The faces of the fighters TEACHER FROM KUMANE

From the unpublished manuscripts of Radivoje Gavrilović, major of the JNA

In the gloomy cell, I look around the walls, which are covered with various inscriptions and drawings. Near the door itself is written: “In anticipation of the shooting of Dragiša Vujičić”. It’s already past noon and I hear footsteps coming from the corridor, which are becoming clearer and stop in front of the door of our cell. I thought – they came for one of us.

The door opens and to our surprise, the fascists throw a comrade into the cell with a vulgar swear word. We didn’t even take a good look at him, and the voice of the cruel agent Wilhelm echoed through the cells: – “Give him that solution (“burova voda”) to cool down his feet, you dog!”.

We were surprised that someone is given (“burovu vodu”) solution – (water with something for healing I think) in prison. By the time we looked at each other, the basin was already in front of the newcomer. Keep that and cool your legs, you communist dog. We will teach you to speak. You will tell how you sucked your mother’s milk! – said agent Roganović.

The agents left and we helped the newcomer sit down. He was half-naked, pale, hollow and unshaven. His right hand was tied and hung around his neck with a piece of dirty and bloody bandage. He was silent, and his eyes showed that he was tired. He could not stand on his feet. We moved closer to him with the intention of starting a conversation. But he was still silent. Maybe he was thinking about what kind of environment he had gotten himself into.

There were provocateurs and whistleblowers in the prison who calmly listened to the conversations of the prisoners, and later typed everything to the police in the hope of saving their bare lives. The enemy was merciless and did not spare even such. He kept them until he needed them and until they had something to say, and then he shot them.

Surely this newly arrived friend of ours wanted to get to know us as much as possible, and only then enter into a conversation with us. After some time, we asked him: – it takes a lot for a patriot ,to come here easily.

When we asked him to tell us, he replied:

• Comrades, it will be too long to tell you about myself.
• No, no, I told him, just talk and we will listen. They won’t bother us until tomorrow, I guess.
• We have plenty of time, said one of the comrades, and our looks encouraged him and he began to tell us his story:

– It was Sunday, winter time, and the deep snow glistened in the sun. I was in the house that was at our brick factory, which I came to in order not to be in the center of the village, because the Germans were making arrests. I was dressed easily, the way a man knows how to be comfortable in his home. When I sat down at the table to have lunch, I noticed that the fascists were surrounding my house. At that time, many dark thoughts flashed through my head. – I have already seen chains, prison, torture and suffering. There wasn’t much time to think. I decided to resist and run away. But I had no weapons! Nevertheless, I will fight against the Germans. It was my only possible decision.

His talk left a very strong impression on all of us. We listened to him without pausing and immediately concluded, and were almost sure that we had before us a great comrade – a fighter and leader of the Party. But he did not say that, he even constantly emphasized that he was not in the Movement. I guess he still wasn’t quite sure about us, who were listening to him.

• It is better to die bravely and honorably than to fall alive into the hands of these executioners – the newly arrived comrade continued to tell us – In the blink of an eye, the door from my room opened and fascists appeared there with rifles at the ready, and bayonets pointed at me. Like an arrow, I tackled them with my bare hands. I managed to escape by surprising the confused Swabians (Germans), but I was wounded in that fight, you see – in several places he showed us his shoulder.

He was wounded in the arm and chest. His right hand was cut to the bone by a bayonet when he pushed the fascist away to make way for himself. I felt very small and concluded that my contribution in this giant struggle was small compared to his. He was a teacher from Kumane, and he served in Melenci. In January 1942, he was also caught in the great chase of the occupiers against the NOP forces in northern Banat to the villages of Kumane, Melence and others. On that occasion, many of his townspeople were arrested, including his entire family, his mother and two brothers. They looked for him in Kumane, but they did not find him. He was in Melenci.

• Easily dressed. Against a strong wind with sleet that was my ally because it reduced visibility to a few meters, I managed to get away from the Swabians. The fascists got completely confused and shot in all directions because the wind and snow prevented them from shooting at me. In that shooting, they wounded Volksdeutscher Andres, otherwise our sympathizer, who took part in this chase because of his official duty. I ran with all my might without feeling any pain from my wounds. I found myself on the road leading to the neighboring village of Taraš. I turned around when I was a little further away, to see if they were chasing me. Miraculously, no one pursued me. What should I do and where should I go?

He decided to go to that neighboring village and stop at the first house he came across, because now he was already feeling pain from his wounds, shivering and cold. The village is 7 kilometers away. It was not easy to go in the deep snow, without a road and orientation in the Banat plain. He didn’t hesitate much. The drive for self-preservation and the thought of not falling into the hands of the Germans gave him strength. How strong and durable a person is in such difficult moments – that can only be experienced and not described in words.

• Before the first dusk, I arrived in the village of Taraš. I started shaking from the cold, and I also had a fever. I was no longer capable of anything. It seemed to me that I was at the end of my strength and I was simply gripped by some fear. I can’t even think anymore. I’ll stop by the first house to warm up and spend the night, then I’ll decide what to do later. So I did. I stopped at a house.

However, this is where the turning point of this difficult odyssey of our friend Uča comes. The host of the house, he stopped by, barely received him even though he saw how he looked and that he needed help and hospitality. But out of fear of reprisals he did what is called insidious treason.

The fascist police informed all their police stations that “such and such a fugitive communist bandit” was on the run and that they should show him hospitality and receive him, but immediately report him to the nearest rural Swabian guard. This was the reason why the “host” of the house, he came across, received him so coldly, in the stable among the horses.

He was fine there too. He lay down in the straw, but not to sleep, he couldn’t fall asleep. He thought, as he warmed up a bit. Where will he go next?

• I don’t remember what time it might have been, but it was a deep night – Uča continued to tell us. – When the German command: – “heraus” – “outside”, woke me up and jolted me out of my slumber. I immediately realized that my “host” must have betrayed me to the Germans. Torture and struggle again, I thought. I decided to resist again and run away. I hastily made a plan. Quickly, running, I will fly out of the barn like a shot from a rifle and disappear into the darkness. I had hardly even gotten up when I heard another call to go out. The impatient fascists shouted, but they didn’t dare to enter the barn. I flew outside but bounced off the snowbank in front of the barn. Such a snow hill is made by the villagers in Banat in front of the stables to protect the cattle from the winds. At the entrance to the barn, unfortunately, I did not see it. I fell, and then the Germans met me with their weapons and started hitting me. I don’t remember what happened anymore because I passed out.

Uča was about to continue telling his true story, when footsteps were heard in the corridor, followed immediately by the opening of the cell door.

• Come on, you bloody communist – shouted the bloody beater Wilhelm, and then he took our Uča away.

• Just be brave, comrade… came a voice from the cell.

In about two hours, they brought Uča. He was beaten. Even today, I remember the suffering figure of our Uča, the hero. It was better if they killed him immediately than to torture him like this. That human pity overwhelmed me, although the same thing awaited us all. Someone before, someone after. That “interrogation” of Uča lasted several days. When they stopped beating him and he recovered a little, he continued to tell his story, on all our urgings.

• When I regained consciousness, I saw that I was in an office. It was the office of the rural guard in Taraš. A foggy winter morning was looming. The Germans mobilized a peasant’s sledge and put me in it and covered me with a blanket. Under the guard of two Germans, they took me to the village of Kumane. Then our Uča shivered a little, as if he was cold, so he continued:

• I was comfortable and quite warm under the blanket, but I had no orientation as to where we were. Judging by the drive, we could be two or three kilometers from Kumane. Then we suddenly stopped, and in front of us, someone raised from the ground, an armed partisan appeared with a gun pointed at the guards – my escorts. I heard him say: “Hands up!”, and then there was a click once, then a second time, but nothing further. His gun misfired, and maybe he didn’t even have bullets, only then the Swabians managed quickly to recover, and the attacker now became a prisoner just like me. It was the head of SKOJ, Marko Ješić from Kumane. Arrestee Ješić told the guards not to go to the village because new ambushes await them. Swabians decided to come to Kumane via the surrounding route. I did not like this ride. Finally, we arrived in Kumane. I was exhausted, and who knows what I looked like, everyone stared at me in disbelief and curiosity and said: “Das ist Lehrer.” – It’s that teacher! They didn’t ask me anything, because they were getting ready to transfer me to Bečkerek (today Zrenjanin) as soon as possible.

There, Uča sighed deeply, then continued.

• At one point I was left alone, completely alone in the field guard office. I decided to commit suicide. But how and with what?! He cast a glance at the table where the scissors lay. I quickly reached for them, opened them and placed them close to my heart, then suddenly struck with my other hand, expecting death and the end. I remember falling. I passed out. Later I heard that they “saved” me. They brought a doctor who gave me first aid. They transferred me to the Bečkerek hospital where I was treated for about a month. When my wounds, as much as they could, had healed, I was brought here, to give them what they asked for.

Uča finished his story.

So our friend Uča came from the hospital.

• At the “hearing” they told me that my father and one of my brothers were shot in retaliation in Pančevo. They left him to tell them all about the movement.
• They told me: Why did you resist and run away if you are not a communist and an official?

After severe torture, the fascists interned him in Norway in May 1942.

In Beisfjord, not far from Narvik, Milan Stančić – Uča, a member of the OK Party for Bečkerek, was shot.