Braco (39 page)

SATURDAY:
ATIF STAVIC

ATIF WOKE TO
a white sky.

Cloudy?

He reached for another carrot, but his fingers found smooth cotton instead. He felt the soft fabric, his hand moving from side to side until it found an edge.

Straight. Soft. Unnatural.

Adrenaline drove him upright. A blond blue-eyed man wearing hospital whites was staring back at him.

“I hear you speak good English,” he said in a thick accent.

“Where am I?”

“The UN base in Tuzla.”

I'm dreaming!

He looked around. Cots lined both sides of the tent. Men and women in whites were attending to the needs of the people who occupied the other cots. One man was draping a stethoscope around his neck. He glanced at Atif and smiled.

Atif lay back on the pillow.

“I made it?”

The medic wiped Atif's face with a cool cloth.

“I guess so. Are you really a Muslim from Srebrenica?”

Atif ran his tongue over his cracked lips.

“I'm from Srebrenica.”

The medic dipped the cloth into a bowl of water.

“Well, how you managed to make it that far on those feet, I can't imagine.”

Feet?

“A farmer found you stealing his carrots,” the medic said. “He cleaned you up and brought you here. Your journalist friend brought you to see us.”

“Journalist friend?”

“Yeah.” The medic showed him a newspaper clipping. “He'll be back in a few minutes. He left you this to read when you woke up.”

Atif took the laminated clipping and read the caption.

“That's me.”

“Your friend said that picture was printed all over the world.”

The world!

“Where is he?”

“He's gone to see if your mother is here. He's assuming she came in on the buses.”

“Yes, yes. She said she would meet me at my uncle's house.” Atif sat up and tried to throw his feet over the edge, but the medic stopped him. “I need to get to her.”

“As soon as we find you some crutches, young man. Your friend has a vehicle. He can take you. Do you know the address?”

Atif nodded and laid back.

“Hungry?”

He nodded again. The thought of food made his mouth water and his stomach churn. The medic left the tent and Atif propped himself up on his elbows. A group of medics stood at the end of the tent whispering. One of them, a woman, pointed towards Atif and every face in the group looked at him and then turned away. The group broke up; each member eyed Atif as she or he walked by him.

The medic arrived with a tray and set it on a table next to the bed. Steam rose from slices of chicken and two ice cream scoops of potato. Gravy smothered everything except a pile of sliced carrots. A large square of chocolate cake sat on a saucer, covered in a thick layer of icing. The medic pulled two small cartons of milk from his pocket and laid them on the tray.

“Is this okay?”

Atif stared at the food and swallowed.

“Are you kidding?”

“Don't eat it all,” the doctor said, catching Atif before he could dig into the food. “You probably haven't eaten a lot in a while. Just take a taste of everything and stop before you're full.”

“I understand. Thank you.”

He savoured every mouthful. Moist chicken. Chunky potatoes. Mushy carrots. Salty gravy. Creamy icing. Ice cold milk.

“You're awake,” a familiar voice said from behind.

Atif looked up: the face was older than he remembered.

“How are you doing?”

“I'm okay,” Atif replied, handing back the photo.

“You can keep that if you like.”

“Thanks.” Atif placed the photo in the chest pocket of the clean shirt he was wearing. He had no idea where it had come from. “The medic said you could take me to my uncle's house. My mother might be there.”

“Yeah. I can. She's in the town, right?”

“Yes,” Atif said through a mouthful of cake. “How did you know?”

Mike held up a piece of paper with his mother's writing on it. Atif read it. His vision blurred.

“She made it.”

Mike pulled up a chair.

“You must have quite the story to tell. I can't imagine how you got so far north so soon.”

Atif stopped chewing as the memories returned. Dani. Tata. Tarak. He willed the thoughts to stop.

“I want to tell it to you,” he said. “I want everyone to know. Everyone.”

“I think I can arrange that.”

“Will you take my picture again?

“If you like.”

“I don't want to hold in my stomach this time.”

Mike laughed.

“You won't have to.” He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a card. “They found this in your back pocket.”

Atif stared at Tarak's identification card.

“Who is he?” Mike asked.

“He saved my life,” Atif whispered. “He wanted me to give this to the army and tell them where he was.”

“I can do that if you like.”

Atif stared at the faded, outdated picture.

Tarak Smajlovic.

Tarak hadn't told Atif his last name. He handed the card back to Mike.

“I want them to know what he did for me.”

“I can do that, too.”

Mike helped the medic adjust a set of crutches to Atif's height while he nibbled on cake and chicken. The medic fitted a pair of slippers over the bandages on Atif's feet and helped him stand.

No razors. No blades. No fire.

“Don't lean on them with your armpits,” the medic said. “Put your weight on your hands.”

Atif hobbled the length of the cot and back.

“I can go? Now?”

“The doctor wants to see you back here in two days. Do you think you can do that?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.” The medic handed a clipboard containing a release form to Mike. He signed it. “Two days, young man.”

“I'll be back.”

Atif fumbled around the corner of the cot and then hopped towards the exit. Outside, he squinted against the late afternoon sun. A cool breeze drove dust across the tarmac, spinning it like a tornado. A field of white tents bustled with activity.

In front of him, a white truck with “TV” stenciled in black on the hood was parked next to the curb. Mike opened the passenger door and helped Atif inside. The breeze flowed through the truck, leaving a layer of dust on the dashboard and seats. Mike climbed in the driver's side.

“Do you know the way? I have a map if you can't remember.”

“I know where to go,” Atif said.

They drove to the main gate. Mike showed papers to the sentry; he opened the barrier without a word. They turned right.

Tuzla. I'm really in Tuzla.

Two women pushed strollers along the sidewalk, chatting. A bus stopped to pick up passengers. Men stood on a corner, smoking and arguing. No one watched the hills.

Someone squealed. Atif shrank behind the door and then straightened up and looked out the window. Children in uniforms were playing soccer in a field. The members of one of the teams were hugging one another and the spectators on one side of the field were cheering. Atif turned away.

“Is this it?”

“Yes. Yes. Turn left. It's at the end of the street.”

Atif felt his pulse race as they approached his uncle's home.

Mama. Tihana. Have you given up on me yet?

“That's it,” he told Mike, indicating the second last house on the right.

Atif opened the door before the truck came to a stop. He left the crutches behind and slid out. His feet exploded in pain the moment he hit the ground and he collapsed. He grit his teeth, waiting for the ache in his feet to subside. When he looked up, Mike was holding the crutches out to him.

“You go ahead. I'll wait here.”

Atif fumbled with the crutches and then stood up and stared at the quiet house. A wrought iron fence bordered the small yard. A vegetable garden in full bloom had replaced the grass and a short pile of firewood leaned against the wall. Curtains waved through open windows.

Mike held the gate open and Atif crossed the yard and stopped in front of the door. He raised his hand and hesitated, looking at the window to his left.

On the windowsill sat his mother's walking shoes and the toy soldiers he had given Tihana.

Atif knocked.

EPILOGUE
MICHAEL SAKIC | OCTOBER 12, 1995

MIKE APPROACHED THE
checkpoint, his fingers drumming on the steering wheel. It had taken him an hour to bluff his way through the first checkpoint and he wasn't sure how much longer he could maintain the charade.

The Serb soldiers loitering around the barrier gave his credentials a cursory glance. They assumed he'd made it through the checkpoint near Memici and let him pass.

Mike knew they had other things on their minds.

Zepa had fallen shortly after Srebrenica, but NATO air strikes convinced the Serbs to keep their hands off the largest safe area–Gorazde. Rumours of large scale massacres around Srebrenica circulated throughout the Western media, but the reports, including Atif's, were not deemed credible. No one wanted to believe another European genocide was possible only fifty years after the Second World War.

Despite denials from the Serb leadership, the West quietly lifted the arms embargo that had hobbled the Bosnian army from the start of the war. With arms flowing freely into the country and with support from their Croat allies, the Bosnian army reclaimed more than half the country in a matter of weeks. The United States brokered a cease-fire in early October and the three sides promised to hammer out a peace deal. The Serbs, who were on the verge of losing everything they had held from the earliest days of the war, were eager to comply.

Mike glanced at Atif's hand-drawn map as he drove. He could have walked the same route Atif had taken through the brush, but he decided to try the bluff first. The site wasn't far from Memici. He could be in and out in a matter of hours.

He drove until he spotted the reddish brown buildings and then pulled off to the side of the road. He tilted the map. The configuration of the buildings matched Atif's drawing. He glanced up and down the road.

Movement.

He sat still, waiting for a vehicle, but nothing appeared. Switching lenses on his camera, he focused on the movement in the distance.

It was a cow walking beside a fence.

Mike laid the camera aside and drove in behind the abandoned buildings. He parked out of sight. Shouldering his camera bag, he walked into a meadow covered with high grass.

Overgrown? Already?

Mike watched his feet, brushing aside the grass as he walked. He studied the ground, flipping stones and rotted lumber until he found a brass casing.

Would they have left the brass?

He took a picture, pocketed the casing, and kept walking. Then his foot struck something metallic.

He froze.

Mines?

He leaned down and held the grass aside. An empty ammunition crate sat on its side. He wiped the sweat from his brow with his sleeve.

“I'm getting too old for this,” he said.

He took a picture and kept walking. The tall grass ended in clay, rock, and weeds. Empty magazines and dozens of brass casings littered the edge of the disturbed earth. The imprint of a bulldozer's track covered the entire area. He took out his notebook.

About thirty metres wide.
He looked up from his notes.
More than a hundred long. Did the satellites miss this one?

He walked along the edge, taking pictures and inspecting shredded pieces of fabric, papers, and more casings. Then he stopped and lowered his camera.

A piece of shredded cloth fluttered like a flag from a short white pole in the middle of the disturbed ground. Mike stepped forward, his foot sinking in the loose earth. He drew back, wiping the clay from the bottom of his boot.

He changed lenses and focused on the flagpole. The cloth flipped around revealing that the white pole was really two.

An arm?

Mike shifted a few steps to his right and refocused on the pair of arm bones. The hand, still attached, hung parallel to the ground. The fingers were missing, but the skeletal thumb remained.

“Gotcha, you bastards.”

The wind brushed through the tall grass.

Birds sang. Grasshoppers chirped. The cow bellowed.

The shutter release clicked.