Rose of Sarajevo

by Ayşe Kulin

  “He went off to fight and left you on your own here in the city?” Stefan asked.

  “I’m used to being on my own, Stefan. You know that.”

  “But the war hadn’t started back then,” he said.

  She’d never tell him the real reason Burhan had left her. She’d broken down completely when she told him about Mirsada, sobbing on his shoulder as he held her tight and waited for her tears to subside, and she’d felt for a moment like she was safely in the arms of the only real friend she had left. Then they’d walked around the park for a while.

  They were sitting on some tombstones, still talking about Mirsada, when a couple of militiamen approached. She showed them her press card and her papers.

  “Haven’t you got a home somewhere?” one of them asked.

  “Don’t you realize how many people don’t have homes anymore?” Nimeta asked.

  The men had walked away.

  Alongside the weathered tombstones in the cemetery were newer ones, the white markers of young lives lost in the war. There had been so many deaths across the city that they’d started burying the war’s victims in parks, the gardens of mosques, and the courtyards of their homes. Sarajevo was turning into an open cemetery.

  “We didn’t know what happened until so much later, Stefan. She never answered the phone, she’d quit her job, and we couldn’t get hold of Petar. Even so, it never occurred to me that she might be dead. It was like I’d forgotten we were in the middle of a war. Why, when even my three-month-old nephew was killed in the war, did it never occur to me that Mirsada could be another of its victims? She’d told me in one of our last conversations that she wanted to take a week off from work and get away from Belgrade. Petar had relatives in Nis she thought they could visit together. I told everyone she must be all right and away on holiday. I’ve always hated having my every movement tracked and thought she should be free to go wherever she liked, without everyone asking questions and pestering her. Sometimes I feel like it’s all my fault.”

  “What could you have done? You couldn’t have saved her.”

  “We might have found her in time and taken her to a hospital.”

  “Nimeta, the Serbs wouldn’t leave anyone alive. Especially if they’re a Bosnian journalist. They would have stayed with her until they were certain she was dead.”

  “They didn’t just leave her for dead. They tortured her.”

  “I wish she’d come back to Bosnia.”

  “We all do! But Petar wouldn’t let her go.”

  “Mirsada is resting in peace now. She’s saved. Perhaps she’s luckier than the living,” Stefan said softly.

  Neither Nimeta, Stefan, nor anyone else knew what had really happened to Mirsada. Other than four Serbian commandos, nobody would ever know exactly what had transpired in her house the day she died.

  Petar was away on a long trip. Since long absences were routine for journalists, Mirsada didn’t initially see anything unusual in that. Later events, however, aroused her suspicions. A letter informing her that her position was to be terminated at the end of the month was placed on her desk while Petar was away. When she got home that evening, she called Petar repeatedly but never got an answer. She’d hope to consult with him before making a move.

  The next day, having been unable to speak to her lover, she was feeling extremely tense as she confronted her manager. Why had she been fired? Had she done anything wrong? She’d been working longer hours than anyone, scanning publications in English and German and translating them. Had she ever delivered her research late? Hadn’t the interview she’d conducted two weeks earlier generated a strong positive reaction? Why then had she been fired?

  The manager told her they were downsizing the labor force. Well, there were other people who should be let go before her, she’d insisted, like that girl with an MP for an uncle and that pudding-faced stutterer said to be close to Mitević. Everyone had laughed at the thought of a reporter stammering his way through an interview, but Georg had said, “He’s not a correspondent, he’s an informant.”

  “What do you mean?” Mirsada had asked.

  “We’re a police state, Miza.”

  Miza! Just as she was getting used to that name that she had once hated, she found herself getting the boot. Petar needn’t have bothered to find her a new identity. Nimeta was right; she’d have to return to Bosnia if she expected to find work. But Petar came first, and she’d stay in Belgrade for him even if that meant being unemployed.

  There was a knock on the door at about eight that night. Mirsada was in the bathroom, so she didn’t hear it at first. At the thudding sound of boots, she raced to the door. She got there before they managed to kick it down.

  “Your name?” one of the men asked.

  “Miza.”

  “Your real name?”

  “I told you,” Mirsada said.

  A towel was wrapped turban-like around her wet hair.

  “Is that the name your lover gave you?”

  Mirsada didn’t answer.

  “Surname?”

  “Efendic.”

  “Efendic, is it?” one of them said. “And the whore of that traitor, Petar Miragoslav.”

  “Efendic is the surname of my ex-husband,” Mirsada said. “And Petar is no traitor. He’s every bit as patriotic as you.”

  “Don’t try to lecture us on patriotism. Tell us your real name, you Bosnian slut.”

  “I was born in Bosnia,” Mirsada said, remaining composed.

  “You mean you’re a Muslim.”

  “I’m not. But so what if I was? Since I’m Bosnian, I could just as easily have been born Muslim.”

  She felt the heat rise to her cheeks as she lied. This was the first time she’d ever renounced her identity, and she bitterly regretted having gone along with Petar’s scheme. One of the men waited with her while the three others went to the rooms in back. They turned the house upside down in minutes, ransacking every drawer and cupboard in search of documents and papers.

  “Show us your ID card.”

  “It was stolen. I was mugged about ten days ago on the way home. I haven’t had a chance to get a new one issued.”

  “Your dark eyes tell us exactly who and what you are: a Muslim whore,” the tall one said. “Have you ever seen a Serb with those big, dark eyes?”

  “I’ve seen hundreds. I can tell you their names if you like.”

  A fist crashed into her face. The sash to her robe was tugged off, causing it to fall open and expose her breasts. When she tried to pull her robe closed, the tall one grabbed her wrists from behind. Her dark breasts were now completely visible.

  “That’s not what your boyfriend told us. He said you were a Muslim Bosniak whore.”

  “He didn’t, because it’s not true.”

  “Maybe he lied on purpose,” the weasel-faced one said, “because, as he was dying, he thought he’d want you with him in hell.”

  “Did you kill him!” She hadn’t expected her voice to thunder like that.

  “Traitors who cooperate with Muslim dogs don’t live long!”

  Mirsada sank to her knees.

  “Bosniak whore, what’s your real name?”

  Mirsada gave up without a fight. The person who gave her life meaning was gone, and Weasel Face was right about one thing: she’d rather be dead with Petar than alive and alone.

  “My name is Mirsada Efendic.”

  The tall one ripped the towel off her head, grabbed her by the hair, and pulled her to her feet.

  “Now you’ll give us the names of all your friends. All your media colleagues and neighbors who make friends with traitorous dogs. You’ll provide every last name.”

  “I’m not giving you anything,” Mirsada said.

  She received another blow to the face, and blood began trickling from the corner of her mouth.

 
“Oh yes you will. But first there’s something else we want, all four of us. We wonder what Muslim whores taste like. Once we make you happy, you’ll be ready to answer our questions.”

  Weasel Face unbuckled his belt, while the others fondled and pinched Mirsada’s breasts.

  “I’m first,” the tall one said.

  He pulled down his trousers and stood in front of Mirsada.

  “Down on your knees!”

  When she didn’t move, the others forced her down. Her wrists were still being held from behind, and blood still trickled from her mouth.

  “Her tits aren’t bad.”

  The tall Serbian’s erection was moving toward Mirsada’s breasts. He grabbed her by the hair and roughly pulled her up against his crotch. Mirsada closed her eyes.

  “Come on! Open your mouth, now!”

  Mirsada opened her eyes. First, she glanced at the organ being rubbed against her chin and cheeks; then she opened her mouth as wide as she could, took it in as far as she could, and chomped down.

  The man bellowed like a crazed beast. Weasel Face was so stunned, he let go of Mirsada’s wrists. Mirsada grabbed her tormenter’s testicles, sank her nails into them, and squeezed with all her might. The tall Serb bent double and bellowed so loud that his companions—whose trousers were already around their ankles as they awaited their turn—didn’t realize for a moment what was happening. As two of them grabbed Mirsada by the hair and tried to jerk her head back, Weasel Face grabbed the tall Serb by the hips to pull him away from Mirsada’s nails and teeth. The man was stretched out on the floor, Mirsada right beside him, her teeth still sunk into his member, her nails piercing his testicles. The others pulled at Mirsada, but her jaw seemed to have locked onto their friend. As they tried to pull her head away, he bellowed even louder. Blood started gushing out of her mouth and the bellowing stopped, but then she was struck in the back and she blacked out. Her ears buzzed, and she suddenly felt light as a bird. She couldn’t feel her hair, the pain in her back, or even the man’s blood in her mouth.

  She couldn’t even feel the muzzle of the gun pressing against the back of her neck. But her hands still clutched the testicles of the Serb on the floor, even after Weasel Face ended her life with a single bullet.

  Try as they might, they couldn’t hurt her anymore.

  Perched on a tombstone, Nimeta luxuriated in a sense of peace and well-being. For the first time since Burhan, Raif, and Fiko had left, she didn’t feel lonely. Stefan was there, listening to her, understanding even the things she couldn’t put into words. He’d always been there, and that must have been what had scared her. Their lives were intertwined. It didn’t matter where she went, how far she ran: he might even appear in the middle of a dark, empty street.

  Stefan told her all about his adventures, his reasons for coming to Sarajevo and for going back home to Zagreb, and how determined he’d been to see her before he left.

  When they reached the door to Nimeta’s house, Stefan cupped her face in his hands again.

  “Nimeta,” he said, “I know this isn’t the time or place, but there’s something I need to say. I know how devoted you are to your husband and children, and I’ve tried to be understanding. But if things were different after the war, do you think we could try again? I don’t want anything bad to happen to anyone. What I’m trying to say is . . . if . . . if . . .”

  Nimeta put her finger to his lips. “Shh, Stefan. Don’t say it out loud. Wait for the war to end, for this cursed, senseless war to come to an end.”

  She embraced Stefan and went into the house. It was just getting light outside, but the house was still dark and cold. The fire in the stove in the hallway had burned out.

  “Do you know which tree this is?” her mother had asked her once as she lit the stove. “Remember that oak you could see from your bedroom?”

  Trees were being chopped down across the city. She’d proposed to Ivan that they run a program protesting the deforestation of their city.

  “Would you rather people froze to death in the middle of the winter?” Ivan had said. “How do you expect them to cook? We’re at war, for God’s sake!”

  She could be such an idiot sometimes. Just then she was so cold she could have burned logs from the majestic plane trees in Veliki Park.

  When she’d finished her lemon tea, she noticed a notebook on the kitchen table. Hana sometimes left her homework on the table for her mother to check. She poured some fuel oil into a shallow bowl and lit the wick.

  Upon a closer look, she realized that it was Hana’s journal. She’d never read anything Hana had written in her famous journal. She was about to flick through the pages when she remembered what a snoop her own mother had been. But before she knew it, she began reading a page at random.

  July 2, 1992

  My uncle and Fiko have gone to join my father in the army. I’m here alone with Mom and Bozo. I thought I wouldn’t mind Fiko’s going, but I miss him so bad, as much as I miss Dad . . . maybe even more. I’m sorry I was jealous of him because Grandma and Mom love him more than me. Now I wouldn’t care if he pulled my hair and teased me and bossed me around. I wouldn’t even care if they loved him best either. Nothing’s worse than being lonely! May God watch over him, and not let him get hurt or killed.

  Nimeta couldn’t read through her tears. She pressed the journal to her chest. Then she took the lamp with her to the armchair by the window. Hana thought her mother loved her son best, just as Nimeta had always thought Raziyanım loved Raif best. She opened the journal to another page.

  It’s been many days since we lost Auntie Azra in the market massacre, but I still cry at night. She was my only “big” friend and the only adult who treated me like a grown-up. I used to tell her all my troubles and complain about Mom and Fiko and Grandma to her. How am I supposed to bear not being able to see her again? I never realized how important she was. I try to hide how much it bothers me from Mom. The day it happened, Mom was so beside herself that I was afraid they’d come and take her away again. What would I do if something happened to her too? We’re moving to Grandma’s tomorrow. Three women and a cat. Mom says Bozo will be the man of the house from now on. I’ll ask Grandma to treat him with respect.

  Don’t worry, Hana, Nimeta sighed to herself. I’m not going anywhere. I’ll never leave you on your own again.

  As she continued skimming the diary, the words were like a stinging rebuke for her own selfishness. She’d fallen in love with Stefan when Hana was at an age where she desperately needed attention and affection. She wished she could turn back time and make things right. If only she had another chance . . . if only.

  March 7, 1993

  Yasna has started to look like a stork. None of her clothes fit anymore. Her trousers and sweaters and skirts look so funny on her! She says her mother wonders how she could grow so fast when there’s so little to eat. I’m glad I’m not getting any taller. Mom always says she doesn’t have enough money to get us new clothes. Food’s so expensive these days that we have to spend all our money to eat.

  Was it true that Hana wasn’t getting any taller? It could be hard to tell whether someone you saw every day was getting taller or older. She’d never complained that her clothes were getting too tight or too short. Had the shortage of meat and fresh fruit stunted her growth? Raziyanım had stopped going to her friend’s garden in the southern part of the city. There were simply too many bombs and snipers about these days, and the Serbs had taken to mining the roads.

  Come to think of it, Raziyanım had remarked on how thin Hana was.

  “She’s not getting enough food, Nimeta. The other day, Lamia Hanım was talking about getting some pigeons and—”

  “Don’t even think about it, Mother,” Nimeta had said.

  She’d heard that birds were being trapped and hunted, and she’d been certain that Raziyanım wanted to find a way to sneak Hana some pigeon sou
p. Now she was sorry she’d opposed the idea. Nimeta decided that if she ever suspected there was pigeon meat in their soup or börek, she wouldn’t say a word.

  She heard the creak of a floorboard and lifted her eyes from Hana’s journal. It was Raziyanım.

  “What are you doing up so early, Nimeta?”

  “I couldn’t sleep.”

  “Why are you already dressed? Go on back to bed. I’ll fix Hana breakfast when she gets up. You had a long day yesterday. I’ll wake you up at eight.”

  Nimeta sneezed several times.

  “Have you caught a cold?” Raziyanım placed her hand on Nimeta’s forehead. “You’re running a temperature. You must be coming down with something.”

  “It’s just a cold, Mother.”

  Raziyanım raced to her room and returned with a thermometer. “Put it in your mouth,” she said.

  “There’s no need. I’ll be fine if I get some sleep.”

  “Take it,” Raziyanım insisted, holding the thermometer out to Nimeta. Accepting defeat, she took it and placed it under her tongue. Raziyanım stood there waiting until Nimeta checked the thermometer two minutes later.

  “What does it say?” her Mother asked.

  Why lie? “A hundred three degrees,” Nimeta said.

  “I still don’t understand what business you had going off to Tuzla,” Raziyanım started in. “Now go straight to bed. I’ll brew you some linden tea. I’ll go to Selcuković’s house as soon as it turns eight and get the doctor to come have a look.”

  Nimeta was in no state to argue. She meekly went to her room, got undressed, and crawled into bed.

  By the time Selcuković arrived—at Raziyanım’s insistence—it was nearly ten, and Nimeta’s fever had reached 104 degrees. Raziyanım had placed a vinegar compress on her forehead and was splashing cologne on her arms and temples. When the doctor saw Nimeta moaning feverishly, he felt guilty about his behavior earlier that morning.

  “Raziyanım,” he’d said, “the emergency rooms are overflowing with life-and-death cases, and you come here at eight in the morning and expect me to pay a house call just because your daughter’s caught a cold? Tell Nimeta to go to the hospital.”