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Day Five: Morning
Stana's eyes drifted open to a room murky with not-quite light; fragments of a dream trailed her as she rolled lightly out of bed and quietly pulled her clothes on.
Kosta was stirring uneasily in his sleep in the still-disordered room. The big room, too, bore several marks of the previous evening's fight, including the bloodstains on the floor that she knew would never quite come off.
There were, after all, others under the bed that she had worked on for a long time.
The big brick stove emitted a faint hiss, and popped once. Slavica lay very still in front of it. The baby was squirming in his cradle, awakening too; and Stana tenderly picked him up, watching his tiny face screw itself up into a yawn, and carried him over to sit down and nurse by the door.
The funerals would be today, and the odbor, the meeting of the starešini, the senior men of all the families round. She wondered whom they would elect as the new knez. Under ordinary circumstances, perhaps Marko Vuletić or Veljko Leskanić--Veljko had been narrowly passed over last time--but in these days, if they wished to make a political statement, it could be anyone, even Ivo.
She smiled at the thought of poor Ivo elected knez--and then wondered again what he had come to see Kosta about the night before last.
When Anton had finished nursing, she arose and went to return him to his cradle. As she bent over to tuck him in, she kissed him--and smelt his breath.
She was suddenly overcome. Hastily covering him, she snatched up her heavy shawl and fled out the door.
Perhaps hearing the creaking steps, the banging door, or both, Slavica opened her eyes and got up. A glance into the bedroom showed her Stana's absence, and at once she ducked into some clothes.
She thought she knew where the woman had gone.
The cold morning brought back many of the aches and pains in Slavica's body; regardless, the girl pressed on to the edge of the valley, as she had done the previous morning. But instead of the powerful, assured woman she had seen yesterday, she saw one with head--even body--bowed, rounded, and shaken with regular heaves as if . . . weeping.
She looked again, but there was no mistaking what she saw silhouetted against the eastern horizon.
Hesitantly--more so than yesterday--the girl ventured forward.
Commissioner Stadelmeier had passed the word, and one by one the soldiers were being quietly but firmly nudged awake by two sergeants. Stadelmeier himself, in trousers over woollen underwear, was patiently trying to adjust his shaving-mirror to catch the sun rays which the mountain to the east seemed so reluctant to let pass. From the courtyard side, away from the village street, the stubby, broken-off Turkish chimney was wafting a bit of blue smoke as the cooks saw to the first necessity of a military day--hot water. One or two men stood near the step outside, stretching and absently scratching the latest night's crop of flea bites.
"Schwetje, are the men up?" asked Colonel Slavin, rolling over in his cot.
"Yes, sir. Sergeant von Essen is just doing it now."
"Svoboda too? He's on duty for Dommering, you know."
"Yes, sir," sighed the meticulous Schwetje. "Svoboda too."
"Is Captain Vathely awake?"
"No, sir." A smile crept onto the orderly's Mephistophelean features. "You want me to--?"
"No, Schwetje, he doesn't need one of your early specials. You don't know what time he returned last night, do you?"
"Oh, past two, anyway, sir, him and Starkmann," replied Schwetje casually. "Looked like hell, sir, really. Mud all over them, and soaked to the skin. The Captain kept Sergeant Schaab up keeping the fire going so they could warm up."
Slavin grinned and scratched his unshaven chin. "Damn, and I thought you were omniscient. Having friends in the cookhouse is the next best thing. How's my kit?"
"Ready to go, sir, except your pistol belt. I'll have that after chow. Hot water in, oh, five minutes."
"Excellent. Well done," said the lancer, and rolled out of the cot in his long johns. "Oh, and did anyone put the word out about morning Mass?"
"Yes, sir, but with most of our churchgoers in the funeral detail, and them going later, I don't think anyone's going now."
"All right. See you at chow, then."
When Schwetje had passed into the hall, Slavin reached for his morning cigarette, and, scratching a vesta into flame against the stone wall, began to think about the coming day. Many things passed through his mind, but the most persistent and fascinating was that this day he would have the privilege of introducing the Commissioner to Kosta Savić.
"Mother?"
Stana turned, and Slavica saw her eyes streaming. Without malice, simply, the girl said: "You can cry."
The older woman wiped her eyes with a corner of her shawl. "Indeed I can, Slavica. I've just never been one much for letting you see it."
"What's the matter?"
"Oh . . . " Stana gestured heavenward with her arms, "just, well, everything. But how about you? You must be cold."
"Yes, but I don't want you far away," confessed the girl. "I'm afraid."
Stana held her. "I'm afraid, too."
"I've been dreaming about you," said Slavica. "Weird dreams, horrible. Sometimes I'm not so sure they're dreams. I dreamt of you with some sort of silver amulet--you looked different, but it was you, sort of. You said wise and terrible things, things no one should ever say. And I flew. And there was a fire and two men and Father Ante and black mountains. And there was my father--I mean, my father Andrija--laughing like a very demon, all puffed up and red . . . everything all twisted and horrible. And the Turk with his bloody head, but looking like Father--somehow. What does it all mean?"
"Dreams can hurt you, but only if you let them," said Stana quietly. "I have dreams of my own."
"Is that why you were crying?"
"Partly. And partly over your stepfather, who is so hurt. And because I am afraid."
"Of the Turk? of the Schwabes? I hate that one who came the night before last and treated us so awfully."
"Not so much of them--but them too--but because of what might happen--what could happen--because I don't know. Fear is always fear of the unknown. And for once I don't know."
"Until now we could always rely on Papa."
"Yes, and we still can. But he is hurt and tired. He needs rest very badly but he won't get any for a while."
"Could he die? Like--like Father?"
"Not like him," said Stana determinedly. "But he could indeed die if he has any more work like last night's ahead of him."
"Horrid! Horrid! Why can't these Schwabes just go away?"
"And leave us to the Turks again?"
Slavica heaved a deep sigh which made her chest ache. "Joj, but it is hard."
"Aye," said Stana softly. "It is that. But as he says, we must pitch in and work together.”
"I know," sighed Slavica again.
And with that they embraced again, for a long time.
Father Ante Rezać counted two attendees for morning Mass: baba Milica--from whom he had obtained a small pouch now in his pocket--and old Ljuba Djurić. His lips and hands went over the long-familiar routine by themselves, for his mind was far away.
He could not rid himself of the picture of Brother Grgur throwing his stake spinning away into the night, nor forget the sacristan threatening to shoot him right in front of the Austrians--supposedly here as peacekeepers. Neither yet could he keep away the image of Andrija Savić's desiccated face, with its hollow open eyes and bony sneer--so well remembered from nightmares waking and sleeping--as if even then watching him with frozen mirth. Bad luck, indeed! Nor again could he banish Slavica's demoniacally knowing face when he had asked, 'What do you want?'
More than all this, Yusef had disturbed him. The only thing, at this point, worse than an attempt on Kosta Savić's life, was an unsuccessful attempt. The resulting loss of face, he thought un-ironically, would be devastating to both of them--not to mention the political capital that the gospodar could coin out of it if he chose. And he knew that the nobleman knew it. All roads had a frustrating way of leading back to Kosta Savić and the mystery of who--or what--he really was.
He reflected again. He had told the gospodar off with it, but Yusef had not talked, and might never do. But Yusef might yet hold the key to the nobleman's undoing.
Kosta Savić had taken care to leave Yusef alive.
Therefore, Yusef dead might prove a considerable inconvenience for him. This he had thought of before.
Why had Yusef had to fail? If only he'd succeeded, things would be so different.
But of course the mystery then would have become eternally insoluble.
Rezać muttered a curse under his breath as he elevated the chalice.
It seemed as if Kosta Savić must drive him mad at last, no matter how things fell out.
Over their mess tins, seated on large stones fallen from the disused upper portion of the old han, Colonel Slavin and Commissioner Stadelmeier munched the morning's entree some time in silence--more because the civilian required extra concentration to keep his mess tins from sliding off his lap than out of lack of conversation material.
After a while, however, Stadelmeier asked without looking up: "Captain Vathely shown up yet?"
"No, sir. I gather he was out very late last night."
"I'm sure he was. I told him he could go visit the priest."
"With Starkmann? Until two in the morning?"
The official lifted one eyebrow. "Then I expect to hear a lot of information."
"D'you think he still ought to attend the funeral? He must have had a hell of a night, because his uniform's covered with mud--you can see it hanging out yourself there. I think we ought to excuse him."
Stadelmeier looked up briefly and grimaced. "Given that, and the fact that he's become convinced this gospodar fellow will shoot him on sight, that's an idea. Make it so."
Slavin went and fetched both of them second cups of coffee, and when he sat down again, said: "I'm looking forward to our meeting with the gospodar. With that and with the odbor today, I guess we can pretty well settle everything."
"Odd-what?"
"Sorry, sir. Odbor. We’d call it the Ratsversammlung. Kind of a gathering of the local headmen. They'll be electing a new knez today."
"Oh, yes. I knew that. How much trouble can a knez make us?"
"Ex officio, not very much. What influence he has depends on his personal prestige--but with these people that counts for everything, as you know. They won't elect a bandit, if that's what you're worried about."
"Bandit, no. Nationalist radical--yes, I know what you say about politics down here, but I don't entirely believe you--yes. From what you say yourself, the very last thing we need is some Serb hothead in charge."
"Well, anything is possible, of course."
"Could the* knez* be considered answerable to us?"
"You mean like an Austrian vBürgermeister*?"
Stadelmeier nodded.
"No, for two reasons. First, because there is no . . . no structure, no system, no Stadtverordnetenversämmlung such as we have. There just isn't anything in the way of legal authority--because they don't think of law the way we do. Furthermore, as you know better than I, we still don't have any actual civil authority in this area yet. Your writ, strictly speaking, runs only on Austrian or Hungarian citizens. But yet again, if you can put across your authority convincingly, they will respect you despite all that. If you can't, then all the orders and constitutions in the world won't make any difference to them."
"To whom is the knez actually responsible?"
Slavin got out his gold foil pack and shook out and lit another cigarette. "On paper," he said between initial puffs, "he reports to the local beg, who reports in turn to the kaimakam, in this case Mehmet-aga Bulatović in Tjentište. Responsibility lays with the Vali in Mostar, backed in turn by the vizier at Travnik. On paper, that is.”
“And who is the beg?”
“There isn’t one in this neighbourhood. My guess is that the* kaimakam* recognises the gospodar as the local equivalent. Although King Nicholas' men also have a case for themselves if they want to take it up."
"Why can't any goddamn thing around here have a simple answer?"
Slavin shrugged and spread his hands. "Since you asked . . . but if you're driving toward who we can arrest, the answer is no one, except for military crimes."
"Ja, ja, ja, ja, ja," exclaimed by politician irritably, reminded of Ivo lying inside. "But then this gospodar fellow could be considered your counterpart as a military man? Roughly?"
Slavin chuckled. "Hardly. If you are thinking of him like an Austrian Landwehr commander, forget it. The nearest equivalent we know would be the old German Vogt. Connected with the land, you see. But remember, he has no commission or command structure."
"But if--I say,* if* he were arrested?"
"Nothing like that has ever happened to my knowledge, since his station is so rare--possibly unique. Maybe nothing. On the other hand, his arrest could be considered an act of war against Turkey," said Slavin, beginning to hold up fingers, "first on the grounds that he is a Turkish citizen, and also on the grounds that he is a recognised--though not constituted--Turkish authority. Due to the circumstances of the 1877 war, the same grounds could also make it an act of war against Montenegro. Last, but not at all least, it could also be considered an act of war against Serbia, because--in the sense I told you about last night--he is a Serb and again a military man. Personally--if I were you--I'd just avoid the idea of arresting him altogether."
"Of course. I was just asking. Is the detail going to be ready?"
"Yes, just finishing up now. They won't be up to garrison trim, but at least they'll be presentable."
"That's what matters. With primitives like these people, appearance is everything. You think if this Savitch ran down the killings on his own, he'd bring us in on it?"
Slavin took a long, final drag on his cigarette and slowly, carefully, ground it out against the stone he was sitting on. At last he said: "Do you think, if one of my men murdered another, we'd bring him in on it?"
"Point well taken," admitted the Commissioner.
"All in all, sir," said the Colonel, with a glance around, "I'm highly inclined to advise that we find out what we can today, and then--with full military pomp and ceremony--get the hell out. Let Prince Nicholas and the kaimakam Bulatović and the Serbs hash it all out. For us, staying here can only get us deeper into a lose-lose situation."
"I'll keep that advice very much in mind. Ah, Herr Rittmeister," said Stadelmeier, catching sight of the hussar over Slavin's shoulder, "come to join us at last?"
"Yes, sir," said Vathely, with a lowering glance at the lancer, who had turned.
"Come, have a seat," invited the politician, as Vathely gingerly sipped from the mug in his hands and then settled himself upon a stone block. "I know you had a long night last night, so I'll excuse you from attending the funerals--if you wish."
"Thank you, sir," said Vathely, looking at the ground. "I don't mind."
"What'd you find out?"
"I saw murder done," said Vathely. "Or else as near to it as you can get. The victim is a Croat--an Austrian citizen."
"What? Who?" asked the other two severally. "When?"
"The perpetrator," began Vathely, suddenly looking up into Stadelmeier's eyes, "is Kosta Savitch."
Some kilometres away, the man just named was submitting to a close inspection by Stana. She had changed the dressings on his wounds and now had him donning a gorgeous vest embroidered with gold thread, cunningly worked with semi-precious stones and sterling silver fastenings. "Three years I worked on that," she complained, "and you never wear it except to weddings and funerals. The rest of the time you wear grey and black rags, like a gipsy."
"It's too tight," grumbled the nobleman. "It takes two of us to pull it together to button it--"
"--Aye, to show off your fine, manly figure," interjected Stana, untangling hair from an intricate necklace festooned with gold coins.
"--and once it's on me, I can't bend over or twist around. It's uncomfortable."
"It makes you sit up straight, you mean," said Stana tartly, "as I designed it to. Still, given the clothes that you men impose on women every day, you're getting off light. How'd you like to have to wear that, plus a black wool cloth over your face, half-suffocating you, plus for it to have sleeves that restrict your arms--every day! Eh? Still, it's not tight now. See, it buttons easily even over your bandages. No wonder, since you're nought but skin and bone like Ivo now."
"Whom they will let go today. Did you work that into your chat with the Herr Kommissar?"
"Such matters as that are men's work," returned Stana. "You're constantly reminding me of that. We women just get to raise you strong and healthy so you can grow up to go off shooting, stabbing, and raping as you please. After that we just get to patch you up once in a while--except when we have to bury you."
Kosta Savić shot out: "Wife!" like a bullet.
She rounded on him with a comb in her hair. "It's just the two of us here, husband. Here at least let me let down my famous discretion once in a while."
"Just watch yourself," he growled.
"And, my husband--out of my love for you--please do the same. You are in no shape to head for the hills and turn comitadji."
"Don't worry about that. Boots or shoes?"
"Boots. It's going to rain tonight, and for you right now keeping warm and dry is more important than conformity. Here, can you tie me up in back, please? Then see if Slavica needs any help."
Kosta Savić tied her traditional gaily-embroidered apron.
"You're lucky," she continued. "Tunic, trousers, vest, sash, and you're all ready to go. With us there's a lot more. It's the jewellery that drives me to distraction."
"An hour, you think?"
"A little more. And, husband?"
"Yes?"
"You promise not to stab anyone?"
"Only if I absolutely have to," he said.
"And you'll keep your hands off the priest?"
He looked at her levelly. "Must I?"
"Incredible," murmured the Commissioner as Captain Vathely finished talking.
"Private Starkmann can corroborate almost every detail," said the hussar.
"But this Yusef--everyone refers to him as a Turk," said Stadelmeier. "That means, if I remember, Herr Oberst, that he is a Moslem?"
"Normally correct; however, in this case, forget what I told you before. I believe that Yusef is an ethnic Turk," said Slavin, as Vathely nodded. "In the usual parlance, he would be a Croat, since he is a Roman Catholic convert. And Croatia--as the official homeland of all Croats--is an Austrian province--that is, a Hungarian province," he quickly added as Vathely cleared his throat meaningfully. "Anyway, the point is--though I hesitate to say it--he has a tenuous claim to citizenship in the Dual Monarchy, just as his master Rezać more firmly has."
"The gospodar brought him back alive, but only just," said Vathely. "I must emphasize that he was literally covered with blood from a half-dozen wounds. The gospodar--for all his storied fighting expertise--could hardly have inflicted such damage unaided, for as you know, Herr Oberst, he is badly hurt himself from previous wounds, while the Tur--I mean, Yusef--was an unhurt man of tremendous fitness and strength. There were several sets of hands in this, which points to the classic type of engagement around here, meaning pre-set and cold-blooded ambush."
The politician looked at Slavin.
"It fits, sir," said the lancer slowly. "Bad blood between him and the priest is known, and although ambush is not the gospodar's style, given his physical condition he just might do. Yet I have met and talked with him personally, and it seems totally uncharacteristic of him. He knows we are to leave soon. Why indulge in this outrage under our very noses? Discretion would dictate the simple expedient of waiting until we were gone, and then dealing with him at leisure."
"Unless Yusef found out something and Savitch was afraid he would talk to us," pointed out Vathely.
"With respect, I think not,Herr Rittmeister, for then he would have taken care to finish the job, and left the body in a ditch somewhere--rather than, apparently, taking a great deal of extra trouble to return him alive. You yourself said that he said he wanted Yusef to talk."
"He might have died in the meantime, though," suggested Stadelmeier.
Slavin threw up his hands. "Don't cast me as the devil's advocate. I'm not disputing that the gospodar is responsible for a murderous attack on Yusef. But something in all this doesn't quite add up. We'll never get any further with it until we hear what Yusef has to say--if he ever talks--and the gospodar too."
"I say aye to that," commented the politician. "If he dies without talking, we have a solid charge of murder. We have, at any rate, charges of attempted murder, to which Savitch will answer--with all due rights and privileges--under military law. If we can get him to freely agree to questioning, there will be no arrest. If we cannot, then we advise him that he is liable to arrest--under the law of whatever nation he cares to invoke--for all, I believe, have laws against homicide, which we as occupying Power are bound to enforce. If he continues to refuse, he will be arrested and detained for trial in Foča, with excruciating attention to protocol and documentation. Is that a plan," he finished, looking from one officer to the other, "or what?"
Both men assented.
"Gut," said Stadelmeier, slapping a fleshy thigh, and then rising. “We have, at last, Ordnung.”
Father Ante Rezać heard the moaning begin as he ate his frugal breakfast. He arose and hurried down the hall as the moan rose bestially to a roar of rage and pain. "I'll kill him!" shouted Yusef thickly. "I'll tear his arm off and shove it up her hole!"
Rezać burst into the room.
Yusef lay writhing on his pallet, blood seeping out from under some of his bandages; but between them, his eyes seemed fixed on an invisible point just beyond his reach. "I'll pig-fuck her!" he yelled. "Aaah, Christ, I'll gouge out her eyes and make her eat them!"
"Yusef!" said Rezać commandingly. "Yusef, my son!"
The Turk's eyes rolled horribly. "Screw you!" he bellowed. "You bastard--ohhh, God, suck me!"
Rezać got down on one knee, wadded up a corner of his cassock, and shoved it in the man's mouth. "You listen to me!" he rapped out.
Yusef's twisting subsided as he struggled for breath. "I'll smother you to death right now if you don't shut up and listen to me," warned the priest.
The Turk raised one arm, and Rezać extracted the makeshift gag and stood up. "Please, Father," groaned Yusef, "The pain--the pain! I'm so thirsty!"
"In a second," said the priest, glaring down at him. "I'll give you something in a second if you listen to me."
"Just hurry, please, Father," said Yusef brokenly. "Whatever you want--just hurry."
"Answer yes or no, but tell the truth--or else," said the priest. "You attacked the gospodar?"
"God--yes! You know I did!"
"Were you trying to kill him?"
"No! Yes! I don't know," moaned Yusef. "I'd like to--to--"
"Quiet!" shouted the other. "Quickly! Did you try to kill him then, yes or no?"
"No!"
"Did you attack the gospodja?"
"Devil bitch--"
"Yes or no?"
"We fought, yes!"
"Did you attack Demjan?"
"No--wasn't there. Hurry, please!"
Rezać got out the pouch he had had from the vračara and dropped some of the contents in a flagon of rakija. "Did you attack Slavica?"
"No! I don't know--I--I--"
The priest cut the brandy with some water and then held the flagon in front of Yusef's eyes. "Quickly, the truth, or you'll get none of this. Did you attack Slavica?"
"Yes! Screw God, yes!"
"Did you rape her?"
"No! No!" cried Yusef.
Father Ante Rezać took the flagon and turned and began to walk away.
"Yes!" bawled Yusef. "Yes, I raped her, God damn your soul!"
The priest turned and held the flagon tantalizingly above Yusef's head. "You'd better watch your tongue," he warned.
"I can't stand it! Give it to me!" yelled Yusef.
Rezać put the flagon to the Turk's lips and poured and Yusef swallowed greedily, coughing once or twice.
He watched as Yusef stirred again, moaning a little; and after a minute or two he lay still.
Father Ante turned and left.
The priest went straight to his study, pulled out a volume of St. Cyprian, and from behind it pulled a revolver; which he checked carefully and stuck in his clothes. Then he went and began to pack a satchel.
In his cell at the han, Captain Janos Vathely, too, was checking his service sidearm.
From deep in one saddlebag, he had brought out a small box rather like a cigarette-case. Inside it, on a velvet lining, rested six bullets with tips of polished sterling silver.
"Those don't have the same stopping power as lead ones, you know," came Slavin's voice.
Vathely whirled around to see the lancer leaning against the wall. "Go ahead and laugh, Herr Oberst," he flared. "Or would you prefer to order me to put them away because they're not regulation?"
"Nobody's laughing at you, Janos. I just thought I'd point out that slugs of soft lead hit the target and then mushroom out inside it, causing more damage, while silver ones, being much harder, would just go straight through and out. Less damage done. Still, I don't mind. I won't make anything of it if you don't. I only came by to tell you that formation's in ten minutes."
"Thank you, sir."
"It is a good thing, I think, that he decided to excuse you from funeral detail. We need an officer in charge here in case something happens. I know we've had our differences, but now we've all got a program. It is good."
"We'll see. Personally, I think we won't see an end of trouble round here until that gospodar is behind bars--or dead."
"I'm inclined to agree, provided it can be done with legal grounds. Well, see you at formation," said Slavin, straightening his uniform unthinkingly as he turned to go.
Vathely stood up to holster his sidearm and pick up his headgear; then he, too, went out.
A few minutes later, Colonel Fedor Slavin was surveying the eighty-one soldiers drawn up before him and wishing they could all be anywhere else just about now. He heard some movement from the village street on the other side of the han, and saw, behind the ranks, a few pieces of wind-pushed rubbish moving along the base of the wall.
We'll have to do a police call, he thought briefly. Then he licked his lips and began:
"Soldaten! You all know we've been facing a very ticklish situation here over the past few days. I want you to know that you have done an outstanding job under the worst conditions. Scouts, guides, support personnel--all of you have more than met the challenge. The Commissioner, and Captain Vathely, and I are all proud of the way you have performed. I want you all to give yourselves a round of applause right now--go on, you've earned it."
For a minute or two, the soldiers all clapped, and Slavin with them, with some sense of relief and wonderment. After it subsided, Slavin continued: "I won't waste any time, men. Briefly, then, I have good news and bad news. Herr Hauptfeldwebel! Shall I give them the good news first, or the bad news?"
The top NCO growled: "The good. For that we're very much overdue."
"Excellent, sergeant-major. Men, the good news, then, is that--with the exception of funeral detail--you're all down for some maintenance time. No patrols. Just clean your gear and put it all in order the best you can. Your sergeants and Captain Vathely will help inspect your work. The bad news is that it's not sham time--you've really got to do the maintenance. Again excepting the detail, you're all confined to the billet and immediate area, by which I mean this yard. After your gear has been inspected, you may have some rest. Take naps or write letters if you like. In fact, I recommend it because we're moving out, possibly," he shouted over the murmur running through the ranks, "as early as this evening. We'll be staged and ready to move at six."
Slavin let the men have exactly five seconds to whisper and utter a few stifled ejaculations of relief; then hammered on: "At ease! At ease, men--just one more thing. I have a warning. It's not only Hird's funeral today, but also that of the locals who were killed the other day up at that burnt farm. These funerals, according to local custom, are times of extreme sentiment, and even the sight of one of us on the street this afternoon could lead to very regrettable consequences. You will hear gunfire in the village later on. Do not be too alarmed, because the locals customarily discharge small arms into the air on these occasions. I repeat, do not be alarmed--unless the slugs start coming in the windows." He paused again as a small, slightly nervous laugh rippled through the group.
"Captain Vathely will be in charge here this morning, and he will know what to do in case anything goes wrong. In short, men, I am as usual asking you to do the impossible. Relax but be alert. Get ready and be ready. Don't worry but be prepared for anything. Remember, we're not out of here yet. This is still a declared hostile zone. But we're getting out as soon as we can. If all this sounds as clear as mud, then I've portrayed it accurately. Parade-dismiss, et cetera, Herr Hauptfeldwebel." Slavin returned the NCO's salute, turned on his heel, and strode off.
Commissioner Stadelmeier fell in beside him. "Damn, Fedor, in any other command you'd be cashiered for a speech like that," he muttered out one side of his mouth. "Why don't we just promote you to Chief Nursemaid?"
"I know, Claudius," said Slavin as they reached the han doorway, unbuckling his pistol-belt. "But these men don't need some heel-clicking martinet over them. You remember what I said about writing letters?"
"Ja. So?"
"They know—from experience with me--that means some of them could die tonight or tomorrow. They don't need to spend what may be the last hours of their lives in this Godforsaken place doing pointless spit-polish. They're hungry and their weapons are well-oiled. Those things are what count around here--the gospodar and his men could tell you that. The full-dress inspections and toy-soldier stuff can wait until they're back in garrison. Trying it out here could earn--and has earned--more than one officious Oberleutnant a bullet in the back of his head during a fire-fight."
"I've heard stories. I suppose you know what you're doing. It still rubs me the wrong way, though. But the other thing is tonight--what's this horseshit about being ready to move at six? I gave you no such orders. Explain this."
Slavin sat down. "They are my troops, sir, not yours--technically speaking. Their orders come from me, not you."
Stadelmeier seized the opportunity to stare down at the lancer. "But yours come from me," he said, "and I said nothing about when to move."
Slavin, pulling his spectacles out of their case, paused and polished the lenses on a sleeve. "You will, sir. And when you do--with all due respect--you will order the move for tonight. That is my prophecy. So I thought I'd give them the extra time to get ready."
The politician reddened, then--very very slowly--appeared to relax a bit. "I'd get rid you myself right now, *Herr Oberstv--make out the papers now--if there were papers that said you existed to begin with."
Slavin let out the ghost of a chuckle. "A day or so, sir, and with any luck we'll be back in Foča where we belong."
"As soon as we sort out this Savitch."
If, corrected Slavin silently. * If*.
The conversation between Demjan Savić and Alija Selimović had flagged as they neared the village in their walk. But at last, Demjan said: "Yes, I would say I do trust him."
The* starešina*, with thirty-year-old memories stirring, said: "As an individual, yes, I would too. But this Oberst is only one man, though an officer. He has this *Kommissar *Stadelmeier over him, and these Schwabes follow all their orders explicitly, right or wrong. I, personally, would not be at all surprised to be greeted in the village by a few dangling bodies--nor again to find that you and I had been marked out to keep them company."
Demjan stopped in his tracks. "Surely not!"
Alija turned and faced him. "My cousin Smaila witnessed just such a thing not ten years ago in Bijelnica. The Schwabes were in town and it was a festival day with young and old alike in the bazaar. The Schwabes suddenly turned their guns on the square from two sides and demanded several men--some comitadji and some not, really just all names out of a hat--be brought up before a present court-martial. The excuse was a blood-grudge killing which had occurred the previous day."
"Horrible! Did they capitulate?"
Alija shrugged. "What choice was there? The Schwabes had repeaters and even a machine-gun. It wouldn't have been a fight, but a slaughter of five minutes' making, and then they could have claimed to be suppressing a riot. The people delivered up six men who were all hanged straightaway and left--under guard--for the birds to pick clean, just as the cursed dahis used to do in my father's time."
Demjan shuddered at the blasphemy.
"Other villages--did not fare even so well. It is a tactic typical of them, and Uglesić's murder--not to mention the affair of those two soldiers--they certainly have perfect excuses to demand the heads of whomever they please. Am I not right, Joro?"
Joro Djurić and his wife looked at each other. "Merhaba, friend Alija. Indeed, you are right. You were speaking of that Bijelnica business? I thought so."
They all began walking again, and Joro, taking a long swig from a leathern water-bag, passed it to Demjan as Alija said: "Yes, and judging as how only you and Marfa are coming along, you are minding it, too."
"Aye, and if I hadn't half a notion that the gospodar has something worked out with these Schwabes, we wouldn't come either. He's a canny bastard, Kosta Savić is, just like his old man was."
"And about the same age now as when he died," added Marfa, wiping away a trickle of sweat from beneath her ceremonial cowl.
"Even so," continued Joro, "I've left dede Branislav at home with the boys. They know what to do if we aren't back by sunset."
Alija nodded and said to Demjan: "I don't think poor Dabisav's send-off will be quite what he had hoped for."
"That explains why yesterday's market was so sluggish," said Demjan. "I'd put it down to the time of year."
"Which partly it was. You notice that even the gospodar stayed behind. I'm guessing he'll appear today, however briefly," said Joro. "At the six-month's anniversary of the funeral in the summer, I think more will show up. D'you know if that Schwabe bigwig's carriage is still here?"
Alija said that it was.
"That's good," said Joro. "Joj, but I'll be glad to be home tonight, eh? What’d’ you say, majstor? Good day to you too, young Sava and Miloš."
"I say shit on it," said Veljko Leskanić sourly as his son and cousin returned greetings. "I don't like the idea of an odbor under the muzzles of Schwabe guns. How will a knez elected under such conditions hold his head up? Will not everyone say we voted the way we were told?"
"I never thought of that," said Demjan as they all crossed the draw into the village.
"You'd better do, young Demjan," replied Joro Djurić. "You may become gospodar soon--sooner than anybody had ever thought."
Demjan suddenly felt as though his vest--borrowed from Alija for the day and already too tight--were suffocating him.
"Get up!" the nobleman spat out at the brindled mare, giving the reins a hard flick, and the wagon breasted the dry watercourse.
"Oof!" grunted Stana as all the gold dangling from her jewellery and jacket clinked. "Just don't fly off the handle in front of everyone, alright?"
"I promise nothing," said Kosta Savić in a voice which warned away intervention. "I will think about making promises after they make a few of their own." He hauled in on the reins as they approached an alley between two buildings, and they pulled up behind a group. Alija's voice, and 'Young Sava' Leskanić's, called out greetings. Slavica hopped out of the back. Stana swung down with a hand from Joro Djurić, and Kosta Savić threw Demjan the reins, waving off offers of help to ease himself stiffly down from his seat. By this time a dozen people had collected around the wagon; the nobleman, with brief gestures to return greetings, took a moment to straighten up and then walked over to where his stepson stood very still with the reins.
Kosta Savić looked the young man up and down for a moment and Demjan was acutely conscious of his stony demeanour--doubly hardened now by pain and stress. His mind flashed for a moment back to their meeting in the han three days previously.
"You borrowed these clothes from Alija, I presume?" asked Kosta Savić as Stana appeared beside him.
"Yes, sir," said Demjan.
"I believe you've gained weight," said the older man. "They're a bit short, but otherwise a decent fit."
"Yes, sir."
The nobleman turned to Stana and extended his hand. Then he turned back to Demjan. "Mind you water the mare," he told him. Then he and Stana went out into the square.
"I didn't assume you were going to the Roman service," Stana told Kosta Savić.
"I'd like to," said Slavica. "Can Mother and I go?"
"Janek Vuković will be there," Stana told her. "You haven't seen him for an age. Marek, too."
"You're right," said Kosta Savić. "That Roman church is designed as a perfect mantrap, and right now I've no desire to tempt the Schwabes. Besides, I've got some business to settle with Marko Vuletić and Joro. Yes, you can go. But stay away from the priest."
"Thank you, we will," said Stana, looking over his shoulder. "Merhaba, Colonel."
The nobleman turned as Colonel Slavin executed a slight bow. "My condolences, gospodar," he said in Serbian. "Again I say, I'm sorry we could not meet under more fortunate circumstances."
"Likewise, Colonel, though under still more fortunate circumstances we should never have met at all," replied the nobleman, "and, to be quite honest, I'd prefer it that way. However, I trust that you have definitely found *Herr Rittmeister *Vathely some employment more becoming an officer than digging up our hard ground with a pickaxe?"
"I know how he passed his evening, gospodar. It had, by all accounts, quite a surprise ending."
The nobleman paled. "My house and family are closed to armed intruders," he spat, "and my family's graves are closed to tomb-robbers. Anyone--Austrian officers included--who disregards that does so to his mortal peril. Herr Rittmeister Vathely has offended on both counts."
"He has been--"
"I have been too soft," continued the nobleman, as a group began to back off and form a ring about them. He held a shaking finger up to Slavin's face. "No more. I warn you now: I will kill that Turk if I ever see him outside the village again, and I will kill Herr Rittmeister Vathely if I ever see him anywhere unaccompanied by higher authority, meaning you or Herr Stadelmeier. Clear?"
"Many things," said Slavin quietly, "are now clear, voevoda. You will not be--? I thought not. But we shall see you soon, I believe." With that, the lancer passed on.
"Keep your temper, gospodar," said a man nearby. “I don't want you dead, at least not for a while, anyway."
Kosta Savić looked into the blond stolid face before him. "No, neighbour Dragan," he replied, recovering himself. "To you go my real feelings. You, too, are an avenger."
"The job, I think, can be made into short work after we talk," rejoined Dragan impassively. "Gospodar. You will be at the odbor, of course."
"Yes. We will talk," said Kosta Savić.
"We will talk," echoed Dragan Vuković, turning in the direction Slavica had gone.
"You know it's his duty to kill you," hissed Stana in her husband's ear, "and him practically your cousin. Only the Schwabes’ presence probably saves you now."
"I know," said the nobleman. "I see Janek came with him."
She looked at the boy arm in arm with Slavica, chattering merrily away.
"Your kum Jovan Ilić will be here in an hour," Stana told him. "Marica Leskanić told me."
"Good," said Kosta Savić. "Then we will have time for dinner before the killing starts."
The sunlight pouring through the windows of the Orthodox church showed small swirls of dust where Demjan walked through the nave. Ahead of him, by the choir screen, six coffins were laid out and already a few women were kneeling near them, reciting prayers in voices clearly audible only to God; but they served to create a murmur that softly drifted through the building,
"Good day, * dede* Grgur," said Demjan quietly.
Merhaba, neighbour Demjan," replied the sacristan.
"Grgur . . . " began Demjan.
The churchman waited.
"Grgur . . . " he began again.
"Shall we step outside?" suggested the old man.
"Yes, let's," said Demjan.
The sacristan opened a side door and let them out into a small courtyard formed by the sides of two houses built up to the sanctuary.
"It's kind of . . . ah . . . " said Demjan, motioning with his head.
"Yes, the bodies are several days old."
"Closed coffins? That's quite unusual."
"Closed," said the sacristan emphatically. "You wished to say something?"
"Grgur . . ." began Demjan, "you are a wise man. You know many things. You saw Uglesić's place firsthand. Do you think my stepfather killed them?"
Brother Grgur wasn't going to be drawn. "Some say he did. Others say he didn't. It is strange that no one has come forward with any information, and that whoever did it left no sign or token as to the blood-grudge they were settling."
"That struck me, too. What about the Schwabes?"
"It's well known that they much prefer to disgrace people by hanging them--as the Turks used to do--so that the birds would pick their bones and no proper Christian burial could be performed. Still, they are capable of it for their own reasons."
"This does not answer my question!"
"I'm not sure there is an answer. If there is, your stepfather knows. I believe he was a witness--if so, the only surviving witness. The matter will be discussed at the odbor this afternoon."
"If he knows, but waits too long to tell, Dragan Vuković may decide to come after him."
"That is a risk of which he is well aware. But only someone who wants the Schwabes taking over for good would kill him now, blood-grudge or no."
"Let us say he did it. Why would he?"
Grgur spread his hands. "To that I have no more idea than as to why your father killed Petar Bicanić. He succeeded in taking that to the grave with him. The only answer I can possibly fall back on is pure evil."
"Was my father an evil man?"
"Your father did nothing by halves. When the fit was on him, he was Satan incarnate. But when he gave, he gave freely--even to enemies."
"And my stepfather?"
"Him no one knows--not even, I suspect, your mother. If I knew no better, I would say he was like a god--a being come from none knows where, from the sky, beholden to no one and nothing."
"I've felt the same, though you say it better. And it is, in a way, true. He was gone fifteen years and came back out of the fog from nowhere."
"Well, he didn't leave the planet," said Grgur.
Demjan looked steadily at him. "And how do you know that?"
Grgur exclaimed: "Wha-aat? Oh, nonsense!"
"You are a Christian man, Grgur, are you not? No Christian believes that this life, as we experience it with our senses, it all that there is."
"Well, that is very true."
"Some of us cannot see or hear very well, while others can see or hear better than most. True again?"
"What is your point?"
"Maybe some people can see and hear and sense far, far, more acutely than anyone else can sanely imagine. Maybe there is very much more to Creation than most people assume, lying just beyond the senses of most of us. Maybe God made this world for us all to live in out of His mercy so that we might all--almost all--be comfortably blind to what else is out there."
"God cannot wish us blinded. He wishes us to see and know Truth."
"Do we not blind ourselves by sin? Were we not blinded by Adam's fall? Was not God's original creation destroyed, and the world He made for Adam destroyed again in the Flood? Which of us now knows what Adam knew? Does not the holy Orthodox Church teach that these are impenetrable mysteries?"
"It is not un-Christian," murmured the sacristan.
"Yet again--murder binds men together in blood, does it not?"
"Yes, for it cries out for vengeance."
"And it binds not only victim and killer, but killer's killer, and his killer, and on and on. Killing someone is a way of possessing them."
"And you called me wise," said Grgur. "This sounds like wisdom to me."
"The Church teaches that God once demanded blood sacrifice--during Old Testament days--but that He does so no longer, since Christ's blood is the perfect sacrifice that suffices for all sin. True?"
"You know it's straight from the Creed."
"But what if there were another which demands blood, for whom even Christ's blood--God's own--should not suffice?"
Grgur was silent, suddenly remembering Sergeant Deutscher's words from three days before: Whoever did this must be such as to destroy the whole world.
There is a hard knot of denial in him, thought Stana during the Mass as the priest Rezać genuflected and then held high the consecrated wafer. Yes, Kosta has an aloneness, and a grim little satisfaction in a fight. And a knot of denial--something screwed down so firmly and for so long that even he does not know and cannot recall what is down there. Maybe the lid blew off for a while at Uglesić's. That had never been a problem with this one, she reflected.
“*Hic est enim calix sanguinis mei, novi et aeterni testamenti, mysterium fidei, quid pro vobis et pro multis effendetur in remissionem peccatorum *. . .”
The priest had been a good man--still was in some ways--but too long among monsters had turned such an affirming man into a monster himself.
Her husband, and this man, were but two widely different examples of the Slavic mission, the Slavic genius for absorbing all things into one's soul--all; good and evil, right and wrong, murder and sacrifice--with the simple, that is, undivided faith that all would somehow, sometime, come to a great αρωκάταστασισ being redeemed and consummated into a mystical Whole.
Andrija had killed because he was Andrija, a born killer. Kosta, she felt, had not been born a killer. He had been made one. But something far more complex drove him, and it bound him up with her, and with Andrija, and their father Nikola Savić.
Kosta had turned himself into Andrija, but had succeeded in keeping himself alive where Andrija had succumbed. Thus far, at all events.
Why?
“Ipsis, Domine, et omnibus in Christo quiescentibus locum refrigerii, lucis et pacus ut indulgeas, deprecamur.”
What work had Andrija to do that he had left unfinished?
Had he felt the need to try to slake his grandfather's curse with blood?
Or was there more?
Must the grave swallow all, after all her years--generations--of work?
They would persist, these men, in their obsession with blood--ignoring the iron law that dictated death as the ultimate repayment for all life and power bought by blood.
One would think that they went on blood-binges just as a depraved drunkard or kif-addict might binge on his drug--and, like them, face the dangers of overdose and exhaustion.
Lord, she thought, there is certainly far, far more to being immortal than just forever avoiding death.
“Per omnia saecula saeculorum. Amen.”
"With all due respect, gospodar," said Joro Djurić, "are you sure it was wise to talk to that Schwabe officer like that? They, after all, have us outgunned three to one."
"I would say four to one," said Kosta Savić, settling back in his seat against a gnarled cypress tree. "Those new Mannlicher repeaters perform that much better than their older Mauser carbines."
"So?"
"So you must never neglect to fight the word-war as well as the bullet-war--especially when you are low on bullets. And these Schwabes, they are just like the rest of Europe and like America--they are all alike, like dogs: no matter how they snarl and yip, they will back down if you face up to them like a man."
"But gospodar," protested Marko, "you are playing politics with lives here--"
"And what else is politics ever played with?" the nobleman rounded on him. "My forefathers were the only men in Europe who negotiated the Turks--I mean the old savage Turks who destroyed everything the West could throw at them--to a halt. You remember that and think now. Has any of your family, or anyone at all from here, been hanged, from Foča and Tjentište all the way to Žabljak, since Andrija or I were gospodar? Answer."
"No, gospodar," returned Marko. "But I beg you to remember, these are no marauding Zetan comitadji or Turkish bashi-bazouki with a few hundred men. These are part of a Great Power army--you, with respect, were but six years old the last time we saw anything like this."
"I have faced hostile cannon and Maxim-guns," said the nobleman coldly, "and far worse. I have a medal or two at home I could show you, awarded for heroism in combat that not twenty other living men on Earth have ever even seen. I know what it is to be in--as well as to face and fight--a modern army. That is why I am very careful. And if I do not seem careful, I reply that many things, friend Marko, are not what they seem."
"These Schwabes do seem easier to negotiate with than the old dahis," said Joro as the other two glared at each other. Kosta Savić relaxed upon hearing that. "That they are," he rejoined. "I've already taken a few steps in that direction."
"You have?" asked Marko edgily. "Will you be telling the odbor?"
"Yes," said Kosta Savić. "You will hear all about it, including the business with Ivo Kopitar."
"Jovan Ilić, your kum, will have questions," said Joro. "This is his first odbor here in years. It will probably be his last. He is almost a hundred, I believe."
"Ninety-seven by his own reckoning," said the nobleman, "which I believe is more accurate than is usual with people his age. As a boy, he knew my great-grandfather--who was much older, of course."
"My grandfather, too," said Marko. "In fact, my grandfather came from Tjentište with him. I think you and I, gospodar, are distantly related."
"I believe my wife once mentioned something about that, though it would have to be at least five generations back," said Kosta Savić. "He'd know if anyone does."
"Dede Vuk remembers Karageorge and the Turkish pashas in Sarajevo."
Kosta Savić chuckled. "You'll have me singing old folksongs like Fedun Dapko next. Excuse me, please. Joj there! Radovan!" he called out to another passing man, and went to get up, but sudden pain slowed him and the others gave him a hand up.
As he walked unsteadily off with the other man, Marko and Joro Djurić looked steadily at each other and Joro raised his eyebrows and blew silently through pursed lips. Marko raised his shoulders, palms out. "What's done is done, Joro," he said quietly. "We've got to hold up our end."
Joro Djurić said nothing.
“Miserere nostri, Domine, miserere nostri, quia multum repleti sumus despectione, quia multum repleta est anima nostra, opprobrium abundantibus, et despectio superbis.”
"Your husband, gospodja," said Dragan Vuković quietly, walking bare-headed next to Stana as the chanting priest led the procession, "was wounded at the burning of my cousin's farm, was he not?"
"Since I have told others, I will not hide it from you. He took three bullets."
"And he is up and about?"
"As you see," she murmured, never looking up from her steps.
“Nisi quia Dominus erat in nobis, ducat nunc Israel, nisi quia Dominus erat in nobis; cum exsurgerent homines in nos, forte vivos deglutissent nos, cum irasceretur furor eorum in nos ...”
"God was with him then, guilty or innocent," said Dragan. "No man lives and walks after something like that unless it is God's will for him to do."
"Perhaps to preserve him for your bullet?"
"Your first husband, gospodja--if you will pardon me--he killed Bicanić and his people. God struck him down for that on the spot with one of Bicanić's bullets. If the gospodar was on my cousin's side, then he was spared to be an avenger of the horrible crime he witnessed. If--God save us--he was an attacker, then God spared him for His own reasons, which we shall all speedily see. If it was that way."
"That does not mean you are relinquishing your duty to my husband, does it?"
“Adiutorium nostrum in nomine Domini, qui fecit caelum et terram.”
"It does not," replied Dragan. "This is no ordinary slaying. I will be patient and vigilant. It might be until my sons' time for the killers to pay, or it may come today--but payment there shall be, sooner or later--without warning, since the slayings were without warning."
“Quia non relinquet Dominus, virgam peccatorum, super sortem iustorum, ut non extendant iusti ad iniquitatem manus suas.”
In the village square, birds scattered as the first volley rang out; people about, talking or eating, started up, and a few dogs set to barking. The rumour quickly passed over like a breeze that it must only be the Schwabes firing a twenty-one-gun salute over their comrade--which indeed a few early comers from the cemetery confirmed as the second and third volleys sounded and rolled away down the valley.
On the steps of the Orthodox church, Brother Grgur in the midst of several people shook his head and said that it was a bad sign; that they were entitled to it by tradition, certainly, but had been wiser not to do it.
The gospodar Kosta Savić also heard it, but his face gave no sign of his opinion.
In the han Captain Vathely heard it and gave orders to the duty NCO to have the cooks begin to serve the midday meal; but he, too, betrayed no other thought.
Commissioner Claudius Stadelmeier heard it and wondered uneasily whether he should not have given an order against it after all.
Ivo heard it, stirring in his bonds, and debated briefly within himself whether that might be the last sound he ever heard--or whether firing squad victims die before the sound of the killing volley reaches their ears.
And, quite near by, an old man heard it, and thought back over ten decades of life in which that sound had marked every major event.
"How was it?" asked Kosta Savić as his wife laid out some cold food under the tree.
"Very quiet, very regular," she replied. "Slavica, where's the wine?--oh, here. Would you like to join us for a snack, Janek?"
"Delighted," that young man replied. "Demjan here and I have some catching up to do."
"I imagine having ten armed Schwabes around helped keep it quiet," mused Kosta Savić.
"Father Ante seemed quite distracted over something," she said.
"He talked with the Austrian Oberst a couple of times apart," added Slavica.
"How are you feeling?" the nobleman asked her. "We could have you lay down in Ilija Vuletić's house."
"I'd rather stay with you," she said. "I just feel better that way."
"That's fine. So, young Janek, tell me," said Kosta Savić between bites of cornbread and cheese, "what's this wet weather doing to your seed crops? Not too much mildew, I trust?"
Janek, somewhat taken aback, replied: "Oh--er, some, gospodar. You know how it is. Dede says--" here all knew he meant Jovan Ilić--"if we get to work right away it can almost all be salvaged."
"Another oddly convenient reason," said Stana closely in Kosta Savić's ear, "for people not to show up."
"I've heard several more besides that," he replied.
At that point a murmur went up, and a considerable bumping and rattling noise. "At last!" cried Janek, jumping up. "It's Dede!--he had to start out near dawn, you know, for the 'arabah to get all the way round the Vikoč road and still make it in time. You will excuse me?"
Kosta Savić nodded dismissal.
"In a moment," he said, watching the horse-drawn vehicle roll to a halt before the church door, and taking another piece of cornbread. "I know we'll be lunching fairly soon, but I don't want to gobble too much of old Jovan's food. They may be grateful for any leftovers very soon. So let us eat a only a bit more while we can."
Just inside the Orthodox church's door, Brother Grgur in his robe and Dragan Vuković stood with a third man. Even leaning heavily on a knobbly stick, Jovan Ilić stood a head taller than either of them, his round leather cap on his shaven skull and his faded vest showing noticeably older style than even the senior men of the village. Despite lost teeth, his jaw still jutted firmly out below a face as rugged and unyielding as the karst mountains of the region; and his lack of other hair made his flaring, tangled white eyebrows and moustaches all the more prominent--dominant, almost--but for his eyes. These were a very light, almost eerie green that seemed to take in everything--or nothing--all at once. This semi-vacant appearance had led men over the years to suppose he was blind, or nearly so--to their cost.
It was this uncanny gaze he turned on the gospodar and gospodja as they came upon him in the crowded narthex. Dragan, who had been introducing occasionally and chatting, fell pointedly silent, but the sacristan hardly missed a beat. "And these, of course, you know, dede."
"Who?" asked the old man in a toneless, rasping voice. "These here?"
"Surely, kum, it has not been so long as that," said Kosta Savić easily.
"Of course not," said the old man, and Kosta and then Stana greeted him with the traditional kiss. "And these must be Demjan and Slavica. How they have grown! And this must be little Anton, of whom you have told me."
"Yes, I don't believe you've seen him yet," said Stana. "It's been that long and then some."
"True," said the old man. "The little one here looks to me to be the spitting image of his grandfather, whom God rest. But now an occasion like this brings us together."
Stana turned pale, but Jovan continued: "It's always funerals, isn't it, gospodar?--for gospodar you are. I must mind my manners. And now my zet, my in-law Uglesić--your father's pobrat. Who could imagine such a thing?"
"We will talk at the odbor. You will be there?"
"Pitaj Boga. And I trust you have matters in hand with the Schwabes?"
Kosta Savić, mindful of listening ears, said: "As much as one can respectably do, yes."
"That is good. A gospodar must watch out for all the people. I am not sure that your brother ever really understood that."
"We will talk, godfather," said Kosta Savić, "for just now we are holding things up. Let us go."
"What, no pews?" complained the Commissioner to Colonel Slavin over the choir's chanting. "I'm supposed to stand in these boots for two hours?"
"You can take them off if you like," replied the other. "Orthodox services are less formal in some ways than what we're used to. I expect you'll see children running around playing, women changing babies, people eating oranges, just carrying on with life."
"All that but no pews?"
"Less formal in some ways," repeated Slavin. "However, they are dead against the idea of sitting down in God's presence."
"Is this about the turn-out you'd expect?"
"I'd have expected it to be packed," replied Slavin, looking about. "I'd say we're about one-third below par."
"Anybody--any kind of group noticeably absent?"
"Hard to say. Not particularly. No single family or age group as far as I can see."
"Monkey business?"
"I don't think so. Remember, it is planting season. And yesterday was market-day. I daresay some people don't feel up to repeating a ten, twenty, even thirty-mile walk two days running."
"I daresay," said the politician. "Where's that Graf?"
"Over there," said Slavin, nodding toward Kosta Savić and his family on the other side.
Stadelmeier peered over at him, his politician's sixth sense twitching. "Gott im Himmel," he muttered, "we'll be lucky to get out of here with our skins."
"I've talked with him, sir. He can be a reasonable man."
"With a wife like his you'd have to be. But he looks perfectly capable of eating bullets and shitting out shell casings to me."
Slavin smiled. "Comes with his job, sir."
Outside, a single rider came galloping hard into the village, stirring up clouds of dust and causing people in the square to point and comment.
The rider reined in his lathered beast at the han and swung down. With a few words to the guard and a salute, he went in.
And among the interested onlookers was Father Ante Rezać, coming out from the rectory gate. He looked at the scene for a moment, then stepped out, shut and locked the gate behind him, and himself headed for the Austrian post.
One voice chanted out:
"Blessed are you, O Lord; guide me by Your precepts."
The choir replied:
“The choir of saints has found the Fountain of Life and the gate to Paradise. May I also find the way through repentance. I am a lost sheep; call me back, O Saviour, and save me.”
"Blessed are you O Lord; guide me by Your precepts."
“O Lord, I am the image of Your glory which is beyond description, even though I bear the marks of transgressions. Have mercy on Your creature, O Master; in your compassion cleanse me. Grant me the home I yearn for, and again make me an inhabitant of Paradise.”
"Blessed are You, O Lord; guide me by Your precepts."
“Grant rest, O God, to Your servants and place them in Paradise where the choirs of saints and righteous shine like stars. O Lord, give rest to Your departed servants and remit all their transgressions.”
Brother Grgur sang out from the swirling incense smoke: "Glory be to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Ghost, now and ever and forever, Amen."
"Who to see me, Svoboda?" asked Captain Vathely.
"Rezatch," repeated the duty runner. "The priest, sir, you know."
"Of course. Just a moment. Thank you, Herr Gefreiter," he said, turning to the dusty rider. "You're dismissed. Go sack out in the back if you like."
The man returned a salute. "Thank you, Herr Rittmeister. It's been a long day--I saddled my first mount in Trnovo at three a.m. I appreciate it." Then he went out through the back.
Vathely turned to the runner. "You may show him in now."
The soldier Svoboda disappeared for a moment and returned, motioning in Father Ante Rezać as Vathely rose.
"Good day, Father, I'm afraid the Colonel and the Commissioner aren't here just now."
"Well, I think you can help me. It's about Yusef."
Vathely hit the table with the palms of both hands. "Is he talking?"
"We need to hurry. Can you come immediately? We'll talk on the way."
"Of course," said the officer. "Svoboda! Fetch the Herr Oberst, please!"
The priest motioned toward the dispatch-case lying nearby. "Not bad news, I trust?"
The officer shrugged. "News is news. As you say, we'll talk on the way."
“O Mother of the never-setting Sun, who gave birth to God, save those who trust in You.”
Very discreetly, hand to hand at waist level, a pistol was making its way along a row of worshipers. The choir chanted:
“We beseech You, intercede through Your prayers before the most gracious God to commit the departed to the abode where the souls of the just repose.”
The weapon found the hand of Kosta Savić and disappeared.
O Ever-Immaculate, present them in the court of the saints as heirs to the treasure of heaven and for eternal memory.
Brother Grgur held up both arms and intoned: "Wisdom!"
And Kosta Savić whispered something in his wife's ear. She nodded, adjusted the baby in its sling, and turned to make her way out.
It was some time before the service concluded and the short procession to the graveyard took place amid shouting, wailing, and gunfire into the air. The delay was due partly to difficulties in finding sufficient pallbearers, and partly to preparations for the communal feast.
"A feast?" returned Stadelmeier incredulously, kicking at a small rock and sending it skittering across the ground.
"Claudius, I told you about this the other night. These people feel much closer to their dead than we do in Austria. If you had a relative you knew was going on a long journey, you'd provide a good send-off, wouldn't you?"
"Herr Oberst," said the Commissioner, "there's a difference. These people are dead."
"Not exactly--not to them. You see, our ceremonies are all based on the fact that the deceased is gone, that all there is left is a dead body to be properly interred. These people believe the souls of the dead are not gone, but that they wander the earth for forty days--as Jesus abode on earth forty days after his resurrection. During this time they revisit all the places they knew in life one last time, and visit any of the places on earth they never could see in life but always wished to, and at last go also to Jerusalem and to Mount Athos with its Orthodox monasteries. But they don't want the spirit to be tempted to stay at home, so they keep all the doors and windows closed."
"Incredible," murmured the politician. "I'd heard of some of this. Makes a sort of sense, I suppose. And after forty days, then what?"
Slavin, encouraged, continued: "After forty days, they believe, the soul ascends to Heaven, again as Christ did. They will have a meal at the gravesite today, and then again on the Sunday next."
"That is, three days from now," said Stadelmeier, watching the different relatives each throw in their handful of earth on each grave, with the occasional few coins.
"Yes, but always on the Sunday next. Then they will have another one on the fortieth day, and again six months and one year from today. Not to mention at Christmas and sometime during Lent and during the summer also."
"Sounds like a hell of an expense," said Stadelmeier, leaning up against a tombstone, momentarily forgetting his aching feet.
They watched for a few minutes as the voices of women began a high-pitched, quavering wail, with occasional calls.
"What are they saying there every now and then?"
Slavin listened a moment. "Messages to the dead. Greetings, warnings, et cetera. 'See to dede Milutin for me,' 'Be careful,' and the like."
Then as the graves were filled in, Stadelmeier asked again: "Why are they lining up like that?"
"You notice that old man Ilić is first, and the gospodar Savić shortly thereafter."
"Where's his wife?"
"What? Oh, I don't know. Anyway, they go by rank, you see, and nearness of kinship. See what they're eating?"
"They're taking turns eating a spoonful of something."
"Yes, that's a mixture of chopped walnuts, boiled wheat, and sugar, made into a kind of paste, I forget what it's called. The rest of us will get roast mutton, probably, cornbread, and home-made brandy. Rakija, they call it around here, or slivovica."
"I've had some. Christ, you could use it to open drains with."
"And you're right that it is quite an expense. But they manage somehow."
"With everybody showing up?"
"Maybe not quite everybody. But they'd lose a lot of face if they didn't."
Once again, thought the politician, saving face. He knew that impulse well. It seemed to be an obsession with these people; one that could, he decided, potentially prove to be of considerable value in some situations.
"They all come here a lot," Slavin was rattling on. "In fact, they think of their cemeteries very much as we think of our public parks. Free common access to all at any time."
"Sounds morbid to me," rejoined Stadelmeier. "They all sound like a people in love with death."
Slavin looked at him queerly for a few seconds. "Sir, you really are starting to understand."
The politician reacted with a weird noise in his throat. "Understand?" he gasped. "I understand, Herr Oberst," he continued, looking up close into Slavin's face, "that what we have here is a whole entire race of certifiable loonies!" He began holding up fingers, as Slavin had done that morning. "Some are paranoid, some are schizophrenic, some are psychotic, some are psychopathic, some are just plain possessed, and all of them," he cried, waving his open hand in front of the officer's face and turning it into a mock pistol, "are armed!"
He continued to glare at the officer for a moment, and then to suddenly recover his temper instantly as he had lost it. "If I make it back to Fotcha in one piece," he breathed, "I am going to barracks every troop I've got around me, throw up a perimeter, and order everyone to make like a tree and grow roots until my ticket comes through. And when I get home to Linz, I'm going to order that anyone who so much as mentions the word 'Bosnia'--or anything or anyone else even remotely related to this shit-hole--be thrown out of the house so hard he bounces twice. When," he finished, "can we get the hell out of here?"
"D'you mean the cemetery, sir, or the village?"
"I mean out of this whole goddamned place!" spluttered the Commissioner.
"We'll be ready to move at six, sir--if that's an order," said Slavin, turning. “What is it, Svoboda?”
Stadelmeier stood speechless for a second; then, for lack of anything better to do, he stamped the ground once and fell in alongside the two lancers.