by Jean Austin
I hold my breath.
Jimmy reaches out with one hand, but Anton yells, ”The feet! The feet don’t move. Just the hands. Once your hands are out, lift your feet straight up and back. Flat as a pancake.”
I have to breathe. I don’t want to, but my body forces me to. Branka tightens her grip on my arm, as does Jilly on my hand. Slowly, Jimmy leans forward, reaching out with his hands and taking hold of one of the rungs. Then he lifts one foot, stretching it out behind him, slowly shifting his weight, resting his shoe on the side of the ladder, mimicking the prone position Anton is in.
“That’s it. That’s it. Nice and slow. Easy.”
Jimmy is shaking.
“Now slide back toward me. Slowly.”
Jimmy’s not covered in grease, but there’s enough grease on the ladder from Anton’s efforts to reach him that he can slide backwards with ease. Anton also slides backwards, making room for Jimmy at the top of his ladder, but this means the overall weight on that section will increase, potentially setting off any landmines they may be resting upon.
“Now across to me,” Anton says. Sweat drips from his forehead. He has his hand out, grabbing the bottom of Jimmy’s ladder. Once Jimmy shifts across, Anton pulls the ladder down, sliding it over the dirt and through the grass until it is slightly past him.
“And now we dance again,” he says, shifting himself onto the other ladder and working his way backwards. Jimmy shimmies down after him, his eyes fixed on the smoldering crater beside the ladder.
Several of the people around me have cell phones out, recording the event. I’m incensed. They’re ghouls, waiting to capture the moment either Jimmy or Anton sets off a landmine. It’s all I can do not to shout at them, to scream for them to get the hell out of here, but that would only stress Anton and Jimmy. Branka was right. I have to be brave. I have to be as brave as if it were me out there on that section of ladder, sliding over landmines buried beneath the ground.
There’s another two painfully slow switches between ladder sections before they reach the fence. Jimmy is within arm’s length of a sagging timber beam marking what’s left of the gate. I lean over a post, reaching for him, but Anton says, “Not yet. Patience. Not until he is out of the field.” As much as it hurts to stand there helpless, I watch as at first the ladder, and then Jimmy’s feet protrude from beneath a looping wire hanging loose between fenceposts. I crouch beside Jimmy, reaching through with my hands and helping him backwards. He’s crying.
“It’s okay. I’ve got you. Mommy’s got you,” I say as my own tears fall like rain. Once his waist passes under the wire, I grab him, hauling him back and away from the field. The crowd pressing in around the fence separates, giving us some space. I kneel, hugging my son, kissing him on the cheek.
“I’m okay, Mom. I’m okay.”
I hold his shoulders, looking deep into his eyes.
Jilly hugs her brother, only her hug is at about waist height. Jimmy holds her tight.
The crowd is silent, watching as Anton slides backwards. Once he’s through what little’s left of the fence, there’s a roar of applause and yelling, and to my dismay, gun fire as several of the villagers shoot AK-47s into the air—thunder seems to break in the bright blue sky.
Anton stands there, looking me in the eye, and suddenly we’re alone in a crowd. The noises around us fade into the background. The villagers become a blur of color and motion. Anton smiles with what I can only imagine is immense relief. He nods, and turns away, seeing the kids beside me. I rush forward and grab him, throwing my arms around his neck and squeezing tight. I’m overcome by emotion, in the moment, and kiss his neck several times, saying, “Thank you. Thank you,” over and again. Grease stains rub against my white blouse. He notices, and tries to say something, but he’s swept off his feet, being carried off by the men of the village toward the market. They’re cheering, waving their arms in the air. I don’t understand what they’re saying, but their passion is unbridled. Anton looks back at me, embarrassed, wanting to climb down, but he can’t. I laugh and wave.
Chapter 08: Moonlight
Night falls.
We finish dinner and Branka lights a fire in the hearth. Lanterns flicker throughout the house. Outside, I can still hear the celebration in the marketplace. There’s singing, the occasional yelling, and sporadic gun fire, but I’ve come to think of that as nothing more than cheap fireworks—no fancy flashes of light or sparks of color, just an explosion of noise.
“They will celebrate late into the night,” Branka says, seeing me staring out the window as I dry the dishes. “They’re calling it a miracle.”
“It was,” I say.
“St. Augustine has blessed us.”
I’m not so sure about that, but whatever. It’s been five hours since the rescue, and still my hands are shaking. I’m jacked up on adrenaline, but with no outlet. I feel as though I could run a mile without breaking a sweat. Jimmy’s sitting in the lounge reading a book to his sister. Jilly leans against him with her eyes fluttering, on the verge of falling asleep.
There’s a knock at the door. Almost instantaneously, I say, “I’ll get it.” I can’t move fast enough. I throw the door open. Anton stands before me in traditional Bosnian clothing—a white ruffled shirt, with an open black waistcoat, pitch black slacks and a bright red cummerbund wrapped around his waist. His face is clean, while his hair has been slicked back and to one side.
“Hi,” he says.
“Hi,” I reply, unsure what the proper protocol is when addressing the man that saved the life of your son. “Please. Come in.”
“The boy—Jimmy James. How is he?”
Jimmy comes running from the lounge. Anton crouches, hugging Jimmy as he throws his arms around his neck. Anton stands, lifting Jimmy off the ground and turning him around, swinging him through a full circle, saying, “Ah, there he is. The big man. The brave man.”
“You’re brave,” Jimmy says, looking at Anton with admiration.
“There’s a thin line between bravery and stupidity,” Anton says, laughing as he puts him down. “But yes, we are both brave. And the girl? Your daughter? She’s okay?”
Jilly was never in any danger, but I appreciate him asking after her. Jilly pokes her head around the corner and waves.
“Come. Come,” Branka says. “We have much to talk about. Come.”
Anton steps forward, tripping on the carpet, but catching himself against the kitchen bench top. He’s a little tipsy. Drunk would be a more apt term, but he’s not drunk in the Western sense of the word. More liberated than inebriated.
“And you?” he asks.
“I’m good,” I say, grinning, unable to suppress my delight in seeing him again.
“Coffee?” Branka asks.
“Yes,” Anton replies, ruffling Jimmy’s hair.
“Okay, kids. It’s time for bed.”
“But Anton just got here,” Jimmy complains.
“Yes, he did. But it’s been a long day. We’ve had more than enough adventure for one day, don’t you think? With castles and minefields. Come on.”
“Oh, Mom,” Jimmy says, exasperated.
“I’ll be right back,” I say, leading Jimmy and Jilly upstairs. Normally, we have a whole routine we go through at bedtime. Bathroom, brushing teeth, brushing knots out of Jilly’s hair, reading a book, or two (if the kids have their way). Tonight, though, it’s a quick kiss on the forehead and I’m tucking them into bed.
I take a quick look in the mirror, checking for scraps of food between my teeth, and toss my hair a little, trying to look pretty. I’m hardly a Sports Illustrated swimsuit model. After two kids, my breasts are saggy. I have a small mole on my cheek, and a slight double chin. As I’m in my thirties, tiny wrinkles are visible on my forehead. I doubt anyone notices them. I hope no one notices them, but I sure do. Am I pretty? Do I need to be pretty? Why am I trying to impress Anton? I’m married, or I was. My exact marital status is somewhat up for debate at the moment. I guess I want to be liked. It feels
good to be desirable, but am I? I’m doubting myself. I mess with my hair, dipping my fingers in some water in the basin and teasing out my locks, trying to look beautiful. Oh, who are you kidding crazy American lady with the crooked haircut? At least it’s not orange any more. If it’s straight, it’ll have to do, I decide, and I head back downstairs.
Branka has brewed some Turkish coffee. Apparently, coffee filters never made it to Bosnia, or Turkey for that matter. She lifts an elongated and ornate brass Turkish pot from the stove, handling it like a foundry worker pouring molten metal, and carefully fills what looks like espresso cups, measuring out her fine black sludge. She’s careful not to tip too quickly or too far and send grounds into our cups.
“Thanks,” I say, taking a cup from her and sitting at the rustic wooden table opposite Anton. Branka mumbles something about being alone and wanders into the lounge.
I’m nervous. I warm my hands around the cup, staring down at the table, unsure where to start. Anton seems as uncomfortable as me, and rests his palms face down on the table.
“Thank you,” I say, which I think is a good opening.
“You’re welcome.” Good response. Things are going well, although we could be talking about him jumpstarting my car. I need to be more specific.
“What you did out there today—for Jimmy—that was amazing. I—I’m still in shock. When I think of what could have happened—”
“Don’t,” he says softly. “Nothing happened.”
“But he could have died. You could have died. I just—it’s crazy, you know?”
Anton nods his head. “There’s danger everywhere. Crossing a street. Catching a bus. Flying in a plane.”
“But none of those things are designed to kill you,” I reply.
He laughs softly. “I guess not.”
“Tell me about yourself.” I’m intensely curious about Anton. What is it that gives someone the courage to venture into a minefield?
“I was born in a small village just outside of Sarajevo, but my father is from England. We lived in London for a few years. I was six or seven at the time.”
“Well, that explains your English. It’s much better than most of the people around here.”
We sip our coffee.
“And you defuse mines for a living?” I ask.
“In between jobs,” he says, as though moonlighting as a sapper is as natural as being a waiter or an uber driver.
“Landmines,” I say, shaking my head at the concept. “I thought they were banned.”
“There’s a treaty against their use, but once they’re in place, what can anyone do? And it’s not just mines. There are cluster bombs, unexploded ordinance, trip wires connected to grenades.”
“It’s dangerous,” I say.
“It’s even more dangerous leaving them in the fields,” he says. “At least when we go looking for them, we have procedures. A child—like your son—they should never have to face such peril. Besides, the pay is good.”
“Danger money, huh?” I say. There’s silence for a few seconds. There’s not much else we have in common. We’re from entirely different cultures, brought together only by the rescue of my son. “How do you do it? How do you defuse a mine?”
“First, you have to find one without setting it off,” Anton says. He holds his arms apart. “We work with a meter long ruler—down on our knees—searching in the dirt with a bayonet.” He motions with his hand, pretending to dig at the wooden table top, and I can see from the look in his eyes he’s reliving the intensity of the moment. “When you feel it. When the blade hits the casing. Your blood runs cold. Sometimes, it’s a rock. Sometimes… I clear away the dirt, try to identify the type of mine. If I can defuse it, I will, but the older, unstable mines are blown up in place... Slowly, I inch forward, one meter at a time, planting flags so everyone knows which areas have been cleared.”
“Yes, yes,” I say. “I’ve seen the flags.”
There’s snoring from behind me. I look over my shoulder. Branka is asleep on the couch, curled up in front of the fire.
“Do you want to see something? Something beautiful?” Anton asks.
“Yes,” I say without any hesitation.
“Come,” he says, offering me his hand.
Quietly, we get to our feet. I grab my coat from the rack by the door and slip out into the cool of night, leaving the kids with Branka.
“Where are we going?” I ask as we walk through the darkened streets. Lights flicker in the windows of the cottages, but the alleys are quiet. Anyone that’s awake is down at the market square, celebrating St. Augustine’s Day and the miracle in the minefield.
“Shhh,” Anton says, leading me down a lane that bypasses the market. I feel like a schoolgirl skipping class. There’s no moon, so the night is unusually dark. In the shadows, it’s easy not to see a wooden stool or a flowerpot, and I feel like I’m the one that’s drunk, bumping into things. We creep around the back of Anton’s workshop, and he opens a creaking old door for me, gesturing for me to climb up into his truck. I don’t care where we’re going any more. The act of going is adventure enough, and I relish the old worn leather on the bench seat in the front of the truck. The dashboard is made from sheet metal. I don’t know that I’ve ever been in a truck this old. I look around for plastic, amused by the novelty of its absence. There’s Bakelite handles, vinyl lining on the roof, rubber insets around the windows, but none of the spongy, molded plastic I’m used to in American cars.
Anton climbs up into the truck and starts the engine. If sneaking away quietly was the goal, we’ve failed. The engine rattles to life, coughing and spluttering. The cab of the truck shakes. Anton pushes the long gear lever into position, lets out the clutch slowly, and we jerk forward. I laugh. I have no idea where we’re going, but I’m loving this. I put on a seatbelt. There’s no tensioner, so I have to manually tighten the belt by feeding it through a small loop near the buckle. A truck like this would never be allowed on the road in the US.
We drive out of the village and up past the castle, following the road into the hills. Dark fir trees line the sides of the road. Occasionally, a tiny orange flag is visible in our headlights as we round a corner.
“Tell me about America,” Anton asks, peering over at me a little too often as we drive along a narrow road with steep sides. No guardrails. I hold onto a handle above the door as we bounce along the rough gravel.
“Oh, well. There’s lots of roads. Roads everywhere. Really good roads. Smooth.”
The unspoken subtext to my comment is, “Do yah think I’m a little nervous about the road we’re on?” Move on, Emma.
“And towns. Lots of cities and towns. Oh, and the food is awesome. Hot dogs, donuts, TexMex. There’s—”
“No, no,” he says, laughing at my description. “The real America. We hear on the news. Make America Great. What is it that makes America great?”
After thinking about it for a moment, I say, “Well, it’s not silly political slogans, that’s for sure. America is a land of differences—contradictions that somehow make sense.” I’m unsure how to continue. To me, it’s a bit like describing strawberries to someone with no sense of taste or smell—there’s so much complexity, it’s impossible to bottle it up into a few short sentences, but I try. “No two states are alike, let alone the East and West Coast. Like the colors of the rainbow when viewed from afar, the diversity seems obvious enough, but up close, it’s hard to tell where one color stops and another begins. I think that’s what I love about America. For all our silly quirks, we’re one nation. Chicago and New Orleans couldn’t be more different if they tried, just like New York and Texas, and yet somehow, we make it work.”
Anton nods, agreeing with my sentiment.
“In Europe,” he says. “Sometimes it works, but not so much, and even within a country like ours, there are wars.”
We pull off the main road, and follow a rough, dirt track. The cab bounces violently over a pothole, leaving me wondering if the front wheel is about t
o punch through the rusting metal floor. There’s no light beyond that cast by the truck, and I suddenly feel very much alone and vulnerable. Anton’s quiet. I can’t read him, and that leaves me feeling unsettled.
“This place?” I ask, probing for a little more detail from him. “This surprise?”
“Yes, it’s a surprise,” he says, not providing any of the assurance I was after.
The truck drives out of the thick woods and into a clearing. Deep ruts force the wheels to follow a well-worn track. Anton swings on the steering wheel, driving up onto the brow of a hill. Motion sensors trigger floodlights ahead. The lights are set on two tall towers built from temporary scaffolding. They douse the ground around us in a brilliant, blinding white light—at least, I’m assuming we’ve triggered a sensor, either that or some guard just hit the light switch as we approached. Seated high in the cab, I can see tiny orange flags peppering the hillside. Rather than forming a straight line, the front is jagged, in some places extending for fifteen to twenty feet into the minefield.
“Do you come here often?” I ask, feeling nervous.
“There is an old cabin,” Anton says, pointing into the darkness. I don’t see anything. “I come here for the quiet. Funding has dried up, but there’s still power. The field is only half cleared. I do what I can. Someone has to.”
The truck comes to a halt, and Anton climbs out, saying, “Come on.” Visiting a minefield in the dark of night isn’t exactly the kind of surprise I was expecting. Cautiously, I hop out. Anton takes my hand. Rather than leading me forward gently, he drags me toward the flags, excited about where we are. We walk down a thin stretch of dirt with flags on either side.
“This is one of my rows,” he says. I’m still not seeing anything of beauty. The ground is stony. Tufts of grass have been dug up and replaced. No prizes for guessing why. In a few places, there are tiny craters and scorch marks stretching across the ground. It’s as though miniature meteors have struck the earth.
“Stand here,” he says, positioning himself behind me, and placing me a few feet from the end of the row. Beyond the last flag, the ground drops away sharply. Fir trees grow in a gully roughly fifty feet further down the hill. The height difference allows me to peer out over their thin peaks. Beautiful isn’t how I’d describe this. Terrifying is a better term.
