She Slept With Almost the Entire Village — and Left Death Behind

Sometime in the 1970s, in an era when illness was whispered about and shame was considered worse than death, a small village in Serbia became the quiet stage of a deadly tragedy. Its name is rarely spoken today, but those who know — remember. This story was told to me by my late great-grandfather, a man who witnessed it all, silently but with open eyes.

Marija was born in that village. From a young age, she was different — bold, beautiful, defiant. While other girls were preparing for marriage and modestly lowering their gaze, Marija wore dresses that accentuated her figure, laughed too loudly, and stared men straight in the eyes. The villagers gossiped about her, yet secretly longed for her. She was both a dream and a danger to every man who swore by decency and fidelity.

She left for Germany while still very young, like many others at the time. But the stories about her were unlike those told about other migrant workers. It was said she worked in nightclubs, that she sold her body for money. No one had proof, but everyone had something to say.

Years later, Marija suddenly returned. She no longer resembled the girl who had once left. Pale and weary-looking, yet draped in expensive clothes and foreign perfumes, she bought a small house at the edge of the village and lived alone. But not entirely. Night after night, shadows were seen entering and leaving her house. Young men and married men alike. There was drinking, laughter behind closed doors, and in the morning — silence.

What no one knew then was that Marija had discovered, while in Germany, that she was HIV positive. At the time, it was almost a certain death sentence. No treatment, no support, and absolutely no understanding. Cast out by society abroad, she returned to the only place where no one knew — yet.

And so it began. The nights filled with pleasure and secrecy, until one day the first man fell ill. He was young and healthy — until he wasn’t. Soon after, another. And another. Doctors didn’t know what to make of it. The village began to murmur. People avoided each other’s eyes.

No one dared name her, but everyone knew.

Then came the old woman — the village healer, or witch, depending on whom you asked. She knocked on Marija’s door and told her she was cursed. Not recently — from birth. The curse, she said, had been cast by envious neighbors who could not bear children, while Marija’s family could. Out of jealousy and spite, they had gone to a witch the day Marija was born and asked that she be marked. That she would grow up to carry a disease that would take many lives, and that she herself would die last.

Marija, the story goes, didn’t flinch. She lit a cigarette and said:

“Then let it be so.”

As time went on, more and more men fell ill. Some knew the reason but kept silent — out of shame. Others pretended not to. No one dared seek help. In those days, such a diagnosis was not just a death sentence — it was social exile. People waited in silence for the end.

And yet, Marija lived on. She had brought immune-strengthening medications from Germany, and perhaps — as some began to whisper — she was protected by something more. A curse? Or fate?

At the age of 38, Marija died. Alone, in her house. Her body was not found for days. No one wanted to go near her door. When they finally entered, they say her face was calm. Some even claimed she wore a faint smile — the same smile that once inspired lust and fear.

Her grave bears no name. No cross. Just an overgrown patch of land, forgotten and avoided.

But the old ones — if you ask them — will lower their eyes and mutter:

"It was a curse. And shame. And silence that killed them all."