5

My name was Savka. 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. In our village of Drakulic, until the day of the slaughter time passed slowly, fraught with tension and fear. All sorts of stories were being spread, without any clear indication as to their source or meaning. Only we, the Serbs from Drakulic, Šargovac, Motike and the Rakovac coal mine had not been converted to the Catholic faith yet. Older people in the village spoke in low voices that the Ustashi would never forgive us that. They would not accept that under any circumstances. I myself had been forcibly converted, together with the rest of the village of Budžak. I had been born there, and had come to Drakulic at the beginning of 1941, when I got married. In September of that year I returned to my native village. My husband was in the Yugoslav Army, he was captured by the Germans, and I was pregnant. It was in Budžak that I gave birth to a boy on Orthodox Christmas, January 7th 1942. He was converted, too, given the name Ante. Before that, I had become - Antonija. I don't know why, but my new name didn't bother me much at first. I didn't even think about it then. Rada, my mother, a widow, kept saying that one's name was not important, that nothing was important apart from staying alive. That's exactly what she said. We, her children, obeyed our mother in every situation, did whatever she told us to do. After the death of my father, Jovan, who was tortured for a long time and eventually slaughtered by the Ustashi at the beginning of their rule, there were five of us left. I was the oldest child, but Mother didn't explain even to me why he was killed. She never told us children about it, never ever. I often heard her lamenting softly, locked up in her room. She would mention, in a very low voice and pausing frequently, so that it was difficult to make out what she was saying, how she was all alone with her small children, our poverty and hardship, her being dogged by bad luck.

At such moments I wanted to enter the room, sit in her lap the way I used to, so that we could share our great misfortune. But I didn't dare do so: since I had grown up, I had never approached her without being invited. One afternoon, Uncle Milorad, my mother's only brother, a retired teacher, came to visit us.

- Do not ever mention Jovan, may his martyr's soul rest in peace. Tell the children not to mention him either, under no circumstances are they to mention him in front of anyone. He was killed simply because he had been a gymnastics champion. And a Serb, of course. Be strong, Rada, sister of mine, curl your troubles up in a tight ball, watch over those children! The Ustashi have all the power now. If they want you to turn Muslim, turn Muslim, if they want you to turn Catholic, turn Catholic. No-one's candle ever burned till dawn, as they say.

Late that night, my good Uncle Mica went back to town. Darkness swallowed him, he disappeared. I have never seen him since then. Aunt Kosa came to our house early next morning, she thought he had stayed to spend the night here. Then she and mother talked for a long time, whispering. I don't know exactly what they talked about, I couldn't hear them. I was in another room, I listened very intently to their talk. At one moment the two of them started sobbing softly.

My conclusion was: something terrible had happened to Uncle Mica, maybe the worst. All sorts of news reached Budžak from the town throughout the year 1941.

They intersected and collided: one faster than another, one worse than another. That was why few people went to town unless they absolutely had to. Returning to the village, those rare visitors would whisper about what they had seen and heard in town. More often than not, they spoke about prominent Serbian families, the most respected and wealthiest ones, which had been swallowed by the dark. Or exiled to Serbia by the Ustashi after the latter had taken all their property. They would add, ominously shaking their heads, that the Ustashi would come here, to Budžak after they had purged the town of Serbs. And that there would be no helping us despite the fact that we had been converted. As had been the case with many Serbs from Banja Luka who had also been converted.

So it had been no use learning their prayers - Act of Penitence, Credo, Hail Mary, Pater Noster, the Ten Commandments - taking the Holy Communion, visiting their church regularly. No use whatsoever!

One Sunday, I remember it was late autumn 1941 and very cold, thirty-five of us from Budžak went to the Petricevac monastery to attend Mass. Mostly old people, women and children. It was freezing cold inside the monastery, as if inside a sepulchre. I was pregnant then, I had married when I was eighteen. I was gripped by a vague, indescribable fear: that the baby I was carrying in my stomach would freeze to death from the terrible cold. Suddenly I started crying, sobbing loudly.

Everybody gathered around me, they looked at me in silence, worried, wondering. Rada Todic asked me gently, sisterly:

- Whatever is the matter with you now, Savka? Why are you crying, dear? Do tell us...

I was thinking about what to say to them, what story to invent to hide my worry. Having calmed down somewhat, I watched the dear gentle faces of my neighbours, withered too soon due to fear and hardship, darkened, wrinkled and shrunken. That was why I did not wish to burden them, adding my fear to theirs. If my mother, Rada, was here alone, or if these grown-up women - Djuja Perduv, Rada, Bosa, Cvijeta, Desa and Duška - were here alone, I would probably make up my mind and tell them. But I would never speak of my fears before Djordjo Mihajlovic, Uroš, Jovo and Ljubo Perduv, Savo and Sveto Marjanovic, never ever. Our mothers had brought us up that way: that it was very shameful for women to talk about intimate matters in front of men.

Not even I, having finished three years of secondary school in Banja Luka, studying to be a shop assistant, could do otherwise.

Then one of the men entered abruptly, shouting in great fear:

- The Ustashi are coming! Their officers seem to be with them, they'll slaughter us all...

- Let's run away! Let's hide inside the church wherever we manage to...! - Rada Todic was the first one to gather her wits. "And nobody is to cough - she warned sternly - move or utter a sound. Put handkerchiefs, cloths or the edges of your skirts into your mouth. Don't even breathe, if that is at all possible...!"

- And what about little children - a woman asked, terrified - what are we to do with them, poor things?

- What are you to do? How should I know? Place your palms on the children's mouths, keep them closed in that way. Put your own mouths on theirs, breathe for them. I don't know...

- I have three of them, and I don't have three mouths. What'll I do, woe is me...?

The answer was drowned by the sound of the abrupt opening of the door of the monastery, the sounds of heavy footsteps, the metallic sounds produced by spiked military boots.

- And where are those Greek-Orthodox elements, Uncle, aren't they in the monastery? - a hoarse, gruff male voice asked peremptorily.

- No, they've left. Didn't you meet them? - another voice answered contritely, with a question of its own.

- I ask questions around here, Uncle, and no-one else! - the first voice growled. "I had some important questions to ask those peasant converts of yours. You should know which questions precisely... What's your name, Uncle?"

- Petar is my name, I am a priest...

- Priest, you say. You are no priest at all. Not at all! Instead of slaughtering that Greek- Orthodox scum yourself, with the blessings of the good Lord above, you propose to teach them religious science. Bullshit! Pure priestly bullshit... And where are Guardian Loparevic and Friar Filipovic? You're not going to tell me that they, too, left a short while ago, that we could have met them as well...

- No, Commander, sir. They went to town early in the morning, to see His Excellency Msgr Jozo Garic...

- So that's the way things are... And what now, Petar? Is there any brandy here, any food to try our daggers on? - the first voice went on, almost neighing, laughing at his own joke.

- Of course there is, Commander, of course there is. There's always something, praise the Lord...

- You don't really praise the Lord the way you should, priest. And remember this: we shall come back. Very soon...

The monastery door closed, creaking horribly, the sounds of footsteps receded slowly. Only then did I start breathing again, or so it seemed to me. Frozen, all numb with tension, I tried to move, filled with horrible fear for the baby I was carrying inside. I caressed my belly, cooing silently to the baby inside it, voicelessly uttered the tenderest terms of endearment. I called it, voicelessly as well, my sun, my little star, my dearest, my happiness, my support... And the poor tiny thing, as if it had actually heard me and understood my plight, moved suddenly, as if to stretch its tiny body, kicking with its feet...

- They've gone - the priest's voice was heard after the hollow creaking, moaning and whining of the heavy monastery door. "You can go home now without any fear. Come on, don't be afraid..."

I am not of this world now, no earthly considerations bind me, so I'm telling the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. I never saw the face of that priest, Petar. Nor did the others, I believe. They didn't dare believe that voice. They remained in their wretched, precarious hiding places instead, crouching, huddled, numb. That is precisely how it was, I'm saying this so that it should be known and remembered like that.

After the priest's words of encouragement I collapsed, fainted, I believe that's what happened immediately afterwards. My mother told me that, many others confirmed it. They said I had got up from my tiny hiding place behind the altar, taken a couple of steps, then collapsed, almost dead.

- No, I won't let anything happen to Saja , Mummy will take care of her child, her clever one, her dearest... - intermittently, with some difficulty, I was able to make out my mother's voice. I had no idea where I was, nor why my mother was cooing like that, but I felt immense bliss in my soul: that was how Mother used to coo to me when I was a little child, before my younger sisters and brothers were born. She used to hold me in her lap, rocking me gently. They were all there around me now, terrified, with tears running down their slobbery faces. Little Milica, the youngest one, all blue with the cold and fear, stared at me with her big eyes wide open. Crying and sobbing hoarsely, she caressed my hair. Her tiny hand was thin and shrivelled, like that of an old woman, her face emaciated, like that of a tiny corpse. The sight of her stunned and momentarily frightened me terribly. I quickly chased the unseemly thought out of my mind, held her close to me, and she calmed down immediately.

Mother explained to me later that my fainting fit was nothing unusual in itself, that such fits tended to occur after periods of excessive nervous tension, that it wasn't particularly dangerous for the baby either. That was how my maternal troubles started.

- You were raving, speaking incoherently, addressing your late Uncle Mico, your late father, Jovan, your Milan. Occasionally, you laughed in your delirious state. It was an irrepressible, throaty sort of laughter. I was even ashamed of it, in front of all those people... - Mother said mildly, without a trace of reproach in her voice. She added that they had poured water onto my face and rubbed my face, forehead and neck before they managed to bring me round.

I remember Friar Bono or Boro, the name escapes me, with feelings of repugnance, utter disgust. Being unable to remember his name makes it easier for me, makes me feel better. I met him for the first time at the monastery, soon after I had given birth to my child. Fat, thickset, with the lower lip hanging way down, an enormous belly, a double chin hanging limply. His eyes were green, watery, they looked as if they were floating on oil, surrounded by fat. On top of all that, he was squat, awkward-looking, and somehow reminded me of an old hamster in autumn.

- What brings you here, lass, God be with you - he asked me in a wheezy, hoarse voice.

- I have given birth to a child, I've come to arrange to have it baptised - I answered, somewhat angrily because he'd called me a lass.

- Not baptised, christened . Now you're a Catholic, Antonija is your name, as you say, you should know that much.

- Yes, christened, that's what I've come for, to have a male child christened - I went on in a calmer tone of voice, so as not to provoke his anger.

- Where did you say you were from...?

- From Budžak. I got married in Drakulic, but now I'm staying with my family in Budžak...

- Where's your husband, how is it that you've come here alone? You are very beautiful, as I can see... Is the child, perhaps, you know... Blood gets hot, nights get long, too long. All sorts of things happen. Especially with you who have received no religious upbringing...

- No, nothing of the sort, the child is my lawfully wedded husband's, Milan is his name - I managed to control myself somehow even though I was boiling inside.

- If it is by your lawfully wedded husband, why hasn't he come here with you? All you ample-bottomed fidgety wenches, you tighten up your breasts, wiggle your hips, get hold of a well-hung male, then call him a husband, fiancé and whatnot... Isn't that so?

- It is not at all so - I could not restrain myself any longer - with me. Not at all...

- Well, well... She's getting angry, no less! Where is your husband then, when you are so full of righteous wrath, God be with you?

- In a German concentration camp, Reverend - I managed to restrain myself again.

- In a German camp, you say? That's not good, being in a German camp. No. no, not good at all. His family, especially his young wife, should not behave so impertinently towards a priest, a servant of the good Lord upon this earth. Never ever. Never mind, when exactly was the child born?

- Do forgive me, Reverend, if any of my words were unbecoming... You know, these are difficult times, one can hardly make ends meet. The child was born on Sunday, January 7th - I added, deliberately failing to mention that it happened to be on the day of our Orthodox Christmas.

- Now, wait a little, wait a little, woman! Even though you have been converted to our Holy Faith, you still speak like a schismatic. January is not a proper Croatian word. In addition to that, you say that times are difficult and that it's hard to make ends meet...

- Those were, indeed, hasty, thoughtless words, Reverend. I didn't mean it, I swear...

- You didn't mean it, you say. Well, so be it. That's the way it should be, by rights. What name do you intend to give the child? - he asked in a changed, almost fatherly tone of voice.

- The child was born on Sunday, so it would be best to call him Nedjeljko! - I hastened to answer, emboldened by the sudden change in his behaviour. I didn't dare tell him my greatest wish: that, having been born on Christmas Day, the child should be named Božo, Božimir, Božidar, Bogoslav, Bogoljub...

- Nedjeljko, it's a nice name, Nedjeljko. Better still - Nediljko! But no, it won't do, no way! Only if you and I, you know... It won't make any difference to you, God be with you. One more, one less, all the same to you, women. Short but sweet. Isn't that so? - he asked in an unnaturally tender tone of voice, but all tense, reaching towards my breasts with his short stubby fingers.

My reappearance in this world is all too brief, and my suffering is much too long for any story. It wouldn't be very interesting, it would possibly even be boring.

Most likely, I screamed at that moment, roared like a wounded beast, pushed that Friar Bono or Boro away from me. So violent was the movement that we both fell down. All of a sudden, other priests surrounded us. They exchanged mocking, malicious glances.

- Save me from this shrew! - wailed Friar Bono or Boro tearfully, he really did shed tears. In a saintly manner, momentarily turning into a weak old man, he went on:

- There we were, talking about the christening of the baby of this filthy wild thing, when she came at me, trying to strangle me with her bare hands... I have always said that the filthy vermin are not fit for christening but for slaughter! The Serb cattle cannot be converted from one faith to another because they have no faith; they can only bring filth and pagan beliefs to the new faith. But...

- Calm down! Tell us briefly what actually happened. Never mind what you have been saying and how - demanded a thin, bony priest, the oldest-looking among them, in a peremptory manner. Giving the priest who had tried to seduce me his hand to help him to his feet, he demanded of him once again to explain what had happened.

- Well, I told you, Guardian. She came at me, old and weak as I am, trying to strangle me with those wild hands of hers...

- No, I did not try to attack him, it was he who... - I tried to defend myself, to counter the posturing of that hideous man.

- I didn't ask you anything! - shouted the priest addressed as Guardian, and I fell silent, not quite knowing how to behave in that strange situation.

- What happened, then? - the Guardian asked again, addressing my would-be seducer.

- She said the baby had been born on a Sunday, so she wanted to him to be christened Nedjeljko...

- And you?

- I told her, in a most civil manner, that Nedjeljko or Nediljko was a very fine name indeed, but that there were much nicer Catholic names. That the finest name of all was - Ante! Our fine Headman is called Ante, and then there's St Ante, too. In view of the fact that she was christened Antonija... Whereupon this hot-blooded wench jumped at me, trying to strangle me.

I felt helpless, downtrodden and miserable as never before in my life. I tried once again to tell the Guardian and the other priests exactly how it had happened. The Guardian, turning towards me, merely placed his index finger on his pale lips, hissed "Shhh" and threatened me.

- Careful, Antonija, watch what you're doing! Be very careful: heads have rolled for insubordination and rebellion, even those of very important people. And it is quite true, as the good priest taught you, that Ante is the finest name of all, God-given. The child shall be called Ante, then! - the Guardian decided.

I couldn't regain control of my senses: I felt dizzy, something drilled in my brain painfully - not Nedjeljko, nor Božo, Božidar, Božimir, Bogoslav, Bogoljub but - Ante! A stupid childhood memory possessed me, some verses that we, the Orthodox and Catholic children of Budžak, used to sing to a certain local Ante:

Crazy Ante, he goes down the road,
Banging his head against the heavy load.

This childhood memory obsessed me, defeated me: my own child will be taunted by other children like this, they'll make its life miserable before it grows up.

The Guardian, regardless of my wish, decided thus, so there was no other way: my first and only child was to be called Ante. I wished that we could die, both of us, at once. Not because of St Ante, he's all right, he's a saint. He's no saint of mine, he's a Catholic saint, but a saint all the same. That is the way we were taught at our church, at school, at home: revere your saints, respect those of others! And indeed, as far as I know, we all abided by that rule. We lived together with and kept company with all our school-mates, regardless of what nation they belonged to or what their faith was. With some rare exceptions, they treated us in the same way; until the war broke out, that is.

And then... It is well known what happened then and afterwards.

I, too, changed after the deaths of my father and my uncle. The change became total after the event at the monastery, despite the way the priest acted on that occasion. Something cracked inside me, broke in two, an icicle formed around my heart. There were moments, forgive me Lord, when I thought unbecoming thoughts about my baby. Because of the name the priests had given him. I don't want to utter that name even now. I get goose pimples, start to shiver at the very thought of that name. Not just because that hideous priest had mentioned that there existed a saint by that name, that my own name was similar to it, but because that was also the name of our "beloved Headman". If that priest hadn't been "a servant of the good Lord upon this earth", as he himself put it, it might have been different. But in view of that, I will never utter that name again. Even though I seem to remember that it is not uncommon among Orthodox Serbs. Nothing can change that now.

Occasionally, as I said, I thought unbecoming thoughts about my little son: that is, when I remembered the name that the Guardian had given him at the monastery. Then I would feel very sad, even ashamed. My milk became watery, like whey. So the baby wouldn't suckle. He just wouldn't! He would take hold of my breast, now somewhat smaller and limp, and start suckling greedily, like a wolf cub, then let go of it. With an expression of disgust on his tiny face, he would spit it out. At moments like those, desperate and hurt, I would utter the name he had been given at the monastery. I felt like screaming to high heaven, like calling him, little Božo, all sorts of names. I had forgotten to mention that, after he had been christened at the monastery, I had given him the name Božo. But when I called him that, I could never forget the other name. I had less and less milk, and he became thinner and thinner, or so it seemed to me. Other food was lacking, too.

- Mother, Božo keeps vomiting milk, I don't know what to feed him with. What do you think, shall I return to Drakulic to Milan's family? - I mustered enough courage to ask her.

She remained silent for a long time, staring in front of her. Then she raised her eyes to look at me and the baby: I felt her caressing us with her eyes. Now she was no longer both my father and mother, which she had turned into after Father's death, just my mother.

- And what shall I do without my Božo? - she asked, talking to me like an equal for the first time in my life. The child was asleep in my lap, occasionally touching his tiny nose with his hand. As if he wanted to chase away a fly. I knew she was exceptionally fond of the baby and did not know what to answer. I felt confused.

- Let me hold him a little! - she said, making it sound more like a plea than a request. Little Božo woke up, started crying. But it didn't last long. Soon enough, he opened his eyes, black as coal they were, calmed down and started gurgling.

- He takes after Milan, not at all after our family - she said a little sadly.

She added immediately:

- It'll be St Sava, Milan's Patron Saint's Day in two days. You should go there. Our in-laws will feel better when their grandson and daughter-in-law are with them for their Patron Saint's Day. Things are so very difficult for us all these days, much too difficult, dear God...

Božo had calmed down in his grandmother's arms, he was waving his arms, wriggling.

How long can I stay, Mother? - I asked, feeling that it was the right moment to do so because she had got all tender with the baby in her lap.

- How long? It's midwinter, the snow is heavy, I fear for the baby. I don't know... A week, we'll see...

Mother, little Božo and I arrived in Drakulic on the eve of St Sava, on January 27th. There had been no news from Milan, we didn't know whether he was dead or alive, so the Patron Saint's Day passed in a rather gloomy, sad sort of atmosphere. My mother-in-law wouldn't let little Božo out of her hands. Seeing an unknown face, the poor little thing at first whimpered and flailed his tiny arms and legs in panic. Then he calmed down completely. My mother-in-law was overjoyed. Two days after the Patron Saint's Day, my mother, Rada, went back to Budžak.

As soon as she had left, my mother-in-law whispered to me: "We shall never see our Milan again, my dear. I feel it here", she said, pointing to her breast. She burst into tears, making me and little Božo cry as well. None of us was able to console any of the others then.

I remember that Saturday, February 7th, when we, the Serb villagers of Drakulic, were slaughtered, through a sort of haze, like an intermittent dream. I do remember, however, that three Ustashi broke into the house banging on the door with the butts of their rifles. They were dead drunk. As they left the door open, cold rushed into the room although my mother-in-law had started a fire early. Startled by the sudden violent entry of unknown men into our house, Božo spilled some milk onto my breasts. Seeing them, my mother-in-law let out a muffled cry. As for myself, as far as I can remember, I just held the baby more tightly to my breast, filled with a vague feeling of terror. The other household members were still asleep.

- Look at this beauty, look at this beauty! - cried the shortest of them, placing his palms on my cheeks, quickly placing his lips on mine. With a sudden swing of my left elbow, I managed to hit his Adam's apple. He fell down. As if she had read my thoughts, my mother-in-law snatched Božo from my arms. Beside myself with rage, I pounced on my assailant, sank my nails into his thin neck and started to strangle him. Yes, strangle him. Then I felt heavy blows landing on my neck and back, but strangely enough, there was no pain. It seemed to me that the Ustashi below me was wheezing, trying to breathe in some air, that he was not resisting any longer. Then I bit the hand which was pulling my left shoulder forcefully; a wild howl was heard in reply. Still dazed, I managed to raise myself from the floor and grab a rifle with a bayonet on top of it. Without thinking anything whatsoever, I stabbed the one who was pulling at me through the left shoulder. My baby was crying spasmodically in my mother-in-laws's arms, losing his breath occasionally; she paid no attention to that, the poor soul, trying to drive the wounded Ustashi away from me by hitting him on the head with the coal tongs.

Apart from that, I remember that one of those Ustashi hit me on the back of the head with something or other immediately afterwards. As I came to, I became aware that someone was lying on top of me. Another one of them, I noticed in a daze, stood above me, buttoning up his trousers. Where's the third one, I asked myself, mad with fright. Judging by the way he was panting, I concluded, he was raping my mother-in-law. Neither she nor little Božo was heard. They're slaughtered! - I thought, madder still, feeling a beast emerge from inside of me, a real wild beast. I bit my assailant's Adam's apple so hard and so suddenly that he bounced off me the way an arrow is shot.

- Let's tie her hands! - he roared, holding a piece of rope in his hand, addressing the one who was standing above my mother-in-law, trying to button up his shirt.

- What's the matter with the old woman? - asked the one who assailed me first, holding his neck with his arms.

- She's no old woman, you fool! If only you knew how good she was, you'd be sorry she's dead.

Although they were drunk, they placed me on the table, lying on my back, and tied me to it. They did it quickly, deftly, saying but a few words.

- You hand over the kid, and you cut her! We'll return him inside her stomach, where he used to be... - ordered the one I'd bitten, his neck bandaged with a dirty handkerchief, soaked with blood.

- You've killed my child, too, my Božo! - I screamed at the top of my voice, seeing his tiny body with the head cut off. That is the last thing I remember...

Content | Next: 6th chapter

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