The Serbian Soldier's Promise

My beloved Jelena,

The snow will not stop. It falls and falls, as if God is trying to bury the world. We have been marching for three days, and already I have lost count of how many have fallen behind. The old men first. Then the children. Then the wounded who could not keep up. I hear rifle shots behind us and I know what they mean — our own soldiers, putting horses out of their misery. Sometimes I wonder if they do the same for the men.

I am writing this in a barn that still has part of its roof. Fifteen of us are pressed together for warmth. The man next to me is dead. I did not notice at first. I was talking to him — his name was Nikola, from Niš — and when he did not answer, I touched his face. He was already cold. I closed his eyes and took his blanket. He will not need it. Jelena, I am becoming someone I do not recognize.

Every morning I wake and count the living. Every evening, fewer of us remain. I walk because I have you to walk for. Without you, I would lie down in the snow and sleep forever. The snow is so white here, so soft. It looks like the featherbed we shared on our wedding night. Do you remember? You laughed because I was too nervous to look at you. I looked anyway. I have been looking at you ever since.

I think of our house on Knez Mihailova Street. I think of the way the morning light fell through the kitchen window. I think of your hands kneading bread, dusted with flour, and your hair falling across your face. These images are my prayer book now. I recite them like a monk reciting scripture. They keep me walking.

I am not afraid of dying. I am afraid of dying without seeing you one more time. I am afraid of becoming a name on a list, a folded flag, a photograph on a mantelpiece. I wanted to give you children. I wanted to grow old and argue with you about nothing. I wanted to sit on the porch with you when our hair turned white and say, “Do you remember the winter we survived?”

If I do not return, find a field of sunflowers and think of me. The sunflowers of Serbia are the color of your hair. Stand among them and I will find you, even from wherever I am. The sunflowers turn toward the sun, and I have always turned toward you.

Tell my mother I am sorry I could not come home. Tell my father his son tried to be worthy of him. But you, my Jelena — do not mourn me too long. If love finds you again, let it. I want you to be happy. I want you to feel the sun on your face.

The snow is starting again. I must keep walking.

Yours, always yours, Zoran

P.S. — I have wrapped this letter in my scarf. If I do not make it, whoever finds me, please take this to Belgrade. Find Jelena Petrović on Knez Mihailova Street. She will reward you. But even if she cannot — please. Let her know I was thinking of her until the end.