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.