Serbia, Told By You - Remembering My Grandfather

“My name is Milica, I am 74 years old, and I grew up in a small village at the foot of the mountain. In our home, the scent of quinces always lingered on the wardrobe, and above it hung the photograph of my grandfather in his uniform. He was a soldier on the Salonika Front, and almost every evening by the fireplace, he would tell me his stories.

He spoke softly, but every word was powerful. I remember how he would pause, gaze through the window, and then say: ‘We were hungry and cold, but our hearts were warm because we knew we were fighting for home.’ He told me about the long march through Albania, about comrades who fell behind, about fading eyes – but also about songs echoing among the soldiers, as if music itself was stronger than pain.

The most beautiful part was hearing him describe his return. He would recall the morning of peace, when birds sang again after years of silence. I still remember his smile – unlike any other smile – the smile of a man who knew the true weight of freedom.

In my glass cabinet, I still keep his military cap, his medal, and the pocket watch that, as he used to say, accompanied him through the entire war. When I open the cabinet, there is a scent of age, a trace of candle wax, and of quinces that always stood nearby. These are not just relics of the past – they are a part of me.

Every year, on the day of remembrance, I take my grandchildren to the village monument. We light a candle and I share one of grandfather’s stories with them. And I always repeat the words he once told me: ‘Freedom is never given forever, it lives on in remembrance.’”