FICTION

An excerpt from Serbian Novel “In the Shadow of Time”

by Bratislav Todorović

The road that runs along the entire course of the South Morava River is all cratered and intertwines the river, wounded by powerful bombs, full of remains of destroyed bridges. For a long time now, it has been fed up with the meaninglessness of all human things and calmly continues to flow through gentle valleys and steep gorges. It didn’t even know whom to blame for all this, nor whom to complain to, nor whom to ask for help. If it could howl and speak, it could say a lot, but it seems there is no one to listen.

It seemed as if stories from some distant times, mixed with yet another new and unfinished story, were trying to say that it should fall silent. It obediently kept silent and continued to flow, carrying with itself one more bitter truth about the tragic fate of a people.

People descended to its banks to search for suitable places to build temporary bridges and crossings, because it was no longer possible to continue by highway due to the events of those times, which we were witnesses to. They designed, built, and tailored it exactly as their fate was, so misery and wretchedness carried their lives across those improvised bridges and crossings. Serbian ingenuity and skill in adapting to different life conditions once again proved itself, and did not allow the lifeline on Serbia’s palm to be cut off.

The June sun warmed the sorrow and misfortune of my people and managed to chase away the coldness in their souls. On those improvised roads and crossings, people and army pressed together, passing through terrible uncertainty and fearing the future. Columns of people fleeing Kosovo mixed with the convoy of the Serbian army, moving from Bujanovac toward Leskovac. Many continued their journey into uncertainty.

The Morava River was silent, counting the remnants of outdated Serbian artillery scattered along its banks. That proud and divine river served all people, even those vile beings who shamelessly and brazenly destroyed it. It watched mercilessly as a terrible time approached in our lives, and trembled before horrors yet to come.

All those unfortunate people packed into the suitcases of their fates everything they had, fled in tractor trailers and overloaded cars, following the columns of the defeated Serbian army. Bomb-cratered Serbian roads were rarely traveled until then. Along those same roads rolled the harsh Serbian reality. The dreadful face of the final truth pierced into the minds and souls of our bewildered people. Full of despair, it simply didn’t know who to fear — those from the sky or those from the earth. Either way, it was a great, even overwhelming loss for all human hearts.

Souls wandering this land soaked with blood, sweat, and tears, with so many pits and graves, could expect nothing else. It was a land of abysses, tormented by every possible tyrant. It left behind crimes that over time sprouted again from the terrible seeds sown deeply by those villains in its soil.

The charred remains of the struck train and bridges in Grdelica stood eerily as a monument and warning to someone’s sick hatred, arrogance, stubbornness, blindness, and foolishness.

The Morava bravely bore all this on its shoulders, flowed onward, and carried the tragic truth to the Danube. Behind it remained only horror and pity.

At city entrances spread the smell of mud and bursts of gunfire brought by soldiers returning from recent wartime events. They greeted this forced peace and forced joy of all who survived it. Few people could truly feel that hope given to them.

A just-finished criminal war awaited a vengeful one, to take the helm in ghostly hands for a new one. The danger of the handover was felt in the air. Fear crept into the souls of the wounded who, with the end of hostilities, felt at least a semblance of joy. Their gloomy cities awaited them, caring little about them.

They lived their own new lives as circumstances demanded, watching suspiciously for new inhabitants and remaining old residents. The city, into which the defeated army was returning from the battlefield, was slowly and surely changing its face.

Sorrow, partly mixed with deceptive joy, misery, and grief kept the people cautious so they would not fall even further.

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