Braco (23 page)

Jac glanced at Bram. He shrugged.

“Bastards.” Jac stepped close to Karel. “If you're not going to do your job then go back to the base and trade off with someone who will.”

“Last time I checked, Jac, my job description said nothing about chasing three guys across a dark field that might be mined.”

“There's a boy's body hanging from the stairs inside. Go cut him down. I'll be back for him.”

Karel blew smoke from his nose and tossed the butt into the crowd. A little girl crawled towards the smouldering butt and retrieved it. Karel drew a blade from a scabbard on his belt and held it up in the cloud of smoke pouring from his mouth.

“One less to deal with.”

A fist formed at Jac's side, but he didn't give in to the urge to pummel Karel. Putting him in the hospital only meant the sergeant would have to find another peacekeeper to fill his shoes. Going to jail himself wouldn't help either.

He released his fingers. Karel wrapped a bandanna around his face and led Bram inside the factory.

Jac turned away, took a few steps, and stopped. There were gunshots in the hills. Children moaned. The man in the abattoir was still calling out to Sanja. Jac changed direction and walked the length of the factory wall. The man's voice stopped and then started again. It was full of agony. Jac clenched and released his fingers several times before he could force himself to stop. He started to leave, but another sound caught his attention. He froze. The noise was out of place.

A moan punctuated by sobs.

He moved towards the corner of the factory. The sound changed. Now it was a rhythmic grunting. He sprinted ahead and turned the corner, raising his flashlight. An old man was sitting in the tall grass, smashing his head with a rock.

“Jesus, Jesus, Jesus,” Jac cried out, dropping down next to the man. He tore the rock from the man's hands and tossed it away. Then he put his flashlight on the face again. It was full of blood. The right side was bloated and bruised, the eye swollen shut.

“Doctor,” Jac said, pulling the man to his feet. The old man trembled and Jac wrapped an arm around him. “This way.”

The man shuffled along, mumbling. Behind them, the voice called for Sanja. The man stopped, turned towards the darkness, and shouted something in Bosnian. Jac caught a woman's name but nothing else.

“Come on. I have to get you to a doctor.”

Maarten was waiting for Jac outside the green tent and helped him place the old man in a chair. Jac took a dressing off a table and pressed it against the man's forehead.

“Where's the doctor?”

“Ici,” a woman said. She pushed her way in between the two peacekeepers and inspected the man's head. “Did he do this to himself?”

“With a rock,” Jac replied in French.

The doctor finished inspecting the wound and then looked at Jac.

“He'll be fine.”

“Do you think you can get him out with the wounded?”

“No guarantees. But he's old. We'll try to get him out in the morning.”

Jac patted the man on the shoulder.

“You'll be okay,” he told him in English.

The man rocked back and forth, staring straight ahead. Jac rubbed his eyes hard.

“And how are you doing,
Korporaal
?”

He dropped his hand from his face.

“Just waiting for my second wind.”

“You speak French very well.”

“My father was French. I spent a lot of time in France with him.”

She smiled. “Well,
Korporaal
, there should be some coffee left in the back. It's strong enough to keep you awake for a week. Help yourself and let me know if you need anything else.” She helped the old man to his feet and led him away.

Maarten leaned close to Jac. “What was all that about?”

“Nothing.”

“A lot of talk for nothing.”

“Did you tell them about the boy?”

“Yeah. She said to take him into the compound to be buried with the rest.”

“Let's do that.”

The two men left the tent. Jac paused, letting his eyes readjust to the darkness. Something wasn't right.

What is it?

No voice called for Sanja.

THURSDAY:
TARAK SMAJLOVIC

TARAK BLINKED THE
sleep out of his eyes.

When did I sleep last? Sunday?

He took a mouthful of water and turned around, counting eight heads, including Atif's. The civilians had latched onto Tarak the moment they realized he was a soldier.

“Four more,” a ninth man called from the trees.

Four men came straggling into the group.

“Are you injured?” Tarak asked.

“They attacked us near the road,” a bearded man replied, wiping his face with his sleeve. “There were six of us. We lost two in the smoke.” He wiped his face again. “I feel a little sick. Do you have any water?”

Someone offered the man a canteen.

Tarak cleared his throat. “Okay, listen to me. We have to move fast. The front of the column must be across by now and if they're holding the road open, they won't be there much longer.”

“We're ready,” the bearded man said.

Tarak looked at Atif. “Are you okay?”

“Just a little tired.”

“We'll sleep on the other side of the road.” Tarak checked his compass and pointed. “This way.”

The men stood up and followed him. Tarak looked back. They seemed able to keep up the pace, but their ability to remain silent was another matter.

“How much farther?”

“Are you sure you're going the right way?”

“I'm feeling sick. Can we stop for a moment?”

Tarak turned to face them.

“Will you please shut up.” His whisper was as stern as he could make it. “We are walking parallel to the road. Kravica is nearby and if you keep talking, they'll hear you.”

Twelve heads nodded.

“We'll take five minutes and then I don't care how sick you feel, we have to move.”

“I'm finding it a little hard to breath,” the bearded man said, wiping his face again. A hand holding a bottle of water was stretched out to him.

“Ration that until we get across the road,” Tarak said. “We can refill it at the Jadar.”

The man took a mouthful and handed it back.

“Okay. Okay. I'm better. We can go. Go. Yes. We can go.”

Tarak looked at the man's companions. “Keep an eye on him,” he said, and then turned to Atif.

“Much farther?” the boy asked.

“An hour at least, but we should be okay.” Tarak took a mouthful of water and then stashed the bottle in his pack. “We have at least five hours until….”

“Chetniks!”

Tarak pushed Atif to the ground and raised his rifle. The bearded man was pointing up at the trees.

“Shoot him. Quick!” the man screamed, tugging at another man's rifle.

“Shut him up,” Tarak said.

Two of the others wrestled the bearded man to the ground.

“They're going to kill us,” the man shouted. “Shoot them. They're coming.”

“Damn it. Gag him.”

One of the man's companions pulled the white armband from his arm and made it into a gag, tying it across his mouth. The man kept struggling and pointing up at the trees.

“What's wrong with him?” Atif asked.

“I think it's getting to him,” one of the men said. “Only so much the mind can take.”

“We have to move,” Tarak told them. “You two are responsible for him. If he gets too much for you, leave him behind.”

The men nodded. Tarak returned to the head of his short column and held his compass out until the moon lit it up. He wanted to move away from the road. If those men were telling the truth about the earlier attack, the Serbs were patrolling the road below and might be in the woods as well. He decided to lead them deeper into the forest, away from the Kravica road. Crossing near Kravica was never a consideration. That would trap them in a narrow, heavily populated strip of Serb land between the road and the Drina River.

We need to get closer to Nova Kasaba.

They moved to the top of the ridge and descended the other side, walking northwest, keeping the ridge between them and the road. Someone at the back called out, asking Tarak to stop.

“That man is really sick. He's trying to vomit. Do I take off the gag?”

As Tarak opened his mouth to reply, a young man from the same group of four began laughing hysterically.

“What's happening?” Atif asked.

“I don't know,
Braco
. Just do me a favour. Stay here and stay down.”

Atif nodded and slid to the ground behind a tree. Tarak went to the back of the column to help the laughing man's comrades subdue him. Fists flew. The man was bound and gagged.

Voices filled the trees.

“What's going on?”

“Could it be gas?”

“I saw smoke earlier.”

“Smoke?” Tarak looked at them, his brow wrinkling. “Where?”

“Not far from where you found us. We had to walk through it.”

“What did it smell like?”

“Like smoke. I thought it was a smoke grenade.”

The bearded man began to convulse on the ground.

“Remove the gag,” Tarak said.

“Don't do it!”

Tarak looked up. The third member of the bearded man's group was standing on the slope above them and aiming an Uzi in their direction.

“He's a Chetnik. Don't let him go.”

“Put that down,” Tarak said.

The man pointed the Uzi at Tarak and laughed. “Who do you think you are? Comrade Tito? You know we're all going to die out here, don't you? They have us surrounded.”

The man suddenly spun around and pointed the Uzi up the slope. Two of the others dove for his legs and missed.

“Chetniks! You're all Chetniks!”

He fired.

The machine gun rounds sounded like firecrackers. Tarak hit the ground and rolled. His arm was burning. He stopped rolling, swung around a tree, and looked back. Atif was curled up next to another tree, his arms covering his head. Three men lay unmoving near the crazy man with the Uzi. He could hear the others plowing through the forest, breaking branches in their frenzy to get away. The man stopped to reload and then fired high into the trees.

“Paratroopers! Get down. They're coming.”

The Uzi emptied in seconds. The man dropped the weapon and looked up, laughing and screaming at the sky.

“Come get me, you bastards. I don't owe you any money and I don't need your shoes.”

He pulled out a grenade, removed the pin, and then placed it under his chin. There was a metal click; the handle popped free.

“Get down,” Tarak shouted.

Seconds later, the grenade exploded.

Enough of this.

Tarak bolted from behind the tree and pulled Atif to his feet. They vanished between the trees.

THURSDAY:
ATIF STAVIC

ATIF STRUGGLED TO
get his footing. Tarak was half-dragging and half-carrying him through the woods. Branches dug into his arm and snapped. Strong arms pushed him forward and upward.

Is he afraid of the gas?

Atif's mother had told him stories about gas attacks in the First World War. She said soldiers caught in craters or trenches during an attack without their gear had one terrible choice—to suffocate or seek higher ground where they exposed themselves to enemy fire.

The high moon lit their way as they crested the ridge and moved down on the opposite side towards the road. Then Tarak stopped, backtracked a few metres, and pointed at a fallen beech tree.

“Get down behind that,” he said.

Atif obeyed; a few moments later, Tarak collapsed next to him. They sat in silence until each could breathe regularly again.

“Hear anything?”

“I don't think they could keep up to us,” Atif replied, pulling a twig out from under a strap.

Tarak hauled off his pack, grunting.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Tarak said. “Do you have any water left?”

Atif dug out a bottle and handed it to him. Tarak pulled back on his right sleeve and poured water over his forearm.

“Are you hit?”

Tarak held his arm up until Atif could distinguish it properly from the other shapes and shadows in the moonlight. Blood seeped from two holes on either side of his forearm.

Atif's mind flashed back to the alley. The arm hanging from the side of the car. The blood dripping to the ground. His stomach rebelled. The smell of vomit competed with the scent of pine needles.

Tarak held the bottle in front of him. “Drink some.”

Atif took it, swallowed a mouthful, and threw it back up.

“Sorry,” Tarak whispered. “I was going to ask you to help me wrap it up, but maybe not.”

“No,” Atif said. His throat was stinging. “I can do it. I just need a second.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.” Atif pulled in long, measured breaths until his stomach settled. “Do you have anything to wrap it up with?”

Tarak handed him a roll of bandage and medical tape.

“That's perfect. We should wipe it down, make sure it's clean.”

Atif tore off a piece of bandage while Tarak dribbled more water over his injured arm. A trickle of blood seeped from the wound every time he touched it. He took Tarak's hand and pulled it towards his chest and then unrolled the rest of the bandage, wrapping it below the wound and then over and above it. Tarak grunted.

“If I don't make it snug,” Atif said, “it'll start to bleed again.” He checked his work, pressing the arm on both sides of the wound. “Does it feel like it hit the bones?”

“No.”

Atif tore off a piece of medical tape and placed it around the edge of the bandage.

“Lucky thing. There's not much room between the radius and ulna.”

Tarak inspected his arm. “Where'd you learn so much about bandages and bones?”

“My mother's friend, Ina, is a nurse. She taught us all how to take care of an injury if we got hurt. You know, like how to make a tourniquet. She worked at the hospital, too. She even let me watch some operations.”

“Do you want to be a doctor?”

“I did when I was younger. I don't know anymore.”

Not after that day, he thought. He'd been waiting at the hospital for Ina when they brought in a little girl injured in a mortar attack. The hospital was out of anesthetic and they'd had to remove the shrapnel without it. He could hear her screams from the far end of the corridor.

How could they do it?

“You should think about it.”

“Ina thinks I should….”

Something snapped in the forest. Atif's head jerked to the left. He peered over the tree.

“What is it?” Tarak asked.

Branches swayed.

“Nothing,” Atif said after a few moments.

A twig cracked.

Tarak laid the barrel of his rifle on the tree trunk and pointed it into the darkness. The full moon made it easy to pick out individual trees, but a slight breeze had turned the shadows into a macabre ballet of dancing spectres. Atif squinted, trying to figure out if he was looking at a branch, a man's head, or the
blautsauger
.

Another twig snapped.

Atif held his breath.

A tap on the shoulder then Tarak's finger pointed. A spectre took human form. It was moving among the trees, pushing at branches, and holding them back for a second form and then a third.

“This way,” the man in front said. “Yes. I'm sure of it.”

Tarak's rifle shifted aim. The men were walking directly towards them.

“The culvert is just down here,” the man said. He spoke too loudly for Atif's comfort. “Big enough to cross.”

The man paused, waiting for the others to catch up. The moon lit up their forms but obscured their features. Atif tapped on Tarak's shoulder and pointed to the third man and then to the white bandanna wrapped around his own arm.

“Stay here,” Tarak whispered in Atif's ear.

He slid over the tree and stood waiting for the men to approach.

“Who is that?” one of the men shouted. Atif watched them raise rifles to their shoulders. His stomach tightened.

Tarak said something unheard as he walked towards the men. Moments later, the barrels were lowered and Tarak was wrapping his arms around one of the apparitions. Atif let out a long sigh.

“Come out, Atif. It's okay.”

He crawled out from behind the tree and sat on top of it.

“This is Juso,” Tarak said, slapping the young soldier on the back. “We went through basic training together.”

Atif didn't move. He counted six men. One of them was leaning on another. The shadows hid their faces.

“Where are you going?” Tarak asked.

Juso indicated the man in the lead. He was young, no more than nineteen, and wore a white shirt, jeans, and sneakers. He carried no weapons.

“This is Emin. We met up with him a while ago. He says he knows where we can crawl under the road through a culvert.”

“A culvert?” Tarak asked, turning to Emin. “Along this stretch of road?”

“Yes, yes,” Emin replied. “I grew up near here. We used it several times to raid the farms in Kravica.”

Atif watched Tarak's head move up and down as he gave the man the once-over.

“You grew up in Kravica?”

“Yes. Just outside the town. My father was an accountant.”

“You went to school there?”

“Of course.”

Shadows crossed Tarak's face as he turned to Atif.

“Didn't your mother teach at the school in Kravica?”

Atif didn't like the way he sounded. “Yeah.”

“What's her name?”

“Stavic. Marija Stavic.”

Tarak turned back to Emin. “She taught mathematics.”

Atif started to raise his hand and then dropped it again.

“Yes. I remember her, but she never taught in my class.”

Tarak glanced at Atif.

Why is Tarak asking him that? Did he think they had been affected by the gas?

Atif wasn't sure he wanted to hear the answer. He slid to the opposite side of the log.

“We can catch up on old times later, Tarak,” Juso said. “We should go.”

“We're not going anywhere, Juso.”

“What are you talking about?” The second man took his rifle down from his shoulder and stepped behind Emin. He was wearing jeans and a plaid shirt.

A farmer?
The rifle looked like the one Atif's father used for hunting.

“If we don't go now,” Emin said, “it may be too late.”

“I've been through this area more times than I can count,” Tarak said, stepping closer to him. “I don't remember any culverts big enough for a grown man to squeeze through.”

“There is,” the young man said. “Look. If you want to follow me, fine. If not, you can stay here and take your chances crossing on top. I don't care. I'm going now.”

Tarak jabbed the muzzle of his rifle into Emin's chest.

“You're not going anywhere.”

“Tarak?” The soldier called Juso sounded bewildered.

“Look at him, Juso. Look at his clothes. His shirt, his jeans. They're like he just put them on.” Tarak pointed to Emin's feet. “And those sneakers look like they just came off a store shelf.”

Atif looked down.

The sneakers were white, pristine. Atif glanced at his own boots caked in mud.

But if Emin hadn't come from Srebrenica, where did he come from?

“The clothes I was wearing were soaked,” Emin said, his voice shaking. “I found some packs full of clothes and changed earlier this evening.”

Tarak raised his hand and touched Emin's hair and then smelled his fingers.

“Shampoo. Smells like apples.”

“I bought it off the black market.”

The farmer raised the barrel of his rifle. Juso followed suit.

“What's going on?” Atif asked.

“He's a Chetnik,
Braco
. He was going to lead us into an ambush.”

Atif stared at Emin. It had been so long since he'd seen a Serb out of uniform he had forgotten it was impossible to tell one apart from a Muslim or a Croat.

“What?” Emin said. “No. That's not true.”

“He says he's from your area,” Tarak said, glancing at Atif. “Do you recognize him?”

Atif looked up at the man and shook his head, but he wasn't sure. He no longer remembered the faces or names of his former neighbours.

“I am Muslim,” Emin said. “Like you.”

“Yeah?” said the man holding up his friend. “How many times a day do we pray?”

“Five,” Emin replied.

“When? What are the names of the prayers? Can you recite them?”

Atif knew he couldn't answer those questions with complete certainty.

“My parents were Communists,” Emin told them. “We didn't practice.”

“We can't let him go,” Juso said to Tarak. “He will tell them where we are.”

Tarak rubbed his forehead hard and glanced at the other men.

“What do we do with him?”

“Kill him,” said the man with the rifle.

“What? No. I'm telling you, I'm Muslim.”

The young man's legs suddenly buckled and he was on the ground. Tarak reached down and grabbed Emin by the collar. Atif stood up.

“Do you honestly think we're that stupid?”

Emin said nothing. Blood dripped from his nose.

“
Braco
, throw me the tape.”

The roll was sitting on Tarak's pack. Atif tossed it to him and then climbed on top of the log. Tarak handed the tape to the farmer.

“What's your name?”

“Murat.”

“Tie his wrists and gag him.”

Tarak held onto Emin while Murat bound him. Then he turned to Juso.

“Do you have any rope?”

“Some. Why?”

“We'll tie him to a tree and break his ankle. His own guys will find him soon enough.”

“No,” Murat said. “We should kill him. If he gets loose or screams, we'll all die.”

“I'm not going to shoot an unarmed man.”

“I don't have a problem with that,” one of the other men said. He stepped forward, pulling out a pistol. “He's a Chetnik. They don't think twice about raping and killing our women and children.”

“That doesn't make it right.”

Atif gazed at Emin. The young man was struggling against the binds and shaking his head.

He's a Chetnik, Atif thought. A soldier. Was he the soldier who loaded the shell that killed Dani? The soldier responsible for Tata's disappearance? Atif's jaw hurt. His hands were shaking.

“Fine,” Murat replied. “Let's vote on it.”

“I say we break both ankles and leave him,” Juso said.

The man leaning against his friend waved a hand. “I'm just a carpenter. I don't want anything to do with murdering an unarmed man. Allah has said that when angered, we should forgive.”

Atif held his breath and looked at the other two men.

“Allah has also said to slay the aggressor wherever we find him. I say we slay this aggressor.”