We passed the old Serbian
churchyard. I never passed by without going in. These queer old
tombstones all painted in days when pure decoration had a religious
appeal, these tattered red and white and black banners lend such a gay
air to death; these swords and pistols and medals carved into the stone
seem almost carrying a bombast to heaven. On one side of each tombstone
is the name of its owner, preceded by the legend, "Here lies the slave
of God." Do slaves love their masters?
When we passed this road in the winter, black funeral flags hung from
almost every hut, and even now the rags still flap in the breeze. A
Serbian boy, clad in dirty cottons, shouted to us, making
gesticulations. We slowed down and stopped.
"Bombe," he cried. "Aeropla-ane. Pet," he held up five fingers, "y jedan
je bili slomile. Vidite shrapnel."
He pointed. We saw a quiet, early autumn landscape, the blue sky
slightly flecked with thin horizontal streaks of cloud. Any scene less
warlike could not have been imagined.
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