by Scott Turow
“I certainly do not, Mr. Ten Boom. I was newly commissioned during the revelations of the My Lai massacre in Vietnam, and they’ve always stayed with me. War is hell. And hellish things happen. Although there is an industry of those who don’t like to mention it, soldiers in combat are desperately scared and fighting for their lives, and that does not always bring out the best in human beings. But there is no excuse for murdering four hundred unarmed human beings. If that were what happened. But it is not.”
The general lowered his chin just a bit to deliver a flinty look. The persistent intensity of his gray eyes, which I’d noticed since starting, was redoubled. We were now down to business.
“And on what basis, General, do you feel such confidence?”
“In the last week, I’ve spoken to every senior officer I had in Bosnia at the time. To a person, they told me there was not a scintilla of truth to this charge.”
“I’m sure if you were I, General, you’d say you would rather speak to those officers yourself.”
“If I were you, Mr. Ten Boom, I’d think I was doing very well having a word with the top commander, especially when US law prohibits it.”
I was silent, basically conceding the point. Nevertheless, he’d reinforced my long-running curiosity about why he was here.
“Let me be obnoxious and lawyerly, General. Are you saying that you know nothing about a massacre in Barupra, based either on anything you witnessed or were told?”
“That’s exactly what I am saying. This is a fabrication.”
“And what part is made up—that a massacre occurred or that American forces had anything to do with it?”
“Certainly the latter. But if I understand the allegations, a truck convoy and a couple dozen troops moved through an area under our control, then blew up a coal mine and annihilated four hundred people in the process. Unless I was a complete failure as a commander, that could not have happened without an American soldier noticing something and reporting it up the chain.”
Whatever it is that people believe about one another within the first instants of meeting can prove unwarranted—just ask anyone who’s been on a second date—but I liked General Merriwell, mostly because he radiated discipline in the face of the truth. His bearing said that he was neither self-deceived nor willing to lie about what he knew.
“General, it’s beyond dispute that the entire population of that village disappeared overnight in April 2004.”
“This wouldn’t be the first time that Gypsies have acted like Gypsies, Mr. Ten Boom, and moved on.”
“I thought you were just saying that four hundred people couldn’t march through the circle of several US camps without our troops knowing and reporting something?”
“I was talking about a foreign military operation and an explosion, Mr. Ten Boom. Large movements among the civilian population, on the other hand, were common. In Bosnia in 2004, there was little work and dramatic shortages of food. People were out foraging for edibles or coal, collecting scrap iron, hunting. Not to mention thousands of refugees still returning home. A few hundred people going down the road might not have attracted much attention.”
“But, General, the people in Barupra lacked the physical means to go anywhere, other than on foot. Those Roma were living under plastic sheeting for the most part.”
“My memory, Mr. Ten Boom, is that a few of those Gypsies were known car thieves.”
“To move four hundred people, General, you’d have to steal dozens and dozens of vehicles, which would create big issues with the Bosnian police. Not to mention the fact that there is not one report of anyone in the world seeing or hearing from those people since that night eleven years ago.”
Merriwell sat back to study me. I took his silence, like mine a second ago, as a concession that I had the better arguments on this point.
“And finally, sir,” I said, “all these alternate theories fly in the face of something neither of us has mentioned yet: I have a witness, General, a man who lived in Barupra, who says that everyone there was sealed in that cave.”
“I realize that.”
“Have you read his testimony?”
“As it happens, I have. Roger sent it to me.” At the Court, I had heard nothing about any requests for a transcript, which meant Roger’s agency had copied the broadcast from the Internet. No surprise. Roger had been clear from the start that they were monitoring the case.
“Frankly, Mr. Ten Boom, I couldn’t comprehend why you were not on your feet screaming for the life of Jesus about what that witch of a judge was doing. There were only a handful of US airmen ever on the ground in Bosnia and they’d been gone for years.”
I explained that I thought Judge Gautam’s game had been to discredit me, more than the US. That was not, of course, something I cared to hear repeated, but I wanted to let my pants down a little with the general, in hopes that he might do the same. From his intent look, I took it that my reasoning made sense to him as a game theorist.
“But leaving the judge aside, General, are you telling me you weren’t impressed with the witness’s testimony?”
“You’ll forgive my lapse in political correctness, but I’ll share a lesson I’ve learned around the world: Gypsies lie, Mr. Ten Boom. It is not really lying to them. They have no written history. Instead, the past is constantly recreated to fit each moment’s needs. Furthermore, when they are dealing with us, it’s self-protective. Lying keeps the majority world at arm’s length.”
“I won’t quarrel with you on social anthropology, General. That’s not my field. I’m going to Barupra next week, but thus far this man seems very well corroborated.” I took some time to describe the photos and affidavits and seismic reports Esma had gathered originally. “That evidence, General, supports the claim of a massacre. And as you acknowledged before, it is very hard to believe that an explosion or a paramilitary operation could have occurred without American soldiers knowing. And inasmuch as no US troops reported anything to superiors, one reason might be because they were involved.”
I had realized as soon as Merriwell conceded that someone under his command would have to have known about Barupra that he had demonstrated why his lawyers told him not to speak to me. Some arguments, as they say in the courtroom, prove too much and end up serving the other side.
Turning the general’s point against him set him back. He stood to reach a silver carafe in the middle of the table. He poured water for both of us and adjusted each trouser leg before resuming his seat.
“How much do you know about the war in the Balkans, Mr. Ten Boom?”
I told him the truth, that my recent reading had left me astonished about how little I’d absorbed at the time.
“You were hardly the only one who failed to appreciate events,” the general answered. “Our allies in Europe initially viewed the fighting in Bosnia as no more than the continuation of ethnic rivalries that had been going on since the fourteenth century, when the Ottomans first entered this region. But what the Serbs were inflicting on the Muslims in Bosnia was nothing less than genocide, as intentional as the Nazis’ effort to exterminate the Jews, and, although blessedly of a much smaller scope, even more savage. Twenty thousand Bosnian women were sexually assaulted, many of them in rape camps aimed at impregnating them with Serbian children. In the rest of the five hundred concentration camps the Serbs operated—ten times as many as the Croats and Muslims combined—the inmates were systematically starved and worked to death. Not to mention the hundreds of mass executions that were carried out.
“All of that, Mr. Ten Boom, was happening less than six hundred miles from Dachau, on the same continent and in the same century, despite all our vows of ‘Never again.’ But horrible as that was, as slow as we were to see what was happening—despite the repeated alarms raised by your friend Roger, by the way, among a few others—the United States of America finally saw the truth, responded, and put a halt to the atrocities. Bosnia was the first actual military operation NATO ever engaged in. And it was a s
tunning success.
“We separated three warring ethnic groups. And, as important, we removed the means for them to start killing one another again. At the time Yugoslavia shattered, Marshal Tito had built the third largest army in Europe. We seized eight hundred fifty thousand weapons, most from paramilitaries and jihadists and vigilantes who were quite unhappy to surrender them, and we did it without fatalities. We also arrested twenty-nine war criminals, most of them Serbian but also a few Croats and Bosniaks and Kosovars wanted in The Hague.
“I look back with only two regrets. The biggest occurred on 9/11 when it was suddenly clear that we should have done far, far more to ballyhoo our salvation of the Bosniaks and Albanians throughout the Muslim world.
“Nevertheless, for those, like me, whose lives are dedicated to the belief that military force is also an instrument of peace, our role in the Balkans is a supreme moment.”
Merriwell had spoken with slow-fused passion. I’d listened without questions, both to be polite and also because I was certain I would get his point sooner or later.
“General, you’re not the kind of guy who needs a pat on the back, and least of all from me. So I wish I knew what you were trying to suggest.”
“I’m trying to give you a sense of the stakes involved in your investigation, Mr. Ten Boom.”
“Four hundred deaths gave me a sense of the stakes a while ago, General. And I know you’re not suggesting that because thousands of lives were saved, a few hundred murdered Gypsies don’t matter.”
“I surely am not. But there are consequences to your investigation, especially if these allegations gain more attention, which I hope you’ll bear in mind. Even a false accusation of this nature fortifies those who say we should save our tax money and stay home and let the world take care of itself. And that gratifies the many around the globe—the Russians, the Chinese, the Venezuelans, ISIS, Iran, and all the extremists of many stripes—who are very happy when we don’t project our power abroad.”
“I can tell you right now, General, I hope that thought never enters my mind.”
Merriwell recoiled visibly.
“My job in The Hague, General, is the same as it was fifteen years ago in Kindle County: Investigate crimes and prosecute when the evidence is strong and the violations of the law are serious. I indicted our Catholic archbishop for looting church coffers to support a child he’d fathered.”
“I recall the case,” said Merriwell.
“Before we brought the charges, a papal envoy showed up in Kindle County to tell me that my actions would cause thousands of people to lose their faith. And I’ll say to you what I said to him: ‘The last thing you want me doing is your job.’ He was in charge of ministering to the faithful, and folks like Roger and you can worry about American foreign and military policy. I’m just a glorified Joe Friday.”
The comparison brought a small smile and a brief toss of Merriwell’s head in disagreement. We’d reached another caesura. He allowed himself a moment of distraction with his handheld. I asked if he needed a longer break, but he was ready to go on, except for a second glass of water.
“General, you said you had two major regrets. I assume the other was failing to capture Laza Kajevic?”
Just the mention of Kajevic caused Merriwell to wince. It was the most emphatic emotion he’d shown.
“The man was a monster,” Merriwell said. “Given the opportunity, he would have slaughtered as many as Stalin and Hitler and Pol Pot. He was never a political leader—just a sadistic thug with a dormant conscience and an ego that could dwarf Jupiter.”
“I’m sure you were horrified by the casualties in Doboj, when you tried to capture him.”
“The hardest part of being a battlefield commander, Mr. Ten Boom, is always the loss of life, especially your own soldiers. We spent eight years in Bosnia without a combat fatality. To see four soldiers die and eight others wounded, three quite seriously, while a malignancy like Kajevic went free made for one of the saddest moments in my career.”
“And how was it that he got the drop on your forces? I assume there was an intelligence failure.”
“‘Failure’ is too strong. Even diligent efforts in that arena don’t always succeed. As was reported at that time, we badly underestimated how well armed they would be. We’d missed Kajevic only a month before, and in order to escape in disguise, they had abandoned almost all their weapons.”
“But they also seem to have known exactly when you were coming.”
“So it appears.”
“And how did they get that information?”
“If I knew, Mr. Ten Boom, I would not be at liberty to tell you. I can assure you, however, that we didn’t repeat prior mistakes.” In my reading, I’d been astonished by reports that the French had sabotaged a number of earlier efforts to capture Kajevic, believing that would push the Serbs toward the Russians. “The operational details of our plan to arrest Kajevic in Doboj were probably the most closely guarded secret of my time at Mons,” he said, referring to the city in Belgium where Allied Command Operations was located. The French, in other words, had been frozen out.
“Then what’s your best guess about how Kajevic knew?”
“Conjecture only? Something happened on the ground that betrayed our plan. We tried to respect the local Bosnian authorities. There were Muslim leaders who didn’t want Kajevic captured, for fear that it would set off the whole fracas again. And of course he had plants in every police force. All I can tell you, Mr. Ten Boom, is that we investigated the hell out of that question. There was not an American serving in Bosnia who wasn’t deeply upset by the casualties at Doboj.”
“Upset enough to kill four hundred Roma?”
Merriwell again drew back, the same skinny eyebrow elevated once more. I continued in the face of his silence.
“There is a well-trod story around Tuzla that the massacre at Barupra was related to the failed capture of Kajevic.”
Merriwell shook his head before he answered.
“Again, Mr. Ten Boom, we are getting into intelligence information, which I am not free to disclose.”
I was trolling here, but I had learned on cross-examination that one key to success was to continue at the same pace and with no change of expression. Merriwell’s last answer suggested there might be something to tell about the Roma’s role.
“Well, in thinking very hard about this, General, and asking myself what the Roma might have done in connection with the Kajevic raid that would get them all killed, one clear possibility is that they assisted the Americans somehow.”
Merriwell hesitated a second longer, making me surer I was onto something. In the end, he smiled broadly.
“Let me see, Mr. Ten Boom. How many traps does that question artfully set? First, I’ve told you that I don’t believe there was a massacre. And I’ve also said that I can’t comment on intelligence.”
“But if you were wrong about a massacre occurring, General, without asking you to disclose any classified specifics, would your first suspicion be of Kajevic and his followers?”
He thought that through with his mouth knotted.
“By character, of course. Killing hundreds in vengeance would be a trifle to him. But we looked intensively for Kajevic in the area around Tuzla throughout the last weeks of April in 2004, and it would seem foolhardy of him to return.”
“Or spectacularly arrogant.”
After a beat, Merriwell dipped his chin to acknowledge the point. I knew he could say no more, but his demeanor continued to suggest I was on the right track.
Throughout the interview, I had not glanced at the single page of notes Roger had said I could bring. I reached into my vest pocket now to be sure I hadn’t forgotten anything.
In trying to figure out why Roger had wanted to arrange this interview, I’d finally realized it offered one clear plus for the US. When the OTP filed the required public report with the Court at the end of our investigation, we could no longer say that the US military had completely stone
walled us. Yet if that was what they wanted, it made sense to press for more cooperation from the Army, and I did.
“I’m not hopeful of that, Mr. Ten Boom.”
“But if it’s as important as you say that there be no false insinuation of US involvement, then the only way Americans are going to be cleared is if we find other perpetrators or, failing that, if we get the evidence the Army possesses that would exonerate your troops.”
“Isn’t it hard to prove a negative, Mr. Ten Boom?”
“I’m not a military expert, but things like truck logs and duty rosters could shed a lot of light. If the military documents reflect no troop movements, that could be significant. But the fact that the Army isn’t even willing to say publicly that it’s examined all those records troubles me. It feels like they won’t look because they don’t want to see what’s there. And that means your troops will always be suspects.”
Merriwell’s gray eyes, which had begun to remind me of two pencil points, fell to his lap as he calculated.
“I hear you, Mr. Ten Boom, but we’re well past the time when such matters were within my control. Is there more?”
He stood then and I followed. The general offered to walk out with me.
It was cherry blossom time in DC and the city was a display of soft-focus beauty. At the Tidal Basin, the Japanese trees were a nimbus of pink. Even in this neighborhood some were in bloom, and their small pale petals decorated every breeze, a showy reminder, after our discussion of mayhem and force, of the delicate things that still enhance life.
I was rolling my bag behind me, and the general asked whether I was headed for the airport. I explained that because I’d been unsure how long our meeting would take, I’d arranged to stay in DC overnight before heading to Kindle County early tomorrow.
“And what are your plans this evening, if I may ask?”
“I’m going to my hotel to write down as much as I can remember of our conversation, and then make a few calls to The Hague before I crash.”
“I can offer you dinner, if you like. Get you on your way by nine. I have an early plane myself in the morning.”