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AB Chapter I. War

SQUERING THE LIFE CYCLE

The Autobiographical Sketches

Chapter I. WAR

April 6, 1941

The Days After

Mother

The Refuge in Montenegro

The Occupiers

The Ancestral Home

Grandfather Tâne

The Return Home

April 6, 1941

It was a bright Sunday morning and I was daydreaming on the floor of my bedroom.

There was no school and I was thinking of playing with my friends at the street corner

whole day. For the past several months, I have been a first grader and made a lot of

new friends at school, but the street corner was my favorite playground.

Unexpectedly for Sunday morning, sirens began to pierce the air like a cry of a

wounded animal, spreading fear of impending danger from the incoming enemy

aircraft. Suddenly, a thundering explosion shook our apartment house and the sound

of breaking glass send shivers through my body. In no time, Mother entered the room

and rushed my brother Miroslav and me to get dressed and go down to the basement.

Then, another explosion was heard, not as close as the first, but close enough to give

another powerful jolt to the house and break more windows, as if trying to finish the

job that the first explosion had started.

We got down to the basement, where the people from our three-story apartment

house rushed to in silence, full of anxiety and fear. The family that lived in the

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basement opened their apartment and offered all their rooms to accommodate the

crowd of more than twenty people. A number of old people did not come down the

staircase fearing the falling glass and their own unsteady steps. Dr.Crncevich, a

military surgeon who lived on the second floor of our three story apartment house, led

Father and few other neighbors several times up the stairs to help people come down.

Then, another raid started. The attacking German airplanes were Stukas that had built-

in sirens to incite the panic among the civilian population. Suddenly, another bomb

fell very close to our house and it shook our building to the foundation. People started

to pray, some whispering, some loudly, and many kneeling in prayers, a scene I have

not seen in our church during services. Father was back from upstairs with the old

couple living on the second floor and Mother went to him to see if she could help. This

time Dr. Crncevich came down alone all covered with blood. The falling glass hit him

on the back, tore up his shirt, and exposed the bleeding flesh. All this time I was

consumed by the ongoing chaos, but seeing the blood on Dr. Crncevich’s back scared

me stiff and I glanced at my older brother Miroslav hoping to get a comforting look

back. He was pale, scared and trembled with fear. I realized how bad the situation

was, and became terrified; loosing hope that this was just a bad dream.

As soon as explosions stopped and silence gave us a respite, Mitar, the son of

our apartment manager carrying a backpack over his shoulders stood up and addressed

us all. He said that Germany is invading our country and in a short time we will be

occupied by the German army. He urged everybody to come with him and join the

resistance organized in the countryside by the communists to fight the fascist invaders.

Nobody responded to his call and he climbed the stairs out of the basement alone never

to be seen again.

Encouraged by the end of explosions people started leaving the basement and

spilling out on the street. They met a stunning scene. Across the street, where a small

one-story house once stood, was a crater as if the house was pulled out like a giant

tooth from the jaw of the street. A young couple was living there with a little baby

girl. The baby had such a loud voice that I used to hear her crying from across the

street. After sounding of the sirens, the couple did not run to our large three-story

house which offered a relative safety. Neighbors swarmed the ruins trying to find

survivors. A lifeless body of the baby’s father was pulled out and was laid motionless

on the ground. Only a large blood spots on his dirty white shirt betrayed the

appearance of a man sound asleep. That was the first dead man I have seen. His face

and bloody body has been glued to my memory forever. Mother stepped in and

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pushed us away from the gory scene. Leaving the crowd I caught a glimpse of the

white frame of a metal baby bed sticking out from the black bottom of the whole.

After few steps I broke away from Mother and ran down the street to a one-story

house that was engulfed in flames. My friend Marko lived there with his parents and

an older brother. People said that the house was hit by an incendiary bomb which

burned alive all the trapped inhabitants. They all died while his father was out of the

house. Upon return, he was desperately circling around the burning inferno without

uttering a word. I was too young to comprehend the horrors surrounding us, and was

waiting for Marko to miraculously show up and hug his father. I could not imagine

that I will not see my friend Marko ever again.

Two weeks before, Yugoslav government signed a nonaggression Tripartite Pact

with Germany, which was rejected two days later, on March 27, by a coup d’état of a

group of officers from the Belgrade garrison. People came out on the streets in draws

to manifest the rejection of the pact. My whole family went to the center of town to

join the euphoria and jubilation. I recall the sign BETTER GRAVE THAN SLAVE

which best expressed the mood of the crowd. How little did we know what the price

will be for telling “No” to Hitler, at the time when he had all of Europe under his boot?

He began his vengeance on April 6, 1941, by a brutal bombing of Belgrade, the capital

of Yugoslavia, with his vastly superior Luftwaffe, inflicting heavy losses of life and

spreading destruction and chaos throughout the city. The bombing was a defining

moment of my life. On that day I was thrown from Paradise to Hell. I replayed the

events in my mind often, as I grew older. Occasionally, the images would appear in

my sleep and I would be re-living them again and again, occasionally waking up

sweating and shivering.

One event that left a lasting impression on me that day was the exceptional

courage of Dr. Crncevich during the bombing raids. I expected such bravery of some

other neighbors that I held in high regard. Some of them were paralyzed by fear and

others were trembling full of anxiety and despair. I learned that you can never predict

how the people you know would behave at a moment of truth.

Young Mitar, who called people to join the armed resistance against the German

invader, joined the communist uprising with his sister Vukica, and met a horrible

death. They were both caught during the war by Special Police, which was formed by

Serbian fascists to fight the communist insurgency. They were brutally tortured to

reveal their contacts in the communist network and died in prison. After the war the

victorious Yugoslav communist party rewarded them both posthumously for their

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silence with the highest honors. Subsequently, the communist government discovered

that Mitar, unlike his sister, was broken by torture and told Special Police his contacts.

He was stripped off of all his honors and his name disappeared in the black whole of

history.

After returning to basement, Father fearing new waves of bombing decided that

we should leave the city immediately. Bare necessities were placed in the laundry

basket and we headed out of the city. At the end of the street we turned around to see

the house were we left our only living space with all our possessions to the mercy of

the German Luftwaffe. Is the house going to be there when we return?

Our anxiety was heightened in the early afternoon when another Stuka attack

restarted the fire in the city and raised the clouds of smoke as high as the eyes can see.

By that time we were out of danger at home of our family friends, which was nicely

situated at the outskirts of the city on a hill overlooking a large part of the city. They

had a spacious backyard where we often played with their two sons of our age till we

would fall off of our feet. Not this time! A somber tone of the conversations among

the adults dampened our enthusiasm for play. The mood of war started to sink deep

into our hearts and minds.

After the sunset the bombing continued. The view of the burning city with

flames reaching the sky, were heart wrenching. The fire on the ground gave the

Luftwaffe perfectly visible targets, and the high wind, with its unfortunate timing,

spread the devastation of incendiary bombs to every part of the city. Our beloved city

was thrown to the Devil.

The Days After

In the morning the next day, without much sleep and full of worries we headed home.

Our friends begged us to stay at their home for a couple of days more until the

bombing stops for good. Since Father had to report immediately for military duty, we

could not stay any longer. It was comforting to my parents to learn that if we became

homeless they would welcome us to stay at their place.

The concern we had about our house grew bigger as we got closer to our part of

the city. The effects of the bombing raids were varied from block to block, but the

deeper we got into the city the bigger the devastation. We came across blocks of

houses that were flattened by the bombs. We saw people spread over the ruins

searching for their belongings. It was a grim scene. We felt sympathy for their plight

but harried home with only one thought: Is our fate the same as theirs? As we turned

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the corner of our street, we saw with great relief that our three-story apartment house

was standing intact with no new craters around it. We got lucky this time!

Before going to the apartment I went to see the ruins across the street, where my

friend Marko died in the flames the day before, hoping the tragedy was just a bad

dream. The burnt walls around gapping black holes gave me my first bitter taste of

death and destruction. Yet, in some strange way, I refused to accept the reality and

admit to myself that I would never going to see him again.

As soon as we got back to the apartment Father started packing his travel bag to

prepare for a trip across the country to his birthplace in Montenegro where he would

join his army unit. Our family has never had to split for long periods of time and

Father’s departure was frightening; are we going to see him again? Against common

sense and with no apparent military wisdom, all conscripts at the start of the war had to

go to their birthplaces to join the army. This was a logistical nightmare for the country

that in large areas had the transportation means and roads from the Middle Ages;

especially so in the region where Father comes from. We were in tears when he

kissed us all and waved goodbye. Mother saw him to the door, they exchanged few

words, then they kissed again and he stepped out of the apartment. The door framed a

picture of his large silhouette with broad shoulders and the bag in his hand.

With Croatia and Slovenia embracing the invading Hitler’s army, the country

was literally falling apart. The chaos of war, which gripped the country, created havoc

in Belgrade, its capital. The major services have collapsed throughout the city causing

food and drinking water to become the first casualties. Constant fear of renewed

bombing raids had paralyzing effect on people in the city. Belgrade was counting the

last days of freedom in agony, as a prisoner given a death sentence.

Having experienced the ravages of First World War as a young girl, Mother

adapted to the new situation as well as it could be expected, but thoughts about the

dangers Father could face back in his native region at the end of war worried her

greatly. It was not clear what she could do to help him there, but she decided that we

should all leave our home and head for Montenegro. In wartime, such decisions are

not made by rational evaluations of competing alternatives; they are made by instinct.

As it turned out, her faithful decision was worth the risk of traveling with two small

children across a country at war.

My Aunt-Lela, Mother’s younger sister, who has lived with us as far as I can

remember, said to Mother in an agitated but quiet voice:

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“Ljubica, I will stay at home while you are gone. You have to be with Dobrilo

as soon as may be, and you have to take the children with you. I am afraid I would

only be a burden to you on this trip.

“How can I leave you alone here? We do not know what is going to become of

the city,” Mother responded half pleading and half demanding. “During the whole trip

I will worry about Dobrilo in Montenegro and about you back here. If you come with

us, I would have one less worry on my mind.”

Aunt was sitting on the bed with her fingers nervously rolling the end of her

blouse. She would do this whenever fearing that her persistence may be interpreted as

disobedience. She never wanted to be a problem to anybody, especially to her older

sister who was her guardian and protector.

“I’ll do fine here at home. We have relatives and friends that would be more

than willing to help me while you are gone. We should not leave the apartment

deserted in these uncertain times, should we?”

I overheard the conversation and prayed that Aunt-Lela would change her mind

and come with us. Both my brother and I loved here dearly. We both hugged her and

begged her to come with us, but to no avail. She did not pack her things that day,

which was a sure sign that she is not going with us the next day. A breakdown of the

telephone service meant that on our trip we will lose all communications with Father in

Montenegro and Aunt-Lela in Belgrade; this was the anxiety that Mother will have to

endure alone during our long journey to Montenegro.

Mother

When Miroslav and I became old enough to realize that Mother was once a child as we

were, we started asking her to tell us about her childhood. One uneventful day, when

the time stopped for a moment, she broke her silence.

“In our family, I was the oldest child of three children” Mother began slowly.

“We lived in the town of Shabac on the river Sava that was at that time the northern

border of Serbia. In 1912, Serbia joined Greece, Bulgaria and Montenegro and started

the first Balkan war to free the Balkans of the five hundred years of Turkish

occupation. My father Zhivko joined the Serbian army and was sent immediately to

the southern front to fight the Turks. When war broke out, I was eight, your Uncle-

Mile was five and Aunt-Lela was two, just a baby.” While talking to us Mother looked

through the window facing the street; she no longer seemed to notice us. Pain of the

memories gave away the melancholy side of her we haven’t seen before.

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“Turks were beaten by the allies. After winning the battle of Edirne, the allies

arrived at the doorstep of Istanbul. From Edirne, father Zhivko sent a postcard to our

Mother Lepa, your grandmother: ‘We are in the Turkish city of Edirne. War is over.

Serbia, at long last, is free!’ Those were his last words. After the fall of Edirne, our

ally Bulgaria ordered its army to sneak at night to the Serbian lines and attack the

Serbian army. Unsuspecting Serbs posted no guards. Your grandfather Zhivko was

killed that night. Mother was left alone to take care of us at the start of the second

Balkan war between Serbia and Bulgaria. Another war that further impoverished our

land and killed more of our fathers, husbands, sons and brothers. We children, like

hundreds of new orphans, had to learn to live without our father, without his guidance

and support.”

“Did your parents love each other as you and dad do?” brother asked.

She turned around and looked at us with an absent expression. “She loved him

very much. When Mother was told of Zhivko’s death she started sobbing quietly, went

into the bedroom, and closed the door and the shutters that looked out in the backyard.

We heard her sobbing and murmuring our father’s name, saying ‘My God’ again and

again.

Grandmother Lepa never heard of Edirne, did not know what a Turkish front

was, what kind of people were the Bulgarians, and cared less about Istanbul. All she

wanted was her husband back. On people’s level war is a deeply personal “story” of

each participant, which acquires the prefix “hi” at the level of kings, pashas, empires,

tyrannies and democracies, to become “history.” At her level, the word “history”

meant the stories of relatives, friends and neighbors who suffered as much as she did.

Freedom offered to her little consolation. Pain caused by loss of a loved one often cuts

deeper into the human soul than time can heal.

We were overcome by sadness but kept pleading with her to continue the story.

Even though this part of her life was so long ago, she was vividly shaken by unearthing

the buried past. She did not like to dwell on the painful past because she despised a

victimization spirit that inevitably holds you back and destroys you. Her sight was

always set on the future ahead of her and the family, not only to escape the shackles of

the past, but often to shake off the hurtful and disheartening present, as well.

“Occasionally, father Zhivko would get drunk and come home late at night” she

continued with a melancholy in her voice. “He would yell at mother for no apparent

reason and become violent. Mother kept quiet hoping his rage would blow over, but

he would rarely stop. Sometimes, he would hit her, but mother would remain silent.

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We heard her moans caused by pain, but never a spoken word. We were terrified and

felt her pain. The next day, you would not know what happened last night, if it

weren’t for a bruise on her face. They would be on the best of terms; she always

forgave and forgot.”

Serbia allied with Greece defeated Bulgaria, but our soldiers could not rest for

long. Tired by two brutal and exhaustive wars, they came home to be with their

families, or start families, plough the fields, raise cattle, and make brandy, what

common men of the world want to do. Their lives were interrupted again by the army

to march to the border with Austria, near our town of Shabac, to prepare for yet

another war, the third war in as many years!”

The story is all too familiar. Gavrilo Princip, a young Bosnian student killed

crown prince Archduke Franz Ferdinand during a parade in Sarajevo. The visit of

Archduke to Sarajevo was staged on symbolic St. Vitus’ Day, June 28, 1914, the

anniversary of the Kosovo Battle, where Serbs lost to the invading Turks more than

five hundred years ago. For Serbs, the Kosovo Battle is the central part of their history

that defines who they are as people. Despite the warning of the Serbian Minister in

Vienna that the appearance of Franz Ferdinand in Sarajevo on St. Vitus’ Day, may lead

to trouble, the parade went on anyway with tragic consequences. Austria used the

assassination as a pretext to attack Serbia, the state that was the main obstacle in

spreading the Austro-Hungarian Empire over the Balkans. Austrian-Hungarian army

massed the border near our town of Shabac for a revenge attack on tinny and war-

fatigued Serbia; “the fire this time!”

Russia was slow in helping the Serbs; it had its own troubles to contend with.

The rest of great powers also ignored the plea for help by Serbia. At this point in time,

something unusual has happened. Mother told us that the entire Czech army group,

which was a part of the Austrian-Hungarian force, switched the sides, crossed the

border at Shabac, and surrendered to the Serbian army. In sympathy with Serbia, the

troops marched into the center of Shabac with the army band in front, playing the

music of Smetana and Dvořak. In the end, it did not matter very much in military

terms, but it made the desperate Serbian people very happy indeed; at least, somebody

in the world cared about their grave predicament.

“Austrian army crossed the river Sava near Shabac, and attacked our land and

people with vengeance”, Mother continued her story. “The voice spread that Austrians

had “scorched earth” policy, and were not sparing women and children. Long lines of

refugees fleeing from Shabac clogged the roads and made it very difficult for our army

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to reach the positions at the front. The horses pulling the heavy guns would

inadvertently crush the people moving in the opposite direction. The screams of the

people and the yelling of the soldiers at people and horses in trying to get through to

the front line created panic and chaos. Suddenly, Uncle-Mile disappeared in the thin

air. Despite frantic search by our Mother and me he was nowhere to be found. After

several days of inquiring with the many refugees, describing the Uncle-Mile to

everybody we met on the refugee trail and begging them to help us, was all in vain. As

suddenly as he was lost, Uncle-Mille appeared on the side of the road. He was gravely

sick lying motionless on the ground; only Mother Lepa believed he can be saved.”

“The Serbs, with great losses, defeated the Austrian army, and pushed it across

the river Sava. We returned home from the refuge in the backcountry only to find that

half of our house was destroyed by a bomb. With the help of relatives, grandmother

Lepa managed to repair a room and the kitchen, which made the house livable. She

nursed Mile out of sickness, but the consequences of his ordeal never went away. He

died at 29 leaving his wife Yelena with two small children. She died soon after him

they say out of grief for her beloved husband Mile. Aunt-Yelena left their two small

children, daughter Lepa (named after the grandmother) and son Mitja, as orphans to be

taken care of by her brother Nikola.”

The Refuge in Montenegro

It was snowing all night and Belgrade woke up in the morning with a white make-up

covering the mess left by the bombing raids. Mother stuffed our backpacks with our

winter clothing, food, and other necessities, including gasmasks. Yes, gasmasks!

Before the war, the Serbian government distributed gasmasks to the people fearing

poison gas that may be used by the enemy. Our family got only two gasmasks! With

only two children, our parents had an easy choice to make who would wear the masks

in a gas emergency.

Snow, which was unheard of at this time of the year, was a huge setback at the

start of our journey. The city train station was shut down by the bombing raids,

forcing us to walk two to three days on muddy roads through the back country to reach

a small town, where we could board a train to Montenegro. At the outskirts of the city

we joined a long gloomy line of refuges on the road meandering through the woods,

which in the happier times was our favorite place for family pick-nicks. With melting

snow on a cloudy day, the wet trees were dripping water like tears expressing their

sorrow for the sorry state of the refuges.

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On the side of the road there was a long line of soldiers that looked like they had

the last “hurry up” and now are left with a hopeless “wait”. Suddenly, out of the blue,

I started to sing a patriotic song “Hey Serbia, our mother dear”. I surprised myself. I

have never shown such overt patriotic impulses before. What came upon me to sing

that song? While patriotic to be sure, my parents have not carried patriotic feelings on

their sleeves, and have not encouraged us to show such feelings in public. These past

few days planted the seed of patriotism in my mind; it grows faster in the miseries of

war than it does in the good times of peace.

A soldier standing nearby heard me singing and started walking toward me with

open arms. His face with a smile embellished a stocky large body in full battle gear

with dirty uniform and muddy boots. With tears in his eyes, he lifted me up with both

hands and pressed me on his chest to relief the sadness in his heart,

“O, dear son, sing loudly for everybody to hear you.”

“How is the war going, soldier?” Mother asked.

The soldier let me slip gently through his hands. Before my feet touched the

ground I rubbed my face on his rough uniform, which gave me a sense of the reality of

his presence.

“My good lady, it is not going very well. We were rushed here after the war

started, and now are waiting for new orders. The country is attacked from all sides,

except from the South where Greeks are fighting for their own survival. I am afraid

the war will end before our orders are in.”

There was a commotion among the soldiers, and he rushed back. Mother

wished him farewell, but he did not respond.

As we got out of the woods, the space opened wide with a view of a deserted

village sinking slowly in the approaching sunset. Mother started to look for a place

where we can stay overnight. After knocking on the doors of several houses without

success, she began to dread that we might be left out in the cold. Either the people

already accepted refuges over their capacity, or had no space for anybody but their

own family.

Finally, a landlord of a tiny house at the end of the village offered us to rent a

small cottage in his backyard, which was empty and without light. It was already dark

outside, and we were grateful to have a roof over our heads, even though we would

have to spend the night on the dirt floor of the cottage. In the morning, our faces and

clothes were all white covered by ash. Brother Mima and I cheered the looks of our

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white faces, forgetting our misery if for a moment like all children do. The cottage

was used for smoking the meat!

The morning was full of sun as it should be at this time of the year. Since the

main roads may be bombed, the refuges took side roads and the column was broken.

The roads looked dry at the beginning, but later, at long stretches, they would be

covered with heavy mud, so heavy that our shoes would often get stuck in the mud

while our feet would slip out of the shoes. A grass valley opened in front of us and

Mother pulled us from the road to a short cut over a grassy field. As we were walking

across the field Mother started to sing. She had a beautiful voice that brought back the

memories of happier times when we had our walks through the woods on weekend

outings.

Mother was one-to-one with nature, adoring open spaces, smell of the wild

flowers, and feel of the Earth. At the time of wars, while taking the refuge in the

village of her ancestry, Mother fell in love with the freedom offered by fields, woods

and hills. Inspired by the beauty of nature and empowered by the union of nature with

people that walked and worked the land, Mother sang with joy. Her whole being was

bound to the village life and she loved it. In Belgrade, she felt as an emigrant from the

countryside, and now she was in her element. Exhausted and hungry, Miroslav and I

started to fly on the wings of her songs and, at least for a while, we were able to

recover some of our energy and spirit to endure the present hardship and ignore the

uncertain future awaiting us.

On this trip I was far from following Mother’s example and falling in love with

nature. I was tired and hungry hoping we would stop and rest for a while, and get

something to eat at last. But, occasionally, the trip would turn into a magic tour with

huge expanses of space with valleys and woods, creeks and villages full of domestic

animals that I saw back in the city only in the illustrated books for children. Laying on

the ground I would be fascinated by bushes and wild flowers full of colorful insects in

strange motions and flying patterns. For a city kid like me, this was good stuff that

kept me going on, making me forget my usual complaints of hunger and no breaks.

We stopped to rest in the shade under a tree standing in a wide-open field, and

began to eat bits and pieces of food left in our depleted backpacks. Just as we set

down, a roaring sound of aircraft split the peaceful air of the valley, bringing back the

fear of bombing raids that a moment ago seemed like a distant past. Instead of

bombers, on the bright sky above us a burning plane was falling down as a giant torch.

It hit the ground not too far from us and exploded into a fireball. The fascinating scene

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that looked like out of a war movie overwhelmed me, but the next thought that the

pilot in the plane suffered a horrible death made me sick. The incidence reminded us

that we are not far from danger. We got up and marched with quicker but unsteady

steps toward a village on our way.

With the spring sun dipping toward the horizon, Mother started looking again

for a place in the village where we can spend the night. She knocked on the door of a

large house hoping that it would have a space for us. The landlord, an old man with

long mustaches wearing a heavy winter coat and cane in his hand, opened the door

and, after realizing that we are refugees on the road, greeted us with a touch of warmth.

He invited us in and we entered a large room filled by thick tobacco smoke, which

made the fading light from a tiny oil lamp on a table in the middle of the room look

like the glimmer from the lighthouse in a stormy see. As we entered the room and

stepped on the floor made of the hard dried mud, the smoke enveloped us as a light

veil stinging our nostrils and watering our eyes. We began to adjust to the darkness of

the room and started to make out the silhouettes of men, women and children. The

men were smoking cigarettes occasionally interrupting the flow of smoke by coughing

loudly and spitting on the floor. The very thought that I might be stepping on the filth

on the floor created an irresistible urge to run for the door, but I would not dare ruin

whatever Mother had in mind.

“You can stay here,” said the old man. “We have a bed in the storage room that

is big enough for you and the children.”

“Thank you. You are very kind”, Mother said gratefully, and then murmured

something about smoke and children, leading us hastily out of the room into a pitch

dark night with nowhere to go.

As we stepped out of the house, we felt tired, disoriented and scared. Stumbling

over bushes, potholes, and rocks we finally reached the road. The moon, as if

sympathizing with our misfortune, started to pierce the clouds long enough for Mother

to spot another house down the road. This was a small house and its size deflated our

hope of getting a place for the night. A tall middle aged man, with broad shoulders

and long and thick mustaches came out of the door as if stepping on a stage to play the

role of our folk hero Prince Marko in defending Serbs against the Turkish invaders.

With a voice ringing with desperation, Mother pleaded with him to give us a roof over

our heads for the night. He lifted the lamp high over his head to lighten our faces.

“Madam, I rented all my rooms to refuges and all I have left is the corn storage

house,” the man said with a cold and take-it-or-leave-it voice, which surprised me on

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the account that I expected a Prince Marko look-a-like to help the weak and helpless

people. Light from his lamp illuminated the wall of a small house with walls made as

grids by thin wooden laths. The space between the laths was left for the air to go

through and dry the corncobs, but it was made small so that no birds can enter the

house and eat the corn. “I will let you in the house,” the man continued, “and I will

also provide you with blankets to lay them on the cobs and use them to cover

yourselves during the night. I demand only forty dinars in silver coins. I am not

asking for more because I do not want you to look for a cheaper place with small

children and in the end get nothing on the cold night like this.” Forty dinars! Some

goodhearted guy!

Anticipating the situation we were in, dad and mom have started saving silver

coins long before the war started. They collected silver coins because the paper money

may lose its value during and after the war. On their modest teacher salaries, they

could not have saved very much. Now, Mother had only few coins left, and was

reluctant to spend them with a long part of our journey still ahead of us. She had no

choice. The man showed no intention of negotiating the price. Mother gave him two

silver 20 dinar coins and he went back to his house to bring the blankets. In the

meantime, she flattened the cobs the best she could and we lay down on the hard and

sticking cobs covered by a single blanket to spend the night. In the morning the next

day I woke up with aches and pains all over my body from hard and uncompromising

cobs.

We were hungry and food was on our mind. During our travel we ate all our

provisions and our backpacks were empty. For couple of days, Mother has been

sparingly buying food from the farmers bargaining each time to get the lowest price.

We have not eaten the day before and were starving. This was for us kids a new

experience. We have learnt what it meant to be hungry and started to develop the fear

of hunger, which turned out to be worse than the hunger itself.

After a short walk we managed to reach the train station where we hoped we

would find food before we board the train to Montenegro. The train was already

sitting on the platform when we arrived and was full of passengers. We had no time to

lose looking for food and boarded the train. Mother started looking for a compartment

where we can get a place for all of us. She did not want to search for a place without

us fearing that we may get lost and she would have to re-live the anguish she and

grandmother went through when Uncle-Mile disappeared. After a long search down

14

crowded corridors of the train, people in one of the compartments offered Mother a

seat and helped Miroslav and I get up and stretch in the overhead baggage bins.

The train ride was uneventful. People feared at first that Germans may attack

the unprotected train, but relaxed after the train started rolling and no signs of that

possibility interrupted the smooth ride. Only frequent stops and extreme crowding of

the compartments kept reminding us that this is not a regular train ride to a sea resort.

I was exhausted by our three-day journey to reach the train so much so that I went into

hibernation in the overhead bin losing all sense of time. Suddenly, the train stopped

for good and I came out of hibernation to hear mother telling us that we reached the

last stop of our train ride: the town of Rudo.

It was a gloomy cloudy morning that swallowed the small decrepit train station

brimming with refugees. The people circled around the station looking stranded as if

they reached the end of the world with nowhere to go. From here on there was no

public transportation and everybody was left to his or her own devises to reach their

destinations. We went to the back of the station and Mother approached a driver of

the truck, told him our family name and asked him if he knew of any driver who was

going to the town of Pljevlja. This time we struck gold. He knew our family in

Pljevlja and offered to drive us there free of charge. We jumped on board and without

delay the truck started rolling packed with passengers. As we left the town and

reached the country road, the ride became so bumpy that we preferred to sit on the ice-

cold floor rather than be thrown off the truck. Suddenly, the machinegun was heard,

people started screaming and shouting, “attack airplanes, they are shooting at us.”

Everybody fell down on the floor of the truck in panic and fear. The war paid us

another visit, if only for a moment. It turned out the truck was crossing a bridge made

of loose logs, which produced a rattle; only frightened refugees could have mistaken

staccato sound of the logs for a machinegun fire.

The truck was weaving the hills along a narrow country road and as it was

climbing up we went back in time from early spring to cold winter weather. When we

arrived at the summit the hills were all covered by virgin snow whiter than chalk. If

we had not been freezing we could have enjoyed the pristine scene. But trembling

with cold we ignored the view realizing why the local people called the summit

Glacier Hill.

The Occupiers

As we descended down the hill to the town of Pljevlja, the air became warmer and we

15

stood up on the floor of the truck to look at a sprawling green valley surrounded by a

mountain wreath. The town was tacked in one corner of the valley which was cut in

half by a crystal-looking Chehotina river. Towering the other side of the valley was a

picturesque Ilia Hill with a small St. Ilia Church on the top. Later in life, I was

reminded of the scene when viewing the landscapes of Corot and Cézanne.

Tranquility of the valley suggested that the war has not reached the town, and

that we might see Father before the war arrives. Our first stop was at the home of our

relatives. Uncle-Drago and his family lived on a periphery of the town in a small

house on a dirt road lined up by trees and houses with a distinct highlands look, very

different from houses we passed by on our journey through the valleys of the lowland

country. Uncle-Drago and his family greeted us warmly and, as soon as we were

seated, Mother asked if they had a chance to talk to Dobrilo. Uncle-Drago told us that

soon after the capitulation of the country a small contingent of German soldiers arrived

in town and set a command post in the High School. The soldiers of the Serbian

garrison were confined to the barracks in High School as prisoners of war. They were

not allowed to leave the premises while the arrangements were made for transferring

them to prisoner of war camps in Germany. Since it was too late in the day to go to the

barracks, the news only heightened Mother’s anxiety and caused her another sleepless

night.

Early in the morning the next day, Mother took us to the High School. We

arrived at the gate and Mother, assuming Father was there, went immediately to the

German guard and told him that she came from out of town with her children and

asked him if it would be possible for Father to come to the gate to meet her and

children. During the Austrian occupation of Serbia in First World War, Mother had to

learn German in school, which came handy when speaking to the German guards.

Hearing his native language, the guard became unexpectedly polite and went right a

way to find Father. While she was talking to the guard I had a chance to observe him

and was impressed by his neatly ironed light-green uniform and shiny boots, as if the

dusty streets of Pljevlja could not stick to his boots or pants. He looked unreal, like a

giant toy soldier. His face and faces of other guards were expressionless to be sure,

but not threatening. Although we were often in their way, they moved around us

ignoring our presence. From time to time the guards would speak short sentences to

each other in strange language and louder than I thought necessary, as if they were

hard on hearing. They kept going in and out of the guard house, looking orderly and

serious. Yet, those were the soldiers that brutally bombed us a week ago. Below my

16

superficial curiosity I became apprehensive; now, that they occupy the country what

will they do to us?

Suddenly, Father showed up at the gate. Miroslav and I ran to hug and kiss him.

It felt so good to see him again. Miroslav and I have never seen Father in a uniform

and we looked at him with great curiosity. In all the excitement I felt strange to see

Father as a soldier. There was nothing soldier-like in his appearance. The uniform,

and especially the cap, did not fit on him very well – he looked every bit like a teacher

dressed as a soldier. After the emotion of sweet reunion, the question descended on us

heavy as lead: What will happen now?

It did not take long for Mother to act. After the hug and short conversation with

Father, she turned to the German officer and asked him to let her husband out for a

short walk with the family. Surprisingly, the officer let Father leave, but warned

Mother that he should be back soon. If he stays too long, officer said, he might be

declared a deserter and shot on spot if caught.

After the warning we felt uneasy walking down the street. As soon as we went

around the corner and lost the sight of the barracks, Mother turned to Father and told

him that we were going to visit Uncle Drago for just a short while, so that he can get

something to eat and get a rest. That did not please Father at all.

“Ljuba,” Father responded with an agitated voice, “I should not do that. They

are going to come after me. They meant what they said.”

“Dobrilo, you are not their only worry. They have plenty of other things to

worry about,” Mother answered sternly.

By the time the conversation ended, we were in Uncle-Drago’s home. Right

after a short greeting, Mother took Father to an adjacent room where she handed him a

civilian suit she got from Uncle-Drago.

“Take off your uniform and change into the suit. You are not going back to the

High School. As soon as you change, we are heading to the hills. Nobody will find

you there.”

“Germans are going to find me and shoot me,” Father continued to resist. “You

have no idea how swift and unrelenting they are.”

“If they take you to Germany to a prisoner of war camp,” Mother continued

undeterred, “you are not going to survive the war. Given your health, you will not

come back. Prisoner of war camp ruined your health in the First World War, and it

will finish you in the Second. No, I will not let that happen.”

17

Father muttered something in fear and frustration, but accepted Mother’s advice

and took off his uniform. While he was putting on Uncle-Drago’s suit, Mother started

the fire in the fireplace, and after pouring gasoline over the uniform, tossed it into the

flames. The Uncle-Drago’s suit fitted Father very well, but looked awkward on him

since it was a black suit usually worn on holydays or festive occasions. With the black

suit on and the uniform gone there was no going back to the barracks. The anxiety

brought by the affair was gone, but fear took its place. Father is now a fugitive!

We thanked to Uncle-Drago and his family for their hospitality and headed to

the ancestral home in the hills of the village of Pushine, far away from the town of

Pljevlja. While moving through the streets on the way out of town we were scared at

every crossing that the Germans may show up and apprehend Father. Our pace

increased to the point that brother and me were falling behind, and had hard time

catching up. We have never seen a single German soldier along the way, but that did

not slow our pace.

After a long walk we left town and felt exhausted while moving along the valley

roads without a pause, when suddenly a magnificent scene of St. Ilia Church sitting on

the top of the hill appeared in our view. While climbed the hill Father told us that the

church was built and served for over two hundred years by the priests from the Šiljak’s

family. In the church we were the only visitors. The altar and walls were modestly

decorated in the Orthodox Byzantine style. The silence and smell of incense in the air

was so soothing that we forgot about German patrols and let the sweet feeling of peace

overwhelm us. Facing the altar, Father said a short prayer as he did so many times in

the past.

Before we started heading towards the old home in the hills, Father showed us

the grave of our grandfather Tâne in the cemetery behind the church. Since the fear

took over us again we did not stay long to pay tribute to grandfather but descended

quickly down the hill.

The Ancestral Home

When we reached the foot of the hill, Father stopped us to point to the home in the

village of Pushine where he grew up and where we are heading now. It was white

large building, standing on a rising ground and fitting snugly in a small opening in the

surrounding woods. We were exhausted, but upon seeing the goal of our journey, we

got our third wind and sped up. Suddenly, Father ordered a short break before we

ascended the slope to the house. In a shade of a large lone tree standing off the road,

18

we sat to take a rest and Father began immediately to tell Miroslav and me what he

expects from us during the visit. He told us that the head of the house is his uncle

Proto-Slobodan, who is a bishop serving the parish supporting the St. Ilia chapel, and

he expected us to show respect toward our great-uncle and be on our best behavior

during the visit. Since Father was more liberal in demands on our behavior than

Mother, the stern tone of the message told us in no uncertain terms how much he

respected his uncle and wanted us to show respect when we meet him. His warning

caused a mixed emotion of fear and curiosity toward our meeting with the great-uncle.

The house had two wings. On one side of a wide passage way was a large two-

storied building housing the living quarters. On the other side of the passage, there

was a one storied smaller building housing the kitchen, and a large dining hall. Great-

uncle with his wife raised a large family; six daughters and the only son, Uncle-Drago,

the youngest of the children. They were not all there, but the three of his oldest

daughters came with their families that filled the house to the brim.

Daughter, Aunt-Dobrila, was in France where she joined the French resistance

fighting the German occupiers with her boyfriend, Uncle-Pepi. They escaped from

Spain to France with many of their communist comrades after Generalissimos Franco

won the civil war. Their life as communist revolutionaries took dangerous cliffhanger

turns during the turbulent times that threw Europe in a whirlwind of the Second World

War. Uncle-Drago was also not present; he joined the communist resistance in

Montenegro right after the war, and nobody knew where he was at the time. Starting

in prewar times and lasting a long time after the war, it was not unusual for Serbian

families to be split by the bitter and bloody fight between the royalists and

communists, but it must have been heartbreaking for Proto-Slobodan to feel robed of

his children souls by the communism he regarded as Antichrist.

It was late afternoon and the lights were on in the dining hall where we were all

sitting at the tables waiting for the great-uncle to come and greet us, so that the dinner

can be served. Suddenly, he entered the hall and silence covered the hall with only

sounds of pots and pans from the kitchen punctuating the air. We all stood up to greet

him. He was an imposing figure, tall with grey mustaches and a long beard, dressed in

a simple black gown and wearing a black cap whose special round form was the sign

that he was a bishop in the Serbian Orthodox Church. His face was stern and his

whole appearance required unquestioned obedience; I felt uneasy and scared. He

welcomed us all to Pushine and waving slowly his hand asked us to sit down and eat

the dinner. After dinner he came to our part of the table to greet us. While talking to

19

Father he patted lightly Miroslav and me on our heads expressing his care for us,

which removed my uneasiness and made me feel welcome.

The dining room was noisy, with occasional laughs breaking conversations and

creating the atmosphere of good time the family had in spending time together. The

adult family members forgot for the time being the apprehension they felt about the

evil that the occupation was about to unleash in this part of the country. They had no

idea how much evil is coming our way. While they had their laughs and joy the

country was already engulfed in a civil war which devastated the country and its

people. Proto-Slobodan was ambushed by the communist militia on a country road

and killed simply because he was a priest, then dumped in a ditch. After the war, the

Orthodox Church re-buried him from the cemetery into the wall of his beloved church

of St. Ilia only to find that the communists erased his name from the tombstone; they

did not leave him alone even after his death. The whole family escaped from

Montenegro, where brutal civil war raged throughout the country. They took shelter in

Serbia, most of them in Belgrade. The ancestral home was no more.

Parents were spending sleepless nights worrying about myriad of things like

how is Aunt-Lela managing in Belgrade with scarcity of food and water in an

apartment without windows? How are we all going to get back from Pljevlja to

Belgrade 350 miles away? Is the railway functioning? The country became an

unmitigated mess of numerous ethnic militias which, in a mortal embrace for power

and conquest, murdered massive number of unprotected civilians by first killing and

asking questions later? The overarching problem, however, was a possibility that

Father may be identified by Germans at military check points as a POW deserter,

which would mean a sure death.

While the parents agonized over these questions, I had a wonderful care-free

time roaming through the woods behind the house for hours on end, following small

animals and insects in their fascinating life patterns displaying their survival skills,

climbing trees to look at bird nests, watching Aunt-Yelena milk a large cow with

gorgeous black eyes, and enjoying cold water from the well at the edge of the woods.

One of the last days of our stay I was sitting on the grass looking at the valley in

its full splendor illuminated by the rays of the setting sun that ran parallel to the ground

and made each tree look like a torch. I was consumed by the extraordinary beauty of

the scene. Suddenly, from the clear blue sky a large eagle started a majestic descent in

full sunlight circling in a spiral to reach the very top of the largest tree towering the

valley. The eagle flight mesmerized me. Mother’s voice calling me home broke the

20

silence. I hurriedly got up and started running toward her. Before reaching the sight

of Mother I turned my head to see if the eagle was still there. The sun was setting

behind the hill leaving visible only a silhouette of the tall tree; the eagle was gone.

Grandfather Tâne

During our stay in Pushine we went to the church and visited the cemetery. Father led

us to the grave of his father Tâne, where on a large cross made of stone was chiseled

the following inscription:

Here rest the earthly remains of Tâne R. Šiljak

born in the year1868 and died in the

blossoming of his youth on 21 of June 1901.

This monument is erected by his brothers.

Miroslav and I were too small to note that our grandfather died at the young age

of 33 and never asked for the explanation of his premature death. As we grew up we

were told that our grandfather was attacked and killed by Turks. His death was a

devastating blow to his young family leaving his young wife alone with two small

children, Father and sister Angelka. The grandmother died soon after the incident with

broken heart and spirit, and both children became orphans to be adapted and raised by

the grandfather’s brother Proto-Slobodan.

In my late years, during a visit to Pljevlja, I met with my relative Goyko who

told me how my grandfather died that fateful day in June of 1901. After more than

500 years of brutal Turkish occupation of Serbia and Montenegro, the hate of

occupiers ran deep in the minds of the people. As soon as the Turkish authorities

announced that a Grand Pasha from Istanbul would visit Pljevlja, the grandfather made

a plan to assassinate him. He executed the plan so well that he killed Pasha and

managed to escape into the high mountains of Montenegro. The Turkish police sent a

posse to capture or kill him, but the effort was in vein. He was nowhere to be found.

In heightened anger by the failure to find him, Turkish authorities issued a

proclamation that they will kill all members of the Šiljak’s tribe to avenge Pasha’s

death. Knowing full well that the occupation authorities will carry out their verdict, in

order to avert the massacre grandfather committed suicide. Many prominent Turks

were not satisfied by his death, and they stood steadfastly behind their decision to carry

out the massacre. A very unusual incident averted the carnage. One night during the

21

deliberation period, a great storm hit Pljevlja, and thunderbolts struck the main church

and mosque at the same time. The Mufti of Pljevlja issued immediately a

pronouncement which interpreted the incident as a message from Allah to suspend all

hostilities between Christians and Muslims and to let the peace take place.

Father never talked to Miroslav and me about this incident. He has told us very

little about his life in general and nothing about his childhood. He was only seven

when his Father died, and his memory of him was very scant. Our grandparents on

both side died before we were born, and Miroslav and I had no notion of grandfather

and grandmother. While Mother told us about her past, Father never did. Later in life,

I interpreted the silence as a consequence of his hard life as an orphan and did not want

to talk about it; life of orphans is seldom happy and always hard. But to suffer in

silence became his second nature. Throughout the war, I have never heard him

complain about anything despite the pains of his poor health and misery of war that

enveloped us all.

The Return Home

As we were preparing for our travel back home, I dreaded leaving the paradise of

Pushine and returning to destruction and misery in Belgrade. But, it had to be done,

and fast. The relatives told us that traveling through occupied land will be treacherous

since newly formed ethnic militias have been looting, burning and killing the people of

ethnicity and political persuasion different from their own. Mother anticipated the

problems we will face and went to Pljevlja to get a permit from the German occupation

office for our family to travel to Belgrade. With title in bold letters “Reisepass,” the

travel permit stated in German that our family is permitted to travel from Pljevlja to

Belgrade on said days. This was good news regarding the German checkpoints, but

their permit could be worthless facing militia, even if the militia is actively

collaborating with the Germans; it would be a death sentence if insurgents fighting the

Germans and their cronies discovered the permit.

People in Pljevlja told Father that Ustashe, the fascist militia of the newly

formed Independent State of Croatia, were already seen in Rudo, where they were

summarily harassing the Serbs, or shooting them outright. Our survival in getting to

Rudo and boarding safely the train hung in balance; we had on our side only the

uncertain power of the Reisepass. But, there was no going back to Pljevlja. Located in

a combustive multi-ethnic area, it will be engulfed in a civil war with terrifying forces

of Wehrmacht in the mix.

22

Early in the morning, full of anxiety and fear we parted with our relatives and

climbed on the truck to Rudo. In the chaos of the emerging civil war, which was suddenly

engulfing this part of the country, the future of the region of Pljevlja looked ominous. As

we were departing, the air felt as heavy as oil; are we going to see our relatives again?

The hills along the road replaced their cover of virgin snow by plush green grass that

announced the arrival of the spring, but our hearts were not easily touched by a seductive

joy of the new season; somber moods fogged our eyes and minds. We arrived safely to

Rudo and proceeded to the railway station; there were no checkpoints, which we feared we

would encounter as we enter the city. But at the railway station the situation changed

abruptly. The train to Serbia was already lined up at the only platform, and a large crowd

of civilians and a sizable German military were waiting for boarding. There were small

groups of soldiers in the black uniforms of the Ustashe fascists, which were patrolling the

platform; their presence sent shivers through Father and Mother.

As we boarded the train, Mother stopped at a compartment where she saw two

German officers sitting and chatting. After knocking on the door, she asked them if we

could use the remaining four seats. We were told that we are welcome to use the seats, and

we moved in with deep sense of relief. Mother feared the Germans as she began to live

under German occupation for her second time. Yet, the refuges in wartime do not choose

company they like, but company that can help them get to the other shore.

As we settled down in our seats Mother saw through the window small groups of

people taken down from the train and led by Ustashe to the station. Mother immediately

addressed one of the officers. She told him that we are traveling to Belgrade and are afraid

that we might be ordered by militia to terminate the trip and step out of the train. The

officer asked Mother if she has the Reisepass. She pulled out the traveling permit from her

purse and showed it to him. After a brief look at the permit he returned it to Mother with a

nod and went back to talk to his companion. The train had no fixed departure time, and we

were sitting tied, praying that it would soon begin pulling out of station and out of danger.

But our hopes evaporated in the thin air when an officer in black uniform showed his face

at the glass door of our compartment. He opened the door without knocking and stepped

rudely between the conversing German officers to address Father.

“Hey mister, do you have a traveling permit?”

Mother pulled the Reisepass again from her purse and handed it to him. He glanced

at the permit and, not being able to read it, returned the permit to Mother.

“You do not have our permit to board the train. Step down from the train and follow

me to the station. You are not traveling today anywhere.”

23

Mother turned to the junior German officer and told him that the Ustashe officer is

rejecting the Reisepass as a valid permit and asked us to step down from the train. The

German officer turned to the Ustashe and told him in German that our permit is all we need

to continue our travel to Belgrade. Ustashe did not understand one word the German was

saying, ignored him and continue to harass us. At that moment, the senior German officer

stood up, pushed gently the Ustashe thorough the door out of the compartment, locked the

door, and continued talking to the junior officer as if nothing has happened. The Ustashe

was grimacing through the glass of the door, but did not try to open it. The German officer

made it clear to the Ustashe who was the boss. It was a close call, but we were saved. Fear

remained high until the train started to roll out of the station. We were on our way home.

After a long journey interrupted by long waits at railway stations and

unscheduled stops, we arrived in Belgrade. We stepped out of the train station into a

beautiful sunny day of the early May. The people on the streets moved with purpose

as is customary around a train station. Bomb craters and German soldiers, whom we

came across on the way home, were the stark remainders of war and occupation.

Halfway home, on the large square “Slavia” we saw a long column of German

soldiers followed by a string of military vehicles and large trucks. As they passed us I

noticed a soldier at the back of the column who was limping. He could not keep up

with the pace dictated by the front and had often to double his steps to catch up

destroying the intended perfection of the column. That scene stayed in my mind for

some unknown reason, and I often wondered if he made it home after the war, or left

his bones in a ditch somewhere in the vast area of the Russian front.

As we approached our neighborhood, the craters became more disheartening,

because we could recall the buildings that stayed in their place before the bombs level

them. Since there were no more bombings after we departed, our house remained in

the same shape as we left it, with windows of our apartment looking like big holes with

no glass on them. We were happy, very happy, to be home again and hug Aunt-Lela.

She was equally happy to see us all back in good health. While Father and Mother set

down with Aunt Lela to talk, I ran with Miroslav to our room without windowpanes to

sink into our beds after a long journey home.

Changed April 18, 2016