Braco (20 page)

“Leave him alone,” the gunner yelled at the Serb.

Jac chased after Erik and grabbed his sleeve. “Leave it.”

Erik tore his arm away and put his hand on the old man's shoulder.

“What's the matter with you all?” Erik shouted. “He's an old man. He's not some war criminal.”

The soldier glared at Erik as if he were crazy then turned around and shrugged at the other soldiers. A Serb corporal came up behind him.

“What's going on here?”

Erik planted himself between the corporal and the old couple.

“He's an old man. He's no threat to you. You're no better than the Nazis. No, you're worse than the Nazis. Most of them didn't know better. You do.”

“Don't call me a Nazi!” The corporal's nostrils flared. “My family fought the Nazis.”

“And how is this any different? You Nazis are killing innocent people. You're tearing a husband away from his wife, for God's sake. He's old. He's no threat to you.” Erik cocked his head and glared at the Serb. “Or is he?”

Jac grabbed Erik, but the gunner wrestled free and faced the Serb.

“Go back home, Blue Helmet. You don't belong here.”

“Why are you so afraid of old men? Tell me. Is your army that bad that you have to murder old men who can barely walk?”

Maarten appeared and he and Jac took Erik by the arms and hauled him back.

“Get away from him, Erik.”

“Why aren't you stopping him, Jac? You know they're killing the men, don't you? They're going to kill them all.”

“Shut up,” Jac said, shaking Erik. He nodded towards the crowd. “They can hear you.”

“Maybe they should listen.”

“Go back inside,” Jac said, his outstretched finger pointing towards the camp. “And stay there before you get yourself or someone else killed.”

“What about the old man?” Erik screamed, walking backwards in Maarten's grip. Tears rolled down his cheeks. “Why can't we help them, Jac?”

“I'll take care of it.” Jac said. “Get inside.”

Erik turned around and punched the air.

“I want him to apologize,” the Serb told Jac. “Or they go nowhere.”

“Look. He's just an old man.”

“Why do you care? They're Muslims. If they're permitted to stay and fight then they will force Islam on all of us the way they did when the Turks were here. You see, you get to go home and forget about us. We live here. They are our problem. Not yours. This is our turn for revenge. For Kosovo. Now go get your friend. You make him apologize or the buses don't move.”

“Look. I'm sorry about what he said. You have to understand that he is not handling this well. He's Jewish. His father lost his entire family to the Germans.”

“That was fifty years ago. Why does he care?”

Jac leaned closer to the corporal. “Kosovo was seven hundred years ago. Why do you care?”

The Serb stared at Jac then stepped back and laughed.

“I like you, Blue Helmet,” he said, pointing to Jac's head. “You're smart.”

Jac smiled briefly and then eyed the old man.

The Serb followed his gaze. He waved at the old man, who stood up, brushed the dust from his pants, and joined his wife. They shuffled off towards the buses.

“Now, do me a favour, Blue Helmet. Go away and mind your own business.”

Jac turned his back on the Serb and walked away.

If only we could all do that.

WEDNESDAY:
NIKO BASARIC

NIKO LEANED AGAINST
a tree, playing with a cigarette. He stopped and stared at it. The last time he smoked a cigarette was the day Natalija told him she was pregnant. He looked up the road towards Bratunac.

She must be going out of her mind.

There'd been rumours about a celebration at the Hotel Fontana in Bratunac.

Maybe I'll get a chance to see them tonight.

He crushed the cigarette in his fist, tossed it away, and turned back to the small group of men he had been tasked to guard. Four men, all of them in their sixties or older, sat huddled together. Petar was pacing in front of them.

Buses arrived and a corporal shouted for fifty refugees. Niko pulled his helmet low as soldiers dragged men away from their wives and mothers and added them to his group. An argument broke out on the other side of the street. Niko straightened up, straining to hear the words being exchanged between the corporal and the peacekeepers.

“What are they saying?” he asked Petar.

The recruit shrugged and went to investigate. Niko listened to the sound of arguing and then saw a peacekeeper escorting a comrade inside the compound. Petar came back.

“So?”

“The peacekeeper called the corporal a Nazi. Can you believe it?” Petar glanced back and then stepped next to Niko. “The peacekeeper said we were killing all the men. Is that true?”

Niko's eyes dropped to the men sitting in front of them. They looked at him, wide-eyed. Jaws trembled.

“I don't know what to believe, Petar. The officer said they were being taken to Bratunac to be questioned. Why would he lie?”

“Would you be so calm if he said you were being taken to be killed?”

“I don't know what's going on, Petar. I really don't.”

“You said they were trying people for war crimes. Isn't killing civilians a war crime?”

“Yes.”

“Then they could go after us for this, couldn't they?”

Niko stepped away from the men, pulling Petar along with him.

“We don't know what they're doing,” he said, keeping his voice low. “Even if they are, what can we do? Refuse? Drop our rifles and run? They'd shoot us.”

“But you said following orders wasn't an excuse.”

“I don't know that I'm following an illegal order. I really don't. Until that happens, I can't do anything about it. So stop worrying about it. Besides, there are thousands of men. They can't be stupid enough to think they can kill them all and get away with it. Just keep your safety on and if one of them runs, let him go. Let someone else shoot them and take the blame.”

“Basaric?” the corporal called out. “Is that your name? Basaric?”

“That's me.”

The corporal pointed to the men on the ground and then at the white house directly behind the group.

“Take those men into the house.”

Niko turned away from the corporal and, with a slight motion of his rifle, told the men to stand and follow Petar. Niko brought up the rear. They moved through the front yard. Piles of discarded bags and clothes smothered rows of half-picked carrots. A white rosebush next to the steps was in bloom, the breeze carrying the fragrance to his nose. Niko paused to pull in a deep breath.

Inside, two soldiers took the men aside and searched them. They took money from one man and a ring from another then tossed everything else, including their identification documents, into a pile on the floor.

“Don't you need them?” Niko asked, indicating the discarded identification. “Aren't you supposed to compare their names to a list, to see if they're war criminals?”

The soldier ignored Niko. He pocketed the money.

“Take them upstairs.”

Niko left Petar with the soldiers and climbed the stairs, the old men following him. The planks creaked under their weight. Niko stopped next to the first room and looked inside. Elderly men sat against the far wall. They stared at Niko.

“I'm sorry,” he whispered to one of the old men he had led up the stairs. “It's this goddamned war. I wish it was over.”

The man raised his eyes and placed a hand on Niko's shoulder. He left it there for a moment and then stepped inside the room. The others followed.

Niko walked back down to the main floor, his boots giving each step a sharp blow.

Goddamn it. These people were my neighbours.

He and Petar returned to their post near the Dutch vehicles.

This fucking war.

Some of the soldiers were taunting the refugees. He looked away, staring instead at the crushed cigarette on the ground, thankful he had bummed only one. Leaning against a tree, he watched the peacekeepers count out the next fifty refugees. Niko glimpsed a tall man about to pass through the Dutch line. He took a step forward, concentrating on the man's face.

I know him.
He stepped up on the curb to get a better view.
Yes!

He picked up a discarded blanket and waded into the crowd.

“Where are you going?”

“Stay there.”

As he got close to the Dutch line, Niko spotted the man again. He had one arm around a woman and the other around a teenage girl. Niko walked up to the man and pushed his helmet back.

“Mr. Munic?”

They looked at him with the same expression he had seen in the house only minutes before.

“Do I know you?”

“You were a teacher here. Mathematics.”

“Yes,” the man replied, his eyes darting left and right.

“I was one of your students about eight years ago. My name is Niko. Niko Basaric.”

The man was smiling before Niko had finished. “Yes, yes. You were a good student. I had hoped you would become an engineer.”

“I thought about it. I still do.” Niko looked at the Dutch line and the thinning crowd. He raised the blanket and put it over Munic's head. “Keep this on. Get on the bus and don't take it off.”

Munic hesitated for an instant and then pulled the blanket around his face, obscuring as much of it as he could.

“Stay in the middle of the crowd. Go. Quickly.”

Tears welled up in Munic's eyes and his wife reached up to kiss Niko.

“No, please. Go. There are only a few people behind you. Stay in the crowd.”

Munic pulled his wife and daughter closer and stooped over.

As he walked away, the former teacher looked like an old woman. Niko followed them at a distance. The family passed through the gauntlet unmolested and boarded the last bus. He stepped back as the buses turned, trying to catch a glimpse of the family, but they were buried deep in the back of the overloaded vehicle. At the last moment, a woman near the front of the bus caught Niko's eye. She stood and waved at him. Niko stepped close to the reversing vehicle.

Nina!

She stopped waving and put up both thumbs. He smiled broadly and raised his hand to wave.

“What are you doing, Basaric?”

Niko dropped his hand and turned around. Drach, with Petar and the others, walked up behind him.

“Nothing, Sergeant.”

“That's what it looks like.” Drach pointed to a truck on the side of the road. “Get in. We have another job to do.”

WEDNESDAY:
TARAK SMAJLOVIC

TARAK TOOK A
long swig of water and then surveyed the area. Compared to the blinding sunlight in the open field, the forest was pitch black except for the lengthening slats of sunlight among the trees.

“Drink up. There's a river ahead.”

Atif, breathing hard, nodded and spit out the water he had swished in his mouth.

“Do you think they're much farther ahead?”

“I'm surprised we didn't meet up with them at the minefield.” Tarak stood up and jerked a thumb northwards. “I'm guessing they're probably at Kamenica by now.”

“Is that good?”

“Encouraging. They're making good time. If the rear of the column is in Kamenica then the front should be close to the road. That means they can open up a corridor for the rest of us and we can all cross before dawn.”

Tarak resisted adding a caveat. If the front of the column was unable to gain control of the road, the rest of them would be trapped between two roads from which the Serb army could flank them.

“Caught your breath?”

Atif drank the last of his water and stood up.

“I'm ready.”

“Okay. Stick close to me. It's only going to get darker.”

Atif's eyes shifted left then right.

“What?”

Atif grinned. “When I was little, I stayed in the woods behind our farm until it got dark one day, so my father told me about the
blautsauger
.”

Tarak laughed. “Do you still believe the stories?”

Atif shrugged, his eyes fixed on the woods. Tarak shook his head and turned north.

The blautsauger is going to be the least of our problems.

“You mentioned a farm. You're not originally from Srebrenica?”

“No. We had a farm not far from here. Closer to the Drina. My father farmed in the summer. Mostly corn, but he grew enough potatoes, carrots, and onions for us. In the winter, he would set up his workshop in the barn and build furniture. He was beginning to get orders from all over Yugoslavia when the war broke out.”

“What kind of furniture?”

“Anything, really. Mostly tables, chairs, and beds. He was planning to build an extension onto the barn for a permanent workshop when the war broke out. He hated having to pack it all up for the summer.”

“What about your mother?”

“She's a teacher. She learned English, French, and German growing up, so she teaches languages. Mostly in the higher grades.”

“Do you speak those languages?”

“Yes. And some Dutch now.”

“Is that what you want to do? Teach languages like your mother?”

“No. I'm going to be a soldier.”

Tarak stopped and stared at the boy.

“Why? With those language skills, you could emigrate anywhere in the world. Germany, France, England, Canada. Any one of them would take your family in a heartbeat.”

“I don't want to go. I want to fight.”

“Another soldier isn't going to make a difference.”

Atif evaded his gaze.

What's going through your mind, Braco?

They resumed walking, following the trampled path through dense woods and over even terrain until they came to a creek. They stopped and refilled their bottles.

“Do you hear that?” Atif asked, facing north.

Tarak stepped away from the gurgling creek and listened.

“My hearing is shot,” he said. “What do you think you heard?”

“I'm not sure.” Atif took a few steps. “Voices. I think.”

Tarak could hear nothing. “I guess they can't be far away.”

“I hear them again.”

Tarak waved Atif down and raised a finger to his lips. Atif nodded. Tree branches swayed. Insects chirped. Gunshots echoed far away. In between these noises, there was a low grumbling that changed pitch.

Two voices. In the trees.

Tarak held out his hand, gesturing to Atif to stay. Then he raised his rifle and moved forward a few yards, planting each foot so that it didn't disturb the vegetation. The voices became clearer. There were men to his left behind some bushes. Tarak used the rifle to push bushes aside. Two men were kneeling on the ground, their backs to Tarak. He leaned forward.

Are they picking mushrooms?

“
Zdravo
, gentlemen.”

The pair jumped up and turned around. One man held his hand to his chest.

“Young man,” he said. “You should think twice before scaring the wits out of your elders.”

“My apologies,” Tarak said, unable to stop smiling. “We're late. Are the rest far ahead?”

“Not far,” the man said. “They've stopped to rest on the meadow near Kamenica.”

Tarak's smile faded.

“On the meadow?”

“Yes. They want to wait until it gets dark before moving on. They haven't stopped all day. We saw these mushrooms earlier and decided to come back.”

“Do you know where the officers are?”

“Not sure.” The man glanced at his friend, who shrugged. “I saw some soldiers together on the far side of the meadow. Why? Is there a problem?”

The glint on the hill.

“Is everyone sitting in the open?”

The men nodded.

“They're exposed,” Tarak said. “You two should stay here until after dark.”

The men protested, but Tarak didn't have time to argue. He waved Atif forward.

“We have to hurry.” Tarak broke into a trot and the boy followed suit.

“I don't understand. What's the problem?”

“The glint I saw on the hill. It might have been artillery or an anti-aircraft gun. The men are resting in a meadow directly across from it.”

“But wouldn't they see it?”

Tarak slowed down and then stopped. He faced Atif.

“Not necessarily. I may have had a better angle back there. Okay, now listen. If they shell the meadow and we get separated, I need you to get to the bottom of the hill on the far side as fast as you can. Stop for no one. There's a river there. Cross it and wait for me. If I don't find you within thirty minutes, keep moving north.”

“You're not leaving….”

“No,
Braco
. Please, stay close.”

He took Atif's hand and they jogged towards the meadow.

What are they thinking? Sitting exposed knowing the enemy is so close. Insane!

With the majority of soldiers at the front of the column, the civilians at the rear likely overruled the few soldiers with them and stopped to rest. But if they didn't listen, they risked being left behind. The column was at least three kilometres long. The Serbs need only cut the column in half to separate the soldiers from the bulk of the defenceless civilians.

A crack echoed in the distance.

Damn it! I'm too late.

A second crack followed. Tarak stopped, yanking Atif backwards.

“We need to find cover.”

He picked the boy up and carried him behind a clump of trees. They dove as the artillery plowed into the meadow ahead of them. Tarak pinned Atif to the ground and then pulled off his pack and covered the boy's head with it. Machine gun fire followed artillery shells.

The ground thundered. The air vibrated. Men screamed. Machine gun rounds split the air above them, cracking tree limbs. Branches fell. Tarak felt Atif stir beneath him.

“Don't move,
Braco
. We have to wait until dark. They won't stop until then.”

Atif relaxed, but his muscles tensed every time a shell exploded.

“It's okay,” he said. “We're safe here.”

For now.

Tarak imagined the scene ahead. Hundreds of men spread out on the hillside like sheep. With so many targets, he knew it wasn't a matter of aiming but a matter of how fast the Serbs could reload their guns. Dozens had likely died in the first few seconds. Dozens, if not hundreds, would be wounded and would have to be carried.

And they would be cut off from the front half of the column.

Tarak laid his head on his arm and watched the light fade.