For ten thousand nights her eyes have come to stare. Cold blue pools of emotion, recalling dreams dashed in the wet reflection of snow. A quite silent voice whispering of love... of hate... of fear, and of disappointment. A lurid tangle of memories bringing floods of tears to wash my pillow.
And it is not Mesha alone who has sat upon my sheets. For there in the night have sat Mikailic, and Peter, and André, and others. And through it all, I have not spoken.
But now I must tell my story. I must share the guilt. And yet, I cannot share that which is mine alone.
I do not ask forgiveness, for it is I who failed. Nor would I beg such of her or them. It is I who stand while they have fallen.
Mesha was only fifteen years old when German SS Major Heinrich Peeler came to Yugoslavia and requisitioned the ground floor of the Covanich home for an office. However, she matured fast when she witnessed her mother and one of Peeler’s men in sexual embrace on the living room couch.
When she could not dismiss the horrible scene from her mind, she ran away to join her uncle Peter who was making a name for himself as leader of the Covanich Group, a remnant of the Mihailovich Underground known as “The Chetniks.”
Little did she know that she too would find love when Frank Henderson, a young American officer, was assigned by the OSS to assist the underground in the acquisition of weapons and supplies.
However, love was only one emotional extreme she would encounter as she and Frank traveled the snow-covered mountains of Montenegro and witnessed the pain, suffering, and despair war can bring.
Excerpt
“Nicht Feuer,” yelled the Germans. “Nicht Feuer!” But Frank continued to empty the contents of the jerry can into the bowels of the big pile of scrap metal.
When the can was empty, he threw it aside and untied another and poured it down the hatch, ignoring the cries of the Germans. Then he climbed down on the other side and ran down the creek-bed, jumping over the dead machine gunner in his haste to get away from the tank.
As Frank crouched in the snow, Mesha fired her burp gun, stitching bullets along the edge of the hatch opening. Nothing happened. She tried again, but when the echo of the rapid fire stopped bouncing from the peaks of the surrounding mountains, there was no fire; no roaring sound from a burning tank; no sound at all except the frantic cries coming from inside the tank. “Nicht Feuer!” “Nicht Feuer!”
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