Aleksandar Tisma - The Book of Blam

From time to time the door opened, and a new person was pushed in by an unseen hand or entered reluctantly on his own. He would look around and either find someone he knew or remain standing by himself, but after switching from foot to foot for a while, he would eventually be humbled enough to find a place on the floor. The short autumn day soon came to an end, and since there were no lights and space was so tight, people started bumping into one another and quarrels broke out. The air grew heavy, and an irritated voice asked for a window to be opened, but when people sitting near the window tried to open it, it turned out to be nailed shut. Others went to the door to ask permission to go to the toilet. No one seemed to pay attention to them, but after a long while a guard opened the door and shoved in an old bucket. The pilgrimage that ensued cost many their places on the floor, but indignation was to no avail. No food or drink came, and no one thought of asking for any. Popadić held off going to the bucket until evening, when the stench reached even his spot near the window. By then people were stretched out — some drowsing, others merely exhausted from the ordeal — and he had a hard time making his way there and back. He returned to find Uzunović in a heap, his mouth wide open, sound asleep. Popadić crawled over to the wall next to him, thrust his hat under his neck for a pillow, leaned back, and soon dozed off himself.

He was awakened by a commotion at the door. It was open, and a ray of light from a giant battery-powered light cut through the darkness. Behind it he could make out a tall, broad-shouldered partisan in a well-preserved German uniform shouting, “Silence!” though there was nothing but a low, sleepy buzz of voices in the room.

“If I call your name, go out into the corridor,” the partisan said in his resonant voice, enunciating each syllable. “Do you understand? Only if I call your name. Nobody else.”

He lifted a piece of paper to the light and started reading names. He called out each name loudly and clearly, then repeated it softly, as if to himself, until someone pulled himself up from the crowd and pushed his way over to him, past his massive body, which all but blocked the doorway, and out into the corridor. After the partisan had read about fifteen names, he lowered the paper and the light and left with no explanation. The door closed behind him; the key turned in the lock.

Questions like Who? Why? How? surged from the lips of those left behind, because they all tried to guess from the names on the list what was in store for them. Their speculations were cut short, however, by a voice in the dark warning them to hold their tongues, and as they slowly, begrudgingly complied, they heard a motor revving up outside. “They’re taking them away,” someone muttered, expressing aloud what they were all thinking. It was the last comment of the night. The noise of the motor had made it clear that their fates were being decided not here but in a place they could not see, could not know, could not even fathom. All they could do was whisper their lamentations and final messages to one another. Some who had been particularly uncomfortable tried to find better spots for themselves; others stretched out again. Popadić remained against the wall, smoking.

That night, three lists were read. Uzunović and Popadić were in the third. After squeezing past the partisan in the German uniform, they were immediately seized and shoved roughly against the wall by young, sweaty soldiers. When the partisan had finished reading the names, he counted the men and shouted, “Right face!” The soldiers hurried them out one by one into the courtyard, which was pitch black except for an occasional flash from the partisan’s light, and over to a truck whose back gate was down. Two soldiers hoisted them up and jumped in themselves, and someone on the ground pushed the gate back in place and fastened it with chains. Then the truck gave a rumble and jerked into motion, making a broad circle.

Popadić wound up in the middle of the truck, and all he could see over the heads of his companions and from under the tarpaulin was a cloudy night sky without a single star. He had no idea where the truck was going, particularly as its headlights were off and it kept changing direction. Finally it slowed down and began to bounce through a series of potholes that sent its human load rolling across the wooden floor. The soldiers rattled their guns and ordered their charges back to their seats. Then it stopped, and the motor fell silent. There were voices outside, people calling to one another. The chains were undone, and the gate fell with a bang. The soldiers jumped out and ordered everyone to follow. The prisoners were surrounded by another group of soldiers — six, all with guns over their shoulders — then forced into a column, two by two, and pushed past the truck through a thicket.

It was perfectly still except for the swish of their footsteps in the wet grass and the rasp of their breath, heavy from running. The air around them was motionless, and the trees stood out clearly against the dark gray of the sky. Then there were fewer trees and the column came out on a small clearing just as the horizon turned white and the first rays of the morning sun pierced the woods beyond and fell on the finely rippled surface of a broad body of water. They realized they were on a bank of the Danube. The soldiers called them to a halt. All around, the prisoners heard branches cracking, saw shadows flitting and human figures stirring among the trees. The soldiers in the escort left them in the middle of the clearing, moved back to the trees, and unslung their rifles. A man emerged from the shadows behind them, a short, thin man dragging his right foot and holding a double-barreled gun like a hunter. He went up to the column and waved the first two men forward a step, and when they complied he raised his gun and fired twice in a row. The men fell to the ground, moaning. Then he pulled the bolt back, and the cartridge cases fell out.

“Who wants to be next?” he asked in a high voice.

The light was growing stronger, coloring faces and clothing, and it was obvious by now that the man with the double-barreled rifle was very young, his chin smooth, his round, pug-nosed face the face of a child, though disfigured by a bright red scar that stretched from the left ear to the middle of the chin and had not quite healed. Limping along the column, he stopped at Popadić and cried out in his singsong voice, “Well, well! What have we here? A real gentleman! Who might you be?”

Popadić gave his name.

“And how many Communists did you shoot?” asked the young man in a low voice, as if confidentially.

“None,” Popadić answered.

“None, you say. But you lived it up while we died, you dog!”

His voice cracked, and he raised his arm and knocked the hat off Popadić’s head.

“Step forward!”

Popadić stepped out of the column.

“I have a special bullet for pretty boys like you,” he said, and stuck his hand into the pocket of the jacket hanging loose on his sunken boyish chest. After fumbling a little with the pocket, he came out with a long, pointed metal object and thrust it into Popadić’s face.

“Know what this is?”

Popadić shook his head.

“Well, it’s a dumdum bullet, and when I plant it in your wavy locks your own mother won’t recognize you. You understand?”

He hobbled a few steps back, inserted the bullet carefully into his gun, and took aim.

“Mouth open!”

Popadić looked confused.

“Open your mouth, damn you! I’m going to shoot you in the mouth!”

Popadić opened his mouth.

“Wider!”

Popadić opened his mouth as wide as it would go. The young man pulled the trigger. A shot rang out, and Popadić’s head burst apart. Thus pruned, his body stood straight on its legs like a tailor’s dummy for an instant. Then it slumped to the ground.