nder plucked a blade of grass and nibbled at it, sucking out its bitter sap, until the bitterness calmed him. “My dear soldiers, fellow combatants, brothers, the end of our part in yet another pointless war is upon us. We had no idea what we were fighting for, nor who our enemy was, and to be honest, we don’t know what we’ll find back home. I hope our houses are still standing, cozy and intact, like when we left them. The last stretch will probably be the most challenging: all the factions will be assembling here, and when faced with the absence of an enemy, troops often turn on one another. In any case, I wanted to warn you, whatever happens, do not break into song. There is always one of our number who doesn’t appreciate that particular song and who will be out for revenge for no other reason.” He stopped, he’d meant to say more but couldn’t remember what. The soldiers applauded, and he ordered them to disperse. From afar they could hear the rumble of trucks and tanks that, apparently, had not bought into the pretense of Mladen’s feigned combat, but guessing that he wanted to mislead them, had chosen the right path. “They’ll be here any minute,” repeated the commander, and Mladen, urging the remaining soldiers to disperse and get going uphill, along the route that would bring them home the fastest, as the commander had, apparently, announced in one of his earlier speeches when there were twice as many of them. They came over for a hug, but he shooed them off. “Once we make it home there will be time for that,” he said, and brushed away a secret tear. It was time for him to go, the rumble of motors and caterpillar vehicles was so loud that he felt as if he were perched on a roof, waving a little flag with the coat of arms of some country during one of those big military parades. Up he shimmied into a tree. He climbed till he reached the densest part of the canopy, where nobody could possibly spot him, but he could still find the occasional gap between leaves to afford him at least a partial view of what was going on. He was surprised when he realized how vast a military force had been sent to chase down his handful of soldiers, as if liquidating his men was the primary objective of the military and civilian leaders. Hadn’t the Nazis, once it had become clear that they were losing the war, proceeded with a panicked liquidation of the Jews, as if the outcome of the conflict depended only on that? In another, perhaps more courtly time, he would, by now, with full confidence, have sat down with the commander of the enemy troops and, over tea, or, why not, schnapps, traded anecdotes from their school days at the military academy, until they finally shook hands and congratulated each other on a well-earned victory or an amicable defeat. And each would then return tidily home to their impatient wives who, what with the long wait, had, probably, shown so much willingness to annex the new territories that everyone, in an odd way, was a little sorry the war was ending. Suddenly, right beneath the tree where the commander had, shall we say, nested, shouts went up. Through a gap in the leaves, the commander could see three of his soldiers. They were waving a piece of white cloth and walking slowly down the hill. When they reached the meadow they’d left only minutes before, on their way home, one of the tanks rolled toward them. Was it sniffing them? The gun barrel swiveled toward them, but then the tank kept rolling on. The soldiers, who hesitated longer than they should have, suddenly realized what the tank was up to, but by then it was too late and it rolled right over them, stopped, and reversed. The commander bit his hand to hold back the sobs and to stop himself from sliding down the tree, hot with the desire to give them what for. They’d kill him before he had the chance, of course, to pull a hand grenade from his boxers. He was left waiting and hoping there’d be people interested in a future project in which there’d be a role left for him to play the venerable gramps who’d been living in his coffin for years, but lovely Mistress Death wouldn’t show her face. And then the enemy soldiers brought in their dogs. A dog loped right over to the tree where the commander was hiding, but nothing interested it beyond lifting a leg and spraying its mark; in a few days’ time the mark would send a black bear scampering back to where it had come from because it wrongly assumed the scent was left by a grizzly (and it wasn’t keen to run into a grizzly). The dogs raced off into the woods and soon their urgent barking could be heard, followed by gunshots and shouts. The commander was able to see the two corporals: the one covered in dog bites and gore was left to the dogs, while the other was sat down at a collapsible aluminum table and questioned quite calmly. And while the first corporal was dying in horrible agony, the other corporal sat cozily on a chair and responded with civility to the questions. They asked him for his name, what did he do, any brothers and sisters, how long had he been serving in the army, did he enjoy war, and other things to pass the time of day, his favorite writer, favorite actress, wife and kids, was his mother alive, and his father—was he retired, did he send him letters or postcards, and who were the smokers in his family? While he was answering, the corporal would occasionally gaze up into the treetop above, and at one moment, as he was staring at the mottled leaves, he was certain he’d seen someone’s eye. He blinked and the eye was gone. This must be the eye of the Lord, and the corporal felt now God himself was looking after him. True, the eye reminded him of somebody, but of whom? As if through a fog the idea occurred to him that it was the commander perched in the treetop like a good-luck woodland sprite. Perhaps he might be able to climb up there once he’d finished with the questioning and pay him a visit. Then he told himself he was crazy, how could the commander be up in the tree, he was no owl hiding from the light of day, nor was he a songbird that had stopped chirping for a moment to peer down at a corporal who hadn’t learned yet how to say “my death,” but was studying hard and was a diligent student. And when, after some ten additional, courteous, and totally pointless questions, a knife flashed in the hand of the investigator, and he told the corporal he’d now be given his prize for his cooperative spirit. The corporal gave a slight smile, said he’d be glad to share his prize, threw himself with lightning speed on the investigator, wrested the knife free, and in what was almost a single move, slit the man’s throat and in the same continuous sweep slit his own from ear to ear. The commander nearly found himself down there by the aluminum table, he was so wrapped up in the drama that had been playing out before him. Who knows, maybe he really was an owl and could see better in the dark than by the light of the sun? He’d wait for night to see; he wasn’t going anywhere. He wondered how many of the soldiers were still alive, and he thought of Mladen and another two or three. And the cook? Really, where was the cook? Our cook is a fine cook, we all repeated, as if that fact—that the cook cooked well—was the standard response that included defense from any criminal proceedings that might have pertained to the cook, in uniform or civilian dress, regardless. But no one, not even the commander, could accuse the cook of a thing. There was that once, recalled the commander, when the hamburgers were not quite soft enough, but one doesn’t go before a court for that, especially not a court martial. Beyond that, a few soldiers once criticized him for spending too much time in the kitchen, in the hot seat and center of all life. The cook’s answer was simple: “I like listening to the radio,” said the cook, “and the reception is best there.” This, regarding the quality of the reception, was later confirmed by the commander, who also liked to listen to the radio and often went to the kitchen, he said, “for the good reception.” He now cocked an ear, certain that among the various planes and helicopters flying overhead he’d be able to discern the sound of the motor of the plane that was waiting for them at the airport in K. to bring them to the capital city. We don’t know whether there is an international landing strip at K. but the toilets in the parking lot by the airport are clean, cleaner than many facilities in Europe and North America. That must have been heard by some of the soldiers who, below the commander’s treetop, were at a loss because toilets had suddenly become the main topic of conversation and everywhere people were talking only of them. And besides, if there were no more soldiers to kill, let’s at least talk about something meaningful for all of us in war and peace. The conversation about toilets stirred the commander from a precarious doze, and he didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. The doze was precarious because man is not a bird that can snooze on a wire or a branch, and he always feels as if he’s sinking, dropping through whatever space he’s in toward the very end of the world. Voices whispered things again to the commander, there’s always someone who wants to be part of a secret alliance before all others, the more secretive the better, but then the commander had the impression he’d heard a familiar voice, he shifted silently and, sure enough, Mladen’s voice. The commander wondered what miracle this could be, though he was perplexed, musing on what could have brought Mladen to the enemy’s encampment. And then everything halted, transformed, and we were left alone as we’d never been before, because everything took on a different meaning, and the world became a backward mirror in which nothing was as it was, but as it might be. The commander looked into the mirror and saw himself tiny as a frog. He’d have been happiest stomping on himself, thought the commander, and he relished the scene of the actual act of dispersal, the heart flying off to the right, the liver to the left, the brain straight up, aspiring—in vain, of course—to celestial heights. The brain can ultimately be deep-fried; that is, probably, the only thing it is useful for. And what else, thought the commander, when it hadn’t warned him in time of what, even without his brain, he should have seen: that Mladen had been playing a double game the whole time, and he was, in fact, a spy for the enemy. Everything abruptly assumed an altered aspect, what had been unclear became clear, the inexplicable could be explained, and comprehension replaced incomprehension. All of Mladen’s undertakings, his triumphant arrivals after finishing his tasks, the conversations when he’d asked detailed questions about the commander’s plans and intentions, the ease with which he insisted there was no point to investigating the whole passel of murders of soldiers around the checkpoint, all this now suggested a different story, a story in which Mladen played the leading role, including the most sinister role, the role of merciless executioner. The commander had known, of course, that a different explanation was also possible, one by which Mladen had been compelled to obey commands from the highest military authority to convince the enemy of his loyalty. This would be easy for the commander to test. All he had to do was jump down and see what Mladen would do then, if he’d kill him or protect him in some way. But why should he, thought the commander, something should be left for the historians, those parasites who shape history whichever way they like, they who were themselves never part of history. Something had started happening down below, the soldiers were preparing to move, but first, as the commander could see, they were laying mines along the path that led upward, toward home. Several mines they planted around a nearby stream as well, and there would be woodland creatures killed by them that very night; the next morning the stream would be littered with the body parts of the animals. The people would be killed later. Not daring, still, to come down from the tree, the commander again fell asleep in his treetop and missed seeing the arrival of what must have been his last two soldiers, and hence he was unable to stop them from treading on the mines. The commander started from a dream in which he’d been eating a cheese burek, and for a moment he didn’t know what was happening. Then he understood, but first he thought of Mladen. He’d find Mladen a little later, along the path the enemy soldiers and tanks had gone. They hadn’t taken him with them for long, and besides now this was one less mouth to feed, and that seemed most important just then. The commander leaned over and rifled through Mladen’s jacket pockets. Apparently someone had already done the same before him, because, aside from an old bus ticket and a few coins, he found nothing. Then he remembered to check the pants pockets and there he found a black booklet in which Mladen had entered all his meetings and contacts with the other side. For us, this was a bonanza, it was nothing short of a list of the people who had worked to disappear us from the face of the earth. In the end they’d have all fared as Mladen did, this was the gruesome truth and nobody could fathom their willingness to do something that ultimately brought with it only loss. He continued searching Mladen’s corpse, and came across a thicker place on the right front side below his belt. He started unbuckling the belt but heard voices approaching and quickly dipped into the woods. While he was waiting for the voices to move off, he mused how he could have cashed his chips in with such a lack of caution, and then back he quietly went to where Mladen’s body lay—the body was gone. “Who could have taken it?” asked the commander softly, though he knew there was nobody around who could answer. Such things happened elsewhere, didn’t they? If they did, then they did, and there’s no cause for concern. He circled some twenty paces in both directions, but nowhere did he see footprints. He probably hadn’t looked carefully enough or hadn’t counted his paces well, but when he turned, prepared to head home, he saw two soldiers carrying Mladen’s lifeless body. He didn’t know who was more surprised, the enemy soldiers or our commander, but he collected himself quicker and with lightning speed (though to observers on the sidelines, had there been any, it would have looked incomparably slower) he aimed his weapon at them. The soldiers simultaneously threw their hands up, and Mladen’s body plunked down onto the path. “Watch out!” shouted the commander. “That’s not scrap iron to be thrown around like that.” The soldiers looked at each other and then one said, “But he’s dead, sir, nothing more can happen to him.” The commander wagged a finger: “You can never be sure of that, soldier. Miracles might happen at any moment. But first tell me: how did you learn my language?” The soldier laughed: “Your language? This is my language!” The commander nodded, pensive, then suddenly stared at the soldier. “My, my, are you one of the Dejanovićes?” asked the commander and when the soldier said he was, the commander asked, “What are you after here? Hands down and scram, you and your buddy.” The soldiers dropped their hands and trudged slowly downhill, but the soldier Dejanović stopped and asked, “And you? What are you after here?” The commander said nothing for a time, then pointed his gun at them and barked, “Want to see what I’m after, really?” He aimed a short burst of gunfire above their heads and, bumping each other, they sprinted away. The commander waited for them to move beyond some bushes and then he went back to Mladen’s body. He saw his belt and pants were unbuckled and he knew that whatever was hidden there had been forever lost. He should have frisked the soldiers. And now he had to worry about a new posse of the enemy that would be organized as soon as the two of them reached the meadow. He should have killed them then and there instead of inquiring about their language. One speaks the language one speaks and everyone will always speak the language they speak, and the language of the victors will always be on top, and so it goes. Besides, it would be funny if the victor were to speak the language of the loser, just as it was entirely natural for the loser to speak the language of the victor. But what about when the victor and loser speak the same language? What then? The commander didn’t like these writerl