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bloodlust. All that took place still had the outer semblance of dignity and the

  attraction of novelty, a terrible, shortlived and inexpressible charm which later

  disappearedsocompletelythateventhosewhothenfeltitsostronglycouldno

  longerevokeitsmemory.

  But these are all things which we recall only in passing and which poets and

  scientistsofcomingageswillinvestigate,interpretandresurrectbymethodsand

  mannerswhichwedonotsuspectandwithaserenity,freedomandboldnessof

  spirit which will be far above ours. Probably they will succeed in finding an

  explanationevenforthatstrangeyearandwillgiveititstrueplaceinthehistory

  oftheworldandthedevelopmentofhumanity.Buthereitisuniqueforus,for

  aboveallthatwasthefatalyearforthebridgeontheDrina.

  Thesummerof1914willremaininthememoryofthosewholivedthroughitas

  the most beautiful summer they ever remembered, for in their consciousness it

  shoneandflamedoveragiganticanddarkhorizonofsufferingandmisfortune

  whichstretchedintoinfinity.

  That summer did in fact begin well, better than so many earlier summers. The

  plumsripenedastheyhadnotdonefor«longbefore,andthewheatpromiseda

  good harvest. After ten years or so of troubles and commotions, the people

  hopedforatleastalullandagoodyearwhichwouldrecompenseineveryway

  fortheharmsandmisfortunesofearlieryears.(Themostdeplorableandtragic

  ofallhumanweaknessesisundoubtedlyourtotalincapacityforseeingintothe

  future, which is in sharp contrast to so many of our gifts, our skills and our

  knowledge.)

  Sometimesthereissuchayearwhentheheatofthesunandthemoistureofthe

  earthcombine,andthewholeVišegradvalleytremblesfromthesuberabundance

  of its force and the universal urge towards fecundity. The earth swells and

  everythinginitburstsvigorouslyintobudsandleavesandblossomsandbrings

  forthfruitahundredfold.Thatbreathoffertilitycouldeasilybeseenquivering

  likeawarmbluecloudovereveryfurrowandeveryheapofearth.Thecowsand

  goats walked with hindlegs astraddle and moved with difficulty because of

  swollen and brimming udders. The fish in the river which every year at the

  beginningofsummercameinshoalsdowntheRzavtospawnatitsmouthwere

  in such numbers that the children scooped them out of the shallows in buckets

  andthrewthemontothebank.Theporousstoneofthebridgebecamesofterand

  as if it were alive swelled with the force and abundance which beat upwards

  from the soil and hovered over the whole town in the heat of the dog-days in

  whicheverythingbreathedmorequicklyandmaturedmorevigorously.

  SuchsummerswerenotfrequentintheVišegradvalley.Butwhenoneoccurred,

  men forgot all the bad days that had been and did not even think of the

  misfortuneswhichmightstillbeinstore,butlivedwiththethreefoldintensityof

  thelifeofthevalleyuponwhichtheblessingsoffertilityhadfallen,themselves

  onlyapartinthatgameofmoistureandheatandripeningjuices.

  Eventhepeasantswhoalwaysfoundoccasiontocomplainofsomethinghadto

  agreethattheyearhadfruitedwell,buttoeverywordofpraisetheyaddedthe

  qualification:'Ifthisweatherholds....'Themerchantsofthemarketplacethrew

  themselves headlong into business like bees into the cups of flowers. They

  scatteredintothevillagesaroundthetowntomakedepositpaymentsonwheat

  intheearandplumsstillinblossom.Thepeasants,bewilderedbythisinvasion

  ofeagerbuyers,aswellasbythelargeandexceptionalyield,stoodbesidetheir

  fruit trees already bending under the weight of fruit or beside the fields which

  werelikewavesinthewind,andcouldnotbesufficientlyprudentandrestrained

  todealwiththetownsmenwhohadtakenthetroubletocometovisitthem.That

  prudenceandrestraintgavetheirfacesashutteredandanxiousexpression,twin

  ofthatmaskofwoewornbypeasantfacesinyearsofbadharvest.

  When the merchants were rich and powerful, it was the peasants who came to

  them.OnmarketdaystheshopofPavleRankovićwasalwaysfullofpeasantsin

  needofreadymoney.SotoowastheshopofSantoPapowhohadforlongbeen

  theleadingfigureamongtheVišegradJews,forevendespitethefactthatbanks,

  mortgage banks and other credit facilities had long existed in the town, the

  peasants, especially the older ones, liked to commit themselves in the old-

  fashionedwaywiththemerchantsfromwhomtheyboughttheirgoodsandwith

  whomtheirfathersbeforethemhadcontractedobligations.

  SantoPapo'sshopwasoneofthehighestandmostsolidintheVišegradmarket.

  Itwasbuiltofstone,withthickwallsandafloorofstoneflags.Theheavydoors

  andwindow-shutterswereofwroughtironandtherewerethickclosegrilleson

  thetallandnarrowwindows.

  The front part of the building served as a shop. Along the walls were wooden

  shelvesfilledwithenamelware.Fromtheceiling,whichwasexceptionallyhigh,

  sothatitwaslostinthegloom,hunglightergoods:lanternsofallsizes,coffee-

  pots,traps,mouse-trapsandotherobjectsoftwistedwire.Allthesehungingreat

  bunches. Around the long counter were piled boxes of nails, sacks of cement,

  plaster and various paints; hoes, shovels and mattocks without handles were

  strung on wire in heavy garlands. In the corners were large tin containers with

  paraffin, turpentine and lamp-black. It was cool there even in the height of

  summerandevenatnoonwasdarkandgloomy.

  But most of the stock was in the rooms behind the shop, through a low entry

  with iron doors. The heavy goods were kept there: iron stoves, crowbars,

  ploughshares,picksandotherlargetools.Theywereallpiledupingreatheaps

  sothatonecouldonlywalkbetweenthepiledgoodsalongthenarrowpathsasif between high walls. Perpetual darkness reigned there and no one entered save

  withalantern.

  A chill dank air of stone and metal, which nothing could warm or disperse,

  exuded from the thick walls, stone ceiling and piled up iron. That air in a few

  years transformed the lively and red-cheeked apprentices into silent, pale and

  puffy assistants, but made them skilful and thrifty. It was undoubtedly harmful

  alsotothegenerationsofshopkeepersbutitwasatthesametimesweetanddear

  tothemsinceitmeantthefeelingofproperty,thethoughtofgainandthesource

  ofriches.

  Themanwhonowsatinthefrontpartofthecool,half-litshopatasmalltable

  beside a great green Wertheim safe in no way resembled that turbulent and

  vivaciousSantowhohadonce,thirtyyearsbefore,hadhisownspecialwayof

  shouting'RumforOorkan!'.Thepassageofyearsandtheworkintheshophad

  changed him. Now he was heavy and p
onderous and yellow in the face; dark

  rings about his eyes stretched half way down his cheeks; his eyes had grown

  weak, those black and protruding eyes which now peered out from behind

  spectacles with thick lenses and metal rims, with a severe and yet timid

  expression.Hestillworehischerry-colouredfezasalastremnantofhisonetime

  Turkish costume. His father, Mente Papo, a wizened and bald old man in his

  eighties, was still in reasonable health though his sight was failing. He would

  come to the shop on sunny days. With his watery eyes which seemed to be

  meltingawaybehindthickspectacleshewouldlookathissonseatedbythesafe

  andhisgrandsonatthecounter,breatheinthataromaofhisshopandthenreturn

  home at a slow pace, his right hand resting on the shoulder of his ten-year-old

  great-grandson.

  Santo had six daughters and five sons, most of them married. His eldest son,

  Rafo,alreadyhadgrown-upchildrenwhohelpedhisfatherintheshop.Oneof

  Rafo's sons, who bore his grandfather's name, was at the Sarajevo secondary

  school. He was a pale, short-sighted and slender youth who at the age of eight

  had known perfectly how to recite the poems of the patriotic poet Zmaj, but

  otherwisewasnotgoodathisstudies,didnotliketogotothesynagogueorhelp

  in his grandfather's shop during the holidays and said that he was going to

  becomeanactororsomethingequallyfamousandunusual.

  Santo sat bowed over the huge, worn and greasy counter with an alphabetical

  ledger, and in front of him, on an empty nailbox, squatted the peasant Ibro

  ĆemanovićofUzavnica.SantowasreckoninguphowmuchIbroalreadyowed

  him and therefore how much and on what conditions he could obtain a fresh

  loan.

  'Sinquenta, sinquenta i ocho . . . sinquenta i ocho, sesienta i tres . . . ,' Santo whispered,reckoninginLadinoSpanish.

  Thepeasantwatchedhimwithanxiousanticipationasifwatchinganincantation

  and not listening to the account which he already knew to the last para and whichranthroughhisheadevenwhenhewasasleep.WhenSantofinishedand

  announced the amount of the loan with interest, the peasant murmured slowly:

  'Willthatbeso...?'merelytogaintimeenoughtocomparehisownreckoning

  withSanto's.

  'So it is, Ibraga, and in no way different,' replied Santo in the formula time-

  honouredinsuchcases.

  After they had agreed on the state of present indebtedness, the peasant had to

  demandafreshloanandSantotomakeclearthelikelihoodandtheconditions.

  But that was no rapid or easy task. A conversation developed between them,

  similarintheminutestdetailtotheconversationswhich,tenyearsagoormore,

  also before the harvest, had been held in this same spot between the father of

  Ibro from Uzavnica and Santo's father, Mente Papo. The main subject of the

  conversation would be broached in a torrent of words which meant nothing in

  themselvesandwhichseemedentirelysuperfluousandalmostsenseless.Anyone

  uninitiated,lookingatthemandlisteningtothem,mighteasilyhavethoughtthat

  thetalkhadnothingtodowithmoneyoraloan,oratleastsoitoftenappeared.

  'Theplumsarewellforwardandbroughtforthmuchfruitamongstus,evenmore

  than in any other district,' said Santo. 'It has been years since there was such a crop.'

  'Yes, thanks be, they have borne well enough; if Allah permits the weather to

  holdtherewillbefruitandbread.Onecannotdenyit.Onlywhoknowswhatthe

  pricewillbe,'saidtheanxiouspeasant,rubbinghisthumbalongtheseamofhis

  heavygreenclothtrousersandlookingatSantooutofthecornerofhiseye.

  'There is no way of telling that now, but we shall know by the time you bring

  themtoVišegrad.Youknowthesaying;thepriceisintheowner'shands.'

  'Yes, that is so. If Allah allows them to ripen and mature,' the peasant again

  qualified.

  'WithoutGod'swill,naturally,thereisnogatheringnorreaping;howevermuch man looks to what he has sown, it will avail him nothing if he have not God's

  blessing,' broke in Santo, raising his hand to heaven to show whence that

  blessing should come, somewhere high above those heavy blackened rafters of

  the shop from which hung peasant lanterns of all sizes and bundles of other

  goods.

  'Itwillavailnothing,youareright,'sighedIbro.'Amansowsandplantsbutitis

  just as if, by the Great and Only God, he had thrown it all into the water; one digs, hoes, prunes and picks, but no! If it is not so written there will be no

  blessingonit.ButifGoddecidestogiveusagoodharvestthennoonewilllack

  andamanmayclearhimselfofdebtandthenbecomeindebtedoncemore.Only

  lethimkeephishealth!'

  'Ah,yes.Healthisthemainthing.Nothingisasimportantashealth.Soisman's

  life;givehimeverythingandtakehealthfromhimanditisasifheweregiven

  nothing,'affirmedSanto,turningtheconversationinthatdirection.

  Thenthepeasantalsoexpressedhisviewsonhealth,whichwerejustasgeneral

  and commonplace as Santo's. For a moment it seemed as if the whole

  conversationwouldbe lostinfutilities andgeneralizations.But atafavourable

  moment,asifbysomeancientritual,hereturnedtotheopeningquestion.Then

  beganthebargainingforanewloan,overtheamount,theinterest,thetermsand

  the methods of payment. They discussed it for long, now vivaciously, now

  quietly and anxiously, but in the end they came to an agreement. Then Santo

  rose, took a bunch of keys on a chain from his pocket and without removing

  themfromthechain,unlockedthesafewhichbeganbycreaking,openedslowly

  andsolemnlyandthen,likealllargesafes,closedwithafinemetallicnoiselike

  asigh.Hecountedoutthemoneytothepeasant,downtothecopper hellers, all

  withthesamecareandattention,withasolemnitythatseemedalittlesad.Then

  inachangedandmoreanimatedvoice:

  'Well,isthatallrightbyyou,Ibraga?Areyousatisfied?'

  'Yes,byGod,'thepeasantrepliedquietlyandpensively.

  'May God send you blessing and profit! Till we meet again in good health and

  goodfriendship,'saidSanto,nowquitelivelyandgay;andhesenthisgrandson

  tothecaféacrossthewayfortwocoffees,'onebitter,onesweet'..

  Asecondpeasantwasalreadyawaitinghisturninfrontoftheshopboundonthe

  sameerrandandsimilarreckonings.

  With these peasants and their reckoning about the coming harvest and the gathering of the plums, the warm and heavy breath of an exceptionally fruitful

  year penetrated into the twilit gloom of Santo's shop. The green steel safe

  sweated from it and Santo stretched the collar around his fat, soft, yellowish

  neck with his forefinger and wiped t
he steam off his spectacles with a

  handkerchief.

  So didsummerbegin.

  Butnonethelessattheverybeginningofthatyearofblessingtherefellatiny

  shadow of fear and sorrow. In the early spring, at Uvac, a small place on the

  former Turco-Austrian frontier and the new Serbo-Austrian border, a typhus

  epidemicbrokeout.Astheplacewasonthefrontierandtwocaseshadoccurred

  in the gendarmerie station, the Višegrad military doctor, Dr Balas, went there

  with one male nurse and the necessary medicines. The doctor skilfully and

  resolutely did all that was necessary to isolate the sick, and himself undertook

  theirtreatment.Offifteenwhohadbeentakenillonlytwodiedandtheepidemic

  waslimitedtothevillageofUvacandstampedoutatitssource.Thelastmanto

  takeillwasDrBalashimself.Theinexplicablemannerinwhichhehadcaught

  the disease, the shortness of his illness, the unexpected complications and

  suddendeath,allborethestampofgenuinetragedy.

  Because of the danger of infection the young doctor had to be buried at Uvac.

  MadameBauerwithherhusbandandafewotherofficersattendedthefuneral.

  She gave some money for a tombstone of roughly hewn granite to be erected

  over the doctor's grave. Immediately afterwards she left both the town and her

  husbandanditwasrumouredthatshehadgonetosomesanitoriumnearVienna.

  Thiswasthestorycurrentamongthegirlsinthetown;theolderpeople,assoon

  as the danger had passed and the measures against the epidemic ceased, forgot

  boththedoctorandthecolonel'slady.Inexperiencedanduneducated,thetown

  girlsdidnotknowexactlywhatthewordsanatoriummeant,buttheyhadknown

  verywellwhatitmeantwhentwopersonswalkedaboutthepathsandfoothills

  as the doctor and the colonel's wife had done until lately. Pronouncing that

  strangewordintheirconfidentialdis-

  cussionsabouttheunhappypair,theylovedtoimaginethatsanatoriumassome

  sort of mysterious, distant and melancholy place in which beautiful and sinful

  womenexpiatedtheirforbiddenloves.

  Thatexceptionallylovelyandfruitfulsummergrewandmaturedoverthefields