Free Tesla by Vladimir Pistalo Page A

talked about Montenegrin volunteers who used to call any man who died of natural causes a coward.
    The light from the oil lamps danced over their faces.
    The visitors crossed themselves and dug into the roast lamb. The proud man with the mustache was silent, and the other two became agitated when the conversation touched upon certain people.
    “Mitar!” The fat volunteer made a face. “God, what an idiot! You won’t find such an idiot on the moon! What do you say, scientist?” he asked Nikola in a serious voice.
    “An idiot! An idiot!” the village teacher concurred.
    The visitors drank red wine that stained their teeth and even sang a little as the evening progressed. The fat volunteer proved to be a good singer of Bosnian songs. He held one note for a long time. A shift of pitch would bring momentary relief, until the singer landed on another painful note.
    My God, this sounds like a toothache singing! Nikola Tesla thought. How much pain there is in all of this! Even in bragging, even in joy!
    As soon as a male child was born in the Militärgrenze, his name was entered into the ranks of a particular military unit. By birth, Nikola Tesla belonged to the First Lika Regiment, Medak Company Number 9, the same unit of the township his father belonged to by birth. As is well known, Nikola’s name joined the long list of officers and priests in the family. His ancestors’ duty was to secure the military border with Turkey. To be a “professional defender of Christendom” was not a particularly pleasant occupation. For centuries, brass buttons rippled on the chests of those officers, and feathers shimmered on the badges of their hats. They killed and were killed in the Austrian Empire’s endless wars, and the priests glorified their deeds. But was not human goodness more important in an uncertain world than good laws in a certain one? Did not someone have to pity the blood those men shed in vain, stitch together their shattered lives, feel sorry for the selfsame heroes, know how much that heroism cost in sorrow, and make lives, regulated by soldierly imperatives, a little softer? Did not someone shed the tears the men were not allowed to shed? The women.
    The women knew the high price paid for life in the world of severed heads. They knew about all the pain. The pain! They told stories in order to soften reality. The women offered stories as the bandages for wounded life. Just as their hands washed the bloody shirts, their words washed the world.
    That was what Nikola was thinking about as he looked into Mother’s hazelnut eyes that had grown darker with years.
    After the guests had left, there was still enough food on the table to serve another supper.
    Whenever a guest shut the door after him, Nikola’s family would say one of two things: “He’s a really good man” or “God, what an idiot.” This time, Father compromised. After he saw his visitors off, he sighed. “Good people—but idiots!”
    The relatives faded into the dark, like three demons whose goal was to point out to the prodigal son how things were at home. As soon as they left, Nikola started to yearn for the lecture halls of the polytechnics. After twenty-four hours, the very blue of Lake Plitvice started to lose its magic. Everything back here was tangled up in knots. One could make one’s fingers bleed without being able to undo them.
    The sobbing, metallic sound of dog’s barking resounded outside all night. The reflection of rosy light finally started to pulsate on the wall. The student sat up in his bed and looked into the ruddy dawn.
    “The maternal light,” he muttered. “The maternal light.”
    Despite the great peace that reigned under his mother’s roof, this young man with the divided heart felt a desire to leave immediately for Graz.

    2 . The Military Frontier ( Vojna granica or Vojna krajina in Serbian), created by the Habsburgs in the sixteenth century, was a military buffer zone between the Habsburg Empire (later the