DEATH TRAIN, BLOODY MAX, ESCAPE
DEATH TRAIN, BLOODY MAX, ESCAPE
From the fierce Herzegovina, from Livno, a black rage flowed, darkening the land and the sky. It moved into the souls of our Croatian neighbors, wherever they were... Or maybe it never left, perhaps it always dwelled within them, waiting for the opportunity to be unleashed...
In the beginning, the butchers from Herzegovina were the worst. Later, it was impossible to distinguish who was worse. It seemed like one butcher competed with another over the Serbs, and anyone who dared to oppose them, plead, or try to save a Serb, Jew, or Roma was killed alongside them. In pits, in churches, in villages, on city cobblestones...
The butchers followed the orders of their leader Ante Pavelić and Mile Budak, to expel, convert, or kill the Serbs.
My name is Đuro, I'm from Banija, a peasant. I'm too attached to the land to leave it; maybe that's why my hands are tied now... Gendarmes are taking me to the Ustashe. They tried to torture me, attempted to pull out my mustache, but a neighbor who was their entertainment and loved me begged them not to do it.
When the Ustashe took me over, one of them addressed me: "Do you want to work? Although you Serbs don't really like to work, you prefer to be lazy and drink the blood of Croats... Well, you won't drink from Croatian springs anymore, eat food from Croatian fields, pollute this beautiful Croatian sky! On the train with him!"
In the train car, men, old men, young boys, those who still don't know what youth is... All crammed together like cattle.
Someone spoke, with a hoarse, frightened voice: "Where are they taking us?"
A determined voice answered him: "Where do you think, to Jasenovac, to work in the camp."
A boy, with his innocent voice, replied: "It's not a labor camp, a man told us from Pakrac, and I'm from there, that it's a death camp!"
"Shut up, Pakrac boy!" resounded the angry and resolute voice of the young man, "What do you know, fool! Whatever it is, let it end... I've had enough of being chased!"
No one spoke anymore. There were Serbs from Banija, Kordun, Lika, Slavonia, Herzegovina, Bosnia, from everywhere...
The train stopped. The smell of urine, the smell of sweat... The despair of people who are thirsty and hungry. Many are already on their knees, weakened.
The doors of the train car opened.
"Cattle, get out!"
"Look at them, dirty and stinking even in the wagons! But not for much longer..."
In a column, under the escort of Ustashe. They mock us, insult us, beat us, trip us...
We reached the gate of the Jasenovac camp. For a moment, I looked at the wire; a part of it was open. You could pass through it, especially someone tall and sturdy like me...
We entered. They started to arrange us. They separated me into the fifth group, for work on the embankments. Again, I was close to the opening in the wire. I looked at freedom on one side and my brothers on the other...
I saw evil approaching from a distance, bloody evil. Determined steps, nervous movements, madness in the eyes. A knife in one hand, a knife dripping with blood. A suit splattered with blood. He smiled and addressed one of the Ustashe: "Ante, how am I doing?"
"You're good, Max... Well, Vjekoslav," so that's him, Vjekoslav Maks Luburić, "What's been happening?"
"We slaughtered the cattle! There was so much that every muscle in my arm hurts."
"Max, is it true that the Franciscan eats the liver and other organs of these stinking ones?"
"Yes, it's true, Ante, it's true. I tell him: 'Father, slaughter, but don't be greedy, that meat is contaminated...'"
Laughter, laughter of Max and Ante... And my body passing through the wire... I run, I run like mad, and in my head, the words of Max about that priest who eats human flesh resonate, and their laughter... Hell, hell that swallows Serbs, Jews, Roma... Mostly us Serbs.
Even Satan cheers on his children, the Ustashe, to be as disgusting and ruthless as possible in hunting and killing innocent people!
I run through fields, damp earth... I've reached the railway tracks where death trains pass; I crossed them and run toward meadows and the forest in the distance.
No, I won't join the Partisans or the Chetniks; I'll fight alone, and I'll never forget the boy from Pakrac, the hoarse voice, the determined voice, the angry voice of the young man, the column, and the lined-up people in front of the monsters, awaiting death! Never!
Igor Tintor
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INTRODUCTION
This work is dedicated to all the victims of the fascist entity, the Independent State of Croatia, with a special focus on the mass crimes against the Serbian population during the first two years of the existence of this criminal regime. During this time, hundreds of thousands of children, women, and men were forcibly displaced and brutally killed in camps throughout that fascist entity, and the survivors were forcibly converted to Catholicism.
The work is based on the testimonies of survivors, confirmed historical facts, seen from the perspectives of the victims and perpetrators, including the final moments of those who perished in pits, camps, their villages, cities, homes, and fields, killed by their former neighbors of Croatian nationality.
While reading documentation about atrocities committed against Serbs, Jews, Roma, and a few Croats who refused to serve the fascist regime, along with testimonies from surviving members of my family and many others, I can say that I am fully aware of the unprecedented extent of the crimes in the history of humanity against my Serbian people in the territory of today's Republic of Croatia, Bosnia and Herzegovina, and parts of Vojvodina under the occupation of the Croatian fascist regime.
One historical fact is most terrifying. In the territory of the Independent State of Croatia at that time, there were camps for the extermination of children, and there was a plan, partially realized, to exterminate and kill thirty thousand children. Fifteen thousand boys and girls were killed by knives, hunger, torture...
Why did I write this work? My people have a short memory. I hope that this work will also help Serbs remember, respect our victims, and prevent such atrocities from ever happening again. Yet, we allowed crimes and the largest ethnic cleansing of our people after World War II in "Operation Flash" and "Storm," carried out by Croats in 1995.
I have only one message for you, readers. We never seek revenge, but we remember forever.
Igor Tintor
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