The Devil Couldn't Break Me (6 page)

“What is wrong?” he kept asking.

I looked into his beautiful deep brown eyes and wanted to tell him that everything was all right but it wasn't. Nothing would ever be the same again, not for me and not for Amir.

We buried Uncle Demir the next day in line with Muslim tradition. Everyone who had remained in Veliki Trnovac was there to pay their last respects. No one could quite believe that Demir had been taken so soon after what he had done. They were calling him a hero and one woman said that if anyone deserved to be taken into heaven then it would surely be him. She was saying that God was good and he would take special care of Demir.

I was confused and couldn't help thinking that God shouldn't have taken him at all.

My father's voice interrupted my thoughts.

“Laura,” he said gently, “we have buried your uncle.”

“Yes father.”

“Now it's time to go.”

Forced to Flee

My father had reluctantly allowed me one more night in the family home but it was of little comfort to me and I hardly slept at all. My mother came into my room just after seven in the morning and told me we were having a cooked breakfast as father had planned an early start for me.

She had cooked some eggs and buttered some toast but it would all remain un-eaten and instead the eggs were sliced up and placed between two slices of fresh bread and pushed into my sports bag. I asked again if my mother was coming with me but she shook her head. I wondered if it would have been different if my uncle hadn't died. My father needed his wife with him, I knew that, but regardless, I don't think she would have left him whatever the circumstances. My father was giving me my final instructions.

“On no account must you use the main road until you get into Kosovo and you'll need to go over the top of the mountain.”

“The mountain?” I asked incredulously.

“It's not far, thirty or forty minutes to the top and then you will be able to plan your route from there. You will see the main road from the top and you can chart a point or two and follow the road parallel until you are one hundred per cent sure you are in Kosovo and then and only then can you try and hitch a ride or take a bus to Pristina.”

“But why can't I take a bus from the village?”

He was lifting my bag onto my back.

“Because your father knows best locki.”

I looked over at my mother who was standing by the door in floods of tears, tears that I thought would surely never dry. I was still asking questions, I was terrified at that thought of arriving in a city where I knew no one.

“Where will I go?”

“There are Red Cross centres,” my father said. “Head for the centre of town and ask one of the NATO men or a policeman. There are camps for refugees in Pristina and you'll be safe there.”

My father, the man who had always been my protector, was sending me off into the unknown and in an instance I knew that if he was prepared to do that then things in Veliki Trnovac must be pretty horrific.

I said an emotional goodbye to my mother. It lasted some time and I felt so warm and secure and safe as she wrapped her arms tight around me. She told me to buy a mobile phone as soon as I got to Pristina so that I would be able to call her. I wanted to stay there forever and felt sure that no harm could come to me as long as she held me in this way. I went to give my father a hug but he said he would walk with me for a while and we set off.

He kept repeating what he had told me about the Red Cross and how safe Pristina was. He also tried to justify his decision to stay, saying it was our home and it was all we had and if he left it, then the Serbs would loot the property and set it on fire. My parents had worked so hard on that property and for so many years and as he told me the war would be over in a few months and everything would return to normal I almost believed him.

The path to the top of the mountain was clearly visible and about five hundred metres from the top Agi said goodbye. It was another emotionally charged moment as he held me like my Nani had done and we shed a flood of tears. As I reluctantly walked away from him I remember thinking I couldn't take much more and so wanted to turn around and run back.

I stood on the track for some minutes as I watched Agi disappear into the distance and then I dried my tears and slung my sports bag onto my back and started to walk. The path to the top looked a little daunting, very steep and not so well trodden. I kept focussing, twenty, thirty, forty metres ahead and tried to pick out points. I was now more frightened of the wild animals than anything else. I had heard tales of wild dogs and an occasional wolf and every so often I would stop, try not to breath and listen for sounds. Now the town of Veliki Trnovac didn't seem such a bad place to be.

I picked up my pace as the path zigzagged to the top and within about forty minutes I had made it to the crest of the mountain. It was cold, crisp and clear with four or five centimetres of snow under my feet but the view over into Kosovo was perfect and the sheer beauty of the scene took my breath away. The mountains were covered in a pristine, white blanket of snow and it contrasted beautifully with the deep green of the forests and the dead and dying deciduous trees and shrubs in various shades of red, yellow, black, orange, some even pink and magenta. I eased my bag from my shoulder, took out my waterproof and spread it out on the ground and sat down. I stayed there for some time admiring the sheer beauty and enjoying the stillness and calm. Everything was so peaceful. Surely this place was too beautiful for a war?

I realised I was shivering and decided it was time to move on as I repacked my bag and took a final look at where I was heading. Agi had been right, the main road to Kosovo was clear enough to see but he had also emphasised how very dangerous it was and as I started walking downhill I made a mental note of the route.
Keep to the right of the road.
Agi had said.
Make sure you are well inside the Kosovo border before you break your cover.

His words rang in my ears and I did as he had instructed but it was tough going. Once I reached the bottom of the hill the path petered out and I was walking through dense forest and bracken, taking my bearings from the noise of the traffic over to my left. I didn't want to get too close to the road but figured as long as I could hear traffic noise then I wouldn't stray too far. From the bottom of the mountain Agi had said it was no more than four kilometres into Kosovo, but he said I should walk at least six or seven before making my way to the road. So I walked on for at least three hours, stopping now and again for a drink of water and even managing to build up a hunger and eat my breakfast sandwich. My bag felt really heavy at that point and I laughed, as I looked at all the food my parents had packed. It was enough to feed a small army.

Despite the cold I was sweating hard and the path I had chosen appeared to gain a little altitude. I had an idea that it might be good to gain a little height as it might give me a chance to view the road again. It was tough going especially the long uphill climbs but I remembered my father telling me that every uphill has a downhill and I pressed on. On one steep, downhill stretch I missed my footing on a loose rock and pitched forward violently. I was aware of the ground rushing up towards my face but had the presence of mind to twist away from it and I landed on my back, my rucksack absorbing most of the impact. I lay for a second and realised I had gashed my ankle on a tree root. My father had had the presence of mind to pack me a small first aid kit and after patching myself up and drinking a little water I was on the move again.

I came to a clearing in the forest and noticed a path off to the left that appeared to climb even further. I followed it and sure enough, after about two hundred metres the forest opened up in front of me giving me a clear view to the main road no more than half a kilometre away. I caught my breath for a second. I couldn't quite believe the sheer volume of traffic heading into Kosovo. Cars, trucks and even motorbikes, bumper to bumper, slowly edging their way towards the border. The border checkpoint was obvious, a real build-up of almost stationary vehicles, the sound of tooting horns and the bright blue helmets of the NATO peacekeepers clearly visible. I confess I felt a little pleased with myself as I turned around and started walking again. Agi's instructions were good and I had followed them to the letter. I was in Kosovo now and I felt safe. I'd somehow get a ride to Pristina and everything would be all right.

I walked directly to the road and came out no more than two kilometres inside the Kosovo border. The traffic was very slow and almost immediately I noticed a bus crawling slowly towards me. He had no choice but to stop as I jumped in front of him. He opened the door with a smile on his face and spoke in perfect Albanian.

“You'll get yourself killed you silly girl.”

I also spoke to him in Albanian.

“I'm sorry but I need to get to Pristina.”

I fumbled in my bag for the money my father had packed and pulled out a 300 dinar note.

“I'm sorry I don't have any change.”

The bus driver told me not to worry about money.

“We have NATO here now, we are free men so money is of no consequence to me at the minute.”

He was grinning and told me to take a seat, he seemed so kind and he immediately put me at ease. He explained that he was heading for Gnjilane, which was thirty minutes away and from there I could take a bus direct to Pristina. I took a seat by the window and tried to blend in with the rest of the crowd on the bus.

As we neared Gnjilane, the traffic built up even more reducing the pace of the bus to no more than that of a snail. Every car, every truck appeared to be flying the Albanian flag from a window or an aerial and I couldn't quite understand that significance. We were in Kosovo, why not a Kosovan flag or why a flag at all.

As we pulled into Gnjilane the bus driver called me forward. He told me to be very careful and not to trust anyone. I remember being very frightened as I climbed from the bus and almost immediately I became aware that, although it was quite busy, there were very few women around and almost no girls of my age to be seen. Gnjilane was very rough, I didn't like the look of the men at all and the buildings appeared run down and neglected. Some of them were in ruins and bore the marks of bullet and mortar fire.

I started walking. It wasn't long before I spotted the NATO soldiers again which calmed my anxiety a little. They were American troops this time, bright blue helmets or baseball caps and tiny stars and stripes flags flying from the aerials of their trucks and the very sight of the explosion of colour in an otherwise dreary grey backdrop fascinated me. I had been a long-time admirer of anything American, particularly their movies that I had watched as a young girl. Rightly or wrongly I had always looked up to America, loved the way they spoke and adored their style, their colourful fashions and carefree attitude. Uncle Demir had always said he was going to take Amir and I to New York and it was something I had dreamt about for as long as I could remember. A jeep passed me with four young American soldiers on board. They were smiling and laughing and their teeth were shiny white and pretty... they were like movie stars.

Eventually I found the bus to Pristina. There was a very long queue and once again I handed the bus driver my high denomination dinar note. He wasn't as happy as the first bus driver, telling me off and saying I should have changed it at one of the local bars or shops. He was speaking Albanian too so I answered him in the same tongue and said that we were free now and that the United Nations were here and they had saved us and who cared about money anyway. It seemed to work as he reluctantly allowed me on board albeit with a grumble and a shrug of his shoulders.

After an hour we came across a huge military checkpoint. There were soldiers everywhere and the atmosphere on the bus could be cut with a knife as I heard someone say that we were pulling into a Serbian populated town called Gracanica where there had been a lot of trouble. This time the traffic was heading in the other direction and it was convoys of Serbs fleeing for their lives as Kosovans and Albanians took out their frustration and bitterness on the town of Gracanica and the Serb men women and children who lived there. This was no different to what I was doing, fleeing from the town where I had grown up. It was utter madness, the futility of it all, how blind can man be?

I peered into the back of a large car as it passed by the bus window. There were five small children squeezed onto the back seat, the youngest about a year old and the oldest, a girl, probably no more than a eleven years old. Like me they looked lost, puzzled and were looking for answers to why their parents were running for their lives. My heart went out to the little ones.

It took over an hour to get through the checkpoint at Gracanica after two UN soldiers had meticulously checked the identification and documents of the bus driver. Twenty minutes after that, the bus driver announced that we were driving into Pristina bus station.

I was aware that I was thirsty, so very thirsty, as I climbed from the bus. I had finished my last bottle of water just outside Gnjilane and that had been some hours ago. It was cold now too, and dark and I pulled my scarf tightly around my neck as I buttoned up my coat. I felt frightened and vulnerable as I looked around for somewhere to go. I didn't know what to expect but thought there might be some sort of information desk at the bus station or at least an employee to ask directions to the Red Cross people. There was nothing. I looked across the road and spotted a bar on the main pedestrianised street and thought at least I could get a drink of water in there. It was next to a large hotel and a police station. Someone would help me in there, I was sure of it.

As I opened the door I was hit by a wall of noise, not the peaceful tranquil scene I imagined as families took a quiet coffee on the way home for the evening. It was full of UN soldiers and policeman drinking beer that the bar tender was pulling from a shiny silver pump perched on top of the counter. I had never seen anything like it before. The beer in Veliki Trnovac all came from glass bottles or tins and was only ever seen at a wedding or celebration. This was another world. I had never seen so much beer and it was obviously good because everyone looked as if they were having a wonderful time. It was as if the war outside had stopped at the doorway to the bar. I became aware that many people were staring at me as I walked in but nevertheless the barman greeted me with a big smile. I asked for a water and he poured it from the tap saying there was no charge. He began talking to me and asking where I was from, where I was going. I felt exposed and for some reason didn't have the confidence or courage to share my predicament with him. I looked at the UN soldiers and the policemen and for the first time since before the incident on the hill actually felt quite safe.