Uncle Krsto

It was late spring in 1917. Seventy-five-year-old Krsto tapped a stick on the chapped, heavy door of Staniya's home. Krsto was a tall, skinny man, slightly curved with broad shoulders and a big, loose, grizzled mustache. A large, aquiline nose and thick eyebrows, which towered over his eyes, revealed the rough look of a highlander from Montenegro's karsts. In fact he was a good-natured old man, despite being crushed by poverty, impoverishment, bitter hardships, and hard farmwork.

When he moved from Montenegro to Toplica, he was about forty years old and still unmarried. Upon arrival at Bechov Karst (Beov Krs), he found several families from his old countryside. He quickly became a close friend to them. In a small dell below Bechov Karst, he built a wooden hut with only one room. He plastered it with mud and covered it with beech boards he cut, carved, and processed to make it waterproof.

In the middle of the hut, he placed a sizable number of flat stones to make into his new home's fireplace. Between the beams above the fireplace, he positioned a strong pole made from a cer tree, on which he hung large chains (verige) to hold cooking dishes he brought from Montenegro.

Around Uncle Krsto's hut was dense forest on all sides, from which a small island peeped. There had been many stories and legends about this karst. It was told that, on the night of a full moon, fires and evil spirits were jumping around it, dropping various sounds, playing some unknown instruments, and calling some of the settlers' names. Some talked about how they witnessed a vision of red silk, which fell from the top down and behind tree branches, before sunset. Others claimed they listened to a crying child around midnight. Yet others said they watched kids jumping and moving across the karst in the moonlight and listened to the bleating and scratching of claws on the rocks.

Although he had heard all these stories about Bechov Karst, Uncle Krsto decided to settle right there under the karst to build his wooden hut. No one knew what guided him to become a neighbor of the unholy, but after his hut emerged, no one at Bechov Karst noticed anything unusual any longer.

The new neighbor of Bechov Karst soon married a beautiful, dark-haired woman named Lucia, who soon bore him a son, Masho, and another child, a girl who soon died afterward of smallpox. Masho grew and developed into a burly guy. He was as tall as his father was, and black curly hair and a thin, black mustache adorned his head. Lucia died when he was sixteen years old, and since then they had no female in the house.

Masho married Miruna right after the family gave Lucia the first-year commemoration after her death. Young Miruna bore a son to Masho, Dyoko, who was only five years old when Masho hung a colorful wool bag on his shoulder, embraced a Turkish shooting rifle, and headed to Merdare with uncertainty to join the Serbo-Turkish war. Uncle Krsto stayed with his daughter-in-law Miruna and grandson Dyoko.

Staniya, a small, dark-haired woman from the city of Pech in Metohia, was about twenty-five years old when the Turkish War broke out and Stevan went with the others to Merdare to join the Serbian fighters. She was left with three small children, of whom the eldest was five and the youngest was just a year old.

Staniya looked over the house and nursed the children, and she never complained of loneliness or adversity. She attended to all male affairs: plowing, harvesting the crops, turning the heavy grindstone wheel, milling flower, cutting wood for fires, carrying wood on her backside, and feeding dozens of red goats and a cow. She was eloquent and open as well as free and brave. And above all, she had good character, always cheerful and smiling, and she was a loyal wife and mother. She had a small body, and she was attractive and beautifully built.

Staniya jumped up and opened the door, and she was pleasantly surprised when she saw the old man, Uncle Krsto.

"God help you, young woman," said Krsto with a gentle smile.

"God bless you, Uncle Krsto. Come sit and relax." Staniya moved aside from the door to allow the man to enter.

Uncle Krsto entered, put his stick against the wall, and sat down in a small tripod chair that Staniya passed to him. He pulled a smoking pipe made of clay from his pocket, and he filled it with tobacco. Staniya carefully held a piece of ember to help Uncle Krsto light the tobacco. The man pulled two to three puffs, and blue smoke and the stench of mold and nicotine filled the room. Staniya flung open the door and placed another tripod chair against it so it would not close.

Outside was a summer day. The sun baked the land as if it were August, although it was only the end of June. A large, thin dog was gasping with his tongue hanging out, defending himself from aggressive flies that had been savagely attacking his eyes and mouth. Chickens were almost collapsing from thirst as they revolved around the empty tap made of a piece of oak tree that formerly served to feed pigs. The chickens clumsily excavated remainders of food and liquid.

"How are you, Staniya? How are the kids?" The man crossed his left leg over his right knee.

"Praise God, Uncle, we're alive and there's still something to eat. God forbid it get worse, but we will manage to make it another day. How are you, old man? Did you hear anything from Masho?"

"I do not know anything, Staniya. I was told he survived Albania and typhoid, and now he is somewhere in Thessaloniki with the Allied armies. Something is being prepared there, but only God knows what and how."

"Let's just hope in God's name that he is alive and healthy back there. We are used to suffering around here already. If it weren't for those Bulgarian dogs, we would somehow be all right, but we are in constant fear and uncertainty because of them. And it seems that time is not passing by quickly enough. I heard they ravaged Racha; even women were not left in peace." She raised a coffee pot from the stove, poured a cup of hot liquid made from barley, and gave it to Uncle Krsto. "Take the cup, old man. It's from barley, but we got used to it. It's good when there is no real coffee."

"Oh, thank you, my dear Staniya. I have not had a cup of it for more than ten days. There is no sugar, and nowhere can it be obtained around here, even if we had a lot of money to pay for it. No one can even go buy it in Koorshoomliya. It's too far to go there in this hot, terrible weather."

The dog in the yard violently jerked a rusty chain and grunted.

Staniya ran to the door and then immediately turned and whispered, "A Chetnick!"

"What kind of Chetnick at this time?" muttered Uncle Krsto, as if he were saying it to himself. He stood up and leaned against the doorframe.

A well-built man on a horse approached the gate of Staniya's yard. His small horse was typical for those seen in the mountainous regions in Serbia. The tall and broad-shouldered man might have been about twenty-five years old. The sun and wind had tanned him. He had a thin, black mustache and black curly hair, which he had carelessly pushed under a tilted fur hat, which presented him as more handsome and imposing.

He wore a pinstriped peasant suit, still in good condition, and short leather boots, above which Serbian woolen embroidered socks could be seen. Below the open-necked short coat were crossed bandoliers of ammunition. A short Serbian cavalry carbine was hanging over his left shoulder, and a Montenegrin revolver was positioned under his belt.

He directed the horse through the open gate and walked to the door of the house. "God bless you, good people," he greeted.

"May God give you all the best, young man," Staniya and Uncle Krsto answered as if with one voice.

"Come. Sit down and have a rest," said Uncle Krsto in a hoarse voice. "Tell me what good news you are bringing to us today. I hope you have something good to tell us, my son."

"I have, and I do not," answered the man. "Kosta Pechanac raised us against the Bulgarians, and we very well smashed our heads against the hard wall and are perishing like hunted rabbits. Many of the enemy soldiers perished; however, a lot of us died too."

"And what happened with Kosta?" the old man asked, keen to know. "I hope he continues his fight against the evil dogs."

"He is somewhere wandering around the Radan Mountains, and he hides like a coward. He is planning something, but no one is there to support him. The Bulgarians are searching for him, but the old fox remains artfully hidden. He wants to raise a major revolt with a handful of people against so many foreign forces, and many of our innocent people died."

The Chetnick pulled a small pouch of tobacco from his pocket, tailored a cigarette in a piece of yellow paper, and offered the pouch to the old man. "Take it, Uncle. It's from our homeland, the city of Vranje."

"Thank you, my son." The old man extended his hand toward the tobacco pouch. "Where are you from, my son?"

"Yablanica (Jablanica), Uncle. I am the son of a forester Milosh (Milos), if you've heard of him. He was a forester, and he often crisscrossed this region. You should know him. My name is Sreten."

"Milosh foresters?" muttered the old man. "I used to know Milosh very well. He was a good man, like no other. But I heard that lightning killed him?"

"That's right, Uncle. He was harvesting in the field, and a storm came along. He hid under an old oak, and lighting snapped in the midst of it. The man was destroyed in a flash, as if he never existed."

"God rest his soul." Tears filled the old man's eyes.

"Come on. I will get a little something ready for lunch. You must be hungry?" asked Staniya, who was until that moment silently observing the strange man and listening to the conversation.

"Thank you, ma'am, but I have to hurry. I have some urgent business in Vaseeljevic (Vasiljevac) to attend to, and I'm going to eat something there. But we got into this talk, and the time does not wait. I have to move on. Good-bye and God bless you."

"Good-bye, my son, and may God take care of you," Uncle Krsto said in a sad voice.

"Good-bye and have a pleasant time," Staniya added.

The man nudged the horse with his boots and soon sank into the woods via a narrow, winding path. Uncle Krsto took his stuff and said good-bye to Staniya. Taking difficult, uncertain steps, he walked in the direction of Bechov Karst.

War and Toplica's Uprising

Sometime in the second half of the nineteenth century, Serbs from Serbia and Montenegro settled regions east of the then-Turkish border and the region of Kosovo and Metohia. Then emerged border villages, including Pravitica, Matarova, Merdare, Vaseechevac (Vasicevac), Cat's Rock (Macja Stena), Trpeze, Prekorodye (Prekoroe), Dobry Do (Dobri Do), and others. Colonization was followed by an agreement of the Serbian and Montenegrin governments in order to block penetration of the Turks from Kosovo on Serbian territory, which had recently been liberated after nearly five hundred years of Ottoman occupation.

Residing in the mountainous areas covered with high, dense, and old forests of oaks, beech, and other trees, these settlers, facing poverty, were exposed to various hardships, sufferings, misery, and difficulties. It was necessary to cut and clear the century-old mountain forest, creating scarce fields for planting crops, primitive huts, or house chalets, usually covered with rye straw, wooden tiles, or leaves of fern. The little livestock of animals they had, often brought from the old homelands in Montenegro and Western Serbia, was exposed to frequent slaughter by many wild beasts from these huge forests around them.

People were keeping almost as many dogs as sheep in fenced houses with high fences and sharpened poles. And on the back side lay various traps and pits to capture beasts, but the results were more or less negligible.

Over time people beat nature's forces. Fields and meadows were growing; forests were being narrowed. Here and there sprouted cabins and huts plastered with mud, mixed with wheat chaff, and then painted with white lime (processed limestone). Rarely some houses with red roof tiles could be seen. The square windows were so small that a human head could barely squeeze through. They were glazed with everything, just not real glass. In many places there was no window glass. Sometimes stretched kid or lamb skin, which had previously been scraped or shaved, closed these windows.

These huts were often torched and burned to the ground, causing such fiery flames that could not be quenched. Houses were built on isolated estates, making them quite distant from one another, preventing people from quickly helping each other in cases of emergency.

The life of these settlers was difficult and painful, especially in the initial stages of settlement. They were clearing the forest, plowing with wooden plows or digging witch picks and hoes, and operating grinding mills by hand-turning a heavy rock, in which were scarce grains of corn, barley, wheat, or helda beans. They fought with beasts and interruptions from the other side of the old border.

Crags and vast distance from urban areas and other aspects were further hampering lives of these highlanders. But there were pleasant moments once they had been forgotten life problems. Especially in the winter evenings, the people met at gatherings where they were playing, joking, singing with fiddles, and often remaining so until just before dawn. And during the feast days they met, they were competing in throwing stones from their shoulders, jumping in the long jumps, sport shooting with guns, and performing other knightly games. Shooting here was the most popular sport in which they had experience since childhood.

A difficult life, conquest of the nature, and a spectrum of other problems tempered and strengthened these people from early childhood. Difficult mountain winters, huge snow and fog, and swollen streams and rivers did not break their spirit, morale, pride, and desire to remain and forever settle on the lean mountainous country land, often timidly carried by rains, swollen creeks, and rivers.

The Serbian population from the Kosovo and Metohia (occupied by Turkey in those days prior to the Balkan Wars) often shifted across the border to the Serbian side to cry and complain of the Turkish oppression and check if they would soon receive any material or military help. Toplica's people always fraternally welcomed these people, feasted, and promised they had not forgotten them. But times had passed, and everything remained the same. Turks and Arnauts (Albanians) were penetrating Serbian territory, and Serbs were on the Turkish side as well. Both were looting cattle, killing, and robbing each other, and so from day to day, that created and deepened the growing hostility.

As 1912 arrived, along the border, especially in Merdare, rumbled the famous Serbo-Turkish War, or First Balkan War. At night the flames of cannons and grenades tore the sky. Women loaded with stuff were rushing to the border, carrying food, clothes, and other necessities to their fathers, husbands, and sons. The dogs were sadly howling; the ravens were croaking and hurrying on fresh human corpses. Children and the elderly stayed on the high ridges at night, hearing terrible roars of the war and watching flame of grenades and burning buildings at the border and further away from it.

The Turkish Empire, torn apart by red tape bureaucracy and long wars, had not been able to seriously resist the resentful Serbian warriors. The Turkish army retreated, giving less resistance here and there, and it was soon expelled from Kosovo and Metohia. The war soon spread into Macedonia and Southeastern Serbia, resulting in the Serbo-Bulgarian War, or Second Balkan War. And right after that, the Great War (or First World War, as it is known today) began.

Overpowered by Austro-Hungarian and Bulgarian armies, the Serbian troops retreated via Albania down to the Greek island of Corfu. And they later established the front line with the aid of allies from the Adriatic Sea in Albania to the northeastern parts of Greece in Macedonia near the Greek city of Tessaloniki. That front line became known as the famous Salonika Front.

In the border villages in Toplica remained women, old men, and children. Thin, steep, small farm fields remained uncultivated and deserted. Supplies of livestock were approaching the end, and soon total hunger appeared in this area. Frequent incursions of Arnaut gangs from Kosovo, Bulgarian irregulars known as Komite, and regular Bulgarian army, which occupied Toplica, slayed those few cattle and sheep left.

Serbian army deserters represented another kind of danger. These self-proclaimed guerilla fighters did not have anything in common with Serbian Chetnicks. The Chetnicks were genuinely resisting the occupiers, while the deserters were bandits who were cleverly finding, stealing, and hiding buried valuables and weapons, looting from abandoned houses, slaughtering (usually sheep and pigs), and performing various other crimes. People feared and hid from those bandits.