by Verner Jones
CONFLICT DIAMONDS
VERNER JONES
Copyright © 2020 by VERNER JONES
All rights reserved. The characters and events portrayed in this book are a work of the imagination by the author and no resemblance to real events is intended. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Verner Jones.
Contents
1. Marta Obric
2. Stipe Mesic’
3. Toni Popovic
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Epilogue
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About the Author
1
Marta Obric
Marta knew they were coming. It was a gut feeling that today would be their turn to be visited by their neighbours. All around her in the hillsides of Zepa she had heard the sporadic fire of automatic weapons, dull and distant, like the onset of a headache that built steadily, throbbing across her temple. Only there was more than a migraine to contend with at the receiving end of all that anger; there was blood, and the death of the innocent.
Marta was tall for a Muslim girl, 5’ 11”, and at 20 years old, was glad she wouldn’t be growing taller. She had a lithe, nimble frame almost that of a ballerina although dancing had never been a dream of hers. Marta smiled a lot, with her eyes, and her lips. Small things amused her. When in full glow her smile illuminated her face, as if an inner light had been switched on, encapsulating anyone within her presence. Today, Marta’s smile had left her.
She placed her washing basket on the garden path and looked across the valley, scouring its contours for any sign of movement. There was none. In the lull between the firing you could almost be fooled that things were normal. The valleys were as green as any month of June she could remember, and the frozen weather vane at the point of the farmhouse her family lived in on the outskirts of Zepa, was still rusted in the same position, revealing only one direction of the wind regardless if it was from the south or the east. One thing had changed though. The tourists had stopped coming. It wasn’t beneficial to visit the rejuvenating health spas when half the population were trying to kill each other. There was no sense in risking death to achieve a cure for rheumatism, and so Marta was left with her mother, Emina, her father, Gazmet, and kid brother, Halil, with only the local stores taking their produce, all orders from the spas having dried up.
Marta unfastened her hair scrunchie and pulled her long, black, braids tighter over her scalp and reaffixed the bobble back into its position, her eyes still looking for any movement on the hills. With growing unease she hurriedly hung the washing on the line, not wanting to stay outside longer than was necessary. She collected the empty basket and headed back to the house, running the last few steps into the kitchen.
“Mama, where are you?” The sound of animated gunfire from her brother’s games-console muffled her cry. She discarded the wash basket and strode out of the kitchen and into the lounge where her brother was sitting glued to the TV, a joystick in his hand.
“Turn that down. Have you seen mama?”
“Upstairs,” shouted Halil, without taking his face away from the screen. Marta hurried to the stairs and took the treads two at a time, turning at the top towards her mother’s bedroom where she could hear her humming a Muslim folk song. Marta entered the room without knocking.
“Mama, I’m worried. I don’t think that we should stay here anymore. The fighting in the mountains is getting nearer and we are unprotected.” Marta’s mother stopped what she was doing and faced her daughter, startled at the worried expression that was etched on her face.
“Listen child, the fighting is between the soldiers. What concern are we to them? We are just simple people who mind our own business and are a threat to no one…”
“But, Mama, I heard more shooting. I think it came from Kucurhodzic’s farm. It is only three kilometres away.” Her mother tried hard to put a reassuring smile on her face and drew closer to her daughter.
“ My darling, Marta. We have lived in this valley for thirty-five years. All the people that live around us are our friends and neighbours. Do you think that they are going to turn on us just because we are Muslims? Haven’t we lived with our Serbian and Croatian countrymen all this time and never had any trouble with them? Let the other people do the fighting if that is what they want. We are going to stay here until all this passes by and we can go back to normal.”
“Mama, I know you don’t want to leave our home, but there are too many Serbian people around Zepa and we don’t know all of them. I have heard that in the town many families have been attacked, and some people, killed. There are many Muslim families that are leaving …”
“I am going to tell you something girl. You should not take notice of rumours and propaganda that is spread around to scare people into running away from their homes. I am not going to give all this up so that somebody else can take it for himself. You had best go downstairs and finish your chores. I don’t want to hear any more about it.” Marta turned her back on her mother and stormed out of the room, consumed with anger at her mother’s ignorance and refusal to accept what was obvious to Marta. Marta thought she would try and reason with her father when he returned from collecting firewood. Marta’s mother watched as Marta left the room, then walked cautiously to the window and peeked through the curtains towards the mountains, her thoughts running wild. Kucurhodzic’s farm did she say.
Night time was starting to spread its black cloak over the valley like a huge bats wing, slowly blocking out the light, and Marta’s father had not returned. When her father journeyed out to collect firewood, he was gone two hours at the most. It was six hours ago that he had left, and Marta, Emina, and Halil were all sitting around the kitchen table, the evening meal growing cold on the stove as they waited anxiously for Gazmet’s return. Marta broke the silence that had built up around them. “Something has happened to papa, I can feel it, mama.”
“Don’t say such a thing you cursed girl,” snapped Emina. “He will be back at anytime now.” Emina stood and marched over to the sink.
“Warm up the pot, Marta and Halil, you prepare the table for eating. We will start dinner and before we have finished your father will be home. Quickly now.” Marta and Halil sluggishly pushed themselves away from the table and went about fulfilling the tasks that their mother had given them. Emina stood at the sink and wrung a damp dishcloth, trying to force the last droplets of water out of its depleted body while she stared out the window into the darkened countryside, her thoughts becoming increasingly oppressive.
Marta was ladling the stew into one of the bowls when she heard a commotion outside. Emina immediately turned her attention to the door and moved briskly towards it. Emina was going to scold that husband of hers for coming home so late and making the whole fa
mily worry after him. He had probably been sleeping in the meadow all afternoon and only now woke up with the firewood that they needed.
“Fill a bowl for your father. He is going to be hungry after staying out this late,” barked Emina.
As Emina approached the door, a violent kick smashed the lock and the door swung open, rebounding off of the wall. A tall, powerfully set man, with a Groucho Marx moustache, sauntered into the room, his elbow raised up to his shoulder, his hand holding a leather leash that trailed out of the doorway. “We have brought you a gift Madame Emina,” said the burly man, who then burst out laughing, accompanied by the sound of several more men laughing outside the door. Marta froze with the ladle suspended between pot and dish. Halil ran to the back of his sister and clung to the hem of her dress.
The burly man, who Marta recognised as Ivan Petrovic, pulled the leash towards him and the battered and blood stained frame of her father came into view, his hands and arms tied to a stick that was threaded across the back of his neck, and with the leash tied around his throat. Marta dropped the ladle onto the table and shouted “Papa!” and watched her mother rush towards Gazmet, her arms outstretched seeking to free his bonds. She looked up at the familiar face of the man she had once called a friend with bewildered eyes. “What have you done to my husband?” screamed Emina. Ivan Petrovic said nothing but continued to laugh. He raised his left hand over his right shoulder and swung a vicious backhand blow into Emina’s oncoming face. The blow sent her reeling sideward, and she fell against the sink and slid onto the floor. Ivan pulled Gazmet into the kitchen and thrust him into a chair. The four other men, who had witnessed the events from the doorway, came into the kitchen praising Ivan for his actions and mocking Emina who was lying dazed on the floor.
Marta knew two of the four men who had entered their house. One was a farmer who lived near to Kucurhodzic’s farm, a pot bellied man of about fifty who always wore a bib and brace, even when Marta had seen him in the town shopping. The other man was Milos, a young man of nineteen whom she had been to school with, but he had dropped out before graduating to work in his father’s garage. They were friends once, but she had rarely seen him over the last couple of years. She noticed one other thing. They were all carrying guns. Marta dropped the pot she was holding onto the table, looked at Milos and cursed him, then ran over to her mother’s side breaking the hold that Halil had on her clothing. Halil started whimpering and backed away into the corner of the room his fists drawn up to his mouth.
“What are you doing here? Get out and leave us alone. We have done nothing to you,” yelled Marta. Milos looked towards Ivan for direction. Ivan glared back at him. “Go then, Milos, she’s over there.” He signalled to the other man with a nod of his head that the two of them should go over to the two women. They started to move towards them. The atmosphere in the room became charged, like the build up of ions before the first stab of lightning. The men were no longer mocking. Instead they had shushed and were drooling at the two women crouched on the floor. Ivan and the pot-bellied man took the leash that was around Gazmet’s neck and pulled it tight down the back of the chair, jerking his head backwards. They wrapped the chord around his body and legs, securing him tightly in the seat. Gazmet groaned, pleading with the men not to hurt his wife and family. Ivan drew his face close to Gazmet's, ignoring his pleas.
“You are a privileged man, Gazmet Obric. You are about to witness the birth of new Serbian blood.” Then Gazmet’s world exploded for the second time that day, as the finger of lightening was unleashed.
Ivan and the pot-bellied man joined the other two and in a joint assault latched on to the two women and dragged them towards the kitchen table. They struggled, lashing out with their fists and their feet, all the time screaming at their assailants to let them go. With one sweep of his arm, Petrovic scattered the crockery off of the table and the five men, wrestled the women onto their backs onto the wooden surface in front of Gazmet’s eyes. Two men held Marta’s and Emina’s arms outstretched above their heads while the rest ripped at their clothing. They were powerless to do anything to stop them. Marta turned and saw Halil crying hysterically next to the hall door.
“Run, Halil! Run! Quickly, quickly.” Halil turned and fled through the doorway and down the hall to the main exit door. The pot bellied man witnessed Halil’s attempt to escape and drew a gun from the back of his overalls and fired two bullets into the back of Halil. Halil jerked forward and careered into the entrance door and slid down the wood panels, his hand clawing for the handle as the red stain on the door grew longer and longer.
“We don’t want young Halil going away and missing all the fun,” said the pot-bellied man. He slipped the gun back into his rear pocket and unfastened his trousers, concentrating on his prize, the body of Marta’s mother. Marta crumpled inside as she watched Hail’s hand twitch for the last time and fall by his side.
For the next two hours they took it in turn to rape Marta and Emina, jeering and mocking the women and compounding Gazmet’s humiliation. There was hatred emanating from Gazmet’s eyes as he was forced to watch people whom he had once called friends transformed into wolves destroying his family. He screamed at them, pleaded with them to stop until his voice became hoarse, but his words were like water poured into hot sand that disappeared without trace. But soon they would be gone and they would be left alone again. They should have left Zepa long ago, gone and stayed with his brother in the north. That’s what he would do. He would take his wife and daughter away from this evil place and hope that in time they could rebuild their lives.
Gazmet watched as the men, finished committing their atrocities and re-arranged their clothing. Petrovic pulled each woman in turn off of the table and threw them across the floor.
“Sit there against the wall and do not move,” he ordered Marta and Emina. Petrovic picked up his rifle that he had propped against the larder and came close to Gazmet, placing his boot on Gazmet’s leg and resting his elbow and chin on his knee.
“What do you think, Gazmet? Not a bad performance by your two whores was it?” Gazmet bit the inside of his lip to stop him from retaliating. The pot-bellied man came over to Petrovic’s side.
“What are we going to do with them now, Ivan?” Petrovic looked at his friend and smiled, then turned back to Gazmet.
“What do you do with rubbish at the end of the day? Let me tell you, Gazmet. You throw it out to be collected.” With that, Petrovic took his rifle and walked over to Emina and shot her in the head. He aimed his rifle at Marta and was about to kill her when Milos jumped in front of Petrovic.
“Don’t kill her please, Petrovic. We were at school together. Let her live.” Petrovic stared at Milos, and then his face softened.
“You want her to be your own little harlot hey, Milos? You can have her one more time before we go that is all.” Petrovic turned to Gazmet. “I think that right now you probably want to join your wife hey, Gazmet?”
“You bastard, Petrovic. You are demons all of you and you are all going to burn in hell where you belong.” Petrovic raised his rifle and shot Gazmet twice through the chest.
“That is enough from you, Gazmet.”
Marta, her mind wandering aimlessly through dark corridors of disbelief, was suddenly snatched back into the present as she witnessed the murder of her mother and father. Something snapped within her releasing hidden strengths, forcing her to retaliate. She got to her feet as Petrovic lowered his rifle, leaping across the room onto Petrovic's back clawing his face and biting him like a wild animal. Petrovic slung her off his shoulder aided by Milos, who clasped his arms around her trying to restrain the growling and cursing Marta.
“Take your little harlot into another room and do with her what you will. We are going from here in fifteen minutes.” Petrovic turned to one of the other men and said, “Put that pot back on the stove. We may as well eat before we leave.” One of the men took the cooking pot that Marta had prepared earlier to the cooker, while Milos carried Marta still shouting
her hatred at Petrovic into an empty storeroom.
“Stop shouting you fool or Petrovic will kill you for sure.”
“You scum. You filthy piece of dirt. You are going to kill me anyway so why should I be quiet?”
“If you do as I say I will persuade Petrovic to let you live. Now shut up.” Marta slumped down on a drum of cooking oil and cried for the loss of her family and knew that if she were dead she would never be able to avenge their deaths. She forced calm onto her emotions and tried to think clearly. Her life depended on it. She stared at Milos, her only hope of survival.
“What do you want from me, Milos?”
“Ever since we were at school together I have dreamt about you. You must let me have you without force and if you do that I will make Petrovic leave you alone.” The thought of Milos raping her again repulsed her, but Marta pushed that thought to the back of her mind. For the first time she registered her surroundings. They were in the storeroom, the room where her father kept his hunting rifle and cartridge belt. She looked into the corner where he kept it and it was standing there with his jacket hooked over the barrel. But how could she get to it, and if she did and managed to kill Milos, the others would be in the room within seconds and she would have gained nothing only her own death. Marta remembered that on the cartridge belt her father had a long thin knife. That was her only hope. Marta bowed her head as she spoke. “If I do as you say you will let me live won’t you, Milos?”
