Braco (14 page)

WEDNESDAY:
ATIF STAVIC

ATIF JOGGED NORTH
along the Jaglici road, staring at his feet.

Keep a steady pace. Don't break an ankle.

“You're going the wrong way.”

Atif glanced at the woman as he passed her.

“The Chetniks are there,” she shouted at his back.

Atif slid to a halt. He turned around and stared at the woman. She shifted a child in her arms.

“You saw them there?” he asked. “With your own eyes?”

“Well, no. But everyone is saying they're there.”

“Keep going to Potocari,” he told her. “There are buses there that will take you to Tuzla.”

Atif faced north again before she could reply. He stuck his thumbs inside the straps of his pack and picked up his pace.

Steady pace. Watch where I put my feet. Don't break an ankle.
He glanced at the waning sun.
Five, maybe six hours of light left.

He passed an elderly couple trudging south. Another woman herded two cows along the road and an old man pushed his wife in a cart. Mortar echoed in the distance.

Steady pace. Steady pace.

He jogged along the edge of the road, ready to plunge into the ditch if necessary, but no one fired near the road. The closer he came to Susnjari, the fewer people he met. He turned a corner and found himself exposed to a hill in the near distance. People were standing in a clearing on the side of the hill, some hiding from the heat in the shadow of artillery and trees.

Chetniks?

Atif dropped into the rocky bottomed ditch and walked north.

Steady pace. Don't break an ankle.

He climbed out of the ditch when he was confident he was sheltered from the hill. When he reached the edge of Susnjari, he stopped in a clump of trees and listened for tanks, trucks, or men, but heard nothing.

Except birdsong.

Atif studied the road leading into the town. Automatic gunfire echoed in the distance

No engines. No footfalls. No voices.

Is it deserted?

He left the trees, crossed a street, and followed a trail of discarded luggage to the town's soccer field, stopping under bleachers to rest. Garbage, clothes, bags, and burnt wood covered the field. A fire pit contained the smouldering carcass of a cow. The smell of roasted meat lingered in the air.

They can't be that far ahead.

He drank the last quarter litre of water in one bottle and wiped his face with the edge of his shirt. His head pounded from the heat, but he didn't want to open the second bottle until he was sure he could refill it.

He stashed the empty bottle in his pack and looked around. Nothing moved. He stepped out from under the bleachers and jogged around the edge of the soccer field. The trail of garbage led into the woods.

Atif knew the area from the trips he had made with his father, but they had made those journeys in the dark and he had relied on his father's directions. He only hoped he remembered where the minefields were. Jac's map was not that precise.

The pavement became a dirt road and then a wide path. Thousands of footsteps had flattened the brush on either side of the trail. Atif trotted along until the path opened wide into a pasture. He stopped and studied the land before him.

Is this the minefield?

He looked down at the crushed grass then moved forward, scanning the ground. Disturbed vegetation meant there were no landmines. He glanced at the map.

Is it here or on the next plateau?

He gazed across the field for a long moment. The crushed grass and discarded luggage indicated the men had cut a wide swath through the meadow.

Is it safe?

“Hey, boy.”

Atif spun around.

Three men sat in the shade of some bushes near the treeline. One man lumbered to his feet like a small elephant.

Atif tensed. The only people who had remained fat in Srebrenica were those who controlled the black market and the shipments of aid from the UN. As the man approached, Atif took a step backwards.

“What are you doing here?” the man asked.

“I'm following the men to Tuzla.”

The other two men climbed to their feet, shouldered bags, and joined their friend. The trio stood in front of Atif.

“Not a good idea, boy. They won't make it to Tuzla. The Chetniks will stop them at the road.”

“Well,” Atif said, his eyes shifting between the three men, “where am I supposed to go?”

“Zepa,” the fat man said. “It's closer.”

Atif understood why that appealed to him.

“Someone in Potocari said that Zepa had fallen.”

“Propaganda,” the man replied. He motioned to Atif's pack. “What are you carrying?”

Atif stepped back again.
Am I stepping into a minefield?

“Nothing. Just some water and clothes.”

The man motioned Atif closer.

“Let me see.”

“It's just water and clothes.”

An arm darted towards Atif's pack. He jumped, evading it, but tripped over his own feet and fell hard. A water bottle dug into his back.

“Take it off,” the man shouted.

“Leave him alone!”

Atif thought the voice belonged to one of the other men, but when he propped himself up on his elbows he saw a soldier standing behind them, his legs planted apart and a rifle held tight against his shoulder.

The soldier aimed the rifle at the fat man.

TUESDAY:
TARAK SMAJLOVIC

“TARAK!”

Tarak blinked, the dirt scrapping the inside of his eyelids. Someone screamed. He sat up, rubbed the grime from his eyes, and searched for the voice. Smoke and debris clouded his view. Splintered trees lay on the ground or threatened to topple.

“Tarak!”

He turned around; the trees rotated with the motion. His throat stung.

Fadil?

He rubbed his face and tried to focus.

Where am I? What happened? A tank shell. Chetniks. Invasion. And we're losing.

Tarak spit dirt and bile. When he glanced up, he saw Salko leaning over a pair of kicking legs.

“Get with it, Tarak. I need a dressing.”

He looked around. His pack and rifle were leaning against the tree that had stood between him and the tank shell. He crawled over and pulled a dressing from an outside pocket, tossing it to Salko.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah,” Tarak mumbled, using the tree to help him stand. His head pounded and his ears rang. He looked at the kicking legs again.

“Who is that?”

“Omar.”

“Oh, no.” Tarak fell to his knees and crawled to the side of the young soldier. Omar lay still, his chest rising and falling rapidly. Dirt and blood covered his face. Salko was tearing away clothing around Omar's stomach. Dark liquid leaked from three holes.

“You're going to be fine, Omar,” Tarak whispered, unsure if the man could hear his words.

Salko wrapped the dressing around Omar's gut and tied it tight. “We have to get him to the hospital.”

“How?”

“We'll have to carry him. Or take a truck from the blue helmets if we have to.”

“Put him on my back,” Tarak said, getting up and grabbing his pack and rifle.

“You can barely stand.”

“I can do it. Get him up.”

Salko frowned and wrapped an arm around Omar. The halfconscious soldier grunted as Salko pulled him to his feet. Tarak crouched down and took Omar's full weight on his shoulders. He straightened up and Salko led them down the hillside. When they hit the pavement, Tarak looked back. A Serb tank was coming towards them. Soldiers walked behind it.

Tarak and Salko jogged away from the invaders. Two Dutch armoured vehicles came into view, blocking the road. Tarak knew the UN vehicles were no match for a tank and he expected them to run the moment the tanks came into view.

Tarak followed Salko through the UN blockade and found a Dutch Mercedes jeep preparing to leave on the other side. Salko jumped in front of it and raised his rifle.

“We need a ride.”

The driver opened his door, leapt out, and raised his Uzi.

“Get out of the way!” he shouted in English.

“You have to take him,” Salko said, motioning to Omar. “To the hospital.”

“I don't have the time.”

Tarak opened the rear hatch, slid Omar gently off his back, and laid him inside. The peacekeeper slammed the driver's door shut and walked to the back of the vehicle. Tarak raised his rifle and then jammed it into the peacekeeper's chest.

“Cowards. You're supposed to stop them. Now you are running away like frightened hens. Where are the air strikes?”

“I don't know where they are,” the peacekeeper replied. “They told us the planes would come this morning. I don't know what to tell you.”

“You're lying.”

“No,” the peacekeeper said, his features softening. “But I think someone is lying to us.” He glanced at the carriers. “Look, I'm going to Bravo. I can drop you on the road by the hospital.”

“Fine,” Tarak said, lowering his weapon. He climbed into the back of the vehicle and returned his attention to Omar. Salko and the peacekeeper jumped in the jeep and it screeched away, navigating among the people fleeing the town. The number of refugees grew the farther they drove. The jeep slowed to a crawl short of the hospital.

“Let us out here,” Tarak told the driver

The vehicle came to a halt. While they were taking Omar out, fleeing civilians took their place in the jeep. The peacekeeper didn't try to stop them. By the time Tarak had Omar across his shoulders again, the vehicle was swarming with refugees, inside and out.

Tarak struggled up the steep driveway; Omar was unconscious, a dead weight on his back. He and Salko pushed their way into the crowded hospital and walked from room to room, looking for help. A nurse stopped them and then led them to a gurney in the main hallway. When Tarak placed him on the gurney, Omar groaned and his eyes flickered.

“You're at the hospital,” Tarak whispered close to Omar's ear. “They're going to take care of you, Omar. You're going to be all right.”

Omar's eyes shifted up. He grunted a word Tarak couldn't understand. The nurse inspected Omar's wounds and then she wrote his name on a tag and pinned it to his shirt.

“I need to take him in now. You can wait if you want.”

Omar grabbed Tarak's arm and moved his head from side to side.

“Okay,” Tarak said, taking Omar's hand. “But we'll be back to see you in a few hours, okay?”

Omar managed a smile and raised two fingers to his mouth. Tarak fished a half pack of cigarettes out of a pocket and stuffed them into Omar's shirt pocket, patting it as the nurse pushed the gurney into the examination room. The door slammed shut.

“Shit,” Tarak said, shaking his head.

“I know, friend.”

A doctor halted in front of the soldiers.

“Good, they sent someone. The stretchers are outside. We need you to take them over to the Dutch. They're taking them to Potocari.”

“No one sent….”

Salko slapped Tarak's arm. The doctor moved off.

“Nothing we can do on the line. We might as well help here.”

Tarak slung his pack onto his back and followed Salko outside. A dozen occupied stretchers lined the sidewalk. Tarak looked at the steep hill leading to the road and at the mass of people moving towards the Dutch camp a short distance away.

“I think I'd rather go fight.”

“The Dutch aren't going to be able to stick around on that road and, once they pull back, the town is gone. We need to get as many people as possible to Potocari.”

Tarak turned back to the stretchers. A soldier lay on the closest one. He was unconscious and his thigh was tightly bandaged. A nurse indicated to Tarak and Salko with her hand that he should be taken first.

They fought for more than an hour to carry the stretchers through the panicked crowd, struggling to keep the stretchers level. At first, the Dutch had been hesitant to accept the wounded men, but then an officer appeared and opened the gate. He had directed them towards a troop truck on which other stretchers waited for transportation. As they returned to the hospital for the seventh time, they passed a number of men and several peacekeepers carrying stretchers.

“Last one,” Salko said as they deposited the seventh stretcher. “We need to see what's going on.”

They left the camp and turned towards the post office. The small red brick structure functioned as their headquarters. Tarak expected to see soldiers hanging around the door, but the entrance was vacant. He took the steps two at a time, lunged though the door, and ran from room to room.

Empty. Even the short wave radio was gone.

He walked back outside. Salko was speaking to a familiar face in the thinning crowd.

“Rasim,” Tarak shouted. He walked over to greet his friend.

“
Zdravo
, Tarak,” Rasim said, lighting a cigarette. No one smiled. A soldier standing off to the side was crying.

“Where is everyone? What's going on?”

“They've given up,” Salko told him. “They're gathering at Susnjari. They want to go through the woods.”

“So they're not even going to try?”

“What's the sense?” Rasim pointed to a man with a radio. “Alija made a broadcast demanding that the blue helmets intervene. He said forty thousand Chetniks were waiting to take the town. Not much we can do against that with six thousand men and no weapons or ammunition.”

Tarak shook his head. Alija Izetbegovic was the president of Bosnia and Herzegovina. Tarak knew he would have access to Western intelligence. If the president said forty-thousand Serbs waited to take the town, Tarak wouldn't question it.

Or, he wondered, is Izetbegovic inflating the numbers to make the blue helmets act?

“Fuck the blue helmets,” one of the men said. “They've sold us out.”

“Fuck France. Fuck Britain and America,” another said. “They've made a deal with the Chetniks. Srebrenica for Sarajevo. They've signed our death warrants.”

Tarak looked at Rasim.

“Who knows?” Rasim said with a shrug. “Look, you and Salko should gather up all the food you can carry and get up to Susnjari.”

“What about my grandfather?”

Rasim took a long draw on his cigarette and blew the smoke from his nose.

“I don't know what to tell you, Tarak. If you can get him to the Dutch, they'll probably take care of him.”

Tarak felt sick. His grandfather was eighty-six and stubborn enough to refuse to go with the Dutch. He didn't trust the blue helmets any more than Tarak did.

“I have to get him,” Tarak said, leaning down to pick up his pack. “I'll check on Omar and I'll see you in Susnjari.”

No one responded. When Tarak looked up, the others were staring into the sky as two fighter jets split the air above them heading towards the Serb lines.

Tarak stopped and leaned against a street sign to catch his breath. He was carrying his grandfather in his arms and a full pack on his back. His grandfather had managed to walk only the first kilometre. Tarak's attempts to convince him to go to Potocari had failed.

“They're puppets,” his grandfather had mumbled as Tarak grabbed the few cans of food sitting in the cupboards. “They do what the West thinks is best. They will abandon us. You saw. They dropped two bombs and didn't come back. Srebrenica is in the way of peace. That is what the West wants. They don't care about us.”

“There are thousands of people there now, Dada. The Dutch will watch over them. They'll get trucks and send them all to Tuzla. You'll see. You will be okay.”

“No. I'll go with you. I'd rather die on my feet, where and when I choose.”

Tarak locked eyes with his grandfather.

I'm not going to win this one.

When they got to Susnjari, men were gathering at the soccer field. Thousands were sitting in small groups on and off the field. Some cooked meals, others prayed. There were a few women and soldiers, but the rest were civilian men and teenage boys. Tarak found an open spot next to the bleachers and left his grandfather alone with a bottle of water and some crackers before going to search for someone in charge. He recognized a group of men arguing on the edge of the field. Salko was crouched next to them, jamming supplies into a pack.

“
Zdravo
, Salko.”

“Where's your grandfather?” Salko asked, securing the flap on his pack.

“He's here,” Tarak replied, cocking a thumb towards the bleachers. “What are they arguing about?”

Salko rolled his eyes as he straightened up. “What don't they argue about?”

Tarak smiled.

“They're a bureaucracy,” Salko said. “They have to argue. Some want to go to Tuzla. Some want to go to Zepa. Some want to stand and fight.”

“What is wrong with Zepa? It's closer than Tuzla and the Chetniks would have a hard time advancing in that terrain. They have more food there and we could join up with their forces. We could keep Zepa safe. Maybe keep the Chetniks occupied long enough to save Gorazde.”

Salko nodded as Tarak spoke. “That's what I've been telling them, but someone said Zepa has fallen. They don't want to take the chance.”