by Jean Austin
After the elation of my time with Anton, I feel suddenly sick. The contrast is horrifying.
“Her mother was strangled in her home. Branka saw the whole thing. She snuck out the back door in the dark of night and hid in a haystack until dawn. They found her brother in the barn. He begged for his life. They wanted him to beg, just as their families had, and then they shot him through the head. She’s been on the run ever since.”
“I saw no photos,” I say, choking up. “There are no family photos in her home. Just old photos—strangers.”
“She is in hiding. She wears old clothing. Makes herself appear older than she is—and all just to stay alive... What a shitty planet, huh?”
“And you?” I ask, still not comfortable offering an answer as to why I’m here just yet.
“My brother. Big ego. Lots of talk. He does drugs—he did drugs. He’s dead now… We were cruising in his car on a Saturday evening. He pulls over at a bottle shop. Leaves the engine running. There are shots from inside. Gunshots are loud. I jump. I think someone is shooting at me. No. Not me. My brother and his friend run out, yelling, ‘Drive. Drive.’ I think someone is shooting at us, so I slide across and drive. The wheels skid on the corners. I clip a parked car. Dimitri laughs. ‘You’re a clumsy fool,’ he says. It’s then I see the pistol. I can smell the gunpowder. ‘What have you done?’
“The police. They trace the license plates. I’m the getaway driver—an accomplice in murder. I’ve been running ever since.” He laughs, but his laugh is bitter. “Like I said, no one comes to Zepa for the Krofne. We’re all running from something.”
My turn.
Anton faces me, propping himself up on his elbow.
“Well,” I say. “You’re right. I’m running from my husband. I walked in on him banging another woman.”
“Oh, wow,” Anton says, slapping the blanket at this scandalous tidbit of news. He’s grinning, laughing, but not at me. Funny, but his reaction is exactly what I need. I laugh too, finally seeing what happened for what it was—absurd. “I pulled a gun on him.”
“A gun?”
“He’s a cop. He was fucking his blonde bimbo partner.”
“You shot them?” he asks, his eyes going wide in surprise.
“No,” I say, shaking my head and laughing. “God, no. I shot the pillow. The ceiling. The doorjamb. I ran them out of the house naked. Chased them out onto the street.”
His eyebrows rise in surprise. “That was you???”
I lose it, laughing heartily at the realization my local news clip went global. “Yes, that was me.”
“Damn.” Anton’s face is radiant with life. He shakes his head with disbelief. “And I thought I was bad.”
I push him playfully. “We’re quite the pair, aren’t we?”
“We are,” he says, resting his hand affectionately on my stomach. “It’s good isn’t it?”
“What is?” I ask, not following his line of thinking.
“Talking. Being open—honest.”
“Yes, it is.” I can feel the stress of the past week fading.
“And here I was,” he says. “feeling bad for taking advantage of you. But me. You took advantage of me. I’m your revenge on him.”
“I guess you are,” I say. “Sorry.”
“Sorry?” Anton says, laughing. “Oh, no. I’m not sorry. Are you?”
I shake my head. “I guess not.”
He leans in and kisses me, lingering on my lips. His hand strokes my hair, brushing a few loose strands from my forehead.
“The past,” he says, sitting back as I turn to face him. “It need not define us. We are not the past. We are now. Look at you. You’re not the same woman you were this morning.”
“No,” I say, “I’m most certainly not.”
“The past condemns us all, but don’t listen to your past. The past is a lie. You are whoever you want to be right now. Don’t let the past hold you back.”
I could listen to Anton talk forever.
“It’s gone. Whatever happened, it’s over. Whether it is your husband and that woman, or your son in that field, or my stupid brother—there is no undoing the past, there is only the promise of a new future, but we can live in neither. We can only live now.”
“You really believe that?” I ask. “You can just forgive like that?”
Anton’s voice softens. He looks at me with sad eyes as he says, “I... I was six... My mother... She wasn’t supposed to be in Srebrenica. She wasn’t even Muslim.”
The fine hairs on my arms stand on end. “Does she know? Branka?”
“No.”
My breathing is shallow, my heart beats faster.
“You—You came here to kill her.”
He nods. His eyes fall away from mine. Guilt. “But I couldn’t. Revenge is only ever bitter—never sweet. We have to stop killing. An eye for an eye leaves only the blind. At some point, someone has to have the courage to break the cycle of hate.”
“Why did you stay here in Zepa?” I ask. I think I know the answer, but I want to hear it from his lips.
“To protect her.”
I touch him. I have to. I can hear the pain in his voice, the discord, the conflict. Like so many others, Anton was consumed by hate after all that happened during the war. Even though he’s risen above that, the hurt is still there.
“Children of the stars,” I say, finally understanding what he means. There’s no country, no culture, no race, no family. Earth itself is but a speck of dust. We are all one beneath the heavens. A single tear runs down his cheek. I reach out and wipe it away.
I say, “This is why you clear landmines, right? Because there’s been too much pain already.”
He nods, pursing his lips. “I have to. I can’t leave them. It wouldn’t be right.”
This is why Anton went into the field after Jimmy. He could no more leave Jimmy out there than I could.
Anton holds my hand. “Each morning, I get up, wondering where I’ll sleep that night—at home in my old bed with the saggy springs, or on a stiff mattress in a jail cell. In a hospital dosed up on morphine, with bandages wrapped around the stumps marking what little’s left of my arms, or worse still, in a morgue.”
The lump in my throat chokes me, but I have to speak. “I—I don’t think anyone really understands what happened here. We see the bloody images on TV, and then there are ads. Buy this. Vote for the white guy with the cosmetic smile. Apply for a new credit card. Whatever. And the horror we felt is gone. It’s time for dinner, or a sitcom comes on the box, and we chuckle along with the canned laughter prompting our every response. Then it’s off to work the next day. Life goes on, and we forget. There’s always a war somewhere. The names change, the places shift, but the images on the news are always the same, and yet again, there’s another ad break and on we go—oblivious. Nothing ever changes.”
Anton rests his hand on my shoulder, saying, “You’ve changed.”
I smile.
He says, “Let’s get you home.”
I nod, feeling overwhelmed by the events of the past day. From the horror of seeing Jimmy in the middle of a minefield, to making love with Anton, but perhaps the greatest change has come in the last few minutes as we’ve laid our hearts bare before each other.
Chapter 09: Viral
The sun peeks through the curtains. Birds sing in the trees. Everything is right with the world. I have no idea what today holds, but I don’t care. Anton’s right. The past and the future are both pretenders. There is nothing beyond the present. I stretch, still feeling a warm glow within. The kids are downstairs tormenting Branka, but I suspect she loves the attention—certainly, it’s play for them. They’re laughing with no restraint.
I take a shower, which in the US is a daily ritual for me. Here in Bosnia, it’s a luxury a couple of times a week—if luxury is the right word for being doused with bitterly cold water. The shower is little more than a cubicle with a steel chain to regulate the chilling flow. The lack of temperature control is a r
ather effective way of ensuring water is being rationed. I soak myself, pause the water, and lather my body, working shampoo into my hair before braving the shower again. Back home, I’d be bitching and complaining. Back when Dad took me along the Appalachian trail, I was more interested in glamping in motels than camping in tents. Today, though, it’s part of the novelty.
After drying myself off, getting dressed, and brushing my teeth, there’s only one person on my mind—Anton. Was last night the start of something new? Or just a meteor blazing through the sky for a brief moment in time? I don’t think it’s selfish to want more, but I need to hear that from him. We both have baggage—and I have kids, and ex in the US. Can we make this work? Or is it too much? Is it best to leave last night as a memory? Are there more memories waiting to be made?
I’m nervous. My hands are shaking. Tomorrow is suddenly far more important to me than when I first awoke. I feel as though my whole life rests on Anton’s response. Staring in the mirror, I laugh at myself, knowing precisely what Anton would say if he could see the worry lining my face—You think too much, and I do. Chill, Emma. Just don’t overthink things. Take each day as it comes—easier said than done.
I head downstairs.
“Good morning,” I say, seeing Branka sitting at the table playing a board game with the kids. Jilly has no idea what’s going on, but she’s sitting there with a pile of counters and a few cards, looking to her brother rather than at her hand. Jimmy looks up and acknowledges me, but his focus is on the game.
“It’s a risk,” Branka says, talking to him. “That’s what you must weigh. All of life involves risk and reward.”
“Hmm, okay,” he replies, rolling a dice and moving a counter. “I’m coming for you.”
“Oh, I await you on Troll Mountain,” Branka replies with glee. I have no idea what they’re playing, but the board game appears to be based on The Lord of the Rings. There are dragons, wizards, overflowing rivers, knights on horseback, goblins climbing stone bridges. Best I understand it, they’re playing what looks like a medieval version of chutes and ladders.
“I’m winning,” Jilly says.
“Are not,” Jimmy snaps.
“Are too.”
“All right, you guys. Play nicely,” I say.
Branka looks at me, asking, “What time did you get back last night?”
“Time? I have no idea.” Without my phone, time has become ethereal. Where I used to be a stickler for watching the clock, setting off for work on time, or having dinner on the table by 6:30, I haven’t thought about the actual time in a couple of days.
“Anton dropped by,” she says with a grin.
“Oh, he did, did he?” I reply, trying not to appear too eager, but pleased to hear he called in on me. I pause, waiting to see if she’s going to offer any more insights. “Did he say anything?” Oh, Emma, you’re such a schoolgirl.
“No,” Branka says, relishing having me at a disadvantage. “He stopped by to see if you were awake.”
There’s a knock at the door, only it’s formal, not what I’d expect from Anton, it’s more of a rap trying to gain attention.
“I’ll get it,” I say.
“Of course you will,” Branka replies, smiling. I’m just glad the kids are too young to realize Mom is smitten.
I throw the door open, expecting but not seeing Anton on the other side. A police officer stands on the concrete step with another officer behind him taking photos of the broken down fence leading to the minefield.
The officer starts speaking in Bosnian, which gets Branka’s attention. She comes to the door.
“You’ll have to speak English,” I say as the officer holds up a poster printed in both Bosnian and English.
WANTED : Tarik Antun Hadzic — Murder & Armed Robbery.
“Have you seen this man?” the officer asks, pointing at the photo of a younger Anton. His hair is straggly, while is face is gaunt and thin.
“I don’t understand?”
Branka rattles off something in Bosnian. The police officer holds up a cell phone and plays a short video clip. It doesn’t take long to recognize what’s happening. I could pinpoint exactly where this was filmed—about ten feet to my left as Anton rescued Jimmy from the minefield.
“Viral,” he says. “It’s all over the internet, but it was filmed here. You are this woman, right?” It’s surreal to see myself from this angle. I look old. Tears leave trails running down my dusty face. On the screen, I flinch as a mine detonates in the field. Dust drifts through the air.
I nod.
“He’s a criminal.”
I’m silent.
“If he’s here—”
“He’s not here,” Branka says defiantly. She closes the door on the officer, and lingers there, resting her hand on the cold stone wall. Like me, she’s stunned and trying to compose herself.
I catch my reflection in a mirror hanging beside the door. My face is pale and washed out. Branka peers out the window, watching as the officers take photographs of the cottage and the field.
“They haven’t found him,” she says. “Do you understand? He’s out there somewhere. He’s not in his workshop. That’s the first place they would have looked. He must have seen them coming. He’s on the run.”
I stand beside her, looking out at the cobblestones on the road. There are several police cars parked in a row down by the market. They’ve sent at least six officers after him.
In a whisper, I say, “I think I know where he is. He has a cabin up in the woods.”
“He won’t stay there long.”
“No. He won’t.”
“Go to him,” Branka says. “You should see him before he leaves.”
“But how can I? The police are everywhere. What if they follow me?”
“I’ll distract them.”
“How?” I ask.
“Just go,” she says.
I kiss the kids on the forehead, saying, “Stay here with Branka, okay?”
“Is Anton in trouble?” Jimmy asks. “Is it because of me?”
“He’s fine,” I say, stroking Jimmy’s hair. “Be nice to your sister.”
I grab my car keys and slip out the back of the cottage into the alley. Branka walks out the front, slamming the door behind her. She’s got my attention, at least. I peer around the corner. I can’t see any police officers, but I know they’re around. Branka takes a few bricks from a pile stacked beside the water barrel and begins hurling them into the field. She’s got a good arm on her, throwing them well beyond where Jimmy stood yesterday. The first brick lands with a thud, followed by the second, digging up a little dirt. The third vanishes in an earth-shattering explosion. The brick disintegrates into a blood-red mist. Smoke billows into the air. Rocks and debris fall like hail.
The police come running. That’s my cue. I slip into the rental car and pull quietly into the lane, driving slowly to avoid drawing attention to myself. A police officer darts across in front of me, running hard toward the cottage.
Once I’m out of the village, I follow the road past the castle up into the hills, keeping an eye on my rearview mirror to make sure I’m not being followed. Last night, it felt as though we drove for hours, but within fifteen minutes I’m at the turnoff. My little car doesn’t fare as well as Anton’s truck in the deep ruts, so I ride up on the edge of the trail, at times getting perilously close to the tiny orange flags sticking out of the weeds.
In the daylight, the clearing is much larger than I realized, extending for several hundred yards. Most of the open ground has been cleared, with flags only visible on the slope leading down to the forest. That’s probably why they gave up. Most of the useable land has been recovered, and at a guess, clearing densely wooded areas is much tougher than an open field. The blanket we lay on last night is still on the ground, scrunched up next to an empty bottle of champagne. Ants crawl over the glass, eager to salvage what little remains. I bring the car to a halt roughly where Anton parked his truck yesterday, and hop out.
&
nbsp; The wind whips over the hillside, blowing my hair around.
“Anton!” I yell, walking over to the hut he pointed out in the darkness. I can hear a car engine, but it’s coming from further along the track. It’s hard to tell, but the trail seems to be a firebreak, running along the ridge for miles. The sound of the engine fades in and out as the vehicle moves among the trees.
Anton’s under the hut. He shimmies out from between the concrete supports to greet me. The crawlspace is barely a foot high. I’m surprised he could fit under there.
“Emma,” he says, getting to his feet, and it’s clear we’re relieved to see each other.
“I—They came looking for you.” I’m not telling him anything he doesn’t already know, but it seems important to vocalize my concern.
“Yeah. It is my past. I can forgive, but others cannot forgive me.”
I feel helpless. “Where will you go?”
“Across to Greece, and from there down to Cyprus. There’s good money to be made on fishing boats. Cash in hand. No questions asked.”
I nod, agreeing with him even though I’m unsure where Cyprus is—I thought it was further west, near Italy, or is that Malta? I’m frustrated. Reality is defying my expectations. This is not how fairytales should end.
Anton takes my hand, saying, “I’m sorry.”
“I—I could...” I’m desperate, grasping at loose threads. We look each other in the eye, exchanging thoughts of what could be—dreams, really—fantasies. We both have them. We both know they’re not realistic.
Again, the drone of a car engine drifts through the air. Anton turns. A police car comes around the corner. I bat at the air, wanting him to flee back beneath the hut, but it’s too late. The police must have seen me arrive in the clearing, and they’ve driven down from the summit to investigate.
A siren sounds. Anton runs. The police car races over the rough ground, bouncing violently and kicking up dust. I’m slow to react, unsure what I should do. Anton darts past one of the scaffold towers and cuts behind my car, using it for cover. The police car comes to a screeching halt before the woods. Two officers jump out to give chase on foot. I run after them, yelling, “No!”