“You’re sure we can’t take any weapons?”
“They’ll only steal them.” Janssen held out his hand. They shook. “Good luck, Jac.”
“You too, Sergeant.”
Janssen walked away. Jac began to open the jeep door and then stopped to stare in the direction of the morning sun.
How do people handle this heat?
He wiped his forehead with the towel and got inside, flipping on the air conditioning after he started the vehicle. Nothing happened and then he remembered. Albert had disabled the air conditioning in order to save gas.
“We’re going to have a talk when I get back, Albert.”
He drove to the entrance and gave his information to the sentry on duty and then drove out. Refugees streamed towards the buses. Jac pulled up facing the first bus and looked around for Maarten. The passenger door opened.
“I was getting worried,” Maarten said, pulling one of the packs forward and inspecting its contents.
“I had to siphon fuel.”
“Ah. And here I thought you were trying out a new cologne.”
“Did you see Marija?”
Maarten tossed the pack into the back.
“Yes, actually. She was expecting to get on this convoy. I think I saw them get on the last bus.”
“The last bus?”
“Yeah. Why?”
Jac tapped a finger against his chin. “Nothing.”
“She said to thank you.”
Jac looked at Maarten. He shrugged. They heard the first bus start.
“Told the driver we’d lead them out,” Maarten said.
“Okay.” Jac drove to the front of the six-bus convoy. He waited as the buses made their turns. Then the first bus honked.
“Here goes nothing.”
Maarten was playing with the buttons on the dash.
“Where’s the air conditioning?”
Jac laughed. “Right next to you,” he said, pointing to the window.
Maarten rolled it down.
“We can be comfortable or out of gas on the side of the road in the middle of a war. Your choice.”
Maarten grumbled and then pointed forward. “Bad guys.”
The first checkpoint was on the far side of the Yellow Bridge. The sentry had already pulled the barrier aside and waved them through.
“My mistake,” Maarten said, waving back at the sentry. “Good guys.”
“Somehow I don’t think it’s going to keep being this easy.”
When the convoy approached Bratunac, Jac slowed to make the turn onto the road that would take them north to Konjevic Polje.
“Now, what do we have here?”
Jac geared the jeep down. Men, women, and children lined both sides of the road. Some were on the road, facing the approaching vehicles.
“Cheerleaders?”
Jac looked in the rearview mirror: the front grill of the bus behind him filled it.
“I think he wants us to speed up.”
Jac honked and waved at the people.
“Get the hell off the road!” Maarten yelled out the window.
Some of them moved, but then a teenager stepped from the crowd. He was carrying a rock.
“Shit!”
The boy threw the rock at the jeep, shattering a headlight. Jac flattened the accelerator and swerved around the boy. Another rock bounced off the jeep’s hood. Then Jac heard a dull thud.
“Jesus!”
Jac glanced at Maarten who was leaning forward and rolling up his window. “What’s wrong?”
Maarten held up his hand. Blood was running down his arm.
“Just go, Jac. Go.”
The back window cracked. A rock struck Jac’s door. He looked in the rearview mirror: the first bus was latched onto their tail like a water skier, swerving with the jeep. Rocks pounded the side of the bus. Glass shattered.
Seconds later, the rocks stopped. The number of onlookers dwindled. Jac looked over at Maarten again: he had managed to get his pack out of the back and was digging a field dressing out of it.
“How bad is it?”
“Keep driving. I’m fine. It’s just a cut.”
“A cut my ass,” Jac said. “Your face is covered in blood.”
“It’s not as bad as it looks. Just don’t stop.”
“There’s water on the floor behind you.”
Maarten grabbed a bottle and poured it over his head. He cleaned off the blood and tied the dressing tight around his head.
“Checkpoint,” Jac said.
“Good guys?”
The sentry pulled aside the barrier, but then another soldier stood in the middle of the road and motioned them onto the shoulder. A group of soldiers was standing next to a donkey harnessed to a cart piled with manure. An old man held the reins. Jac followed the sentry’s directions.
“What’s going on?”
The soldiers surrounded the jeep, opening doors and pulling out anything that wasn’t secured to the vehicle. They told Jac and Maarten to get out and herded them to the front of the jeep. A corporal was waiting for them.
“We have to search your vehicle to make sure you’re not carrying any weapons.”
“Damn it. Then hurry up.”
The corporal picked the first-aid kit off the road and offered it to Jac.
“You should take care of your friend.”
Jac took the kit from the soldier and opened it on the hood. Maarten untied the dressing and poured more water over his head.
“Jesus,” Jac said, inspecting Maarten’s wound. The gash had split his head below the right temple; blood was seeping from it. “You’re going to need a few stitches.”
“I’m not going back,” Maarten said.
Jac cleaned the wound and then took some Steri-Strips out of the first-aid kit. He pulled the laceration closed and wrapped Maarten’s head with a bandage.
“That’s fine,” Maarten said after Jac had wrapped his head three or four times. “Seriously. I don’t need to be mummified.”
Jac wrapped twice more and taped the bandage.
The first bus pulled out from behind them and headed north.
Jac turned to the corporal. “What’s going on? You can’t let them go without us.”
The Serb ignored him. The buses disappeared from sight. The soldiers emptied the jeep, taking anything not screwed down. Their packs were all that was left.
“Can we go?” he asked the soldiers.
The corporal shrugged at Jac and then jerked his thumb at a young officer who was standing next to the donkey, scratching its ears.
“Well,” Maarten said. “He doesn’t look old enough to tie his shoelaces.”
“Enough of this.” Jac strode over to the officer. “I’m leaving now. I have my orders and I’m going to carry them out. You know about orders, don’t you?”
The officer nodded and returned his attention to the donkey. Jac went back to the jeep.
“Get in,” he said to Maarten, tossing the first-aid kit into the back. “We’re leaving.”
The jeep’s tires spun in the gravel as they moved onto the pavement. There were hundreds of troops on the road now, patrolling the shoulder and ditches or sitting on the edge of the road looking south.
“Jac, look.”
Jac glanced at Maarten, expecting to find his head bleeding again. But instead, Maarten was pointing at the window.
“I’m driving. What is it?”
“There are a hundred men in the field back there.” Maarten shifted in his seat and looked out the back window. “No. More like two hundred. They’re all kneeling down with their hands on their heads.”
“Seriously?” Jac said.
“Do we stop?”
“No, we focus on the buses.”
“Damn it. I wish I had a camera.”
His camera had been destroyed in the observation post with his knife and compass.
“Jesus!”
“What?”
“Bodies,” Maarten replied, rolling down his window.
Jac didn’t need to look back. There were two more bodies on the shoulder of the road ahead. Serb soldiers loitered around them. When they saw the white jeep, the soldiers stepped in front of the bodies.
“Too late you bastards,” Maarten shouted through the window. “We see them.”
“Shut up, Maarten.”
“There are more men up that road back there. No shirts on. They were marching in line with their hands on their heads.”
“Okay, okay.”
What do I do? What do I do? He had been tasked to escort the buses, not monitor prisoners. But someone needs to know about it.
“Got a notepad?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay. Write it down,” Jac said. “What you see and where it is. We’ll let the sergeant know when we get back.”
They drove past Konjevic Polje. Soldiers sat on the edge of the road two metres apart, watching the woods. Mortar, anti-aircraft guns, and armoured vehicles were parked at intervals. Dozens of empty trucks lined the road. Some Serbs were driving white Dutch carriers and jeeps.
“How are the men supposed to get through that?”
Jac shook his head, a lump caught in his throat. Atif would be trapped if he hadn’t gotten across the road already.
“Buses,” Maarten said, pointing forward.
Jac’s foot pressed down on the accelerator just as a Serb soldier stepped out into the road and raised his hand.
“Goddamn it.”
He slammed on the brakes, screeching to a stop less than a metre from the soldier. Then he turned the ignition off, threw the door open, and jumped out of the jeep, slamming the door behind him. He heard Maarten’s door close.
“Are you trying to get yourself killed?” he shouted at the soldier.
A Serb captain approached him.
“We need your vehicle,” he said in perfect English.
Maarten looked at Jac. “So, don’t cooperate or don’t provoke?”
“Sorry,” Jac said to the Serb captain. “The jeep belongs to the Dutch government. It’s not mine to give to you.”
The captain smiled. A dozen rifles were suddenly levelled in their direction.
“As I was saying, I need your vehicle. If you have any personal gear, I suggest you remove it.”
Jac cursed under his breath and then he turned and walked back to the jeep.
“Get your gear,” he said to Maarten.
Jac reached in and pulled out his pack. The captain walked around the jeep and opened the driver’s door. The other soldier got in the passenger side. The captain said something to a soldier standing beside the jeep and then he climbed in and drove off, leaving the two peacekeepers on the side of the road.
“Well,” Maarten said, sitting down on his pack. “What do we do now?”
THURSDAY: ATIF STAVIC
ATIF TORE THE spindly branches from a pair of trees and squeezed between their trunks. His foot slipped on roots growing like tarantula legs from the base of the tree. He caught himself and stepped forward, but his foot caught in the roots and he tripped and fell. He remained on the ground, willing his body to get up. Every muscle ached and his hands and face were scratched from the trek through the thick brush.
“Okay?”
Atif nodded. He stood up and weaved his foot out from the snaking roots. Tarak offered him a bottle of water and Atif drank it dry.
“The trees thin out from here. We’ll rest ahead.”
Tarak turned, took a step, and stopped.
“What is it?”
“I hear someone talking,” Tarak whispered.
Atif stayed still. Voices drifted among the trees.
“Chetniks?”
“Stay here. I’ll be right back.”
Atif sat down and leaned back against a tree, pulling his legs up against his chest. He watched Tarak creep through the woods and disappear. The voices grew louder.
An argument?
For the first time since he’d fled into the woods, Atif didn’t care who they belonged to. If the voices were Chetniks, it would be over.
What would it be like? Were the men in that field happy it was over? What were they thinking? They must have known they were going to die. Were they scared? Did they hear the rifles fire? Did they live long enough to feel the pain?
The questions prowled through Atif’s mind, chewing at his sanity.
Did they regret the decisions that led them here? Or did they accept it and die thinking of their families? Was it like that for Tata? Did they shoot him in the back and leave him in a field somewhere? Did Tata think of us?
He felt tears rising.
“I won’t leave until you walk out of the woods.”
“But what if I don’t come out of the forest, Mama?” he said to himself.
How would you know what happened to me? Would they just leave me in a field somewhere? No. They were killing too many men to leave them in the open. They would bury them all. They would bury me and Mama will never know.
He remembered the notebook and dug it out of his pack. He flipped through dozens of pages containing dates, numbers, and names until he came to a blank sheet.
Mama, he wrote.
You made the right choice, Mama. I found a soldier and he is helping me but I don’t know if we can make it across the road. There are so many Chetniks and I know what they’re doing. Please don’t be mad at yourself. This was my only chance and I’m glad I tried. It is better this way. Right now, I’m just south of the road somewhere near Nova Kasaba. We’re going to try to cross tonight. Tarak (he’s the soldier) said we have a good chance of making it all the way if we can get across. I believe him and he really knows what he is doing. But I’m scared, Mama. I hate not knowing. I wish we had never gone to Srebrenica. I wish we had gone to Tuzla. Then we could have left for good. We’d be a family in some other country. I don’t care where. I just want to be with you. I love you, Mama. Give Tihana kisses from me and tell her the soldiers will look after her from now on.
Atif stared at the page. He wanted to erase the last part, but the eraser was a useless black stump. He didn’t want his mother to cry. He considered tearing the page up. But it was the only way she’d know, if they found him. If they found the pack.
That’s all that mattered.
Nothing he wrote would keep her from crying. And he wanted to say so much more.
How would I tell her I don’t think I can do it anymore? I don’t want to die like them, Mama.
He made sure his documents were inside the book and then he wrapped it up tight in the plastic bag and stuffed it in the bottom of the pack. There was a high pitched whistle: his head jerked up. Tarak was back, waving at him to come.
“It’s five men,” Tarak said as they walked along. “One of them is injured and can’t go on. He wants to be left near the road where the Chetniks can find him. I’m going to help them bring him to the road and then we can move on.”
“Do they know what will happen to him?”
“I told them. They understand.”
They’re not afraid?
Tarak led Atif into a small clearing. Five grey-haired men sat on the ground, looking warily in their direction. A man carrying a shabby suit jacket stood up and greeted Atif.
“My name is Kemal.” He introduced the others. One man’s leg was bandaged, but the bandage was soaked with fresh blood.
“If you’re ready,” Tarak said. “We should go.”
“I’ve
decided to go with him,” the man named Sead said then gestured towards his brother, Izet. “We’ve spoken. My heart is weak and I can’t walk much farther. The Chetniks will either treat me or shoot me, but it’s better than dying under this cursed sun.”
“I can’t talk him out of it,” Izet said.
“Okay.” Tarak turned to Kemal. “Could you stay with the boy while we’re gone?”
“Certainly,” the man replied.
Atif gazed at the men, his head spinning.
“The Chetniks will either treat me or shoot me.”
“No,” Atif said to Tarak. “I want to go.”
“It’s better if you stayed here, Braco. Rest, eat something.”
“No. I want to go to the road with them.”
“What? No,” Tarak said, stepping closer. “They’ll kill you.”
“So what? It’s better than this. We won’t get across.”
“We haven’t even tried. Why do you want to give up so easily?”
“I’m tired,” he said, trying to catch his breath. “I can’t take it anymore. The guns. The shelling. Snipers. I’ve had enough.”
“You can’t give up after three years. Only a couple of more days and you’ll be safe in Tuzla.”
“Until the Chetniks decide to invade there too. Then where do I go? Sarajevo? Don’t you see? It’s not going to end.”
“What about your mother?”
Atif started to walk north. Tarak stood in the way.
“Leave her out of this.”
“I can’t,” Tarak replied. “Your mother loves you. She’s going to be waiting for you in Tuzla. What am I supposed to tell her when I walk out of the woods without you? That you gave up without even trying?”
“She’ll understand.”
“She won’t understand. She’s your mother. She wants you to grow up, get married, start a family. She wants you to be happy. She wants you to live.”
“I can’t live like this.”
“She’s not asking you to. She’ll take you away from here. You said it yourself. You’ll go west. You’ll be safe there.”
Atif looked away.
“We have to hope, Atif.”
“What about your little sister? Are you going to make her grow up alone, Braco?”
Braco Page 26
