Braco (38 page)

“What? Where?”

Atif motioned with the barrel of the rifle. “Down there.”

The soldier looked south for a moment. “What are you talking about?”

“Don't be stupid.”

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

“How can you not know?”

“I've been up here for weeks on the checkpoints near Memici.”

Automatic fire erupted in the distance.

“Don't you hear that?”

“The fighting?”

“That's not fighting.”

“Of course it is.”

“No. That's your people murdering people like me.”

“They wouldn't do that.”

“They're killing thousands.”

“That can't be true.”

“They tried to kill me.”

“I don't believe you.”

Atif stepped forward and aimed the rifle at the soldier's head. “They killed my friend.”

The soldier stepped back into the shadows. “I'm sorry. I'm sorry.”

“No, you're not.”

“I didn't kill anyone.”

“I don't believe you.”

“They drafted me.”

“You're still a soldier.”

“I don't want to hurt you.”

Atif glared at the soldier through the rifle sight. Images of his friends, his father, Ratib, and Tarak raced through his head. The look on the faces of the men who had given up. Their screams as they were beaten with bats and iron bars. The arm hanging from the car. Tarak's lifeless eyes.

And the Serb who had stood above him and spared his life.

“Why are you by yourself?”

“They said soldiers were coming this way. Tonight was my first patrol.”

“By yourself?”

“I got separated. I don't know this area very well. I thought I'd wait till morning to go back.”

“Take off your boots.”

“Okay.”

“I want your shirt and any food or water you have.”

“Okay.” The soldier removed his shirt and tossed it to Atif and then he sat on the ground and removed his boots. “That's my webbing. There's water and ammunition. There are extra socks too. They're new. You can have it all.”

He stood up.

“What's your name?”

“Stefan. Stefan Maric.”

“Are there any mines along the front lines here?”

“There's a map in my pack. All the mines are marked.”

“Okay. You can leave, then.”

Maric looked around. “But I'm lost.”

“Just walk towards the moon.”

“What?”

“The moon. Walk towards it and keep walking until the sun comes up. It will bring you back to your people.”

Maric glanced at the moon and then back at Atif. “Okay. I'll go. I won't come back. I promise.”

He turned and began to pick his way down over the embankment. Atif waited until the sound of cracking twigs and pained grunts faded and then lowered the rifle. He peeled his fingers from the stock, rubbing his hands on his jeans to remove the sap. Then he shouldered the rifle and webbing and slipped his swollen feet into the boots. Walking north, he found two trees with overlapping boughs; he hid underneath them, listening.

Nothing.

He leaned back and gently took off the boots. Then he emptied out all the pouches attached to the webbing. He felt the contents.

Cloth. Wool. Leather. Canvas. Foil. Long hard plastic cylinder.

Atif felt for a button on the cylinder and found one. A red light flickered on and off. He tightened the battery cap and pointed the light down.

Towel. Socks. Wallet. First-aid kit. Half eaten chocolate bar.

Atif devoured the bar.

Inside the medical kit were bandages, a bottle of pills, and alcohol rubs. He cleaned his feet with some water from the canteen and the towel and then used the alcohol rubs, biting on the towel from the pain. As it subsided, he wrapped his feet in the gauze bandage and pulled on the socks.

That feels so good.

He lay back and listened. Once he was sure no one had heard his grunts, he sat up and pulled on the boots.

A perfect fit.

Two days ago, the boots would have been two sizes too large.

Atif hauled on the shirt and picked up the bottle of pills, hoping they were for pain. The label was torn. He opened it and inspected the round white tablets.

Aspirin?
Atif's shoulders slumped.
Why would a soldier carry Aspirin?

Ina had told him that Aspirin keeps the blood from clotting. If he took them, they might make his feet bleed more.

He stuffed the bottle back into the medical kit and repacked the supplies. He picked up the wallet and opened it, pulling out money, identification, and a picture of the soldier standing next to a man.

His father?

The thin man was tall; he had his hand on the boy's shoulder.

The man looks like Tata.

Atif stared at the photo, stifling his tears.

No, it's not him. Tata's gone.

Atif stuffed the wallet back inside the pack. He would send it back to the soldier. He slung the webbing over his shoulders and picked up the rifle, the stock, and the grip coated with sap. He looked south. The moon had begun its decline into the southwest. Atif kept it to his left and took a step. The razor blades were dull now. He took another step and reconsidered the Aspirin.

Keep walking. Just keep walking.

The terrain sloped down and he lost sight of the moon. A glow emerged from the east.

Already?

He looked around. He would have to find somewhere safe to spend the day. Somewhere with more cover.

He resumed walking north, willing his second wind to kick in. Willing his feet to stop aching.

A little farther. Just a little farther.

Every step brought him closer to freedom and safety.

And peace.

The eastern sky brightened. Atif walked through a dense forest, which ended in a large meadow. A dark house sat on the edge of the field.

Abandoned?

Atif sat down. Dew soaked through his jeans. He picked at the soft foliage carpeting the field.

Carrots!

He pulled one out and chewed on it. Dirt crunched between his teeth. He swallowed and then pulled as many carrots as he could carry and stepped back into the trees. He sat down, brushed the earth from the carrots, and ate. The moon set below the trees and the sun rose over the farmer's house. There was no movement.

Stay or go?

Stay.

Rest.

He curled up and fell asleep.

SATURDAY:
MICHAEL SAKIC

MIKE SAT ON
the hood of the truck, nursing his vodka hangover for the second day. Never again, he had promised himself as he emptied his stomach for the fourth time that morning. He popped another Aspirin and drank the last mouthful of Coke.

“Well, that's a good sign.”

Mike looked up. Brendan and Robert strolled towards the truck.

“Yeah, he's moving,” Robert said, opening the back door. He laid his camera on the seat.

“Anything new?” Mike asked, dumping his notebook into his bag.

“Not much more than Jure has told you. I've gotten some confirmation that the Bosnian army is finally going to move south to help the men break through the front lines.”

“Oric's not too happy with the slow response.”

“Yeah, I heard that, too. Anything new with you?”

“I'm waiting for Jure now.”

“Can he get you to the front lines?”

“Not now. And I tried the UN, the Red Cross, and Doctors Without Borders. They're either not going or aren't interested in taking a passenger. Not yet, anyway.”

“They expect the men to cross tomorrow or Monday. We'll have a better idea of what's going on then.” Brendan checked his watch. “Are you coming to the briefing?”

“No. I'll wait for Jure.”

“I'll stay here,” Robert said.

“I'll take notes.” Brendan walked away.

Robert turned to Mike.

“Now, if we could read his writing that might mean something.”

Mike laughed and then put his hand on his head to quell the hammering.

“So much easier to do this job when you can just stand back with a camera on your shoulder, isn't it?”

“In some ways,” Robert replied, his eyes darting away.

“Had enough?”

Robert leaned against the truck and motioned to the tent city.

“The stories they tell are like something out of a Stephen King novel.”

“Your parents let you read King?”

Robert smiled for a moment. “I mean, if even half of what they say is true.”

Mike grunted an affirmative. Robert faced him.

“So, what did you see?”

Mike raised an eyebrow.

“You don't seem to have a problem believing it all. What did you see?”

Charred furniture. Roasted flesh.

“To tell you the truth,” Mike said after a moment. “I was a lot like you when I first came to cover the war.”

“Naïve as hell?”

“Something like that,” Mike replied. “I thought I'd come here and expose Serb atrocities against my grandparents' people.” He shook his head. “A couple weeks after I got here, I was in a village that had been attacked. I looked into the ruins of this one house thinking it was full of smouldering furniture.” He swallowed. “But it wasn't furniture. The soldiers had forced sixteen people into the basement and burned them alive. So, I took pictures thinking ‘I've got it, I finally got proof the Serbs are committing atrocities.' Then I see an Orthodox cross on the wall.”

“A cross?”

“The Serbs are Orthodox Christians. Their cross is different from the Croat Catholic cross.”

“The Serbs didn't do it?”

Mike shook his head. “The Croats did it. My own people were just as bad as the ones I was trying to blame it all on.”

“No good guys,” Robert said. “So, why do you keep coming back?”

“I don't know. I just do, even if I file my pictures and stories and watch them get sliced up until they're meaningless.”

“I don't know how you put up with it.”

“What you see is not true and what is true is not seen.”

“Huh?”

“Just something an old friend told me once.”

Robert's brow furrowed.

“Never mind,” Mike said, turning towards the main gate. A pick-up was stopped at the barrier and peacekeepers were arguing with the driver.

“What's going on over there?”

“C'mon,” Mike said, gathering up his camera bag. Robert followed him to the barrier and they slipped under it.

“I can translate,” he said to one of the peacekeepers.

“Please,” the Pakistani peacekeeper said, motioning to the driver, a short man in his fifties wearing jeans and a white shirt. “He keeps pointing to the boy and saying Srebrenica, but I think he's just trying to offload an orphan. The boy can't possibly be from Srebrenica. The men haven't crossed over yet.”

“Srebrenica?” Mike glanced behind the driver to see a boy curled up like a kitten, his head buried in his arms and knees.

“Who is he?” Mike asked the driver in Bosnian.

“My dog found him in my field this morning,” the driver replied. “He had eaten some of my carrots. He was wearing military clothes, but I don't think he is a soldier. He had blood all over him and his feet are a mess. All he said was that the Chetniks tried to kill him. I don't think he has slept much. He can't stay awake for more than a few minutes.”

Mike told the peacekeeper what the driver had said.

“Ask him to bring the boy out,” the peacekeeper said.

Mike started to translate, but the driver seemed to understand. He roused the boy, who sat up, rubbing his eyes.

“Yes! He's from Srebrenica.” Mike pulled the camera from his bag.

“How do you know?”

Mike raised his camera and stared at the boy, his finger hovering over the shutter release. Movement drew his attention to the left. A crow landed on the grass and hopped towards the pavement where a rat had been run over. The crow picked at the rodent and then flew away.

Mike lowered the camera.

“I know him.” He poked the camera back into his bag and pulled out the laminated photo of Atif, waving it at the peacekeeper. “His name is Atif Stavic. I took this picture in Srebrenica almost three years ago.”

The peacekeeper looked at the picture and shrugged.

“Okay.”

Mike turned to Robert and dropped the keys into his hands.

“Bring the truck over here.”

“What? But I don't know how to drive.”

“You're shitting me.”

Robert shook his head. Mike spun the cameraman around and gave him a polite shove.

“It's time to learn. Just put it on D and bring it over here. The brake is the one on the left.”

Robert ducked under the barrier and jogged towards the truck. Mike returned his attention to the driver.

“I'll take him. He'll be okay.” He walked around the pick-up and opened the passenger door, the rusted hinges creaking. “Atif?”

The boy stared at Mike.

“Do I know you?”

“Remember?” Mike asked, showing Atif the picture.

Atif struggled to keep his eyes open.

“You're exhausted.” Mike looked at the driver. “Where did you find him? What town?”

“I'm not far from Memici.”

“Really?” Mike replied. “That far north?”

He did the calculations. Four days since the enclave fell. Srebrenica to Memici was too far to walk in that time. And the boy was alone. It didn't make sense.

“He had some money on him. I took enough for my gas. He has the rest.”

“Thank you.”

The driver shrugged and climbed inside the truck. Mike picked up Atif; the boy fell asleep in his arms.

Skin. Bones. Weightless.

“I'll take him to the doctors,” Mike told the peacekeepers and then he walked through the open gate, Atif's elbow digging into his chest. He shifted Atif's arm, slowed, and then stopped.

Robert was inching the truck in their direction.