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    â€œMake him stand, then!”
    â€œYes, sir. I just thought—”
    â€œMove!”
    â€œYes, sir.”
    A slight quiver had taken to Janjic’s hands. His arms ached under the rifle’s weight. He nudged the kneeling priest with his boot.
    â€œStand, please.”
    The priest stood slowly and turned to face him. He cast a side glance to the crumpled form near the commander. His tears were for the woman, Janjic realized. There was no fear in his eyes, only remorse over the abuse of one of his own.
    He couldn’t strike this man! It would be the death of his own soul to do so!
    â€œBeat him!”
    Janjic flinched.
    â€œTurn please,” he instructed.
    The Father turned sideways.
    Janjic had no choice. At least that was what he told himself as he drew his rifle back. It’s an order. This is a war. I swore to obey all orders. It’s an order. I’m a soldier at war. I have an obligation.
    He swung the rifle by the barrel, aiming for the man’s lower back. The sound of sliced air preceded a fleshy thump and a grunt from the priest. The man staggered forward and barely caught his fall.
    Heat flared up Janjic’s back, tingling at the base of his head. Nausea swept through his gut.
    The father stood straight again. He looked strong enough, but Janjic knew he might very well have lost a kidney to that blow. A tear stung the corner of his eye. Good God, he was going to cry! Janjic panicked.
    I’m a soldier, for the love of country! I’m a Partisan! I’m not a coward!
    He swung again, with fury this time. The blow went wild and struck the priest on his shoulder. Something gave way with a loud snap—the butt of his rifle. Janjic pulled the gun back, surprised that he could break the wood stock so easily.
    But the rifle was not broken.
    He jerked his eyes to the priest’s shoulder. It hung limp. Janjic felt the blood drain from his head. He saw Father Michael’s face then. The priest was expressionless, as if he’d lost consciousness while on his feet.
    Janjic lost his sensibilities then. He landed a blow as much to silence the voices screaming foul through his brain as to carry out his orders. He struck again, like a man possessed with the devil, frantic to club the black form before him into silence. He was not aware of the loud moan that broke from his throat until he’d landed six of the blows. His seventh missed, not because he had lost his aim, but because the priest had fallen.
    Janjic spun, carried by the swing. The world came back to him then. His comrades standing by the wall, eyes wide with astonishment; the women still bent under stone crosses; the children whimpering and crying and burying their heads in each others’ bosoms.
    The priest knelt on the concrete, heaving, still expressionless. Blood began to pool on the floor below his face. Some bones had shattered there.
    Janjic felt the rifle slip from his hands. It clattered to the concrete.
    â€œFinish it!” Karadzic’s voice echoed in the back of Janjic’s head, but he did not consider the matter. His legs were shaking and he backed unsteadily from the black form huddled at his feet.
    To his right, boots thudded on the concrete and Janjic turned just in time to see his commander rushing at him with a raised rifle. He instinctively threw his arms up to cover his face. But the blows did not come. At least not to him.
    They landed with a sickening finality on the priest’s back. Three blows in quick succession, accompanied by another snap. The thought that one of the women may have stepped on a twig stuttered through Janjic’s mind. But he knew that the snap had come from the father’s ribs. He staggered back to the wall and crashed against it.
    â€œYou will pay for this, Janjic,” Molosov muttered.
    Janjic’s mind reeled, desperate to correct his spinning world. Get a hold of yourself, Janjic! You’re a soldier! Yes indeed, a