by Verner Jones
“I promise, Marta.” She paused for a minute and contemplated her actions.
“Okay, but first go and bring me some water and something soft to lay on. The floor is too hard and cold.” He had won.
“I will be back in one minute.” Milos left the storeroom and locked the door behind him and ran upstairs to the bedroom to bring a cover from one of the beds. Marta, as soon as he had left the room, leapt over to where her father’s rifle was in the corner. In the dim light she checked his cartridge belt and found the dagger in its leather sheath. She removed the blade and hid it under her ripped dress. She checked the gun belt for shells, and then cursed under her breath when she only found two cartridges in the loops. The rifle would be no use to her without more bullets. But Milos had a gun and that was all that she would need.
When Milos returned Marta had her plan worked out. If she succeeded then her family would be avenged, if not, then she would be joining them within the hour despite Milos’s promises to the contrary.
“Throw the quilt onto the floor and let me drink the water.” Milos gave her the glass of water and did as Marta instructed. “Take off your clothes and lay on the floor,” said Marta as she removed what was left of the top of her dress and let it hang around her waist. Milos hastily took off his clothes, unable to avert his eyes from Marta’s breasts. At last he was going to have her, not like a moment ago full of savagery, but how he had imagined back at school before his father had forced him to leave and he was not able to see her again. He lay on the floor, his erection complete. Marta straddled him and sat down on his groin and began to gyrate her hips. She was going to enjoy this, watching Milos thinking he was going to have her. She let him slide his hands onto her breasts. He was relaxing now, confident that he would soon be climaxing inside her, while each second that passed he was being drawn deeper into Marta’s snare. He was responding fully now to Marta’s stimulation. She ignored the touch of his grimy hands and black fingernails on her body and the smell of grease that wafted into her nostrils. She pushed her breasts down onto his face, hiding her hand from his view as she slipped it around her back and clasped the dagger tightly. She stroked her free hand over his lips and into his hair and repeated the cycle three times. He tried to bite her fingers as she teased her hand over his face. Then she placed her palm on his mouth for the last time, only this time pressing harder, while simultaneously she lifted her body and plunged the knife into his chest.
Milos’s eyes glared at her and a hand clasped hers trying to force the blade out of his body. He was screaming but her hand muffled his pleas and with the weight of her body on top of her hand she forced the knife into his heart.
“Shush, shush, shush. You have to sleep now.” A few seconds later all the struggling ceased. Marta lifted herself upright and saw the blade buried up to the hilt. She drew her face to within six inches from his and spat into his eye. She got to her feet, thinking about the four others in the room next door.
Marta acted quickly. She took the pistol out of his clothing and familiarized herself with it. She found the safety catch and made sure it was in the armed position. Her hand started shaking. She had never killed anyone before and Milos lying dead next to her was unnerving her. Instead she focused on Petrovic's thick black moustache above her, his loins stabbing into her, violating her body, and her hand stilled. She pulled her clothing as best she could over her bosom, opened the door and assertively walked into the kitchen, the gun hidden behind her back. The four men stopped eating and talking and looked at her bewildered, wondering why she was standing in the doorway. She smiled at them, a smile of retribution. They sensed something was wrong. Their questioning looks, their pinched eyebrows betrayed them. They didn’t know what to do, or expect. It made Marta’s smile broaden. This was her moment of revenge.
She pulled her arm straight out in front of her and clasped both hands onto the gun; just as she had seen them do in the movies. Then she squeezed the trigger and the man she didn’t know shot backwards, as if swept onto the floor by some unknown force. She swung her arm with timepiece precision to the point where the next man’s head was in line with her arm. She squeezed again. He flew backwards off his chair and slumped onto the body of his comrade. Petrovic and the pot bellied man simultaneously jumped up from the table. Marta focused on the pot-bellied man and fired again. The centre of his back exploded as the bullet ripped through him and buried itself in the wall. Petrovic lunged at her but Marta was unflinching. She swung her arm around and fired almost point blank into his throat. He dropped to his knees gargling and fighting for his breath. It lasted a few moments then he slumped forward, his head smashing on the stone floor at her feet.
It was five minutes maybe fifteen, Marta didn’t know, before she broke her stare away from Petrovic's distorted face and became aware of her surroundings again. The blood from the hole in Petrovic’s throat had pooled around her feet and soaked into her mat sandals. She raised her head. The room still and quiet resembled mayhem. Marta ignored the corpses of her aggressors, seeing only Gazmet tied grotesquely to the chair his head slumped forward. Never again would she hear her father singing as he chopped logs in the yard, or smell the aroma of the scented tobacco that he smoked in his pipe. She dragged her eyes away from him to her mother, her body lying bent at the waist at ninety degrees to the wall; her blood covered face almost unrecognisable. She was the most innocent of all. She had faith in her community believing through all the troubles which they faced, they would not be torn apart like other towns throughout Bosnia. Her faith had absconded and took her life with it. And Halil, she could see him now even though her back was to him. It would be an image she would never forget. The look on her brother’s face as the men attacked her, him unable to do anything to stop them, his eyes burning into hers desperate to be told what to do. There was never any answer she could give him except to try and save him. He had died obeying her command.
Marta broke the strangle hold that the floor had on her and stepped over Petrovic’s body. She knew she had to move, to do something, but didn’t know what it was she could do. Her own ravaged body was calling out to her to cleanse it of the violations that had been perpetrated against it. She took another step forward and was at the body of the pot-bellied man. She looked down at him. ‘These people don’t belong in our house,’ she thought. She bent down and took his arm and began to drag him out into the yard. One by one Marta removed the bodies of her attackers, piling them one on top of the other. A distorted reasoning guided her decisions. They had violated and destroyed her home. It was not a place where she could live anymore, it was a tomb and she would make it a shrine to her family.
Marta unfastened the chords that bound her father. Tears were streaking down her face as she kissed him for the last time and dragged his body to the middle of the room. Marta took her mother and laid her next to him wrapping his arm around her shoulder and her arm onto his chest. She dragged Halil from the hall and placed him on the other side of her father and clasped their hands together. Marta went to the bathroom and turned on the shower. She removed her ragged dress and stepped under the cold jets and scrubbed at her body, trying to purge the dirt that had stained her soul. The cold water acting like an antidote to her pain-racked body. When the water from the tank had emptied, Marta was still scrubbing her skin. With no water left, Marta stepped out of the shower and dried herself. Then she went into her bedroom and dressed. She packed a carryall with some clothes and personal belongings and went to go downstairs. She paused outside her parent’s room and then entered and collected some treasured belongings. She did the same in Halil's room and then returned to the kitchen and out in to the cold night air. Marta placed her bag on the ground and went into the shed. She came back to the kitchen carrying a can and, poured its contents over her parents and around the room and then replaced the can, on the shelf, in the shed where it belonged. She went to go back inside but hesitated unsure if what she was doing was the right thing. This was her family’s house. Papa had a
lways said that he would never leave his home. Now he never would. Marta brushed her uncertainties aside and re-entered the kitchen. She stood at the feet of her family and said a silent prayer that Allah would accept them into his kingdom. She went to the door carrying a box of matches. She struck one and tossed it onto the petrol then quickly closed the door as the room burst into flames. She collected her bag and without looking back, headed for the main road that led to her uncle’s house in Sarajevo.
2
Stipe Mesic’
Stipe loaded the sacks into the back of the rubbish cart and signalled to the driver to advance to the next pick up point at the rear of the UN compound. He pressed the button that activated the crusher and the hydraulic rams compressed the garbage, pushing it tightly into the compartment. As they approached their final collection point, Stipe kept a sharp look out just in case there was anybody unusual loitering around like a sergeant and a couple of squaddies who might be waiting to have a word in his ear, but Stipe noticed nothing unusual about the rear exit to the khaki-coloured kitchens that fed the battalion of soldiers stationed on the outskirts of Srebrenica.
There was a lot of activity in the compound today. The noise and dust from the heavy artillery units being assembled made the noise of their waste lorry seem insignificant. Stipe liked that. The least attention they attracted the better. Stipe hung off the back of the rear platform holding on with one hand pivoting occasionally to get a better view of the parade ground. Officers were barking out commands to their subordinates, who like ants, went scurrying around fetching and carrying, fulfilling the orders of their superiors in a blur of camouflage and size ten boots. White-painted troop carriers and jeeps with the familiar UN initials emblazoned on their sides were pouring into the depot. Stipe guessed that reinforcements were coming, which would mean more people to be fed, and in turn would, if Ton van der Meen had anything to do with it, mean an increase in their business. The wind caught a lungful of air and offered it to Stipe who breathed in deeply as it rushed into his face. It carried with it the smell of burnt diesel, new uniforms and Dutch cigars, the promise of rich pickings.
Stipe removed his baseball cap and swept his hand through his shoulder-length dark hair and flicked the cap back onto his head, pulling the peak down tightly to just above his eyebrows. He squinted, but not through any action of the sun on his face and darted his eyes to the four corners of the loading bay. He zeroed his attention to the advancing sacks of rubbish like a snipers scope tuning in to its target. There was a pile of black bin liners resting next to the wall. Stipe scanned them for the familiar markings. He could see four that were tied with red string protruding from the pile. Stipe smiled. That was good. If he could see four that probably meant that another two at least were buried underneath. Things were looking up.
The driver pulled to a stop ideally positioned for Stipe to throw the sacks into the back of the waste unit. Stipe crouched then sprang upwards into a reverse somersault landing feet together, arms outstretched, and chest protruding, a perfect 10 and a reminder of how much he missed his days at the Gym. With a sprinters speed he started disposing of the bin bags leaving the ones tied with red tape at the side of the lorry. He compacted the bags and pressed the button that opened the mouth of the waste receptor ready to accept its next consignment. Stipe placed the remaining bin liners carefully into the back of the receptor. At that moment the door to the back of the kitchen swung open, its hinges creaking loudly, making Stipe turn his head abruptly at the sudden intrusion. A goliath stood there; the head chef of 316 Battalion, a man who needed no help carrying a side of beef.
“You alright, Stipe lad? Got your balls twitching did I Stipe lad?” Ton van der Meen advanced towards Stipe laughing at Stipe’s unease. Stipe relaxed seeing the solid, muscular frame and No1 shaven head of his partner.
“You should put some of that second rate cooking oil on those hinges, that’s all its good for,” said Stipe
“Arhh, you’re probably right lad, but it’s not my department, maintenance.” Ton slapped his arm around Stipe’s shoulder and pulled him closer to his bloodstained whites. “How’s things? Need anything special for this week? Got a fresh consignment of troops arrived today, should mean an extra couple of sacks a week. That’s no problem for you Stipe lad is it?” Stipe smiled back, “No problem.” Stipe took a leaf of folded paper out of his pocket and handed it to Ton.
“Here, read this. It would be helpful if you could put your hands on these items. There’s a certain man who would be very appreciative if they were made available to him.” Ton released his hold on Stipe and took the list and briefly read it. “No problem here Stipe lad. Next consignment.” Ton refolded the list and tucked it into his back pocket. “Listen now Stipe lad.” Ton replaced his arm around Stipe’s shoulder. Dwarfing him like some oversized wrestler in a miss-matched bout. A lesser man would have been intimidated by his action, but Stipe just thought of Ton as a gentle giant who could probably knock up a good lasagne.
“We’ve got a new player in the game, Stipe lad.” Stipe broke away from Ton’s grip and squared up to him, interested to know more.
“Who is he?” Ton didn’t answer and carried on as if the question hadn’t been uttered.
“On the route that you take out of the compound you are to stop every second visit at the blue door. There is a pile of card boxes and rubbish for you to collect outside the back entrance. There’ll be something similar on each collection. That’s the quartermaster’s stores lad. Got everything from cigarettes to boot polish inside and you’re going to be receiving half a dozen boxes parked next to that pile of rubbish each week, courtesy of our new partner. Any problem with that, Stipe lad?” Stipe’s face beamed.
“I’ll get onto it straight away.” Stipe reached inside his overall pocket and quickly checked up and down the rear of the buildings. With everything clear, he removed the tightly wrapped bundle of notes and handed them to Ton, then jumped back onto his platform and signalled to the driver to drive on.
“See you tomorrow you fat fucker you.” Ton clenched his fist at Stipe, pinched his eyes, and growled back at him.
“ Not if I see you first, Stipe lad.” Ton put the bundle of notes into his pocket and thought about preparing the list that Stipe had given him. ‘Ah they’ll have to eat mince tonight, the steaks just been taken off the menu, thought Ton, sniggering to himself as he re-entered the kitchen.
The dustbin lorry continued its circular journey around the rear of the compound towards the barbed-wire gates. Stipe saw the pile of flattened boxes outside the blue door as Ton had said. Next to them were three intact boxes sealed with brown tape. A quick look around showed Stipe that the coast was clear. There were hundreds of soldiers milling around on the opposite side of the rows of huts with a cocktail of noises filtering over to the access road where the dustbin lorry was travelling; a far off side show. It seemed like an invisible barrier was erected between him and the parade ground with only the occasional soldier allowed through.
Stipe slapped his hand repeatedly on the side of the lorry. The driver looked in his side mirror to see what was the matter. His eyes caught Stipe’s gaze. Stipe signalled to him, waving his flattened palm downwards and then indicated with a pointed finger to his left. The driver slowed the wagon down, and when they came alongside the crumpled boxes, Stipe slapped the side hard one more time and the driver stopped. Stipe collected the flattened boxes and threw them to the back of the crusher then picked up the sealed boxes one by one and placed them safely next to his other cargo. He walked over to the final box relieved that they would soon be leaving the compound. When he turned to go back to the crusher a UN guard was standing at the back of the lorry waiting for him to return.
Stipe hesitated a moment surprised by the sudden appearance of the guard. He scanned the soldier quickly looking for any aggressive signs. He was young with blonde tufts sticking out of his beret and not much older than himself, about twenty-two. Stipe wondered if this was the new player that T
on had mentioned, and under his breath he cursed Ton for not telling him who it was. Stipe dismissed the new player theory. The man was too young to be a quartermaster or what ever they called the man in charge of the stores. The guard was looking at him. A puzzled expression had come over his face. He switched his rifle into his right hand and started the five or six paces over to where Stipe, who had frozen on the spot struggling to hold the box, stood. Stipe’s mind raced for answers to the inevitable interrogation he was about to receive. ‘What was in the boxes he had been carrying?’ And when the guard opened the lid and looked inside, ‘Where was he supposed to be taking all this to then?’ The guard reached him and placed his rifle against the wall. Stipe stared at him waiting for him to speak.
“Need a hand with that box friend? Looks like you are going to drop it at any minute.” The soldier took a corner of the box in each hand.
“ Where is it going? Back of the truck?”
Stipe fumbled his first words, “ Ye, Yea. They pack these boxes too full. How’s one man supposed to lift them?”
“That is corporals and sergeants for you. Good at shouting, but short on grey matter.” They reached the back of the waste wagon and they chucked the box into the rear. Stipe just hoped that there was nothing breakable inside. The guard paused for a moment then reached into his top pocket and produced a packet of Rothmans and offered one to Stipe. Stipe took one and sparked a light from a box of matches for both of them and then jumped onto his pedestal.
“Thanks for the lift mate.”
“You are welcome,” replied the Dutch soldier. Stipe slapped the wagon hard and the driver pulled away leaving the guard watching them for a few moments before picking up his rifle and continuing with his unauthorized break. Stipe put the cigarette into his mouth and pulled hard on it, letting the smoke penetrate deeply into his lungs. He held it there for a few seconds before exhaling fully taking with it his racing heartbeat. He drew again on the cigarette, a couple of quick short puffs, and he was calm again. He smiled, a twitchy release of a smile at the closeness of his encounter with the soldier, which was followed by a feeling of elation, and excitement, that made him feel cheery.
