The Bridge on the Drina - PDFDrive.com

by Ivo Andrić

  fearoftheirlivesandinuncertaintyabouttheirproperty,theyweretormentedby

  differinghopesandfearswhich,naturally,theyconcealed.

  As in earlier times during the 'great floods' the older people both among the

  TurksandtheSerbstriedtocheerupthosewiththembyjokesandstories,byan

  affected calm and an artificial serenity. But it seemed that in this sort of

  misfortunetheoldtricksand jokes no longer served, the old stories palled and

  thewitticismslostflavourandmeaning,anditwasaslowandpainfulprocessto

  makenewones.

  Atnighttheycrowdedtogethertosleep,thoughinfactnoonewasabletoclose

  an eye. They spoke in whispers, although they themselves did not know why

  theydidsowheneverymomenttherewasabovetheirheadsthethunderofthe

  guns,nowSerbian,nowAustrian.Theywerefilledwithfearlesttheyshouldbe

  'makingsignalstotheenemy'althoughnooneknewhowsuchsignalscouldbe

  madenorwhattheyinfactmeant.Buttheirfearwassuchthatnooneevendared

  to strike a match. When the men wanted to smoke they shut themselves up in

  suffocating little rooms without windows, or covered their heads with

  counterpanes, and so smoked. The moist heat strangled and throttled them.

  Everyone was bathed in sweat, but all doors were fastened and all windows

  closed and shuttered. The town seemed like some wretch who covers his eyes

  withhishandsandwaitsforblowsfromwhichhecannotdefendhimself.Allthe

  houses seemed like houses of mourning. For whoever wished to remain alive

  hadtobehaveasthoughheweredead;nordidthatalwayshelp.

  In the Moslem houses there was a little more life. Much of the old warlike

  instinctsremainedbuttheyhadbeenawakenedinanevilhour,embarrassedand

  pointlessinfaceofthatduelgoingonovertheirheadsinwhichtheartilleryof

  the two sides, both Christian, were taking part. But there too were great and

  concealed anxieties; there too were misfortunes for which there seemed no

  solution.

  Alihodja's house under the fortress had been turned into a Moslem religious

  school. To the crowd of his own children had been added the nine children of

  MujagaMutapdžić;onlythreeoftheseweregrownupandalltherestsmalland

  weakrangedoneaftertheotherdifferingbyanear.Inordernottohavetowatch

  themortocallthemateverymomentintothecourtyard,theyhadbeenshutup

  withAlihodja'schildreninalargeroomandtheretheirmothersandeldersisters

  dealtwiththemamidacontinualflurryandfusilladeofcries.

  ThisMujagaMutapdžić,knownasthe'manfromUzice',wasarecentcomerto

  the town (we shall see a little later why and how). He was a tall man in his

  fifties, quite grey, with a great hooked nose and heavily lined face; his

  movements were abrupt and military. He seemed older than Alihodja although

  he was in fact ten years younger. He sat in the house with Alihodja, smoked

  incessantly, spoke little and seldom and was wrapped up in his own thoughts

  whoseburdenwasexpressedinhisfaceandhiseverymovement.Hecouldnot

  remain long in any one place. Every so often he would rise and go outside the

  houseandfromthegardenwatchthehillsaroundthetown,onbothsidesofthe

  river. He stood thus with head raised, watching carefully as if for signs of bad

  weather.Alihodja,whoneverallowedhimtoremainalone,triedtokeephimin

  conversationandfollowedhim.

  Inthegarden,whichwasonasteepslopebutwaslargeandbeautiful,thepeace andfecundityofthesummerdaysreigned.Theonionshadalreadybeencutand

  spreadouttodry;thesunflowerswereinfullbloomandaroundtheirblackand

  heavy centres the bees hummed. At the edges the small flowerets had already

  gonetoseed.Fromthatelevatedplaceonecouldseethewholetownspreadout

  belowonthesandyspitoflandbetweenthetworivers,DrinaandRzav,andthe

  garlandofmountainsaround,ofunequalheightandvariedshapes.Onthelevel

  spacearoundthetownandonthesteepfoothillsscrapsandbeltsofripebarley

  alternatedwithareasofstillgreenmaize.Thehousesshonewhiteandtheforests

  that covered the mountains seemed black. The measured cannon fire from the

  two sides seemed like salutes, formal and harmless, so great was the extent of

  theearthandtheskyaboveitintheserenityofthesummerdaywhichhadonly

  justbegun.

  The sight loosened the tongue even of the care-filled Mujaga. He thanked

  Alihodja for his kind words and told him the story of his own life, not that

  the hodja did not already know it, but Mujaga felt that here in the sunlight he couldlessenthetensionthatgrippedandstrangledhim.Hefeltthathisfatewas

  beingdecidedhereandnowonthissummer'sdaybyeveryroarofthegunsfrom

  onesideortheother.

  HehadbeennotquitefiveyearsoldwhentheTurkshadhadtoleavetheSerbian

  towns.TheOsmanlishadleftforTurkeybuthisfather,SulagaMutapdžić,stilla

  young man, but already respected as one of the leading Turks of Uzice, had

  decidedtocrossintoBosniawhencehisfamilyhadcomeinoldentimes.Hehad

  piled the children into baskets and with all the money which in such

  circumstanceshehadbeenabletogetforhishouseandlandshehadleftUzice

  forever. With a few hundred other Uzice refugees he had crossed into Bosnia

  wheretherewasstillTurkishrule,andsettledwithhisfamilyinVišegradwhere

  a branch of the family had once lived. There he passed ten years and had just

  begun to consolidate his position in the market when the Austrian occupation

  hadtakenplace.Aharshanduncompromisingman,hehadthoughtitnotworth

  hiswhiletoflyfromoneChristianruleonlytoliveunderanotherone.So,ayear

  after the arrival of the Austrians, he had left Bosnia with his whole family,

  togetherwithafewotherfamilieswhohadnotwishedtopasstheirlives'within

  thesoundofthebell',andsettledinNovaVarošintheSanjak.Mujagahadthen

  been a young man of little over fifteen. There Suljaga had gone on with his

  tradingandtheretherestofthechildrenhadbeenborn.Buthewasneverableto

  forget all he had lost in Uzice, nor could he get on with the new men and

  different manner of life in the Sanjak. That was the reason for his early death.

  Hisdaughters,allprettyandofgoodreputation,hadmarriedwell.Hissonstook

  overandextendedthesmallinheritanceleftthembytheirfather.Butjustwhen

  theyhadmarriedandhadbeguntotakedeeperrootintheirnewcountrycame

  theBalkanWarsof1912.Mujagahadtakenpartintheresistanceputupbythe

  TurkisharmyagainsttheSerbsandMontenegrins.Theresistancewasshortbut

  it was neither weak nor unsuccessful in itself, but none the less, as if by some charm,hisfate,likethatofth
ewaritselfandofmanythousandsofmen,wasnot

  decidedtherebutsomewherefaraway,independentofanyresistance,strongor

  weak.TheTurkisharmyevacuatedtheSanjak.Notwillingtoawaitanadversary

  from whom he had already fled as a child from Uzice and whom he had now

  resisted without success, and having nowhere else to go, Mujaga decided to

  returntoBosniaunderthatsamerulefromwhichhisfatherhadfled.Sonow,for

  thethirdtimearefugee,hehadcomewithhiswholefamilytothetowninwhich

  hehadpassedhischildhood.

  With a little ready money and with the help of the Višegrad Turks, some of

  whomwerehisrelatives,hehadmanagedtobuildupasmallbusinessoverthe

  last two years. But it was not easy for, as we have seen, times were hard and

  insecure, and profits difficult to make even for those whose position was

  assured. He had been living on his capital while waiting for better and more

  peaceful times. Now, after only two years of the hard life of a refugee in the

  town, this storm had broken in which he could do nothing and could not even

  think of what to do next; the only thing left to him was to follow its course

  anxiouslyandawaitfearfullyitsoutcome.

  It was of this that the two men were now talking, softly, intermittently and

  disconnectedly, as one speaks of things already well-known and which can be

  lookedatfromtheend,thebeginningoranypointinthemiddle.Alihodja,who

  liked and greatly respected Mujaga, tried to find some words of solace or

  consolation,notbecausehethoughtthatanythingwouldhelp,butbecausehefelt

  it his duty in some way to partake in the misfortune of this honourable and

  unfortunatemanandtrueMoslem.Mujagasatandsmoked,theveryimageofa

  man whom fate has loaded too heavily. Great beads of sweat broke out on his

  foreheadandtemples,stoodtheresometimeuntiltheygrewbigandheavy,then

  shoneinthesunandoverflowedlikeastreamdownhislinedface.ButMujaga

  didnotfeelthemnorbrushthemaway.Withdulleyeshelookedatthegrassin

  front of him and, wrapped up in his own thoughts, listened to what was

  happening within himself which was stronger and louder than any words of

  consolationorthemostvigorousbombardment.Fromtimetotimehemovedhis

  handalittleandmurmuredsomethingorotherwhichwasfarmoreapartofhis

  owninwardconversationthananyreplytowhatwasbeingsaidtohimorwhat

  wastakingplacearoundhim.

  'This has come upon us, my Alihodja, and there is no way out. The One God

  seesthatwe,myfather(peacebetohim)andmyself,havedoneeverythingwe

  couldtoremaininthepurefaithandthetruewayoflife.Mygrandfatherlefthis

  bones in Uzice and today we do not even know where he is buried. I myself

  buried my father in Nova Varoš and I do not know if by now the Vlachs are

  pasturingtheircattleoverhisgrave.IhadthoughtthatIatleastwoulddiehere,

  wherethemuezzinstillcalls,butnowitseemsthatitiswrittenthatourseedwill

  be extinguished and that no one knows where his grave will be. Can it be that

  God'swishesareso?OnlynowIseethatthereisnowayout.Thetimehascome

  ofwhichitissaidthattheonlywayleftforthetruefaithistodie.ForwhatcanI

  do?ShallIgowithNailbegandthe schutzkorps anddiewithaSchwaberiflein

  myhands,shamedbothinthisandinthenextworld?OrshallIwaitandsithere

  untilSerbiashallcome,andwaitoncemoreforallthatwefledfromasrefugees

  fiftyyearsago?'

  Alihodjawasabouttouttersomewordsofencouragementthatmightprovidea

  little hope, but he was interrupted by a salvo from the Austrian battery on the

  Butkovo Rocks. It was immediately answered by the guns from Panos. Then

  thosebehindGolešopenedfire.Theywerefiringlow,directlyovertheirheads,

  so that the shells wove a web of sound above them that catches at a man's

  entrails and tightens the blood-vessels until they hurt. Alihodja rose and

  suggestedthattheytakerefugeunderthebalcony,andMujagafollowedhimlike

  asleepwalker.

  In the Serbian houses huddled around the church at Mejdan there were, on the

  otherhand,noregretsforthepastorfearsforthefuture;therewasonlythefear

  andburdenofthepresent.Therewasasortofspecial,dumbastonishment,that

  feeling which always remains among people after the first blows of a great

  terror, with arrests and killings without order or justice. But beneath this

  consternationeverythingwasthesameasithadbeenearlier,thesameexpectant

  waitingasbefore,morethanahundredyearsago,whentheinsurgents'fireshad

  burned on Panos, the same hope, the same caution and the same resolution to

  bear everything if it could not be otherwise, the same faith in a good result

  somewhereattheendofallends.

  Thegrandchildrenandgreat-grandchildrenofthosewhofromthissamehillside, shutupintheirhouses,anxiousandfrightenedbutmovedtothedepthsoftheir

  being,hadlistenedintentlytryingtohearthefeebleechoofKarageorge'sgunon

  the hillside above Veletovo, now listened in the warm darkness to the thunder

  and rumble of the heavy howitzer shells passing above their heads, guessing

  fromthesoundwhichwereSerbianandwhichAustrian,callingthemendearing

  nicknamesorcursingthem.Allthiswhiletheshellswereflyinghighandfalling

  ontheoutskirtsofthetown,butwhentheywereaimedlowatthebridgeandthe

  town itself everyone fell suddenly silent for then it seemed to them, and they

  would have sworn to it, that in that complete silence, in the midst of so much

  spacearoundthem,bothsideswereaimingonlyatthemandthehouseinwhich

  theywere.Onlyafterthethunderandroarofanearbyexplosionhaddiedaway,

  theywouldbegintalkingagain,butinchangedvoices,assuringoneanotherthat

  theshellwhichhadfallenquiteclosewasofaparticularlydevilishkind,worse

  thananyother.

  The merchants from the marketplace had for the most part taken refuge in the

  Ristić house. It was immediately above the priest's house, but larger and finer,

  shelteredfromtheartilleryfirebythesteepslopesoftheplum-orchards.There

  werefewmenbutmanywomen,whosehusbandshadbeenarrestedortakenas

  hostages,whohadtakenrefugeherewiththeirchildren.

  In this rich and extensive house lived old Mihailo Ristić with his wife and

  daughter-in-law, a widow who had not wanted to marry again or return to her

  father'shouseafterthedeathofherhusband,butremainedtherewiththetwoold

  people to bring up her children. Her eldest son had fled to Serbia two years

  before and been killed as a volunteer on the Bregalnica. He had been eighteen

  yearsold.

  OldMihailp,hi
swifeanddaughter-in-lawservedtheirunusualguestsasifthey

  were at a family feast, a slava. The old man especially was untiring. He was bareheaded, which was unusual, for as rule he never took off his red fez. His

  thickgreyhairfelloverhisearsandforeheadandhishugesilverymoustaches,

  yellow at the roots from tobacco, surrounded his mouth like a perpetual smile.

  Whenever he noticed that anyone was frightened or more melancholy than the

  others,hewouldgouptohim,talktohimandofferhimplumbrandy,coffeeand

  tobacco.

  'I can't, kum Mihailo. I thank you like a father, but I can't; it hurts me here,'

  protestedayoungwoman,pointingtoherwhiteandroundedthroat.

  ShewasthewifeofPeterGatalofOkolište.AfewdaysbeforePeterhadgoneto Sarajevoonbusiness.Therehehadbeencaughtbytheoutbreakofwarandfrom

  thattimeonwardhiswifehadhadnonewsofhim.Thearmyhaddriventhem

  out of their house, and now she and her children had taken refuge with old

  Mihailo, to whom her husband's family had long been related. She was broken

  down with worry about her husband and her abandoned home. She wrung her

  hands,sobbingandsighingalternately.

  OldMihailonevertookhiseyesoffherandkeptnearheralways.Thatmorning

  ithadbeenlearntthatPeter,onhiswaybackfromSarajevobytrain,hadbeen

  takenasahostagetoVardišteandthere,afterafalsealarmofarevolt,hadbeen

  shotinmistake.Thatwasstillbeingkeptfromher,andoldMihailowasdoing

  his best to prevent anyone suddenly and inadvisedly telling her. Every few

  moments the woman would rise and try to go into the courtyard and look

  towards Okolište, but Mihailo prevented her and talked her out of it by every

  possible means, for he knew very well that the Gatal house in Okolište was

  already in flames and he wanted to spare the unfortunate woman this sight at

  least.

  'Come,Stanoika,come,mylamb.Justalittleglass.Thisisnotplumbrandy,but

  arealbalmandcureforallills.'

  The woman drank it meekly. Old Mihailo went on offering food and drink to