7

His name is Mirko, surname Stijakovic. That's the name he was given at birth, and it still remains: Mirko Stijakovic! He was born in 1933, in the village of Upper Motike; father's name: Djordjo, mother's name: Dosta. After the slaughter of February 7th 1942, he was converted to the Roman Catholic faith. He was not nine years old yet at the time, he had no idea why he was converted. What the conversion was supposed to mean he had an even vaguer notion. Only after the end of the Second World War did he tell an Orthodox priest that he had been taken to the Franciscan monastery of Petricevac to be converted there. He asked the priest whether it would be necessary for him to be baptised anew, in accordance with the Orthodox rite, inside an Orthodox church. The priest answered him very briefly: he had been baptised once, in accordance with the Orthodox rite, inside an Orthodox church. The holy rite of baptism was administered to a person only once in his or her life. Mirko, therefore, considers himself to be what he has always been: Mirko Stijakovic, an Orthodox Serb.

He is quite obviously alive, therefore his story is a - living story. A living story about the dead. Ever since the aforementioned slaughter of Serbs in the villages of Drakulic, Šargovac, Motike and the Rakovac coal mine on February 7th 1942, he has felt he has been living a surplus life. It was given to him by accident, sheer incredible chance saw to it. Now he lives in Banja Luka with his wife Gospa. They have four children - Mira, Dobrila, Milenko and Dragica - and seven grandchildren.

The youngest of these is little Nikolina, the daughter of their son, Milenko, and daughter-in-law Mirjana: she was born on December 18th 1995; God or Nature arranged it so that she should be born on the very same date and at the very same hour as Gordana, her elder sister by twenty years! She is now the pet of the entire family, their greatest joy, a sure sign that life goes on, renews itself.

And what about Mirko's living story, an exceptionally rare living story about the dead...?

* * * * *

I was alive, or so it seemed. Maybe the only living one among the thirty-two members of my family. Pierced by an Ustashi bayonet under the left nipple, but still alive. Pierced through the tiny stomach of my brother Novak. My blood gushing out, I was all covered with blood: my own blood, Novak's blood, maybe also the blood of the other children, at least some of the ten or so little brothers and sisters of mine. We had crept under the bed and huddled together there. Having heard that the Ustashi were coming, our grandmother, Deva, had pushed us all there...

Now there was silence all around. No sound was heard. Nothing whatsoever. I could see from under the bed that the room was full of slaughtered family members and our closest relatives, the Stijakovics.

And outside, in the yard, what was there to be found?

I pressed my creased shirt against the wound, crawled out from under the bed, trying not to step on any body. On any of my dead kinfolk. I tried to avoid their blood as well, to walk around it or jump over it. I just couldn't. It was impossible. I was no bird, I couldn't simply flap my wings and take off from the window! And blood was everywhere around me - on the floor, the walls of the room, even on the low ceiling. Everywhere. Something drew me irrepressibly towards the window. I looked out into the yard. I couldn't believe my eyes. An Ustashi gaped at me with bulging eyes. He must have been very puzzled himself: How come this kid shows up all of a sudden when we have slaughtered everybody inside? And that's not all, we stamped upon their dead bodies with our boots lest anyone should miraculously survive. The Ustashi was probably certain that no-one could have survived. He threw the cigarette butt into the snow, not quite believing his eyes. Holding his axe in his right hand, he moved towards the house, towards me.

Seeing him approach, I fled and hid under the bed, where, as already mentioned, I had already hidden during the slaughter. Our grandmother Deva, although beside herself with fright, had told us gently then:

- Hide down there, my pets, and don't worry! Just be quiet. Whatever happens, just be quiet. There...

Even before the Ustashi appeared, she had been very confused and afraid. She had told us how she'd had a bad dream: the sky was filled with black ravens, the snow had turned black because of all those birds, they were all over the trees and rooftops. Nothing could be heard due to their loud crowing. Not even the sun could be seen. They hit the doors and windows with their red beaks, flew into houses and stables, attacked people and cattle, gouged out their eyes, crowing horribly...

When the Ustashi entered the room, I had flattened myself against the wall. I counted their boots. Three pairs, so there were three of them, I concluded. Almost immediately, their bayonets started flashing, their pickaxes and axes started swishing through the air. Not one word was spoken! Neither dead nor alive with fear, I listened to the moans of my Stijakovics being hit by axes, pickaxes... I also heard the sounds of their bones being crushed and broken, mingled with the heavy breathing of the Ustashi. And their beastly swearing. When I raised my head a little, I could see the flashing of the bayonets piercing the already dead bodies of children and women. Adult men had been separated earlier, tied up and taken out into the yard to be slaughtered. Intermittently and not very clearly, I could hear their curses, cries and moans:

- Don't do this to us...! We aren't guilty of anything...! We accept the new powers-that-be...! Ask our neighbours, Catholics, haven't we lived like brothers...?

Their moans were interrupted or drowned by Ustashi shouts and the sounds of their weapons. After the slaughter inside the room, one of the Ustashi knelt down by the bed and started pulling the children by the legs from under the bed. He would toss them over to the other two like small bundles. They killed them expertly, using a bayonet. One would grab the child by the hair, pull the head back. The other would simply cut it off and throw it away like a ball... The Ustashi who was kneeling by the bed did not pull us all from under the bed. I don't know why. He didn't get me either. Instead, he started thrusting his bayonet under the bed, wildly and at random. I felt the bayonet pierce me through the body of my brother Novak. Between two ribs, below the left armpit, as I've said already. But remebering Grandmother's advice, I remained silent. Still kneeling, the Ustashi pulled Novak by the legs. Then he pulled me.

- This one is dead, too - he said casually, leaving me under the bed.

For a while longer, I watched those bloody boots treading on the dead bodies, listening to the sound they made stepping into pools of blood. For the first time that morning, I felt its heavy, awful smell.

And there was that Ustashi inside the house again...

All petrified under the bed, I watched his bloody boots again. They were big, enormous, or seemed so to me in my fear. He made a few steps left and right, probably looking for me. Then a little child's voice was heard very weakly. I recognised it: it was little Ilija, a cousin of mine. I went all numb, huddled even more tightly, all eyes and ears. With a swift, sharp stroke, the Ustashi swung his axe and cut off little Ilija's head. After that, convinced that he had disposed of that child from the window, that is - me, he slowly walked out of the room, leaving the door open.

The silence was painful, ear-splitting. From time to time, only the croaking of rooks or ravens was heard, the flutter of their wings rending the air. A cow let out a long-drawn-out moo. I was certain I knew which one: the youngest one of all. Maybe it was the time for it to suckle its calf. I noticed that its moo wasn't as pure and loud as before, it was sort of subdued, like crying. It sounded like a sentient being, sobbing and moaning, keeping all its suffering inside.

I dared to get out from under the bed only as the evening approached. I hesitated for a long time, listening carefully, afraid that some Ustashi might see me and catch me again. As early as shortly after noon, I thought I heard occasional sounds among the dead bodies, somebody's weak breathing and panting. Who knows, somebody might have survived the slaughter - I thought feverishly, full of some secret hope. I no longer thought of my own wound, which was still bleeding. I'd get out from under the bed come what may, I decided. From a pile of corpses at the other end of the room, two frozen, wide open eyes stared at me. Mother Dosta! - I cried, it had to be her. The two eyes kept staring at me, almost motionless. No voice came out of the mouth edged with darkened blood. I no longer heard the quiet moaning and panting. She might be dead, having just died, maybe even her mother's heart could not take this surprise? No, she was alive, Mother's eyes were alive. In the semi-darkness, I could see the eyelids move up and down from time to time, open and close. I went over to her, moved two or three dead bodies with my weak hands of a child to set her free. And then I saw: Mother's stomach was cut open, her entrails lay beside her. All around was clotted blood, spilled brains, body parts. Somebody's tiny arm, cut off, held on to Mother's hair.

What was I to do, how was I to help Mother, to ease her pain? Desperate as I was, I remembered to take a clean sheet off the bed, then put Mother's entrails back into her stomach. Following that, I wrapped her up in that sheet. She moved her lips again, voicelessly, almost imperceptibly. It seemed she wanted to tell me something, to advise me. Obviously, she couldn't do anything of the sort.

Another voice was heard a little later. A barely audible child's voice from the other end of the room.

- Water, water! - it repeated, exhausted.

I recognised the voice as that of little Duško, the son of my uncle Stanoje. He was all cut up, butchered, motionless. He drank a few gulps greedily. Almost at once, he started croaking, opened his little eyes wide and stopped breathing.

I spent two days among the dead. And two nights. All numb, lost, gone mad. Mother grew weaker and weaker. On the third day she died like a candle being extinguished.

- To the Todics, the Todics... - her last message appeared to be, conveyed to me by her eyes.

Her sister-in-law, Danica, an aunt of mine, was married to Vaskrsije Todic. Clutching at that straw, I finally got out of the house. In the yard in front of the house, there were dead bodies everywhere. Cut up, butchered, gone blue. I walked among them numbly. Many of them were without arms, the head. There was blood everywhere, frozen, soaked up by the snow. I don't know why, but I looked for my father, Djordjo, first. He lay to my right, his head split in two. Next to him lay Uncle Mile. He used to work at the tobacco factory in Banja Luka, he always brought us children things from the town, I remembered, full of woe. A little further on lay uncles Mladjo and Djuro, next to them, aunts Lazarka, Marija and Danica. And then a thought struck me: I had passed my grandmother, Deva, who lay next to the door, as if she wasn't there. She was the first one to be killed by the Ustashi because she happened to be nearest to them. Or maybe not: from under the bed, I had listened to her trying to reason with them, to stop them, whatever she may have been trying to do... While passing by the yard of the house of our relative Niko Stijakovic, I saw that all the household members had been killed. As well as the families of our relatives Luka, Ilija, Stanoje, Panta, Mladjen...

I saw all that on my way to the Todics' house.

The kilometre or so that separated the two houses I used to cover running. Now it seemed like an eternity, as if their house was at the other end of the world. I went through the deep snow, stumbling, falling, getting up. I stayed away from the path through the snow that the Ustashi had used. I gave it a wide berth, struggling through the snow, afraid I might run into one of them again. For I knew that on Saturday morning the Ustashi had reached our village, Upper Motike, using that same path. Who had sent them there, why they had been ordered to slaughter us, the Stijakovics - I had no way of knowing, of course. And I would have liked to have known it.

Going towards the Todics' house, I remembered this as well: on Friday, four Ustashi had come to our house. Dressed in black, armed. I wanted to come closer to them, to take a better look at their arms, but I didn't dare to. My father, Djordjo, invited them inside. They sat for a long time. Grandmother Deva served them food and drink. They ate and drank for a long time. They sang, rather out of tune and not really in unison, until the evening. Before they left, one of them threatened my father with these words, or so I seemed to remember:

- We came for a check-up, to see whether all the household members are at home. Remember this well: everybody must be at home tomorrow morning. Whoever we find outside the house will be slaughtered immediately. Just to let you know...

They did not bother to explain what this check-up was all about, nor could I manage to deduce that for myself. I don't know why, but I thought of slaughter. Probably because of what they said at the end: that anyone caught outside the house would be slaughtered.

That evening, some children told me that the Ustashi had been to their houses as well. And that the story they told them was different: that food was to be distributed. And that whoever was not at home would get no food, then or later. Or: all the household members were to be examined and counted. Those healthy and strong would be really lucky: they would go to Germany! And they would earn good money there! To others, they spoke about some Serb rebels in the area. Who blew up railway tracks. So the authorities had to check whether any of the local Serbs had joined these rebels. I had never seen a rebel before; I knew what railway tracks looked like. So I could not imagine how or why anyone would blow up railway tracks...

My father, Djordjo, did not seem unduly worried on account of those threats. To my surprise, he became more talkative than ever:

- You heard what they said: no-one is to be found outside the house! The authorities are the authorities, they have to be obeyed. That goes for any authorities whatsoever, including these. So, with God's help, we have nothing to fear. Our neighbours, Croats, know, each and every one, that we are honourable, hard-working people, that, as they say, none of us would step on an ant...

I was a little disturbed by what father Djordjo said. That bit about stepping on an ant - I thought to myself - was not quite true. We, children, while taking care of our cattle, used to tread on anthills with our bare feet. The ants would retaliate by stinging us, we screamed and laughed out loud...

On Saturday, Father strictly forbade any of the elder household members to leave the house, if only to feed the cattle. Uncle Mile didn't go to Banja Luka to work either.

A friend of mine, a Serb, had told me recently that we were not the same as Croats, that although we always played together, they didn't like us. That they were Ustashi. And that they slaughtered Serbs. I told him that he was a fool: Pejo Martinovic was an Ustashi, yet he hadn't slaughtered us. Pero Pustajija, Ante Maric, Filip Ljevar, Pero Glavaš, they were all Ustashi, too... That friend of mine remained silent, he didn't know how to answer me...

At long last, I approached the Todics' house. I felt glad, like a fool, knowing full well what I had left at home. And I thought: now my cousins would rush out to greet me, Uncle Vaskrsije and Aunt Danica's children - Stojan, Savo, Dušan, Jovanka and Mijoljka. Not knowing that I hardly felt like playing, they would start throwing snowballs at me, shouting and screaming. They would go on doing so until Uncle or Aunt started reprimanding them and telling them to calm down.

But where were they, the little shouters and pests, they were nowhere to be seen!? Uncle's dog did not come running through the yard to greet me, as usual. Not a sound was to be heard from their yard, only some birds. What was that supposed to mean? - I asked myself, full of foreboding. Then I saw them across the yard fence: they lay on the snow, all across the yard. Uncle Vaskrsije lay there beheaded, his head right next to his body A raven perched on his head, looking at me as if surprised to see me there. Aunt Danica was even closer to me, she lay next to the fence. She had come to greet me, as usual! - I was almost ashamed of this stupid thought. Next to her lay little Mijoljka, eyes wide open, staring at the sky. She was the youngest of their children, very talkative, she was the one I played with the most. Now she, too was dead. A frozen trickle of blood on her mouth was the only trace of death about her.

A big black sow was coming towards me. Somebody's entrails dragged behind it. Grunting, it waded through the deep snow. All of a sudden, some black birds started cawing and flapping their wings. They all seemed to come at me...

* * * * *

* * * * *

The war was over. Uncle Jovo came back home from a German concentration camp. We were back in our house. An empty house. With no-one in it. We received some help. I didn't know from whom, but we did get some. That was what we lived on, survived on. He smoked all the time, talked little. Too little. We had no idea where our family had been buried. I didn't know, he didn't know either.

- We're going to Banja Luka tomorrow, to the District Court. You ought to testify about things... - Uncle said to me one evening, looking at a point somewhere in front of him. He didn't explain what he meant by "things". But there was no need for him to do so, I knew everything!

The courtroom was full of people. There wasn't a single familiar face in the crowd. I had never been there, I looked around, everything was strange to me. A man gently pulled me by the sleeve, showed me where I was to stand. He said that the one in the middle was the judge, that he was the one who would question me. Indeed, he asked me questions, I answered them: my family name, name, father's name, when I was born, where, what I knew about the slaughter of Serbs in our village...

- Where did you live after the slaughter, who took you in, how were you treated there?

- Frane Martinovic, from Motike, took me in. He and his wife, Ane. They took better care of me than of their own children, they have seven of them... - I answered quickly.

- What about his brother, Pero, did he slaughter Serbs in Motike? - asked the judge.

- If he had slaughtered any, he would have slaughtered me as well, at least that's what I think. I was always within his reach...

- Do you know of any other Croats from Motike who took in a Serb child after the slaughter? - the judge asked next.

- A cousin of mine, little Radinka, was with me in Frane and Ane's home. Another relative of mine, little Petko Stijakovic, also stayed in their home for a while. I don't know of any other Serb children who survived the slaughter. Or of any Catholics taking them.

He kept asking me all sorts of questions, I kept answering him. Whatever he asked me and whatever I replied, a woman wrote down typing on a typewriter. She typed so fast that one could hardly see her fingers as they flew across the keys...

Content | For Epilogue to the Second Edition

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