Braco

by Lesleyanne Ryan

  Salko disappeared through the bushes and then returned, waving to the others to follow. Ratib scaled the embankment and vanished.

  “Don’t stop for anything, Atif,” Tarak said. “Nothing. Do you understand?”

  Atif looked up, his face drained of blood.

  “Yeah. Nothing.”

  “Good. Go. Stay ahead of me.”

  The boy hesitated when the ground shook for the fifth time.

  “Go,” Tarak said, pushing Atif up over the embankment. He followed, pausing on the far side of the bushes to look left and right. The thick greenery ended on the edge of a wide furrowed field. Tarak swore under his breath and looked behind him. The road sat three metres above them. He saw no one but knew the Serbs would be able to see them as they crossed the field.

  The last grenade popped.

  Tarak tore after Atif through the heavy, damp soil. His feet sank deep into every furrow.

  Not fast enough.

  When he caught up to Atif, he looked back. A dozen men and three trucks crowded the far side of the road. The Serbs were still facing south. They were shouting and firing their weapons at random into the forest.

  Don’t turn around. Tarak stared at the trees in front of him. Just a few more seconds.

  Salko and Ratib vanished into the forest. On his left, the other three men were spread out, struggling in the deep, sticky soil.

  Sixty metres to go.

  Tarak focused on a large beech tree at the edge of the field. It was directly in front of him and he was desperate to touch it. The voices behind him changed. Rifle rounds pierced the air above them.

  Forty metres.

  “Keep going, Atif,” he shouted to the boy. “I’ll be right behind you.”

  Tarak flipped the safety off on his rifle and turned. Soldiers were pouring over the embankment like water breaching a levee. Trucks revved their engines. The Serbs raised their rifles. Without bothering to aim, Tarak fired his rifle, spitting out the entire magazine in seconds. The Serbs dropped to the ground. Tarak turned around and sprinted the last few metres, slapping the beech tree as he passed it. Atif had stopped inside the treeline, gulping air.

  “Keep going. They’re coming.”

  The boy’s eyes widened and he ran.

  Tarak took one last look. The three men were nowhere to be seen. At least a dozen helmeted heads bobbed around the edge of the field.

  Will they follow us into the woods?

  He ran ahead of Atif, zigzagging his way between half-dead trees that didn’t provide a lot of cover but didn’t slow them down.

  “This way,” he said to Atif, shifting to the right. He searched for more cover, but the woods had thinned. He shifted their path again, hoping the troops following them would run in a straight line.

  “I hear a truck,” Atif said, slowing.

  Tarak grabbed a tree and swung around, listening. The truck rumbled unseen in front of them, growing louder. Behind them, voices drifted through the trees. Tarak remained still, until the sound of the truck faded, then shifted direction. They broke out onto a narrow dirt road.

  Deserted.

  Tarak patted Atif on the back and pointed straight ahead.

  “Keep going.”

  The boy hesitated long enough to pull in a mouthful of air and then he crossed the road. The shouting on the left grew closer. Gunshots rang out in the distance. The terrain now sloped downwards and they picked up speed. They ran and slid through thickening brush and trees. Atif slammed against a tree and stopped.

  “I’m stuck,” the boy said, yanking at the backpack.

  Tarak reached under Atif’s left arm. A branch had found its way through the strap on his pack. He pushed Atif back, but the pack didn’t move.

  “Leave it,” Tarak said.

  Atif flipped his arms back, and left the pack hanging from the tree. They slid down the nearly vertical slope. Tarak broke through the bushes first, coming to rest on a wide gravel road. A river bordered the far side. Beyond that lay another uncultivated field.

  “Shit!”

  Suddenly, the ground around Tarak’s feet spit dirt. He turned, raising his empty rifle. The Serb truck had stopped up the road. Three soldiers were running towards them. He heard grunts behind him and turned around. Two soldiers dropped from the woods farther down the road. They raised their rifles and ran towards Tarak and Atif. Another soldier came out of the woods closer to them. Atif crouched at Tarak’s feet and wrapped his arms around Tarak’s leg. Tarak swung his rifle right, left, and then right again, trying not to lose his balance. The boy clutched tightly, his head down.

  “Drop the weapon,” one of the soldiers shouted.

  Tarak held it high, shifting aim between the three Serbs approaching from the truck. The pain in his stomach told him he and Atif had run out of options.

  “Hey, Turk.”

  The voice was nearly at his shoulder. As he was turning, the butt of a rifle came down on his face.

  The blue sky blackened.

  A voice shrieked.

  THURSDAY: NIKO BASARIC

  NIKO STOOD ON the road, staring at the house where Ivan had dragged the girl. The screaming had stopped an hour ago. Niko had no idea if the girl was dead or alive. Anton and Pavle remained next to the guardrail. Vladen sat on the front steps. Twice Drach had come out and stood on the porch, waving to them to join him and Ivan; twice they had declined.

  “You see, Petar,” Niko whispered, leaning close to the recruit’s ear. “They’re all just talk.”

  Petar jerked his head towards the house. “Yeah? What about Drach and Ivan?”

  Niko straightened up and rubbed his nose.

  What about them? He watched for movement inside the house. Are they asleep?

  Sweat dribbled past his eyes. He took off his helmet and rubbed his head with a towel. Then he looked at the photo of his family.

  The girl in that house is someone’s daughter, someone’s sister. What do I do?

  Vehicles rumbled in from the east. Niko took a step forward; a train of buses crested the hill in the distance. He stepped back and tapped Petar on the shoulder.

  “Get up.” Petar got to his feet and Niko led him across the street. “Do me a favour. Keep the last bus here.”

  Petar stared at Niko, his eyelids heavy.

  “What? Why?”

  “Just do it,” Niko said.

  He hopped over the short concrete fence and walked across the lawn. Vladen stood and held out his arm when Niko tried to climb the steps.

  “Where do you think you’re going?”

  “Inside.”

  “Sergeant said to leave them alone.”

  “He can go to hell,” Niko muttered, slapping Vladen’s arm away.

  The young soldier tried to block Niko’s path.

  “He said to leave them alone.”

  Niko’s nostrils flared. He shifted his rifle on his shoulder and then reached up and grabbed Vladen’s collar, pulling him close enough to smell the rancid smoke and plum brandy on his breath.

  “Listen to me, you loudmouth coward,” Niko whispered. “I’m not going to The Hague for something those two bastards did. I’m guessing you’re thinking the same thing.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “News for you, little boy. They can get you for doing nothing to stop them, too.”

  Niko released Vladen and pushed him away.

  “Help or don’t help, but don’t stop me.”

  Vladen sat back down on the steps. Niko licked his lips and then stepped inside. Silent and still. The floor creaked under his feet.

  They must be asleep, but where?

  Placing his feet heel to toe, he moved forward and peered inside the room on his right. It was empty; the pieces of a smashed table littered t
he floor. He sidestepped to the left, took two steps forward, and looked into a larger room. Drach was asleep on a couch on the far side. Niko leaned in. Ivan lay sprawled over a shorter couch, snoring.

  But where’s the girl?

  Niko backed up into the hallway. He looked at the stairs.

  Damn it.

  He tiptoed towards the steps, grasped the banister, and shook it. Rock solid.

  Staying close to the banister, he crept up the stairs, stopping to listen on each step. No one stirred. He reached the landing and moved towards the first room. The girl was curled up on a ragged mattress in the corner, covered with a filthy sheet. Niko shifted his rifle to his back and stepped inside. She didn’t move.

  Is she alive?

  He crossed the room and touched her shoulder. She flinched and Niko jumped. He watched her pull the sheet up to her neck, whimpering.

  My God. She’s just a child. Sixteen? Seventeen?

  Niko raised a finger to his mouth. The girl stared at him and then her eyes moved to the door.

  “Asleep,” he whispered. “The buses are coming. I can put you on one, but we have to go now.”

  She sat up, holding the sheet around her with one hand. He reached out, took the other hand, and helped her to her feet. When they were outside the room, Niko raised a finger to his lips and pointed to the stairs. The girl nodded and came closer; she leaned against him and he half-walked, half-carried her down the steps. When they reached the bottom, he looked inside the large room. Drach and Ivan were still asleep. He could feel the girl tense under his arms.

  Niko pointed to the front door. Hand in hand, they walked quickly through it and down the front steps. She tripped, skinning her knee. Niko scooped her up and carried her over the concrete fence. Petar stood next to a bus. The door was open and the driver was waiting next to him.

  Footsteps pounded the steps of the house behind them. Niko held his breath and crossed the shoulder.

  “What are you doing, Turk?”

  Niko dropped the girl into the driver’s arms.

  “Take care of her,” Niko said. The driver scaled the steps and passed the girl off to a woman who helped the girl inside. Niko waved at the driver as he sat in his seat. “Go. Now!”

  The driver’s eyes shifted to Ivan as he shut the door and hit the accelerator.

  Ivan grabbed Niko and yanked him back.

  “You stupid Turk.”

  Drach swung his fist into Niko’s jaw. He staggered back and collapsed where the bus had been sitting moments earlier. Drach and Ivan followed. They stood over him and Drach spit, just missing his face.

  “Just what were you thinking, you goddamn fool?”

  Niko climbed to his feet, rubbing his chin.

  “There can’t be that many buses left. I just thought it was better if she left now.” He gazed at Drach. “Or were you planning something else?”

  Drach pulled his pistol and grabbed Niko by the collar, jamming the barrel into his temple.

  “Do something like that again and dead Turk whores will be the least of your problems.”

  Drach shoved Niko to the ground and stuffed the pistol back in its holster.

  “Go sit with your pet and don’t move.”

  Niko got up, glared at the sergeant, and turned away. He walked across the street and lowered himself next to Petar. The sound of the accelerating bus in the distance made him smile as he rubbed his aching jaw.

  THURSDAY: MICHAEL SAKIC

  MIKE LOOKED AT the three photos drying on his bed. He raised the bottle of vodka to his lips and drank until his stomach protested. Then he walked to the end of the bed and stared into a fractured mirror on the wall.

  “He said it wasn’t your fault,” he shouted at the mirror.

  He swallowed more vodka.

  “But he died when he did because of me. I robbed him of the last minutes of his life.”

  He slammed his hand against the wall. A piece of glass tumbled from the mirror.

  Mike turned away and stared at the photos again. Jure had wanted to stay with the peacekeepers when Mike returned to Kladanj, so he dropped Robert off and drove straight to a man who had developed photos for him in the past. This time Mike paid extra to use the dark room himself. He didn’t want anyone to see the pictures.

  Not yet. Maybe never.

  The Serb sergeant shooting the wounded man filled all three photos. Blurred but recognizable. As were the bits of brain and skull flying away from the man’s head.

  He drank again.

  “I’m sorry. Goddamnit all. I’m so sorry.”

  He backed up against the wall and slid to the floor, crying.

  The door opened.

  Mike’s head flipped back and struck the wall, tears still wet on his cheeks.

  “Christ, Mike, where have you been?”

  Brendan dropped his bag on the floor. Mike kept his eyes low.

  “You’re drinking again?” He tore the half-empty vodka bottle from Mike’s hands. “This isn’t what I’m paying you for.”

  Without a word, Mike crawled to his feet and stumbled, bent over, to the bathroom. He emptied his stomach into the toilet. A wet towel appeared next to him. Mike rubbed his face raw and then he threw up the rest of the vodka. When he went back into the bedroom, Brendan was sitting on the edge of the bed, holding up the damp photos.

  “What the hell happened?”

  Mike wanted to march across the room, rip the photos from Brendan’s hands, and tear them into a million pieces, but his feet refused to cooperate. With the help of the wall, he managed to collapse into the closest chair.

  “Where’d you get these shots, Mike?”

  He told Brendan everything. The trip to Kladanj, the soldiers, the refugees, and the execution.

  “The soldier is right,” Brendan said after a long pause. “It’s not your fault.”

  “It is my fault,” Mike shouted back. “I have no way of knowing if those shots were for the other two men. They were wounded. Maybe the Serbs got someone to carry them to Kladanj. Or back to the Dutch in Srebrenica. I don’t know.”

  “What about the men in the ditch? Christ, Mike, you’ve heard enough to know they were going to shoot them anyway.”

  “He would have lived another ten minutes. Twenty minutes. He could have prayed. I robbed him of that. I robbed him of a chance to think about his family. Because of me….”

  Mike trailed off, wiping a tear from his cheek. Brendan pointed to the photos, shaking his head.

  “No. You didn’t rob him of anything.” He held up one photo. “Do you know the last thing to go through his mind?”

  Besides the bullet?

  Brendan held the photo closer to Mike.

  “Look at the picture. Look at his eyes. He’s looking at you. He knew you were going to take the picture. He knew it was going to be evidence. A record of what the Serbs are doing to them. Don’t you think he gladly gave up those twenty minutes, knowing it meant the world would see this?”

  “I can’t publish that.”

  “Yes, you damn well can publish this. You have to. The French and Americans are sitting with their thumbs up their asses because they don’t know who to believe. The Serbs are saying they are only fighting the soldiers. They’re saying the men are going to be treated in accordance with the Geneva Convention. The French and the Americans are drinking that Kool Aid and they’re going to keep drinking it while the Serbs march into Zepa and Gorazde. Hell, there are rumours now the Ukrainians are being pulled from Zepa.”

  Mike looked up.

  “What?”

  “Yeah. They’re giving up the safe areas. Just like that general wanted them to when he spoke to the UN in May.”

  “You think this was all planned?”

  “Look, I don’t kn
ow. But when something stinks, there’s usually a lot of shit around.”

  “Publishing that photo won’t make any difference. The Serbs will just say they executed a war criminal. Or they’ll call it staged. Heck, they still think Capa staged his photo.” Mike drew in a long breath. His stomach settled. “No. All this will do is call my objectivity into question. None of them would trust me anymore. I’d be thrown out of the country.”

  Mike leaned forward, rubbing his face in the towel. His thoughts made sense again. He wouldn’t publish the photo, but he wasn’t going to give up. He couldn’t help the men out there now. That much was clear, but he could ensure the Serbs didn’t get away with it. Somewhere, somehow, he was going to prove to the world the Serbs were murdering thousands while Western leaders sat back and did nothing.

  He dropped the towel and walked over to the bed. He took the photos from Brendan’s hand and tore them up. Brendan leapt forward, trying to stop him.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I still have the negatives, but this is going nowhere for now. I’ll get something else. Something better.”

  Something that will honour that man’s death.

  THURSDAY: ATIF STAVIC

  THE TRUCK BUCKED and Atif felt his tailbone crack against the metal floor. He clenched his teeth, pulling in a sharp breath against the pain. His arms pulled his legs tighter against his chest and he kept his eyes away from the two Serb soldiers standing next to the tailgate. He looked over at Ratib, bruised and bleeding from a gash on his jaw. Atif had said nothing to him since the soldiers loaded him into the truck. Tarak lay between him and Ratib, still unconscious. Blood trickled from his nose.

  Tarak stirred. A Serb kicked him in the leg.

  “Wake up, filthy pig.”

  Tarak’s hand crossed his face, wiping away the blood. He opened his eyes, blinking.

  “I think they broke your nose,” Atif whispered.

  Tarak pulled himself up next to Atif. “No, it’s fine. Where are we?”

  “No idea.”

  “Ratib?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What about Salko?” Tarak asked.