The Great War. Aleksandar Gatalica

anyone leave my place for the unlit streets without a guiding light, be he tipsy or dead-drunk. Now, if you’re asking about the major, I’d say he was a nasty fellow: the wars had made him coarse, he was blind with the desire for promotion and had turned his back on his native land, but not before his endless frenzy had cast a pall on his neighbours. The army was his morning and his evening. He drilled his soldiers hard and drove the draught animals to their limits: he whipped horses until they foamed at the mouth, and muscle-bound bulls would tremble when he harnessed them into a team and made them haul a battery to the River Drina. The army was dead scared of him. Granted, he was even-handed, but talk about a hothead, talk about a brute. He broke a soldier’s arm or leg every week with his blows. I don’t know any more than that. Yes, he dropped in here on that last day of peace in July before the accursed Austrians attacked us. What did he do? He drank, sir, and we don’t know anything more than that. After all, I’m a respectable man and publican. When they introduced the tax on music, I said: I’ll pay in person for a big band and won’t take a penny off the street musicians’ baksheesh. That’s the kind of man I am.’

      There’s going to be war again. A great war. These words of the major’s were well known to the owner of Shabac’s café Amerika, whom some call Munya. And now Munya, a perpetually overtired man with a puffy face and dark circles under his eyes, finally told the whole story about Major Tihomir Miyushkovich. He took what little is known from café Casino, added the strawy substance with a shine from the Nine Posts, daubed the straw with soil and breathed life into it after what he heard in his café, Amerika. ‘Yes, I remember the major and that decisive day in his life. It was Tuesday, 29 July 1914 by our calendar. It was the last day of peace for many: for us publicans, for our guests, for Shabac and for Serbia. You know, there are some people who sail through the decades and arrive, crying or laughing, at end of their life — and then founder on that last, quiet day. The major’s whole life passed in front of him in one day, in one afternoon, even. That’s what happened to him, from what I’ve heard and what I personally saw. You say he was hot-headed? That he thrashed the draught animals and belted the men? Maybe he did. They say that the army was his morning and the troops were his evening. For sure, there are officers like that. But between the morning and the evening the sun comes out and God draws it across the sky. The major’s sun was his wife Ruzha. She washed him, she ironed him. She moved with him time and time again, from headquarters to command post, from hilltop to outpost, until they finally settled down in Shabac two years before the wars began. He was promoted to major and became commanding officer of the 2 Battalion of the Combined Drina Reserve Division, and she became the major’s wife. Everything was easier in town, and when the washing, sewing and shopping was done the major’s wife had a lot more time. But she didn’t use it for herself. She didn’t go out or dress showily. She didn’t make eyes at anyone — until that last day.

      ‘The war must have had a part in that, sir. On the fated day, the major first went to café Casino. I’m surprised that Kosta, the owner, doesn’t remember, because I know that Ruzha went there the first time and asked the major for his ring. “Your fingers have got thicker, Tiho,” she said to him, “the ring is galling you. Let me have it widened so it doesn’t rub and hurt when war comes again.” I’m surprised Kosta didn’t hear that, but I know the major was already quite drunk and sent her away without giving her the ring. Later in the afternoon, when he was well under the influence, he went to the Nine Posts. Soon after he’d gone in, Ruzha turned up at the door there too. She didn’t berate her husband for drinking or insist on taking him home. She knew as well as he did that war would come the next day and flatten anything that was less than sturdy. It was just the ring she wanted. She wanted to have it widened here at a craftsman’s, who was a Vlach. She just needed the ring for an hour or two. No longer. The major didn’t give her the ring or take it off his finger, but he hugged his Ruzha. He gave her the tenderest of kisses, even though behind those lips stood the sharp teeth and the voice which the army feared like the plague. And as he fondled her flaxen hair she just repeated: the ring, the ring.

      ‘He had her thrown out. Soon the musicians dashed in and wanted to sing a little more so that people would get teary. They claimed they were from the famous Cicvarich family of performers, which of course was a lie. They started to sing, and the major sang with them. He sang “Shabac Girl”, “When the Nightingale Calls” and “I Sold My Horse Blackie”, and he drank and drank like the parched earth, and still he hadn’t had enough. He paid for the music and went out into the street, his shirt half open and his hair ruffled. He staggered but didn’t fall — he took care not to dirty his uniform because it was sacred to him. As he lurched along, he cursed and swore. He was angry, sir, but at whom? a white-hot fury flashed from his eyes but couldn’t burn anyone now except himself. He came into my café, ordered more blood-red wine. He asked where the music was. The door opened, but it wasn’t a band pretending to be descendants of the Cicvarichs, but Ruzha again. She didn’t ask for the ring now but took it off her drunken husband herself. She said she’d bring it back after he’d had another drink or two. To take it to the Vlach, an excellent craftsman, just to have it widened a little. And she repeated: “The Vlach, an excellent craftsman, just to have it widened a little . . . have it widened . . . widened . . . ”.

      ‘And so she went, like a harbinger of doom. Afterwards we learnt that a fickle-minded young officer was passing through Shabac, a child of rich parents. He wore an elegant, grey-blue reserve officer’s uniform; one to be worn every day, not one to die in. He was driving to the front in his father’s open car and I don’t know how he noticed Ruzha, the major’s wife. One glance beyond the limousine’s footboard was enough. He invited her to get in and took her for a drive around Shabac. They went into a wood by the River Sava and tossed a friendly salute to every guard, while he kept saying that forests always reminded him of Beethoven’s Pastoral Symphony, which beautifully imitates the chirping of birds! What birds, you may ask? War was drawing close, and that rake wanted a woman for one afternoon. Ruzha, like a moth drawn to a fatal flame, probably wanted to kiss one last time. After returning from “Beethoven’s forest” he promised her his estate, a title and money; he told her stories about leaving Serbia and escaping the war. He promised her a flight to freedom . . . but she wasn’t free; she was still someone’s wife. The cavalier in the ironed coat persisted, and the last bastion of the major’s wife’s repute soon crumbled. Finally she saw the pledge of fidelity — her entire former life — as being embodied in her wedding ring, which she now took off and flung into the Sava as they spoke. Now there was only the major’s ring left, that anchor and her last fetter.’

      ‘The adulteress had been to café Casino, but the major had had her thrown out. Then she went to the Nine Posts, but still she didn’t get the pledge of her fidelity. They say that she and her new flame — the seducer and the moth — drove along behind the major quietly, in second gear so he wouldn’t hear them, to see which café he’d go into next. So when he came in here, like I said, Ruzha came in after him. She no longer begged him now. She took the ring. I went after her and saw her get into a big car. She giggled and tossed back her open, sandy-blond hair. Later I heard she also threw the major’s ring into the river before driving away to the south. When some guys came running into the café and said “The major’s wife threw the ring in the river!”, the major sobered up in the blink of an eye. Not a trace of wine remained on his face. Like an orderly soldier, he looked first of all at his uniform. He smoothed it out with his hands, tightened his belt and tucked his trouser legs into the top of his boots. He called the servant boy to bring some shoe polish, and while the boy was shining his boots he rested his fingers together. He didn’t look at anyone and didn’t ask anything. The boy finished. “How much do I owe you, Munya?” he asked and paid the bill. “July is almost over, and in August we’ll be going to war,” he said and went out through the café’s garden. You know the rest.’

      History knows the rest, too. The second last day of July came. It was a hot day. The wheat had been harvested, but the corn stood horseman-high in the fields. On Wednesday, 30 July by the old calendar and 12 August by the new, Austria-Hungary’s Balkan army was set in motion across the choppy River Drina and through the tall corn which almost overarched it that year.

      The Great War had begun.

      The Austro-Hungarian 5th Army under the command of General Frank attacked across the Drina along the