Braco (10 page)

He turned. Albert, a mechanic, waved to him. Jac backed out of the building.

“I'm looking for Janssen,” the mechanic said, wiping his hands with a rag.

“Last I saw, he was talking to the major. Why?”

“You don't know?”

“Know what?”

“They're going to hose down your vehicle now.” Albert motioned over his shoulder with a thumb. “Go take a look for yourself. I'm going to find Janssen.”

The mechanic walked away.

Erik?

Jac sprinted towards the maintenance bay. He heard water splashing against the hull before he turned the corner. Two maintenance corporals held a hose, soaking the left side of the vehicle. Fresh dents and scars pitted the carrier's metal skin. Erik stood staring at the right side. Jac released the air in his lungs and walked up to him.

“What's going on?”

Streaks of clean skin trailed through the dirt on the gunner's face to his chin. He said nothing, his lips tight. Jac followed his gaze. Blood was mixed with mud on the side of the carrier. Tissue and bone stuck to the treads.

“No, no,” Jac said, turning to Erik. “That's from the cow we ran over.”

Erik shook his head and held up a piece of white cloth soaked with blood. Jac stared at the rag in Erik's hand and then turned to inspect the track. There was more bone and blood on the vehicle then he remembered.

Seven kilometres on the road would have removed most of the cow, Jac thought.

He crouched and reached into the track well; his hand came out holding another piece of white material. The remains of a cuff.

Goddamnit. I should have gone back.

WEDNESDAY:
ATIF STAVIC

ATIF MOVED A
step closer to the water spigot, pushing the green container forward with his feet. The midday sun assaulted him from above and shade was still a dozen people away. He licked his cracked lips, wishing he'd left a little water in the container.

“I don't know,” a voice said in English.

Atif turned. A peacekeeper walked along the line.

“Don't know what?” Atif asked him.

The peacekeeper slowed. “I don't know when they're going to send trucks or buses to get you all out of here.”

“But they're going to send them, are they?”

“Like I said, I don't know.” The peacekeeper kept walking.

“They know nothing,” the old woman behind Atif said. He turned around to face her. “They won't be able to do anything.”

“We should walk to Serbia,” a younger woman said. “We could get there before sunset.”

“That would mean you'd have to cross the lines,” Atif said.

“Better that than waiting for the Dutch to do something.”

“Atif. Atif.”

Ina?

He looked around until he saw Ina weaving in and out of the line. He waved to her. She stopped, taking a moment to catch her breath.

“I didn't think you were so close. Your mother wants you to go back. I'll fill this up.”

“It's okay. I can take care of this.”

“No, Atif. You need to go back to her. Now.”

Before he could protest, Ina pointed towards the road near the Dutch compound. Atif surveyed the area. There were three soldiers pacing along the edge of the crowd. They weren't wearing blue helmets.

Chetniks!

Two of them were bareheaded and dressed in green camouflage uniforms. The third sported a mismatched assortment of army green and had a red bandanna wrapped around his head.

He thinks he's Rambo.

“But they can't come in here,” he told Ina. “The Dutch said this was part of their compound now.”

“We don't know what they can and can't do, Atif. Best if you stayed with your mother.”

Atif frowned and gave up his spot in the line to her.

“Go directly back, Atif.”

He walked away, pausing to watch the soldiers. When he glanced back at Ina, she had her arm raised, pointing towards the bus. He took a shortcut through bushes and walked through the crowd watching every step, avoiding arms and legs hiding under blankets and sections of open ground used as a latrine.

Checking to make sure Ina was out of sight, he made a left turn and crossed the street near the soldiers. Some of the peacekeepers were stringing white and red tape between the soldiers and the civilians; others stood in a line behind the tape. Some of the Serbs were sitting on the grass and singing songs. Others were tossing treats to the children. A piece of wrapped candy dropped at Atif's feet. A little girl bounced over a bag and grabbed it.

“Don't eat that,” he told her. “They could have poisoned it.”

The girl ignored him, tearing off the wrapper and devouring the sweet. Two military trucks lumbered down the road and parked near the tape. Soldiers jumped from the back. A car pulled up behind them and a television crew stepped out.

The Dutch will keep them out.
Atif watched the peacekeepers form a loose human chain.
They promised
.

Atif turned his back on the Serbs and made his way to the wrecked bus. His mother stood next to the three girls, scanning the crowd. The moment their eyes met, she stepped forward, waving to him to hurry. She wrapped her arm around his shoulders and sat him under the bus next to Tihana.

“You don't have to worry, Mama. They're not coming in. The Dutch put some tape up.”

“Do you honestly think a bit of tape is going to keep them out?”

“No. The Dutch will. This is part of their camp. They won't let them in.”

“Listen to me, Atif,” she replied, taking him by the shoulders. “The Dutch can't stop them. They have no food, water, or transportation and we both know the Chetniks won't let any trucks through. They can do whatever they want.”

Atif looked away. “What do you think they'll do?”

“I don't know,” she replied. “But I know the Dutch are not going to be able to stop them. The sooner you start believing that, the better. We'll just have to wait and see.”

Atif leaned against the rusted axle, rubbing his hands together. He hated waiting. For three years, he had waited in lines for water and food or in dusty basements for the shelling to stop.

Waited for his father to return.

“You should sleep.”

“I'm fine, Mama.” Atif picked up one of the bottles next to his pack and drained the last few drops.

“You haven't slept in almost twenty-four hours.”

“I'm fine. Really.”

He wiped his forehead with his shirt. He couldn't sleep with the Serbs so close.

He needed to watch.

Ina returned with the container full of water. They borrowed the stove to boil the remaining potatoes. When they were done, Atif's mother returned the stove and pot to the old man, the last of their potatoes in the water.

Atif ate his potato and Lejla fed Tihana's toy soldier. His sister watched and, when the soldier had had enough, she ate. Then Ina and his mother turned away and spoke in whispers. Atif stared at them, chewing on his lip and wishing he could hear.

He remembered the first time his father had spoken to his mother in whispers. They had probably done it before, but he hadn't noticed. This time, though, he felt left out, sitting at the empty table in their new home in Srebrenica. His father had given their farm to a Serb neighbour in exchange for the Serb's house in the town. The neighbour helped smuggle their family into Srebrenica. Though Atif didn't think
smuggle
was the right word. They sat in the back of a VW and drove down a gravel road to a checkpoint. The soldier on duty accepted the Serb driver's identification and the stack of Deutsch Marks inside without saying a word.

When he saw their new home, Atif thought the deal favoured their neighbour. The house had a basement as promised, but the entire structure needed work. And, it was already occupied. Ina and her daughters had moved in months earlier, believing it abandoned. Atif's father had insisted they stay. He knew Ina's nursing skills would be invaluable.

“What are you talking about?” Atif had finally said to his father.

His parents stared at him.

“Your father is going to follow the soldiers. When they attack a village, he'll go in and find as much food as he can carry.”

“Then I should go with him. We could carry more.”

“It's not safe for someone so young, Atif,” his father had said. “Besides, like I told you before, I need you to look after your mother and sister for me. I want to know they will be safe.”

How can I respond to that?

He knew he couldn't face his father if something happened to his sister and his mother while he was gone, but what could he do to protect them? His father had returned in the morning carrying a sack of potatoes on his back. He didn't tell Atif where he found the food or if anyone had been killed. He rarely spoke about the raids.

Atif looked away from his mother and Ina to watch Tihana play with the toy soldier. She walked it along and then mimed an explosion. The machine gunner lay dead in the crushed grass.

“What happened, Tihana? Did the soldier get hurt?”

Tihana smiled and repeated the scene.

“C'mon. You can tell your big brother. Does he need help?”

A single gunshot popped.

Atif flinched and turned around, looking at the zinc factory. The crowd shifted and settled.

“What's going on?”

“I don't know, Atif,” Ina replied. She avoided his eyes. “I think the Serbs are celebrating.”

Atif stared at her.

Why do they think they can lie to me?

The gunshots had started earlier in the day, but then they had been in the hills lying towards Srebrenica. This one was closer, much closer.

And they're not celebrating, he thought, still gazing at Ina. Celebrating soldiers didn't fire single shots. They switched their rifles to full auto and emptied the magazine into the air in a matter of seconds.

Enough of this.

He leaned close so that only Ina and his mother could hear his words.

“They're shooting people, aren't they?”

Ina's eyes darted to the ground.

“Why won't you tell me?”

“She's not sure,” his mother whispered into his ear. “She said some of the Chetniks are inside the tape now. She saw one of the soldiers take an old man behind the factory. Then the soldier came back alone, carrying a bloody knife.”

“An old man?”

Ina nodded.

“But the Dutch are watching.”

“Hey, boy.”

They looked up. A tall figure eclipsed the high sun. Atif raised his hand to shield his eyes. The Serb soldier wore a dark uniform, which had a tiger emblem on the sleeve. A rifle hung from his shoulder, lazily pointing in their direction.

“How old are you, boy?”

The women stood.

“He's fourteen,” his mother replied.

“No, he's older,” the Serb said. “He's a soldier. I've seen you, boy. On the front line.”

“I'm not a soldier.”

“Yes, you are. I've seen you. You've killed Serb women and children.” He pointed to Atif's temple. “You're a soldier. You were injured.”

“One of your shells did that while he was playing,” Ina said. “This boy has been at home, helping us grow food and helping his mother teach the younger children. He's never held a rifle in his life.”

“We can test his hands for residue. If he has fired a weapon, we'll know.” The soldier moved towards Atif. “We need to question him.”

Both women stepped in front of the soldier. The Serb moved towards them, stopping inches from Atif's mother, scowling. His eyes dropped to her chest and he reached across to touch the crucifix around her neck. She pulled back.

“Why do you wear this?”

“Because I'm a Christian,” his mother said.

“Your husband is Muslim.”

“He was.”

“He was a soldier.”

“No. He was a father trying to feed his family.”

“No. He was a soldier. He taught your son to fight.”

“He taught him how to farm.”

The soldier bared his teeth and returned his attention to the crucifix. “You're not Christian.” He tore it from her neck. “You're a Turk whore.”

Pushing her aside, the soldier snatched at Atif. He backed up under the bus as far as possible. The Serb crouched, reached his hand under the bus, snagged Atif's ankle, and pulled. The twins grabbed Tihana and turned away, crying. Atif yelled and kicked; the hand released him.

It didn't return.

Where is it?

Atif wrapped his arms around the driveshaft and waited for the claws to reappear. A second pair of combat boots appeared instead.

Dutch boots.

A familiar voice.

“What's going on here?”