A Pogrom

I’m sure you’ve heard of the city of Leskovac and its inhabitants. We’re very hard-working people, and above all we’re employed in industry—that is to say, we work in factories. One of our poets even intoned:

We eat peppers

that are red

and build factories,

or so it’s said.

In general, that’s quite apt. But, to be fair, this writer has misused his poetic license a bit, because it’s widely known that some people eat the peppers and some other people build the factories. Alas, the ins and outs of the craft! Never mind—it’s fine.

Regarding our other characteristics, it’s worth mentioning that we have an appreciation of the arts. Arts such as soccer, and gambling. Otherwise we are peaceful folk and are strangers to passions. Except passions connected to those two kinds of art that I just mentioned. Religious passions are completely unknown to us. The handful of Jews who live here have made a good showing in our kinds of arts, and they’re appreciated for it. Thus there has never been a pogrom in our parts, other than this one single time, which I am now going to tell you about.

Nowhere will you find anything written down about this. Indeed, at this time, in the Transvaal, in South Africa, the Boer War was raging, and all the correspondents of foreign newspapers were there; I, however, still can’t get my mind around the fact that none of our newspapers recorded anything about it. One would almost think this was a bit of deliberate malice towards Jews, for war to have broken out at precisely this time. For when a war rages somewhere, the world doesn’t particularly care to hear about something as trivial as a pogrom. Of course, if you understand you’ll come back at me with this: What other satisfaction can public opinion in the cultured world give to the victims of a pogrom other than a little bit of recognition to them as heroes of some more or less exciting sensation?

In this case, I personally was the biggest victim of the pogrom. Or, to put it better: the only one. Since this is not the first time in history that someone’s meritorious behavior has been hushed up, even I haven’t questioned the situation before now. But I realize it’s high time for me to wrest this event from the jaws of oblivion. These pogroms correspond to such a degree to the spirit of the times we are living through that it would be a real sin to allow this to be forgotten.

The pogrom originated with the person who would later become my blood brother, Cilko Zajac. At the time Cilko must have been ten years old. But he was very strong. I’ll compare him to Goliath, for the sake of tradition. But Hercules also wouldn’t consider himself insulted by such a comparison. Later, when Cilko finished a bit of schooling, he became a policeman.

In his civilian life, Cilko was a student in our elementary school. At least that’s what’s listed in the official records. Beyond that, his primary occupation was “applied strategy.” Although he was merely the leader of our quarter of town, called “Father Ilija,” which was the smallest one, he was so famous for his fearlessness and strategic talent that all the other quarters of the city refrained from quarrelling with him. Naturally this didn’t help them very much, since Cilko couldn’t live long without battles and duels, and he didn’t stick unconditionally to the premise that every quarrel has its own reason and justification.

For us Jews, it was portentous that our quarter was the site of the livestock market, which possessed all the requirements for an ideal battlefield, and Cilko preferred it to all the others. It’s not necessary for me to emphasize that we did everything possible to maintain strict neutrality. But that was hard as hell to do. Do you recall how that wolf from the fairy tale slandered the lamb? That’s how Cilko was capable of claiming at any time of this or that little stone that it had come from the neutral side. In addition, he classified every disagreement as a hostile act. Thus the situation could not have been more desperate.

At the time, I was seven years old. I was a very calm boy; all historians agree about that. I didn’t even care much about playing with the other children. I knew about this Cilko Zajac character, but only from hearsay. The same held true for his heroic exploits. I had never been introduced to him, and I lived in the conviction that he was not at all familiar with yours truly. I never took part in the street battles, which the individual neighborhoods of the city carried out amongst themselves; I was not even an observer from some suspicion-producing proximity.

Why, then, did Cilko choose me, of all people, as the target of his pogrom? That remains to be clarified. He did not lack chivalry, so he certainly didn’t pick on me because he knew that with me he could pull it off without risk or strain. Maybe it didn’t sit right with him that I was so tranquil. His animosity towards me could be in that case considered a result of our contrasting characters. That would then be something sort of principled. Consequently, it could then be assumed that he, as the representative of his type, was inclined to take revenge on such an example of tranquility for all the unpleasantries and punishments that came his way at home and school every day, owing to his temperament and his feats. It cannot be ruled out that his parents and the teacher held up to him, day and night, someone from his grade at school, like me, as the role model of a friend from his grade, and he wanted to vent – on principle! – at me the anger that had built up in him against role models in general.  

With such momentous happenings, one typically searches for momentous causes, and I couldn’t help but take them into consideration. This does not, of course, exclude other, more pedestrian causes, which could themselves, or together with the major ones, create the historical inevitability of this pogrom of Cilko’s. Let’s say for example that some minor beating had directly preceded our fateful encounter, regardless of the fact that neither I nor the other Jews had any connection to it, because the late Čiča Trajko had an iron fist, and Cilko was not always successful in dodging it. It’s undeniably possible that on that day Cilko was roaming about the streets without lunch, since for example after a divergence of views with his uncle he didn’t dare show his face back home. This kind of thing does happen. When a person roams around that long without lunch, it can very easily occur that he is consumed by a deep resentment at those who have eaten…

To finish off the analysis of the causes that might have occasioned this pogrom, I’ll also mention that Cilko hadn’t ever distinguished himself by any particular religious zeal. Of course, he knew how to cross himself, and on Good Friday or other big holidays like that, it even happened (admittedly, under the threat of strict punishment) that he went to church. It’s for certain that Cilko knew where the church was located, and once, at a slava celebration, he even kissed the priest’s hand.

As far as I’m concerned, I hadn’t been prepared, by dreams or any similar phenomena such as signs or apparitions, for the role of religious martyr that was in store for me. Otherwise I would have dreamt of such; from that point of view, then, it would’ve been no wonder if something had appeared to me. But nothing had presented itself. And now you can see how I felt when, one fine day, the aforementioned Cilko intercepted me on a dead-end street, and without beating around the bush hit me with this frightful question:

“Hey man, did you people crucify our Christ?”

I would get scared just from encountering Cilko, much less from conversing with him. I’d be afraid if all he did was ask me how I was doing. But this question flat-out took away my power of speech.

I stood there dumbfounded, with him watching me and grinning maliciously.

“Did you guys crucify Jesus?”

I finally gathered my wits to answer. And just so you know, if it hadn’t been for this arambaša, this bandit-king, named Cilko, but someone else—it’s not out of the question that this answer of mine would have helped me out some. I mustered all my strength, and in my most convincing manner and tone, I said:

“I didn’t do it, Cilko. I swear on my mom’s life, I didn’t!”

In those days that was the most persuasive thing I knew how to say. This “I swear on my mom’s life” counted in my house as a powerful and serious argument, one that at the very least put forth a basis for a continued discussion. For a reasonable one. Instead, Cilko tossed out another question, one still more terrible and much more comprehensive:

“Then who did, kid? Who did? Tell me, who did it?”

You heard it: he sought me out to ask who killed Christ. On what basis, I beg you, did I get summoned to examine the question of who crucified Jesus? If I had known at that time that the Turks has burned St. Sava, I probably would have mentioned them, thereby giving him something to go on. The Turks at that time were still within the living memory of people from Leskovac, and it probably would have been easier for Cilko to get his mind around the idea that the Turks had done it. For if they’d been capable of burning the son of a king, like Sveti Sava, why wouldn’t they have been able to crucify Jesus as well?

But things went like this: I could neither find an acceptable answer to that second question, nor did Cilko show himself inclined to give me sufficient time to do so, which will be ample grounds for any objective historian to assess how much it actually to mattered to Cilko to see this matter settled, historically speaking. Instead, he switched to carrying out the punishment. I did defend myself in a way; that much is established. But unfortunately on that day the story of David and Goliath was not repeated. And how could it have happened, when I did not remember God in that moment? Were thoughts even possible? Cilko didn’t allow me any time for that. Self-defense was necessary, and I did try: with my hands, my feet, and even with crying and yelling for help. Maybe with that last thing most of all. But Cilko did not evince any marked sensitivity towards my tears. Fortunately, that howling of mine was heard by Tia Palomba, and she ran to my assistance. Not that she dared to raise a hand against Cilko. Not an option! Rather, she began shrieking, which carried farther than my cries for help. Just then, Cilko decided to drop my punishment for the rest of that day.

I imagine that great martyrs do not cry but rather stoically endure tortures, on account of which they get the title “great martyr”. I must admit that I did not fulfill that requirement. When Cilko released me from his clutches, I continued to sob. If up till then I had cried from pain and bewilderment, I was now crying my eyes out because of bitterness at having been victimized in this way, through no fault or guilt of my own. This fell under the jurisdiction of my poor mamica, who on that day had to perform miracles of patience and skillful consolation as she calmed me down and helped me forget the injustices I had endured. Would I forget it? No. Maybe I could just reconcile myself to its inevitability. She sang me lullabies, and every now and then she’d cry a bit with me. And she said strange things. Such as: that this was a necessary thing… It’s just that it was still too early for me… This suffering… So that I’d learn more quickly how to be a Jew.

Well, it was then that Cilko came to the realization that his life and his sojourn in this world had no other purpose than punishing me for the crucifixion of Christ. After that I only moved about on specific streets that offered a certain level of safety, but my pogromdžija nevertheless found the ways and means to haul me before his Last Judgment.

How long did this go on? A long time. A very long time. Until we found ourselves in the same class at high school, and Cilko began getting into difficulties, from which his best, and often only, salvation was—copying my assignments. One of the teachers, who never gave Cilko any peace, helped with this.

And one day Cilka gave me his besa, his Balkan word of honor, and we became blood brothers.

I know why I have survived since then. Cilko Zajac became my bodyguard, and anybody who touched me knew that they were going to have to answer to Cilko. And that would not be pleasant.