Read When Heaven Weeps for Free Online Page A

Michael’s face flushed red. His eyes shone in shock. “It was for love that Christ walked to his death,” he said.
    Janjic shifted on his feet and felt his pulse quicken. The man of cloth had found his backbone.
    â€œChrist was a fool. Now he’s a dead fool,” Karadzic said. The words echoed through the courtyard. He paced before Father Michael, his face frozen in a frown.
    â€œChrist lives. He is not dead,” the priest said.
    â€œThen let him save you.”
    The burly commander glared at the priest, who stood tall, soaking in the insults for his God. The sight unnerved Janjic.
    Father Michael drew a deep breath. “Christ lives in me, sir. His spirit rages through my body. I feel it now. I can hear it. The only reason that you can’t is because your eyes and ears are clogged by this world. But there’s another world at work here. It’s Christ’s kingdom and it bristles with his power.”
    Karadzic took a step back, blinking at the priest’s audacity. He suddenly ran for Marie, who was still crumpled on the cement. A dull thump resounded with each boot-fall. In seven long strides he reached her. He swung his rifle like a bat, slamming the wooden butt down on the woman’s shoulder. She grunted and fell to her belly.
    Sharp gasps filled the air. Karadzic poised his rifle for another blow and twisted to face the priest. “You say you have power? Show me, then!” He landed another blow and the woman moaned.
    â€œPlease!” The priest took two steps forward and fell to his knees, his face wrinkled with grief. Tears streamed from his eyes. “Please, it’s me you said you would beat!” He clasped his hands together as if in prayer. “Leave her, I beg you. She’s innocent.”
    The rifle butt landed twice on the woman’s head, and her body relaxed. Several children began to cry; a chorus of women groaned in shock, still bent under their own heavy loads. The sound grated on Janjic’s ears.
    â€œPlease . . . please,” Father Michael begged.
    â€œShut up! Janjic, beat him!”
    Janjic barely heard the words. His eyes were fixed on the priest.
    â€œJanjic! Beat him.” Karadzic pointed with an extended arm. “Ten blows!”
    Janjic turned to the commander, still not fully grasping the order. This wasn’t his quarrel. It was Karadzic’s game. “Beat him? Me? I—”
    â€œYou question me?” The commander took a threatening step toward Janjic. “You’ll do as I say. Now take your rifle and lay it across this traitor’s back or I’ll have you shot!”
    Janjic felt his mouth open.
    â€œNow!”
    Two emotions crashed through Janjic’s chest. The first was simple revulsion at the prospect of swinging a fifteen-pound rifle at this priest’s deformed back. The second was the fear at the realization that he felt any revulsion at all. He was a soldier who’d sworn to follow orders. And he had followed orders always. It was his only way to survive the war. But this . . .
    He swallowed and took a step toward the figure, bent now in an attitude of prayer. The children stared at him—thirty sets of round, white-rimmed eyes, swimming in tears, all crying a single question. Why?
    He glanced at Karadzic’s red face. The commander’s neck bulged like a bullfrog’s and his eyes bored into Janjic. Because he told me to, Janjic answered. Because this man is my superior and he told me to.
    Janjic raised his rifle and stared at the man’s hunched back. It was trembling now, he saw. A hard blow might break that back. A knot rose to Janjic’s throat. How could he do this? It was lunacy! He lowered the rifle, his mind scrambling for reason.
    â€œSir, should I make him stand?”
    â€œShould you what?”
    â€œShould I make him stand? I could handle the rifle better if he would stand. It would give me a greater attitude to