by Ivo Andrić
fearoftheirlivesandinuncertaintyabouttheirproperty,theyweretormentedby
differinghopesandfearswhich,naturally,theyconcealed.
As in earlier times during the 'great floods' the older people both among the
TurksandtheSerbstriedtocheerupthosewiththembyjokesandstories,byan
affected calm and an artificial serenity. But it seemed that in this sort of
misfortunetheoldtricksand jokes no longer served, the old stories palled and
thewitticismslostflavourandmeaning,anditwasaslowandpainfulprocessto
makenewones.
Atnighttheycrowdedtogethertosleep,thoughinfactnoonewasabletoclose
an eye. They spoke in whispers, although they themselves did not know why
theydidsowheneverymomenttherewasabovetheirheadsthethunderofthe
guns,nowSerbian,nowAustrian.Theywerefilledwithfearlesttheyshouldbe
'makingsignalstotheenemy'althoughnooneknewhowsuchsignalscouldbe
madenorwhattheyinfactmeant.Buttheirfearwassuchthatnooneevendared
to strike a match. When the men wanted to smoke they shut themselves up in
suffocating little rooms without windows, or covered their heads with
counterpanes, and so smoked. The moist heat strangled and throttled them.
Everyone was bathed in sweat, but all doors were fastened and all windows
closed and shuttered. The town seemed like some wretch who covers his eyes
withhishandsandwaitsforblowsfromwhichhecannotdefendhimself.Allthe
houses seemed like houses of mourning. For whoever wished to remain alive
hadtobehaveasthoughheweredead;nordidthatalwayshelp.
In the Moslem houses there was a little more life. Much of the old warlike
instinctsremainedbuttheyhadbeenawakenedinanevilhour,embarrassedand
pointlessinfaceofthatduelgoingonovertheirheadsinwhichtheartilleryof
the two sides, both Christian, were taking part. But there too were great and
concealed anxieties; there too were misfortunes for which there seemed no
solution.
Alihodja's house under the fortress had been turned into a Moslem religious
school. To the crowd of his own children had been added the nine children of
MujagaMutapdžić;onlythreeoftheseweregrownupandalltherestsmalland
weakrangedoneaftertheotherdifferingbyanear.Inordernottohavetowatch
themortocallthemateverymomentintothecourtyard,theyhadbeenshutup
withAlihodja'schildreninalargeroomandtheretheirmothersandeldersisters
dealtwiththemamidacontinualflurryandfusilladeofcries.
ThisMujagaMutapdžić,knownasthe'manfromUzice',wasarecentcomerto
the town (we shall see a little later why and how). He was a tall man in his
fifties, quite grey, with a great hooked nose and heavily lined face; his
movements were abrupt and military. He seemed older than Alihodja although
he was in fact ten years younger. He sat in the house with Alihodja, smoked
incessantly, spoke little and seldom and was wrapped up in his own thoughts
whoseburdenwasexpressedinhisfaceandhiseverymovement.Hecouldnot
remain long in any one place. Every so often he would rise and go outside the
houseandfromthegardenwatchthehillsaroundthetown,onbothsidesofthe
river. He stood thus with head raised, watching carefully as if for signs of bad
weather.Alihodja,whoneverallowedhimtoremainalone,triedtokeephimin
conversationandfollowedhim.
Inthegarden,whichwasonasteepslopebutwaslargeandbeautiful,thepeace andfecundityofthesummerdaysreigned.Theonionshadalreadybeencutand
spreadouttodry;thesunflowerswereinfullbloomandaroundtheirblackand
heavy centres the bees hummed. At the edges the small flowerets had already
gonetoseed.Fromthatelevatedplaceonecouldseethewholetownspreadout
belowonthesandyspitoflandbetweenthetworivers,DrinaandRzav,andthe
garlandofmountainsaround,ofunequalheightandvariedshapes.Onthelevel
spacearoundthetownandonthesteepfoothillsscrapsandbeltsofripebarley
alternatedwithareasofstillgreenmaize.Thehousesshonewhiteandtheforests
that covered the mountains seemed black. The measured cannon fire from the
two sides seemed like salutes, formal and harmless, so great was the extent of
theearthandtheskyaboveitintheserenityofthesummerdaywhichhadonly
justbegun.
The sight loosened the tongue even of the care-filled Mujaga. He thanked
Alihodja for his kind words and told him the story of his own life, not that
the hodja did not already know it, but Mujaga felt that here in the sunlight he couldlessenthetensionthatgrippedandstrangledhim.Hefeltthathisfatewas
beingdecidedhereandnowonthissummer'sdaybyeveryroarofthegunsfrom
onesideortheother.
HehadbeennotquitefiveyearsoldwhentheTurkshadhadtoleavetheSerbian
towns.TheOsmanlishadleftforTurkeybuthisfather,SulagaMutapdžić,stilla
young man, but already respected as one of the leading Turks of Uzice, had
decidedtocrossintoBosniawhencehisfamilyhadcomeinoldentimes.Hehad
piled the children into baskets and with all the money which in such
circumstanceshehadbeenabletogetforhishouseandlandshehadleftUzice
forever. With a few hundred other Uzice refugees he had crossed into Bosnia
wheretherewasstillTurkishrule,andsettledwithhisfamilyinVišegradwhere
a branch of the family had once lived. There he passed ten years and had just
begun to consolidate his position in the market when the Austrian occupation
hadtakenplace.Aharshanduncompromisingman,hehadthoughtitnotworth
hiswhiletoflyfromoneChristianruleonlytoliveunderanotherone.So,ayear
after the arrival of the Austrians, he had left Bosnia with his whole family,
togetherwithafewotherfamilieswhohadnotwishedtopasstheirlives'within
thesoundofthebell',andsettledinNovaVarošintheSanjak.Mujagahadthen
been a young man of little over fifteen. There Suljaga had gone on with his
tradingandtheretherestofthechildrenhadbeenborn.Buthewasneverableto
forget all he had lost in Uzice, nor could he get on with the new men and
different manner of life in the Sanjak. That was the reason for his early death.
Hisdaughters,allprettyandofgoodreputation,hadmarriedwell.Hissonstook
overandextendedthesmallinheritanceleftthembytheirfather.Butjustwhen
theyhadmarriedandhadbeguntotakedeeperrootintheirnewcountrycame
theBalkanWarsof1912.Mujagahadtakenpartintheresistanceputupbythe
TurkisharmyagainsttheSerbsandMontenegrins.Theresistancewasshortbut
it was neither weak nor unsuccessful in itself, but none the less, as if by some charm,hisfate,likethatofth
ewaritselfandofmanythousandsofmen,wasnot
decidedtherebutsomewherefaraway,independentofanyresistance,strongor
weak.TheTurkisharmyevacuatedtheSanjak.Notwillingtoawaitanadversary
from whom he had already fled as a child from Uzice and whom he had now
resisted without success, and having nowhere else to go, Mujaga decided to
returntoBosniaunderthatsamerulefromwhichhisfatherhadfled.Sonow,for
thethirdtimearefugee,hehadcomewithhiswholefamilytothetowninwhich
hehadpassedhischildhood.
With a little ready money and with the help of the Višegrad Turks, some of
whomwerehisrelatives,hehadmanagedtobuildupasmallbusinessoverthe
last two years. But it was not easy for, as we have seen, times were hard and
insecure, and profits difficult to make even for those whose position was
assured. He had been living on his capital while waiting for better and more
peaceful times. Now, after only two years of the hard life of a refugee in the
town, this storm had broken in which he could do nothing and could not even
think of what to do next; the only thing left to him was to follow its course
anxiouslyandawaitfearfullyitsoutcome.
It was of this that the two men were now talking, softly, intermittently and
disconnectedly, as one speaks of things already well-known and which can be
lookedatfromtheend,thebeginningoranypointinthemiddle.Alihodja,who
liked and greatly respected Mujaga, tried to find some words of solace or
consolation,notbecausehethoughtthatanythingwouldhelp,butbecausehefelt
it his duty in some way to partake in the misfortune of this honourable and
unfortunatemanandtrueMoslem.Mujagasatandsmoked,theveryimageofa
man whom fate has loaded too heavily. Great beads of sweat broke out on his
foreheadandtemples,stoodtheresometimeuntiltheygrewbigandheavy,then
shoneinthesunandoverflowedlikeastreamdownhislinedface.ButMujaga
didnotfeelthemnorbrushthemaway.Withdulleyeshelookedatthegrassin
front of him and, wrapped up in his own thoughts, listened to what was
happening within himself which was stronger and louder than any words of
consolationorthemostvigorousbombardment.Fromtimetotimehemovedhis
handalittleandmurmuredsomethingorotherwhichwasfarmoreapartofhis
owninwardconversationthananyreplytowhatwasbeingsaidtohimorwhat
wastakingplacearoundhim.
'This has come upon us, my Alihodja, and there is no way out. The One God
seesthatwe,myfather(peacebetohim)andmyself,havedoneeverythingwe
couldtoremaininthepurefaithandthetruewayoflife.Mygrandfatherlefthis
bones in Uzice and today we do not even know where he is buried. I myself
buried my father in Nova Varoš and I do not know if by now the Vlachs are
pasturingtheircattleoverhisgrave.IhadthoughtthatIatleastwoulddiehere,
wherethemuezzinstillcalls,butnowitseemsthatitiswrittenthatourseedwill
be extinguished and that no one knows where his grave will be. Can it be that
God'swishesareso?OnlynowIseethatthereisnowayout.Thetimehascome
ofwhichitissaidthattheonlywayleftforthetruefaithistodie.ForwhatcanI
do?ShallIgowithNailbegandthe schutzkorps anddiewithaSchwaberiflein
myhands,shamedbothinthisandinthenextworld?OrshallIwaitandsithere
untilSerbiashallcome,andwaitoncemoreforallthatwefledfromasrefugees
fiftyyearsago?'
Alihodjawasabouttouttersomewordsofencouragementthatmightprovidea
little hope, but he was interrupted by a salvo from the Austrian battery on the
Butkovo Rocks. It was immediately answered by the guns from Panos. Then
thosebehindGolešopenedfire.Theywerefiringlow,directlyovertheirheads,
so that the shells wove a web of sound above them that catches at a man's
entrails and tightens the blood-vessels until they hurt. Alihodja rose and
suggestedthattheytakerefugeunderthebalcony,andMujagafollowedhimlike
asleepwalker.
In the Serbian houses huddled around the church at Mejdan there were, on the
otherhand,noregretsforthepastorfearsforthefuture;therewasonlythefear
andburdenofthepresent.Therewasasortofspecial,dumbastonishment,that
feeling which always remains among people after the first blows of a great
terror, with arrests and killings without order or justice. But beneath this
consternationeverythingwasthesameasithadbeenearlier,thesameexpectant
waitingasbefore,morethanahundredyearsago,whentheinsurgents'fireshad
burned on Panos, the same hope, the same caution and the same resolution to
bear everything if it could not be otherwise, the same faith in a good result
somewhereattheendofallends.
Thegrandchildrenandgreat-grandchildrenofthosewhofromthissamehillside, shutupintheirhouses,anxiousandfrightenedbutmovedtothedepthsoftheir
being,hadlistenedintentlytryingtohearthefeebleechoofKarageorge'sgunon
the hillside above Veletovo, now listened in the warm darkness to the thunder
and rumble of the heavy howitzer shells passing above their heads, guessing
fromthesoundwhichwereSerbianandwhichAustrian,callingthemendearing
nicknamesorcursingthem.Allthiswhiletheshellswereflyinghighandfalling
ontheoutskirtsofthetown,butwhentheywereaimedlowatthebridgeandthe
town itself everyone fell suddenly silent for then it seemed to them, and they
would have sworn to it, that in that complete silence, in the midst of so much
spacearoundthem,bothsideswereaimingonlyatthemandthehouseinwhich
theywere.Onlyafterthethunderandroarofanearbyexplosionhaddiedaway,
theywouldbegintalkingagain,butinchangedvoices,assuringoneanotherthat
theshellwhichhadfallenquiteclosewasofaparticularlydevilishkind,worse
thananyother.
The merchants from the marketplace had for the most part taken refuge in the
Ristić house. It was immediately above the priest's house, but larger and finer,
shelteredfromtheartilleryfirebythesteepslopesoftheplum-orchards.There
werefewmenbutmanywomen,whosehusbandshadbeenarrestedortakenas
hostages,whohadtakenrefugeherewiththeirchildren.
In this rich and extensive house lived old Mihailo Ristić with his wife and
daughter-in-law, a widow who had not wanted to marry again or return to her
father'shouseafterthedeathofherhusband,butremainedtherewiththetwoold
people to bring up her children. Her eldest son had fled to Serbia two years
before and been killed as a volunteer on the Bregalnica. He had been eighteen
yearsold.
OldMihailp,hi
swifeanddaughter-in-lawservedtheirunusualguestsasifthey
were at a family feast, a slava. The old man especially was untiring. He was bareheaded, which was unusual, for as rule he never took off his red fez. His
thickgreyhairfelloverhisearsandforeheadandhishugesilverymoustaches,
yellow at the roots from tobacco, surrounded his mouth like a perpetual smile.
Whenever he noticed that anyone was frightened or more melancholy than the
others,hewouldgouptohim,talktohimandofferhimplumbrandy,coffeeand
tobacco.
'I can't, kum Mihailo. I thank you like a father, but I can't; it hurts me here,'
protestedayoungwoman,pointingtoherwhiteandroundedthroat.
ShewasthewifeofPeterGatalofOkolište.AfewdaysbeforePeterhadgoneto Sarajevoonbusiness.Therehehadbeencaughtbytheoutbreakofwarandfrom
thattimeonwardhiswifehadhadnonewsofhim.Thearmyhaddriventhem
out of their house, and now she and her children had taken refuge with old
Mihailo, to whom her husband's family had long been related. She was broken
down with worry about her husband and her abandoned home. She wrung her
hands,sobbingandsighingalternately.
OldMihailonevertookhiseyesoffherandkeptnearheralways.Thatmorning
ithadbeenlearntthatPeter,onhiswaybackfromSarajevobytrain,hadbeen
takenasahostagetoVardišteandthere,afterafalsealarmofarevolt,hadbeen
shotinmistake.Thatwasstillbeingkeptfromher,andoldMihailowasdoing
his best to prevent anyone suddenly and inadvisedly telling her. Every few
moments the woman would rise and try to go into the courtyard and look
towards Okolište, but Mihailo prevented her and talked her out of it by every
possible means, for he knew very well that the Gatal house in Okolište was
already in flames and he wanted to spare the unfortunate woman this sight at
least.
'Come,Stanoika,come,mylamb.Justalittleglass.Thisisnotplumbrandy,but
arealbalmandcureforallills.'
The woman drank it meekly. Old Mihailo went on offering food and drink to