Ravanica . MileÅ¡eva . Manasija . Studenica . GraÄanica . St. Peter's Church . Pillars of St. George . Sopoćani
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3A shot rang out hollowly. Then another one, a little more sharply. They were followed by a burst of automatic fire. But even this was drowned by a gust of wind, which had been blowing for days, shifting piles of snow from one place to another. The way, for example, desert storms in the Sahara shift giant sand deposits, thus forming sand hills called dunes. Therefore, Dr Ante Pavelic Street, the main street in Banja Luka, the only one where snow is regularly removed by snowploughs, has been turned into a snow desert tonight, a desert filled with white hills and valleys. The only people walking along the street, empty due to the curfew, are the Ustashi soldiers from the First Company of the Second Battalion of the Headman's Personal Guard. They have been to the Croatian Theatre in Banja Luka tonight, to see a performance staged in their honour. They are now saying angrily to one another how they merely got bored while watching "The Hearth", a play by Dr Mile Budak, the Sub-Headman. Now they are returning to their barracks, the Kastel fortress on the other side of the town. Some are going to the former Sports Hall. To make things even worse for them, they say, the theatre manager warned them several times not to distract the actors, who were busily making faces. He also warned them to behave properly in the theatre. Irate, angry at everything and everyone, the lads gave vent to their feelings by dropping in at "The Croatian Ploughman" near the theatre and helping themselves liberally to grape brandy. - What did they say that ox was called, the theatre manager? Does the motherfucker know that we are Ustashi? And not just any Ustashi but old sweat Ustashi from the Headman's Personal Guard. Does he know that to an old sweat Ustashi the highest form of civilisation is a dagger, a hand grenade and a revolver, not some theatrical shit? - Jurlina asked his former neighbour from the same village, Šimun Vrdoljak, then hastily downed another glass. Even though Jurlina shouted at the top of his voice, Šimun could not understand a word he said. Like a mighty whirlwind, the general uproar and the shouting of drunken men drowned both their voices. Hence Šimun, who got the nickname Long-Tail as a boy, shouted back just as loudly: - What was it you said, I didn't hear you? - What did I say, you ask - Jurlina repeated after him, even louder. "Never mind what I said, we should have shot that shithead who shouted at us at the theatre like a mad dog. Why, those who were shooting in the air not a moment ago should have pumped him full of lead, that's what..." Long-Tail shook his head yet again, signalling again that he didn't understand, so Jurlina pushed him from the centre of the inn to the far corner. - Now repeat for me what you just said - Long-Tail demanded, staring at his friend, glassy-eyed. - I said that we should have shot that shithead, the theatre manager, who swore at us so and got angry, right away. Why, he almost gave us a rap on the knuckles, so help me Jesus... What did they say his name was? - I think the fucker's name is Mate Džaja, a teacher. Someone has told me that his wife is a Serb. And that, as the Headmaster of the Banja Luka Grammar School, he was always cross with Ustashi youths at the school... - I was right, see, he should have been shot right away! There might have been a few objections to it, then they would have thrown Džaja's corpse into the cesspool, where it belongs... And we would have had a real Ustashi performance tonight. As for his wife being a Serb, you don't call her that but the way the Headman ordered, Greek-Orthodox. And now, tell me, when someone gets killed or dies in the theatre, is it called a tragedy? - I wouldn't know, I suppose it is... - We could have made ourselves a real tragedy, see? And had ourselves a real good laugh. Can you imagine: he starts shouting, rebuking us, getting angry, and then someone shoots him full of lead? Why... - By God, Jurlina, how nicely you put it! Where have you learned such fine talk, you devil? Come on, tell me! - Long-Tail insisted, hitting his friend in the ribs with his left elbow and raising his right hand to clink Jurlina's glass. Amidst the seething chaos of drunken shouts filling the inn, a piercing voice was heard, starting a long-drawn-out ganga : The train, it rolls and chugs along, Everybody joined in, albeit discordantly and lacking in harmony, while Sergeant Major Mioc, swaying unsteadily, climbed onto a table in the middle of the inn, and then ordered, waving his arms downwards, as if motioning everyone to sit down: - Now sing "Bugger off, Serbs..."! Across the Drina, to the other side, When the din of the ganga had subsided somewhat, the Sergeant Major shouted his praise of the singers: - Bravo, Ustashi, bravo! That's the way to sing! And to enjoy oneself. And now I command you: Let's move! Everybody follow me. Tonight's our night. Let these Banja Luka Ustashi old maids hear and know who gives orders around here. Sergeant Major Mioc, that's who, one of the first Ustashi to be sworn in on the island of Lipari. Move, move, move! Everybody out, let's see how the curfew and the blackout are observed, how their patrols are doing their duty... And, so help me the Blessed Virgin, let's pour a few more down our throats. Shall we? By God... - he slurred, his tongue having swollen considerably. Outside, the men encountered an even fiercer blizzard. The wind, having gone wild, was tossing the slightly wet snow about, so that one could only recognise Dr Ante Pavelic Street, the longest and nicest street in town, by the famous rows of trees stretching along both sides of the street. The weather, however, proved to be no obstacle to the Ustashi, who were all in high spirits. Nor did they have to observe the curfew, which had been in effect for months. They ought to, for sure, but they couldn't be bothered. They were not, after all, from any ordinary unit, they were from the Headman's Personal Guard! Contrary to the orders issued by the local authorities, they had ordered a total blackout, that windows on every building should be darkened. And who would dare protest against that? No-one! Passing by the huge former Vrbas Banovina building, currently the Ustashi Headquarters, which provided some shelter from the storm wind, they heard an order coming from a patrol: - Halt! Who goes there? - Who's asking? - Sergeant Major Mioc replied, pushing his way through the crowd to stand at the head of his men. - Halt! Who goes there? - the same voice repeated, louder still, probably the voice of the patrol leader, accompanied by the metallic sounds of sub-machine guns being cocked. - And who's that asking? - the Sergeant Major repeated, deliberately changing his voice, mocking the man. - Halt or I'll fire! - threatened the man from close by, holding a cocked sub-machine gun in his hands, as did the other three patrol members. - Why, let me see you shoot! - the Sergeant Major barked as his men encircled the patrol. "And lower those guns at once - he went on even more forcefully - is that clear? Just who are you to order us to halt, you piece of shit, and to ask who goes there? Quick, what's your name, rank, unit, where are you from... Hurry up!" - Sir... I can't see your insignia... - the patrol leader stammered, scared stiff. - Sergeant Major Mioc to you. I'm listening! - Private Jura Pesek, Sergeant Major, sir, the Third Regiment, born in Podsused, Zagorje... - And what about the other three? - the Sergeant Major asked sharply, as if he hadn't drunk a drop of alcohol the whole evening, even though he could barely stand on his feet. - This one, Sergeant Major, sir, is from Ivanja Rijeka, this one from Lower Stubica and this one from Krapina - the soldier recited, frozen with fear. - Some fine Ustashi you are, you stupid motherfuckers. You are no Ustashi but mere wimps and shitheads from Zagorje. Don't you know what the Regulation Book says you must do when someone fails to obey the command "Halt!"? Furthermore, when that same individual fails to respond to the question "Who goes there?"? - Sergeant Major, sir, the Regulation Book actually says that... That he is to be shot at... - Why didn't you shoot me then? - the Sergeant Major insisted, looking private Pesek in the face angrily, as if he was going to devour him. - I thought, sir, that we couldn't shoot at someone immediately just like that. That... - No, you and your cronies from Zagorje weren't thinking at all. You're ninnies, one and all. Hand over your sub-machine guns at once! Where are your revolvers and daggers? Hand them over, too. That's it. Now you, Štimac, frisk them. Good. Now, you, good-for-nothing private Pesek, have you ever slaughtered anyone? - How shall I put it, Sergeant Major, sir... Never have I slaughtered anyone. There... - Not even a hen, a sheep, a goat? - Nothing, Sergeant Major, sir! When there was a piglet, a turkey or a hen to be slaughtered... Actually, my father, Imbra, did it. I never... - Do you hear this, men: "Nothing, Sergeant Major, sir!" And these are supposed to be Ustashi soldiers who should defend the Headman and the Independent State of Croatia. Dear, dear... Strangely enough, until that moment the Ustashi from the Sergeant Major's company had been completely quiet, following attentively the dialogue between the Sergeant Major and the private. All of a sudden, one of the men shouted hoarsely: - Shall we rough them up a bit, Sergeant Major, show them how Musa skins a goat? - No, no. Let us hear more from these fighters from Zagorje. What about the three of you, have you ever slaughtered anything? - the Sergeant Major asked. - Nothing, sir - they answered, almost in unison. - "Nothing" from them, too! Can you imagine, men, Ustashi who have never slaughtered anything! Why, the four of you, motherfuckers, ought to be shot right away, on the spot. Better still, strangled... It would be best to slaughter you like pigs... - That's right, that's what we should do. We can do it right here, in the dark... - the familiar hoarse voice was heard again, accompanied by noises of approval coming from the merry group of Ustashi. - I know - the Sergeant Major tried to calm them down - that we should do it. But we won't, not tonight. Can you imagine, Ustashi who have never slaughtered anything! As you know only too well, our children in Herzegovina learn to slaughter before they learn to write. It may be only a chicken, a hen, anything, just for the sake of having something to slaughter. And drinking its blood while it's still warm... Franic, Šaponja, Grborez and Luburic, where are you? March these piglets to our barracks and then come back. We'll be in that inn by "The Palace". - Since we're having such a good time, Sergeant Major, can we sing another ganga? - a strapping fellow asked, swaying drunkenly on his feet, his coat collar raised and ear-muffs lowered. - Of course you can. Fire away - the Sergeant Major concurred; there was not much enthusiasm in his voice, however, as his entire body ached with fatigue. From Široki Brijeg to Mostar town Without asking the Sergeant Major for permission, one of the men fired a burst of automatic fire from his sub-machine gun. A few merry Ustashi immediately followed suit. The pale fire flashed briefly above their heads until the Sergeant Major ordered in a sharp tone of voice: - Stop it! Do not waste your ammunition. You're shooting as if we're not going to need it any more... At that moment a curtain on a second-floor window on the left-hand side of the street shifted ever so slightly, which did not pass unnoticed by the merry-makers. The snow was still falling a little, the darkness was not complete, so that someone's silhouette could be discerned, standing beneath a dim ceiling light. - Who's got a "Parabellum", then? Hey, men, is Bakovic with us? Where are you, Ivan? Where the hell are you, Bakovic? - shouted someone away from the centre of the group. - There he is, by that chestnut-tree. He guzzled like a pig and is vomiting now. He's vomiting his mother's milk... - someone answered, laughing at his own joke. - Where's Bušic, then? He's a blacksmith, he only trusts a hefty piece of iron. Hey, Jure, where are you? Let's see your heavy-duty Russian "Nagan"! - And what would you do with my "Nagan", in the name of the Blessed Virgin? Raise Cain? - asked Bušic nonchalantly, amidst the merry shouting and laughter of the group. - Relax, I just want to put out that light. Or would it be better to shoot the person standing at the window... What do you think? - Are you saying you're a better marksman than me? Come off it! Bakota, where are you? Ah, there you are! Tell him what happened in Bihac, and then let him shut up like an old tart... Pray tell, didn't I shoot every Serb or Jew there right between the eyes with this "Nagan" from a distance of fifty steps. Do tell him. Right here so that everybody can hear. - Yes, you did. It was only that tall youngster who wouldn't stand still and be a living target that you had to slaughter. Yes, that's how it was. I saw it with my very own eyes... - There, what did I tell you! And now, just watch closely and see what happens - Bušic went on, cocking his big "Nagan". A shot pierced the snowy night, a bluish flame flickered from the tip of the "Nagan". At the same moment, a barely audible cry was heard, then the silhouette disappeared from the dimly lit window. - He hit him, I swear by the Blessed Virgin! - the Sergeant Major exclaimed in the dark, accompanied by cries of delight from the group. "Bravo, Sub-Sergeant! Bravo, Bušic! That's how efficient a revolver can be in the hands of a true Ustashi. Let me kiss you, Bušic! And now, lend me your "Nagan" to put out that light. Then we'll go and treat ourselves to some drink..." - Do not take offence, Sergeant Major, but I would sooner let you cut off my hand. I have only twenty-three bullets left. Russia is too far away for me to get spare ammunition for it. Pray tell, where can I get ammunition for my "Nagan"? - Bušic justified himself insistently, refusing to give in. - All right, no offence taken. I can do it - the Sergeant Major replied in a conciliatory manner, taking his "Walter" from its holster - with this. The Germans have made this, it can't be worse than a Russian revolver. On the contrary! A long barrel, 9mm calibre. You'll see for yourselves. Everybody fell silent, as if they had stopped breathing. Moreover, it seemed that the fall of every snowflake could be heard. All the men watched the dim light intently. A flame flickered, a loud shot rang out. The light immediately went out. - Long live our Sergeant Major Mioc! - came a shout from the right-hand side of the group, and then all the others joined in. "Let's carry him on our shoulders - the same voice was heard again - and head straight for the inn near 'The Palace'! Forward march! The first round's on me, in honour of the Sergeant Major's marksmanship..." Not a sound could be heard around them, nor could anything be seen apart from the whiteness of the snow. The town was eerily empty. The snow seemed to let up somewhat. The men went on along The Headman's Street in disarray. Now they walked lazily and listlessly, and it appeared that they'd had enough fun and shooting, at least for tonight. Somebody's voice was heard in the darkness, asking whether Franic, Šaponja, Grborez and Luburic had returned, but the question remained unanswered. It was long past midnight. - Wait, men, I hear the sound of a bell. Can you hear it: it's ringing! - someone from the rear of the group shouted. - Where's that, what ringing? - the Sergeant Major asked. He, too, had stopped and was listening. Then he looked around him. - Who said he heard a bell? Who was it? Whoever it was, it seemed to be ringing in his head, from all that brandy. Why don't you answer, you whose head is ringing? - asked the Sergeant Major angrily. - I said it was ringing. And it is. Whoever doesn't hear the bell is deaf. It's ringing as if the sound was coming from deep down under the ground. I hear it loud and clear: it's coming from the direction of the Greek-Orthodox church. From there... - the man insisted. - You mean the one that, as they say, used to be in front of the Ustashi Headquarters building? Why, you're stark raving mad! That one, you must have heard, was pulled down as soon as our units liberated Banja Luka. Didn't you see its ruins on our way here? Just listen to him: "Ringing from deep down under the ground"! Fuck you and their pagan church and the ringing! At least, shut up, don't disgrace yourself and all of us... - the Sergeant Major reproached him. - Hold on, leave the man alone! I can hear it, too. I hear it loud and clear: ding-dong-ding-dong... My late grandfather used to say that there was no greater sin than when you pull down a church. He did, I swear by the Blessed Virgin. And he also told me, if you really want to know, that once, a long time ago, our men removed the bell from the Orthodox church in a neighbouring village during the night and threw it into the Neretva River. And you know what happened afterwards? The bell kept ringing all night from the river: ding-dong... They couldn't sleep, for Christ's sake. Half the village went mad, they were like mad dogs from lack of sleep. They'd have gone crazy altogether if they hadn't taken the bell out of the river, again at night, put it back in the belfry of the Orthodox church. Even though it rang better and louder than ours, they had to put it back. After that, it was just like it used to be: the bell was heard only when they rang it. And peace returned to our village. There... - Fuck you, your grandfather and the bell. Let's go and have something to drink! - another Ustashi interrupted him, pushing the men in front of him with his hands, trying to get them to move on. One of the men from the front part of the group started another ganga without asking the Sergeant Major for permission: I fucked her hard, oh, yes, indeed, - Hey, people, where are those bottles of grape brandy? Where's Babic, the youngster? He took the bottles from "The Ploughman". What's Babic's first name, the one who took the bottles from "The Ploughman"? - a nasal voice asked from the dark. - Would that Babic be from Knin? I slaughtered one last summer like a pig: a huge fellow he was, young but very fat. He weighed a hundred kilos. By the Mother of God, he did! "Say, for the last time in your life what your name is. You said you had converted to our faith, that you had a new name, ours. That you had been baptised as a Catholic and that your name was now Ante. Come on, Ante, say what your name is!" - I ordered him. "Savo Babic!" - he says. "What do you mean, Savo, when your name is now Ante!" - I say to him. Then he says: "Just like that, I want to die under my own name, Savo!" So I went for him with this knife. I kept slashing, his blood gushed out of the wounds. But he just stood and stared at me. I pulled out a revolver and shot him right between the eyes. "Go to hell, St Savo" - I said to him as he went down... - For those words you deserve a King Zvonimir Medal of the First Order. By the Cross, you do - the same voice as before called out again - but this Babic is from Imotski, a Croat. You know that among the first Ustashi on Lipari were Marko Babic, Josip Babic, Ivan Babic, Josip Babic Two, Jerko Babic... - Come on, don't bullshit. You've guzzled so much brandy that you don't know what you're talking about. Jerko's family name is Babaja - someone corrected him - not Babic! - Who's a guzzler, who doesn't know what he's talking about? D'you want me to tell you the names of all the fifty-six people from Imotski, the first sworn Ustashi? Wanna bet? Do you? But I'm sure that those Babics were Serbs, like that Sava that I slaughtered. Go fuck yourself! People from Livno, too, brag that they are real Ustashi and Croats, and I know a few of them who used to be communists. Half of them used to be communists... - Don't you dare drag the people of Livno in the gutter like that! And shut your trap before I shove your teeth down your throat. What do you know about us? There you go, farting like an arsehole... If it weren't for us, you wouldn't know what a real man is. Don't you mix you lot with us. The people of Livno have always been real men, and you've always been arseholes... Somebody tried to pacify the man who was defending the honour of the people of Livno, but he wouldn't desist. He walked on unsteadily, leaning on those nearest to him, and rambled on: - Do you know, you big-headed oaf, that forty-six people came to Lipari from the district of Livno to be sworn in as far back as 1933? There were twelve of them from my village, Vržeralo alone. Twelve, do you hear! Myself, Ivan Drinjak, Marijan, Dragan, Martin and Ivan Grabovac, Josip Mijac, Mate and Jakov Vodopija... - Oh, leave it! Where's the man with the bottle? My stomach's burning, I can't stand it any longer! And you keep babbling about Vržeralo. Do you hear, men, Vržeralo, Vržeralo... vrže ralo - that means drop the plough! Drop it and run. That's why you ran away from there, I swear by the Holy Cross. Nothing to plough there, just stony ground. Sergeant Major Mioc put his finger on it earlier this evening: "Those who have lived off the land are no real Ustashi." No, only those who were born on stony ground, who have lived off cattle, who have slaughtered cattle, then drank both their blood and milk. And there you go, babbling about Livno, Vržeralo, old Ustashi. Fuck you and your Vržeralo! And you recite the list of old Ustashi as if you were going to get your pay tonight. No, not your pay, as if the Head of Treasury were going to come and let you divide the whole State Budget for the year 1942 amongst yourselves. Come now, let's go get ourselves something to drink... - the man finished laughing good-naturedly at his little speech, so nicely strung together. Sergeant Major Mioc emerged from the darkness. Actually, his loud voice was heard. Hoarse but very loud. He was in high spirits. - Some of our men have just returned from that building over there. The man whom Bušic picked off so expertly is lying there, they say. Right there by the window, where he hit him. Bravo, Bušic! Where are you, Bušic? Any trace of Bušic? The hell there is. He stole whatever he could from there and ran away... Hey, you who were up there, let's see what you brought us. Come on, show it if you're not cunts... - Why, there wasn't much to take anyway. It seems that someone had burgled the flat before we got there. He was a Turk, he thought he was a "Croatian flower", that the curfew did not apply to him. He stood by the window... The moment we came in, we felt that the Turk smelled of suet and butterfat. There was a smell of shit, too. He must have shat his pants when Bušic shot him. And he sent this to you - the man concluded gaily, raising something above his head. - A bottle! Why, this is a two-litre bottle, people - an Ustashi shouted in the darkness, quickly disposing of the cork. "Burns like a thunderbolt, a hundred thunderbolts! The Turkish motherfucker sent us real fire-water. If we'd known it was this strong, Bušic should have picked him off sooner: who knows how much of this heavenly liquid he had drunk. He won't need it anyhow..." - Cut it short, Grabovac, both your talk and your drinking. Whoever would have guessed you can drink and talk like that. Take your books, as usual, and have a nice read. This stuff is not for you. Where's that Corporal Mudroslov of yours? Come on, fuck you, hand over that bottle! - a drunken voice ordered sharply. The bottle changed hands quickly, going round in a circle. Although it was a two-litre bottle, it held too little brandy for so many men, quarrelling, shouting and calling out to one another. Then the Sergeant Major emerged in the very centre of the unruly crowd and ordered them to get a move on. I sing this ganga for the Headman to hear, In front of "The Palace" hotel, above the entrance, a dim light shone, yellowish and pale. Two guards could be seen under it, armed in accordance with the Regulation Book: sub-machine guns, revolvers, daggers and short regulation Ustashi knives. The insignia on their caps and lapels could not be seen, but one could immediately tell by the short knives, hanging from the knapsacks on their shoulders, that they were Ustashi. The men headed towards "The Zagreb" inn, as ordered by Sergeant Major Mioc. Only Šime Vrdoljak headed towards "The Palace" and the guards. - Ready for the homeland! - he shouted to them from afar, adding: "We've been to the Croatian Theatre, where we got very cross. The theatre manager made us angry, he swore at us so, and the men got mad. So we had to have something to drink, see... - Ready for the homeland! - the guards replied. "What - asked the bigger of the two - do you want? And don't shout like that..." - All right, I won't - he answered in a conciliatory tone of voice - but do tell me, lads: where is that "Black House"? I've heard that it's bursting with Greek-Orthodox and Jewish prisoners, so... - So what...? - You know what: they should be slaughtered, one and all! You must have heard of us: we're from the Headman's Personal Guard... More and more men from the Company were gathering around Vrdoljak, listening attentively to the conversation. His large body appeared titanic in the dim light. But because of the alcohol consumed, it was shaking like a straw in the wind. - How many of them might there be in that prison? - Long-Tail joined the conversation. - Two, perhaps three hundred... How should we know. And now, back off: you know full well that we are not authorised to provide such information - the same guard replied calmly. - What, in the name of the Mother of God, do you mean - back off? Back off where? And we are to listen to you? If you'd done your job well, there'd've been no need for us to come here. Isn't that so? And now that we're here, we'll do our job the way we've been taught to do it. I couldn't go to sleep, I swear by the Crucifix, without spilling some of that Serb and Jewish blood tonight... - mumbled Long-Tail with a heavy tongue, accompanied by sounds of approval from the other men. Sergeant Major Mioc finally calmed them down: - Why ask them when you can see that they're not real Ustashi. Let's go to "The Zagreb", men. I'm giving the orders tonight. Let's go... His men backed off unwillingly. The last ones to do so were Šimun and Long-Tail, whom the guards watched very closely. In fact, Long-Tail turned back, mumbling something indistinctly. Šimun followed him, and for a moment it seemed that a new conflict might erupt. However, the Sergeant Major said something to them in a low tone of voice, and they all made for "The Zagreb" from the direction of which the sounds of a noisy quarrel reached their ears. - Take it back! Take it back, I'm telling you nicely! Who are you to be telling me stories about Bihac: you expect me to believe you killed twelve t'ousand Serbs! The fuck you did! The Turks slaughtered more of them than you did. They burned them alive, houses full of them. And here you are, bullshitting to me about killing Serbs. The Turks outdid you in Krupa, too, they mowed down eight and a half t'ousand of them. We had to come to Livno to do the job. And to Glamoc, too. If it hadn't been for us, you wouldn't even have slaughtered the three t'ousand there. The job doesn't really get done without us, old Ustashi. Whoever sent you to the Headman's Personal Guard? You're not a regular Ustashi... - Bakota had climbed onto a table, shouting angrily at a young man. - You don't say t'ousand but thousand. Isn't that so, you tell him, Mudroslov. Our Headman has granted each one of us a grammar school certificate, just like that. It was only you who studied philosophy, or whatever... - somebody shouted to him from the crowd. - I know as much as an Ustashi needs to know: how to use a short knife, a dagger, a revolver, a sub-machine gun, a bomb. I can slaughter with my teeth if need be. I can slaughter t'ousands and thousands. I don't need your Mudroslov. Fuck you both. Fuck you all, so there! - Bakota's voice was louder than all the others. Mudroslov, who was standing right next to the table from which Bakota was taunting them, tried to say something, but his words were drowned in the general uproar. In any case, even if it hadn't been so noisy, one would have found it difficult to make out his words: if the truth must be known, that quiet young man, always deep in thought, never raised his voice. It would be difficult to explain, therefore, just what precisely he was doing among the Ustashi, even though he had been sworn in as far back as 1933 on Lipari. One could see a change in him, too: he was drinking like all the others, who were slowly losing enthusiasm for further arguments and conversation, tired of the great quantity of alcohol consumed and the noise. The waiter, a thin hunched man with tiny sunken eyes whose eyes kept flickering, poured drinks steadily; suddenly, he dared to ask the Sergeant Major: - You, sir, as far as I can see, are the most senior officer here. Tell me, please, who's going to pay for all this? For, you know... - God! God will pay you! And I shall testify that you poured very generously indeed. Is it clear now, hunchback? God will pay for everything... - But sir... - God will pay all of us, too. We, old Ustashi, my dear fellow, have been carrying out the Headman's orders for free ever since 1932, living without a family, getting no rest; we sweat and toil, get killed, slaughter those stinking Serbs, Jews and Gypsies... Sorry, all Serbs are Gypsies! For what? Nothing, my dear fellow. We're all waiting for the Almighty to pay us. And if we can wait, so can you! - the Sergeant Major concluded, slapping his giant revolver with the palm of his hand. The waiter, whose eyes showed extreme tiredness and deep disappointment, opened his mouth as if to say something, then though better of it. Instead of protesting, he picked up a cloth and started wiping the spilled alcohol and other rubbish from the tables. When the Sergeant Major ordered the men to get a move on, angry voices were heard, but the men got up and started leaving slowly. The miserable waiter was left all alone in a silent room filled with smoke. He was startled by the sharp sounds of gunfire coming from the direction of the "Black House". It lasted for a good half-hour, then everything went silent again. Content | Next: 4th chapterCopyright © 1998 Jovan Babic |