The Use of Man

by Aleksandar Tisma

  In the morning, he saw an old man emerge barefoot from the house, urinate, and then go back inside. Shortly thereafter, a sturdy young woman appeared, went to the well, drew water, poured it into a pail, but left the pail, half full, on the edge. His eyes were glued to that pail. He was so thirsty that he decided, despite the danger, to go over and drink. Several times he left his shelter, but then took fright and crawled back. The old man, meanwhile, went in and out of the house, or sat on a bench in front; twice he ate something. More than once the woman left, stayed away for a while, then came back. Sredoje thought that the old man had spotted him, but wasn’t sure. When it got dark again, the old man and the woman went into the house.

  Sredoje made up his mind to go to the well this time, and he calculated how long it would take them to go to sleep. But while he was waiting, he dozed off himself. He was awakened by the cracking of twigs. Before he could spring to his feet, two hands pressed him to the ground.

  “Shhh,” he heard someone whisper, the breath hot against his cheek. “Who are you?”

  Sredoje could not speak.

  “Are you the one who killed the German in the hunting lodge?”

  Sredoje nodded before he had time to think.

  “Do you have a weapon?”

  At last his throat loosened up. “No.”

  The hands relaxed and slid deftly over his chest and thighs. “Come on out, but don’t lift your head!”

  He obeyed and, crouching, followed the shape, a silhouette, through the bushes. Then the shape split into two: one half continued on in front of him and the other fell into step with him. Sredoje looked at them furtively. The man in front, tall, thin, was wearing a long sweater and nothing on his head; the one beside him was shorter, broad-shouldered, with a cap pulled down over his ears. Both moved quickly, lightly, while Sredoje stumbled. They went uphill and downhill for what seemed to Sredoje an eternity. Every few moments he thought of asking them to let him rest and drink some water, but he didn’t know who they were, though their caution made him sure that they were not on the side of the Germans.

  When he thought he couldn’t go any further, his escorts stopped at the foot of an unusually steep hill. They talked softly with someone, though Sredoje could see no one, then they pulled him up the slope, onto a plateau, and under a clump of trees. All around, men were lying, some asleep and some, awakened by their arrival, clutching the coats with which they were covered. Sredoje and his escorts made their way around them and proceeded toward a hollow with fewer trees, then came to a house. A sentry appeared under the eaves. Sredoje’s escorts exchanged a few words with him in a whisper, and he went into the house. After a short wait, the sentry came back and led Sredoje and his escorts inside. They stepped into darkness and the smell of confined bodies, and heard snoring. Then there was a crack of light, a door opened hesitantly, and Sredoje saw a burning candle in front of a face whose eyes were puffy from lack of sleep. The man had a mass of unruly black hair. Sredoje went in and, stopping at a table on which stood an earthenware jug, asked for some water. The disheveled man pointed to the jug, and Sredoje picked it up in both hands and drank deeply.

  After that, nothing mattered to him, he felt relieved, safe. The man—the commander of a Partisan detachment that had just formed and was hiding from the Germans—asked how and why Sredoje had killed the German captain. Sredoje told him. Then his escorts took him out and put him in a shed behind the house, blocking the door with a stone. He slept the night on the ground. In the morning, he was let out to relieve himself, was given a piece of bread, an onion, and more water. Later they took him back into the house, where next to the commander sat a man with a round head and bluish lips, the detachment intelligence officer. The two of them interrogated Sredoje along much the same lines as the commander had done the previous night. The intelligence officer was less inclined to believe him than the commander, or pretended to be so, suggesting that Sredoje had been sent by the Germans to infiltrate them. But the fact of Waldenheim’s death put that theory to rest, and in an angry voice the intelligence officer ordered Sredoje to write down everything about himself and the incident on several sheets of typing paper, which he produced from a briefcase on the table. “But this time the truth,” he added, rolling his eyes.

  Sredoje was locked up again. He was not worried about the accusations, knowing they would be refuted. What troubled him were the damp ground on which he sat and slept, the dirt he had picked up on the way, which made him itch all over, and his hunger. But those were troubles of the body, not the soul, and they brought him closer to the men among whom he suddenly found himself. It was strange the way it had all happened, but if he looked back on it—and he spent all his time doing just that; they had ordered him to remember—he saw that what had happened was in fact perfectly logical, and even inevitable. His life in Belgrade had become unendurable, a sleepwalker’s trance between the perils of wartime reality and his own wild desires, desires that mirrored Captain Waldenheim’s secret vice. One of them had to come to grief. That it had been Waldenheim seemed to Sredoje proof of his greater strength, of the accuracy of his instinct, and at the same time proof of the superiority of these rebellious men to whom that single shot had joined him. It was as if that shot had roused him from a sick dream.

  The Germans, on whom he had looked with admiration mixed with fear, could not establish their cold, premeditated rule as long as the people on whom they tried to impose it were stubborn, independent, hardy, resilient. He, too, was like that; the shot was proof of it. He belonged among them. But between him and them still lay the intelligence officer’s suspicion. Whenever Sredoje emerged from the darkness of the shed, blinking his eyes, and found the men lying on the ground eating or getting ready to go somewhere, their eyes met his with curiosity, but also with distrust. It was not until three weeks later, when news came from Belgrade that Lazukić the lawyer had been seized and shot, that the suspicion lifted from him. Although, once again, no one informed him of this; he would find out much later, when he secretly read his own file.

  They let him out of the shed and assigned him to a Partisan group as an unarmed auxiliary. From then on, he slept with the others under the trees, or, when he was lucky, in the entryway of the wooden house. He shared their scanty, usually dry food. But despite the fact that the most serious accusation had been withdrawn, his unusual past was an object of derision: the killing of the German captain (the story told with stifled laughter), his service in the police, his education.

  The detachment, which had been in the woods around Zlatibor for nearly two months now, was made up of local peasants who had joined in fear of reprisals following Partisan actions. The “schoolboy,” as Sredoje was called, and the commissar, a former teacher, away at that time, complemented their limited experience and wish for immediate vengeance. On the move from hill to hill, with a piece of bread and cheese in their pockets, the peasants suffered because they were not at home with their girls or loving wives, and because hiding took them into unknown regions, into dangers from which they might not return. Sredoje, on the other hand, considered those hardships natural. For him, there was no return to the past, to what was left behind; he thought, instead, about ways to improve things. Therefore, although a newcomer, he was a better and more able soldier than many.

  He showed his mettle in the very first skirmish. It came about unexpectedly, with the arrival of a German unit that had been drawn into the mountains by the deceptive promise of an easy victory. In the general confusion, Sredoje was ordered to carry ammunition to the machine gunner, but when a bullet hit the machine gunner’s hand, after an instant’s hesitation Sredoje took the man’s place and pulled the trigger. He did this when he saw green uniforms jumping out from behind the trees. If they captured him, they would torture him and kill him. But his action was also spurred by the fascination he now had for killing, for violent death, which he had had a taste of in the hunting lodge and in the square in Požega, too, that same day—a vivid memory of every movement
, every sound, charged with the horror of how thin was the line between life and death and how easy it was to cross it.

  Now he fired and was being fired at. Would he be the first to be hit by a bullet, or would his bullet hit the man who was aiming at him, trying to make him the victim? And suddenly that man, so threateningly alive, so intent on him—Sredoje—as if they were linked, the two of them, would fall and cease to be, with his strength, his consciousness, including the images he carried within him, the image of Sredoje, too; and there would be nothing left of him, like a splinter from a tree that the bullet on its murderous course broke off in passing. Sredoje wished to repeat, to experience again and again that passage, that risk, that excitement, and this, combined with his new sense of belonging, would sustain him through the hardships and illnesses of the Partisans, and bring him, after a radio operator’s course and a transfer to a Vojvodina unit, back again, on October 27, 1944, as a liberator, to Novi Sad, where there was no trace of his former existence, with the exception of Anna Drentvenšek’s diary.

  21

  May 4, 1935

  With God’s help.

  May 6

  For Orthodox Serbs today is a holiday. Only four lessons, so more time for rest and reflection. I don’t feel too well, a slight fever as usual. Still, I have decided, though not for the first time, to begin my diary today. Perhaps these words will bring me consolation when all this is done, when youth has passed—a youth I can still feel sometimes coursing through my veins, but sometimes it seems that the thread of life is getting thinner. If it breaks, no one will shed a tear over me. A coldness in the depths of my heart, like ice. God in Heaven, send the sun to shine into my weary heart. My life until now has been a deception. If only I could lay down my weary, tormented head to rest. But where? Beside Kleinchen? Dear, sweet Kleinchen, I have found you again, only to realize that I will never obtain what I desire. I think of you day in, day out. I can’t wait for the day you will come—soon, soon. Today is the 6th. A few hours of happiness then, when everything around me turns to brightness. But never over the line! No, I must remain virtuous, for your sake and for my sake! You, you, is the cry inside me. In a short while I’ll see you—only to suffer again afterward. You! You!

  May 16

  Disappointment again. No Kleinchen, though I was sure he would come. A night full of sadness. My heart was in pain. My life—what emptiness! How awful it is to be awake in the middle of the night! I feel that I have lost something precious, though I never truly possessed it. You! You! How am I to get over you?

  I have my work. My work will help me to survive. Why can’t I find what my weary soul has been seeking all these years? To be kind, kind to everyone, particularly to him! But he was noble, and could behave no other way. How he kissed, how he held me, without asking for what every man wants! If only I could see him, see his dear, intelligent eyes! Hard days of struggle lie before me. But God is with me.

  May 18

  Gloom, gloom! Yesterday I waited, today I hoped—for a word at least. Now I have given up hope. He could have written a letter, a note. Kleinchen, I don’t reproach you, because I love you! I would give my life to see you! No, I mustn’t despair. I knew this would happen. I must be strong, that’s all. But I feel so weak!

  The school year is nearly over. Soon I’ll be free. Then I intend to recover—if I can. Go off somewhere and forget. Where, I don’t know. Victor Hugo said poverty makes a hole in the heart and places hate there. But I won’t hate you. May God help me to forget! But it’s so hard. I love him. My heart is filled with pain.

  May 19

  Today I feel unwell. Yesterday I worked hard, but the worst of the pain is over. Kleinchen was here. Asked for me. Unfortunately, I was out. It doesn’t matter, for now I know he doesn’t despise me, that he will come again. I would love to see him! Or is that a lie? Ah, the plant has put down deep roots.

  May 22

  Today Kleinchen was supposed to come here, he promised. Now it’s eight o’clock, the bells are ringing—no sign of him. Kleinchen, why did you not keep your promise?

  If only God had made me tougher. Why must I be so sensitive? Why must I suffer like this? God in heaven, give me the strength to forget. Kleinchen, my heart weeps.

  Sunday, June 2, 1935

  For a few days I stopped writing. I felt wretched in mind and body. Next week I’ll see a doctor. I must. God only knows what will happen to me. Let no ill befall me, let me carry out what I have planned. Now there are only a few lessons to give, but I am weary, terribly weary. I’m afraid of the day that is drawing near. . . . Why did I choose that day? Thirteen is an unlucky number, but I will not give in to that. The 13th will certainly open up old wounds. God, I wish for only one thing—to know what he thinks of me. Almighty God, do not abandon me.

  The summer holidays are near. How will I spend them? I would like to see my native region, press my wounded heart against the cold tomb, on my knees pray to the dear Mother of God, to pray endlessly. I would like to see the ocean, travel, travel to forget. I know there are great struggles ahead of me. The struggle for my daily bread. The struggle with my heart. The struggle with death. If I could weep aloud just once. A weight on my chest. I don’t know for sure what it is. Loss, worry, everything chokes me. Father, dear Father in Heaven, give peace to my weary soul. Heavenly Father, don’t let me be ill. Hear my prayer.

  June 11

  Whitsun passed without joy. I hoped that I would receive some token of remembrance from Kleinchen, a greeting, as for Easter, but nothing. Often my eyes fill with tears, because, in addition to everything, I must keep my promise. I swore on my own health that I would not call him again—but it has to be. The 13th draws near, one more day, and then, God willing, I start my journey. I must go away, collect my thoughts, rest. On my journey I will learn much, I will visit all the places I loved—visit them for the last time. It will be autumn soon. But the hardest thing is my heart. It yearns, suffers, poor empty heart. I would like to have my own home, someone to understand me. Dear God in Heaven, be with me. Let me be good and worthy.

  Ten more days of teaching.

  Dear, dear Kleinchen, may God bless you and give you happiness. I wish you that with all my heart.

  June 13

  Tonight I dreamed of you, Kleinchen, you were with me, I was in your arms, and I wondered, dreaming, if the dream was true. When I woke up, my arms were empty. Dearest one, come today; today is the 13th.

  No, you won’t come. You won’t come, however much I want you.

  Today many difficult hours are ahead of me.

  June 13

  It’s nine o’clock in the evening, the bell announces the time and also the end of my dream. Laying my desire to rest in the grave. Kleinchen, dearest one, farewell. Farewell forever, and may God bless you and with you all those dear to you. I can’t, I won’t, be angry with you, because it’s not your fault. Lord, miraculous, invisible Force that directs and rules us all, do not abandon me! Give me consolation, take pity on me! Grant my wish and give me peace, rest. Kleinchen, I write this with my heart’s blood.

  June 26

  I haven’t written anything for thirteen days. And what was there to write? My heart is a throbbing wound. I have conquered, but I cannot forget. As I leave, Almighty God, help me! I will visit my father’s grave, but also want to do something for my health. Whenever I take up this book, my eyes fill with tears. I did what I swore to do, but God, how empty my life is.

  July 5

  The fifth day of my travels. I’m here at Kustošija, at Klara’s. They are both good people, but I’m afraid of being a burden to them. I still feel terrible. I can find no peace. I would gladly continue on my way without a pause. God in heaven, be with me. There’s a bitterness in me, as if I hated everyone. Heavenly God, hear my prayer, you know what would bring me tranquillity.

  July 14

  When I began my travels, I thought that I would write something every day in this little book, but things have turned out differently. I’m tired
, I sleep a great deal, and that is for the best. To sleep and not feel anything. I haven’t gone to a doctor yet, afraid of finding out the truth. This week I must go back, unspeakably difficult for me, but I must. For the last time my eyes will take in all the dear places where I was once happy— but also terribly unhappy. Almighty God in Heaven, do not abandon me!

  August 11

  It’s almost a month since I jotted anything down, yet so much has happened. The first thing was that I went to a doctor and, thank God, he gave me a favorable diagnosis. He told me that he wished all his women patients were as healthy as I was, and assured me that I was in no danger. With that illness, he said, you can live a hundred years. And then: Be brave; when you feel the pain, come to Kárpáti. And walk, walk a great deal, move around a lot, and, most of all: love. That’s what the kind little doctor said. I like thinking of him, of his soft eyes. How charming, the way he hurriedly lowered them when I looked at him. He said: Women don’t find understanding in men, which generates neurosis, and neurosis, in turn, generates all sorts of illnesses. He was right. I will follow his advice, and I’m so grateful to him—and glad that he found pleasure in looking at me.

  And now—Egon.

  Egon, little Egon, handsome you are not, but there is something about you that excites. You’re not honest, not sincere, but what does that matter: you kiss well. Passionately. I love your kisses. You want to drink the glass to the bottom, but it didn’t work out for you. Be my friend; a friend is what I want, nothing more. Nothing more, because I saw into you, saw through you— poor little fool. But it was good. I had several fine hours with you, I won’t forget them. You made promises and swore by many things, but it was all deception. Silly little Egon.

  I’m over it. Yesterday I suffered, today I’m singing. But in the depths of my soul, God only knows. Now off to the theater.