Braco (27 page)

Mike used his shirt to wipe the sweat from his forehead. He raised the camera and centred the frame on the pistol pointing at the man's head.

“Let me know when you are ready,” the sergeant said.

The prisoner's eyes flicked up.

Mike's finger hovered over the shutter release. He waited a moment for the lens to focus.

“I'm ready.”

The pistol fired.

Mike's hand jumped. The camera clicked.

One picture.

Two.

Three.

The man collapsed to the ground.

Mike took a step back, struggling to hold onto the camera. His hands were shaking.

“Scared you, didn't I?”

Mike stared at the body. It stared back, sightless, blood seeping from the corner of its lips.

Oh, shit, shit! Don't throw up.

He looked up at the sergeant and flashed a brief smile.

“That picture will make you famous,” the sergeant said. “Like the one from Vietnam.”

Mike nodded, keeping his lips sealed tight. His throat stung. He pretended to play with the camera. The sergeant turned back to the body and kicked at it until it rolled into the ditch.

“Come look.”

Mike willed his feet to remain still, but they moved anyway. And then he was standing on the edge of the road, looking down. Bodies littered the ravine.

“Go ahead. Take your pictures.”

Mike pulled the camera up to his face. It was heavier than he remembered. He took pictures until the advance lever stopped.

“I'm out of film. I have to put in more.”

The sergeant slapped him on the back.

“Do you like vodka? We have some good Russian vodka over here.”

That sounds good. Too good.

“I'll be right there,” Mike said, returning to his camera bag.

He crouched down, taking his time. His hands were still shaking. Every time he tried to insert the film into the reel, it popped out. He glanced at the soldiers. Most of them were pacing the road, smoking and chatting. One was taking a nap inside a truck. Another was leaning against a highway sign, staring at Mike.

Mike put his eyes back on the camera. After another fruitless attempt at inserting the film into the reel, he gave up. He closed the cover and slipped the film into his pocket. He stood up: the sergeant was coming towards him with a bottle. He opened it and held it in front of Mike.

He stared at the bottle and then his hand reached out and grabbed it by the neck. He took a swig. The burning liquid descended, warming his chest and stomach.

There was a growing rumble from the southeast.

Oh, thank God.

Mike handed the bottle back.

“Have some more.”

“No. No. I'm fine. I need a steady hand.”

“I think you need more to steady those hands.”

Mike stuffed a trembling hand into his pocket. The Serb sergeant walked away to greet the bus. Mike followed, pretending to snap pictures of the refugees as they stepped off.

“Go. Your Turk brothers are waiting for you,” the sergeant shouted, pointing towards Kladanj. “This is what Alija has done to you. Don't blame us. Your leaders could have gotten you all out years ago, but they let you suffer.”

The soldiers posed with the refugees. A teenage girl squealed as a soldier draped an arm over her shoulder. A woman pulled the girl away and they shuffled off down the road. When the first bus was empty, Mike strolled up to the sergeant.

“I must return. My transportation will not wait for me.”

The sergeant dropped a heavy hand on Mike's shoulder and walked him over to a truck. Mike held his breath. The soldier reached inside and pulled out a full bottle of vodka.

“For you, my friend.”

Mike forced a smile and accepted the bottle, poking it inside his bag.

“I'll see to it your picture is on the front page.”

“You should come back soon,” the sergeant said, slapping Mike on the chest. “Come to Srebrenica. Your pictures of the liberated town will be in every paper in Serbia.”

They shook hands and then Mike walked away and joined a group of women, asking questions as they melted into the crowd.

“What did you say your name was?” came a voice from behind.

Mike looked back. The soldier who had been staring at him was at his heels, his rifle slung over his shoulder. Mike gave him the name on the card.

“I lived in Novi Sad for a few years. I worked on my school newspaper. I knew some of the journalists. You're not familiar.”

Mike shrugged and kept walking. The Serb kept up with him.

“I haven't been there long,” Mike said.

The Serb grunted, unconvinced.

“Who do you really work for?”

Mike paused and stared at the young man.

“I told you.”

“You're from the West, aren't you?”

“Does it matter?”

The soldier glanced at the checkpoint and then jerked his head forward.

“I'll walk with you awhile. Make sure no one bothers you.”

Mike looked back; the sergeant waved to him, smiling.

“Yeah. Sure. Smoke?”

Mike hauled another pack of Player's from his bag and tossed them over. The soldier stuffed them into a pocket. They walked in silence, the soldier glancing back from time to time.

“My name is Nermin. I'm not sure how to say this, but what you saw back there, well, we're not all like that.”

“I know.”

“It's just...you took our pictures and I don't want to get in trouble for what the sergeant did.”

“What did you say your name was?”

“Nermin. Nermin Jankovic.”

Mike stopped and took out his notebook, writing the name under the sergeant's.

“You don't have to worry,” he said, putting the notebook away and opening the back cover of the empty camera. “I don't have you on the other roll.”

Nermin smiled.

“You know I have heard about the war crimes trials,” the young soldier said. “I hope you can tell people we're not all like them. I wanted to be a journalist, like you, but when the war broke out, my father moved to Pale and I had to join up. All I want is for the war to end.”

“You're not the only one.”

Nermin looked at him, shaking his head.

“What happened back there, it had nothing to do with you. You know that, don't you?”

Mike said nothing. They approached the felled tree and Nermin slowed his pace.

“He was going to shoot them anyway. He hates the Muslims. Me? I had Muslim friends. Croat friends.” He sighed. “I hope they're still my friends. I hope they're still alive.”

“I understand.”

The young soldier straightened up.

“Thank you. Whoever you are. I think I should go back.”

Mike offered Nermin his hand and they shook.

“Take care, my friend.”

Nermin jogged away, through the refugees. When he disappeared from sight, Mike turned and leaned against the tree. He stared straight ahead, his thoughts racing.

“It had nothing to do with you. He was going to shoot them anyway.”

He heard a rustling sound near his feet. He looked down: the old woman whose picture he'd taken on the way in was sitting in the same position against the tree.

“Why are you still here?”

The woman touched the tree. Mike leaned down and took her hands.

“It's a long walk, Mother. Do you want a hand?”

She accepted his offer. Mike helped her over the tree.

As they walked away from it, hand in hand, two gunshots echoed behind them.

THURSDAY:
MARIJA STAVIC

MARIJA FORCED HER
way through the sweltering crowd, hugging the side of the carrier until she broke free against the linked arms of the peacekeepers. She gulped in fresh air, leaning forward between two Dutch soldiers. The human chain stretched between the armoured vehicles, holding the surging throng of refugees. No buses were in sight. Marija looked around for Jac.

“Keep back,” the peacekeeper said in English, pushing her.

“I'm looking for
Korporaal
Larue.”

“I'm sorry. I don't know where he is. I think he's supposed to be escorting a convoy.”

“I know. I….”

“Marija! Up here.”

She looked up. Maarten was crouching on the edge of the carrier.

“I was ready to give up on you. Are the others close by?”

“Yes, yes. It took us a while, but they're just back there.”

“Good. Jac's getting the jeep now. We're escorting the next convoy.”

“Okay, I'll go get them. We should be able to get on.”

“We probably won't see you on the road, but you'll be okay. The convoys are still getting through to Tisca.”

“Thank you. And please, thank Jac for me again.”

“I'll do that. Take care of yourselves.”

Maarten stood up, walked to the edge of the carrier and dropped from sight. Marija took a long breath then turned back into the crowd and fought against the current. Behind her, buses rumbled to a halt. The crowd jostled their way forward.

She found Ina and the girls where she had left them. “We go now,” she said, picking up her bag.

Adila offered Tihana to her, but Marija refused, wrapping her arm around the pair. “I'll stay close, but you hold on to her.”

“We should try to stay near the centre of the crowd,” Ina said.

They huddled together, moving with the flow, inching their way towards the centre. The pressure increased. Elbows and torsos pressed against them, threatening to drive the girls to the ground. Marija pushed back. A moment later, they were free. They shuffled through the line of Dutch peacekeepers with the rest of the crowd. On the other side, Serb soldiers closed in on them like wolves on a wounded deer. Marija adjusted Adila's scarf, covering the girl's head as much as possible.

“Where are your soldiers now?” one of the Serbs said. “They're drinking beer with your husbands.”

“Turk whores,” another said.

“Alija has abandoned you. The world doesn't care about you.”

Marija ignored the taunts, holding Adila and Tihana close and fighting to stay in the middle of the crowd. Marija had lost sight of Ina in the quickly moving horde. She glanced back; Ina was waving her forward. Marija reached the last bus and climbed its steps. She found an empty seat half way down the aisle and placed Adila and Tihana next to the window.

“We did it,” Adila said.

“Not yet,” Marija whispered. “Just keep your head down.”

Tihana cuddled into Adila's chest, clutching the toy soldiers hidden inside her shirt.

Ina and Lejla appeared a few moments later. “We'll sit apart,” she said, and kept moving. Marija watched them find a seat on the rear bench with three others.

The bus driver stood up and rubbed the grey stubble on his cheek. He was balding and carried extra weight around his belly. Despite the heat, he wore a long-sleeved white shirt and a blue tie. He sealed the door and then walked the length of the bus, pulling candy out of his pocket and giving it to the children. He smiled at them and chatted with their mothers.

“Where are you taking us?” a woman asked.

“Don't worry,” he said. “We are going to Tisca. The blue helmets are waiting for you up the road with food and water. Everything will be okay. Tonight, you will sleep peacefully in Tuzla. I promise you.”

The women's eyes darted nervously. They looked at one another. Some shrugged. Others sighed. The driver took his seat and started the engine. The smell of diesel drifted in through the open windows. Marija looked out and spotted Maarten climbing into a Mercedes jeep. The jeep sped by and their bus made a three point turn and took its place at the end of the convoy.

Marija glanced back towards the town. It's almost over, she thought. She never expected to see Srebrenica again.

The buses crossed over the Yellow Bridge, passing the first checkpoint without stopping.

“Maybe we are going to be okay?” Adila said. “Maybe they won't stop us.”

“We'll see.”

The bus driver sang a few lines from an old Communist-era song.
“U ime svih nas iz pedeset i neke. Za zakletvu Titu ja spevao sam stih.”

Then he looked at the children in the first rows. He made a circular motion with his hands.

“I do not recall the past and the distant battle,” he sang, “because I was born after them.”

Soon the bus was filled with the surreal sound of children singing and laughing. Marija tickled Tihana's chin.

“‘Count On Us.' You know the song.”

Tihana smiled.

Suddenly, something struck their window and the sound of shattering glass broke into the song. Marija draped herself over Adila and Tihana. Children were squealing instead of singing. The bus kept moving.

Marija straightened up. A window four rows ahead was gone, the woman next to it pushing out the shards with her scarf wrapped around her hand. Marija's window had cracked, but it hadn't broken. The shattered core had grown multiple legs, making a web in the glass. She looked through a clear section between the cracks. People lined the side of the road. Men, women, and children were throwing rocks at the buses and screaming insults. Marija wrapped her arm around Adila.

“Are you okay?”

“Yes. Yes. It just startled me.” Tihana was wrapped around Adila, trembling. Marija reached out and stroked her hair.

“Don't mind them,” the driver shouted. “Now, what happened to my choir?
Računajte na nas!
”

As they put Bratunac behind them, the singing resumed. Marija noted landmarks she had not seen in three years. The bus stop where Yassir used to pick her up when she taught in Srebrenica. The gas station where they'd changed the flat tire. Cultivated fields covered the hillsides. When they got closer to Kravica, she felt a pang of homesickness.“You used to live near here, didn't you?” Adila asked.

“Yes. The farm is on this side of Kravica. It's beautiful this time of year with so much ready to harvest. We used to have fresh vegetables for dinner every night.”

“How did you meet Yassir?”

“We went to school together. I was studying to become a teacher and he was taking agriculture. He had to drop out after his parents died. His brother, Vlatko, had no interest in the farm, but we made it work.”

A hiss from the brakes and the bus rolled to a stop. Marija felt Adila tense. She looked past her, between the cracks in the window.

Soldiers.

“Don't worry,” Marija said. “They're just going to check for men.”

The soldiers were standing around a donkey cart piled with manure, smoking with the old man holding the animal's tether. A soldier walked up to the white donkey and fed it an apple.

Marija licked her lips.

An impatient rap on the door: the driver lumbered down the steps and opened it. A soldier, wearing a blue helmet, stepped into the bus.

Jac? No, she thought. He wasn't wearing a helmet anymore.

The soldier turned to face the women. He had on a Dutch flak vest, but the rest of his uniform was mismatched camouflage.

“No men this time,” the driver said to him. The soldier raised a hand and covered his nose as he scanned the interior of the bus. “Just ugly Turk women who need a bath.”

The soldier glanced at the driver and smiled. Then he walked down the aisle. He stopped at the back and stared at the teenage girl with long blonde hair sitting next to Lejla. The soldier touched her cheek. The blonde girl turned away.

“What's your name?”

“Please, leave her alone,” her mother said, adjusting the scarf on the girl's hair.

“I just wanted to know her name.”

“Her name is Samira. Now please. You're scaring her.”

The soldier grunted, turned around, and walked back to the driver.

“You're right. They're ugly.”

The driver slapped the soldier on the shoulder and gave an exaggerated belly laugh. He had a pack of cigarettes in his hand and followed the soldier down the steps. They stood below her window, smoking. Minutes later, another soldier approached them. The driver gave him a cigarette and he poked it away behind his ear. The soldiers left and the driver flicked away his half-smoked butt. He boarded the bus and shut the door. Hesitating at the top of the steps, he looked at the women and winked.

When they pulled away from the checkpoint the bus filled with words of relief. Marija looked out the window: ahead of them Jac's jeep was sitting on the shoulder of the road. She stood up as they passed. Jac was arguing with one of the Serb soldiers. Maarten was standing off to the side, his face covered in blood.

“Are they beating them?” Adila asked.

Marija turned around and looked out the rear window. Jac's vehicle didn't move.

“I don't know.”

She watched for several more kilometres, but there was no sign of Jac.

“We're on our own.”