– Orest Maltsev –
This novel, written by Orest Maltsev and edited personally by J.V. Stalin, portrays Arso Jovanović, the Chief of the Supreme Headquarters of the Yugoslav Partisans, in the most positive light, as a leading military-strategic genius, unafraid to question the leadership, most devoted to the future prosperity and well-being of the Yugoslav peoples in friendship with the Soviet Union, its saviours and liberators. In some ways, it is remarkable how accurate, factually confirmed by Ivan Matović’s book “Commander with a Halo of a Martyr,” these excerpts are in portraying this wartime leader of all Yugoslavia. Without direct evidence, it can be hypothesized that Maltsev, and implicitly Stalin, drew upon Soviet intelligence and archival research to paint the most faithful picture possible of this man.
The most notable error to be found is in its positioning of Aleksandar Ranković against Arso Jovanović. In fact, they were the best of comrades and friends. This fictionalization must be taken in the context of the polemic against, as it was called at that time, the Tito-Ranković clique. On the other hand, the hate Koča Popović and Peko Dapčević held for Arso all throughout the war, and their constant contradiction of Supreme Headquarters’ orders, is indeed confirmable, as well as Tito’s exclusion of the Chief of the Supreme Headquarters from knowledge of various activities.
A project of this scale, in which Stalin personally intervened, demonstrates that it was a high goal of the Soviet state to produce a book which portrayed Arso Jovanović in a proper light, with the aim of educating masses of Soviet youth, workers and peasants about the experience of this hero of the Yugoslav peoples and all mankind. Despite some errors owing to ideological motivations, this was the kind of honour he deserved.
Sava Press
The order that Miletić-Korchagin had brought from Popović had changed nothing for the brigade. Jovan told me that after reading the order, Brigade Commander Perućica had openly expressed his discontent — once again, they were to remain idle near Livno! A strategic reserve for the Supreme Command! Meanwhile, the fascists were advancing in Herzegovina and the coastal regions, in eastern Bosnia and the Sandžak! And, according to intelligence reports, the First German Mountain Division, “Oak Leaf,” whose regiment was stationed in Sinj, was preparing for deployment to the Soviet-German front. If no action was taken, that regiment would soon depart for the east in full combat readiness. This had to be prevented… According to Miletić, Perućica had gone to seek clarification from the Chief of the Supreme Headquarters, Arso Jovanović — luckily, the headquarters was not far from here. Tito’s command post was located northwest of Livno, beyond the Veliki Šator mountain, in the forested region of Drvar. The battalion was eagerly awaiting Perućica’s return.
“If only I could return to the ranks as soon as possible,” I thought. “And then, perhaps, I could even find a way back to my own. The partisans would help me… But how should I write about kolkhozes so that every word is clear to the fighters?”
* * *
Independent partisan groups and detachments, operating here and there, began establishing communication with one another. The struggle became more organized. What was missing was a unified leadership. That was a time when any bold and enterprising person could become a commander. The people, rising up spontaneously to fight, placed their trust in anyone who stood with them and took responsibility. It was during this period that Tito appeared on the liberated territory, accompanied by his closest aides. Around him, the scattered partisan units began to consolidate. Everyone followed him — after all, the banner of the uprising that he carried bore the words: “Alliance and friendship with Soviet Russia.” A supreme headquarters was formed, with Arso Jovanović appointed as its chief. At that point, all of Tito’s old Belgrade acquaintances flocked to him. Even Vlado Dedijer declared himself a partisan. He arrived in a cushioned train car with German documents in his pocket. But he soon preferred the comforts of life at the Supreme Headquarters to the hardships of combat. Instead of fighting, he became a chronicler of the marches and battles — he is now writing the Partisan Diary.
“Interesting,” I remarked. “So, has he become a communist too?”
“Of course! All sorts of people are joining the Party these days. After all, there are fewer and fewer old, pre-war Party members from the working class. Some were killed and are still being killed in camps and prisons, while others are dying now in battle.”
* * *
In January 1942, the occupiers launched their Second Offensive there. The partisans were forced to withdraw from the Sarajevo region. They retreated across the towering, forested Mount Igman through deep snow, in freezing temperatures of minus twenty degrees, carrying the wounded and sick on their backs. The partisan Milica Jovanović, the sister of the Chief of the Supreme Headquarters Arso Jovanović, suffered severe frostbite and lost both her feet. Many others perished during those days. The sick, suffering from typhus in makeshift hospitals, froze to death en masse.
By May, during the Third Enemy Offensive, the partisans retreated even further into the depths of Herzegovina. There, near the town of Gacko, they again suffered heavy and senseless losses. Ordered by the corps commander, they attacked in broad daylight across open terrain with not a single bush or even a stone for cover. Crawling across the plain under direct enemy fire, they tried to shield themselves by holding up slabs of limestone over their heads…
At Gacko, the Šumadija Battalion lost nearly all its fighters. The old partisans — seasoned revolutionaries — were gone, replaced by young recruits. But without the guidance and direct participation of experienced fighters, they were often unable to deliver decisive blows to the enemy. The old Montenegrin proverb proved true: “Without an elder, there is no strike.” The young lacked experience. Yet despite this, these still-untrained partisans were repeatedly given tasks that only well-trained soldiers of a regular army could handle.
Many changes occurred in the renowned battalion. Ilija Perućica was appointed commander of the First Brigade to replace the fallen brigade commander at Gacko. Perućica was promoted personally by the Chief of the Supreme Headquarters Arso Jovanović. The battalion’s new commander became Tomaš Vučetin, a Montenegrin journalist and former Party secretary of the Lovćen Detachment in Montenegro. He still leads our battalion today.
The great hero of the people, Slobodan Milojević, was no more. Jovan would never forget him. Milojević had often told the fighters about the Soviet Union and the Red Army. He was deeply devoted to the cause and fiercely criticized command decisions at Party meetings, especially the disbandment of partisan detachments in the Kraljevo, Čačak and Užice regions and the premature shift in partisan tactics.
Slobodan Milojević died under mysterious circumstances. Someone shot him in a mountain gorge, even though there were no Germans or Chetniks nearby…
A new political commissar, Blažo Katnić, promptly arrived at the battalion. He brought special instructions, advocated for the strictest discipline and closely monitored the fighters’ behaviour. He had been sent by the Central Committee to “strengthen the army from below”…
* * *
“Everything is in order,” Perućica nodded. “We’re moving into Herzegovina, toward Sinj. The Supreme Headquarters has approved it.”
“And Popović’s order?”
“Revoked.”
“That’s sensible,” Magdić turned to Ranković. “The corps commander back in Homolje doesn’t understand the situation here as well as we do…” The cold, piercing gaze of Ranković’s narrow eyes unsettled him, and he stopped mid-sentence. More cautiously, he continued: “In the Sinj area, as you know, we have our Montenegrin Battalion. They’ve cut off the main roads out of Sinj and are monitoring the Sinj-Livno highway. While the battalion is full of heroes, its numbers and firepower are too weak to hold off the Germans if they decide to advance. A German regiment could break through the weak blockade and escape from Sinj. And then it will be sent east — against the Red Army. We cannot allow that. Arso Jovanović has correctly directed us to consolidate our forces and deliver a heavy blow to this German regiment.”
* * *
MacCarver spread his hands in feigned disappointment, barely concealing his frustration — von Goltz was waiting for him in Sinj.
“Excuse me!” He pulled a notebook from his satchel and flipped through it. “The First Brigade is stationed in the Livno area, and Sinj is not part of its operational plans.”
“Arso Jovanović’s orders have changed those plans,” Ranković said slowly.
“But… listen, Mr. Marko,” the American locked eyes with him. “In the interest of our shared mission, could the operation be delayed?”
“I can’t. The swift capture of Sinj is of critical importance to us,” Ranković declared, much to Magdić’s satisfaction. “Sinj is a key junction in the enemy’s coastal communications. It sits on the only road connecting Croatia with Montenegro. From Sinj, it’s just a step to Split, a significant port. By taking Sinj, we’ll have a gateway to the Adriatic — and from there, a connection to the outside world, to you, our Allied friends!”
* * *
MacCarver, however, showed no sign of recognition. He casually sat at the table and began leafing through the documents retrieved from the prisoner’s briefcase.
Answering Radović, von Goltz stated that in launching the winter campaign of 1943-44 in Yugoslavia, German commander General von Weichs had, for the sixth time, attempted to encircle, fragment and destroy the main forces of the National Liberation Army. His troops, including Chetnik and Ustaše units, had launched surprise attacks, broken through in various areas, and occupied vast territories in eastern Bosnia and the Sandžak at the beginning of December. But the partisans kept slipping away from destruction and sometimes even struck back with counterblows — like today in Sinj, which until now had been a peaceful outpost.
At this, von Goltz cast a sorrowful glance at MacCarver’s back as he bent over the table, examining the papers.
“One might think,” the prisoner continued in a strained voice, “that the partisans today were commanded personally by Arso Jovanović.”
“Yes, we acted under his orders,” Radović confirmed with pride.
Von Goltz sighed.
“Things are bad, Herr Commander. We’ve lost the Dnieper. We let Italy slip away. Even the Bolivian Indians have declared war on us. When we were strong, everyone loved us. The strong are obeyed, but the weak are stoned. And now, even here, we’re being beaten. We’ve lost Sinj… It’s hard to fight an enemy as slippery as an eel. He slips from our grasp, avoids the traps we set, refuses to engage in major battles, and instead forces us to fight on his terms… I must admit, I’m impressed by your improved tactical skills,” von Goltz added obsequiously.
* * *
Katnić, however, reassured everyone that Tito was merely using this manoeuvre to deceive the Germans. This was also the official explanation for the negotiations with the enemy.
Later, it became known that during these talks, Velebit had secured German permission for the safe evacuation of certain Political Bureau members’ families from occupied territory to the partisan zone. As a result, the Germans released Tito’s second wife, a Slovenian woman living in Zagreb. Additionally, Velebit arranged a prisoner exchange. In return for individuals needed by Tito and Ranković, he agreed to release many German officers and Gestapo members captured by the partisans. For certain other undisclosed commitments, the Germans promised to refrain from attacking the partisan forces for a time. And indeed, after the negotiations, the Germans remained inactive. A lull followed.
It was during this time that Lola Ribar arrived at the brigade. Miletić happened to meet him near Perućica. They embraced, kissed each other on the cheeks, and reminisced about the youth congress. Alas, how many hopes had faded since then! “It’s a disaster,” said Lola, “that Arso Jovanović isn’t at the Supreme Headquarters. It’s as if Tito deliberately sent him to lead operations in Slovenia. And yet, he is needed here now more than ever!” Jovan spoke candidly to Lola about the mood among the fighters: they instinctively sensed that the delay played into the enemy’s hands, condemned Velebit and suspected him — being the son of a royal general — of betrayal.
“I don’t like him either,” Lola Ribar remarked in passing after listening grimly to Korchagin.
* * *
[Huntington:] “Ninčić is our person. She is also Ranković’s watchdog at Tito’s side. Only through her can you get to the Marshal. They say that when Tito’s Croatian wife came to visit, Ninčić even laid down between them at night. Guarding the Marshal’s morality!” Huntington laughed heartily. “Can you picture that juicy little scene? She often doesn’t let Arso Jovanović in to see Tito either — he’s either resting or working. By the way, do you have anything on this Arso?”
[MacCarver:] “Nothing.”
“A shame… He’s difficult to deal with. He neither trusts us nor welcomes us. I doubt we’ll be able to get along with him… Now, back to Tito. Power-hungry, vain. Always seeks attention, pays great care to his wardrobe and appearance. Have you noticed? He plucks his bushy pale eyebrows to make them thinner. Thinks his profile is perfect for being minted on coins. Loves luxury, gold and jewels…”
“Well, he has a healthy taste for life,” MacCarver remarked.
“Extremely greedy.”
* * *
The head of the Supreme Staff, Arso Jovanović, and Ranković, accompanied by their guards, hurried to reach Gornji Vakuf before dark to spend the evening and the following day with the partisans before continuing toward the Konjic area, where the Perućica Brigade had regrouped after withdrawing from Livno.
Reaching the riverside road, Arso spurred his horse. He glanced back. Ranković, who had been closely trailing him, met his gaze and smiled warmly.
“Why is he tagging along with me?” Arso wondered.
“We’re headed the same way, comrade. It’s more enjoyable in company. I want to spend some time with the people, with the fighters,” Ranković had said as he joined the Chief of Staff just before their departure.
Lately, Marko had been making a great show of his love for the Soviet Union, his friendly sympathy toward those around him, and especially toward Arso. But Jovanović was not particularly pleased by this change. He remembered Ranković’s previous hostility toward him all too well. True, it could be explained simply: as a member of the Political Bureau and a strict guardian of Party purity, Ranković likely still did not fully trust a former officer of the royal army. But then the Soviet military mission had arrived, and it was as if Ranković had become a completely different person…
Even Tito had changed somewhat for the better in recent days, though his characteristic arrogance and irritability remained. Arso had long felt uneasy in his presence. It was becoming increasingly difficult to speak with Tito in a normal, calm, business-like manner. The distance between them was growing. This estrangement became particularly evident after the return of the Anglo-American mission members, MacCarver and Pinch, from their trip to Homolje. Tito had warmly welcomed MacCarver and had a long conversation with him. After that, a certain uncertainty and nervousness became noticeable in many of the Marshal’s actions. He frequently nitpicked Arso, refused to approve orders, issued contradictory instructions, and when Arso cautiously pointed this out, Tito would lose all self-control and fly into a rage. One day, out of nowhere, he suddenly suggested to Jovanović that he should listen more closely to the opinions of Ranković and Kardelj — since, after all, they were the Party’s leaders — and to heed the advice of the Americans — since, after all, they were experienced officers. Moreover, he added, it was necessary to take into account and soberly assess the special political and strategic interests of the United States in the Balkans. Arso was taken aback by Tito’s statement. After all, the Americans themselves had repeatedly claimed that they had no interest whatsoever in Balkan affairs, that they were selflessly aiding Yugoslavia in its struggle against fascism. And now — special interests! What were these interests? And how exactly did they differ from Britain’s so-called traditional gravitation toward the Mediterranean basin? Tito gave no answer. He merely said, “In time, you will see and understand everything.” Regarding the British, he unexpectedly spoke with disdain: they, he said, had already sung their song, played their role, and sooner or later would have to make way for America.
“Special interests! Political and strategic!” — thought Arso Jovanović, not noticing that his horse had slowed to a walk. “What lies behind these terms? Could they have something to do with the British operation plan codenamed ‘Ratweek,’ which was backed by Colonel Huntington? The operation entails the mass destruction of the country’s key infrastructure.”
“Overzealous execution of such a plan could only lead to the collapse of the national economy. And this on the eve of liberation! What are these strange discussions about geological maps and profiles? About the ‘carpets’ of bombs that the Western Allies promise to lay over occupied Yugoslav cities — including, first and foremost, Belgrade — as part of their so-called military assistance? And what about this SS Colonel von Goltz, whom MacCarver is practically recommending as a consultant to the Supreme Command? Now this SS officer is singing endless praises of Tito’s military genius, while ingratiating himself with the Americans, babbling about some kind of global intercontinental strategy, about the gates to the wider world that the Yankees will open, enriching old Prussian traditions with the theory of the new era!”
Arso felt a sense of relief, and even the air in the Supreme Headquarters seemed fresher when the Soviet representatives arrived. Just the thought of these simple, warm-hearted and courageous people filled his heart with warmth. Arso had been eagerly anticipating a meeting with Red Army officers for a long time. As soon as they landed in Bari and established contact with the Supreme Headquarters of the YNLA, Arso personally communicated with them by radio and oversaw the clearing of the landing strip at Medeno Polje, near Bosanski Petrovac. How anxious he had been in those days! Everything was ready for the arrival of the aircraft, but the weather in Italy suddenly worsened, or heavy snowfall buried the airstrip. The Soviets, however, found a solution. On February 23, gliders were flown in from Bari, and the Soviet mission landed on the snowy fields of Medeno Polje — on the anniversary of the Red Army.
What a celebration it was in Petrovac! The people greeted the Russians warmly and hospitably. That evening, a solemn gathering was held. And the next day in Drvar, in the building of the Supreme Headquarters, an official reception took place, attended by members of the Anglo-American mission led by Maclean. Maclean read out a greeting telegram from Churchill. The Prime Minister stated that “the remarkable armies of the United States, which are already here or arriving to join us, and our own forces — the best trained and equipped we have ever had — stand shoulder to shoulder, equal in number and united by true friendship.” Stand… Maclean’s lengthy dinner speech followed in the same vein.
The head of the Soviet military mission, however, spoke briefly but to the point: “We have come here to assist the Yugoslav National Liberation Army in its heroic struggle!”
And indeed, the operational work at the Supreme Headquarters immediately gained momentum, enriched by deep theoretical analysis, and more active operations involving large units began to take shape. The entire course of the partisan struggle was now being directed toward concrete strategic objectives…
Arso smiled at the memory and urged his horse into a steady trot. But his thoughts kept restlessly circling back to Operation “Ratweek” and the Anglo-American bombing tactics. With both affection and anxiety, he thought of Belgrade, the city where he had spent so many years. He had come to love its wide, straight yet cosy streets, with their charming kiosks on the corners and elegant villas completely covered in wild grapevines and ivy. In summer, they hung from the walls like green carpets shimmering with yellow and orange hues, their window openings like cutouts in the foliage. Before the war, these streets had been lively and full of joy. Jovanović had loved taking evening strolls past the opera house, past the Alexander Nevsky Church, which had been built on the site of the field church used by the Russian volunteers who had fought against the Turks in 1876 — their battle flags were still preserved there. Then he would descend to the Danube, where an unbroken silence reigned. The river, as if absorbing the last rays of the sun, wound through the misty banks like a golden ribbon, caressed by the greenery of weeping willows, poplars and thuja trees, standing like small pyramids. The fiery colours gradually faded, dusk enveloped the ancient fortress walls, and in the small, romantic garden, young couples would appear, basking in their happiness, full of hope for the future. Once, during his student years, Arso himself had whispered his first “I love you” in that very place. And now — could it be that Belgrade, dear and familiar, was to be bombed under Operation “Ratweek”? And by whom? The Allies — the Americans! But why? What operational or strategic benefit would it bring? There were few German troops in Belgrade, and no major industrial facilities of military significance. Unless they meant the Zemun brick factories?! To bomb Belgrade itself would mean slaughtering its peaceful population…
“Stop! Wait for me! I need to change my horse!” — a suddenly irritated voice rang out behind him.
He turned.
Ranković, sitting heavily to one side in the saddle, had put so much weight on his bay horse’s back that the animal was beginning to buckle.
“I’ll keep going at a walk — catch up with me!” Jovanović called back with a wave of his hand.
The road began to slope upward. A light snowfall dusted the path. Under the canopy of sprawling dogwood trees, blackbirds were pecking at fallen, ruby-red berries.
Arso listened with pleasure to the chirping birds, his mind drifting toward old thoughts and long-forgotten desires. He longed for the marshes, overgrown with tall golden reeds and sedges. There, among the dense thickets of cane, where tufts of feathery seeds were already carried away by the wind, flocks of grebes, coots, cormorants and ducks bustled and called out in their many voices. “If only I could go hunting there, just for an hour — to forget all these worries!”
He took a deep breath of the crisp, frosty air. To the right of the road stretched a frost-covered forest, shimmering in shades of bluish-grey. Occasionally, a gust of wind from the ravine rustled through the treetops. To the left, the Vrbas River murmured dully, veiled in mist. The sky, too, was covered in heavy, murky clouds.
Accompanied by his orderly, Arso slowly ascended the ridge. His restless thoughts took hold of him once more.
Before leaving Drvar, he had had a heated argument with Tito. It had been difficult to even get in to see him — his hysterical secretary, Ninčić, guarded the Marshal like a watchdog, demanding that he be shown proper honours and making visitors wait for hours in the reception room. Tito had been in a foul mood. He had lost a chess game to the half-drunk young Churchill. Arso had started the conversation by advising Tito to pay serious attention to strengthening the national liberation movement in Serbia — to send part of the forces from Montenegro and Bosnia there. The Marshal listened and shook his head in disapproval. He was clearly thinking about something else.
Then Arso approached the front-line map and patiently explained the situation. The Red Army, he said, was advancing. It had already broken through the German defences along the entire stretch of the Dnieper from Zhlobin to Kherson and had created a new Stalingrad for Hitler’s forces on the western bank of the Dnieper near Korsun-Shevchenkovsky. Soon, the spring-summer offensives would begin. It was highly likely that the Red Army would soon reach the borders of Yugoslavia.
“Are we ready to meet them? Are we ready to assist them, at least through the operations we have already planned based on the advice of the Soviet representatives?” Arso asked. “The Soviet military mission must be convinced that our words align with our actions. After all, the mission’s chief will report everything to his Supreme Commander-in-Chief.”
Tito fell into even deeper thought. His face darkened. He strode quickly through the cave, kicking over chess pieces scattered on the floor with the toe of his boot, then suddenly stopped and slammed his palm on the table.
“So be it. You are right. We cannot afford to undermine the boundless trust that the Soviet people have placed in us,” he declared pompously. “We have earned this trust through honest, selfless struggle for a just cause, and our friends have come to our aid — my dear old friends. Yes, you are right, Arso. I approve your proposal. Go to the First and Second Corps, speak with Koča and Peko. Determine which divisions we can allocate to strengthen our forces in Serbia. Act accordingly. But beware…” — and Tito shook his fist in front of the Chief of Staff’s face.
Jovanović had an idea of what that gesture meant, but he couldn’t fully decipher this “beware,” which left him with an unpleasant, unsettling feeling after the conversation. An hour later, he learned that Marko, along with his entourage, would be accompanying him on his trip to eastern Bosnia and Montenegro. “Tito doesn’t trust me,” the thought now firmly took hold in Arso’s mind. He glanced back once more. Ranković, now on a different horse, was already catching up, swinging his whip. “Then again, perhaps this is for the best,” Jovanović thought. “As a member of the Political Bureau, he may help exert pressure on Peko Dapčević. This self-important, small-scale Napoleon will undoubtedly do everything he can to resist the withdrawal of units from his forces for deployment to Serbia. And even if he does comply with the order and transfers a division, he’ll likely restructure it in such a way that it will be nearly combat-ineffective. The same will probably be done by his friend, the ‘philosopher’ Popović. With both of these ‘feudal lords,’ I’ll have to tread carefully to avoid an uproar and a scandal while still ensuring that Serbia receives fully capable troops. After all, they will have to advance on Belgrade together with the Red Army! Finally, we must clarify on the ground how this Operation ‘Ratweek,’ which the Allies have practically imposed on us as an ultimatum, should be carried out — effectively, in accordance with military necessity, and in a way that avoids causing significant harm to Yugoslavia.”
“What are you thinking about, Arso?”
Jovanović flinched and tightened the reins.
Ranković was now riding beside him.
“Oh, about many things… about family…”
“Ah…” Ranković gave Arso a piercing look. “Avoiding the question…”
He recalled the instructions Tito had given him before departure: to “assist” Jovanović in his work, to carefully select and position trusted people in the divisions being sent to Serbia. He was also to hint to Koča Popović about the possibility of his upcoming appointment as the commander of the Main Headquarters of Serbia. How would Koča himself react to this? And did Ranković find him suitable for the role? Of course! Koča was their man.
Additionally, Tito had tasked Marko with ensuring the most thorough and unquestioning execution of Operation Ratweek and had advised him to keep the arrival of the Soviet military mission secret from the rank-and-file fighters for the time being.
“Keep an eye on things there,” Tito had said. “Make sure Arso doesn’t make a mess of things. You can issue orders on my behalf and correct anything on the spot if necessary.”
Now, riding alongside Jovanović, Ranković wanted to get a clearer sense of his intentions so he could figure out in advance how best to discreetly obstruct anything Tito wouldn’t approve of.
“What do you think, Arso — where should we start in the First Corps with Popović?”
“Let’s start,” Jovanović replied with a smile, “by announcing the good news: Soviet officers are now with us!”
“You want to reveal a military secret?” Ranković frowned menacingly.
For a moment, Arso was so taken aback that he dropped the reins.
“Is that really a secret?”
“For now, yes. Listen, I advise you to be careful… Anything can happen.”
Again, that warning — “Be careful!” A pang shot through Arso’s heart. He sighed and spurred his horse forward.
Alongside the road, the tall, snow-covered mulberry trees swayed slightly in the wind, as if they had been dipped in white wax. The alley narrowed in the distance, and at its end, the outskirts of Gornji Vakuf appeared, veiled in a net of lazily falling snow.
* * *
Suddenly, Miletić nudged me with his elbow and motioned toward the door with his eyes.
In the deep doorway stood Vučetin, alongside a tall, gaunt commander wearing a fur coat down to his knees and opanci on his feet.
“Stand up!” Miletić ordered the fighters. “This is the Chief of the Supreme Headquarters,” he quietly informed those nearby, though many had already recognized Arso Jovanović.
“Zdravo, comrades!” Arso greeted us in a low voice.
The partisans responded in unison:
“Zdravo!”
I couldn’t take my eyes off Arso. He approached us — neat, disciplined, with a strong resemblance to a man from the Caucasus, his dark hair already streaked with grey. His large black eyes, set in a weathered, angular face, regarded us with a slightly bashful smile.
“You had a shop?” Arso looked at Kumanudi with curiosity. “So, they took it from you and threw you in prison, you say?”
“Yes,” Branko replied, hesitantly.
“And, of course, you managed to escape from prison and joined us, right? And what exactly are you fighting for now?”
“What do you mean, what for?” Branko now looked boldly, with his usual hint of cheekiness. “We are all, of course, fighting for socialism, but besides that, each of us has their own interests in mind. I, for example, have a small shop in Sarajevo — a confectionery.”
“He was a shopkeeper, deceiving people,” someone remarked.
Branko’s shiny face turned red.
“I traded honestly, but of course, I looked after my own profit — otherwise, what’s the point of being in business?” he retorted angrily.
“I see,” Jovanović said. Then he turned to Filipović. “And what about you? What are you fighting for?”
Đuro rubbed his rough nose, gathering his thoughts, and after a moment, replied:
“For my own land, Comrade Jovanović. I want to plough my own soil, not work the land of a kulak, if God allows.”
“And why do you need land?” Branko prodded him mockingly. “You’re a lumberjack. And tell me, where did your land go — if you ever had any? Did you drink it away?”
“I never really had land, just rocks mixed with sorrow. And even that was taken by a kulak for debts after a bad harvest.”
“Of course. You people are always like that, you golanci,”1 Branko sneered. “Now, my father — he’s a peasant too, but he’s wise, thrifty and knows how to save a little for a rainy day. He made something of himself and he doesn’t complain about life. He has enough land for grazing goats and chopping firewood — not too much, just eighteen ral.”2
“Eighteen ral?” the fighters were astonished. “That’s nearly a week’s worth of ploughing! How many workers does your father have? Come on, admit it.”
“I haven’t counted, but in the summer, there are some — they harvest the grain in the fields and pick plums in the orchard.”
“Wait! And how does he plan to live after the war in the new Yugoslavia?” Filipović asked.
“Even better.”
“How so — better?”
“Comrade Tito will give every landowner three or four Germans as workers. No need to pay them, obviously.”
“And why would your father need workers when his extra land will be taken away?”
“Who’s going to take it? You?” Branko shot a dark look at Filipović. “Holy Mother of God! What nonsense — you see, even you’re embarrassed now. You must have forgotten what Political Commissar Katnić said. Allow me to remind you,” he turned to Jovanović with exaggerated politeness. “Because you and I, Đuro, we are one and the same: your father is a peasant, and my father is a peasant. Poor peasants and rich peasants — we are all fighting against the Germans now. So how could you take my father’s land? That land is mine too!”
Đuro struggled to find the right words to argue against Branko and defend his position. He glanced at Jovanović in confusion.
Arso, along with Vučetin, moved in closer.
“What are their names?” he asked with a frown.
Vučetin named the two men.
The fighters gathered tightly around Arso, waiting for his explanation.
After a brief pause, he said:
“Let me tell you a story. There was a factory owner in Belgrade who made cooking pots. The Germans seized his workshop and started using it to assemble mortars. And they also assaulted his daughter. They wronged him badly, so out of sheer hatred, he ran off to join the partisans. Or here’s another story: there was a shopkeeper who loved the king and respected Hitler, but that didn’t stop the Germans from taking his sons as hostages and then executing them. So he too joined the partisans. In the end, both the factory owner and the shopkeeper turned against the fascists, but only out of personal revenge. They both even ended up in the Communist Party. But I don’t think the Party gained much from that. They might be good fighters, but whether they’ll ever be true communists — I have my doubts. In the future, our Party may have to rid itself of them, or perhaps even fight against them. For now, it’s not a problem that they’re with us. What matters is that they don’t lead ordinary people, who lack political awareness, down the wrong path. But that won’t happen because our ordinary people trust only one party — the Communist Party — which has consistently defended their interests.”
“Exactly,” Đuro confirmed with conviction.
“And only in alliance with the working class…”
“With you, Tomislav,” Đuro smiled at Stankov.
“…under the leadership of the Communist Party,” Arso continued, warmly glancing at Filipović, “will we build the most just society on earth after the war — a socialist one. And it is incorrect to think that the peasantry is a single whole. Some peasants, like Filipović, unable to withstand competition, go bankrupt and abandon their land, becoming farmhands or labourers, swelling the ranks of the working class. Others buy up land, grow even richer and use their wealth to push their sons into the bourgeoisie. They cling to their property like a crab to rotten meat. Yes…” Arso drew out his words thoughtfully. “And you, Kumanudi, and you, Filipović, still have a lot to understand, a great deal… It’s a pity that political education in your battalion seems to be lacking…”
“So what? Does that mean we can’t be in the Party?” Branko asked with a hint of irony, raising his eyes.
“I didn’t say that. But if it turns out that you’re a Party member, tell me, how did you get in?”
“Me?” Branko looked around. “I was invited to join.”
“And of course, you didn’t refuse? I see. Understood. Well, that’s how it happens.” Arso paused. “Of course, it’s wrong to think that people join the Party already possessing the qualities of a Bolshevik. These qualities must be developed. The entire life of the Party, all its work — it’s a great Marxist-Leninist school, and many of us are still in its preparatory class. Learning is difficult, but don’t be afraid of difficulties, comrades, don’t fear failures,” Arso spoke as if answering some deep thoughts of his own. “Just try to have as few failures as possible. Be honest and truthful, patient and persistent. Weigh every action, every word…”
“Here,” Jovanović pulled a newspaper from his field bag, “there’s an article about what a Communist Party member should be. The most important part is Stalin’s words. I’ve underlined them with a pencil. Can you read it, Filipović?”
“I can’t,” Đuro murmured, embarrassed. “Branko is literate, though.”
Kumanudi reached for the newspaper, but Tomislav Stankov snatched it first.
“Can I?”
“We, communists,” Stankov read with a trembling voice, “are people of a special kind. We are made of special material. We are those who form the army of the great proletarian strategist, the army of Comrade Lenin… There is nothing higher than the title of Party member, whose founder and leader is Comrade Lenin… Not everyone can withstand the hardships and storms that come with being a member of such a Party.”
After reading, Tomislav wiped his forehead with his hand, his eyes shining with pride. Đuro took the newspaper from him and, stepping toward the window, carefully smoothed it out on the windowsill. How he regretted that he couldn’t read now!
* * *
…Through the pointed stained-glass windows of the high school auditorium, streams of March sunlight poured in. The sky was so bright, so blue, as if the snow and blizzards had spent the entire month polishing it to a shine.
Both the sun and the sky matched the festive, elevated mood that had lingered among the people since the previous evening when they had met and spoken with Arso Jovanović. Even the need to arrive at the meeting secretly, one by one, and the strict, scrutinizing control at the door — where Katnić’s orderly, Pantera, stood with a menacing look — could not dampen the spirits of the Party gathering’s participants. Jovan, as he left, told me that he needed to visit the church bell tower, where we had an observation post. Under various pretexts, Filipović, Kumanudi, Stankov and other fighters disappeared from the platoon.
Suddenly, Vučetin came for me, happily announcing that, as a Russian communist, I was also allowed to attend the Party meeting, which was being convened in secret. I had already been quite surprised that the Party organization’s membership was classified, that there were no membership cards. It was difficult to distinguish a Party fighter from a non-Party one. One simply had to take a person at their word. It was only now that I learned who among my platoon members was a communist.
In the front row of chairs, Katnić placed two large plush armchairs — for Jovanović and Ranković. Glancing at me and Miletić, he leaned toward Ranković’s ear and, with a guilty expression, began whispering something to him, but Ranković disdainfully pushed him away.
“Marko is with us again,” Miletić quietly said. “But he’s unusually quiet this time…”
When the members of the presidium took their seats at the long, narrow table, Maček, with a fussy gesture, pointed Jovanović toward the carpeted podium and solemnly announced:
“The floor is given to the Chief of the Supreme Headquarters of the National Liberation Army and Partisan Detachments of Yugoslavia, Comrade Arso Jovanović.”
Katnić was the first to clap and twisted his face into a half-smile:
“Please, please.”
The fighters listened to Jovanović with enthusiasm. He spoke about the international situation, the state of the fronts and how the Red Army was steadily advancing — moving north, west and southwest — toward the Balkans.
“And our Western allies?…” Ranković casually remarked, straightening slightly in his chair. “They are heroically pushing toward Rome!”
“I’ll speak about them now, about their heroic drive,” Arso furrowed his thick black brows. “To be precise, I’ll quote the latest statements by General Eisenhower. Here are his words from a press conference with war correspondents in London.” Arso flipped through his notebook. “Here it is. ‘Essentially, wars are won by public opinion. If you,’ Eisenhower said to the correspondents, ‘are as eager as I am to win this war and bring it to an end, then we have nothing to worry about.’”
“Well, imagine that!” Vučetin said mockingly. “And here we are, fools, worrying ourselves sick.”
The fighters smiled. Đuro rubbed his nose awkwardly with his fingers, his ears burning. He seemed uncomfortable sitting at the presidium. Kića Jankov kept taking off his glasses to clean them. Only Ajša remained at ease, her clear laughter echoing throughout the hall. It seemed like she was laughing for the first time since Petkovski’s death.
Ranković kept his eyes fixed on Jovanović with a puzzled, questioning look. A faint, strange, joyless smile froze on his lips.
“So,” Arso said with a serious expression, “full of battle impatience, Eisenhower is, for now, not worried about anything at all. Now, let’s turn to the latest front-line report. Here it is. The Allied High Command in Italy reports: ‘Patrols are operating on all sections of the front, and raids are being carried out… We pray to God for good weather, which would allow us to conduct naval and air operations.’”
“They’re praying to God!” someone in the hall snickered again.
“Waiting for a miracle.”
“And they claim they’re pushing toward Rome!”
Katnić glanced around nervously, trying to pinpoint who was making the remarks.
“Stop shouting from your seats! You’ll have your turn after the report,” he snapped. “Quiet!”
“I think,” Arso said with a slight smile, “that good weather will soon be upon our Western allies. Even now, comrades, it is clear that the Soviet Union has enough strength to win this war without a second front and despite unfavourable weather — to crush Hitler’s Germany and liberate Europe. Just yesterday, Eisenhower, in his greeting to the Red Army, called its massive offensive ‘a great military epic.’ So, comrades, allow me to bow before the creator of Soviet military strategy, Comrade Stalin, before his genius, before the Russian soldier, who has selflessly liberated enslaved lands and seas many times before…”
The hall stirred, and everyone jumped to their feet, shouting, “Long live Stalin!”
Miletić shouted loudly:
“The sun of victory is rising over the whole world! The Soviet sun!”
“It is rising!” Arso Jovanović fervently echoed, and when the noise in the hall died down somewhat, he continued with calm conviction: “We all believe in the Red Army. I am firmly convinced that the day is not far when our great Slavic brother will appear on the Danube and extend a hand of aid to us. We all believe that any struggle alongside the Soviet Union will inevitably lead to victory. For our happiness, the Soviet soldiers are shedding their blood on countless battlefronts. And here too, on the sacred soil of our homeland, the fraternal blood of Russian men flows — men who have escaped German captivity to fight alongside us.
“I believe that a new Yugoslavia will emerge, and an unbreakable brotherhood and unity will be born — not only among our Yugoslav peoples but among all South Slavs, all Balkan nations. And this brotherhood and unity will last forever, for they are the guarantee of our freedom, independence and a better future. A free Yugoslavia can only be envisioned in close cooperation and friendship with neighbouring nations and with the Soviet Union. Thanks to the Soviet Union’s struggle, we have been able to build our national army, which now numbers nearly 300,000 fighters. Thanks to the victories of Soviet soldiers, we have managed to achieve something significant for this great day. We have thwarted the enemy’s SIxth Offensive, launched a counter-offensive and taken seven cities in Bosnia. Our forces are now fighting along the entire mountain range from Slovenia to the Albanian border. Our banners fly over one-third of the country’s territory. But is that enough? In these decisive months of the war, can we afford to simply wait for the Red Army’s rescue, merely defend liberated territories and carry out uncoordinated operations without a unified, overarching strategic goal?”
“No, no and no!” loud cries rang out from different corners of the hall.
“In that case,” Jovanović raised his voice, “I see no reason to keep this idea a secret. It is not a mystery. It lives in our hearts. Every fighter will understand it.” Arso spoke in short, urgent phrases, as if hurrying to finally express the main reason for his visit. “Comrades! Brothers and sisters! Enemy supply lines run through our country. We must ensure that not a single German unit escapes from here, out of the reach of the advancing Red Army. That is the idea!”
Voices in the hall did not subside:
“We won’t let them through! We’ll destroy the fascists!”
Ranković silently nodded.
“Saying it isn’t enough, comrades,” Arso continued. “The most important thing is to strike the enemy hard — to strike him as the glorious Soviet soldiers do, to strike according to all the rules of modern military science. Over the past year, we have gained enough combat experience, we have risen another step in military skill. And I believe, I want to be certain, that nothing like Sutjeska will ever happen again, where the bravery and courage of our partisans were sacrificed to our lack of military knowledge…”
Jovan grabbed my hand.
“Sutjeska! Do you hear?! That’s the most terrifying thing…”
“Yes, yes, the inability to wage war,” Arso firmly repeated.
* * *
…Some time passed before we recovered from our sorrowful astonishment.
Arso confirmed what Ranković had said.
“But the battle for Sinj,” he added, “showed the enemy that we are strong in our national unity, a unity that cannot be broken. However, what happened afterward? Why did you flee toward Gornji Vakuf in a panic, like mountain deer, making yourselves easy targets for enemy bombs?”
Arso described the night battle for the town as chaotic and poorly organized, while the preliminary sabotage he deemed an unnecessary, foolish invention of the political commissar.
“This is a Party meeting, and we have nothing to hide,” he said to Katnić, who sat gloomily, buried in his notebook. “And I will hold you accountable for much more. I don’t see any real agitation or cultural-educational work being carried out in the battalion. Are the communists receiving any political training? Why do they lack basic political literacy? Even worse, they are being taught completely false ideas that contradict Marxist-Leninist doctrine. And what are the SKOJ members3 doing? They’re nowhere to be heard. Why don’t you have political study groups? Why aren’t you holding regular classes for the illiterate? No general education lectures?! There are no discussions on the national question, and yet it is of utmost importance to us. The incident at Sinj proves that. And finally, why is your wall newspaper under such tight control and censorship that it’s practically on its last breath?!”
“He’s cutting them down to size.”
“Far-sighted!” whispers were heard in the hall.
With each question, Katnić would half-rise, exchange glances with Maček — who was nervously shifting in his chair — run his hand over his forehead, start to say something, but, failing to utter a word, sit back down.
“Life in the battalion,” Jovanović concluded, “both on the march and in the villages, can be made interesting, meaningful and vibrant. All that’s needed is initiative. Without it, any useful effort turns into dull bureaucracy and fades away. Remember the words of our great Montenegrin poet Petar Njegoš: ‘A strike sparks fire from stone, otherwise, it would remain lifeless within it.’ Cheerfulness, enthusiasm, a spirit of uplift — this is what we need to honourably fulfil the great combat mission before us.”
“That’s right!” came Ružica’s voice.
“I’ve said all I wanted, comrade, and I’m ready to hear you out,” Jovanović addressed her.
“We, the SKOJ members, want to work, we really do. But it’s hard for us.” She hesitated.
“Speak openly, don’t be afraid,” Ajša encouraged her.
“I will. Why can’t we have a button accordion, for example? Do songs and music really distract us from serious tasks? And then…” Ružica stepped closer to Arso and, as if confiding in him alone, quietly asked, “And if a girl doesn’t want to cut her braids, or if she falls in love — is that such a terrible crime?”
Without waiting for an answer, Ružica sat back down.
“Why have you scared everyone so much?” Arso turned to Katnić. “This is no way to teach morality. And where did you get the idea that a fighter, during war, must abandon all their habits and inclinations, suppress their most natural feelings and turn into a walking model of virtue? If you do have any instructions on this matter, then it’s clear you’ve misunderstood them,” Arso said, noticing how Katnić kept glancing at Ranković, as if awaiting his support. “Well then, Comrade Katnić, would you like to take the floor to explain?”
“I’m ready,” Katnić gloomily stepped onto the podium.
The fighters watched him with curiosity. Stuffing a cigarette holder with a half-smoked cigarette into the pocket of his tunic, he smiled meekly, appeasingly and — to everyone’s surprise — immediately began openly admitting to all his mistakes and oversights. His speech was full of phrases like “I failed to account for,” “I overlooked,” “I didn’t keep track of,” “I was too hasty.” It was so unlike his usual self-congratulatory remarks: “I knew it all along,” “I rarely make mistakes,” “I warned you!”
“Your fair criticism, Comrade Jovanović, will be very helpful to us,” he declared, gradually regaining control and shifting from a repentant tone to his usual lecturing style. “We will strive not to repeat our mistakes, though, unfortunately, no one is immune to them.” Katnić kept his eyes locked on Ranković. “At the same time, I want to warn some people…”
He hesitated, like a poor speaker who had lost his notes.
I glanced at Ranković, who was sitting close by. His eyes were half-closed. He turned his face toward a ray of sunlight streaming through the red glass and basked in its warmth, almost as if he were dozing off. But then his head tilted slightly. It could have been taken as a nod of approval — or as simple drowsiness. But suddenly, Katnić straightened up defiantly. He had clearly sensed silent encouragement.
“I want to warn my fellow Party members,” he repeated in a stronger voice, “that one must resort to criticism skilfully and cautiously. Otherwise, you understand, there are those — secret agents of the imperialists — who would seize any opportunity to undermine the authority of our Party, our leaders, to slander them… Yes, yes, to slander them, and in doing so, weaken and disarm our ranks!”
Jovanović frowned as he listened. Hunched over, he sat among the fighters and undoubtedly noticed how the enthusiasm in their eyes faded. No one wanted to speak after Katnić, and Maček hastily declared the Party meeting closed.
As everyone was leaving, Vučetin stopped me, saying that Jovanović wanted to speak with me.
In a small classroom, Arso Jovanović sat me down beside him and placed his hand on my shoulder.
“Vučetin has told me about you, Comrade Zagoryanov,” he began with a friendly smile. “I called you here because…”
Soft footsteps sounded, and Ranković appeared on the threshold.
“You’re being careless, Arso!” he said cheerfully. “The window faces the courtyard! Conspiracy, conspiracy!”
Ranković drew the curtains together and sat down by the window, like a guard.
“…so that,” Jovanović continued, hesitating slightly, “we could have a frank conversation.”
“By the way… Excuse me for interrupting,” Ranković threw in his direction. “Zagoryanov, would you like to transfer to the company we’ve formed from Russian prisoners of war who escaped from the camps? You’d be among your own people.”
“I wouldn’t recommend it,” Jovanović said to me, then turned to Ranković. “Why gather them all in one unit? I’d distribute the Russians among the companies so they can share their combat experience with our people everywhere.”
“You forget, Arso, that not all Russians are the same… Not all of them have been vetted yet,” Ranković murmured quietly. “But if you don’t want to, Zagoryanov, I won’t insist. We trust you completely.”
I decided to seize the opportunity.
“Would it be possible,” I asked, “to somehow let the Soviet Union know that Russian prisoners who ended up in Yugoslavia are fighting in your army — that we are alive?”
“And so that your family finds out as well?” Arso guessed my unspoken wish. “It’s possible. We’ll try to arrange it.”
He fell into thought, looking at me.
I recalled everything I had heard about this remarkable man. A sensitive, attentive friend of the partisans… A fearless and intelligent strategist… The son of a poor peasant, he had risen to the rank of Chief of the General Staff before the war thanks to his extraordinary talent and had written the first treatise on Yugoslav army tactics. When the army capitulated to the German aggressors in 1941, Jovanović went into the woods — not to Draža Mihailović, as many other career officers did, but to the ordinary people, the partisans. During the difficult early period of the struggle, he joined the Communist Party and emerged as both a hero and a brilliant organizer. He built the Yugoslav National Liberation Army from scattered partisan detachments. He led all the key successful operations of the YNLA against the Germans. If there were operations where the YNLA attacked rather than defended, it was Arso who commanded them. The Supreme Headquarters depended on him — Arso was its heart and mind. More than once, Arso had stopped unit commanders, and at times, it was said, even Tito himself, from making hasty and ill-considered decisions. It was also rumoured that his directness, honesty and uncompromising nature distanced him from certain influential figures in the army — people well-known for their ruthless ambition. It was likely these individuals who were pushing him away from Tito, forcing Arso to spend more time away from Supreme Headquarters, leading operations on the periphery.
I looked into Arso’s open, tanned face, into his intelligent, deep eyes, and impatiently waited to hear what else he would say.
“I heard you’re from Moscow, comrade?”
“Yes, I studied there.”
Jovanović’s face brightened.
“My dream is to visit Moscow. To enroll in a military academy, or at least a basic military school. To march in a column of happy people across the Red Square, to see Comrade Stalin…”
“Yes,” Ranković nodded. “In Belgrade, we’ll establish the same tradition: salutes, fireworks and a grandstand on Terazije.”4
Arso smirked slightly.
“The most important thing is to learn,” he said thoughtfully. Then, turning to me again, he added, “The fighters enjoy your lessons. I thank you for them. We eagerly learn from the Soviet people the Stalinist science of victory. Russia has always been a mighty military power, giving the world unparalleled commanders. And for us, for our people’s army, learning is even more crucial, as our soldiers and commanders were recently lumberjacks, miners, peasants and students. They are going through a harsh school of struggle, achieving victory through courage, yet often suffering heavy losses due to lack of military experience.” Jovanović became lost in thought, hunching slightly in his chair. “We pay dearly for this lack of experience!… And much of what has happened in our struggle, especially the battle at Sutjeska, can never be justified or forgotten…”
“Sutjeska? I’ve heard about that battle.”
“From whom?” Ranković asked quickly, gracefully slipping down from the windowsill.
“At today’s meeting,” I replied, instinctively omitting any mention of Miletić. “You said, Comrade Jovanović, that at Sutjeska, the partisans’ bravery was sacrificed due to a lack of military skill. And now you’ve repeated it.”
“Lack of skill, yes! Perhaps…”
The sorrowful crease on Arso’s brow deepened even further.
Ranković tapped his palm on the windowsill.
“Time to go, we need to hurry.”
Jovanović glanced at him, then stood up.
“Well, we had our talk,” he said with a sad smile. “Write to me if you ever need anything. And when we meet in Moscow, we’ll have a proper conversation at our leisure. Agreed?”
He shook my hand firmly and left, followed slowly by Ranković…
* * *
…Miletić and I stood in the church bell tower, watching through the archway as the line of horsemen disappeared into the riverside thickets, heading south along the road by the Vrbas River. Farewell, Arso!
* * *
After spending some time with Tito, the envoys of Prime Minister Churchill departed, leaving the fighters with a sense of confidence that Tito had secured the promised assistance. Everyone eagerly awaited the much-anticipated turn for the better.
During those days, Miletić had the opportunity to visit the Supreme Headquarters. He had to deliver a letter from Brigade Commander Arso Jovanović. Perućica reported on the high morale of the fighters and their readiness to take immediate action — to break out of the encirclement without waiting for help, since relying on others was a poor strategy, and time was slipping away: “We’re just hanging here, like a drop on a leaf.”
* * *
Jovan cast his gaze over the small town that our battalion was set to leave the next day — such a neat little town, dressed in white snow, framed by forest and river. With a tinge of bitterness, he said:
“You see, all the successes and victories happen mostly when we take the initiative ourselves. But then what is the role of strategic plans and those who make them? What is the role of leadership? How can one juggle with such matters — turn black into white? Read this as well.”
He pointed to the editorial in Proleter.
I read aloud:
“The operational skill of the Supreme Headquarters reached its peak in this fateful, decisive battle. The foresight and cunning of our command, the heroism of our army and its moral strength have brought us yet another historic victory.”
“Can you believe this? They’re talking about Sutjeska…”
I remained silent for a long time. So this was the truth about Sutjeska! I kept replaying Jovanović’s words in my head: “where the courage and bravery of the partisans were sacrificed to incompetence in warfare…” But perhaps it wasn’t just incompetence — perhaps it was the arrogance and conceit of so-called strategists, their reckless disregard for the actual conditions on the ground? Maybe that’s why they tried to cover up the flaws and weaknesses of their strategy under the label of an historic victory — to avoid responsibility.
These suspicions seemed so improbable that I didn’t dare voice them even to my blood brother, though I felt he was thinking the same thing…
“Listen,” I finally spoke. “But now do you believe we will be able to carry out the combat mission that Arso Jovanović spoke about yesterday?”
“I do,” Miletić answered simply. “Now that Arso is with us.”
And with a joyful smile, he turned his face toward the strong wind, carrying the first timid scent of spring.
* * *
e were marching to reunite with our brigade, heading straight for the Mount Ivan region to operate as part of the brigade along enemy supply lines between Sarajevo and Mostar. The narrow-gauge railway connecting these two cities was occasionally used by the Germans to manoeuvre reserves, moving reinforcements from Croatia and Serbia into Herzegovina and Dalmatia. This was not yet the main combat mission that Arso Jovanović had spoken of, but it was the first step toward its fulfillment.
We remembered Arso warmly. His disarming smile had left a deep impression, as had his weathered face with its fine features and his jet-black eyes, sometimes filled with gentle attentiveness, sometimes burning with righteous anger.
It felt as if he were invisibly accompanying the battalion, hearing the cheerful voices, the songs, seeing the fighters overcoming the hardships of the journey, understanding the manoeuvre… Thinking about this manoeuvre, I made a silent vow: I would keep fighting without sparing my life, doing whatever I could to help my comrades in the division, who might even now be making their way here…
* * *
Branko suddenly choked on the last syllable, his mouth left hanging open. His comma-shaped eyebrows shot up on his bumpy forehead, and the stuck “a” burst from his throat in a drawn-out scream:
“Airplanes!”
He recoiled, and a few soldiers darted aside with him.
I looked up at the sky: at high altitude, two hawks were slowly soaring, trailing long tails.
“Those aren’t airplanes! They’re birds!” I shouted at the top of my lungs.
The soldiers who had scattered stared upward, embarrassed and slowly returned to their places in the column. Branko just spat to the side:
“The devil played a trick on me!”
Upon learning the cause of the panic, Vučetin gave Branko a look of irritation — his round, shiny face and darting yellow eyes — and said angrily:
“Upon arrival, three days under arrest.”
Katnić, overhearing this, rode past indifferently. After the Party meeting attended by Jovanović, he no longer interfered with the commander’s orders and seemed to show no interest in them at all. Overtaking the column, he dismounted and sat under a tree.
I saw the political commissar motion Branko over with a finger. The man, trudging at the rear of the platoon with his head down, hesitantly approached. “Now he’s going to lecture him,” I thought…
Zagoryanov moved ahead with the column, while a shaken Branko, trembling, stood before the political commissar.
“You got yourself into trouble, my friend,” Katnić said. “And from Arso too?”
“I did, may the Holy Virgin preserve me,” Branko replied in a tearful voice, lowering his eyes, bracing for a harsh reprimand.
“Ah, no luck for you.” To Branko’s surprise, Katnić shook his head with apparent sympathy. “They don’t appreciate real fighters… Here you are, fighting, shedding blood…”
“I am.”
“Sacrificing your life…”
* * *
Filipović gazed at me thoughtfully.
“I understand. But you see, comrade…” He pulled a well-worn copy of Proleter from his pocket — the very same newspaper Arso Jovanović had brought to Gornji Vakuf, which he had carefully kept in his satchel ever since. “I read this all the time. Slowly but surely, I’ve taught myself to read. I know what a communist should be. One must endure hardships and storms… But then there’s Branko — he’s a communist too, right? And yet, he’s like a prasac!5 He complains all day that his stomach is stuck to his spine from hunger, yet at night, under his blanket, he smacks his lips as he chews. He eats anything and everything! And in the morning, he’s the first to grab at old radishes, always bickering with Laušek. It’s disgusting!”
* * *
I recalled Vuja Hrstić, his humble hut, his poverty, his modest hospitality and his sincere love for Russians. And then there was Mikoš Kumanudi… And these people, I thought, are what Katnić calls a “united whole”?! But they are as fundamentally different as their sons, Vasko and Branko! How will their conflicting interests and aspirations be reconciled after the war, when they set about building socialism in their country together? And what kind of socialism will that be? After all, old Kumanudi’s socialism is having more land; Katnić’s socialism is “Serbia above all”; Branko’s socialism is a pastry shop in Belgrade; Maček’s socialism is “polako, polako” — slowly working his way up the career ladder, and maybe marrying a wealthy bride with a house on Terazije. Even the Chetnik Kuštrinović had his own “dreams of socialism”… And I remembered Arso Jovanović’s words — that many of the current communists, hastily recruited into the Party as part of the “social base expansion,” would have to be discarded later and, perhaps, even fought against. Yes, that would be inevitable…
* * *
Popović impatiently waved a hand, and Katnić disappeared inside, realizing that the general-lieutenant was deep in thought over something of utmost importance.
…Perućica needs to be removed. He’s impossible to work with. He’s Arso Jovanović’s protégé… Maybe send him off to some training courses? Popović continued reasoning.
* * *
Popović seethed with envy and hatred toward those who had outrun him on the road to glory.
Still, one could live with someone like Tito, he concluded. “A crow doesn’t peck out another crow’s eye!” Ranković, on Tito’s behalf, had already promised Popović that he would soon command an army and, later, perhaps even take the post of Chief of the General Staff. Tito was unlikely to get along with Arso Jovanović… Yes, one can live with Tito. The key was to be extremely cautious and clever. It was worth taking a page from the Americans’ book. Look at MacCarver! He wriggles, pretends to be a democrat, ingratiates himself with the people, trying to appear uninterested — “I’m just here to assist and support.” But behind the scenes, he pokes his nose into everything, even geology… He plays the connoisseur of poetry and philosophy. But has he ever actually read Schopenhauer or Nietzsche? Fool!
Popović spat in irritation. He enjoyed mocking everyone, for — as Confucius advised — “Let neither friendship blind you to your friend’s faults nor hatred to your enemy’s virtues.” But where would this crooked path ultimately lead him, Popović?
It was turning out exactly as Goethe had put it: “You think you’re in control, but in reality, you are being controlled.”
Once again, just as on Crni Vrh, he was forced to navigate conflicting orders: on one hand, from Arso Jovanović, whose ideas strikingly aligned with the sentiments of the soldiers; on the other, from Ranković, whose plans Popović fully supported — and whom he feared. On top of that, he had to keep MacCarver satisfied, as the American was becoming increasingly insistent with his demands for “minor favours for the Allies.” It was hard to serve three masters, but there was no other way… Recently, Jovanović had visited the corps headquarters and issued a series of instructions and orders. The division had to be prepared for deployment to Serbia as soon as possible, properly reinforced, with reliable commanders appointed and fully briefed. But Ranković, who had accompanied Arso, had vaguely hinted that there was no need to rush — though the division would have to be sent eventually. He himself had named the officers and political commissars who should be assigned to key positions. What to do? Marko had said that the division should be armed just enough not to weaken the other units and corps. What does that mean?… Clearly, the division was not to be armed as Arso suggested. “But we can at least select our own people…” That could be done.
Popović murmured lines from a poem, struggling to complete the stanza:
“Everywhere, I am greeted with rapture,
On Montparnasse and in the forests…
And all the way to Saturn itself,
My glow is cast upon the heavens…”
He couldn’t come up with a proper rhyme for “phenomenon.” “Vision, illusion, apparition?” he mused. “No, none of them fit. The lines just won’t come!” Frustrated, he waved a hand in the air. Who has time for poetry now, when there’s still the matter of coordinating the upcoming Serbian operations with Dapčević? Prose! Arso had gone to strip Dapčević of one or two divisions. But Peko wouldn’t give in easily. Popović knew Dapčević well from Spain — selfish, cowardly, ambitious; he had taken many heads to carve out his own path. Even back in Spain, he had avoided the front lines, preferring to watch naked dancers at the anarchist club in Barcelona. Still, it was strange to think that this same Peko — a former dropout who once wore a ridiculous polka-dot jacket, like an old-school police spy — was now also a lieutenant-general! What inflation! The so-called hero of the Spanish Civil War, the fearless defender of some nameless hill on the Mediterranean coast, which the Spaniards supposedly renamed “Montenegro” — Black Mountain — in his honour. They even made up a story that during his escape from a German prison, he had managed to destroy two German factories. Utter Titoite fabrications! But it was precisely such “tall tales” that now allowed Dapčević to vie for the role of a great commander…
* * *
…At dawn on the seventh day, we returned to our abandoned medical post in the forest near Mount Pleševac. Popović and MacCarver, having expressed their satisfaction with the results of our work on Operation Ratweek and after some private discussion with Katnić, departed on a liaison plane to the Vrnovo area, where the corps headquarters was now stationed. Following Arso Jovanović’s orders, our entire brigade was to gradually regroup in the Sandžak.
* * *
Life in the battalion was becoming truly engaging, meaningful and full of energy — just as Arso Jovanović had described it to us in Gornji Vakuf. “A strike finds a spark in the stone, otherwise, it would be lost within it.” These words by Njegoš were even placed by Ružica as an epigraph under the title of the wall newspaper Glas Šumadinca.6
* * *
If only I could meet with my comrades from the Soviet military mission soon! There was so much I would tell them! So many questions I would ask! I had already requested that Kića allow me to temporarily leave the battalion, to give me some assignment to Perućica. From the brigade headquarters, it would be easier either to reach the Supreme Command in Drvar myself or, at the very least, send a letter to Arso Jovanović and the head of the Soviet mission. Kića had promised to request leave for me as soon as we re-established contact with Perućica.
* * *
That same evening, Jankov called Maček over.
He laid out everything he thought about the political commissar. It was no secret that Katnić had repeatedly made mistakes and missteps in his work. True, at the Party conference in Gornji Vakuf, in the presence of Arso Jovanović, he had admitted to them, but in practice, he remained the same petty tyrant and bureaucrat. He neglected political education for the fighters. Instead of teaching them about the development of society, the workers’ movement, the proletarian revolution and the building of a communist society, he fed them nationalist nonsense that had nothing in common with Marxist-Leninist doctrine.
* * *
“Then why didn’t they leave our entire brigade there?” I asked, puzzled.
“I think Perućica played a trick here. He was rushing us and Vučetin: ‘Hurry up, go to the Sandžak, I’ll catch up…’ He probably later justified himself to the commander, saying he couldn’t hold back two battalions — they went east on Arso’s orders. Our brigade just doesn’t seem to have any luck. It’s always split apart, never together. Even with Vučetin, we only saw each other in passing. Ah, Tomaš, Tomaš! He was a great commander, a wonderful man!”
Radović kept reminiscing about Vučetin. He was deeply affected by the loss of his friend. As a sign of mourning, he had even stopped shaving. His face, now covered in dark stubble on his cheeks and chin, had turned almost black.
* * *
“Zdravo, Comrade Nikolai!” said the visitor in a very familiar deep, raspy voice.
“Aleksa Mušić?!”
“It’s me, it’s me! Recognized me?” he asked, gripping my hands.
Indeed, it was Mušić, dressed like a shepherd. His face was covered in a thick, long beard. His dark eyes burned with excitement and he laughed with joy.
“Enough!” Jovan pulled him away from me. “Just listen, brother, listen… Strange things are happening in this world…”
“It’s nothing short of a miracle!” confirmed Laušek. “Our long-lost Aleksa — can you believe it? — made his way from Veliki Šator, straight from the Supreme Headquarters!”
“From Marshal Tito?” Radović asked in surprise.
“No, my comrade, from Arso Jovanović!” Mušić replied.
His eyes, glinting beneath his furrowed brows, flared up even brighter at these words, like embers after the ash has been blown away.
“I come from Arso Jovanović,” he repeated. “From him.”
Kića handed Radović a crumpled, dirty sheet of paper, smeared from handling.
“Read this.”
It was a typed directive from the head of the Supreme Headquarters, formulated in very brief and clear terms. The first point provided a general assessment of the strategic and operational situation. It included an excerpt from Comrade Stalin’s May Day order: “Under the blows of the Red Army, the fascist bloc is cracking and collapsing… Germany has lost the war. Romania, Hungary, Finland and Bulgaria have only one way to avoid catastrophe: break with the Germans and withdraw from the war.”
The second point addressed the situation in Yugoslavia. It stated that the Germans were trying to secure their right flank and were determined to hold the Balkans at all costs, or at least Yugoslavia. To this end, they had launched an airborne assault on Drvar and, with a ground offensive, had begun their seventh campaign against the YNLA forces. The directive outlined the immediate task for the units: launch a counter-offensive, delay the withdrawal of German troops from Greece, Macedonia, Albania, Montenegro and southern Serbia beyond the Sava and Danube rivers, intensify operations against their main supply routes and disrupt enemy manoeuvres. Going forward, the forces were to move eastward to meet the Red Army at the Romanian and Bulgarian borders. It detailed the mission of the Serbian forces and the First Proletarian Corps under Koča Popović: prevent the Germans from moving north from Macedonia and Greece, disrupt their strategic movements and link up with the Red Army in Homolje. The directive also covered the coordination of operations among the units in Macedonia, Serbia and Montenegro.
“I’d like to hear what you think of this, Comrade Todor?” Kića asked impatiently after reading the directive.
“Me?” Radović glanced again at Jovanović’s signature, then at Mušić. “I don’t understand why he keeps saying that Arso Jovanović sent him, and not Tito.”
“Tito has bigger concerns right now. The Supreme Headquarters is in the middle of nowhere!” Miletić said with a smirk.
“Where exactly?”
“You’ll find out in a moment. Speak, Aleksa!”
Mušić crouched down and lit his pipe…
* * *
Now, if you head northwest from Veliki Vitorog, you’ll eventually reach Drvar… Dragutin made weekly trips there, leading mules loaded with cheese and kajmak for the Supreme Headquarters. When Mušić had fully recovered, he travelled with him. Leaving the mules in Drvar, they set off on foot toward the location of the headquarters. After some discussion, they decided to go straight to Tito’s cave.
The cave was located in a narrow, gloomy gorge, at the bottom of which a mountain stream rushed swiftly, breaking into a foaming waterfall. Above the cave towered a massive mountain. A narrow path wound along the stream, skirting the edge of the precipice. Dragutin grew fearful and refused to go any farther so Mušić pressed on alone. He carried a jug of his own homemade kajmak — thick, rich, pinkish-yellow, with a dense creamy crust. But the sentries would not let him approach the cave.
As he argued with the guards, a tall, gaunt man in opanci emerged from the cave. His face was troubled and Mušić was about to turn away when the man noticed him, called him over and began asking about life in the high pastures. He inquired about the situation in the mountains, whether there were any Germans nearby. He asked how many lambs were in the flock, whether wolves were attacking, and advised him to protect the sheep from the poisonous blor7 grass. As he spoke, he gradually seemed to calm down, even smiling.
That was how Aleksa first met Arso Jovanović. He received a pass from him and began delivering to the headquarters sweet, firm young cheese that squeaked between the teeth and thick, buttery mountain goat’s milk, sincerely hoping that Arso would recover quickly. He was terribly thin — nothing but skin and bones. His nose jutted out sharply, his cheeks were sunken. But Arso ate little himself, giving most of his food to the guards. One day, he came out to Mušić looking as grim as a thundercloud.
“What happened?” Mušić wondered. Only then did he notice the unusual activity around him. Horses and donkeys, laden with crates, baskets, bundles and barrels, were stopping near the cave. The guards were unloading them, while quartermasters and adjutants rushed about. But the head of the Supreme Headquarters looked deeply troubled. Mušić didn’t dare question him, handed him the jug and silently took his leave, heading back to the pastures…
* * *
Bombs were exploding near the Supreme Headquarters building, by Tito’s cave, at the barracks and throughout the village. Fighters were strafing civilians who were fleeing in panicked crowds up the slopes. Then, transport planes with gliders appeared. Hundreds of white parachutes unfurled in the sky. The gliders, with large braking parachutes on their tails, detached from the planes and, without making any turns, descended directly onto the small landing zone along the Unac River. A German airborne assault was underway.
Eighty bomber aircraft shifted their strikes to the approaches of Drvar, while fierce ground combat erupted in the vicinity of the village. Mušić, alongside the Supreme Headquarters’ security battalion, also joined the fight. Arso Jovanović was there as well, issuing orders to the battalion commander and his staff officers. He had a specific action plan prepared in case of a sudden enemy attack. The airborne assault did not catch him off guard. From captured documents and intercepted communications, he had already learned of the Germans’ plan to destroy the Supreme Headquarters and capture Tito. Planes, both individually and in groups, had repeatedly appeared over the Drvar region, dropping bombs, strafing with machine guns and likely conducting aerial reconnaissance. Intelligence reports indicated the concentration of gliders and transport aircraft in Zagreb and revealed that the German command intended to use Brandenburg SS troops — fluent in Serbian and Croatian — disguised in partisan clothing to carry out sabotage against the Supreme Headquarters.
In light of this, Jovanović had advised Tito not to expand the size of the headquarters at the expense of its mobility and not to establish a permanent base in Drvar — such a thing was unnecessary in the conditions of partisan warfare. However, Tito insisted on his own way. He had grown weary of roaming the forests and had become sluggish in movement. Instead of the dangerous and unpredictable life in forest huts, constantly exposed to enemy forces, he preferred a more stable existence in a well-equipped cave, surrounded by his close associates. He aimed to turn the Drvar area into a fortified administrative centre of the liberated territory, as if the partisan war had already ended.
Arso took every precaution to defend Drvar from attacks by German forces, whose outposts were nearby. The village’s northern approaches were securely covered by units of the Fifth Corps, commanded by Arso’s protégé — Bosnia’s 27-year-old hero, Major General Slavko Rodić. To the south, just a few hours’ march from Drvar, Koča Popović had set up his headquarters in the settlement of Mokre Noge. Responding to his summons, Perućica was hurrying from Konjic with half of his brigade to attend the birthday celebration. Additionally, Maclean had promised that, any day now, the Supreme Headquarters’ security forces would be supplied with mortars and pack artillery.
And so what Arso had feared came to pass. There were no mortars, no artillery, no Maclean, no Huntington and no Randolph Churchill in Drvar at the moment of the airborne assault. The Supreme Headquarters’ evacuation plan had been disrupted. Tito refused to leave his supposedly airstrike-proof cave. The security battalion fighters had to hastily take up defensive positions to prevent the paratroopers from reaching the cave. In response to Arso’s call, cadets from the senior officer school, stationed near Drvar, arrived to reinforce them. Meanwhile, Perućica was delayed. Popović ordered the protection of the road that the Supreme Headquarters was supposed to use for retreat.
An uneven battle began. More than a thousand German troops, armed with submachine guns, grenades, machine guns and mortars had landed. Fighter aircraft supported them from the air, pinning the partisans down and preventing them from launching a counter-offensive. The heavy machine guns positioned on the heights around Drvar — recently delivered by Soviet transport aircraft — managed only a few single shots before falling silent. Someone had given the order to remove them from their positions. The enemy’s aviation became increasingly brazen, flying at low altitudes and shooting point-blank at individual fighters moving or taking cover behind rocks on the mountainside.
The brutal battle raged all day. Fighters and officers, one after another, fell in combat, defending the Supreme Headquarters with unwavering dedication. Several times, the enemy nearly broke through to the cave. But Arso, personally commanding the battle, launched counter-attacks that pushed them back to their original positions at the airstrip. He repeatedly informed Tito of the battle’s progress and the massive casualties, urging him to retreat toward Velika Klekovača as quickly as possible. However, Tito, Ranković and Kardelj stubbornly remained holed up in their shelter.
By evening, the situation had become desperate. Arso decided on extreme measures. Accompanied by several officers and communist soldiers, he slipped through machine-gun and mortar fire to reach the cave. Entering, he once again insisted on an immediate withdrawal.
Tito remained silent. Seated at a table brightly lit by a powerful battery lamp, he was nervously tearing up papers handed to him by Ranković — perhaps congratulatory letters and messages.
Kardelj answered for him:
“We cannot risk the Marshal’s life.”
“We’ll wait for nightfall,” Ranković muttered grimly.
“I completely understand you,” Arso snapped sarcastically. “Above you is three hundred metres of solid rock — no bomb can penetrate it! But the cave is exposed from the ground. The Germans can bring up direct-fire artillery.”
Even this argument had no effect.
At that point, Arso called in his men, and they nearly had to force Tito down into the ravine using ropes — then Ranković, Kardelj and the rest followed. They were led through the bushes into the forest, and from there, under reliable protection, escorted further to Velika Klekovača.
After covering the Supreme Headquarters’ retreat, Perućica, along with two battalions, launched a night assault on Drvar. The battle for the village was still ongoing. The proletarian units encircled the German paratroopers. At that moment, command of the troops was assumed by Lieutenant-General Koča Popović. However, he acted indecisively and, upon receiving alarming reports of approaching German regiments, ordered his units to withdraw into the forested area near Veliki Šator. The road south to Drvar was left open, and from Knin, the German 118th Division and the 92nd Motorized Regiment began advancing along the highway. From the north, units of the 313th and 382nd Divisions pushed through from Bihać and Bosanski Novi. Their advance was heroically resisted by the Fifth Corps under Slavko Rodić. Meanwhile, from the east, German SS Seventh Division units were already approaching Drvar from the Sarajevo and Jajce regions.
Thus began the Germans’ seventh — and perhaps most powerful — offensive against the YNLA.
The Supreme Headquarters, meanwhile, was hiding in the forests near Potoci, where Arso Jovanović had previously prepared an alternate command post. The Germans received intelligence about this and began actively hunting the Supreme Headquarters. Multiple times, the headquarters came under attack and bombardment, and several times, it was surrounded. Brave fighters and officers broke through the encirclements, leading the YNLA leadership further and further into the Stekerovci region. They crossed the open, rocky valley north of Glamočko Polje and continued toward Veliki Šator Mountain.
Fleeing from pursuit, Tito lost control over the troops and all communication with them. They hid during the day and moved at night.
After consulting among themselves, Tito, Kardelj and Ranković decided to evacuate Yugoslavia for a safer location. They requested aircraft from the Balkan Air Force headquarters. Arso made the same request to the Soviet military mission. The mission immediately radioed its small base in the Italian port of Bari. The next night, a signal was received: expect an aircraft. Bonfires were lit in the Kupreško Polje area, among the mountains. The Soviet aircraft flew across the Adriatic Sea and the high mountains. The sky was thick with clouds, and strong winds were blowing. The Germans detected the aircraft by the sound of its engines and radar, opening fire. But despite everything, the Soviet pilots managed to land precisely at the last bonfire, near the edge of a mountain cliff. There, they were met by officers from the Supreme Headquarters.
Tito, however, was waiting for American rescuers and hesitated to depart. He stood indecisively before the ladder of the Soviet aircraft, playing the noble leader — insisting that headquarters staff, the wounded and the sick should leave first, while he, the captain, would be the last to abandon the sinking ship. He was convinced the “ship” was going down and feared that the Soviet pilots might take him somewhere other than where he wished to go. But then a radio telegram arrived from the Anglo-Americans: they would not be able to come, as landing in the designated area was impossible due to bad weather. Only then did Tito give in to persuasion and readily agreed to be the first to board.
…Mušić, who had remained with the Supreme Headquarters security unit all this time, saw Tito boarding the aircraft and heard the whining of his dog, Tigr, who refused to climb the gangway. Arso Jovanović was overseeing the loading of the headquarters’ archives. Noticing Mušić, he called him over, took him aside and asked: “Are you a communist?” “Yes,” Mušić replied. Arso pulled some papers from his bag and handed them to him. “Here is my assignment for you, comrade. This directive has already been sent to various units by couriers, but just in case, I’m giving it to you as well. Go to the Drina and Zlatar region — our forces are stationed there. Find the headquarters and deliver this. Make sure the commanders and fighters are informed. Do you understand me?”
Mušić solemnly swore to carry out the mission. The aircraft engines roared. The plane lifted off, made a turn to clear the mountain and disappeared into the thick clouds.
That same night, the Soviet pilots returned and took the remaining headquarters staff and members of the military missions on board. Brave Russians! Heroes! They feared nothing. They saved the Supreme Headquarters. Such simple, cheerful, young guys. Mušić would never forget them.
Sewing the papers into his cap, he disguised himself as a shepherd, took a walking staff and set off eastward. He crossed the Vrbas and the Drina, travelling through the most remote areas. Eventually, he found the Eighth Corps headquarters. The corps commander, Vlado Ćetković, a Montenegrin worker, received Mušić warmly and carefully read the documents. After that, he provided him with a horse and informed him that the First Corps headquarters was in the Vrbovo area. Mušić immediately rode there. He was taken to the commander. After reading the directive, Popović looked at Mušić with suspicion and muttered through clenched teeth: “All right, I’ll verify this.” Just then, a red-cheeked foreign officer entered the room. The commander, exclaiming, “Ah, Mr. MacCarver!” hurried to greet him, while Mušić, seizing the moment, slipped outside, mounted his horse and galloped away.
By chance, he encountered Miletić and Laušek. He immediately recognized them — what joy it was! Together, they found the brigade headquarters, which had just arrived and settled in a dense forest along the banks of the Uvac River, while two battalions were still making their way there. Perućica was already aware of Arso’s directive. He advised Mušić to continue delivering it to the battalions. Miletić handed Jankov’s letter to Magdić, and the three of them left headquarters. No sooner had they crossed the river than horsemen began closing in on them. They called out to Mušić. Sensing trouble, he lashed his horse and sped away. Something about those riders unsettled him, even though they didn’t look like Chetniks — they were clean-shaven, unlike the typically bearded Chetniks. Miletić and Laušek hesitated for a moment; when they glanced back, they immediately understood — it was a chase. Nearby, bushes snapped, a horse neighed and a short burst of gunfire rang out. Bullets whizzed through the foliage…
They hid in a remote ravine overnight, but at dawn, they saw the same riders again on the only trail. Forced to climb steep cliffs, they fled blindly into the unknown. For several days, they wandered through unfamiliar terrain until they finally reached Zlatar. Only then did the pursuit cease.
“They were definitely clean-shaven Chetniks, but they rode boldly!” concluded Aleska.
* * *
After listening to Mušić’s story, Radović stood up and buttoned his old, sun-faded greatcoat all the way.
“Well, what do you say now?” Jankov asked impatiently. “Will we follow Arso’s directive?”
“Our fighters, Kića, have only one thought and one goal,” Radović replied firmly.
“I knew you’d decide that way,” Kića said and suddenly fell silent.
Everyone tensed.
* * *
Grombac turned to me.
“And you haven’t been forgotten, Zagoryanov! You’ve been confirmed as company commander. But as for you, Comrade Jankov, you weren’t so lucky. The corps headquarters did not approve you as battalion commander. The Šumadija Battalion will now be led by Captain Vulo Kuštrinović. This is a direct order from Lieutenant-General Koča Popović.”
Grombac rose in his stirrups, the leather saddle creaking beneath him.
“There are important orders, so I ask you to report to the new commander. He has already been informed of his appointment.”
Kuštrinović was indeed waiting for us in his tent. In front of him, on a crate from an Italian Breda machine gun, lay a large map, which he was marking up.
“Greetings, comrades! Come in!” he said in a deep, satisfied voice. “Have a seat.”
His broad face, with a crimson scar running across his cheek and already covered with a light reddish beard, bore an expression of complete satisfaction — he had finally secured a command position in the partisan army.
The order signed by Popović, which Grombac had brought, directly contradicted Arso Jovanović’s directive. The corps commander wrote:
“I order all units to remain in their positions and repel enemy attacks. Any unauthorized movement without my knowledge is strictly forbidden. Those who violate this order will be immediately and ruthlessly punished.”
Kuštrinović read it slowly and deliberately, then added:
“I foresee that the Western Allies will soon arrive in the Balkans. It is unlikely that Soviet forces will get here first. As for Tito, according to what Grombac told me, he was in Bari and is now safely on the island of Vis, under the protection of the British Navy and Air Force. Everything is fine!”
As Kića and I returned to the company, he said bitterly:
“So, my command is over. I’m back where I started. Well, maybe that’s for the best!” He looked around and then added, “You know, Nikolai, I’m starting to feel like I don’t understand what’s happening anymore.” He sat down on a tree stump. “Why did Tito go from Bari to the island of Vis instead of returning to the army?”
He gazed at the dark sky, where the pale crescent moon was tangled in the black pine needles.
“Vis… That’s far. Far from us. And you know what else surprises me? Why are some of the main roads in the eastern regions, where the Germans are actively manoeuvring, almost untouched, while in places where the enemy hardly moves — like the Sarajevo-Mostar line — everything has been wiped out under this idiotic Operation Ratweek?”
Kića fell silent for a moment.
“I guess only an historian will be able to make sense of all this someday… But for now, since I am still officially in command of the battalion and haven’t handed it over to Kuštrinović yet, I’m giving you an order: ride to Perućica immediately. Tell him that all the fighters are eager to go into any difficult battle to carry out Jovanović’s directive, while the corps commander orders us to stay put. Who should we listen to? Kuštrinović will, of course, follow Popović’s orders. And that means allowing the Germans to manoeuvre freely here. The situation is serious.”
“If only I could contact our people from the mission!” the words escaped me involuntarily.
Kića stood up.
“That’s exactly my point, Nikolai! It will be easier to do that from the brigade headquarters. You must tell our Soviet comrades everything. Get to your people. Safe travels, my friend! Laušek knows the way — go with him.”
It goes without saying how eagerly I jumped onto my horse, taking with me letters addressed to the Soviet military mission and to Arso Jovanović.
Miletić and Radović accompanied me to the edge of the camp. Laušek and I were leaving in secret.
“Come back! Help us!” Jovan whispered to me.
* * *
“What can I say? ‘Brilliant’ success!” Perućica smirked. “It seems the Allies don’t want to take risks. They’re probably waiting for the Red Army to do all the work for them.”
“But they sure are bombing heavily! The working-class district of San Giovanni in Rome is in ruins. The city of Cassino is completely destroyed. Now they’re promising to wipe out almost all of northern Italy, zone by zone. Just like here… Poor Belgrade! They say entire neighbourhoods are in ruins… My family is there…”
“What can we do? It’s war,” Perućica sighed.
“The destruction under Plan ‘Ratweek’ is happening on an astonishing scale,” Magdić continued bitterly. He led us to a map. “Look at this: the Zagreb-Ogulin railway line has been dismantled in 144 places! Seven bridges have been blown up on the Bihać-Sunja line. All railway infrastructure along those routes has been destroyed. In Slovenia, to prevent enemy forces from redeploying against Allied troops in Italy, a key viaduct — the Litija Bridge over the Sava River on the Ljubljana-Zagreb line — has been demolished. And yet, our situation hasn’t improved. The Germans keep manoeuvring. Not just in eastern Yugoslavia, but even here, near our own forces. Along the Ibar Valley, not far from us — that’s one of the areas where the Germans are currently on the move.”
“It’s all right,” said Perućica. “We’ll seal off that route. That’s Arso’s directive. I’ve already thought everything through. Tomorrow I’m going to my superiors, and I’m sure our plan will be approved.”
Listening to the brigade commander, I felt a sense of relief. I understood that it was the incredible news from Moscow that gave Perućica such confidence and composure.
Everyone at the headquarters was in high spirits, filled with excitement. Every now and then, someone would mutter the word “Minsk” as if to themselves. They were tracing Romania on the map, pointing out possible paths for the Red Army’s advance south toward the Balkans. The intensity with which the commanders hung on Perućica’s every word, the speed and diligence with which they jotted down key phrases, made it clear that they were deeply captivated by the prospect of moving forward to meet the Red Army.
* * *
One evening, in the summer twilight of Vis, the personal aircraft of the Supreme Allied Commander of the Mediterranean Theatre, Field Marshal Wilson, landed. It was there to take Tito to Italy. That night, three jeeps pulled up to the airfield. Maclean, tall and hook-nosed like a pole, observed the boarding process. Alongside Tito, his bodyguards, Boško and Crlja, boarded the plane, as well as Vlatko Velebit — whom Maclean had already flown to London in the spring to meet Churchill — Arso Jovanović, Ranković, Olga Ninčić, a staff doctor and other members of the delegation accompanying the Marshal. They didn’t forget to bring Tito’s German shepherd, Tigr, either.
The departure was arranged with full official protocol and efficiency. At headquarters, everyone was convinced that Tito was heading to the Western Allies for critical negotiations regarding further military operations in the Balkans.
After crossing the Adriatic Sea, the plane flew over southern Italy and landed at Capodichino Airfield near Naples. There, General Hammel greeted the delegation. He then drove Tito and his entourage in luxury automobiles to Caserta — the “Versailles of Naples” — where Wilson was expecting his guests for breakfast.
Six people gathered in the rose-coloured dining hall. Tito kept his armed guards close. One stood behind his chair, while another kept a sharp eye on the servants entering the room. Tigr lay under the table at the Marshal’s feet, quietly whimpering — begging for scraps.
An awkward silence hung in the air. Tito discreetly slipped his dog bits of orange, oysters or whatever else was on the table, exchanging only brief remarks with Wilson. Then, a small unexpected incident broke the tension: as an Italian waiter entered and caught sight of Boško and Crlja, he suddenly let out a frightened gasp and dropped a platter of French beans. He must have instantly recalled the terrifying partisans from whom he had once fled Montenegro!
Wilson and Tito burst into laughter, and the atmosphere lightened. The amber-coloured wine further loosened tongues…
That same day, in the presence of Arso Jovanović, official military negotiations began. They discussed the supply of weapons to the YNLA and how they would be delivered, the techniques of sabotage operations and the progress of the Ratweek plan.
Several days passed. It seemed that all the major topics had been covered. In their free time, the Yugoslavs toured all the palaces of Caserta, the royal castle with its chapel, and the gardens with their cascades, fountains and statues. They attended a theatre performance where, before an audience of British Tommies,8 Pulcinella, in his black-nosed mask, enthusiastically played the fool. Then, the entire group moved to Naples. Seeing that Tito was caught up in the excitement of sightseeing, Jovanović began pressing for a swift conclusion to the talks. He was troubled by the situation in Yugoslavia — Germany’s Seventh Offensive was still ongoing. However, Wilson and Maclean came up with various excuses to keep Tito in Naples. They hinted that yet another important figure wanted to see him. But Tito already had a good idea of why he had really been brought to Italy. He had been in communication with this “important figure” — Winston Churchill — through Maclean and Velebit long before. He did not share Jovanović’s concerns.
His time in Naples was light and enjoyable. The Allies treated the Yugoslavs with great courtesy. They accommodated them in the finest hotel, the Washington, in the foreign quarter. Tito never missed an opportunity to impress those around him with his imposing presence. Three or four times a day, he changed outfits. For breakfast, he appeared in the uniform of a naval commander; for lunch, in a deliberately modest olive-green tunic with a shoulder strap; by evening, he would put on a brand-new marshal’s uniform, adorned with gold-embroidered oak leaves and monograms. After dinner, Tito would stroll with Tigr along Toledo — one of Naples’ busiest streets.
The heat was fading, and the bitter-salty moisture of the sea breeze revived the dusty greenery of the plane trees. Neapolitans crowded on the narrow, dirty sidewalks, eager for some spectacle. It was at this hour that Tito would appear — wearing suede gloves, holding an olive twig instead of a cane, flanked by his athletic bodyguards, dazzling in his white dress uniform.
The curiosity of the street onlookers flared — gasps of amazement, applause… Tito walked slowly and with great importance, bowing stiffly in response. It never crossed his mind that this was all an elaborate charade, a carefully staged deception, that the English were quietly mocking him. He was even ready to take the sudden flare of light over Vesuvius, which brightly illuminated the rooftops in the evening blue, as a grand illumination in his honour. He also failed to notice Maclean’s ironic smirk when they passed beneath the ancient triumphal arch built to commemorate Alfonso of Aragon’s entry into Naples. Tito studied the sculpted frieze depicting Alfonso on horseback, the bas-reliefs on the bronze gates showing the victories of King Ferdinand I, and then, turning to Maclean, he solemnly declared:
“I will build an arch like this in Belgrade…”
Tito met the envious gazes of exiled ministers without portfolios and generals without armies with the triumphant smile of a conqueror. These men had flocked to Naples in search of new masters, new appointments. They wandered the city’s streets unnoticed, loitered hopelessly at the grand entrances of Allied headquarters. Many of them were, in essence, the same kind of hardened adventurers and shady opportunists as Tito himself — only less shrewd. They had failed to grasp that the real wave to ride now was the people’s struggle for freedom, for democracy and their love for the Soviet Union. And because they had miscalculated, they had far worse luck than Tito.
Without giving the Marshal a moment to reflect, Maclean tirelessly took him on visits — to the island of Capri, for example, where they met a certain Madame Harrison Williams, who, among other things, held a séance and predicted Tito’s bright future in the stars. Then to the extravagant seaside cottage of the famous actress Hermione Ranfurly, where Tito sipped tea in a gazebo surrounded by neatly trimmed boxwood, glowing red under the fading, windswept evening light.
Tito also met with the head of American intelligence in Europe, General William Donovan, who had travelled from London to Naples specifically for the meeting. Later, Maclean took him to Lake Bolsena, to General Alexander’s camp…
* * *
Tito was overflowing with impressions. The fiery wines of Vesuvius, the crowds of cheerful, obliging Italians; the trinkets allegedly from the Capitoline collection, which stuffed his suitcases; the necklace and bracelet — supposedly taken from a skeleton unearthed during the excavations at Pompeii — a gift from Maclean to Olga; and, finally, Olga’s newfound romantic attentions… All of this fascinated and captivated Tito so much that he was in no hurry to leave behind the luxurious and celebratory life of Naples.
But Rome… Rome drew him in with increasing force every day.
Not for nothing had Ninčić scribbled into his notebook a phrase she had come across while idly reading the memoirs of the Venetian adventurer Casanova: “Rome is the only city in the world where a man, starting with nothing, can become everything.” Enthusiastically, Tito accepted Maclean’s invitation for a trip to the Italian capital.
Maclean himself took the wheel of the jeep. Beside him sat an elderly guide from Naples. Tito, with his German shepherd, settled in the back seat. Whenever they passed a notable landmark, the guide would politely tip his hat and glance at the travellers with a subtle smile:
“Gentlemen, if you please, look — this is Capua! During the Second Punic War, Hannibal’s soldiers were stationed here. According to legend, they became so indulgent in this place that they were no longer able to fight the Romans, who then took the city with ease.”
But the travellers barely listened to the guide. The sun blazed relentlessly, the sky was flawless and their only thought was to reach the next roadside osteria9 as soon as possible, where cool, foaming Genzano wine awaited them under a green canopy of grapevines.
“And here, gentlemen, is the sea!” the guide continued after a while. “This is Gaeta. It was here that Garibaldi’s forces imprisoned the last of the Bourbons. And we have Garibaldini once again,” he added proudly. “The traditions of the old volunteers live on…”
“Oh, be quiet, will you?” Maclean interrupted, shifting into second gear.
As they crossed a low mountain range, the guide spoke again…
“Itri, look closely, please. This is where the famous bandit Fra Diavolo was born… Attention! We are now entering central Italy.”
A little later, the road curved toward the sea and the guide announced:
“Gentlemen! This is the cape of the enchantress Circe, daughter of the Sun, where Cicero occasionally lived. He loved eating oysters… And over here, please, the Pontine Marshes.”
Tito gazed gloomily at the semi-desert stretching between the mountains and the sea. The air was heavy with the smell of stagnant water and swamp vapours.
“Those arches over there are the aqueducts of ancient Rome,” the guide continued.
“Rome?” Tito perked up.
“The aqueducts,” the old man repeated.
Tito nodded as if in understanding. He was tempted to ask what exactly an aqueduct was, but he didn’t want to appear ignorant. “One must always strive to give one’s words and actions an air of wisdom, grandeur and importance,” he recalled from Machiavelli’s teachings.
“When will we reach Rome?” he finally asked impatiently, wiping his sweaty face with a handkerchief.
“Ah, here we are, here is Rome!” the guide finally proclaimed, pointing toward the grey mass of buildings in the distance. “We are travelling along the Via Appia, the oldest road in Italy.”
But upon seeing Rome, Tito felt somewhat disappointed. Jagged walls covered in moss, crumbling statues… Rust-coloured stones forming heavy, cube-like buildings… Columns that looked like the massive gnawed bones of some prehistoric creatures…
The monotonous streets were nearly empty — only troops could be seen.
“Where are we heading now, General?” Tito asked grimly.
“To Saint Peter’s!” Maclean commanded, as if he had already decided in advance how their tour of Rome should begin.
The guide pointed the way.
They crossed the Bridge of Saint Angelo over the murky, litter-strewn Tiber. On a vast square, surrounded by colonnades with an obelisk and fountains in the centre, Maclean abruptly hit the brakes, stopping the car before the portico of such a colossal church that Tito gasped.
“St. Peter’s Basilica, here you are,” the guide said with enthusiasm. “This is where popes are consecrated and saints are canonized…”
“Enough!” Maclean waved him off. “Please stay here with the dog.”
And stepping out of the car, he respectfully took Tito by the arm and led him forward.
The offended old man stood there in confusion, not expecting that the tourists would manage to explore the basilica without him.
A heavy sense of numbness, a dreary feeling of oppression seized the Marshal as he stepped inside the enormous building, large enough to fit all of Avala10 along with the Monument to the Unknown Soldier. The towering columns stretching into the heights, the frozen, blade-like sculptures of Bernini exuded the cold breath of death. The scent of wax and incense, the lifeless light streaming through the narrow windows high above; the bronze figure sprawled on the tomb, with a blackened face and a long nose protruding from beneath a lofty tiara, and the giant statue of Saint Peter, its heel nearly worn away by the kisses of the faithful — all of it was eerie.
“Why am I here?” Tito thought with displeasure.
His boots echoed loudly against the stone slabs, drawing the murmurs of stern-faced nuns and pilgrims who had come to pay homage to Saint Peter. Maclean, stomping carelessly across the floor, glanced around with idle curiosity.
Up in the choir loft, as if on cue, the organ began to play and a solemn evening mass commenced.
Tito felt somewhat better and indulgently regarded the stout man in a cassock who had approached him.
“You… Marshal Tito?” the man asked in a gentle voice in English, peering closely at the Marshal’s uniform adorned with golden stars and oak leaves.
“Yes, I am Tito.”
“Give thanks to the Lord and the Blessed Virgin, my son. The Holy See is favourably disposed toward you.”
“What is this now? What’s the matter?” Tito grumbled irritably.
“You have a rare and fortunate opportunity to be granted an audience at His Holiness’ residence.”
Tito quickly glanced at Maclean, suspecting that he had orchestrated this, but the general seemed entirely absorbed in admiring the statues and altars.
“You are expected, my son,” the prelate repeated insistently, gesturing for him to follow.
Tito hesitated. What did he care about the Pope’s residence? But, in the end, why not go, if only out of simple curiosity, damn it? Besides, there were no dangerous witnesses — no one in Yugoslavia would find out… Casting one more glance around and at the general, who was lost in reverent contemplation, he strode after the prelate toward the exit of the basilica.
On the way back, Maclean took Tito to Rome’s working-class district of San Giovanni, where they viewed not ancient ruins but entirely modern, still-smouldering wreckage. Then they visited the town of Monte Cassino, which had been reduced to nothing more than a name.
Tito saw first-hand the effectiveness of American strategic bombing.
“Something similar, Marshal, you will soon have the opportunity to witness in Belgrade,” Maclean remarked with a cynical smile.
Yet neither this reminder of Belgrade’s grim fate nor even the fleeting thought of the Yugoslav partisans bleeding to hold back the Germans’ Seventh Offensive while their commander-in-chief strolled through Italy managed to dampen Tito’s good spirits. He remained completely at ease even during his meetings with Ivan Šubašić, the Prime Minister of the new royal Yugoslav government. These meetings were arranged by Maclean, though he tactfully refrained from attending, subtly indicating that Yugoslavia’s internal affairs did not concern him in the slightest.
This went on until the day an awkward-looking British York aircraft appeared over Naples, flanked by a dozen escort fighters.
Winston Churchill had arrived.
* * *
The arrival of Prime Minister Churchill in Naples sparked great excitement at Field Marshal Wilson’s headquarters — and for Arso Jovanović, it brought hope that the military negotiations might finally be concluded more quickly. Only a few details remained to be clarified on issues where a fundamental agreement had already been reached back in Caserta. But by the very next day, the excitement had faded. Once again, the British and American officers, avoiding concrete discussions, steered the negotiations into vague generalities, raising all sorts of conditions, absurd demands, and at times, even tactless and rude proposals.
Arso was also outraged by the fact that the debate table was cluttered not so much with operational maps and necessary materials as with bottles and decorative figurines. It seemed that these plaster satyrs, bacchantes and cupids, taken as “souvenirs” from the museums and palaces of Naples, along with Marsala and Malvasia wines from the Jesuit cellars, interested the staff officers far more than the negotiations themselves. Time and again, Arso reminded the Allies about the urgent and pressing needs of the YNLA. But even the most skilled interpreter struggled to extract any sense from their muddled responses and, to salvage the situation, resorted to lengthy improvisations, delivering them in the same drowsy and indifferent tone as his superiors.
There was only one idea the Allies expressed clearly and insistently — the necessity of landing their troops in Yugoslavia, something Arso categorically refused to accept.
Once again, the meeting had to be postponed. Another day lost for Arso.
That evening, after debates that had dragged on since noon, Arso, exhausted and frustrated, stepped out of Wilson’s headquarters.
The heat of the day still radiated from the buildings, but the wind blew in from the sea, and a refreshing coolness embraced Arso’s flushed face. He drew in a deep breath, relishing the fresh air, rich with the scent of flowers and greenery, carried from the Nazionale park by the breeze.
Stopping at a kiosk where a tub of ice sat on the counter, Arso downed a glass of lemon juice with water in one gulp. Then he stood for a moment in contemplation at the street corner, in front of a niche with a saint’s statue. The dim glow of a votive lamp faintly illuminated the dark green stone face, which, to Arso, seemed more soulful and alive than all the officers he had just left behind.
He quickened his pace. Noise and commotion poured out from the wide-open doors and windows of the Washington Hotel. He was eager to escape the shrill and grating English chatter that had long begun to weary him, the constant buzzing of jeeps rolling up to the hotel after their “excursions” to palaces and castles. With relief, he immersed himself in the restrained yet lively, sing-song rhythm of life along the Neapolitan waterfront on the narrow and dimly lit Santa Lucia street.
He loved wandering there, blending into the crowd of Italian fishermen — cheerful despite all the hardships of war. Among them, troubles seemed to fade away more easily. Life here surged like a swift river confined within tight banks. Only when a military patrol passed did the lively atmosphere momentarily hush, interrupted only by the timid sound of a tambourine, the mournful wail of a bagpiper before an image of the Madonna, or a quiet, passionate song, accompanied by the muted clicking of castanets. But as soon as the patrol disappeared, the energy of the street returned — shopkeepers eagerly called out to passersby, despite their stalls holding nothing but coral trinkets, lava brooches and tortoiseshell combs, while half-naked boys emerged from the shadows, persistently offering lobsters and oysters.
Arso stopped by the parapet of the waterfront.
The waves, shimmering with the flickering reflections of a lantern, hissed as they crashed against the stone boulders. The horizon blended with the dark silhouettes of ships and the deep blue sky, where the southern stars sparkled with extraordinary brightness. Up above, on the steep slope, white houses gleamed like freshly washed laundry hanging on a line…
Memories flooded in — of his hardworking mother, of his father who perished in the First World War, of his wife and two little daughters, the younger of whom, Zoja, named in honour of the Russian Zoya Kosmodemyanskaya, was still just a tiny child. How were the children living now with their grandmother and their mother, suffering from tuberculosis, in the remote Montenegrin village of Piperi? The thought of his family gripped Arso’s heart with pain.
Suddenly, from one of the houses along the waterfront, an awful yowling rang out, followed by whistling and high-pitched screeches. The Yankees were putting on a “serenade” beneath a window where a woman’s silhouette had briefly appeared.
Arso turned into the nearest alley. But he had barely taken a hundred steps when he heard a woman’s sobs and the heavy tread of footsteps.
“Again!” he thought indignantly.
The woman resisted, clinging to the walls of buildings, grabbing onto drainpipes. Her sobs, mixed with gasps and wails, tore at the heart.
Arso resolutely stepped into the path of three American sailors.
“Where are you taking her?” he asked sternly, struggling to find the right English words.
Instead of answering, one of the sailors pressed the barrel of his submachine gun against Arso’s side and forced him off the sidewalk, nearly shoving him aside.
Barely managing to stay on his feet, Arso caught a glimpse, in the glow from a nearby window, of the American’s contorted face — and beside him, the girl’s large eyes, glistening with tears, pleading for help.
“Let her go, you scoundrels!” he shouted furiously.
Encouraged by the commanding tone of his voice, several Neapolitans who had been trailing behind the sailors immediately lunged at them, wresting the girl away.
The Yankees, momentarily stunned by the unexpected turn of events, soon recovered and, cursing furiously, began to beat the “inhospitable lazzaroni.”11 But the crowd around them swelled menacingly and they quickly ducked into a nearby wine cellar, where the raucous sounds of their wild boogie-woogie dance could be heard until dawn — when a military truck arrived to haul away the dead-drunk sailors.
“Worse than the Germans,” the Neapolitans muttered among themselves, gesturing furiously.
“A new invasion!”
“They broke into my storeroom.”
“They paid me for my goods with counterfeit dollars.”
“They wrecked all the furniture in the widow Caraccio’s boarding house.”
“They looted the royal palace…”
“When will they finally leave?”
Arso instinctively understood the meaning of their words and his cheeks burned with outrage. Some allies, indeed! Just yesterday, he had witnessed the Yankees beating an old fisherman for some unknown reason and forcing a ten-year-old boy to dive to the bottom of the bay for a small coin just for their amusement. At Wilson’s headquarters, Arso reported on the unacceptable behaviour of enlisted men, acts that disgraced the honour and dignity of the U.S. Navy. The officers, not even letting him finish, simply laughed:
“Oh, just innocent fun, sir!”
“Our sailors behave the same way in foreign ports as sailors everywhere.”
“Is Mr. Jovanović trying to defend the scoundrels around here?”
“Excuse me,” Arso objected. “What kind of scoundrels? These are the people, the rightful owners of this city, of this country. One shouldn’t take advantage of their respect and gratitude. Why leave behind such a disgraceful impression?”
The officers burst into even louder laughter:
“Ah, maybe we won’t leave at all?!”
“We’re quite enjoying ourselves here.”
“Naples is a dream, just as our guidebooks say. But ‘see Naples and die’ — what nonsense! We’d rather stay here alive…”
Their frivolous mood didn’t leave them, even after Arso suggested getting down to business. The negotiations weren’t making any progress. Arso realized that the officers were simply stalling and that they themselves couldn’t make any decisions. It all likely depended on the meeting between Churchill and Tito.
As he replayed the day’s events in his mind, Arso didn’t even notice how he had reached Piazza del Plebiscito. Crossing the moon-cast shadows of the two equestrian statues spread across the asphalt, he approached the Palazzo Reale — the former royal palace.
The long, massive building, with its dark, hollow windows, looked blind and grim, as if it had just been dug out from beneath volcanic ash. The doors stood wide open. The wind, rushing inside, rustled through something in the deserted halls…
“Looted,” Arso thought bitterly. “What a relief that Yugoslavia will never again suffer foreign occupation!”
Skirting the palace, he strode forward with large steps, not even knowing where he was heading, as if trying to lose himself in the labyrinth of dark, winding alleys leading to Toledo. He wandered for a long time, gathering his thoughts, until he finally made a decision: he had to see Tito immediately, right now, and tell him that the negotiations on military-technical matters had reached a dead end. The representatives of the Mediterranean command were dodging any concrete discussion about real aid to the YNLA. They promised to deliver weapons, ammunition and equipment only to the island of Vis — which, in reality, meant simply moving supplies from one storeroom to another. They knew full well that the Yugoslavs had no way to transport all of this to the mainland: they had neither steamships nor transport planes. And in exchange for air support, the Allies were demanding agreement to land their operational forces in Dalmatia so that they could launch offensive operations — either through Sarajevo toward Belgrade or through Zagreb toward Budapest. This could not be allowed under any circumstances. The people and the army would never accept it. “Let a pig sit at the table, and it’ll put its feet on it,” Arso recalled a Russian proverb.
After half an hour of brisk walking uphill, he was already approaching the marble villa that had once housed Queen Victoria of England.
Tito was there with Churchill. Lately, Arso had lost touch with the Marshal — Tito was constantly on the move: one day in Rome, another on the island of Capri, then somewhere else. Maclean seemed to be deliberately dragging him around, distracting him from his work. But now that Churchill had arrived, Tito was surely pressing him, demanding real and immediate assistance. “But will it lead to anything? It’s time to end this whole charade, time to return to Vis,” Arso thought. “Fierce battles are raging in Yugoslavia. We need to get back to our lands, to our own troops. The Germans will be forced to leave the Balkans sooner or later. The enemy must be struck on the retreat, on the march. If only we could establish contact with the advancing Red Army sooner! Right now, all hope rests on them. Fortunately, they are already close!”
Pushing aside any hesitation about disturbing the British Prime Minister, Arso resolutely headed for the villa’s entrance, which looked uninhabited. The Venetian windows were tightly covered from the inside.
From behind the statues flanking the gates, two sentries with carbines immediately stepped forward. One of them, upon recognizing the Yugoslav general before him, smartly clicked his boot in salute and allowed Arso Jovanović to pass through to the villa. In the vestibule, he encountered a second, officer’s guard post. Arso stated his name.
The officer respectfully touched the brim of his cap with two fingers and, after glancing at a document on his desk, gently said:
“Your name is not on the list.”
Arso explained that he was the Chief of the Supreme Headquarters of the YNLA and was here to see the Marshal.
“No one other than those listed is permitted to enter,” the officer stated more firmly.
Looking at the list, Arso saw the names of everyone who had arrived with Tito: Ranković, Velebit, Olga Ninčić. The only one missing was himself — Arso Jovanović. This puzzled and unsettled him. Without a word, he turned and walked out onto the street.
“What does this mean?” Arso wondered as he moved away from the villa. “It can’t be that Tito is deliberately hiding his negotiations with Churchill from me. He’s probably just convinced that I’m too busy with matters at Wilson’s headquarters and wouldn’t have the time to come here.”
But that explanation did not put him at ease. Analysing Tito and Ranković’s attitude toward him, Arso couldn’t shake the feeling that they were not always entirely honest with him. Why did they seem to avoid him, often disagreeing with the military policies he advocated? “Perhaps,” Arso pondered, “they have their own distinct party-political strategy that they’re keeping from me, seeing me as a former career officer of the royal army. No wonder Tito, while constantly stalling decisive operations against the Germans and local collaborators, always said: ‘Arso, wait. You don’t understand everything yet.’” Yes, it was indeed difficult to understand this strange tactic — counting only the Germans’ offensives, even documenting the history of their seven attacks, while portraying themselves merely as heroes of more or less successful retreats. When confronted with these concerns, Tito would respond: “I have my own plans. We need to endure for now, to conserve our strength for the decisive moment.” “Conserve strength!” Arso thought bitterly. “That should have been considered at Sutjeska… But now the decisive moment has already arrived: the Germans are launching their Seventh Offensive, aiming to destroy the YNLA before the Red Army arrives… And we — the leadership — are either stuck on Vis or now here, in Italy, endlessly going in circles… But why, then, is Tito avoiding me, hiding his plans, refusing to let me into the conference with Churchill? When will this mistrust end? He doesn’t trust me… Could it really be just because I’m an old military specialist?”
The thought tormented Arso: “For nearly three years, I’ve been actively fighting the enemies of my homeland, my third year as a member of the Party… So why was I accepted into the Party in the first place?”
Arso felt deeply alone.
That night, his tall figure wandered aimlessly through the dark, narrow streets of old Naples.
* * *
“In that case,” the American [Huntington] continued eagerly, “there’s another radical solution to get rid of overly enthusiastic admirers of the Soviet model. In the First Proletarian Corps, as I know, the majority are workers and communists. And it’s commanded by our trusted friend Popović. So, send him and his corps to hold back the Germans somewhere in the Morava Valley — let his proletarians prove their loyalty to the Russians with their blood. You should summon Popović here and give him the necessary instructions. At the very least, advise him to use the Russian slogan: ‘Communists, forward.’ After all, you’re a communist yourself — you know these slogans better than anyone.”
“Yes,” Tito swallowed hard. “That can be arranged. But even so, it will still be very difficult for me to manoeuvre and conceal my true line from both the Russians and the people. Especially since many émigrés will be joining my government and the state apparatus, and I’ll have to appoint some royal officials to local governing bodies. The British are insisting on this as well. But the people won’t praise me for it. Even the Russians from the mission are already wary of me. They’re surprised that the national liberation movement in Serbia is still so weak and that a real partisan war hasn’t taken root there. They also didn’t like that I went to Naples to meet with Churchill.”
“But you had Ranković and Arso Jovanović with you. Didn’t that make your trip look entirely official?”
“Arso, that devil, has been saying that I kept him out of my meetings with the Prime Minister. In general, he’s too open with the Russians. Somehow, they even sniffed out that I was in Rome. In Rome…” Tito repeated, furrowing his brow in concern.
* * *
“By the way, Marshal, do the Soviet representatives know about our little excursion?” Huntington suddenly inquired.
“No, they don’t,” Tito grimaced. “I don’t report my actions to anyone.”
“So you’re here incognito with me?”
“Of course! But eventually, I’ll have to say something. They’ll find out anyway. Our people, like Arso, don’t hide anything from them. The people trust the Russians — you have to take that into account.” Tito leaned toward his companion. “Yes, the people… I so often feel alone…”
“What can you do?” Huntington said. “That’s the tragedy of all great figures.”
* * *
Ilija Perućica had temporarily left the brigade. As if on purpose, the corps commander sent him to study at the higher officer school, which Arso Jovanović had established back in 1942, right in the midst of the most critical period. Battalion and brigade commanders arrived at this school straight from the battlefield and, over the course of one and a half to two months, studied the fundamental principles of modern warfare, inter-branch cooperation and military tactics.
Perućica was no longer with us, but every fighter already knew about his unrealized plans and Arso Jovanović’s directive. It was becoming increasingly difficult to keep them from taking action.
* * *
The Eighth Corps inflicted serious blows on the enemy. “If only we had a commander like Ćetković,” the Šumadijans said enviously.
They told the story of how he recently got rid of Major Randolph Churchill, who had arrived in Bosansko Grahovo as an advisor. This son of the British Prime Minister — a man in his forties with perpetually disheveled straw-coloured hair, reeking of whisky and rakija — decided to take command of the corps himself. He started by pompously criticizing the strategy developed by Arso Jovanović, dismissed Ćetković’s doubts about the Ratweek plan, and unceremoniously explained all the nuances of the military and political situation in the Balkans. He ended his rhetorical fireworks with a proposal to immediately throw the corps’ forces against the towns of Glamoč and Livno, where German troops were concentrated. Colonel Ćetković, they said, patiently listened to Randolph’s speech, delivered with exceptional determination and flatly refused to carry out his reckless order. Frustrated, the young Churchill flew back to Vis.
* * *
It had been a long time since we fought like this. The sense of danger, fear, even caution — all vanished. Only the raw feeling of movement, struggle and absolute confidence in victory remained. I knew that every fighter in my company, after hearing my words before the attack — “Strike fast, strike suddenly. Smash, press, overthrow, strike, pursue, do not let them recover!” — words of Suvorov himself — repeated them in their minds as they saw the stunned, retreating, leaderless fascists before them. Just as they had marched in tight formation, they fell just as densely, like grass under a scythe, along the banks of the Ibar. Many, in desperate clusters, plunged into the river and drowned. Only the tail end of the column managed to escape destruction, turning toward Novi Pazar and Prijepolje in time. We captured the entire supply convoy, a vast amount of weapons and many prisoners. Overnight, we became twice as strong.
After all this, the fighters of the brigade pressed forward with even greater enthusiasm, heading east toward the border, just as Arso Jovanović had directed in his orders.
* * *
The newly formed 21st and 22nd Serbian Divisions, also sent north by Popović, advanced no further than the Toplica River valley. Their path was blocked by the fascist Bulgarian expeditionary corps. The partisan units began crossing the Western Morava, intending to reach the Southern Morava and link up with us before making one final leap toward the regions of Zaječar and Knjaževac, near the eastern border. But now Koča Popović had assigned a new task to the First Corps: to hold back the advancing German forces retreating from Greece and prevent them from heading north toward Belgrade.
This created a contradiction. On the one hand, according to Arso Jovanović’s directive, we needed to break through to the Yugoslav-Bulgarian border to meet the Red Army and then advance on Belgrade together. On the other hand, our movement eastward was now supposed to be limited to the Southern Morava valley! We were not to let the Germans move north! In other words, we were expected to engage them in a decisive battle even before the Red Army could provide us with direct support. Perućica considered such an order impossible to carry out. He was frank with me and Kića, speaking harshly about Popović, whom he saw as ruthless, vain and an unlucky commander. Did Popović not realize that as the Germans launched their Eighth Offensive in Serbia, they were concentrating massive forces here, in eastern Serbia? It was clear they aimed to crush the partisans first, freeing themselves to face the Russians. From Kragujevac and Ćuprija, Nedić’s regiments and the German Seventh SS Division were advancing toward Montenegro, pushing against the 12th Vojvodina Corps. From the south, the retreating “Prince Eugene” German divisions and the First Alpine Division were approaching from Greece. To the west, at the highest peaks of Kopaonik, on Suvo Rudište and Pijni Preslo, fierce battles were raging against the Chetnik corps, which Draža Mihailović had gathered from all over Serbia and sent to aid the Germans. All these forces were determined to prevent the unification of the partisan units moving in from Bosnia with those already positioned in Serbia. The 29th Division from the Second Montenegrin Corps reportedly could no longer advance in this direction, as Peko Dapčević had halted its movement near Novi Pazar. Meanwhile, the two new Serbian divisions had engaged the enemy west of Leskovac. In short, the enemy was closing in from all sides.
* * *
Perućica spoke even more openly about Koča Popović the next day when we received shocking news: our commander, along with the American MacCarver, had unexpectedly flown to the island of Vis at Tito’s request — to receive an award. Meanwhile, his chief of staff had fallen ill. Peko Dapčević had yet to arrive. We were now under the command of the corps’ deputy chief of staff, Major Đurić — the same man who had recently defected from Mihailović. In reality, our units were left leaderless. Popović’s departure, under these conditions — on the eve of a major battle that he himself had set in motion — felt like desertion. And the way he left the units without any operational orders resembled betrayal. Perućica, though indirectly, made this quite clear:
“An intellectual! He holds nothing dear. To make himself out to be a genius, he wouldn’t hesitate to sacrifice an entire corps. Well then,” Perućica turned to Jankov, “we’ll manage without him somehow. Persistence and an unbroken drive toward our main goal — that’s what we need now. We must push eastward — that’s our salvation. We’ll carry out Arso’s directive.”
* * *
“Well, here we are — home,” MacCarver said.
Lieutenant-General Popović smiled uncertainly.
“Yes, it seems so. Tout est bien qui finit bien.”12
But something felt off. The usual headquarters atmosphere was missing. Normally, patrols walked cautiously, weapons at the ready; there were no loud voices, no songs. But now, the headquarters guards bustled about, talking loudly and cheerfully, even singing. They were packing up and hauling equipment, headquarters property and archives. Arso Jovanović was energetically overseeing preparations for departure.
Popović approached the chief of staff to report in. MacCarver, sensing something was wrong, hurried to the bay, to Huntington’s villa. But the chief wasn’t home. The staff informed him that he had gone swimming at the pier with Ranković.
* * *
Pinch collapsed back into his chair in exhaustion.
“This is all so dreadful!” he whined. “I went to see Tito yesterday with a message from Wilson, and he wasn’t in his cave. Without the Marshal, there’s no one in headquarters to conduct business with. No one to give a proper answer. That Jovanović… Impossible to deal with! And it’s not just him — even the junior officers push back against some of our proposals. All mutual understanding has broken down.”
Notes
1 The naked, the poor (Serbo-Croatian in the original).
2 Approximately three desyatins (about 3.3 hectares).
3 Members of the Communist Youth League.
4 A square in central Belgrade.
5 Pig (Serbo-Croatian in the original).
6 The Voice of the Šumadijan.
7 A type of wild millet.
8 British soldiers.
9 Tavern, inn (Italian in the original).
10 A mountain near Belgrade, where a monument to the Unknown Soldier was erected after the First World War.
11 Neapolitan underclass.
12 All is well that ends well (French in the original).
(Orest Maltsev, The Yugoslav Tragedy, NEPH/Sava Press, Toronto 2025)