Love & Sex in a Minefield

by Jean Austin

  “Do you want a donut?” I ask Jimmy as I walk past him playing with the other kids in the village. He smiles, but waves me off. He’s too focused on his game. Sweat drips from his forehead. “Make sure you’re drinking plenty of water,” I say, as though thirst will never register in his mind.

  Branka is in the kitchen, chopping up vegetables for dinner even though there’s three or four hours to go. I offer her a donut, but she declines, so I help her prepare for dinner. Jilly’s still asleep. Branka steps outside to get some herbs while I stoke the fire, letting a stew simmer between now and tonight.

  “Come quick, come quick. The boy,” Branka yells.

  “James?” I ask, my choice of the name James over Jimmy reveals a mind already racing to various apocalyptic visions. Jimmy’s outside playing soccer, and I scramble mentally, trying to avoid the worst possible scenarios. Maybe he’s just sprained his ankle, or has fallen heavily. As much as I want to minimize the severity of any injury, a mother’s mind always runs to the worst possibilities—but such worries are needless, I hope.

  I use a kitchen towel to take the cast iron pot off the stove, leaving the fire crackling in the black iron belly, and rush out of the cottage after Branka.

  The wooden fence surrounding the paddock behind our home has mostly collapsed, having fallen into neglect, and yet the village kids stand behind it as though it were ten feet high and topped with razor wire. They’re yelling, screaming at James to stand still. My heart sinks. Pazi—Mine is emblazoned on a rusting metal sign tacked to a leaning gatepost. James stands motionless in the middle of the field, easily thirty to forty feet away, with the soccer ball another ten feet further on. He knows. He has his arms outstretched as though he’s balancing on a high beam.

  The kids fall silent upon seeing me. James twists, looking over his shoulder, calling out a tentative, “Mom?” His voice is frail, making an appeal for help I cannot give. My heart sinks.

  “No, no, no,” Branka yells, scolding him. “Do not move. Not one step.”

  “Stay where you are, James,” I yell. “Stay perfectly still.”

  I’m frantic. My hands shake. It’s all I can do not to vault what’s left of the fence and run in there after him, but I can’t. I’m powerless to help my son, and that hurts. The frustration I feel is overwhelming.

  My first response is denial. In hushed tones, I point at the sign, asking Branka, “How do we know this is real? I mean, he’s fine.” I look at the children gathering around us, appealing to them as though they hold sway over reality, saying, “He ran in there without getting hurt. How do we know he simply couldn’t walk out?”

  Branka doesn’t reply. Her cold hard gaze is enough to snap me back to reality, but there must be something we can do?

  “How can we get him out of there?” I’m repeating myself. “We’ve got to get him out of there.”

  “You must be strong,” Branka says, gripping me by my shoulders and squeezing hard enough that her weathered hands hurt. “He needs you to be strong. Whatever happens, you must be strong.”

  Branka lets go, but the sharp pain focuses my mind in the present. I can’t panic. For James’ sake, I need to remain composed. If I’m not calm, he’ll panic.

  “We’re going to get you out of there,” I call out, lying to him. I have no idea how I’m going to get him out of a minefield, but he needs to believe there’s a way to escape. “It’s really important you don’t move, honey. Not an inch. Keep your feet exactly where they are.”

  He lowers his arms. They’re shaking. I can see a dark stain running down the inside of his trouser leg as his bladder gives out. No one should have to endure the horror of a minefield, least of all a child. Death lies inches from his feet, tearing at my heart, tormenting me.

  Branka says, “The mines here are old—unstable. A tuft of grass or a patch of dirt could erupt with a stray touch… Anton will know. He’s a sapper.”

  “Sapper?”

  “He clears mines.”

  Already, Anton is running along the dusty road toward the fence. Several kids sprint beside him, trying to keep up but rapidly falling behind. They must have fetched him from where he lay working beneath his aging truck.

  “What is he doing out there?” he snaps, the muscles on his chest and arms are as pumped and enraged as his voice.

  Blame. Our world turns on consequences, but we’re at our worst when we fail to see that cause and effect rarely align with meaning or reason. I’m an abject failure. Physically, I feel small, as though I’m shrinking in height. My son is in the middle of a minefield, and without realizing it, Anton reinforces the helplessness flooding my mind. He seems to sense the hurt tearing at my soul. His voice softens.

  “His weight. How heavy is he?”

  “I’m not sure. Maybe fifty pounds.”

  “In kilos?” Anton asks, leaning over a fence pole and looking at the clumps of grass and patches of dirt within the field. There are no footprints. The ground is too dry to reveal the path Jimmy took with any certainty.

  I never was any good at math. Converting weights into metrics confused the hell out of me at school. A pound is less than half a kilogram, of that I’m sure. The best I can do is guess at a figure slightly under half.

  “I don’t know. Twenty two. Maybe twenty three kilograms.”

  James twists, wanting to see the commotion beside the gate as more kids run up to the fence.

  “Eyes forward,” Anton yells. “You look only ahead. Not back. Not to the side. Only forward. The big oak. Keep your eyes on the big tree.”

  James responds to the stern authority in Anton’s voice.

  “Stay calm,” I call out. “Don’t move, honey. We’re coming to get you.”

  Anton shakes his head softly at my comment, and a lump forms in my throat at the realization I’m being grossly naive.

  He whispers, “Five kilos, maybe ten—that’s all it takes to set off a mine. Sometimes less. A sparrow even.”

  “But you can do something, right?” I ask in a hushed reply. “You do this for a living. Branka said you clear mines.”

  “Mines are cleared over hours,” he replies. “Days.”

  He keeps his voice low and gestures toward my son. “He’s too far. Even if I had my tools, it would take five, maybe six hours. Longer. It depends what’s out there. And we cannot detonate. The mines here are old. Dangerous. Normally, we blow them in place. Moving them is too risky. But for him, there is no choice but to move them... Moving old mines is suicide.”

  “But you can’t just leave him in there,” I say, pleading with Anton. “He’s just a kid. There must be something you can do?”

  “Keep him calm,” Anton says, looking deep into my eyes. His hands grip my shoulders. “He must not move.”

  I nod. Anton hasn’t actually answered me, but I can feel the unspoken agreement in his words. For a moment, he simply looks into my eyes, and I feel as though I can read his thoughts. Is Jimmy worth the risk? Or is this young boy already beyond help? Has blind luck kept Jimmy alive longer than reason would allow?

  Anton’s lips tighten. His brow narrows. He hates me. Perhaps not personally, but he hates the position I’ve put him in—I can see it in the intensity of his gaze, the stress on his forehead, the muscles tightening in his jaw, the slight flare of his nostrils. He already regrets being soft with me, but the moment has passed and he feels committed. He must know the next few minutes could result in either triumph or tragedy. He knows he’ll never get to relive this exact moment. He’ll never get to make another decision at this point in time and take a different course. This could cost him life or limb, but his sense of honor demands he does all he can to help. I want to tell him, I know—I understand, but words are cheap, filthy, dirty. Action is the only language.

  Anton runs into the barn beside Branka’s cottage.

  “We’re coming, honey. Just stay still. Don’t move. We’re coming for you.”

  Anton is loud, violently throwing things around in the barn. In the West,
minefields are synonymous with creeping around, tiptoeing silently, but Anton throws an old wooden ladder on the dusty road behind me with a thud.

  “Eyes forward,” he yells, without even looking up at James. He instinctively knows the reaction he’s likely to get from my son as he starts hacking at the ladder with an ax. “The tree. Eyes on the tree.”

  The ladder is fifteen feet long, with an extension allowing it to reach up to thirty feet in height.

  “Metal,” he says, by way of explanation, chopping at the steel extension joint between the two wooden sections. “No metal out there, or—”

  The ax thunders down on the ladder, glancing off the steel and into the aging timber. Within a few blows, the joint comes loose. Anton swings the ax at the other side of the ladder, knocking the far joint loose and the steel frame falls from the wooden ladder.

  “Whatever happens,” he says. “No one else goes in that field. Is that understood? No one.” Branka and I nod, watching as Anton slides one section of the ladder under the fence, pushing it slowly out into the field. He leaves the other section lying on the road and jogs back into the barn. A few seconds later, he emerges with a grease gun and hands it to me.

  “Five to ten kilos,” he says. “Here’s hoping those bastards set the triggers to ten.”

  Anton takes off his boots, his shirt and his pants, tossing them on the ground. He unscrews the back of the grease gun and begins scooping out handfuls of grease, rubbing it on his chest and legs.

  “I need to spread my weight,” he says. “Like snow shoes.” Thick, dark grease coats his shoulders, arms, chest, and stomach. “No more than ten kilos per square foot and we just might get him out of there.”

  Might.

  My heart sinks. I want there to be some other way. I want to simply snatch my son out of thin air, but reality. The sun beats down on us. Anton works the grease over his muscular arms. Sweat drips from his dusty face.

  “The belt,” he says, pointing at his pants as he finishes lathering his body. I pull the worn belt and hand it to him without a word. Our eyes meet and he knows nothing needs to be said. I know. I watch as he wraps it several times around his hand. He’s taking a tourniquet out there. The lump in my throat chokes me.

  “And his name? The boy?”

  I’m in shock. Anton’s preparing to give his life for my son and he doesn’t even know his name.

  “James—Jimmy.”

  “Jimmy James,” Anton hollers. “I’m coming for you. Don’t move. Whatever happens, do not move. If your legs are hurting, crouch down to relieve your muscles, but don’t move your feet. Understand?”

  “Yes,” Jimmy replies. He’s responding well to the authority in Anton’s deep voice, keeping his eyes focused on the old oak tree.

  “Up and down,” Anton says. “If you’re cramping, you can move up and down—like squats, but never your feet. Your feet never move.”

  Jimmy nods. He seems relieved to be allowed some motion, and tentatively flexes a little, crouching slightly before straightening again.

  Anton kneels before the wires sagging from the old fence. He pulls the second section of the ladder up beside him, slowly feeding it through next to the first. This section, though, only goes halfway. Anton looks up at me and smiles—but it’s a crazy smile, the kind someone gives before stepping onto a rollercoaster or jumping from a bridge with a Bungee cord. Neither of us say anything. What is there to say? Be careful? How stupid would that be? Such words would be meaningless, hollow, perhaps even insulting. Where one life was at stake, now there are two lives in jeopardy.

  Anton positions himself like a surfer lying on a board, paddling out into the waves. Carefully, he pulls himself along the ladder. With both his arms and legs outstretched, he barely moves his feet and hands. Slowly, he inches beneath the fence, keeping his weight spread on the sides of the ladder.

  My heart is racing. Anton is deliberate. Each act is made as though it were his last. I choke. It’s difficult to breathe. Within seconds, I’m having a panic attack. My breathing is shallow, far too shallow, and I can’t get enough air through my constricted windpipe. I want to breathe properly, but I can’t. I wheeze, gasping for breath. As heart wrenching as is to see Jimmy in there, it’s crippling to see a complete stranger risking his life to save my son while I’m utterly helpless to do anything.

  Branka anchors her hand in the crook of my arm. At first, I think she’s comforting me, but Branka is an old woman. She lived through the war. She knows. She’s holding me back, ready to stop me from running in there. My heart aches at the thought both of them might die in this fallow field with its tufts of green grass and rocky dirt—bleeding to death just out of reach as I watch, unable to do anything other than mourn.

  Anton slides toward the end of the extension. He pauses, turning slightly, and slowly shifts his weight from one section of ladder to the other, sliding along the wood, all the while keeping himself spread as long and as flat as he can. The silence is painful. It’s ten minutes before he’s ten feet from the fence. Slowly, a crowd forms behind us as the villagers learn of what’s happening, but there is an eerie silence. Occasionally, prayers are muttered under the breath. Only the crows dare speak aloud, squawking as they soar with ease through the air, teasing us with their freedom.

  As Anton has moved off the first section of the ladder, he’s free to drag it forward one rung at a time, all the while being careful to keep his weight evenly spread.

  “You and me,” he says to Jimmy. “Are we the brave or the stupid?” Jimmy is silent. “I think we are the brave. Those that planted these mines. They are cowards.”

  Jimmy crouches, resting on his haunches. Anton works with one hand. His eyes are forward, so he feels for each rung as he works the edge of the ladder along the ground. The spare ladder catches on the stump of what would have once been a small tree hidden in the straggly grass. Anton jostles the ladder back and forth to change its angle and move it on.

  “We are brothers—from this day forward. You and me. We share a common bond. We—”

  K A — B O O M ! ! !

  Dirt sprays through the air, exploding out of the earth with thundering violence. The resounding crash is deafening, rattling my bones. Rocks and stones pelt down around us, landing like hail. I have my hands over my eyes. I can’t look. Tears run down my palms and onto my wrists. I’m shaking. I’m a wreck. Anton is laughing.

  “Oh, that was close,” he calls out. “Damn, that was close.”

  It takes a couple of seconds for my hearing to fully return. From between my fingers, I peer across the field. A dust cloud drifts with the breeze. Jimmy whimpers. He’s still crouching, making himself as small as he can. He has his hands over his ears. Rocks and dirt have fallen on his back, becoming tangled in his hair.

  “We are fine,” Anton calls out. “We are brave. Oh, hell, that was scary, but we are okay. We will keep going,” and it’s only with those last few words I realize Anton’s talking to himself as much as to Jimmy.

  The front leg of the spare ladder has been blown off along with one of the rungs. Anton pushes the ladder forward past a smoldering crater in the dirt. Splinters of wood lie scattered across the field, spreading like confetti in the wind.

  “Everyone’s allowed one accidental detonation. We say, if you haven’t lost any fingers, you’re a winner. We are winners, Jimmy James.”

  Jimmy huddles with his hands on his head. I’m vaguely aware of the taste of copper in my mouth. Blood seeps from my lip. Without realizing it, I’ve bitten my tongue. The pain intensifies the moment for me.

  “Stay still,” Anton says, shifting himself onto the broken section of ladder, and pulling the other section up beside him. “Not far now.” Branka crosses herself, glancing briefly into the pale blue sky. I’m not religious. I’m not sure whether there’s a God, but I appreciate her sentiment. Quietly, I say my own prayer, not sure who’s listening—hoping someone is—begging for help.

  Jilly holds my hand. Jilly? Oh, my—Jilly! I lef
t her asleep in the house. I forgot about her. She could have wandered out there after her brother. She must have been woken by the explosion. Her eyes stare forward, watching Anton and Jimmy. Does she know? How could she understand the cruelty of humanity—that we can turn on ourselves so viciously, hiding bombs in the dirt. How can anyone grasp the evil that would maim innocent strangers? Does she realize death waits just inches beneath the soil?

  Oh, what have I done in fleeing to Europe? I’m a fool—an idiot—a failure. My father lost his Jimmy at the age of eight. He may yet lose his grandson at roughly the same age, but a world away. What was I thinking? I’m stupid—I’m so stupid. As if in response to my heartache, Jilly squeezes my hand just as she did back at the house after I shot at Paul. Poor girl. Fucked up parents. She doesn’t say anything, but in my mind I can hear her whispering those few words again—it’s going to be okay, Mommy—only I’m not convinced it will be this time. I’m terrified of the future—just the next few seconds scare me to death.

  Anton slides a section of ladder to within a few feet of Jimmy. My son looks, trying to keep his head straight, but peering sideways.

  “Stay where you are,” Anton says, lying flat on a section of ladder not more than ten feet away. “They seeded this area with Bouncing Betties. That last one was a foot mine—a small one—just a baby. We don’t know what’s in here, but if there’s a Betty, it is not good.”

  Not good is a gross understatement.

  “No more detonations, okay? If we find Betty, she will jump up at us. We don’t want to find Betty, do we?”

  Jimmy shakes his head softly.

  “We go slow. Understand?”

  Jimmy nods as the ladder slides slightly past him.

  “Lean to one side. Grab the rails. You lie like me. Flat.”