At
the end of May 1941, a truck carrying 30 to 40 armed
people stopped one day in front of the elementary school
in the village of Korita. One could see right away that
this was no regular unit of the army of the newly founded
NDH, about which there were terrible reports in the air.
They wore very colorful paramilitary suits, but wore a
Fez as a symbol of the membership in Islam. Soon we were
sure that these were mainly our neighbours - Muslim's
from Kula Fazlagic, Gracanica, and Gacko, who called
themselves gendarmes.
At first
they chased the children out of the school so they could
have the place for themselves; then some of them went to
the house of my father, Mihajlo Bjelica; back then we had
a shop and a cafe on the street that led from Bileca to
Gacko. I worked in the shop, my brother Adam (Golub)
worked in the cafe.
The
unwelcome guests entered the two shops in a gruff manner
and posted on the door an order that we were not to sell
alcoholic drinks to anyone but them and threatened that
any contrary behavior would be punished on the spot with
death. The order was signed by their commander Muharem
Glavinic (so they called him), the Hodza from the
neighboring village Kljuc.
The next
two or three days were spent in anxious expectation. We
lived the first of June of this terrible year of war in
uncertainty. It was Sunday, a beautiful sunny spring day,
which I will never forget. On this day, the Ustasha horde
of the Hodza Muharem Glavinic arrested two young men,
Boro and Andrija Svorcan above the village Korita in
Pitoma Gradina near the border of Montenegro. They bound
them with their hands at their backs and drove them to
Gacko as they mercilessly hit them with their fists and
the rifle butts and kicked them with their feet. On the
morning of the 2nd of June, on the next day, the Ustashe
got some back-up from Gacko with the Gauleiter Kreso
Herman Tonagal at their head. In addition to the above
mentioned young men that they had driven to Gacko on the
previous day, they were carrying more people arrested
along the way. Shortly thereafter Ustasha patrols
appeared throughout the whole village and demanded that
all men between 16 and 60 come to the Sokolski Dom
[=community house, translator's note] to a
meeting at which the chief of the Ustasha government in
Zagreb would explain who would be permitted to cross the
border into Montenegro and whose permission would have to
be obtained, and would tell them other regulations of the
new government. They especially emphasized that hidden
weapons and military equipment had to be brought along
and threatened with death anyone who declined to do so.
Since our pasture lands and tillable land lay scattered
between the estates of the neighboring Montenegro
villages, the people thought this assembly to be
reasonable and normal for the given circumstances and
obeyed without argument. Anyone who grumbled and
hesitated got yelled at in a stern voice by the Ustasha
patrols: "What are you waiting for? You heard the order!"
and were forcefully brought to the Sokolski
Dom.
Around
4:00 p.m. on this fateful day, a larger group of Ustashe
came into our cafe with Kreso Herman Tonogal heading
them. My brother Golub and I served them drinks, of
course without getting paid. As soon as they had warmed
themselves a bit, the Gauleiter Tonogal called: "Enough!
Take them away!" Some of the Ustashe pointed their guns
at us and shouted: "Hands up!" After a thorough search,
they asked us where the money, our storage area, and the
keys for the shop and the cash register were. We showed
them everything without argument and asked the Gauleiter
for permission to say goodbye to our father, who was
lying upstairs on his sick bed. We hoped that they would
allow this and planned to escape. But as he must have
read our thoughts, the Ustasha shouted gruffly: "No way!"
With great effort, I suppressed my anger, turned calmly
to him, and said:
"Sir,
it is sad that they are arresting us with no reason
whatsoever. We have been earning our living here
honestly and with great effort. Everyone who has been
in here we have treated fairly and hospitably with no
concern for their religion; for the duration of the
former state, neither I, my father, nor my brother
have ever hurt a fly, not to mention committing any
harm to a human being. Your armed people know that,
too; just ask them."
"I know
who you are and how you are, but I can't help you; I
can't help the fact that you are Serbs, that you belong
to the people among whom the new laws of the state make
no distinction. You are all guilty for what happened
during the time of the former Yugoslavia, and you will
pay for it, everyone of you, down to the last." This was
his answer, and then he called: "Forward!"
At this
command, the henchmen shoved us crudely with their rifle
butts and drove us into the great hall of the Sokolski
Dom, which was stuffed with arrested people, our
neighbors. At the doors, two guards were posted and at
the window a machine gun. One Ustasha came in with us and
informed the arrested people that the meeting would be
held only when everyone was there, right down to the last
man, and when the head of the Ustasha government was
there from Gacko.
We sat in
the humid and clammy room on the bare floor. In the
worried faces of the people, one could see a terrible
fear, like people who are condemned to death. All night
long we did not sleep and spoke in whispers about what
would happen to us. Most of them found consolation in the
hope that they would be hauled off to do compulsory labor
or put into some sort of a camp, the way the
Austro-Hungarian government did in the First World War.
When day came, we asked a guard why the meeting was not
being held and when they would release us. He answered
that the Gauleiter was not there and that no one would be
released without him.
In the
course of the 3rd of June, women came with bags and
blankets, but they were not allowed to have contact with
us; the guards brought the things in and gave them to
those for whom they were meant. I will never forget the
moment when Gojko Bjelica cut into a piece of smoked lamb
and cried: "No one from my family will get out of this
alive; I don't have a brother anymore; only one of us
will survive - severely wounded." Although I was never
superstitious, Gojko's talk this time seemed
uncanny.
In fear
and confusion, we spent one more sleepless night from the
3rd to the 4th of June. On Wednesday the 4th of June,
suddenly the Gauleiter Tonogal came in the morning and
informed us in a threatening voice that all those who
would surrender their hidden weapons - "We know that you
have some," he shouted angrily could go home right away,
while those who refused would have to go into forced
labor. After he left, I looked through a hole in the side
door and saw what was happening outside. I saw how the
Ustashe were getting into formation; there were enough
there. Their oldest ones stood in front of the ranks; one
of them said something. During the whole time of his
speech, the others were holding their left hand on their
breast. Later I learned that the Moslems, according to
their religious customs, did this when they took oaths to
kill nonbelievers, since this was an act pleasing to
God.
After
administering the oath, the Gauleiter with a pistol shot
gave the sign to begin the massacre. Here I must mention
that there is no truth in the talk that some Ustasha
guards gave us a clue in any way as to what awaited us
and this allegedly gave us the possibility to escape.
Quite the contrary. Their behavior toward us was inhuman
- like that of a henchman. It is true that not all of
them hit us and tormented us in the same manner (some
apparently avoided it), but none of them defended us.
Since all leading Ustasha personalities at this time
publicly called for the slaughter of the Serbs and for
their expulsion from the land, it is hardly believable
that those who came to Korito did not know why. It is
much more likely that they all had appeared voluntarily
for this pogrom, firmly convinced that now the Serbian
people in the NDH and of course in Herzegovina would be
grubbed out like weeds. That's why they hastened to beat
the others out in grabbing their
possessions.
When the
sign was given to begin the slaughter, some Ustashe
pushed their way in to us and commanded: "Sit down!"
After each of us sat down right where we were standing,
they led one after the other into the cloak room, where
five chosen henchmen, probably volunteers, were waiting.
One of them (Becir Music) cut a wash line (not wire, as
some people maintain) into pieces and gave these to Alid
Krvavac from Gacko, who with two helpers whose names I do
not know, bound the victims' hands behind their backs; at
first singly and then in threes - back to back. With a
pistol in his hand and in a new airforce uniform, Serif
Zvizdic from Gacko observed their work.
When it
was my turn, my brother Golub was already bound. Once
they had searched me thoroughly, they tied my hands
behind my back and then they tied me and Golub together
back to back. Then they brought Gavrilo Glusac in,
searched and bound him the same way as me and finally
tied him sideways to us. Since we were standing with our
backs to each other, we could not move, so they simply
pushed us into the adjoining room, or better said, the
torture chamber, which was already full of bound people.
There they beat us and abused us terribly and searched us
for weapons, equipment, money, and gold jewelry. While
doing it, they constantly emphasized that those who
confess and would do what was demanded of them would be
released immediately. Only Vidak Glusac fell for this
trap. He yielded after gruesome torture and confessed
that he had a gun.
They
immediately untied him, acted as if they would let him go
to fetch the gun and said: "Go and get the gun. Don't
worry. We will bring you home right away, while all the
others will go into forced labor."
Vidak
Nosovic, who was crying like a child, turned to a young
and beautifully dressed Ustasha and asked him to loosen
the bonds of his hands just a little which were pulled so
damned tight that the rope around his swollen hands
couldn't be seen anymore. But the Ustasha replied cold
bloodily: "You deserve that. I don't feel sorry for you."
Then he turned to me and said "I feel sorry only for
these two brothers, because they will die innocent." He
lit a cigarette and put it in my mouth. Vidak begged him
in the name of Allah and in the faith of the prophet to
give him a cigarette, too, but the Ustasha didn't listen
to him, just as if this was some wild animal in front of
him instead of a human being. When he had left our
presence. I spit the burning cigarette over to Vidak, who
somehow picked it up from the floor with his bleeding
mouth.
Filip
Svorcan, when they were tying him up, asked the Hodza
Muharem Glavinic to look through his papers carefully. He
would be able to see quite clearly that he (Film) served
15 years with honors as the commander of the police
station, which could easily be proven. The Hodza grabbed
his pistol and screamed in rage: "Fuck your 101 Serbian
crosses. Just wait an hour, and l will read you the whole
book of Serbian regulations." (This was told to me later
by Jakov Milovic, who was in the same group with Filip
and who managed to flee from the outer edge of the
Koritska Jama.)
During
that whole fateful June night, the quietness of the
spring was again and again shredded by the tormented
human screams coming from the Sokolski Dom mingled with
the roar of Mumo Hasanbegovic's truck from Avtovac, with
which the henchmen took groups of 25 to 30 people one
after the other up to the Kobilja-Kopf as far as the
gorge Golubnjaca, where they killed them (at first mostly
with blunt instruments) and threw them into the
abyss.
When it
was the turn of me, my brother Golub, and my godfather
Gavrilo Nosovic (I think we were in the fourth group),
the Ustasha pushed us in over boards into the truck,
which had driven up to the door. After us they pushed in
eight or nine more groups of three and then closed the
tailgate of the vehicle. There were only three Ustashe on
the truck: one in the cab with a machine gun directed at
us, the second in the right-hand corner and the third in
the left corner, both with cocked guns. The cab door was
hardly closed when the truck took off. It crept slowly
past our shop, on which the moon was shining. The first
thing I noticed was the torn-down monument of the
volunteers of Solan from the village of Korita, which was
close by; then the icon of St. Nikola (on the day of St.
Nikola, we had had our christening celebration), which
was hung on the shop where formerly the business stood. I
became afraid that they had also hauled my family off
someplace and perhaps had killed them. Since we were
moving on the road to Gacko, there was still a slight
hope that they were taking us to a hearing
there.
But when
the truck stopped just before the gorge Golubnjaca on the
Kobilja-Kopf surrounded by Ustasha who were armed to the
teeth, it was quite clear to us that this was to be an
execution site, where these henchmen would slaughter us
like cows or club us like rabbits. The helpless people
suddenly became restless; desperate cries and tumult
arose: some cried like children when they thought of
their poor children, wives, and parents; others gnashed
their teeth in helpless despair, while others spit in the
faces of their henchmen and cried out defiantly: "You
crooks will answer dearly to God and to humanity with
blood for your outrageous deeds!" Fired with rage, the
Ustashe hit us with their fists, feet, rifle butts, the
blunt edge of axes, and other objects to try to subdue
the wailing and to be able to carry out their slaughter
in peace.
The
bright moonlight lying on the rocky peaks of the
Bjelasnica and Troglav mountains sank into darkness and
was lost in the horror of what was expected. To our
misfortune, we three (l, my brother Golub, and my
godfather Gavrilo) were sitting close to the cab of the
truck, since we were the first to be thrown into the
truck, and now were the last in turn for the slaughter.
So we had to watch the tormented deaths of 27 neighbors,
friends, and godfathers and to be convinced that people
are worse than the most bloodthirsty animals. This
horrifying sight on the rim of the Koritska Jama brings
tears to my eyes yet today, rips me from the deepest
sleep, and accompanies me like a shadow throughout my
whole life. I can find neither peace nor calm, especially
since among the murderers our acquaintances and nearest
neighbors were most active: Halid Voloder, the servant
Mumo Hasanbegovic from Avtovac, Dervo Custovic, shepherds
from the village of Kljuc Hodza Muharem Glavinic from
Begovic Kula near Trebinja, Velija Hebib from Kljuc,
Sucrija Fazlagic from Kula Fazlagic, Atif Hidovic, Velija
Dzunkovic from Hodinic and the son of Sukrija Tanovic,
who had come to Gacko from Tuzla, who by slaughtering
innocent people could avenge his father, who had been
killed by the band of Maja Vujovic after the First World
War.
Contrary
to the previous groups, they tried to kill us not with
wooden hammers (they probably didn't think they could
kill so many people this way before dawn), but shot us by
using only two bullets for each group of three. The
henchmen placed us in threes, tied back to back at the
edge of the gorge in such a way that one of us at the tip
of the triangle was turned with his face to the gorge,
the second to the right, and the third to the left. The
shots, which came from close up, were fired into the
temples of the two standing at the sides and hit the back
of the head of the one facing the gorge. Apparently the
henchmen did not check to see whether all three were
mortally wounded each time, but instead just immediately
threw them into the 20-meter-deep gorge, causing anyone
who was not dead to perish there in torment. From some,
they had first taken articles of clothing - the pay for
their efforts, because the Koran, as they said aloud,
didn't permit undressing the dead.
These
Ustasha bandits hauled one group of three after the other
from the truck to the edge of the gorge, from where ugly
curses and blunt blows, together with painful cries of
helpless people fell on our ears.
The
tormenting wait, which seemed to us to be unending, was
finally at an end. The Ustashe dragged us roughly from
the truck and pushed us to the entrance of the gorge, all
the time hitting us mercilessly. Our attempts to escape
the blows or to fend them off really awakened the base
instincts of these monsters in human form. Once they had
gotten us to the edge of the gorge, they placed me with
my face to the abyss, Golub facing the one henchmen,
Gavrilo the other. Both henchmen were waiting with guns
loaded for the signal to shoot us in the head from close
up. I saw sparks at the muzzle of the murder weapons and
I heard the shots that threw us to the ground. Although
my right shoulder was burning, I was conscious; I noticed
that I was not mortally wounded. One bullet had flown
past my collar without injuring my neck while the other
had penetrated my right shoulder. I heard Golub and
Gavrilo die gurgling and tried to think what to do. I
felt the murderers loosen the strings on my shoes. I
thought that they would perhaps untie my hands to get my
coat (I was wearing a long coat and Golub had one of
leather), and that that would give me a chance to escape.
And indeed they did begin to untie our hands as they were
removing my shoes. At this moment, I could hear a
commanding voice say: "What are you guys doing
there?"
"These
are Golub and Milija. We want to get their coats,"
answered the one who was in the process of untying our
hands.
"There's
no time for that, and it isn't allowed; stop it and throw
the bodies down," said the same man in a stern
voice.
But the
henchmen did not want to give up their booty. Without
thinking of the Koran, they untied our hands and took off
our coats. Although my hands were free, I could not move
my right arm; it felt like I was still tied. When they
picked us up from the ground to toss us into the abyss, I
cried out in despair: "Kill me. I am still
alive!"
"You
won't stay alive. Fuck your Montenegrin mother," hissed
the murderer and plunged a bayonet into my breast -
fortunately on the right side.
When I
regained consciousness, I learned that I was at the
bottom of the hollow on a heap of bodies. I was terribly
thirsty and slowly got used to the darkness. Somehow I
managed to pull my left, uninjured arm out from under my
body. With its help, I pulled out my right, completely
immobile arm. Carefully I felt around me. Everywhere
there were only bodies. There was something sticky on my
hand. I began to shiver from the cold. In the heap of
bodies, someone was gasping as if he were snoring. The
horrifying feeling to be on a heap of dead people forced
me to find a safe place, no matter where. I heard
something that sounded like water dripping, which
instilled even more the feeling of thirst in me. I stared
in that direction and felt my way to a little split in
the cliff and stuck my head in. In vain I tried to get a
few drops of water into my dry mouth. Suddenly I heard
the rattling of the motors, then people running back and
forth and screams of pain, then the cracking of guns and
the dull sound of victims rolling down the cliff. They
fell like logs all around me, like the stones that the
shepherds of Korita used to throw into the gorge to
frighten the pigeons. This process was repeated about ten
times in brief spurts; then there was dead silence in the
Koritska Jama.
Once the
truck had taken off in the direction of Korita, I noticed
that someone was scraping along the walls of the cliff.
He found my hiding place, laid himself between my legs,
and rested his head on me. I felt his head with my good
hand and asked: "Who are you?"
He gave a
start, quickly composed himself and answered: "it's
me!"
By his
voice I recognized Vidak Glusac and said: "For God's
sake, Vidak. How did you get here? Didn't the Ustashe
release you after you confessed to having a
gun?"
"Oh no!"
cried Vidak. "Those scoundrels broke their promise; after
I surrendered the gun, they brought me back again and put
me in the truck. Then they drove me to the gorge and
threw me in alive."
Three
more times the truck came to the gorge from the Sokolski
Dom loaded with the other unfortunate ones, and the
massacre was continued in the same way. At first we could
hear curses mixed with cries of pain, then the crack of
guns, dull blows, and finally the bodies rolling down the
face of the cliff. The heap of bodies at the bottom of
the gorge got higher and higher. From there we could hear
the last gasps of the victims who were not yet dead; with
our help, a few managed to escape death.
When in
the twilight of 5 June the last group had been
liquidated, we determined that a total of eight people
had survived this fateful night: Milija Bjelica, Radovan
Sakota, Dusan and Acim Jaksic, Rade Svorcan, Vidak and
Vlado Glusac, and Obren Nosovic. With an insane fear, we
were sure that the bodies of our wives, children, and
elders were lying there before us. We breathed a sigh of
relief and for a moment forgot this darkest human
insanity that we had survived under miraculous
circumstances, when into the pit fell our bags, the
blankets, and other things that our women folk had
brought while we were imprisoned in the Sokolski Dom.
Also various tools fell down: axes, hammers, adzes, with
which the henchmen had killed their victims. Some hand
grenades also followed, which fortunately fell into the
cliff wall high above us and exploded there. Finally a
whole heap of rock debris came tumbling down. We also
heard derisive calls like: "Haman, didn't we find you a
nice hiding place and covered you with a nice soft
blanket."
A while
later we heard the bells of a big herd of cows passing
the Koritska Jama in the direction of Kula Fazlagic.
While the gorge of Golubnjaca was still steaming from the
blood of the murder victims, the murderers ran into the
village like beasts of prey to plunder the animals and
other mobile belongings of their victims, thus leaving
the orphaned children, wives, and weak old folk without a
drop of milk. Later I read in an Ustasha report that on
this occasion 5,294 head of small and large animals were
driven from Korita. I maintain that the number was
greater by far, for the village of Korita had been famous
for its wealth of animals, especially goats and
sheep.
We spent
all of 5 June in the gorge and didn't try to do anything.
Only in the evening twilight, when everything was still,
did Dusan Jaksic and Radovan Sakota, who were not
seriously wounded, try to get out of the gorge. First
Radovan Sakota laid me so that the water would drip on
any face from the side; I managed to get individual drops
into my mouth. Dusan and Radovan used axes and rope that
the Ustashe had thrown into the gorge and they succeeded
in climbing out. We waited in fear for what would happen
then; we were afraid that Ustasha guards had been placed
around the gorge. Only when a belt was thrown down from
above (we planned it thus) did we know that everything
was OK. This again aroused our hopes for
rescue.
But we
had to wait for a long time yet in the dark grave of so
many people and in the unbearable stench of blood and
bodies. Again on 6 June, the Ustashe plundered the
village and liquidated the arrested Milosevics from the
village of Nemanjica and the Milovics from Zagradac near
the school in Korita. Along with the Milosevics and the
Milovics, Radovan Sarovic from Stepen was killed on this
day, while the mutilated bodies of Dorda Glusac and
Branko Kovacevic were found later at the wall of the
Trkljina. On the Kubilia headlands, they shot seven of
the Milovics, while three men (Radovan, Blagoje, and
Lazar) were able to escape; the brothers Milovan and
Dusan Milosevic managed to escape from the courtyard of
the school at Korita, so that the news of the Ustasha
crimes was spread like the wind throughout all of
northeast Herzegovina. Armed people from Gornje and Donje
Crkvice, Vrbica, Somina, Crni Kuk, and other neighboring
villages rushed to the Koritska Jama to rescue the
survivors. All the adults of the Kurdulija fraternity
joined them, who knew this area well. After they had
gotten strong backup from Gacko and Bilece, a group came
to the gorge. As long as I live, I will remember the
moment when we heard the strong voice of Todor Micunovic
from Crkvice: "Oh Milija, try to be patient. Don't worry,
we will get you out of here." Soon the brave and bold
Petar Kurdulija climbed down on a rope into the gorge.
From up above they called to him that he should tie me
first, because I was the most seriously wounded; then one
after the other, as many as they could; apparently they
were afraid that stronger units of the Ustasha or of
Italians could come. But I asked Petar to take up the
16-year-old Rado Svorcan first, because his mother had
only him, while mine had two children. Only after I heard
a determined voice from above: "Don't worry, Milija, you
will all get out," did I consent to being the first to be
pulled up. Petar wrapped the rope around my belly, tied
my broken right arm to my breast, and told me that I had
to hold the rope tight with my left hand and kick myself
out from the cliff with my legs. That's how I was pulled
up from the gorge of Golubnjaca, which since this
terrible event has been known as Koritska Jama, the
common grave of Svorcan, Bjelica, Glusac, Nosovic,
Jaksic, Sakota, Milosevic, Milovic, Kovacevic, and all
the others - in all, over 150 victims. While the others
were being pulled out, there was a misunderstanding:
someone called out that an Italian, motorized column was
coming from Bilece. The rescue was thus interrupted; only
Obren Nosovic was still in the gorge. But our rescuers
waited. When the error was cleared up, Ljubo Kurdulija,
later a fearless warrior whose heroic deeds were the talk
of all of Herzegovina, climbed down into the gorge and
brought Obren up.
After I
had been brought up into the daylight, I could hardly
believe that I had escaped death, which had been hovering
before my eyes for almost five whole days (I was arrested
on 2 June). I heard and recognized the voices of my
rescuers, among whom was my mother. She asked about
Golub, and I only looked at her. Obren Nosovic's son
pulled at my sleeve and asked: "Uncle is my father still
alive?"
"One
Obren Nosovic is alive. But I don't know which one, since
both had been thrown into the gorge," I replied with
great effort.
They
immediately put me onto a horse and we took off. In the
saddle, I managed to hold out until we got to Mrda
Kurduliga's house, which was not far away. There they had
prepared a stretcher, on which they carried me to the
house of Vulo Micunovic in Crkvice. Soon the other
survivors from the village of Korita came there. The
residents of Crkice and the members of other neighboring
Montenegrin villages welcomed us as kindly as their
grandfathers had done in the past. They shared not only
their homes with us, but also the last piece of bread.
Armed men went to Gacko immediately, where, as they told
us, battles had begun against the Ustasha For that, the
surviving inhabitants of the village of Korita will
forever be grateful to them.
We who
had survived the massacre in the Koritska Jama were
examined by Dr. Vojo Dukanovic and Dr. Jovan Bulajic.
Vojo gave me a shot for blood poisoning and told Vulo
Micunovic, in whose house I was, to get me to the
hospital in Niksic as quickly as possible and to have me
operated on there, because it was the only way to save
any life. That is what happened. Micunovic and the
Kraljevics brought me to Miksic on a stretcher with the
help of other residents of Crkvice; with us came also the
two doctors mentioned above. Thanks to their connections,
I was taken into the hospital and operated on
immediately. I was in treatment for 48
days.
(Quoted
in Dedijer, p155-164)
First-hand
testimony of survivors and eyewitnesses is compiled in
this shocking and graphic account of the crimes committed
during World War II at the largest death camp in
Yugoslavia. At the small Croatian town of Jasenovac, the
fascist "Independent State of Croatia" (a satellite state
of the Nazi Third Reich) constructed a concentration camp
where more than 200,000 people, mostly Orthodox Serbs,
were systematically murdered. Among the participants in
this genocide were members of the Roman Catholic Clergy,
from the Franciscan monk who became the camp commandant
to the infamous Archbishop Stepinac, the spiritual
advisor to the fascist state appointed by Pope Pius XII.
Vladimir Dedijer, a close associate of Marshall Tito, has
collected irrefutable documentary and photographic
evidence, attesting to thousands of atrocities and the
complicity of the Catholic Church in these crimes. The
events described in this important volume provide a
historical context to the current conflict in Yugoslavia
and shed light on the motivations behind the apparently
senseless ethnic and religious strife which is tearing
Yugoslavia apart. The massacre at Jasenovac was the
terrible culmination of centuries-old animosities between
Orthodox Serbs and Catholic Croats, and a dark episode in
the history of the Church, one that the Church has
attempted to hush up for fifty years. The late Vladimir
Dedijer held many high state offices in the government of
Yugoslavia, including the post of official delegate from
Yugoslavia to the United Nations. He was considered a
leading authority on genocide in the twentieth century
and, together with Jean-Paul Sartre, chaired the Bertrand
Russell International Tribune on War Crimes. Dedijer was
also a highly-respected scholar of modern history, who
taught in universities throughout the world, and the
author of many books, among which is his widely acclaimed
biography of Tito. ". . . the range of evidence he
presents of genocide in Croatia is impressive.. . . a
great deal will be found within its pages to stimulate
thought and new debateand for some, it will probably
prove to be quite uncomfortable." The Slavonic Review
