Srem front

When a man does nothing, he has no time for anything.

I was just about to start reading the novel "Travelling Theatre" by Zoran Ferić. It turned out to be an excellent, wistful, at times poignant story about the author's family throughout the 20th century. She forced me, among other things, to get some information about the deaths of beardless young men unprepared for life, let alone battle, on the Srem front. What defeated me was the fact that, as Ferić describes, they died not only from an enemy bullet, but also from a "friendly" one, when they were trying to retreat and did not die in vain.

By the way, the fighting on the Srem Front was fought for 172 days, from October 21, 1944 to April 13, 1945. About 250.000 soldiers clashed on that battlefield. On the side of the Yugoslav Army, in one period, units of the Red and Bulgarian armies, as well as the "Italy" brigade, participated. The majority of the eleven partisan divisions that fought for a shorter or longer time on the Srem Front consisted of recruits from Serbia, young men mobilized in the fall of 1944 and the beginning of 1945. Their "training" did not last more than ten days and the young men, among whom there were also minors, were sent to the front, to the well-fortified Germans and Ustashas.

Historians agree that the exact number of dead has not (yet) been determined. Partisan historiography states that 14.826 fighters of the Yugoslav Army died on this battlefield, noting that this number is not final. 1.100 soldiers of the Red Army, 623 members of the Bulgarian Army and 163 soldiers of the "Italy" brigade also died. According to the same source, German losses amounted to around 30.000 dead.

Against this data, claims are made that the number of victims was at least twice as high.

So, the data are different, but everyone agrees that more people died on the Srem Front than in all enemy offensives during the Second World War on the territory of Yugoslavia.

Even today, there is a debate as to whether the Srem Front was the biggest war victory of the Yugoslav Army in the Second World War or an unnecessary slaughter when the war was already almost over...

* * *

More and more often, I escape into the aura of my favorite domestic evergreens, a kind of Yugoslav mourners, whose verses were mostly written by established poets. I guess that each of us, from fifty-something, has his own top-list. Mine, and in the abridged edition of five songs, can throw me into (kara)sevdah at any time: "Departing", Arsen Dedić ("There, there to travel, there, there to mourn, to hear those old fables, to milk I learn blue fairy tales"); "The Story of Vasa Ladački", Đorđe Balašević ("He was young, they say, when he died, in the middle of a party, from a heart attack. Only his head was drooping, who was napping, who was sleeping, and they still remember the last thing he said: Džaba if there were crowed horses, playful in the meadow, there would be clocks and farms for nothing. There would be fertile fields, bountiful vineyards, there would be carts, wheelbarrows for nothing, when I'm not with the one I love!"); "Good evening, my love", Leo Martin ("Each day getting older and tired I come home, you hug me at the door, our story is ordinary"); "You always remained the same", Mišo Kovač ("I haven't thought about you for a long time, days and years stand between us, I would never have found you again if we hadn't seen each other yesterday"); "Look for me in the suburbs", Meri Cetinić ("Sails made of laundry and flowers are dozing, waiting for the wind to sail somewhere, do you hear, our suburbs are calling us, they are looking for those old houses and streets").

* * *

Wherever Dragomir Dragan Vujović appeared, there was a murmur of admiration for the obvious, tall Montenegrin, a spiritual character. He captivated with his smile and optimism. He was upright like Lovćen. Gentle as his father was, Pope Petar, but when needed also as hard as Orlov Krs. And boyishly in love with his Cetinje dreams and his muse, his Maria, who decisively influenced his wonderful features to come to full expression. Unfortunately, that most beautiful couple in our family was cut in half. What kind of gentlemen were they from Becej, Marija and Dragan!

They were far from our eyes and so close to our hearts. We knew that far away, in the north of Serbia, in Vojvodina, there lives someone who keeps this extended family of ours together, not physically but spiritually. Last January, I wished Dragan on his eightieth birthday that for a long time, not only as the oldest but also as the most vocal among us, he would be our mother, our lighthouse that lights up when it's needed, when it's hard and when the ship needs to be brought into a calm harbor. Not realizing that this evil from the corona will so unexpectedly push his departure to his father and mother, and brothers. Corona didn't even allow us to mourn him properly, to grieve, to prepare for this act of parting, to try, even though we know in advance - unsuccessfully, to comfort our dear Maria, to hug Sanda and Natasha, and Ljilja, and even more we cry, because there are no more touching tears than when daughters cry for their father, and sister for brother. Especially for someone like Dragan. We believed that many more days and nights would take turns over Billiard until we recited his favorite verse out loud: "Where the seed has planted its sprout, let it rest in its fruit." But fate wanted otherwise. Dragan returned to his native Cetinje before long. With his departure, the number of grandchildren of Nikola Ivanov Vujović from Ljubotinje Njive was reduced by half. Six of them plow the heavenly fields, another four of this earth. It is with great sadness that we also remember the good Vesko Danilov, whose untimely death has also affected the younger generation.

Fortunately and happily, numerous descendants remain, from America to Serbia and Montenegro, who will proudly cherish the memory of their ancestors, especially Dragan, a divotnik, a mountaineer with a tender heart, whose place, according to an unwritten rule, was always at the head of the table and whom God took to the paradise settlement.

* * *

Quite in a confused state and, one would say, slightly depressed, because of everything that (we) was happening, I followed the Parliament of Montenegro, nibbling on the seeds. Passions were rising over something. The MPs were overbearing and pounding the heroic chests all the time. Later I understood that the Government had fallen. I was not too "impressed". Actually, like many things lately, I didn't have an opinion on that either.

It was only when I saw the good old "patriotic" convoy of cars from the balcony and heard the click of sirens that I realized that something bad had happened for Montenegro. Because those columns are an infallible litmus, they never fail...

But who knows why that's good? Maybe, finally, in the next (extraordinary) elections, we will be able to vote for someone, and not, as before, against someone.