Mitrovica, November 9, 1915: In front of the mill on the Ibar Bridge

“The population is streaming across the bridge. To the left of the entrance are the Montenegrins with their blue dimis and revolvers tucked into their red belts. They come from Peja. Ahead of them are the Albanian carts pulled by oxen and buffaloes with their huge wheels that reach a height of up to two meters and they are without metal rims, so the creaking of the wheels can be heard from afar. The Albanians are carrying flour for the army that is still holding Raska. The carts stop, pass, and curses can be heard. The Albanians have encountered the column of prisoners… In fact, on both sides of the bridge, under the clouds of smoke and the heavy smell caused by burning fat, an improvised tavern is located,” wrote the German author Gerhard Gesemann.

The autumn of 1915 found the renowned German author, Slavist Gerhard Gesemann (1888 - 1948) in Mitrovica. In his book “Die Flucht: Aus einem serbischen Tagebuch 1915 und 1916”, Munich, 1935, he left unique testimony.

“I am sitting in front of a mill in Ibar. When I am not looking for bread in the city, this is my favorite place and where I spend most of the day, at least until the autumn sun relentlessly pours its golden rays on the nearby banks. From the rain that has fallen, the river has swollen, the water strongly hits the blades of the large mill wheel. When I look at the page of my diary, I have the feeling that I am moving backwards, because the water flows to the right of me, giving way to it in its long, white waves. I write to forget hunger…

In front of me stands the ancient wooden bridge. By the river stand the slender poplars, which the Turks loved and planted wherever they wished. Behind the bridge and the low, flat roofs, a half-ruined minaret of the mosque immediately raises its head. According to local worldviews, the mosque is not considered to be that ruined…

The population waves across the bridge. To the left of the entrance are the Montenegrins with their blue dimis and revolvers tucked into their red belts. They come from Peja. Ahead of them come the Albanian carts pulled by oxen and buffaloes with their huge wheels that reach a height of up to two meters and they are without metal covers.ë, so the creaking of wheels can be heard from afar. Albanians carry flour for the army that is still holding Rashka. Carts stop, pass, curses are heard. Albanians have encountered the column of prisoners… In fact, on both sides of the bridge under the clouds of smoke and the heavy smell caused by burning fat, there is an improvised tavern, that is, there are two fires where coal is burning: on the left side there is a Roma while on the right a hunched woman and they are roasting intestines and kidneys!

'Last night the Russian government declared war on the Bulgarians. Russian warships are bombarding Varna. Russian troops from the rear through Romania are attacking the Bulgarians – and suddenly everything starts to feel good and all these optimists immediately learn that Sofia will fall in 14 days. And suddenly the information 'leaks' and it is not known from where or from whom it came – that Skopje has already fallen (into the hands of the Bulgarians) and after this news behind the railings the Albanians smile ironically! Then one hears that cannon fire is coming from the south. Even before reaching the bridge from the guesthouse, whispers are heard: Manastir has fallen. I am convinced that Manastir will not fall for four weeks, but the shout may deafen the ears of passers-by:

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'The French and English divisions have defeated the Bulgarians at Babuna' – nothing helps. What Babuna! They wanted to pass from Mitrovica to Tetovo, to continue through Manastir to cross into Greece, while Manastir has already fallen. Only an hour later the same people are smiling enthusiastically, each of them speaking from an understandable height. In itself 'to separate us from Greece they must take Tetovo, while Tetovo will be defended'. There is a certain strange consolation hidden in the words 'will be defended'. Therefore, the question arises why nothing was defended from Belgrade to Raska", writes Gerhard Gesemann, who after marrying a Serbian woman, found the beginning of the war in Belgrade and on his way to Albania he spent a few days in Mitrovica. His experiences continue.

In the Albanian barbershop

“I happen to be in an Albanian barbershop and listen to the conversation of his customers: they are all refugees and belong to wealthy people. But, a newcomer interrupted the historical-political debate and said: 'Do you know how many French divisions have landed in Thessaloniki? Not even two full ones!' A man who was shaving turned his foaming face and added: 'This is all a comedy! Do you know how we welcomed the Allies in Niš? No! Because you ran away? One day their arrival was announced and in the evening of that same day the opposite was said. One day we were even ordered to decorate the houses with flowers, and the streets with Allied flags! They were told 'the Allies will arrive tonight at six o'clock!' But at six o'clock in the evening, the street signs appeared and at every crossroads in the city they announced that 'due to fear of bad weather, the Allies were unable to come'. And soon the Bulgarians came instead of the Allies. The flags and flowers that had been prepared for the Allies, the Bulgarians understood as expressions of sympathy that the liberated population manifested for them!'

"The Albanian motioned for me to sit down. He will shave my head with the utmost care," he writes and continues.

The generosity of the old woman from Mitrovica

“I experienced something wonderful. I was standing hungry near the mill, where I could smell the flour and test my despair. A young ram was scratching against the warm wall. He tried to play with me and wanted me to scratch him between the ribs like the young millers do with him… A young man who works at the mill greeted me. He has known me for a long time, since I stay here all day. He is a Bosnian, the younger brother of the mill owner, whom they call ‘beg’, tells me. I know him too. He is a nobleman dressed in black who often walks with his white father, but he is more unapproachable than his younger brother. This young man, although he does not understand a word of Turkish, tells me that they are Turks, while he speaks to me in pure Bosnian-Serbian. I ask him, ‘How is it possible that you have so much to grind in this time of great hunger and the millstones are not Do they rest you all day?'

'We only grind for the state. We dare not accept any other grain to grind, then sell or distribute flour. That is why we have constant checks and here at any moment an effendi comes to check on us. He even asked me about you yesterday. I told him that 'you are here and you have never asked me for flour'.

On the street I met an old woman who had two loaves of bread, one whole and one half-eaten. 'Will you sell me a piece of bread,' I begged her. She gave me a piece, but when I wanted to pay her she refused to take the money.

"'I gave half of this bread to the hungry soldiers. It's a sin to take money from hungry people. But I can't give you more than that, I have children at home,' the old woman told me. I handed her a piece of cheese. 'We have cheese,' she said and entered her yard," the German author describes.

November 12, 1915: The hospitable Albanian and the ungrateful old woman from Niš

Gerhard Gesemann then described the shelter of a Serbian family from Niš in the house of an Albanian from Mitrovica. Gesemann's detailed descriptions testify for the umpteenth time to the lack of understanding between neighbors, especially the lack of understanding of Albanian culture and customs on the part of their Serbian neighbors.

 "In order to secure corn flour, I scattered all the mills located north of the city in Ibar. It is still ground everywhere, and the smell of corn spreads in all directions, so a person's stomach tightens with pain and his brain becomes confused. It is now known that all the mills grind for the state. Proof of this are the guards next to them. But now my stomach does not ache from hunger but from laughter! When I entered the house in which, until recently, the owner of the house lived with four members of his family, from before the courtyard I heard the screams of women, the murmurs of men and the cries of children. The house was full of people and luggage. A newly arrived family was 'scattered' throughout the house: father, mother, two sons, three daughters, two sons-in-law and some friends and relatives. They stood leaning or sitting on the stone steps.

Something terrible must have happened, because the mother, who is standing in the middle, is so fat that she is sitting in both of the only chairs we have – she suffers from heart palpitations, has asthma, has high blood pressure, but she is also mine. The lady mother curses in a way that I have not heard anything like it since I started on the road! She curses all the relatives with incredible distinction, she curses all the household utensils in a euphemistic sense (e.g. God's spear) in this curse she combines cosmic fantasies (the tinned sun and the shaved moon) often speaking in ten syllables like a lute.

'Woe to me, the blind fool! I left my house, my palace, two houses in my golden Nish, one of them even in the corner. Both houses were full of flour and cabbage. Oh, woe to me, my fate! I left my golden houses and my four-burner stove. Ah, I listened to those who were more foolish than me! I listened to you, my daughter, and be cursed. May God grant that you may go blind! Why did you urge me to abandon my house, my golden Nish, to abandon my kitchen with my four-burner stove… may Saint Mary kill you! Here you brought me among the Turks and Albanians! If we had not fled, they would have killed us, raped us! And what happened now? That is exactly what happened! We are now standing in the big room that the Albanians have given us. Of course, only we women and children; and our men… Do you think these are people? Are you people? You are not people at all. So, we women stay in the big room, our men in another room somewhere in the basement, because our men don't dare enter the room where the women are. But they, those Albanians, these dogs, these blasphemers, they can enter our room at any time while the door is unlocked and they can come to us separately while we are dressing and changing, without knocking on the door, whenever they want and then they can see a lot. The Albanians sit cross-legged right in the middle of the room, in their panties, oh God oh God, in their panties! And they think, those Christians will immediately lift their dresses! And that old Albanian, he is sixty years old, and he stares at my daughter, this one who is eighteen years old, with eyes as salty as an Ohrid fish, at the very best time! While in Niš, if the Germans hadn't come, I tried to give my daughter as a professor... ah my golden Niš, be damned, Germans, who wear helmets like firemen's..."

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After these insults, curses and ingratitude towards the Albanian from Mitrovica, who had offered shelter to the Serbian family from Niš, Gerhard Gesemann finally explained that "he was of the opinion that the mother lady did an injustice to the Albanian. First of all, Albanians are not blasphemers or polytheists. Secondly, the host who wanted to do his guests honor was not only in his panties but also wearing a cotton turban. And I ask that, the old man should have stayed at home in thick, coarse trousers... And then the Albanian did not want to rob that beloved daughter from golden Niš, take her up into the mountain gorges and then, screaming, dishonor her. The Albanian wanted only to be humane, polite. The mother lady should know that she can rely on the Albanians the moment the stranger crosses the threshold of their house", concluded Gerhard Gesemann.

To be continued in the next issue of the Culture Supplement