Braco
Page 11
“I won’t come back.”
“Keep a steady pace. Watch where you put your feet. The last thing you need is a broken ankle.”
“I’ll be careful.”
“I know you will.”
Atif sensed that Jac didn’t want to let him go. The peacekeeper’s eyes moved back and forth as though he were looking for something else to say.
“I guess I should go then.”
“Yeah.” Jac stood up and helped Atif pull on the pack.
“You’ll keep an eye on my mother and sister?”
“You know I will.”
“Thank you, Korporaal Jac. For everything.”
Jac looked at his feet. The toes of his boots kicked at the dirt.
“Just send me the postcard. That’s all the thanks I need.”
Jac offered Atif his hand. Atif ignored it. He wrapped his arms around the peacekeeper and hugged him. Jac returned the hug then released Atif and stepped back.
“Don’t forget. A steady pace.”
Atif smiled at Jac and then turned away. He started to move off into the trees.
“Atif?”
He looked back. Jac’s eyes were fixed on a point somewhere past him.
“I just wanted to say....” The peacekeeper swallowed, then began again. “I just wanted to say I’m sorry.”
“About what?”
“About all this. We were supposed to take care of you, protect you, and we let you down. I feel like we’re abandoning you.”
Atif shrugged. His father had said the peacekeeping mission would fail unless the Americans got involved. Until then, the Serbs would continue to do as they pleased against the lightly armed peacekeepers.
“You didn’t let us down, Korporaal Jac. I know what you’ve had to deal with. The Chetniks didn’t let your men back in after their vacations. They stopped a lot of your convoys. You don’t have a lot of ammunition. No big guns. No tanks. And the Chetniks know how to lie and be believed. I think, Korporaal Jac, we were both abandoned.”
“Yeah.”
“Can you do one thing for me, Korporaal Jac?”
“Name it.”
“Make sure they all know what happened here. Make sure the world knows. Make sure they know the truth.”
“You have my word,” Jac said.
“Good.”
That’s all I needed. Atif turned away and stared at the trees and the Jaglici road beyond them.
“Remember,” Jac said. “Walk away from the moon.”
Atif glanced back at the peacekeeper, wondering if he would ever see him again. He took the first steps. When he got to the edge of the treeline, he looked up and down the road. A woman with two young children was trudging towards Potocari. The rest of the road was deserted.
Atif looked back at the house.
Jac was gone.
WEDNESDAY: MICHAEL SAKIC
MIKE HESITATED OUTSIDE Brendan’s room and glanced at his watch.
Two o’clock. Do I wake them?
He raised his fist to the door then paused. Their convoy had arrived at six and it had taken another two hours to settle into the hotel. Mike had managed a few hours of sleep on the mountain, but Brendan had stayed awake. He hated sleeping in the truck.
Mike dropped his fist and walked away. He took a set of narrow stairs into a small dining room which served as a bar in the evenings. The hotel owner, Sabir, was sitting behind the bar smoking a pipe and reading a paper. His wife was wiping off the three empty tables.
“Would you like something to eat?” she asked in Bosnian.
“Sure. Whatever you have.”
She nodded and limped behind the bar. Shrapnel wound from early in the war, Sabir had told Mike the first time he had stayed in the five-room hotel.
He sat down at the bar and watched Sabir’s wife crack two eggs against the side of a frying pan. The yolk plopped inside the pan followed by the mucus-like whites.
Eggs? The thought made his stomach tighten.
“Scramble them, please,” he said, making a circular motion with his finger. “Well done.”
The woman gave him a sideways glance and kept cooking. The wall behind the bar was lined with empty shelves. They kept the plum brandy and vodka in the cupboards below and the food in the back room.
“Got any Coke, Sabir?”
The man laid down the paper and reached under the bar. He put a can of warm Coke and an empty glass in front of Mike. The woman placed the eggs next to it, scrambled and brown. Mike pulled out a pouch of ketchup he had stolen from McDonald’s on his way out of Toronto and squeezed it over the eggs.
“You won’t get into Srebrenica,” Sabir said. “My cousin should have been here hours ago with the eggs. If he can’t get through the checkpoints, they won’t let you through.”
“It’s probably just temporary.” Mike shovelled the eggs into his mouth and swallowed before they could leave a taste. “There might be more air strikes.”
Sabir snorted. “The planes are not going back.”
“They did for Sarajevo.”
“Yes, for Sarajevo.” Smoke poured from Sabir’s nose. “They won’t go back for Srebrenica.”
Mike scooped up the last spoonful of eggs and chased them with a mouthful of Coke.
“Do you know anyone there?”
“I have many friends there.” Sabir’s eyes wandered. “Good friends. They’re in the woods now.”
“What do you mean in the woods?”
“The men can’t stay with the women. Chetniks won’t bother the women too much, but they will kill the men. So they are going to the woods and walking.”
“Walking where?”
“To Zepa most likely. Or Serbia.”
Mike straightened up. He knew getting into Zepa would be harder than getting into Srebrenica. But Serbia?
“Would they go to Serbia if they thought that Zepa had fallen?”
“But it hasn’t,” Sabir said, inhaling on his pipe.
“They may think it has if they’re listening to Serb radio.”
“Then I think most would come here rather than go to Serbia.”
“You think the Serbs will let them through?”
Sabir leaned forward on the counter and pointed his pipe at Mike.
“My friend, Sakic,” he said, smoke puffing from his mouth between the words. “You have a Croat name, but you still don’t understand. Chetniks will not let a single man cross the lines. They will hunt them like deer and slit every throat.”
“But most of them will be civilians.”
“The Chetniks don’t care what you wear. If your last name is Muslim, you are a threat to a Greater Serbia.”
“There could be twenty thousand men in the woods. They can’t possibly kill that many men and think they can get away with it. Look at what happened last year. They killed sixty-eight in that Sarajevo marketplace and NATO pushed them off the mountains.”
“And a few months later, the Chetniks were right back on those mountains. The world has a short memory, my friend.”
“They’d be insane to kill that many men.”
“And war is sane?”
“Do I smell eggs?” Robert pulled up a stool. “Can I get a couple?”
“I think I had the last ones,” Mike said. “He can make you a sandwich. Beef, I think.”
“Sure. One for Brendan too.”
Mike translated the order and Sabir moved off into the kitchen area.
“Nice place,” Robert said, glancing around. “Sleep well?”
“I don’t sleep.”
“You slept till four yesterday.”
“I wasn’t asleep. I was passed out.”
“Oh.”
“Let me guess. You’ve ne
ver been drunk.”
“Never felt the need to drink.”
“Stay here a while. That’ll change.”
He reached for his Coke and grasped empty air and spun around on his stool. Brendan was holding the glass to his nose.
“Christ, man. I’m not drinking.”
“Just screwing with you,” Brendan said, handing the drink to Mike.
“Keep screwing with me and I’ll stop doing your job.”
“No shit. The briefing isn’t until four. Where’d you go?”
“Nowhere.”
Mike told them everything Sabir had said.
Brendan was shaking his head. “It wouldn’t be insane. It’d be stupid. The American satellites are reading licence plates for God’s sake. No way can they expect to get away with killing twenty thousand men.”
“So what are they going to do with them?” Robert looked at Brendan then Mike. “Put them in a prison?”
“They won’t get away with concentration camps again,” Mike replied.
“Maybe they’ll funnel them into Serbia,” Brendan said. “Make the Serbian government relocate them to other countries.”
Sabir laid the sandwiches on the counter.
“They don’t believe you either,” Mike told Sabir. “A few hundred, maybe, but we can’t see them killing thousands. Not in this day and age.”
“Believe me, don’t believe me.” Sabir stuffed tobacco into his pipe. “In a few days, you will see. We have long memories.”
WEDNESDAY: ATIF STAVIC
ATIF JOGGED NORTH along the Jaglici road, staring at his feet.
Keep a steady pace. Don’t break an ankle.
“You’re going the wrong way.”
Atif glanced at the woman as he passed her.
“The Chetniks are there,” she shouted at his back.
Atif slid to a halt. He turned around and stared at the woman. She shifted a child in her arms.
“You saw them there?” he asked. “With your own eyes?”
“Well, no. But everyone is saying they’re there.”
“Keep going to Potocari,” he told her. “There are buses there that will take you to Tuzla.”
Atif faced north again before she could reply. He stuck his thumbs inside the straps of his pack and picked up his pace.
Steady pace. Watch where I put my feet. Don’t break an ankle. He glanced at the waning sun. Five, maybe six hours of light left.
He passed an elderly couple trudging south. Another woman herded two cows along the road and an old man pushed his wife in a cart. Mortar echoed in the distance.
Steady pace. Steady pace.
He jogged along the edge of the road, ready to plunge into the ditch if necessary, but no one fired near the road. The closer he came to Susnjari, the fewer people he met. He turned a corner and found himself exposed to a hill in the near distance. People were standing in a clearing on the side of the hill, some hiding from the heat in the shadow of artillery and trees.
Chetniks?
Atif dropped into the rocky bottomed ditch and walked north.
Steady pace. Don’t break an ankle.
He climbed out of the ditch when he was confident he was sheltered from the hill. When he reached the edge of Susnjari, he stopped in a clump of trees and listened for tanks, trucks, or men, but heard nothing.
Except birdsong.
Atif studied the road leading into the town. Automatic gunfire echoed in the distance
No engines. No footfalls. No voices.
Is it deserted?
He left the trees, crossed a street, and followed a trail of discarded luggage to the town’s soccer field, stopping under bleachers to rest. Garbage, clothes, bags, and burnt wood covered the field. A fire pit contained the smouldering carcass of a cow. The smell of roasted meat lingered in the air.
They can’t be that far ahead.
He drank the last quarter litre of water in one bottle and wiped his face with the edge of his shirt. His head pounded from the heat, but he didn’t want to open the second bottle until he was sure he could refill it.
He stashed the empty bottle in his pack and looked around. Nothing moved. He stepped out from under the bleachers and jogged around the edge of the soccer field. The trail of garbage led into the woods.
Atif knew the area from the trips he had made with his father, but they had made those journeys in the dark and he had relied on his father’s directions. He only hoped he remembered where the minefields were. Jac’s map was not that precise.
The pavement became a dirt road and then a wide path. Thousands of footsteps had flattened the brush on either side of the trail. Atif trotted along until the path opened wide into a pasture. He stopped and studied the land before him.
Is this the minefield?
He looked down at the crushed grass then moved forward, scanning the ground. Disturbed vegetation meant there were no landmines. He glanced at the map.
Is it here or on the next plateau?
He gazed across the field for a long moment. The crushed grass and discarded luggage indicated the men had cut a wide swath through the meadow.
Is it safe?
“Hey, boy.”
Atif spun around.
Three men sat in the shade of some bushes near the treeline. One man lumbered to his feet like a small elephant.
Atif tensed. The only people who had remained fat in Srebrenica were those who controlled the black market and the shipments of aid from the UN. As the man approached, Atif took a step backwards.
“What are you doing here?” the man asked.
“I’m following the men to Tuzla.”
The other two men climbed to their feet, shouldered bags, and joined their friend. The trio stood in front of Atif.
“Not a good idea, boy. They won’t make it to Tuzla. The Chetniks will stop them at the road.”
“Well,” Atif said, his eyes shifting between the three men, “where am I supposed to go?”
“Zepa,” the fat man said. “It’s closer.”
Atif understood why that appealed to him.
“Someone in Potocari said that Zepa had fallen.”
“Propaganda,” the man replied. He motioned to Atif’s pack. “What are you carrying?”
Atif stepped back again. Am I stepping into a minefield?
“Nothing. Just some water and clothes.”
The man motioned Atif closer.
“Let me see.”
“It’s just water and clothes.”
An arm darted towards Atif’s pack. He jumped, evading it, but tripped over his own feet and fell hard. A water bottle dug into his back.
“Take it off,” the man shouted.
“Leave him alone!”
Atif thought the voice belonged to one of the other men, but when he propped himself up on his elbows he saw a soldier standing behind them, his legs planted apart and a rifle held tight against his shoulder.
The soldier aimed the rifle at the fat man.
TUESDAY: TARAK SMAJLOVIC
“TARAK!”
Tarak blinked, the dirt scrapping the inside of his eyelids. Someone screamed. He sat up, rubbed the grime from his eyes, and searched for the voice. Smoke and debris clouded his view. Splintered trees lay on the ground or threatened to topple.
“Tarak!”
He turned around; the trees rotated with the motion. His throat stung.
Fadil?
He rubbed his face and tried to focus.
Where am I? What happened? A tank shell. Chetniks. Invasion. And we’re losing.
Tarak spit dirt and bile. When he glanced up, he saw Salko leaning over a pair of kicking legs.
“Get with it, Tarak. I need a dressing.”
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah. Yeah,” Tarak mumbled, using the tree to help him stand. His head pounded and his ears rang. He looked at the kicking legs again.
“Who is that?”
“Omar.”
“Oh, no.” Tarak fell to his knees and crawled to the side of the young soldier. Omar lay still, his chest rising and falling rapidly. Dirt and blood covered his face. Salko was tearing away clothing around Omar’s stomach. Dark liquid leaked from three holes.
“You’re going to be fine, Omar,” Tarak whispered, unsure if the man could hear his words.
Salko wrapped the dressing around Omar’s gut and tied it tight. “We have to get him to the hospital.”
“How?”
“We’ll have to carry him. Or take a truck from the blue helmets if we have to.”
“Put him on my back,” Tarak said, getting up and grabbing his pack and rifle.
“You can barely stand.”
“I can do it. Get him up.”
Salko frowned and wrapped an arm around Omar. The halfconscious soldier grunted as Salko pulled him to his feet. Tarak crouched down and took Omar’s full weight on his shoulders. He straightened up and Salko led them down the hillside. When they hit the pavement, Tarak looked back. A Serb tank was coming towards them. Soldiers walked behind it.
Tarak and Salko jogged away from the invaders. Two Dutch armoured vehicles came into view, blocking the road. Tarak knew the UN vehicles were no match for a tank and he expected them to run the moment the tanks came into view.
Tarak followed Salko through the UN blockade and found a Dutch Mercedes jeep preparing to leave on the other side. Salko jumped in front of it and raised his rifle.
“We need a ride.”
The driver opened his door, leapt out, and raised his Uzi.
“Get out of the way!” he shouted in English.
“You have to take him,” Salko said, motioning to Omar. “To the hospital.”