Rose of Sarajevo (22 page)

When footage of the camps was aired internationally, the first stirrings of outrage erupted. The only way to appeal to the consciences of global leaders seemed to be via the television screen. Men and women who had covered their ears and closed their eyes to months of warnings, pleading, documentation, and other forms of evidence feigned shock as they saw on television what they’d already known.

“Television has achieved what presidents and ambassadors couldn’t, Stefan,” Rasim said. “Many thanks to everyone involved for a job well done. Mitterrand is planning a visit to the Bosnian president. The Serbs will have to lift their blockade of the airport whether they like it or not.”

Stefan kept his promise and didn’t call Nimeta. He was busy all through the winter in any case, acting as a sort of spy thanks to his fake identity. He’d never expected to find himself in this situation—his only intention had been to infiltrate the camps so that he could expose the atrocious conditions—but he was worth his weight in gold to the foreign correspondents, and he started earning huge sums for his services. All because he was able to visit places and get footage available only to Serbs.

As spring approached, he decided to return to Zagreb. He’d made enough money, and he was tired of shaving his head and living like a mole. He missed his home and friends. Rasim also thought it advisable that his friend return home before his luck ran out. He would pack his bags and go as soon as he’d completed his final assignment.

Two days before he was scheduled to leave Sarajevo, Stefan decided to call Nimeta just to see how she was doing. He’d be leaving soon, and if a visit was arranged, it would have to be short, he reasoned. He just thought it would be nice to see her face and hear her voice. He may also have secretly wanted her to know about all the work he’d done on behalf of the Bosniaks. He’d promised not to call, but surely she could spare five minutes.

The phone lines were down that day, so he went to Nimeta’s house. Nobody was home. While he was banging on the door, a woman poked her head out her front door and told him that Nimeta had moved to her mother’s house.

“Why?” Stefan asked.

The woman shut the door without answering.

He considered stopping by Nimeta’s office, but then he remembered how much that had bothered her.

The following day he went to see Rasim.

“Are you still here?” Rasim said. “I thought you were going home last night. The longer you stay in Sarajevo, the more dangerous it’s going to get for you.”

“There’s something I’ve got to sort out before I go. Are the phones still out?”

“Stefan, you know the phones don’t work. Who do you need to call anyway?”

“It’s personal. There’s someone I’ve got to talk to. Say, are the phones working at the television station?”

“That’s a separate network. It’s the only place in town where the phones do work. Oh, and there’s the president’s office. You could pay a visit to Izetbegović and ask to call your girlfriend on his private line. I’m sure he’d understand.”

“That’s enough out of you,” Stefan said.

He knew he wouldn’t be able to leave Sarajevo until he found out why Nimeta had moved to her mother’s. Had she lost her husband? Was she hurt? How could he find her? He couldn’t go to the television station, not after all the times she’d asked him not to visit her there.

When Rasim saw how upset his friend looked, he said, “Why don’t you visit this person, whoever she is, instead of trying to call?”

“I did. Nobody was home.”

“She might have been out. She’ll be back.”

“She’s moved.”

“Then find out the address of her new house.”

“Rasim, do you think I haven’t been able to figure that out on my own? I don’t have any way of finding her new address.”

“There’s a war on, remember? The person you’re looking for might be dead.”

Stefan went pale. “Damn you,” he said on his way out.

He began running up the stairs two at a time. When he got outside, he crossed the street and began walking toward the city center, not caring whether he came under sniper fire. When he reached the television station, he asked the man at reception to get Nimeta.

“Haso, can you go and have a look?” the man asked a boy.

“She’s not there,” the boy said.

“What time will she be there?” Stefan asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Then go and find out.”

The boy went upstairs, muttering under his breath. He shouted down from the top of the stairs, “They don’t know.”

Stefan hesitated for a moment.

“Then ask if Mirsada is ther
e . . .
or Sonya!”

“Who’s asking for me?” Sonya’s voice echoed in the stairwell.

“Sonya! I finally found one of you,” Stefan cried out. “It’s Stefa
n . . .
from Zagreb. Doesn’t Nimeta work here anymore?”

“Ah, Stefan. What a surprise,” Sonya said. “I can’t talk right now, but we can meet this evening when I finish work. You’ve got a lot to catch up on.”

“A lot to catch up on? What happened?” He pulled out a cigarette. “Sonya, I can’t wait until evening. Don’t you have a lunch break? I’ll be at the front entrance at twelve sharp.”

“Don’t come before twelve thirty,” Sonya called out.

Stefan ran all the way back to Rasim’s office.

“You’re taking a terrible risk,” Rasim said. “It wouldn’t matter who stopped and searched you. You’ve got two different ID cards. How would you get out of that one? Go home. Stop chasing after women.”

“I’m going to find out what I need to know this afternoon. Then I’ll go. Now get me a Turkish coffee, Rasim.”

“A Turkish coffee? You’d be lucky to get tea brewed from grass. If I were you, I’d find a church, light a candle, and ask God to help you get home in one piece.”

“Seriously, do you think God is watching over me?” Stefan asked.

“I’m a Muslim. Of course I do. Don’t you believe in God? What kind of Catholic are you?”

“You can’t really call me a Catholic, Rasim. I never go to church.”

“What! Are you an atheist? I always thought you were a Catholic.”

“I’m not an atheist, but I have seen enough of war to know that more blood is shed in the name of religion than anything else.”

“You’re the first Croat I’ve met who isn’t religious. Your mother must have been distraught when she found out.”

“My whole family’s like this.”

“Why?”

“It’s a long story.”

“Everybody needs religion,” Rasim said. “We all need to take refuge in God and pray for divine intervention.”

“Maybe we do,” Stefan smiled.

He was waiting in front of the TV station at ten past twelve. Sonya appeared at half past and started looking around for Stefan.

“Psst! Sonya!”

Sonya turned and looked at the man who’d shouted her name. “What is it? Who are you?”

“Sonya, it’s me. Stefan. Don’t you recognize me?”

“Ah, it really is you. Stefan, what happened to you? You look like you just got out of a camp.”

“I’ve been in and out of more camps than you’d believe,” he said, “but never as an inmate.”

“Why’d you shave off your hair and your mustache? Are you hiding from someone?”

“You could say that. It’s a long story. I’ll tell you all about it. Sonya, why did Nimeta move? Has something happened?”

“That’s a long story too. Let’s go and sit down somewhere.”

“It’s nice outside. Let’s go to the park.”

“Are you crazy?” Sonya asked. “Do you want to get shot? Let’s go to my place. I moved nearby so that it’s easier to get to work.”

“Nimeta?”

“I’ll tell you everything.”

“Tell me now.”

“Stefan, don’t be so impatient.”

All of sudden, Stefan was afraid. “Is Nimeta alive?”

“Of course she is.”

“Hold on a second,” Stefan said. He took a deep breath and felt the pain in his heart recede. Then he pulled a cigarette out of his pocket.

“Where did you find that?” Sonya asked. “Do you mind if I have one? We’re almost there. See those green buildings up ahead? That’s where I live.”

Stefan wasn’t listening anymore as they walked up two flights of stairs. Sonya unlocked the door, and they passed through a dim hall into a small but well-lit room containing a bed, a card table, and two chairs.

“Have a seat,” Sonya said.

Stefan perched on the edge of one of the chairs.

“I’d like to offer you a drink, but I haven’t got anything but water. Can I get you a glass?”

“No, thank you.”

“The war’s been terrible for us all. I had to send my mother and daughter to Istanbul. We rented our house out to an American general. We send part of the monthly rent to a fund for homeless Bosniaks. It was Mom’s idea. I’ve moved here temporaril
y . . .
”

Stefan wanted nothing more than to steer the conversation to Nimeta but tried to be patient as Sonya carried on about things that didn’t interest him in the slightest. Finally, he couldn’t stand it anymore. “Please, Sonya,” he said, “tell me where Nimeta is. Why wasn’t she at home?”

“She’s moved. Her family’s been broken up, Stefan.”

“What do you mean?”

“Burhan joined the volunteer force up in the mountains, and their son followed his father. Nimeta and her daughter are staying at her mother’s.”

“Does she still go to work?”

“Yes. But only three days a week. She should be getting back from Tuzla today.”

“Let’s go then. Maybe she’s back.”

“Where are we going?” Sonya asked.

“To her mother’s house.”

“I’ll give you the address. You can go on your own,” Sonya said.

“Sonya, I want to ask you a favor,” Stefan said. “I can’t just show up on her mother’s doorstep. Could you go and tell her that I’m returning to Zagreb tomorrow and that I’d love to see her before I go?”

“I can go after work,” Sonya said. “Not being able to phone anyone is driving me crazy. If you need to talk to someone, you’ve got to go all the way to their front door. That’s why it took so long to find out what had happened to Mirsada.”

“What happened to Mirsada?” Stefan asked.

“You haven’t heard?”

“I know she moved to Belgrade. Didn’t she come back to Sarajevo when the war started?”

“So you don’t know.”

“What happened? Tell me,” Stefan said.

“Mirsada’s dead.”

Stefan swallowed hard. First, he thought how terrible it was that a woman who’d always been so full of life could die at such a young age. Then he thought of Nimeta and how she’d lost her best friend. It must have been devastating.

“How’d she die?” he asked in a near whisper.

Sonya didn’t answer.

“A bomb?”

“No, Stefan. Stop asking. I haven’t got the strength to tell you. She’s dead. Killed. The Serbs killed her.”

Sonya got quieter and quieter until Stefan had to read her lips to understand her last few words.

“They shot her in the back of the hea
d . . .
They broke her backbon
e . . .
They sliced her to pieces, Stefa
n . . .
to pieces.”

MARCH 1993

Nimeta had been jolted, bumped, and shaken during the entire jeep ride from Sarajevo to Tuzla. There wasn’t a decent stretch of road left in all of Bosnia. Her eyebrows and lashes were coated in dust, and her lower back was so stiff she thought she’d never stand up straight again. But every time her thoughts traveled to her husband, brother, and son, she forgot all about her discomfort. They were somewhere up in the mountains, living in far worse conditions than hers. They didn’t even have so much as a chair to sit on.

But thinking of her husband, brother, and son also made her a little angry. They’d all abandoned her. They hadn’t considered what it would be like for her to be left alone, entirely responsible for a young daughter and an elderly mother. She was most cross with her son. Raif hadn’t had his wits fully about him when he left. He’d run off to an honorable death to bring an end to his pain. Burhan had found out his wife had deceived him and was heartbroken. But Fiko? What excuse did Fiko have for running off without even saying good-bye? She’d never wronged him in any way. One of the main reasons she’d broken it off with Stefan was to protect her son, who doted on her, from dishonor.

“We’ll be there in an hour,” the driver said.

Nimeta wiped away her tears with the back of her hand. Life went on. Her heart had been broken too, but she hadn’t been able to flee to the mountains. She earned enough to keep her mother and Hana fed, even if that meant a slice of stale bread and a tin of sardines bought on the black market.

Penny McGuire, an English journalist, was asleep next to her, her head resting against a bag that she’d used as a pillow. Penny was going to Tuzla to visit a four-year-old rape victim who was being treated in a shelter there. Nimeta felt a little ashamed of herself for having cursed the giaours so many times over the past two years.

Serbian women had gathered in their windows to throw stones and buckets of boiling water at the Bosniak women and children who were huddled in the beds of trucks that were taking them from their homes and homeland. Nimeta had seen it with her own eyes and praised God she was a Muslim. She truly believed that no Muslim would ever treat even her worst enemy with such cruelty. Once she’d said to Azra, “Can you believe the way Christians pride themselves on being the religion of peace, on turning the other cheek?”

“Don’t believe it for a minute,” Azra had said. “For all their talk of human rights, Europeans have no mercy for anyone but their own.”

She’d reproached Azra. They both counted many Croats and Serbs among their close friends. And hadn’t she once been madly in love with a Christian?

But less than a week later, Azra seemed to prove the truth of her words by getting killed in Ferhadiya while waiting in line for bread. Nimeta was working that day, so Azra had also been waiting in line for her neighbor’s monthly ration of half a kilo of sugar and three kilos of flour when a mortar attack ended her life and those of twenty other women. Limbs and severed heads had scattered everywhere, and Nimeta hadn’t even been able to find a corpse to bury. When she got home that evening, she’d collapsed in front of Azra’s door, not crying, not talkin
g . . .

“Please, Mother,” Hana had pleaded, “come home.”

Did Hana remember that day years earlier when her mother had been unable to move? Nimeta had seen the fear in her daughter’s eyes, shaken herself, and stood up.

“Come on, Hana,” she’d said. “Let’s go inside and pack our bags. We’re taking the cat and moving to Mother’s. Azra’s gone now. It’s time for us to get out of here too.”

“Who killed her, Mother?”

“The giaours.”

Now, the giaour woman sleeping next to her was risking her life to talk to a Muslim girl who’d been raped by Serbs so that the world would learn the girl’s story. For years, Nimeta had loved a giaour, one she knew wouldn’t harm a fly. But her husband, whom she also knew would never harm anyone, had gone up to the mountains to kill. So had her innocent fifteen-year-old son. It was a funny old world.

She hadn’t wanted to worry her mother or agitate her daughter, so she hadn’t told them where she was going today. She’d simply informed them that she’d be away for two nights, saying she had to work until dawn. Raziyanım had been having anxiety attacks ever since Raif left and was distraught whenever Nimeta had to leave Sarajevo.

The English journalist stirred in her sleep.

“We’re almost there, Penny. Time to wake up,” Nimeta said.

Penny opened her eyes and rubbed her neck. The feeble sun was no match for the March chill. They were both shivering. Nimeta pulled the dirty, torn blanket back up over her legs. Up ahead she saw a road sign for Tuzla. Both women said a silent prayer of thanks for having made the journey safely, neither of them aware that they were doing so in unison.

The two-story house had a red tile roof and was painted white. From the outside, it looked like the sort of place that would contain just another happy family. Who knows? Before the war a husband and wife who loved each other might have lived here with their children. There was probably room for grandparents too in this cheerful home. These days, however, the house sheltered women and children who’d survived the massacres in the area. Women and children scarred by war.

Outwardly, they looked healthy, with all their limbs in place. But they suffered from what was called “war syndrome”: persistent insomnia and recurring nightmares, headaches, and backaches. They either had amnesia or remembered too much. They couldn’t concentrate or even carry on a conversation. The house was full of them.

A girl sat on a table, her yellow ringlets plastered to her forehead with sweat, her wide blue eyes staring at something visible only to her. She sat and stared—always. Without speaking, without getting hungry, without getting thirsty or tired. She had another affliction: she couldn’t swallow. The doctors and nurses did everything they could to get food in her stomach, but she was getting thinner by the day. She coughed up whatever watered-down food they spoon-fed her, though there was nothing wrong with her throat, her esophagus, or her windpipe. In a few days they’d have to move her to the hospital and hook her up to an IV drip. The doctors had delayed it as long as possible, knowing what the girl had been through and hoping against hope that she’d begin eating.

Her mother, who had crawled from room to room on all fours, too weak to stand after being raped by ten or fifteen Serbs, had found her daughter lying motionless on the wooden table in the kitchen, white foam frothing from her mouth, blood flowing from between her legs. The girl’s torn underwear was lying on the table beside her. She hadn’t been able to swallow since.

The girl was sitting motionless at a table just then, being fed gruel by a nurse. The doctors had no way of knowing when or even if she would recover from the shock. Her vagina and bladder had been damaged but would heal with time. Her spirit, however, seemed broken beyond repair. She was four, old enough to remember the events of that day for the rest of her life.

The boy in the playroom on the floor above was six. His head was swathed in gauze, and he couldn’t talk either. He stood before a table covered with sand, playing with tin soldiers. From time to time, he raced across the room and crashed into the wall. He then returned to his spot at the table. His forehead was dark purple.

“My God, why are you letting him bang his head against the wall like that?” Nimeta cried.

The nurse explained that it was the only way he could vent his rage.

When Nimeta got home, she rang the doorbell and tried to act as though nothing had happened.

“Mother,” she said, “I need to be alone for a while. I can’t even talk to you or Hana right now. I’m going to my room. Please don’t send in any food or ask me any questions until I’m ready to come out.”

She locked the bedroom door behind her, buried her face in her pillow, and was instantly racked with sobs. She cried for so long that she forgot why she was crying or for whom.

A light tapping on the door entered her dreams. She’d been having a nightmare. A bunch of men with horns and rams’ heads had been trying to force Hana into a chicken coop. Hana was screaming, but no sound came out of her mouth. White foam trickled from her lips.

Nimeta sat bolt upright in bed. For a moment she didn’t know where she was. The room was dark. Was it morning? Was her mother trying to wake her up?

“What is it?” she croaked. “Is it morning?”

She fumbled for the lamp on the nightstand and switched it on. Then she jumped out of bed and threw open the curtains. It was pitch-dark outside. She was fully dressed. She panicked. She ran to the door, but she couldn’t open it.

“Mother,” she screamed. She could hear feet running down the hall.

“What is it?” Raziyanım called out in alarm.

“Help me! I can’t get out.”

“What are you talking about?”

She could hear her mother fiddling with the handle of the door. Then she noticed that she’d locked the door herself, from the inside. She turned the key, and the door swung open.

Her eyes met her mother’s.

“What is it? What happened?”

“Nothing, Mother. I must have drifted off to sleep, and I woke up in a panic,” she said. She was beginning to breathe normally. “Was that you knocking on the door?”

“Oh, Nimeta. You know I wouldn’t knock on the door after you said you didn’t want to be disturbed. But your friend wouldn’t listen to me. She insisted that she had to see you. I told her you’d come home exhausted, and that we shouldn’t wake you if you’d fallen asleep.”

“What friend? What are you talking about, Mother?”

“Your friend from work. Sonya.”

“Sonya? Sonya’s here?”

“She’s in the living room,” Raziyanım said, pointing with her chin. “Get undressed and go to bed. I’ll tell her you can’t see anyone right now. Go on, get to bed.”

Nimeta gently pushed her mother aside and ran down the hall.

“Sonya, is anything the matter? What are you doing here at this hour?”

“Is anything the matter with
you
, Nimeta?” Sonya asked. “What were you doing in bed so early? Your mother wouldn’t even let me come in and see you.”

“The trip to Tuzla was exhausting. I saw and heard the most horrific things. I lay down when I got home, and the next thing I knew I was waking up,” Nimeta said. “Anyway, enough about me. Tell me what brings you here.”

“There’s someone who needs to see you.”

“Who?”

“Stefan.”

Nimeta’s breath caught in her throat. Then she asked as calmly as she could, “When did he come?”

“Today.”

“What does he want?”

“Ask him yourself,” Sonya said. “He says he doesn’t want to leave Sarajevo without seeing you. He’s returning to Zagreb tomorrow.”

“Where is he right now?”

“He’s waiting at the bar at the Holiday Inn.”

“Tell him to come to the office tomorrow. That way he’ll be able to see his other friends too.”

“He’s already been to the office and seen his friends. He wants to see you, Nimeta.”

“I can’t go out now,” Nimeta said. “I’m exhausted.”

“He’s leaving tomorrow.”

Nimeta shrugged. “I haven’t offered you anything. Can I get you a bowl of Mother’s stewed apples?”

Raziyanım walked over as soon as she heard her name. “Has anything happened, Nimeta?”

“Sonya just wanted to know how my trip to Tuzla went.”

“You went to Tuzla?” Raziyanım asked. “Didn’t you promise me you wouldn’t leave Sarajevo?”

“I’d better get going,” Sonya said.

Nimeta walked her to the door.

“What am I supposed to tell Stefan?”

“Tell him I was asleep and you couldn’t wake me up,” Nimeta said. “Thank you, Sonya, for coming all this way. I’ll see you at work tomorrow.”

She shut the door and went into the living room to smoke a cigarette.

“So you went to Tuzla,” Raziyanım said.

“Mother, please,” Nimeta said.

She decided she didn’t need a cigarette after all and headed for her room. As she was passing the door to Hana’s room, she opened it a little, glanced inside at her sleeping daughter, and gently closed it. She changed into her nightgown and stretched out on the bed with her hands laced under her head. Her gaze resting on the ceiling, she lay there like that for a long time, letting her mind wander. Then she got up, changed out of her nightgown into a skirt and blouse, ran a comb through her hair, and put on some lipstick.