“This is the second one today,” the doctor said, tickling the baby’s chin. “Will you be okay with the condoms?”
“Yes, yes. Thank you.”
The doctor went inside the tent with the baby and Marija made her way back to Ina. All around her, people prepared for the night, bargaining for blankets and scraps of cardboard to sleep on. Women huddled close together; they covered their daughters and kept watch. Shots rang out from the hillside.
Marija rounded the end of the bus and stopped. Three Serb soldiers stood a few metres away, arguing among themselves. She ducked under the rusted rim. Ina had covered the three girls completely and was sitting in front of them like a sentry. Marija joined her. The soldiers were standing above the old man, who was trying to attach his prosthetic leg.
“What were they arguing about?” Marija whispered to Ina.
“The two soldiers spoke to the man and then they left him alone. But the sergeant made them come back. He’s ordered them to take the man to the little white house for questioning. They think he’s a war criminal.”
“But he can barely walk.”
Ina raised an eyebrow and nodded slowly.
Marija looked at the two soldiers. The youngest didn’t look much older than Atif. He wore a clean green camouflage uniform that seemed to be a size too large. The other soldier wore the same uniform and a helmet. Marija leaned forward, trying to get a better view. The soldier in the helmet turned, catching her gaze.
My God, he’s familiar. But she couldn’t put her finger on it. A former student?
The soldier held her eyes.
And he knows who I am.
The younger soldier interrupted the staring match. “Niko. Lets go.”
Niko Basaric!
He’d been one of her pupils the year she filled in for a sick teacher at the school in Srebrenica. He had an amazing ability for math and languages. She’d met him again when he helped coach Atif’s soccer team the year before the war. He had just gotten married and was thinking about becoming an engineer. The war had obviously interrupted those plans.
Niko turned away and helped his comrade pull the crippled man to his feet.
Marija opened her mouth to call out to him and then shut it again. No sense in attracting any attention.
The soldiers walked away, the old man limping between them.
Niko didn’t look back.
TUESDAY: NIKO BASARIC
NIKO BASARIC’S HEAD bobbed forward then back, striking the tree and driving his helmet down over his eyes. He woke up, pushed the helmet back, and hauled out his canteen.
God, I hate the heat.
He hadn’t slept in two days and he’d been walking since early morning. His section had met little resistance on the road that led into Srebrenica, but that wasn’t unexpected. The fighting would take place in the town, house to house. They were about twenty minutes from the town, but the advance had stopped an hour before.
He glanced at the sky.
Probably planes in the area.
He drank half the canteen and took off his helmet, pouring the rest of the water through the stubble on his head. He stuffed the canteen into his pack and stared at the laminated picture of his wife, Natalija, and his two-year-old daughter, Mira, jammed inside the helmet. Niko swallowed. He had been taken off the checkpoint so quickly there’d been no chance to return home to say goodbye. He’d sent word with one of the drivers. Had Natalija received it? Would he ever see them again?
Niko hated the army. He’d resisted the pressure from his Serb father to go to Croatia to fight and when the war spread to Bosnia, he thought he could sit it out in Srebrenica. The people in the town didn’t care that he was half Serb. They were grateful to have someone who could repair rifles. But the war dragged on, getting uglier as winter approached. A Muslim soldier, distraught over the death of his wife during an artillery attack, tried to kill Natalija because she was Serb. The soldier had shot Niko in the shoulder before neighbours could wrestle the attacker to the ground. With his shoulder still bleeding, Niko packed what he could and moved to Bratunac, a Serb town a few kilometres east of Srebrenica near the border with Serbia.
Once there, Niko had no choice but to join the Bosnian Serb army in order to get a place to live. But he was a Serb of mixed heritage and he found the soldiers constantly tested his loyalty. He told them he was Christian, that his father was a Serb, but they didn’t care. His mother was Muslim and that somehow made him less human.
He rubbed his aching shoulder. Damn it, I just want to go home.
His parents had fled to Austria soon after the fighting broke out and they’d left the house in Srebrenica to him. He doubted Natalija would want to return, even for a house. Recently, she’d started hinting about joining his parents in Austria before the winter set in. He knew Mira would be safer there and, if he survived this day, he would give it serious consideration. He just wanted to have a look at the house in Srebrenica first.
“Niko.”
Petar Kadija was approaching along the ditch in a low crouch. The young, skinny recruit carried two bottles of water. He handed one to Niko.
“Thanks,” he said, stuffing the bottle into his pack.
Petar dropped to the ground and swallowed a mouthful of water, then stowed the other bottle in his own pack.
“How much longer do we have to wait?”
“No idea,” Niko said. “There must be planes nearby. They’re probably watching them on radar. When the planes run low on fuel, they’ll go back to Italy and we’ll move on.”
“They’re not worried about the planes attacking?”
“We’ve gotten this far. My guess is they’re still trying to cut their way through the red tape in New York.”
Petar laughed. Niko eyed the recruit. The boy was eighteen, fresh out of basic training, and excited about the prospect of going into combat so quickly.
Too quickly, Niko thought. And too excited.
Two weeks earlier, the training captain had assigned the rest of Petar’s class to combat units. He hadn’t known what to do with Petar; the boy had barely scraped through basic training. Niko had volunteered to shape the eager recruit into a soldier. That was the official story, the one Petar’s father was told. In reality, Petar’s mother had pleaded with Niko to keep her naïve son away from the front lines.
“I could use the manpower,” Niko had told the training captain. There had been a list of assignments for recruits on his desk. Petar’s name was listed under a combat unit but circled in red. Niko laid a bag on the desk and took three bottles of plum brandy and a carton of Marlboros out of it. “I can whip him into shape. Maybe in a few months he’ll be useful to you.”
The captain dropped the brandy and the cigarettes into a desk drawer.
“Keep him, Niko. You’ll be doing all of us a favour.”
Niko could still feel the kiss Petar’s mother had planted on his cheek when she learned that her son would be assigned to his checkpoint. Niko had stopped short of promising her that Petar would be safe. As he watched the young recruit fiddle with his helmet, he was thankful he’d had the foresight not to make such a promise.
“Shouldn’t we keep up with the tanks?” Petar asked.
“We’re fine here. They’ll let us know when it’s time to move.”
“I just wish….”
“Quiet!” Niko said, turning his head.
Rumbling.
That’s not the tanks.
The noise grew from the east, rolling in like thunder.
On a clear day?
“Get down!”
Niko grabbed Petar and pulled him to the bottom of the ditch. The two jets screeched above them. A moment later, the ground quaked. Petar grabbed his ears and screamed and tried to wiggle out from under Niko.
“Stay still,
you fool.”
“They’re bombing, they’re bombing. We have to get out of here!”
Niko shifted his weight, pinning the recruit.
“If you run out into the open, the shrapnel will tear you to pieces. Don’t move. Do you hear me?”
“But if we stay here, the bombs will fall on us.”
“You’re better off here. Now shut up.”
The planes climbed into the sky and the thunder faded. Niko couldn’t turn around to watch without letting Petar go. He listened instead. The roar returned from the east.
“They’re coming back, Petar. Don’t move.”
Images of Natalija and Mira filled Niko’s thoughts as the ground shook and dirt rained.
“Don’t move,” he yelled next to Petar’s ear.
“I’m not moving,” the recruit screamed back.
“Okay. Okay.”
Niko returned his attention to the planes. The roar faded.
Seconds. Minutes.
“Do you hear the planes?” Niko finally asked.
“No. No. I don’t hear anything.”
Niko sat up, releasing Petar.
“Anything now?”
“Nothing,” Petar said, swallowing twice. “What do we do?”
“Wait until everyone else starts to move. They’ll know if the planes have gone back to Italy or not.”
“Okay. Yeah. We’ll wait.”
Niko smiled. Was I ever that nervous?
He settled back against the tree and hauled a Dutch ration pack he’d found in one of the abandoned observation posts out of his pack. He tossed the meal pouch to Petar.
Nothing like food to take his mind off the aircraft.
He crawled to the edge of the road. Soldiers were climbing out of the ditches. Some loitered in the area. Others walked towards the town. Black smoke obscured the road ahead. A tank, two armoured personnel carriers, and three trucks filled with infantry drove by and disappeared into the smoke. Niko listened, expecting to hear the echoes of a firefight in the houses below. He heard nothing except their own mortar and artillery.
“Basaric!”
Niko glanced back. Ivan Radic was gesturing to him to come forward. A hardened veteran, Ivan was the only other corporal in the section besides Niko. The tall soldier was a physical fitness fanatic and it showed in his chest and shoulders.
“We’ll meet you farther down,” Ivan said. “Get moving.”
“We’re coming.” Niko climbed out from under the shade of the tree. Petar tossed away the empty meal packet and followed Niko as they moved towards the wall of smoke. The smell of burning diesel and flesh assaulted his senses. Niko pulled out a bandanna and covered his mouth and nose. Petar did the same and they jogged through the acrid air.
A burning tank lay on the edge of a crater, thick black smoke pouring from the open hatches. A jeep sat nearby, its windows smashed. Soldiers were draping canvas over three bodies on the side of the road.
“Oh my God!”
Petar was staring at the front of the tank. The blackened remains of an arm hung over the driver’s hatch.
“C’mon,” Niko said, pulling the recruit’s shirt.
Petar resisted and then gave in. He kept glancing back as they walked.
“I don’t understand. Why didn’t they get out? They must have seen the planes.”
“Like we did?”
Petar looked back again. “I mean, have you ever seen anything like that?”
“Will you shut up,” Niko said, grabbing Petar by the arm and pushing him forward. “And stop staring at it.”
“Will you stop treating me like a child?”
“Fine. You want to stare at it, go ahead.” Niko pulled Petar back towards the tank. “Go ahead. Memorize every last detail. The flesh burned from the bone. The wedding ring on his finger. The smell you can’t wash out of your clothes or your memory.”
He wiped away the sweat dripping into his eyes and pushed Petar closer to the tank.
“You’ll dream about it at first. You’ll wake up drenched to the skin, shaking so bad you can’t stop. If you get back to sleep, you’ll only dream about it again except this time you’ll dream that you’re on fire. You’ll wake up screaming. You’ll wake up trying to beat the flames out on your chest. Is that what you want?”
“No, but….”
“If we survive this day, you’re going to see things you don’t want to remember.” Niko pulled him away from the tank and led him to the opposite side of the road. He pointed through the trees at the houses below. “When we get down there, we’re going to be looking at snipers in every window and booby traps in every house. It may take weeks to clear the town. This is real. This is life and death and if I have to worry about you getting distracted by something as mundane as another burned body then you’re no good to me. Understand?”
Petar’s eyes focused on the town.
“Hey, Turk!”
Niko turned. Sergeant Drach stood on their side of the road, drawing a towel over his shaved head.
Damn it. The bombs missed him.
The sergeant was an ultranationalist who didn’t mind advertising his hatred for anything and anyone who wasn’t pure Serb. Niko had been detached to Drach’s section on several occasions, but this was the first time the sergeant was going to let him fight. The other times, Niko had been told to dig trenches or run errands.
The sergeant motioned to an approaching carrier, the black smoke swirling in its wake.
“We have a ride,” Drach shouted, shouldering his rifle. “Grab your pet and move it.”
The carrier slowed and the trio mounted the vehicle, joining the other four men in their section. They’d started out with more than twenty, but the rest of Drach’s men were filling the ranks of the front line sections. Ivan was thirty and like Drach had been fighting from the beginning of the war. Vladen, Pavle, and Anton were new additions to Drach’s section. They were all younger than Niko, but they’d seen their share of combat.
If their stories are to be believed.
“They’re not meeting any resistance,” Drach told them, shouting over the roar of the engines. “There’s no one down there.”
Niko glanced towards the town.
No resistance at all? Where had they gone?
“We’re going to spend the day clearing houses,” Drach replied to a question Niko had not heard.
The others mouthed words of disgust Niko had no trouble reading.
“Are you disappointed, Turk?” Pavle, the youngest soldier, asked. “You finally get a chance to prove you’re not a coward and your people run off with their women.”
“They’re not my people,” Niko muttered.
“He can still prove he is not a coward,” Drach said. “We will let him kick in the doors.”
Niko looked away, holding on as the carrier slowed for a sharp hairpin turn.
“Is there a problem, Turk?” Drach asked. “Would you rather be digging? I can arrange that.”
“That’s okay, Sergeant.”
The carrier sped along the last stretch of road into the town. Niko sat up straight. He had no idea what to expect, despite what he had heard. He’d spoken to other soldiers in Bratunac who’d said conditions bordered on the medieval. They boasted about sneaking into the town to watch videos at the makeshift cinema, but Niko dismissed their claims.
Who would risk their life to see Rambo or Die Hard?
The carrier moved along the deserted main street, passing soldiers who were searching houses. Niko’s heart sank to the bottom of his boots. This was the town he had once called home.
Medieval was a generous description. Shells had damaged every building and rubble covered the sidewalks. Some houses had burned to the ground. Others stood without roofs and shrapnel ha
d left the walls pockmarked. Soot covered everything. All the windows had been smashed and replaced with ragged pieces of plastic. Split firewood was stacked against the first floor windows. There were mountains of rancid garbage between the homes and in open spaces. The smell of raw sewage overpowered the smell of the garbage. Niko raised the bandanna to his mouth.
“How could they live in this?” Petar asked.
Niko didn’t have an answer. How had his friends endured three years in this hell? And what about Nina, the old woman who lived next door to them? When he was young, she used to bring him treats whenever she visited her daughter in Tuzla.
Had she gotten out? Could she have survived all this time on handouts?
The carrier slowed and Niko’s eyes fell on the set of steps where he used to hang around with his friends and smoke.
Lutvo, Alen, and Mersid. Are they still alive?
The carrier stopped in the middle of the road and they dismounted.
“We’ve been given authority to inspect every home,” Drach said as the carrier rumbled away. “If we find anyone, they will be taken to the soccer field. Nobody is to be harmed. Understand?”
The group grunted a collective affirmative as they followed him to the first house. They stopped at the front door.
“You first, Turk,” Drach said, his smile exposing stained teeth and a chipped front tooth. “Watch out now. Your friends like to leave grenades on top of the door frames.”
“Or wire them to the doorknob,” Ivan said. He elbowed Pavle, chuckling.
Niko rolled his eyes as he brushed by Ivan. He thought it unlikely that they’d had time to set up booby traps. Word of the air strikes probably had given them false hope, keeping them in their homes. The failure of the planes to stop the advance meant a lot of people had fled the area in a short period of time.
Niko hesitated and eyed the door.
Yes. They left too fast.
He reached for the door handle and turned it.
The handle clicked.
Niko’s heart skipped.
The door slid open, scrapping the floor.
Braco Page 15
