The Seeds Will Grow

Inside the Station

For a moment, Pejo nearly kept walking. It would have been easier to keep about his business, to not interfere. But the wails of the child would not permit him.

"What has this child done?" he said politely to the policeman.

"It's not your concern," the officer shot back without looking at Pejo. "She is an enemy of the state."

"An enemy? My heavens, such a dangerous little girl! Perhaps there is a bomb in her school book," Pejo said, mocking the policeman. The uniformed man whirled to look at Pejo, more than annoyed with his insinuation that the girl had done nothing wrong. He clung tightly to the child's arm as he addressed Pejo.

"And what is it to you? Would you like to join her?" he asked. "If not, I suggest you move along."

"I would not wish to join her," Pejo said. "Perhaps I may take her place."

He lunged toward the policeman, who let go of the child to defend himself. The girl ran without thanking her savior. The middle-aged man was no match for the younger policeman and found himself bloodied and subdued on the pavement within moments.

"Let's take you in and see if we can't change this attitude of yours," the policeman said, huffing from the struggle. "Perhaps we can teach you respect for the authorities."

Pejo thought, for an instant, to inform the officer that he did not consider him an authority, but rather a bully, rounding up innocent Serbian and Jewish children to be sent away. But there was no point in any further provocation, so he remained silent. He walked without resistance to the police station, a few blocks away. He was shoved violently into a cell and left there. Nearly two days passed before anyone came to address him.

"Petar Petrovic," said the captain of the station, a man dressed in an ornate uniform more befitting of a general than a police captain. "They say you're a partisan. Come, let's find out more about your associates."

"Surely your mind is made up already," Pejo said as he walked through the open door of the cell. "Is the torture room warm? It was quite chilly in the cell."

The captain stopped abruptly, grabbing Pejo's shirt around at the chest. He glowered at the prisoner before regaining his composure.

"You filthy Serb," he said calmly. "Partisan or not, you will leave here with respect or you will not leave at all."

Pejo looked at the man, studying him. He said nothing but motioned for the captain to continue to the interrogation room. Inside waited a younger man, dressed as a police officer but undoubtedly a member of the Ustashe. The Croatian fascists did not easily blend in, even in a police station.

"Take a seat, Mr. Petrovic," he said, smiling obnoxiously as he sized up the prisoner. "Petrovic....of course you are a Serb. Tell me, are all Serbs as foolish as you?"

"I could answer, but should you trust the answer of a fool?" Pejo replied. The young officer chuckled and pawed at the stick hanging from his belt. He would no doubt be using it soon if this mouthy Serb persisted.

"I see no reason, Mr. Petrovic...may I call you Petar? Your Serbian name leaves a bad taste in my mouth," he said, continuing after Pejo nodded politely. He hoped to elicit a response from his prisoner, but Pejo was not so easily baited.

"I see no reason for a man, walking down a street, to interrupt a policeman in the act of carrying out his duty," the young man said. "Why should you intervene? She was a Jew, not even a Serb, so you were wasting your time."

"There was a child who needed my help," Pejo said. "Do not shame yourself by bothering to make up some lie about what she had done wrong."

The young man pulled the stick from his belt and laid it on the table before walking around behind Pejo. He suddenly and violently punched his prisoner in the back of the head.