by Verner Jones
“You too, Stipe.” Stipe jumped down from the truck and slammed the door behind him and started to run the few streets to his parent’s house. When he reached the door it opened without him knocking it. His father stood there a look of relief softening his furrowed brow. “Come in Stipe, come in. Have you heard the news?”
“Yes, Papa. I saw the army approaching the Potocari road on my way back here. Come on, we have no time to loose. We have to gather our things and get out of here.” Stipe’s mother came into the room, and seeing Stipe, ran to him and embraced her son closely. Her eyes were red and puffy and she had a crumpled handkerchief in her hand. “I’m glad you’re back home son.” She relaxed her hold on him. “Is it true they are coming and we have to run like dogs and leave our home and everything?” Stipe winced inside and looked over to his father for the reply.
He was a short, stocky man, with piercing green eyes, who only recently had needed to start wearing glasses. He had worked in the mines for thirty years. For the hard work that the miners did they were paid six months extra pay each year that was deposited in a pension fund. When President Tito died, Milosevic scrapped the idea, and his father had lost everything. Now what little he did have, his home and a few belongings, was being torn away from him. He looked into his father’s eyes. It was the first time ever he had seen them melt. His father blinked several times and rubbed the back of his hand over his lids, taking a tear with it. He came over to them and put an arm around both of them and gently pulled his wife’s head close to his.
“Yes! We have to run if we are going to survive.” His strained answer carried with it the death of forty-five years of building a family home. The regime had taken it all. “Now we have not to dwell on things. We have to be strong if we are to survive. We are Mesic family. Nothing can break that.” He tightened his grip around their shoulders enforcing his statement, and then separated from them. His words strengthened and united them and Stipe felt an immense pride for his father. “Jasmina, pack our things. Only what we can carry, and whatever food we have. Stipe, you come with me. They are holding a rally in the town square in about half an hour to see what we can do. Don’t worry we are going to be all right. We have to be careful and make the right decision. We will be back in one hour.” Jasmina smiled at her husband and knew that she still loved him as much now as she did when they had first married. “I’ll get the cases,” said Jasmina. “We’ll be back soon momma,” then Stipe and his father left for the meeting.
The meeting lasted two hours. The brave and the foolish had tried to persuade the men to make a stand against the Serbs. ‘Better to die like men than to run like sheep,’ one official said. This notion was rejected. Others thought they might find refuge in the UN compound, but Stipe told them all what he had heard from Ton and that idea was abandoned. In the end it was decided that as many who wanted would leave at dusk and try to sneak through the Bosnian Serb held villages to the west, and try to reach a safe haven in the government held territories. It was the only optimistic chance of survival they had. A show of hands confirmed the decision. It was arranged that those who wanted to leave should be at Kukoc’s farm on the outskirts of the town by five o’clock. Stipe and his father left to collect Jasmina and tell her their decision.
It was an emotional farewell. The sound of the latch clasping the entrance door closed had the ring of finality about it. Stipe wondered if he would ever see his home again. They reached Kuckoc’s farm to find the fields spawning a fresh crop. There was a mass exodus taking place, not just a couple of thousand as he had expected, but there were more like eight or nine thousand standing dotted around the fields and paddock. Marshals organized the people into two columns and after an hour they started the journey towards the occupied areas and the government held territories. Stipe recognized many of the people who were fleeing the town. Some of them were friends he had procured goods for. Their faces now told a different story to the one he had seen when he had delivered food parcels and toiletries. Before there was hope that things could get better. Now that had been replaced by despair.
They made headway as best as they could. Stipe’s mother refusing to let her husband carry the entire load. If they were in this together then she would carry her share of the luggage. She was a proud, stubborn woman, made of stronger metal than most. By midnight the convoy halted at the edge of a forest and orders were given to bed down for the night. Stipe rolled out blankets and the three of them drew close to each other, forming a barrier as best they could against the cold.
In the morning they arose early, stiff and hungry. They opened tins of ham and beans that Ton had packaged up for Stipe and ate a cold breakfast, sharing a little with another family who had no food at all. Stipe thought how much he was indebted to Ton. They had enough food for a week and if things went well they would be in a safe haven in three or four days. After packing their bedding they rejoined the convoy. Stipe’s father was doing his best to keep everyone’s morale up, and to some extent it was working. A couple walking with them had even managed to smile, forgetting momentarily the thought that was lingering on everyone’s mind that the Serb army might be coming after them.
After two days of trudging through forests and diverting past unfriendly villages, the convoy had managed to remain on course and make good progress, and the dread fear that the Serb army was chasing them started to wane. There was a renewed feeling of optimism filtering its way down from the front-runners to the end-tailers. People were talking to each other again, encouraging and reassuring those who were anxious about their plight.
They reached a clearing with a tarmac road running through it. Word was passed down the line that they were only one more day away from safety and that they had to cross the road as quickly as possible as Bosnian Serbs patrolled it in armoured vehicles. Stipe crossed keeping a protective arm around his mother and scoured the road and surrounding high ground for any Serbian forces. For a moment he thought he caught a glint of sunlight reflecting off a mirror. It came and went in an instance; so much so that he wasn’t sure if he had seen anything at all, thinking his mind was playing tricks on him. He looked in the direction he thought he had seen the light and could see nothing. He quickened his pace feeling a fresh unease about being exposed out in the open terrain. Two hours later everyone had crossed over and were following the path of a stream with trees on one side and a slowly ascending hill on their right. They were heading into a valley. Stipe lit a cigarette and offered one to his father. “Thanks son. Got to be your last pack isn’t it?”
“I’ve got half a carton left. Here, put these in your pocket.” Stipe handed a packet of Rothmans to his father. He looked up at his son. “Haven’t you got any Benson’s?”
“I’ll pick you a packet up next time I go to the shop,” Stipe nudged his father in the ribs and they both for a moment forgot the predicament they were in and shared a light-hearted exchange together.
As they walked along Stipe reminisced about the times they had gone fishing together, and when he had been caught playing truant from school and received a leathering from his fathers belt. It was the first and last time that he decided to skip school. There were fond memories and lot’s of them. Stipe had always enjoyed a close relationship with his father with him being the only child.
As they talked a far off movement on the edge of his vision made him look up. Then he turned his head to the sound of gunfire coming from way back down the column. Suddenly people started running in all directions, as the movement he noticed a moment ago, turned into an advancing force of Serbian troops. There was a distant sound of rapid gunfire and suddenly all around him people were falling to the ground. The crowd ran like startled ants as panic ensued. Those who had weapons started to return the fire. Stipe grabbed his father and mother’s hand, dropping everything they held, and started to run through the stream towards the trees. Bullets whistled past them within meters of striking their bodies and thudded into the mud embankment kicking splatters of dirt into the air. A women
fell in front of them colouring the stream red from a hole in her chest. Jasmina screamed. “Keep running! Keep running. We can do nothing for them.” Shouted Stipe’s father and he clenched his grip on Jasmina’s hand tighter and sidestepped the corpse. They were caught in an ambush. Gunfire was coming at them from two directions. The enemy had picked their moment to strike, waiting until they could catch the convoy in a pincer movement.
They reached the opposite edge of the stream. The trees were fifty meters away. Stipe’s heart was pounding. He had no fear for his own life, but the thought of loosing his mother or father terrified him. He had to get them into the cover at any cost.
Suddenly Jasmina’s hand was ripped from his grip and she fell flat to the ground. Stipe stopped two paces in front and turned to help her to her feet again. Stipe’s father was bending down helping her to stand up. There was a growing patch of red in the middle of her stomach. Stipe ran to the other side and thrust her arm around his neck and hauled her to her feet.
“Come on momma, we can make it.” Each breath she took was rasped. Her eyes filled with terror as more bodies fell around her. Stipe’s father had her other arm in both his hands keeping her upright, pushing them forward to the trees. A sudden thud sent them all crashing onto the mud. Stipe prized himself from under his mother to see his father bleeding profusely from a wound close to his heart. “No! No! Stipe screamed.” His father was on his knees, crawling back to the side of his wife whose breaths were becoming shallower. “Papa, we’ve got to get to the trees. I’ve got to get you and momma there. We can make it.” Stipe’s father looked up at his son, the piercing green eyes blazed sharper than ever. “Run, Stipe. Save yourself. Go son, go. Stipe froze, mortified as to the reality of the events. His father crawled the last few feet and cradled his dying wife in his arms for the last time, seeing only the princess he had married forty years ago in the village church of his hometown, and then his breathing stopped.
Stipe became oblivious to his surroundings staring at his dead parents until a bullet slammed into the embankment inches from his foot. Instinctively he stood up and ran. He had to do what his father had told him to do. He had to reach the trees and buy his father fresh cigarettes, the ones he always smoked.
6
Food was scarce; the water only ran intermittently and for the most of the time there was no electricity. Sarajevo was an open artery with no doctor around to fix it. The UN supplies that were air lifted into the airport and the convoys that ran the gauntlet along the notorious Mt Igman road, were the only supply of food into the storehouses in the Dobrinja suburb. The queues for food and water were long and dangerous. Snipers constantly took shots at the people queuing there, but if you left your place you starved, if you stayed you risked being the picture in the snipers scopes. Sometimes you could wait for hours then find that the bakery or supply point had ran out of food, and the whole morning queuing had produced nothing. It could be days before word of another bakery or collection point had received a delivery, and the whole process of queuing and hoping the snipers didn’t get you would start again. That’s why whenever Marta and Damir left to go for food, it was always preceded with a prayer.
Damir arose early and dressed quietly. There was to be a delivery at the huge bakery where his friend Rizo worked as an oven operator, and Rizo had told him the night before over a glass of Slivovitz brandy, to be there early. By nine o’clock there would be a queue half a mile long if he wasn’t. Damir silently descended the stairs, not wanting to wake any of his family. He’d started to make himself a hot drink before venturing out into the early morning darkness, when a voice spoke to him from the portal of the kitchen door. He turned, startled to see Marta standing in the opening.
“What are you doing up, did I wake you?”
“No, I had a bad dream that’s all and I could not get back to sleep. So I came down stairs to sit for a while. Why are you up so early Uncle Damir?”
“I am going to the bakery this morning. My friend tipped me off about a delivery they will be recieving.” He finished stirring his drink and as an after thought asked Marta if she wanted one. She declined his offer. Damir walked over to the wooden table in the centre of the kitchen and beckoned Marta to join him. They both sat for a while, Damir concerned about the mental anguish he knew his niece was going through. This was the third night he knew of where Marta had been unable to sleep.
“You know there will be a day, I hope, not far off, when we will be able to put all this madness behind us and return to a life that will be normal again. And I want you to be part of that life here with us Marta. You have to try and be strong. You have suffered a great deal I know, but it is only the future we can live in, not the past. I am always here for you if you want to talk to me anytime.” Marta reached out and squeezed her uncle’s hand. “Thank you, Damir. I will remember that.” But the feelings inside her were not ones to be expressed with words. They demanded action, payment for the future that she had planned for herself and that she felt was banished from her. How she was going to accomplish it she didn’t know, only that one day an opportunity would come and she would be ready to grasp it with both hands, she just hoped she could kill some more Serb rapists along the way.
Damir finished his drink and stood up to leave. “I’m coming with you.” Marta stated. Damir frowned. He liked having his niece keep him company during the long wait in the queues, but it was dangerous and he didn’t like to put her at risk. Still they would be early, probably first in line, and would not have to wait long. He relented. “Okay. Dress quickly. We don’t want to miss all those cream cakes do we?” Marta smiled. There was only ever bread being baked at the bakery these days and she tiptoed up stairs and reappeared a minute later ready to leave. She picked up a shopping bag and they left the house for the fifteen-minute walk to where Rizo worked. They neglected to ask Allah for his protection on their journey before they left.
When they reached the bakery only a small queue had formed. It was a risky area to be in. There had been many people killed in these streets over the last two months. It seemed the snipers had moved position and were targeting this vicinity. The streets were sparsely populated. A few people rode by on bicycles and then stopped as they saw people starting to form a line along the pavement. Across the road opposite them, a man wrapped in blankets stirred from an uneasy sleep in a doorway of a locked shop, reaching out an arm to cover an exposed leg with his blanket. Marta watched him and felt sorry. The city was full of dislodged people with no homes to go to, she thought.
A young man walked towards them his head bowed and long hair hanging limp. He looked ragged and had an unkempt appearance. His clothes were ripped and soiled and he hadn’t shaved for days. He wasn’t wearing any warm clothes, which made Marta think as he joined the queue, that he was standing in all that he owned. A flock of birds started to sing a dawn chorus in the trees opposite. It was daylight before she knew it.
The doors opened and the first few people of the now extensive queue rushed in, greeted by wafts of freshly baked bread that only served to compound the feeling of hunger that Marta had. Rizo saw his friend Damir from the glass panel in the swing doors of the kitchen and came out to greet him. He had a sealed carrier bag in his hand. He offered his free hand over the counter and Damir shook it. “How are you my friend?”
“I’m fine thanks Rizo.”
“I’m glad you got here today I have some things from my wife that I was told to give back to you, and you are to thank Amra kindly for lending them to her.” Rizo winked and handed the package to Damir. “See you tonight round my place at eight. We still have half a bottle of Slivovitz to drink.”
“I’ll be there,” said Damir realizing what was in the package.
They took the allotted amount of bread they were allowed and left the bakery. Damir slung the straps of his bag over his shoulder.
“What is in the package Uncle?”
“Tomorrows breakfast,” replied Damir as they paused at the pavement to cross the
road.
At that moment there was a crack in the distance and a rush of air as a bullet whizzed past Marta hitting Damir. He spun around and fell backwards onto the pavement. There was the sound of breaking glass as the bullet continued its journey into a shop-front window. Everyone in the queue ran for shelter, either inside the bakery or behind the trees, or wherever they could find to hide. Only the ragged young man ran forward to help Marta and her uncle. His reactions were swift. “Quick, Let’s get him up and across the road, said the young man. “There will be another bullet coming any second. “Put his arm around your neck and run.” Marta didn’t think, but did as her Samaritan ordered her. The man clasped Damir’s arm, and both of them started for the other side of the road, out of view of the sniper. Another bullet was fired and screeched past the back of Marta’s head and ricocheted off of the tarmac. “Bastard Serbian snipers,” shouted Marta. “Keep running,” shouted the man. Damir was keeping pace with them as best he could. The bullet had hit him in the arm and not its intended target of his forehead. As they neared the other side a voice called out, "Come in here." The sniper won’t be able to see you in this doorway. Marta looked up at the man who had been sleeping in the shop front and was calling them to him. She started to guide Damir in his direction. As she turned towards him Marta stumbled and fell on one knee, grazing her shin and causing Damir to wince with pain. The man in the doorway ran out to her and helped them both back onto their feet and took Damir's arm and put it around his shoulder. “Get into the doorway quickly,” shouted the stranger to Marta. Marta ran the remaining few meters and kicked the blankets the man had been curled up in to one side to make room for the trio. Moments later they were in the entrance to the shop and safety. “Let me look at your father’s wound,” said the first man, as they propped Damir up against the door. Marta side stepped as the man positioned himself close to Damir and started to remove his clothing to get a closer look at his shoulder. Marta watched him, her body trembling. He seemed to know what he was doing. Marta’s quaking voice said, “Is he going to be alright?”
