The Book of Q (2 page)

Stronger convictions, he’d told himself.

“There’s a problem.” Mendravic had moved into the open, the glow from the fuel depot giving shape to his immense body. “It’s Josip.” He was now by Pearse’s side, his voice hushed. “There was a struggle….” He let the words trail off. “He won’t make it. He wants a priest.”

“I’m not a priest,” answered Pearse.

“I know … but you came with the priests. And right now, he wants a priest. You’re as close as he’ll get. He needs absolution.”

“I can’t give him absolution.”

The two men stared at each other for a few moments.

“Petra is with him.” Mendravic tried a smile. “She’s doing her best to make him comfortable.”

“We’ll take him with us.” Pearse started to move off. “Find him a priest in Slitna.”

Mendravic grabbed his arm. “It’d take two of us to carry him; even then, there’s little chance he’d come through it. How many boxes are you willing to leave behind to save him, Ian?” The smile was gone, the grip powerful. “He wants to die at peace. Don’t you think God will understand?”

Pearse tried to answer, but he was cut short by a sudden explosion at the church’s outer wall. Mendravic pulled him to the ground, aimed his tommy gun through the onetime window, and let go with a volley. Two seconds later, they were on their feet, shadows on the far wall darting in and out to the sound of machine-gun fire. Both men dived behind a mound of wood and brick—on closer inspection, a slab of the roof now planted three feet deep in the cement floor. Bullets ricocheted behind them as they tried to catch their breath.

“Petra.” Mendravic spoke in a loud whisper.

From the darkness, a woman’s voice. “Here.”

“How many boxes can you carry?”

“What?”

“How many boxes of the penicillin?”

There was a pause before she answered. “What are you asking? We each take one—”

“If Ian and I carry Josip, how many boxes?”

Again a pause. “Josip’s dead.”

For a moment, Mendravic said nothing; he then turned to Pearse. “Then we each take one.”

Pearse nodded, Mendravic already pulling him by the arm, again the sound of bullets, wild shots, only a few penetrating the walls of the church—enough, though, to keep the two men as low to the ground as possible. In no time, they were with Petra; another half minute, and all three were bolting through the forty-yard corridor of grass and brick that separated the back of the church from the sanctuary of the woods, three boxes in hand.

There was no need to worry about pursuit. The soldiers at Prjac were Beli Orlovi—“White Eagles”—modern-day Chetnik thugs, eager for brutality, but not much on expending energy for something as trivial as
penicillin. They would fire their guns into the night sky, happy enough to let the trees swallow up their would-be prey.

Of course, had they found Josip alive—now that would have made for an interesting evening.

It was five weeks later when Pearse saw Josip again. Another night’s foray—this time, two dozen eggs the prize—the chance discovery of a series of shallow graves on the outskirts of still one more nondescript town. Eight bodies, each with the identifying marks of the Beli Orlovi—mutilated faces and genitals, the latter forced into what remained of the victims’ mouths. Pearse had heard of such things, been told that it was the surest sign of self-loathing, the need to disfigure an enemy who resembled oneself all too closely, but he’d never seen it. Serb, Croat, Muslim. Ethnically indistinguishable in the streets of Sarajevo two years ago. Indistinguishable now—even when the torturer stared into the face of his victim and saw himself.

The psychology and horror notwithstanding, Pearse recognized Josip from the bandanna—Notre Dame, 1992—that had been used to bind his hands. A gift the day Josip had taught him how to handle a Kalashnikov.

“I’m still not sure I could use it,” Pearse had said as he’d shifted the rifle onto his shoulder, the strap pulled tightly across his chest.

“Use it?” Josip answered. “You’ll be lucky if the damn thing doesn’t blow up in your face. Still, it’s good to have it. What do they say? ‘A man who can’t use a gun—’”

“‘Is no man at all.’” Petra appeared at the doorway of a nearby house—little more than two rooms, an old radio somehow connecting them with the other Croatian towns in the region—the communications center for Slitna’s endless flow of refugees. She kept her hair pulled back, the ponytail struggling to keep the thick black mane out of her face. As ever, it was losing the battle. Two or three wisps across her cheeks, olive skin, the gaze of charcoal eyes.

He would find himself staring at her strange beauty amid all this, lithe body in pants, shirt, the gun at her hip dissolving easily into the long line of her legs. But always the eyes. And perhaps a smile.

He wasn’t a priest yet.

“Then I guess I’m not much of one, given the way I fire this thing,” he said.

A hint of a smile. “You’ll get better,” she said. “With practice.” She stared at the rifle, at him, then walked over. She reached up and began to tug at the matted cord across his chest, slender fingers adjusting it so the rifle would hang more easily. “Are all priests this hard to fit?” She was having fun, yanking down hard on the strap, then loosening it, shifting it across his chest.

“When I become one, I’ll let you know.”

“Oh, that’s right. I forgot.” She stepped back. “You never looked like much of one anyway.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

For several seconds, he stood there, his own smile becoming a laugh. He reached up, pulled the strap over his head, and tossed the rifle to Josip. “Better?”

She continued to size him up. “So you think you could survive without one?”

“Maybe.”

A look of mock surprise spread across her face. “You’d pray people into submission?”

“Something like that.”

“Uh-huh.” She unclipped her holster and let the gun drop to the ground. “So how would you make me submit?”

Pearse shot a glance over at Josip; the Croat smiled and shook his head. It was clear he was enjoying himself immensely.

“Well”—Pearse began to move toward her, picking up speed as he spoke—“there’s the direct approach.”

He was about to hoist her up onto his shoulder, when she suddenly reached out under his arm and twisted. Before he could react, she kicked his legs out from under him, her boot on one of his arms, her knee on his chest, fingers gripping his neck, her thumb held precariously over his Adam’s apple.

“Didn’t you tell me you once knocked a two-hundred-and-
fifty-pound
catcher unconscious?” Pearse was about to answer, but she pressed her thumb even closer. “No, no. Save your strength.” The smile reappeared. “Then again, I’m not protecting someone’s little ball, am I?” She pulled her thumb away and straddled his chest. “I’d learn to use the rifle if I were you. Much less dangerous than all of this.”

She was on her feet, making her way back to the house, before he had a chance to recover.

“Difficult to gauge this one,” said Josip as he helped Pearse up and handed him the rifle.

Pearse pulled the strap over his shoulder, all the while his eyes on Petra. “That feels about right.”

“I’m not talking about the rifle.” He winked and headed for the house.

“She doesn’t understand why I’ve stayed, does she?”

Josip stopped, turned. “I don’t know. It’s a good question, though.”

“I haven’t heard any complaints.”

“You haven’t gotten any of us killed yet.”

“Is that what worries her?”

“No.” Josip looked at the gun, shook his head; he stepped over and began to fiddle with the cord. “American boy comes to deliver food, blankets, maybe a little faith to a people he’s never heard of before.” He pulled down on Pearse’s shoulder. “Bosnians in need of help, spiritual guidance, whichever God they pray to. Simple enough for him to ease his conscience, serve his own God, and move on with the others. But he doesn’t.”

“That would have been too easy.”

“There’s nothing easy in it, at all. Difference is, you can leave whenever you want.”

“But I don’t.”

“No, you don’t.” He let go of the cord. “And for that reason, you’re as puzzling to us as we are to you. I’m a good Catholic, Ian, but if they weren’t doing this to my home, I wouldn’t be here.”

“Even if you’d seen the pictures of Omarska?”

“Thousands have seen the camps. And thousands have shrugged and said how terrible that such a thing can happen in a civilized world. They’re not people without conscience. But it’s not their home. It’s not yours. And yet you stay.”

“Is that what she thinks?”

Josip laughed and shook his head. “I have no idea what she thinks. You’ve learned to shoot a rifle. That’s good enough.”

Pearse returned the smile. “I hope I never have to use it.”

Josip’s smile disappeared. “Then what would have been the point in learning how?”

His mangled body had already done much to feed the local wildlife. Little skin remained on the torso and legs, eyes and ears gone. The incongruity of the college bandanna, slightly bloodied, its large ND lashed across his wrists, sickened Pearse as much as the butchered flesh. For the
first time, he could connect a voice, a smile, an arrogant charm to the obscenity in front of him. For the first time, he wondered how far his faith could be stretched.

“He said you were crazy for staying.” Petra drew up to his side, her ponytail managing a bit better today. “But I think he admired it.” The two had grown close in the last month, or at least as close as they dared. He had learned how to induce the smile, revel in the fleeting moments when she’d brush the strands from her face, talk of a past she no longer cared to recall with any accuracy.

They stood there, silently staring.

“He was so grateful when I gave it to him,” Pearse finally said, his eyes on the cloth, “as if I’d handed him something irreplaceable.” He shook his head.

“Maybe it was.” After a moment: “We need to get going.” As she moved toward Mendravic and the others, Pearse nodded, knelt down, and crossed himself.

And prayed for Josip’s absolution.

That night, they sat in one of the remaining houses in Slitna—few chairs, one square wooden table, beds of straw in every corner—
watching
as a handful of children gulped down great mounds of eggs. The mothers, in long printed skirts, solid-colored scarves around their heads, stood off to the side, beaming with each child’s eager mouthful. Mendravic watched as well, smiling with the children, his empty cheeks chewing along with them in mock ecstasy, eliciting bursts of laughter from the tiny faces.

Pushing the memories of Josip aside, Pearse managed to get caught up in their delight, its novelty infectious. Petra, too. She took hold of one of the boys—only as high as her waist—and began to dance around the room with him, spinning them both, lifting his feet from the ground, wide eyes from the children as they clapped between each ravenous forkful. For a few minutes, the world beyond seemed to vanish. That fewer than half of them would make it as far as the border, and fewer still survive once there, played no part in their momentary grasp at normalcy. Enough to take what they could when they could.

Perhaps it was the sound of their own laughter, or the high-pitched screams of the exhilarated children, that muffled the telltale whistle of incoming rockets. Whatever the reason, the terrifying screech tore
through the small room only seconds before the bomb struck. No time to race to the cellar, to cradle children in protective arms. The far wall was the first to go, splitting down its center as if made of paper, dust and smoke rising in great swirls. Pearse was thrown to the ground, his left shoulder landing with particular force, a jabbing pain as he tried to recover. He reached for his neck—nothing broken—the pain no less intense. Without thinking, he got to his feet and began to grab as many small bodies as he could. The children were screaming, some bloodied, some shaking frantically as he pulled four or five of them close into him. Again the whistle of artillery flooded the air, this time accompanied by a violent groan from the roof. He knew he had only seconds. Clutching the little bodies to his chest, he careened across the room, half-blinded by the dust, and leapt toward what he hoped was the door.