Braco (18 page)

The carrier moved along the deserted main street, passing soldiers who were searching houses. Niko's heart sank to the bottom of his boots. This was the town he had once called home.

Medieval was a generous description. Shells had damaged every building and rubble covered the sidewalks. Some houses had burned to the ground. Others stood without roofs and shrapnel had left the walls pockmarked. Soot covered everything. All the windows had been smashed and replaced with ragged pieces of plastic. Split firewood was stacked against the first floor windows. There were mountains of rancid garbage between the homes and in open spaces. The smell of raw sewage overpowered the smell of the garbage. Niko raised the bandanna to his mouth.

“How could they live in this?” Petar asked.

Niko didn't have an answer. How had his friends endured three years in this hell? And what about Nina, the old woman who lived next door to them? When he was young, she used to bring him treats whenever she visited her daughter in Tuzla.

Had she gotten out? Could she have survived all this time on handouts?

The carrier slowed and Niko's eyes fell on the set of steps where he used to hang around with his friends and smoke.

Lutvo, Alen, and Mersid. Are they still alive?

The carrier stopped in the middle of the road and they dismounted.

“We've been given authority to inspect every home,” Drach said as the carrier rumbled away. “If we find anyone, they will be taken to the soccer field. Nobody is to be harmed. Understand?”

The group grunted a collective affirmative as they followed him to the first house. They stopped at the front door.

“You first, Turk,” Drach said, his smile exposing stained teeth and a chipped front tooth. “Watch out now. Your friends like to leave grenades on top of the door frames.”

“Or wire them to the doorknob,” Ivan said. He elbowed Pavle, chuckling.

Niko rolled his eyes as he brushed by Ivan. He thought it unlikely that they'd had time to set up booby traps. Word of the air strikes probably had given them false hope, keeping them in their homes. The failure of the planes to stop the advance meant a lot of people had fled the area in a short period of time.

Niko hesitated and eyed the door.

Yes. They left too fast.

He reached for the door handle and turned it.

The handle clicked.

Niko's heart skipped.

The door slid open, scrapping the floor.

No wires. No grenades.

He pushed the door against the wall and stepped inside. Piles of wood sat next to the window. Garbage covered the floor. A wooden table sat alone in the middle of the room.

“Good job,” Ivan said, patting Niko on the back as he walked in.

The others followed, moving from room to room. Niko sat on the edge of the table and looked around. A well-used fireplace dominated the exterior wall, its mantelpiece covered in candle wax. He glanced at the ceiling: there were only wires and soot where the light fixture had been. Drach, Vladen, and Anton thundered up the stairs. Ivan and Pavle wandered about the main floor. Dishes smashed in the kitchen. Cupboard doors slammed. The ceiling above creaked. Dust settled in the room. Petar waited next to the door, his eyes darting to the ceiling. Something crashed to the floor upstairs.

A voice screamed in delight and boots scuffed the floor. Anton pounded down the stairs and dumped a box of jewelry onto the table.

“Jackpot,” he said, sorting through the rings and chains.

“Why would they leave that behind?” Petar asked.

“Cause we scared the crap out of them and they ran like rabbits,” Ivan said, removing the cork from a wine bottle. It popped like a gunshot and Ivan inhaled over the opening. “Damned Turks drink crap, too.”

He flung the bottle against the wall and it disintegrated. Red liquid streamed to the floor. Drach, Pavle, and Vladen pounded down the steps and went out the back door. Ivan pushed Petar aside and left through the front door.

Niko picked up a ring and examined it. A gold band with a purple stone and elaborate engravings. He didn't recognize the symbols.

“Watch those sticky fingers, Turk,” Anton said, using a hand to propel the rest of the jewelry into his pack. “This is mine.”

“You can have it,” Niko told him, tossing the ring on the table. “It's fake.”

“What?”

Niko turned away, his attention drawn outside. Raised voices and laughter drifted in from the street. Niko walked to the door. Outside, farther along the street, Drach and the other soldiers had surrounded a young man who was wearing dark pants and a clean shirt.

A civilian? Still here?

Niko studied the man's face, but his gaunt features didn't look familiar.

“I'm a civilian,” the man was saying. “I didn't fight.”

Niko stepped outside. Anton shoved past him and joined the others.

“Do you believe that?” Drach asked Vladen. He turned to Ivan. “Do you?”

The two soldiers shook their heads. The civilian looked around until his eyes fixed on Niko.

“Is that you, Niko?”

“Do it,” Drach said.

The man opened his mouth to speak, but Ivan smothered the words with one hand and used the other to pull out a long knife from a scabbard hanging on his belt. He yanked the man's head back and slid the knife across his throat.

Blood erupted as the man fell to his knees, hands clutching at his neck. The crimson fingers tried to close the gurgling wound. He fell over, his legs kicking. He struggled for breath, his hand still on his neck.

“Damn it, Ivan,” Drach said, staring down at the man. “When are you going to learn how to do that right?”

As they walked towards the next house, the soldiers congrat-ulated each other. Niko stepped away from the door and went to the dying man. His head lay in a puddle of blood and his mouth was jerking open and shut as he gasped for breath like a fish left at the bottom of a boat.

He knew my name. Who is he?

The man's struggle subsided. When it had stopped completely, Niko searched the still form for a wallet, but there was nothing.

“Who was he?” Petar asked from behind.

“I have no idea.”

“I thought he said we weren't supposed to hurt anyone.” Petar's voice was shaky.

“He did.”

Niko got up, shouldered his rifle and walked away.

He and Petar followed Drach and the others as they looted. At every house, it was the same thing: windows gone, firewood split and piled high, lawns dug up to grow vegetables. Some homes had electricity, the wires leading to a nearby river where paddle wheels had been jury-rigged to provide power. Niko went down to the edge of the river to admire the contraptions.

“Amazing,” Petar said.

“Ingenious, really. But the power wouldn't have been constant. The lights probably flickered all the time.”

“Beats using a candle.”

They moved to the next street. At the first house, they came across three old men playing cards on the front steps. Drach checked the time and then turned to Niko and Petar.

“Take them to the soccer field. And stay there. You're not doing much good here.”

The rest of the section walked into the house. Niko leaned down to help a man to his feet.

“This is my house,” the old man said. Glass smashed inside. “You won't burn it down, will you?”

“No, sir, we won't,” Niko replied.

“Good. You're a good man. That house has been in my family for three generations. It's all I have.”

“It'll be fine. Come with us. We'll get you some food and water.”

The man and his friends spoke in whispers as they walked with the soldiers to the main road. They crossed it and turned east, passing a soldier tearing down a street sign bearing a Muslim name.

“This way,” Niko said, turning onto the next street.

“Isn't the soccer field farther up?” Petar asked.

“My house is down here. I want to see it while I have the chance.”

Niko jogged ahead of Petar and the three old men, his eyes following the curve in the road. Nina's house came into view, scarred and pitted but intact. Furrowed mud replaced the lawn. Niko trotted the next few steps and then slowed. His feet suddenly felt as if they were made of lead. So did his heart.

No!

Burnt frames stood where there had once been four homes.

Niko approached the charred remains of his house. The front and one side wall had collapsed into the basement. The back and remaining wall still stood with a single round hole for a window in the second story. The word
Chetnik
had been spray painted on the wall. He stood on the front step, his eyes searching the ruins for anything familiar. He'd left so much behind.

No picture frames. No photo albums. Everything that connected him to Srebrenica was ashes.

“The bastards burned it down,” Petar said from behind.

“No,” Niko said, shaking his head. He pointed up. “Look at the hole. That's artillery. We destroyed it.”

For all he knew, he had delivered the shell to the gun crew who fired that round.

His mind was made up. There was nothing left to keep him in Bosnia. As soon as they were finished with this operation, he would desert and take Natalija and Mira to Austria.

WEDNESDAY:
NIKO BASARIC

NIKO HUNG ONTO
the safety strap slung above the tailgate, looking at the familiar terrain moving past him. He was relieved to finally be leaving the town. Relieved that he wouldn't have to watch any more looting of the homes of his former neighbours.

After they delivered the three men to the soccer field the night before, Niko and Petar had moved into the school for the night. He'd led Petar along the familiar corridors, glancing into classrooms that had been converted into barracks. He claimed a bunk in what had been his fourth grade homeroom. The same letters ran along the top of the blackboard, but the map of Europe on the back wall was different. Someone had used a marker to split Bosnia into two.

The following afternoon, Drach showed up with a truck and orders to move on to Potocari. As they drove through Srebrenica, Niko looked at every building, every landmark, which had been a part of his childhood. The department store, the post office, the hospital, his father's favorite bakery.

What was left of it.

Rusted cars and damaged homes dotted the road to Potocari. Land sheltered from the hills was cultivated. Fields of stumps replaced forests.

So much had changed.

“Hey, Turk,” Ivan shouted. Niko turned around. “You make sure you don't touch any of those pretty Muslim girls.” Ivan stood up, grabbed his genitals, and made a thrusting motion with his hips. “You leave them to us.”

Niko looked away.

“You should stick with us, recruit,” Ivan said, shaking Petar's shoulder. “We'll show you how to be a real man.”

The soldiers laughed. Petar turned to Niko.

“Are they joking?” he whispered.

“No, they're not.” Niko eyed Ivan as he sat back down on the bench, still laughing.

“I'm not....” Petar leaned closer to Niko. “I'm not going to rape anyone.”

“Then don't.”

“Oh. Okay. But what if they order me to?”

“I don't know, Petar. You have to decide for yourself. All I know is they're putting guys in jail for war crimes now and I don't plan on being one of them.”

“But if they order….”

“For God's sake, Petar, did you fail history too?”

“No.”

“Did they teach you about Nuremburg?”

“Yeah. When they put the Nazis on trial.”

“Well, they said then that being ordered wasn't an excuse. It wasn't then. Do you think it is now?”

“No, but….”

The truck slowed.

“Look,” Niko said, “just stay with me. The captain put me in charge of you and they're more afraid of him than they are of Drach. As long as you're with me, they won't risk doing something stupid to piss him off.”

Or they shouldn't.

“Okay. Sure.”

The truck stopped and the passenger door slammed. Drach appeared below. “Out.”

Niko followed the others off the truck and lashed the tailgate closed. The truck turned around and headed back to Srebrenica. Peacekeepers paced in front of two armoured personnel carriers blocking the road. The Dutch avoided eye contact and said nothing as Drach led the section around the vehicles.

On the other side, there were thousands of people cramming the roadway and parking lots just west of the Dutch base. Blue helmets dotted the crowds. Serb soldiers walked among them. Drach strolled over to speak with one of their own officers. Petar stood next to Niko.

“Where are all the men?”

Niko looked at Petar and then at the crowd.

He's right.
All the adult faces were female. Niko glanced at the hills.

“I don't know. Maybe they're out there waiting to see what happens.”

Drach returned to the section and lit a cigarette.

“It seems the men are missing. They're probably hiding in the buildings or inside the Dutch compound. Some of them might be in the hills. Right now, we have orders to find any men in the crowd and to bring them to the little white house across from the compound. The officers have a list of war criminals and if they are on the list they'll be taken away for trial.”

Ivan chuckled. Petar glanced at Niko.

“Buses are taking the women and children to Tuzla.” Drach said, glaring at Niko. “So don't let me catch you wasting your water or rations on them. They'll be in Tuzla soon enough and the blue helmets can take care of them. Questions?”

Nobody spoke.

“Think you can handle that, Turk?”

“Yes, Sergeant.”

“Fine. Move it.”

Niko elbowed Petar and they walked towards the refugees. The rest of the section split up. As they entered the crowd, women panicked. Some hid their faces and covered the heads of their daughters. Others raised their hands, begging for food and water.

Niko pulled his helmet low over his brow.

He led Petar deep into the crowd, trying to keep his distance from Drach, moving as slowly as possible towards the Dutch base. He saw Ivan pull an old man from the clutches of his shrieking wife and shove him towards the white house.

Goddamn vulture.

Niko turned away and walked between two wrecked buses.

“Niko?”

He turned back; Petar was standing over an old man.

“How old are you, sir?” Niko asked the man.

“Eighty-one.” The man was alone. He held a crutch in his lap and a prosthetic leg lay next to what was left of his own leg.

Niko waved Petar on.

“You think he's a war criminal?”

Petar shrugged.

“What do you think you're doing, Turk?”

Niko and Petar turned around: Drach was standing over the man.

“He's eighty-one, Sergeant. And he's missing his leg. I don't think he's a war criminal.”

“That's not for you to decide. I ordered you to bring all the men to the white house. You've been out here an hour and haven't brought one man in. If you're not capable of carrying out such a simple task then tell me now and I'll find something simple enough for you.”

Niko chewed on the inside of his cheek. He was ready to admit he had had enough, but he knew it meant they'd send him back to Bratunac. The worst that could happen was a few days in a cell or being sent to a checkpoint. Either was preferable to putting up with Drach's insults, let alone dragging old men away.

But what about Petar?

Niko knew Drach would keep him and if anything happened to the boy, Niko wasn't sure he could face Petar's mother.

“I'm fine, Sergeant. I'll take care of it.”

“Do it, Turk. Drop him at the white house and stay there. You can help the little old ladies get on the buses.”

Drach strode away. The old man picked up his prosthetic leg and fitted it on his stump, mumbling as he worked. Niko threw a long frustrated sigh out into the air. He looked around. A woman sitting under the bus was watching him. They locked eyes.

I know her, he thought, searching his memory. Mrs. Stavic. She taught languages in Srebrenica for a year. She's much thinner now though. Niko glanced under the bus. There was another woman and someone with long curly hair under blankets.

Where's her husband? And her son? The boy had played on the Kravica soccer team. He must be in his teens by now.

The woman held his gaze.

Does she recognize me?

“Niko.”

He looked at Petar and pulled the helmet down over his eyes. They helped the old man stand.

“I'm not a war criminal,” the man whispered to them. “I lost my leg in an accident at the silver mine twenty years ago. I could not fight. I did not fight.”

“Just tell them that,” Petar said. “You'll be okay.”

They led the old man away.

Niko didn't look back.