tea.
He had a great bank of experience, seldom mined and seldom tapped, and it was a lesson he had learned… The dull men who were without hobbies, the ordinary men who were without recreations, without interests, usually managed to confound with surprise… God save the dull and the ordinary and the boring. God protect the human species from exciting and unique and fascinating men… that was a lesson Henry Carter had learned.
If it had not been for the war he would have been the mayor.
The Headmaster stood at the back of the hall of his school.
There was an order in these things, and the appointment to office of mayor would have come, that year, to the Headmaster, if it had not been for the war.
All of the village had gathered in the hall. A meeting was held in the school every month. He had never spoken out before, he had never stood up before to be counted, but he thought that as Headmaster he would be listened to. His was a position of importance in the village community of Salika, he believed it his responsibility to speak.
Because of the war, Milan Stankovic, nothing more than a clerk, was mayor. And not mayor for a year, but now in his second term, and there would be a third. Milan Stankovic, nothing more than a clerk, was mayor because he commanded the Territorial Defence Force, because he controlled the black market, because he could provide gasoline or diesel or spare parts or crop seed, because he killed. And the bodies had been dug up and taken away, and the Headmaster felt the confidence to speak.
He was at the back of the hall and standing alone. He would have to crane on tiptoe, when he spoke, if Milan Stankovic were to see him. Nothing more than a clerk, and sitting in a fraud's uniform at the table facing the audience of villagers, and beside him were the carpenter and the gravedigger and the one who had delivered post when there were letters to be delivered, before the war had come. The carpenter and the gravedigger and the postman also wore the uniform of soldiers, they were the new elite of the village. He had not talked to the Priest, had not confided that he would speak at the meeting, he had no trust in the Priest.
The Headmaster believed a new age of darkness had come to the village. It was his duty to speak. He was a small man with sparse greying hair above a short beak nose that held his iron-rimmed glasses. When he stood on his toes, when he could see Milan Stankovic, the image was blurred. His glasses should have been changed, but it was not possible now to get the replacement, because of the war. He had taught many of those who sat between where he stood and the table, and they followed, like sheep, a false deity. He thought it his duty to denounce Milan Stankovic.
He felt no fear…
The Priest should have been beside him. Of the men in the village, only he and the Priest had known higher education. He felt the Priest slipped from the responsibility of duty. He had a text, as the Priest had a text each Sunday. The text had been taken from an anthology of quotations, in the English language, that had been a treasured companion since his graduation from the university. Mr. Edmund Burke, 1729-1797, political theorist: 'It is necessary only for the good man to do nothing for evil to triumph.' He had been across the bridge two weeks before when Milan Stankovic, who was a clerk, had been to the junket in Belgrade, he had seen the digging and seen the bodies lifted from the grey-black earth and seen them bagged. He had felt the disgrace of his village. That sense of disgrace was the keener because he had looked into the face of the elderly American who had supervised the exhumation, and seen contempt. He was sixty-two years old. He was respected throughout the village.
He was not afraid…
They sat in front of him, they stood in front of him, the sheep. They agreed to everything proposed by Milan Stankovic. Hands -rose in acceptance of what was proposed. They needed leadership, the sheep. The man who had been a clerk was beaming a smile and gathering together his papers, and there was a pistol at his belt, and his uniform was washed clean. The chairs were scraping. Little knots of villagers were sliding forward to beg favours. He did not understand how a good woman, Evica Stankovic, could share a life and a bed with such a man. He loathed the man, he loathed the power of the pistol at the man's belt.
It was the moment the Headmaster chose.
'Before we go, before we leave, there are matters that should be discussed…'
Shoulders swivelled, heads turned towards him, and behind the table the smile faded. He spoke out loud, and he stood on his toes that he might be seen by all.
'Not one matter, several matters… Your children go to the school, my school. At the school we have insufficient books. For children to learn it is necessary they have books. I had discussed the shortage of books with the UNCIVPOL officers from Petrinja, and the UNCIVPOL officers had promised me they would raise the matter with UNHCR, attempt to get more books, but those UNCIVPOL officers were harassed, sworn at, blocked, threatened by the militia of this village. It was the grossest stupidity to block the UNCIVPOL officers, and I will get no books for our children to learn from…'
The silence was around him. When he ranged his eyes across the sheep, when he caught their eyes, they looked away. Evica Stankovic, she had looked away.
'We should not be led, my friends, by men of the grossest stupidity. Nor should we be led by men who stain the name of our village. We should elect our leader, to speak for all of us, by a vote that is private and not by the vote of the bullet…'
He looked far ahead. Milan Stankovic stared back at him. He could not see the detail of Milan Stankovic's face, but he believed he saw surprise.
'We are a people who know suffering. Close to here is the great forest of Petrova Gora where our glorious Partizans fought with such courage against the fascist Ustase of the Great Patriotic War. Close to here, in Glina town, is the church where our grandparents were burned alive by the Ustase. Close to here, near to Petrinja, is the site of the concentration camp where the Ustase slaughtered the children of our grandparents. And we have here, amongst us, a new group of Ustase who stain the name of the Serb people…'
The Headmaster saw the movement at the table. The table was pushed back. Milan Stankovic advanced on him. The sheep scattered their chairs and moved aside to make a space for Milan Stankovic to reach him. Evica Stankovic was among those who moved their chairs aside. He had come to make a denunciation and now his voice rose.
'I saw, you saw, the old American who came to Rosenovici. There was a report about him on the foreign radio. He is a professor of pathology, he is an investigator of the dead. Because of what he searched for, what he found, and took away, the name of our village is shamed…'
The fist of Milan Stankovic, standing in front of him, blocking his view of the sheep, was clenched on the handle of the pistol worn in the opened holster. 'We are disgraced, all of us, because of the wounded at Rosenovici…' The pistol whipped into the face of the Headmaster. He felt the stinging pain, and the blackness blurred in front of his eyes. He fell. There was no hand among the sheep to halt his fall. He was on his knees. There was wetness in his eyes. He saw the blood splatter below him. He groped his hand for his spectacles that lay close to the shined boots. 'We are all criminals because of the wounded at Rosenovici…' He saw the sole of the shined boots cover the lenses of his spectacles. He heard the crunching of the broken glass. 'What they promise on the foreign radio is that acts of criminality will never be forgotten…' The shined boot hacking into his ribs. The Headmaster gasped, 'Wherever we run…' The shined boot belting into his chin. A whispered voice, 'Wherever we hide…' A fist in the collar of his jacket, lifting him, and the tightness of his tie around his throat, and the punching starting, and the kicking. 'Never forgotten… our shame…' The death of the Headmaster's voice. They let him drop, and when he had fallen they kicked him some more. He saw above him the gravedigger, the carpenter and the postman, and he saw Milan Stankovic bend and wipe blood from the toes of his boots. And behind them the hall of the Headmaster's school was emptied. The chairs were scattered without formation, abandoned. None had spoken for him, the sheep. He lay a long time on the floor, after they had gone, and he did not know for how long because the watch on his wrist was broken… He held, clutched, his secret, the secret was the location where a survivor of the destruction of Rosenovici still lived. The telling of the secret to the Canadian of UNCIVPOL had been the payment for the promise of school books… He lay a long time on the floor until he had the strength to push himself up to his knees and his elbows, and he gathered together the cracked shards of the lenses for his spectacles.
The Headmaster crawled to the doorway of the school hall. He saw no movement in the road. The lamplight from the houses came indistinctly to his eyes. All gone, the sheep. All barricaded in their homes, afraid. It was difficult for him to lock the door of the hall. He felt no fear, he felt only a loathing of the man who had been a clerk… He, alone in the village, held the secret.
