The Serbs Chose War, Ruth Mitchel 21. THE PATRIARCH GOES TO HIS GOLGOTHA GERMANY, BY THE TREATY OF March 27, had promised Yugoslavia complete self-government. To prove how sincere were her intentions, there had arrived in Belgrade the night before the coup almost 150 Gestapo agents to take over control of the police, radio, post office, newspapers, etc. These men had been lodged mainly in the Hotel Astoria. Jubilant crowds that morning came to see where doors had been broken down to arrest them. After hours of happy milling round and snatching a sandwich where we could in the seething restaurants, I went home to wait for the summons which I knew would come. It came. Chetnik Headquarters telephoned. "Five o'clock. We fall in at the Slaviya. Will you march beside the Voivoda on his staff, or do you think it advisable not to do so? He leaves it to your discretion." I had already made up my mind. "Tell the Chief, please, that I will certainly be there but not in uniform. He will know why I consider it best." "Very well." I was strongly tempted to take my proper place publicly. But if the reasons for secrecy had been good before, they were now at least equally good. Every German spy in Belgrade-and there were hundreds-would be there watching. I had never been out in uniform, though I had once or twice worn the comfortable cap when riding. (Statements that I was seen in it are incorrect. As my riding clothes were also brown, people in retrospect may have the impression that I wore the uniform itself.) If I had worn it that day, it is unlikely that I should be here today to write this. At five o'clock the Chetnik march started from the Slaviya Square. First came the banners, the black, silver-fringed flags bearing the silver skull and crossed bones. Then the Voivoda Kosta Pechanats and the other leaders with their staffs. Then all the uniformed Chetniks that happened to be in town; then the women in uniform; then hundreds upon hundreds of men and women who were not in uniform. There must have been about two thousand altogether. Those hundreds of others who wished to keep their membership secret, including Yanko, did not march. With broad-brimmed hat well down over my face and my fur collar turned up, I took my place directly behind the women in uniform. I was taken for granted by the women, and in the chaffing that flew back and forth I said as little as possible so that my accent should not attract attention. There were about ninety of these women, and they were a good complement to the men. All were country women, tanned and tough with hard work on the land. Some of them had a slightly stooping, pressing-forward carriage, as if accustomed to mountain paths or to bearing heavy burdens. All were very strong. Almost all, very thin and wiry, had that sharp, quick turn of the eye that betokens habitual alertness. Their joy was intense but controlled. Even when they clapped each other hard on the back, there was something restrained, even secretive, about it. These women were the real thing; they knew what they were about. They were ready for anything. And they were glad. Anything less exhibitionist could not be imagined. I noted two husky, managing souls who felt called upon to take charge and push the others about a little. No one paid them much attention. We marched informally, more or less in fours, more or less in line. In front marched the women with decorations. One, a little dried-up old woman, was like nothing so much as a weasel. Her breast was so loaded with medals won in the last World War as almost to pull her stooped figure forward. How happy I felt to be among these women! They were primitive if you like-primitive as were our own great-grandmothers who went West with their men and fought the Indians. They were fierce too, being the product of a fierce history which taught them that only ferocity and cunning could enable them to survive the attacks of cunning and ferocious enemies. They were the unique product of a unique history-the ultimate in that ultimate question of human survival: "Your life or mine!" At the Milosha Velikog corner there was a barrier of soldiers, and we had to show our passes. Some, I noticed, were quite worn. I was ashamed mine looked so new. They were not opened. The crowds on the pavement pressed in so close that it was hard to pass. But there was very little cheering. Even for the Serbs a Chetnik march causes a certain chill of the spine. There was no band, not even a whistle. One sound alone was heard: issuing from half-open mouths, keeping time to our almost soundless tramp, the low mutter of the Chetnik marching song: . . . "Ready, now ready . . ." Before the palace we halted and sang the national anthem while the new king took the salute. A splendidly happy, eager boy he looked. I expected noisy cheering, but there was practically none from the Chetniks-just a few shouts of: "Zivio, Kralja Petra Drug II [Long live King Peter II!]." Then we moved on, if anything more quietly than before . We made a swing round the main streets and drew up before the residence of the Patriarch of the Serb Orthodox Church, a very fine example of the Byzantine art to which the Serbs are heir. It was now getting dark, and the light shining out through the low rounded arches upon the group of stern, dark-browed fighters in their picturesque Chetnik dress was like an illustration straight out of some old book of legendary tales. Through a deep lighted arch above the doorway, the Patriarch Gavrilo stepped out upon a small carved-stone balcony. Gray-bearded, large and heavy, his expression was benign yet stern. This was a Serb of Montenegro, the supreme head of the Serbian Church, a man of their own stock and after their own heart. His words were few and simple. He said that what Serbia had stood for through the ages and what Serbia stood for now liberty to rule themselves and to worship God as they chose-was well worth dying for. They must expect to die for it. That was all. There was a low murmur of complete assent. Standing under the heavy Byzantine arch, the gentle old priest raised his hand in blessing while the light shone on his white hair and beard, on the great jeweled ring, sign of his high authority, and on the jeweled cross upon his breast. Again a murmur of "Ameris" and a movement as all devoutly crossed themselves. M.P. was with the Patriarch as he blessed my brothers and sisters the Chetniks for death. He caught sight of me and hurried down. He threw his arms round me (he was so large, his overcoat so vast, that I was simply engulfed) and, feeling much moved, as we all were, he cried to the women: "This lady is English and American. She is a Chetnik. She is one with us!" After a moment of great surprise the women surrounded me, shouting with happiness. They hugged me, kissed me-everyone, it seemed, had to pat me. They almost tore me to pieces. These people of iron self-control shed tears of joy at what they thought a splendid omen. "England and America will be with us," they cried. "England and America, our brothers!" "England and America," I said soberly but very happy too, "England and America will stand by Serbia-they will stand by Serbia's side." My God, I still believed it. I believed I spoke the truth. We went home at last after a crowd of us in a near-by restaurant had raised our glasses of slivovits to "England, America, and Serbia -togetherl" That was on March 27 Within ten days we were dispersed, most of us never to meet again. And exactly six weeks later the old priest set out on his own Road to Golgotha. This was the way of it. On May 9, after most of Serbia had been overrun by the Axis, the Germans seized the Patriarch Gavrilo, who had withdrawn to the monastery of Podostrog, in Montenegro. Remote in the mountains, this ancient monastery was built in front of a cave to commemorate the time when the Serbs had put up a desperate defense there against the Turks. Because the head of the Church had taken with him for safekeeping the Serbian crown jewels, the Germans had brought against him the preposterous charge of stealing state property. So they transferred him from Podostrog to a monastery about thirty miles from Belgrade. This is how they did it. They took from the old man everything, even his shoes. They left him naked except for his shirt. And over the rough roads, over the mountains and through the deep valleys, they made him walk, at the point of a bayonet, two hundred miles, hatless in the burning Balkan summer. Thus, thought the Nazis, they would humiliate the Church of the Serbs, the unconquerables, by making it appear ridiculous in the person of its Patriarch. Did they succeed ? It seems that their most cunning schemes are invariably self-defeating. As he passed, mile upon painful mile, leaving, no doubt, footprints of blood upon the stony road, through Montenegro, Bosnia, and Serbia, the Patriarch's children of all ages knelt down by the roadside, praying and weeping. He blessed them as he passed. And be sure they rose again immeasurably strengthened in courage and resolution by the dignity of the latest martyr of the Serbian Church. Never while there lives a Serb will that passing of their old Patriarch Gavrilo be forgotten. Previous Chapter | Content | Next Chapter The Serbs Chose War, Ruth Mitchel