The Serbs Chose War, Ruth Mitchel 8. I MEET KING'S SON MARKO So THE SUMMER OF I939 passed in Budva of the Beautiful Beaches. Once a nest of the notorious Adriatic pirates, it was a sort of miniature Dubrovnik, even to the island lying, like Lokrum, out in the bay. But its surrounding mountain scenery was far more magnificent. Cockily its little medieval walls stood out into the waves; snug was its tiny harbor for the snub-nosed Turkish sailing ships with wooden turbans on their prows and huge eyes painted on their bows. Through the mellow nights the local boys wandered up and down the rose-hung streets or drifted in little boats, strumming their guitars and singing the lovely Dalmatian, Serbian, and Macedonian songs- and never, never once a strain of jazz. "Tamo daleto... [So far, so far, my love...]" Ineffable the sweetness of this, my favorite Balkan melody, as it floated across the calm, moonlit waters. Budva was very primitive, with no electricity and with streets too narrow and winding for wheeled traffic. During the residence of the King at his near-by summer palace, the smart, white-uniformed naval officers passing with their pretty lassies at night through dim-lit arches gave the town an unreal, theatrical effect. All day I either bathed in the warm, sunny Adriatic or sometimes, guided by my friend Rado Zambalich, hunted for ancient Greek remains washed up by the sea: pieces of pottery or statuettes more than two thousand years old. And every day I worked, and worked hard. For in the intervals of my prison-breaking plots, I had discovered what I consider to be one of the great literary treasures of humanity, far too little known by the outside world: the national epics of Serbia. I studied them with absorption, and I discovered that Goethe had considered the Serbian epics to be the finest in the world, even surpassing the German Niebelungenlied. The Serbs are a very small race; there were before the war not more than eight million of them. But it is a race of strikingly individual character, of extraordinary tenacity of purpose and ideal. That ideal can be expressed in a single word: Freedom. "It is not glory, it is not riches, neither is it honor, but it is liberty alone that we fight and contend for, which no honest man will lose but with his life." Thus have spoken the Serbs throughout their history. So they are speaking and acting now, at this moment. For them freedom means not only national but individual freedom for each man: every man a little king. For centuries, since before America was even discovered, they have defended their and our own ideal of democracy with their blood. Their whole history is simply the epic of the struggle of humanity for liberty. And through the long centuries until today, as in a heroic opera, the same motif returns. For see how strangely, almost word for word, the events chronicled in their epics of five hundred years ago have repeated themselves in the present war. On the eve of the battle of Kossovo in I389, SO sing those ancient songs, Prince Lazar, the leader of the Serbs, was offered "an earthly kingdom"-that is, vassalage to the Turks, with security of frontiers, life, and property-or "a heavenly kingdom": death in a hopeless cause. He and his men deliberately chose the latter, went out against a numerically superior and better-armed Turkish army, and-died. They died, but, even as today, their choice that day profoundly influenced the destiny of nations. If they had not fought as they did fight then and unceasingly afterwards, the Turks would almost certainly have overrun the whole of Europe. In that event our history, yours and mine and America's, might have been very different: our culture might have been Ottomanized. (What a splendid historical compensation it would be if the Turks, as seems today not unlikely, should be the ones to help the Serbs to save their liberty!) Could there be a more perfect parallel in present history than the German offers and promises to the Serbs? In 1941, as in I389, this tiny race on the narrow road between Europe and Asia stood, like Horatio on the bridge, holding back single-handed the conquering horde, so that those behind could prepare. They stood and they died. Today they stand as no other race is standing and they are dying as no other race is dying. Only this time the name is not Prince Lazar, but General Draja Mihailovich. I'll never forget how I got my first inkling of those great Serbian epics. It was in Scutari, in Albania, in the ancient, tangled garden of my lovely vizier's house. The grapevines were in flower, huge vines that threw their gnarled old branches over trellised arbors. Have you ever smelled the scent of the Oriental grape in flower? It is exquisite and intoxicating, so intoxicating that thick swarms of bees and enormous butterflies are apt to fall drunk with an orgy of grape nectar into one's lap and down one's neck. Some boys from the high school who wanted to practice their English used to come to tea. Over us spread, above the grapevines, an enormous mulberry tree, and the white squashy fruits kept dropping round us. We picked them up and sucked them while we chattered and laughed in the hot Albanian afternoon. One boy said something about Kraljevich Marko (King's Son Marko) . "And who," said I, "is he?" Startled looks passed from eye to eye: Had this unfortunate foreigner had no education at all? "You don't know about Kraljevich Marko?" It seemed impossible, but I didn't. So one of them, a black-eyed, curly-headed boy, lying on the ground amongst the white mulberries and the drunk butterflies, put his hands behind his head-and let me have it. Tale after tale he told about the great Serbian hero, Marko, and his almost equally heroic horse, Sharats or Shahrin. I was amazed and delighted. I have a passion for legendary tales. So, soon after reaching Montenegro, I plunged into a study of Kraljevich Marko. Before I had finished I was able to offer a prize of five dollars to anyone who could tell me a detail about him I did not know or could start a story about him which I could not finish- and there were dozens. Several connoisseurs gaily tried but had to admit themselves defeated. Later, in the prisons, this store of tales proved a strange blessing. Night after night I told stories, drawn out with fanciful elaboration, to lure the minds of my wretched fellow prisoners away into another world, away from the horrors of the present and the dread of a dark future. It is related that King's Son Marko was just too young to take part in the fatal battle of Kossovo, when the Serbs became vassals to the Turks. But he grew up to be the indomitable champion of his downtrodden race, fighting without ceasing for justice to his people. He was so adored by his people for his courage, his self-reliance, his loyalty to word and oath, his faithfulness to his friends in whatever situation, that the Turks could not risk a great Serbian revolt by an overt murder. Hence much of this cycle of songs concerns the attempts of the Sultan to have him killed in fight or by "accident." The cycle expresses the heartrending yet heartening cry of the hopelessly defeated who yet never lose courage, pride, and hope. Not he the conquering hero who, as in the epics of all other nations, emerges crowned with victory. He fights and he wins, but always with the bitter consciousness that his successes are only a part of a larger struggle which can only be hopeless because of the odds against his race. Yet he never cries for help. He is Serbia. King's Son Marko is Serbia today. He never loses his enthusiasm. He is always ready to try again at the drop of the hat, with a great laugh at the sheer thrill of the fight He is the Serbian peasant, he is Mihailovich and the Chetniks, he is all the nameless men and women-don't forget the women-who have sacrificed all they possessed, who are laboring and resisting from dawn to dawn. Foodless, shelterless, with only the poorest of poor equipment, absurdly outnumbered, they continue to fight. King's Son Marko himself, the deathless champion of human justice and liberty, is our ally today in the Balkans, an ally whose real value we have only begun to realize. Previous Chapter | Content | Next Chapter The Serbs Chose War, Ruth Mitchel