Prologue — The Quiet of the Monastery
Shadows clung to the stone walls, flickering in the weak light of a single candle. The silence was not peaceful; it carried the weight of absence, pressing against the chest like a heavy stone. God remained silent, as always, and the quiet mirrored the hollowness carried for decades. Necessity, not guilt, filled the void, a precise certainty honed through years of obedience and preparation.
The priest moved slowly, steps measured, presence unwavering. Confession was expected, yet absolution was not sought. Words were offered less as a plea than as a mirror, a reflection of deeds that could neither be softened nor denied.
Memories arrived unbidden: a seminarian kneeling on cold benches, absorbing lessons of purity and divine order. Faith had once promised comfort, yet early instruction sharpened its edges. Warnings of hidden enemies, teachings of vigilance and loyalty, entwined belief with fear. When the Ustaše appeared, offering clarity and purpose, recognition came swiftly: devotion could justify action, obedience could sanctify violence.
Vows were taken with the weight of expectation. The white robe, once a symbol of innocence, became armor, a mask of sanctity shielding what lay beneath. The world beyond the monastery promised a stage where conviction could be tested. Shadows of faces avoided, the absence of empathy cultivated as discipline — lessons of youth prepared the mind for acts that would be necessary, precise, and absolute.
Nights returned vividly: rhythm and motion replaced morality, clarity displaced hesitation, efficiency overrode conscience. God’s silence was acknowledged, not lamented, confirming authority assumed in His name. Memories were fragments: impressions of eyes, fleeting recognition, echoes of a purpose embraced fully and without doubt.
Years later, the cell offered the same quiet, yet it served as witness. Observation replaced reflection. Memory acted as both measure and mirror. Absolution was neither sought nor expected. Recognition of what had been chosen and awareness of its permanence remained.
Part II — The Seminarian
Early ambition arrived quietly, in still corridors and the chill of morning prayer. Monks spoke of purity, duty, and vigilance against unseen enemies. The language was absolute, yet subtle, embedding the notion that the world could be divided into order and chaos, loyalty and threat.
Pamphlets slipped beneath doors, whispers outside sanctioned learning, offered guidance toward a future where faith and power could merge. Observation became habit: patterns noted, weaknesses cataloged, the mechanics of influence studied. Conscience, once a consideration, was replaced by calculation; hesitation, by measured certainty.
Encounters with recruiters for the Ustaše presented a natural progression. Loyalty to faith and nation was framed as inseparable, the two converging into a singular purpose. Ambition was nurtured; hesitation discarded. By sixteen, preparation was complete, and the call to action could not be denied.
Early exercises in obedience, monitoring, and enforcement were instructive. Efficiency became an end in itself. Cruelty was secondary to order, yet the mind accommodated both, recognizing that necessity and morality were often in conflict. The seed of what would emerge fully at Jasenovac had been planted, allowed to root in fertile soil of conviction.
Childhood recollections now seemed distant, yet they carried significance. The fear of reprimand, the thrill of recognition, the understanding that authority could shape the world — each element became part of a system internalized. Faith, ambition, and ideology intertwined seamlessly.
Part III — The Oath
The oath ceremony arrived with stark simplicity. Loyalty, purity, service, obedience — repeated aloud, each syllable reinforcing the union of devotion and ideology. Commitment to nation mirrored commitment to God, each oath amplifying the other. Hesitation had no place; the path had been defined.
Early assignments tested precision, vigilance, and calculation. Every movement, observation, and decision became data to analyze, patterns to anticipate, weaknesses to correct. Conscience had no role. Mercy was irrelevant. Obedience was total; efficiency, holy.
Crossing thresholds into responsibility required surrendering remnants of youthful innocence. Faith, once gentle, hardened into a tool; ideology, once distant, merged with devotion. Clarity became guiding principle. Hesitation eradicated. Obedience was absolute.
The first nights in the field offered confirmation of the power of belief. Actions were measured, deliberate, effective. Each movement carried authority, each decision carried consequence. The mind became the instrument, sharpened for precision and unflinching execution.
Part IV — Jasenovac
The camp revealed the limits of conscience. Every morning brought order disguised as discipline, every task a test of efficiency and focus. Observation replaced empathy; shadows became symbols. Life and death were measured in precision, not sentiment.
The contest night remains vivid, defined by rhythm and calculation rather than emotion. Each act was performed with clarity, without hesitation, without moral reflection. God remained silent, yet in that silence, authority and purpose were affirmed. Actions were necessary, justified by ideology and obedience; remorse had no place.
Patterns were studied, routines predicted, efficiency perfected. The body became a tool for execution; the mind, an instrument of order. Faces were fragments; fear, a measure. Freedom existed in precision and control; the contours of conscience dissolved.
Evenings brought recollections of completeness: absence of doubt and the total merging of faith and ideology. Evil was not sensational; it was meticulous, methodical, absolute. Awareness of magnitude persisted, yet no faltering occurred. The measure of actions became both standard and justification.
The silence of God was interpreted as acquiescence, an unspoken consent for the acts performed in devotion to order. Observation replaced remorse. Memory became a ledger, each night an entry recorded with exacting detail.
Part V — After the Silence
Exile offered survival, yet carried shadows of memory. False identities, quiet towns, and careful movements provided safety, yet could not shield the mind from recollection. Faces, movements, and fragments of nights filled with precision and obedience surfaced unexpectedly.
Prayer offered no reply. Writing became method of preservation — record, witness, and measure of choices made. Evil was not denied or obscured; clarity and consequences were observed without flinching. Recognition of decisions that defined life replaced hope for absolution.
Time passed. The world rebuilt itself, yet patterns remained. Memory acted as companion and judgment, a reminder that evil can be measured, methodical, silent. Observation of self became ongoing task; reflection maintained awareness of the man who had chosen order over conscience, efficiency over mercy, faith over humanity.
Moments of introspection revealed subtle fractures: fleeting awareness of what had been lost, what had been surrendered, what had been made permanent. Yet such reflections rarely interrupted the rhythm of daily survival. Memory and recognition sufficed as both witness and measure.
Part VI — The Confession
Returning to the monastery, the cell awaited, unchanged and unyielding. Confession was offered not for forgiveness, but as recognition. Words conveyed lessons of youth, the oath, the camp, and the precision of actions carried out with absolute clarity. Numbers and faces remained unnamed; their essence persisted in the choices embraced.
The priest’s voice, deliberate and soft, broke the silence: “You know what God’s silence means.”
Recognition, not absolution. Awareness, not redemption. The measure of choices, the clarity of action, and absence of faltering were acknowledged without comment.
Stepping from the cell, cold air biting, candlelight fading behind, there was no turning back. Evil had been chosen, embraced, understood. The world would judge. God remained silent. Memory, observation, and recognition carried the weight of a life defined by clarity over conscience, obedience over mercy, faith over humanity.
Survival continued. Reflection persisted. Recognition endured. And that was all.
