When Heaven Weeps Read Free Page B

robes. Dark hair fell to his shoulders, and a beard extended several inches past his chin. He stood with a hunch in his shoulders.
    A hunchback.
    To his left, a flock of children sat on the steps with their mothers who held them, some smoothing their children’s hair or stroking their cheeks. Smiling. All of them seemed to be smiling.
    In all, sixty or seventy pairs of eyes stared at them.
    â€œWelcome to Vares,” the priest said, bowing politely.
    They had interrupted a party of some kind. The children were mostly dressed in ties and dresses. A long table adorned with pastries and a cake sat untouched. The sight was surreal—a celebration of life in this countryside of death.
    â€œWhat church is this?” Karadzic asked.
    â€œAnglican,” the priest said.
    Karadzic glanced at his men, then faced the church. “I’ve never heard of this church.”
    A homely looking girl in a pink dress suddenly stood from her mother’s arms and walked awkwardly toward the table adorned with pastries. She hobbled.
    Karadzic ignored her and twisted his fingers around the barrel of his rifle, tapping its butt on the stone. “Why is this church still standing?”
    No one answered. Janjic watched the little girl place a golden brown pastry on a napkin.
    â€œYou can’t speak?” Karadzic demanded. “Every church for a hundred kilometers is burned to the ground, but yours is untouched. And it makes me think that maybe you’ve been sleeping with the Ustashe.”
    â€œGod has granted us favor,” the priest said.
    The commander paused. His lips twitched to a slight grin. A bead of sweat broke from the large man’s forehead and ran down his flat cheek. “God has granted you favor? He’s flown out of the sky and built an invisible shield over this valley to keep the bullets out, is that it?” His lips flattened. “God has allowed every Orthodox church in Yugoslavia to burn to the ground. And yet yours is standing.”
    Janjic watched the child limp toward a spring that gurgled in the corner and dip a mug into its waters. No one seemed to pay her attention except the woman on the steps whom she had left, probably her mother.
    Paul spoke quietly. “They’re Anglican, not Franciscans or Catholics. I know Anglicans. Good Serbs.”
    â€œWhat does a Jew know about good Serbs?”
    â€œI’m only telling you what I’ve heard,” Paul said with a shrug.
    The girl in the pink dress approached, carrying the mug of cold water in one hand and the pastry in the other. She stopped three feet from Karadzic and lifted the food to him. None of the villagers moved.
    Karadzic ignored her. “And if your God is my God, why doesn’t he protect my church? The Orthodox church?”
    The priest smiled gently, still staring without blinking, hunched over on the steps.
    â€œI’m asking you a question, Priest,” Karadzic said.
    â€œI can’t speak for God,” the priest said. “Perhaps you should ask him. We’re God-loving people with no quarrel. But I cannot speak for God on all matters.”
    The small girl lifted the pastry and water higher. Karadzic’s eyes took on that menacing stare Janjic had seen so many times before.
    Janjic moved on impulse. He stepped up to the girl and smiled. “You’re very kind,” he said. “Only a good Serb would offer bread and water to a tired and hungry Partisan soldier.” He reached for the pastry and took it. “Thank you.”
    A dozen children scrambled from the stairs and ran to the table, arguing about who was to be first. They quickly gathered up food to follow the young girl’s example and then rushed for the soldiers, pastries in hand. Janjic was struck by their innocence. This was just another game to them. The sudden turn in events had effectively silenced Karadzic, but Janjic couldn’t look at the commander. If Molosov and the others didn’t