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...