher. You are going to teach Serbian children stories about the heroic deeds of the Serbian people. Stevan Mitrovic, who fought on the Salonica Front with our late Sava, told me that none other than Duke Mišic put a Karadjordje Medal on you late father's breast with his own hand. And he said to him: "If there is anyone who deserves to be awarded this medal, it is this Serb from Bosnia...!" Also, teach our children to be good and honest, to do no harm to anyone, to lend a helping hand to everyone, to shame others through the goodness of their hearts...

I, who am not of this world, whose name is not on any list of those slaughtered in Drakulic, whom the Bishop officiating at the commemoration ceremony could not mention for that reason, whose grave is not known to anyone, have come here to find my own grave. And to make all of you feel ashamed. Ashamed of your negligence. And of your readiness to forget. For at the moment of death, the soul is separated from the body: the soul departs, the body remains. The soul has no rest until the body is buried and the commemoration service held. Where is my body, where are the bodies of so many villagers of Drakulic whose deaths were not recorded? Whose names are not included in the lists of the slaughtered. That is why we, the dead, must testify to the living about our deaths. Where, I ask again, are our graves?

A little more about Uncle Mitar. Following that nocturnal encounter with a dead woman, he came to occasionally, for brief periods of time. He blamed himself most of all for not having thought, confused as he had been, of mentioning our patron saint, St Sava. He added that he had been shown even more horrible sights for that reason: he saw an empty Drakulic all around him. Wherever he turned, he saw the bodies of dead Serbs lying around. He even saw his own dead body: there was an Ustashi standing beside it, he said. He was holding an axe in his right hand, roaring with laughter. The other Ustashi were also standing above the bodies of the slaughtered. Their faces, clothes, hands were bloody. They even smoked blood-stained cigarettes, holding them with bloody fingers. They, too, were roaring with laughter.

My uncle, Uncle Mitar, as I called him, died suddenly on February 6th 1942, on the eve of the slaughter. He even sat upright in bed. In a weak voice, he told me to bring him some water. It seemed to me that he wanted to tell me something else. I stopped. Glad to be able to hear his voice, I looked him straight in the eye. His eyes, however, widened in a strange way, then quickly lost their glow, became extinguished. Due to the slaughter, he was not buried either, his grave is not known and he is not included in any list of the slaughtered villagers of Drakulic, his name was not mentioned by the Bishop in the course of the commemoration service in 1991. His mortal remains must not remain God knows where, under some weeds.

Our boundless suffering was anticipated by a blind woman from Motike called Joka Vasic: she saw a bloody sky above our villages! All the Vasics saw it, they said. And that woman, Joka, foretold this: that the Friday of February 6th was our last, a Black Friday.

The following, too, should not be forgotten. On our Patron Saint's Day, St Sava, January 27th 1942, old Ljubo Miljevic dropped by from somewhere or other. A poor man, living all alone. Uncle Mitar was a good host to him: he offered him a good piece of roast pork, a whole shoulder of it. The old man defended himself, saying that he was not hungry, that he had eaten well at his own home. He said that it was shameful enough to call in on someone's Patron Saint's Day uninvited, let alone with an empty stomach. God forbid! He had been passing by accidentally and, having remembered that it was our Patron Saint's Day, he decided to come in just to warm himself up a bit in this bitter cold. Then Uncle Mitar rebuked him almost angrily, as I still remember very well:

- Will you offend me today of all days, on my Patron Saint's Day, Ljubo, will you not have something to drink and a bite to eat?

- Please don't, Mitar, your house is full of guests and I have come uninvited. I am warmer now, thank God and your patron saint, St Sava, so I'll be on my way...

- There can never be too many guests. Woe to the house where guests do not come, woe to the man whom neighbours do not come to visit. Let's drink one - my good uncle insisted - for my Patron Saint's Day and propose a toast to each other and all the guests. You know our custom well, Ljubo, whoever should drop in, whether you know him or not, be he rich or poor, crippled or blind, ugly or handsome, tall or short, he must not lack anything whatsoever at the Patron Saint's Day feast... I mean, every visitor is welcomed as the most distinguished guest... Get hold of this glass and propose a toast!

Uncle Mitar's unusual garrulousness, his readiness to make his address sound epic, testified to the fact that he had drunk a bit already. But he fulfilled his duty as the host, to be on his feet all the time and attend to his guests' needs, impeccably. Emboldened by the host's insistence, old Ljubo said:

- Well, let me propose a toast, with God's help. Thank all of you who have gathered here in this honourable home! My greetings to all gathered under this roof. Most of all to Mitar, the host, the honourable son of an honourable father. The good Lord above help him. May every happiness befall his offspring. May he have a good harvest of wheat and grapes. May his sons and daughters get married happily and may he sleep the sleep of the just. May his household always be a merry one and may each cow of his give birth to twin calves. May the Lord make up for whatever he spends and may He grant every wish of his. May your Patron Saint's Day, St Sava, be a happy day to you, Mitar...!

Deeply touched and excited by Ljubo's toast, with tears in his eyes, the good-natured Uncle Mitar kissed him three times on the cheeks, waving his long arms clumsily.

- Ah, where are those good times, Simo, when you fired your double-barrel rifle in front of my house and let me fire the remaining cartridges myself? - he said wistfully to Simo, another uncle, who was said to be the greatest hunter and marksman in the area.

- You ask where they are, my dear Mitar! Wherever last year's snow is... And don't ever mention that rifle to me. You know what misery I and my family have suffered because of it, even though I handed it over as soon as the new powers-that-be demanded it. No rib of mine remained intact when those Ustashi started beating me... Never mind that, shall we hear our learned fellow, our future teacher, recite that poem about St Sava? Come on, Milovan, dear... - Uncle Simo begged, almost sadly.

- Oh, yes, he'll do it, of course he will, my Mico - Uncle Mitar said enthusiastically, having evidently forgotten about our common worries.

So I, who had never refused to grant any wish of his, started reciting:

Who is that knocking hard so very late
At a Holy Mount monastery gate?
"The evening is gone and midnight is near
Open that door, O Fathers, do you hear?
My body it sags, my feet they want rest,
My soul seeks the light, with it to be blest.
My unflagging will leads me to your gate,
To homeland, freedom, my life to dedicate.
Royal court, crown, porphyry, these I abhor,
I've come to seek the light at you humble door...

- I understand all that, Mico: about the homeland, freedom, the royal court and crown, the only thing I don't know about is that, how did you say, porphery...

- Porphyry, Uncle... That's scarlet clothing, the most beautiful, most expensive kind. Its colour is, how shall I put it, red and pink, like that of the sun at sunset. Something like that... It is also a kind of precious stone...

- You see now what school and learning do to a man. I'll sell everything I've got if I have to. Uncle will send you to an even higher school. The highest there is. And now, apple of my eye, please recite that part towards the end, the bit about "his pale forehead"!

His forehead's pale, thick hair entangled,
His high forehead with divine light spangled.
The old man cried, on his forehead hand did lay,
Whispered: "My dear child, with us you can stay."
Centuries have passed since that wondrous night
Centuries have passed, and many more might.
But that child still lives, for his fame lives on,
For it was Rastko, King Nemanja's son.

Today, when I have not been of this world for a long time, when I have got rid of all earthly vanity, the inspiration of many vile deeds, particularly conducive to the need for self-aggrandising, I can admit that never in my life had I been so moved as I was then. All the guests watched me with expressions of rapture on their faces, crying loudly, not trying to hide their tears. No-one said anything about the war, the Ustashi authorities, the Serbs slaughtered in Banja Luka and its surroundings, our villagers imprisoned by the Ustashi and those in German concentration camps. Not a single word. Uncle Mitar had demanded that, and everybody respected his wish. Only at the beginning of the celebration did someone mention our priest Dušan Mackic. During the first few days of the establishment of Ustashi rule, he was taken away, nobody knew where. His wife, Milka, the most beautiful woman I had ever seen in my life, was taken away with him. I need only mention that she had won a beauty contest before the war. People said that, despite that, she would help an unknown worker in the field, go to hospitals to tend to the sick, raise help for the sick and the poor... She disappeared along with her husband, the priest, and their children. Disappeared without a trace. No-one knew where. There was no priest, then, so one of the guests, Jovan, said the Lord's Prayer, Prayer to the Holy Mother of God and the Symbol of Faith from the Book of Patron Saints' Days Prayers. This Jovan, a neighbour of ours, started off by reciting the Lord's Prayer: "Our Father which art in heaven, Hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done in earth, as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread. And forgive us our debts, as we forgive our debtors. And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil."

The Prayer to the Holy Mother of God he sang like a priest: "Virgin Mother of God, rejoice blessed Mary, God is with thee; blessed art thou and the fruit of thy womb, which you gave birth to for the sake of the salvation of our souls."

The Symbol of Faith he cut rather short, practically halved it: "I believe in one God the Father Almighty, Maker of heaven and earth, And of all things visible and invisible: And in one Lord Jesus Christ, the only-begotten Son of God, Begotten of his Father before all worlds, God of God, Light of Light, Very God of very God, Begotten, not made, Being of one substance with the Father, By whom all things were made: Who for us men and for our salvation came down from heaven, And was incarnate by the Holy Ghost of the Virgin Mary, And was made man, And was crucified also for us under Pontius Pilate. He suffered and was buried, And the third day he rose again..."

Uncle Mitar was the first one to praise Jovan; he did so profusely, handing him gifts:

- God bless you! Great God bless you, you said it just like a priest. You really did, there's no denying it...

But there was no enthusiasm in those words, no conviction; I didn't feel any either. It was as if, by some miracle, we had thought of the real priest, Dušan, and that wondrous, almost mystical moment when he humbly approached the table laden with food, put out the candle, then started the service: "Let us pray for the souls of your late humble servants: your mother, Stevanija, your father, Uroš, your brother, Savo, a great hero, your daughter, Milja... And may all their sins be forgiven..."

All the guests would be standing then, filled with piety. The men, bareheaded, would listen silently to Dušan intoning the words of "In eternal memory", then watch him break the Patron Saint's Day cake, pour wine across it three times, put a small piece of it in his mouth, cross himself and say: "God have mercy on their souls."

Naturally we could not go to our church in Petricevac, a gift from the industrialist Ilija Rakic from Banja Luka. The Ustashi pulled it down immediately after they had come to power. Its foundations, overgrown with weeds, were now covered with snow. On this occasion, therefore, we could not hear that mellifluous chant: "Break the cake, pray to God, pour wine across the cake, may God bestow these upon you: life, good health and every gift of His."

I have to add something concerning that shoulder of pork that Uncle Mitar gave to old Ljubo Miljevic, who gnawed at it with relish. Someone might ask: Would they give a mere passer-by a whole shoulder of pork? Why, yes. On the occasion of his Patron Saint's Day, every villager of Drakulic was a rich man! Even though he might have to scrimp and save throughout the year, even though he might have to borrow money, to ask relatives and friends to help him, the Patron Saint's Day feast had to be a rich one, the table had to be laden with all sorts of food and drink. Uncle Mitar had saved, fed a pig for the feast, roasted it all day. If only he hadn't done so! For, old Ljubo turned the shoulder of pork he had been gnawing at towards the window, moved it closer to his eyes, then away from them. After that, he put it back on the table two or three times, slowly and reluctantly. Then he lifted it up again, held it against the light coming in through the window, squinting at it with his left eye. My good Uncle Mitar asked him, as if in jest:

- Ljubo, are you checking what sort of family it comes from, whether it is of heroic ancestry?

- Forgive us, O God and St Sava, this can come to no good... - the old man muttered through his teeth, very worried, turning the shoulder of pork towards the window again.

- What can come to no good, Ljubo? Say it, for God's sake! - Uncle Mitar almost shouted at him. The guests were all struck dumb, they stared at Ljubo in total silence. He was silent, too, all tense and frowning, then he said in a broken voice:

- Graves! Many graves, forgive me, O Lord, too many of them... Graves all over this shoulder of pork, one right next to another. Bloody and shallow, as if they hadn't been dug, forgive me, God...

- And how do you interpret that, Ljubo? Do those graves belong to this household only, for God's sake?

- There are too many of them to belong to a single household. Impossible... And ask me nothing more - the old man said in a childishly petulant way, in a changed voice. Then he uttered, half-whispered, "Good-bye, everybody" and went out.

In a nutshell, the atmosphere following his departure was more like that of a funeral that that of a Patron Saint's Day feast. Uncle Mitar, to tell the truth, did try to shake the guests out of their gloomy thoughts by pouring them drinks at frequent intervals, but with little success. All of them kept casting worried glances towards that shoulder of pork, as if, God forbid, a dead body lay on the table instead of all that food.

- We all know Ljubo, he's a good old man, over eighty years old... But wisdom doesn't necessarily come with advanced age. Let us forget about him and his story - Uncle Simo was heard, trying, quite unconvincingly, to reassure us.

- You're right, Simo, how can one tell what is going to happen looking at a gnawed-away shoulder of pork? No-one can do that, no-one at all! - my good Uncle Mitar concurred.

Nobody mentioned either the shoulder of pork or Ljubo's ominous words afterwards, and yet they seemed to hover in the air around us. And so, alas, filled with vague worries and fears, we lived to see the day of the slaughter descend upon us.

Content | Next: 5th chapter

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