assumed that it meant he was to make his peace with God before he died.
The crowd tightened and necks craned, and Neil couldn't see what was happening. Everyone was quiet, but one voiced intoned softly. Then the guards began to laugh and clap, and suddenly Neil saw the boy's face again. He stood up, smiling cautiously. For just a moment, an air of bizarre gaiety seemed to prevail. But then two guards seized the boy. A third one held him tightly by the hair, pulling his head back. A fourth stepped forward to hit the boy's face with a metal tool-pliers. As soon as the boy's mouth opened, the guard clamped the pliers on his tongue. The boy struggled and tried to close his mouth, but couldn't do anything. With his other hand, the guard carefully slipped the blade of a knife between the boy's teeth. One of the other guards kicked the boy in the groin to make things easier. The boy's mouth opened wider involuntarily and he gave a strangled cry. The guard quickly flicked his wrist and came away with the boy's tongue in the pliers. This brought an enthusiastic burst of applause and more cheers. The boy was dragged off, his mouth foaming red, and a few seconds later Neil heard a gunshot.
Then he was hauled around to the center of the circle and flung to the ground. In front of him, torn and muddied, covered with gobs of spit, was a book in some unrecognizable language. Neil tried to think. The script was Cyrillic, he knew that much. When he looked up, Neil saw Marisa's uncle, Father Anton, smiling down at him.
The priest showed no sign of recognition. He was speaking softly and calmly, his hands making small gestures in the air, as if explaining things. When he finished, he pointed down to the book on the ground. Father Anton gazed at him with implacable indifference. Neil sensed that he had just a few seconds to reach some decision, and he understood. Marisa told him that her uncle was doing a study on conversions. That's what this was, a conversion. He was expected to renounce the book on the ground, whatever it was, and to proclaim his faith and allegiance to the one true Church.
The teenage boy-so that was what he had done. He had given in, he had renounced his faith, spit on the book and sworn himself to Christ. That's why they had cheered. But then they had cut out his tongue. Why? Probably so that he would not be able to recant-in the brief moment when he saw the pistol being aimed at him.
"Padre Anton," Neil said anxiously. "Padre Panic. Sono gia un cattolico."
The priest registered mild surprise, perhaps at both the words and the use of the Italian language. Neil could sense a flutter of curiosity among the guards around him, who fell silent and edged closer.
"Sono gia un cattolico," he repeated firmly. "Dove e Marisa? She will tell you. I'm a friend of hers." That involuntary lapse into English only seemed to confuse the priest. "Devo vedere Marisa! Dove e Marisa, il mio amico, il mio cam?"
Father Anton laughed as if he had just heard something ridiculous. A young man elbowed his way through the circle of guards and stood over Neil, who recognized him immediately-here was the person he had seen lying in the alcove bunk, in the house. Now this handsome young man glared at Neil. He wore a black leather coat over a grey suit. He swung his arm back. Neil saw the blackjack coming all the way.
Wow, a genuine leather blackjack-he thought, before it hit his head and sent his brain reeling into darkness- imagine that.
Stara Gradiska
The moon danced wildly in the sky above him. He was still there. He could hear the shouts, the screams, the random gunshots. His head rolled painfully on bare boards. A dark building floated by, then a tower. He was moving-he was being taken somewhere. When Neil finally got his eyes to focus he saw that he was lying in the back of a small open truck. It was kind of like an old army jeep. The driver and an armed guard sat a couple of feet away, in
The crowd tightened and necks craned, and Neil couldn't see what was happening. Everyone was quiet, but one voiced intoned softly. Then the guards began to laugh and clap, and suddenly Neil saw the boy's face again. He stood up, smiling cautiously. For just a moment, an air of bizarre gaiety seemed to prevail. But then two guards seized the boy. A third one held him tightly by the hair, pulling his head back. A fourth stepped forward to hit the boy's face with a metal tool-pliers. As soon as the boy's mouth opened, the guard clamped the pliers on his tongue. The boy struggled and tried to close his mouth, but couldn't do anything. With his other hand, the guard carefully slipped the blade of a knife between the boy's teeth. One of the other guards kicked the boy in the groin to make things easier. The boy's mouth opened wider involuntarily and he gave a strangled cry. The guard quickly flicked his wrist and came away with the boy's tongue in the pliers. This brought an enthusiastic burst of applause and more cheers. The boy was dragged off, his mouth foaming red, and a few seconds later Neil heard a gunshot.
Then he was hauled around to the center of the circle and flung to the ground. In front of him, torn and muddied, covered with gobs of spit, was a book in some unrecognizable language. Neil tried to think. The script was Cyrillic, he knew that much. When he looked up, Neil saw Marisa's uncle, Father Anton, smiling down at him.
The priest showed no sign of recognition. He was speaking softly and calmly, his hands making small gestures in the air, as if explaining things. When he finished, he pointed down to the book on the ground. Father Anton gazed at him with implacable indifference. Neil sensed that he had just a few seconds to reach some decision, and he understood. Marisa told him that her uncle was doing a study on conversions. That's what this was, a conversion. He was expected to renounce the book on the ground, whatever it was, and to proclaim his faith and allegiance to the one true Church.
The teenage boy-so that was what he had done. He had given in, he had renounced his faith, spit on the book and sworn himself to Christ. That's why they had cheered. But then they had cut out his tongue. Why? Probably so that he would not be able to recant-in the brief moment when he saw the pistol being aimed at him.
"Padre Anton," Neil said anxiously. "Padre Panic. Sono gia un cattolico."
The priest registered mild surprise, perhaps at both the words and the use of the Italian language. Neil could sense a flutter of curiosity among the guards around him, who fell silent and edged closer.
"Sono gia un cattolico," he repeated firmly. "Dove e Marisa? She will tell you. I'm a friend of hers." That involuntary lapse into English only seemed to confuse the priest. "Devo vedere Marisa! Dove e Marisa, il mio amico, il mio cam?"
Father Anton laughed as if he had just heard something ridiculous. A young man elbowed his way through the circle of guards and stood over Neil, who recognized him immediately-here was the person he had seen lying in the alcove bunk, in the house. Now this handsome young man glared at Neil. He wore a black leather coat over a grey suit. He swung his arm back. Neil saw the blackjack coming all the way.
Wow, a genuine leather blackjack-he thought, before it hit his head and sent his brain reeling into darkness- imagine that.
Stara Gradiska
The moon danced wildly in the sky above him. He was still there. He could hear the shouts, the screams, the random gunshots. His head rolled painfully on bare boards. A dark building floated by, then a tower. He was moving-he was being taken somewhere. When Neil finally got his eyes to focus he saw that he was lying in the back of a small open truck. It was kind of like an old army jeep. The driver and an armed guard sat a couple of feet away, in
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