The Girl in the Film

by Eagar, Charlotte

  “Don’t you think it looks just like a Victorian blancmange,” he’d said. I said, one of those synthetic cakes you get in Zagreb coffee shops, pink and yellow layers, with snow as the icing.

  The Presidency was set back, the other side of the broad, grey boulevard of Marshal Tito Street; to one side, a grey office block, where Austrian civil servants had run the last decades of their Reich; to the other, a honey-coloured mosque, tumbled tombstones sticking up in the grimy snow. Opposite was a little park, but there were no trees there now. They’d all been cut down for firewood last year, at night, when the gunmen on the hills were drunk or asleep; I’d seen Phil’s documentary about that just before I came out.

  Not far now. Phil had said I needed to sprint the last bit. “You see the hills,” he said, from the car. “That’s where the Serbs are. If you can see the hills, they can see you. Run straight across, then the

  Presidency will give you cover. We’ll be inside.”

  Like every building whose windows faced onto this main boulevard, the Presidency had no glass – every window was filled in by planks held in by white UN sticky tape. There were sandbags piled on the windowsills, and at the massive double doors which topped the steps Archduke Franz Ferdinand would have been Heralded up, if only he had lived to the end of his procession. The splintered planks, the great gashes on the stucco, all showed the sandbags weren’t just there to make a point.

  I couldn’t see the BBC Land Rover, but Phil said they made him park it round the side – “Not still!” said Robert. “They can see you there.” Rob’s chamwere obviously different to the people who made up the parking rules in town.

  Phil shrugged: “The Mossies like to keep the front Presidential. At least the accountants would approve: the Serbs are always trying to shell the front, so if I left it there, the car might get a direct hit.” “Would they prefer you died rather than the car?” I asked.

  “I’m easy to replace. Armoured cars cost a fortune.”

  “What if she gets hit?” Robert asked, as I hopped out of the car.

  I said nothing.

  “I always say you have to be bloody unlucky to be hit by a shell. This place is full of locals, and most of them are still alive,” said Phil.

  “Apart from the ones who are dead, of course,” said Robert. Then I said, because I believed it: “Don’t worry, I’ll be fine.”

  Phil turned to me: “If anything happens, just get inside.”

  I was nearly on Marshal Tito Street when the first shell fell. I stopped dead for a moment. I did not know what to do. Get inside, Phil had said, if anything happens. But I froze. In where? Then a shell made up my mind because I heard it coming and I threw myself into the nearest doorway as it crashed into the street. Another one came. The Presidency was only 200 yards away, but the shells were falling in between. The snipers’ bullets speeded up their tempo, as though today’s ceasefire had just been the slow movement. Another shell. I tried the door I was leaning against; it was locked. I thumped at it, but nothing moved inside. The windows were boarded up, but that meant nothing. Every window I’d seen so far was boarded up. I didn’t know much but I knew enough that if a shell fell nearby – and they were not that far – then my little doorway was not really going to help. I looked up and down the street, and the buildings stared blankly back. Then I thought, Mrs Selimovic; she was just a street away.

  I turned and ran back up the hill, and turned right up her street. I must have looked ridiculous, my flak jacket bumping on my shoulders, skittering across the ice, trying not to slip. I was too scared to look too closely at the block of flats, but it looked the same, three or four storeys of swagged and figured stucco, although the war had made an amputees’ fête champêtre of the façade. I got to the double wooden doors just as a shell crashed again. I hurled myself in.

  The stairs felt like Mrs Selimovic’s stairs – it was too dark inside to see that much. They were the same wide, shallow, Austrian steps, the same wrought-iron balustrade. The wooden banisters were coated in the same thick layer of concrete grit, and the same grit crunched underfoot on the tiled floor; like builders’ dust, but this came from destruction; they also had the same faint smell of dirt and pee.

  My heart was still pounding as I tried to work out what to say – particularly as Mrs Selimovic and I didn’t really have a common language – but then I thought the crash of the bombardment would say it all. Sarajevans must be used to people being stranded in places by now. She could show me the rest of the photographs. I pressed the bell, set to the side of the panelled double doors, out of habit even though I knew it hadn’t worked before. Then I pounded on the frosted glass instead.

  So if I hadn’t been so scared that I got the wrong house, or if the Serbs had started shelling five minutes later and I’d had time to cross the road, or if I hadn’t felt so guilty about poor Mrs Selimovic, waiting on her own, in her freezing, dark flat, for us to return for the letter Robert had promised to deliver to her daughter, that I’d told Phil and Robert I’d nip back, and meet them at the Presidency; if I hadn’t let her spend half an hour showing me photographs of her grandchildren in a language I couldn’t understand, I’d have missed the bombardment, met up with the others at the Presidency, and bumped back in Phil’s armoured Land Rover to the Holiday Inn. And I might never have met you at all.

  You have my permission to shell, but do not touch the industrial infrastructure because we need the machinery. Shoot only at human flesh. Shell only human flesh. Only human flesh.

  —Radio intercept of General Ratko Mladic, Serb commander, ordering his troops to attack the town of Zeleni Jadar, near Srebrenica, 1993

  III

  I can’t imagine never having met you. I know that most people who know me, I suppose, say that I would be much better off if I hadn’t. But not as much better off as you would have been, if you’d been out that afternoon, queuing for water, or stealing firewood, or getting cold and bored on your old frontline; if I’d had to wait in your stairwell till the shelling stopped and had then left without us ever having met.

  I got a shock when you opened the door. Although it was dark on the landing, it wasn’t hard to see that you weren’t Mrs Selimovic. You were about a foot taller, and instead of old lady mustiness, you smelled of boy; I could taste the taint of sweat at the back of my nose. And I swallowed. Only the background of piss and wood smoke was the same.

  I must have looked surprised, but you could hardly have seen my face, or maybe you were better used to the dark. When I said, “I’m sorry. Is Mrs Selimovic here?” you shook your head.

  “My English not good.”

  I tried again. “Gde je Gospodja Selimovic, molim?”

  “Mrs Selimovic not live here,” you said, which proved your English was better than my Serbo-Croat.

  “Oh. I’m sorry.” I turned to go, bewildered, I wasn’t sure where. Another huge bang echoed down the street. You solved that problem by grabbing at my hand.

  “Don’t go. Not safe. Even with pancir, not safe,” and you moved the hand up to touch my bulletproof vest. “Granata. Wait here. Granata will stop, maybe one hour, maybe two. Stay. Please.” You moved your hand down again to clasp my wrist; I couldn’t stop myself looking down at your hand on mine.

  I actually hesitated. It was something to do with some ingrained habit about not talking to strange men – but it was more than that. I think I was scared of you. I think I was scared of your scent in my throat, your touch on my arm. Then we heard a shell whiz down a street away. I let you pull me in. We were in a long, high-ceilinged hall, with doors to either side. In the gloom I could see coats hung by the door, and the gleam of parquet underfoot.

  “Go in kitchen,” you said. “Is…” there was a silence as you tried to find the word.

  “Safer?” I said into the gap.

  “Safer.” I saw your head nod. “No granata. Other side.” I think you smiled, but I still couldn’t see your face.

  It was warmer in the kitchen, and much less dark, with t
he moonlight reflecting off the snow outside, thrown back by a shiny metal range in the corner. I could see you now. You were about my age, and your face, in the moonbeams, seemed beautiful to me, with great hollowed cheekbones and huge dark eyes, made darker and huger by the night outside. You said nothing, just looked back at me. I suddenly wished I was wearing something more flattering than my boots, a fleece, jeans and a lumpy great flak jacket, hat, my thick padded coat. Something elegant, and pretty, where I could flick my hair. I felt a frump, but in your silver ski jacket, you just looked like an advert on the side of a bus. I suddenly felt rather shy. I looked away from your face, and that was when I saw the sling.

  “Your arm!” I think I was grateful for something to say. “What happened?”

  “Is nothing.”

  “But you’re hurt!”

  “I got it on frontline.” Your eyes gleamed.

  “You were shot!”

  “Not shot.” A shrug. “Little piece of granata. But is nothing.”

  “How awful!” I know it was trite, but I couldn’t bear to think of anything hurting you, even then.

  “Don’t worry.” Maybe you didn’t want me to be upset. You undid your sling, and pulled back the bandage. “It is not bad. See.” A puckered line snaked five inches up the dark hairs on your forearm. The frozen moonlight leeched the light from your skin, but I could see it was still swollen.

  “It must have been agony.” I sounded pathetic, even to my own ears.

  “What? No. Look, not so bad…” You smiled at me. “You want coffee?”

  Before I could say yes or no, you opened a door on the other side of the kitchen. It had a homemade sign on it, saying Ratna Zona – war zone – with a death’s head, a spoof of the ones you see on checkpoints right near the frontline.

  “Is it dangerous in there?” I said, as you came back with a jar of brown powder.

  “Not for you.” You grinned. I smiled back.

  “Sit down,” you said. And I looked around, through the gloom: a stripped wood table, wooden chairs, wooden units, all finished off with orange and brown formica. In the middle of the room was a metal stove, with a Heath Robinson pipe snaking towards the window and something warming in a saucepan on its hob. The electric stove, covered in jars and plates, was obviously being used as just an extra bit of surface.“You like coffee?”

  “Oh…” I didn’t want you to waste your coffee on me. “I…”

  “Not real coffee. Only war coffee.” When I still hesitated, you said: “I want coffee.” And went over to the stove.

  I thought the coffee might be in the little pan, but it couldn’t have been, because you dipped a metal jug into a huge blue bin, drew it dripping out and put it on the hob, moving the saucepan to one side. You turned and caught me looking at you. Neither of us spoke, until I looked away. Outside, a shell crumped down. You said:

  “Please, sit.” I was grateful for that. It gave me something to do.

  I was just pulling out a chair when I heard a living sound.

  “What’s that?” I stopped.

  “My prisoner.”

  “Your prisoner!” You grabbed at me with your good arm, and pulled me towards the door. I hung back, as much as I could still being polite. I could hear Robert’s voice in Kiseljak this morning: “War zones are full of nuts!”

  You must have noticed me pulling, but all you said was: “Don’t worry. No problem.” And opened the door.

  It was a larder, tall and square, but the shelves up the walls were largely empty; just a couple of bags of rice, cans of oil, and the labelled tins of meat and fish that I later realised were always given out in wars by the UNHCR. On one shelf, from a cage, a pigeon eyed us warily; it didn’t flap round its cage, it just looked depressed.

  One of its wings hung limply at its side.

  “What’s that for?” I said.

  “Golub. I not know your word.”

  “Pigeon. We call it a pigeon. But what’s it for?”

  “To eat.” You said it, half proudly, half as if I were an idiot.

  “How did you get it?”

  “We shoot.” You walked to the window. I hadn’t noticed the gun leant up against the wall. You picked up the gun and Robert’s voice came back again: “Full of nuts!” I was terrified for a moment; then you pointed it at the window, where the moonlight fought in through the plastic sheets. Then I thought you were mad: I thought somebody would see you and shoot straight back. I said: “Be careful!” just as you said: “Bang!”

  Neither of us spoke for a few seconds, then from outside, from the hills, came an answering bang; the huge, round, generalised crash of a shell. You laughed, I laughed too. I was too nervous not to. It was then I saw it was just an air rifle. And we were laughing together.

  “Your arm,” I said, when we stopped. Because I had to say something.

  “Is not so bad. Is one month now.” You put down the gun and with your other hand, you took mine and guided my fingers along the scar. I caught my breath. For a moment neither of us spoke. Then you let my hand go and put your arm back in its sling. “For Armija, is still very bad.”

  “Oh…” You must have heard my slight disapproval that you were dodging the draft, because you quickly said, “Was very bad.”

  “Oh. OK.” But then I supposed, to be fair, I wouldn’t have wanted to sit on the lines this winter either. It was still about minus five, and we were into April now.

  “Doctor thinks maybe have to cut arm off.”

  “Oh, my God!”

  “But now is nearly OK.” You lit the candle on the table, using both hands, then smiled at me, shrugged and slipped it back into its sling.

  “Isn’t it dangerous to point a gun out of the window?” “Why?” You sounded amazed.

  “Wouldn’t someone see…the Serbs…” I trailed off… they might shoot back, I thought.

  “Oh no. Serbs can’t see here.” You waved at the hill with the hospital. “They are on other side. How you not know that?”

  “It’s my first day in Sarajevo. I got here this morning.” “First day…you came in today?” You looked bewildered.

  “It’s been a nightmare,” I said. “We’d been trying to get in for a week.”

  “I have not been outside Sarajevo for a year.”

  Perhaps it was a good thing the water boiled then. I watched you tip the coffee into the jug, stir it, and pour out two cups, keeping the grounds back with the long metal spoon. Your bad arm seemed quite good enough for that. You handed me a cup and watched as I took a sip.

  “It’s delicious,” I said. “Thank you.” But actually, it was horrid: bitter, grainy and sort of blank.

  “Not delicious,” you said, bitter as the coffee. “War coffee. Before war, in Sarajevo, we had best coffee in the world.”

  “Can you buy real coffee here now?” I hadn’t seen any open shops.

  You snorted. “Buy. You can buy. If you find. But costs eighty Deutschmark for kilo. Is only for mafia.” I couldn’t think of what to say: I’d drunk two cups of coffee in the Holiday Inn.

  There was another loud crash. I jumped.

  “Is OK,” you said. “No shell ever in our garden.” You gave me a reassuring smile.

  “Thank you.” I smiled back. And the silence stretched. I couldn’t think of anything to say. It was as though I had to wait for something else to crack: another shell, or maybe another pigeon, or… then there was a plopping sound from the stove. “Is ready.” You leapt up.

  “What are you cooking?”

  You raised your eyebrows and grinned at me. “Death.”

  “What!”

  “Death for pigeons. Look.” You took my arm again and led me to the stove. In the pan was a thick, silver liquid. A bubble glooped up to the surface and popped.

  “What is it?” You still had your hand on my elbow.

  “I don’t know how to say. Is metal. You make bullets.”

  “Lead?”

  “I don’t know.” You hesitated. “I can write its name. I ne
ed pen.” Mrs Selimovic hadn’t had a pen either.

  “I’ve got a pen. And paper. I’m a journalist.”

  “Journalist,” you said. “That is why you are here.”

  I didn’t really listen to your tone of voice. I was too busy rummaging around in my bag, amongst the torch, and the cigarettes, the Deutschmarks and the batteries. It was rather a relief to get my notebook out; it was a relief to have a good excuse. I always found it embarrassing, when you’re talking to someone, and they think you are making conversation, but you start taking notes. And it breaks the connection.

  But this connection – I wanted to break it. You kept staring at me. I kept staring back. The book would help. And also, all the interviews we’d done this afternoon would appear on the BBC, in Robert’s piece in the Herald on Sunday. My piece wasn’t coming out until the real anniversary on Tuesday. But this interview was all for me; it wasn’t going to appear anywhere first. Besides, mild embarrassment is a constant state in journalism and I was getting used to it by now.

  You took the pen from my hand.

  “In chemistry, this,” and wrote Pb.

  “Lead,” I said. I took the pen back and wrote it down.

  ‘L…E…A…D led?” You read it from my page.

  I nodded. “What is it for?”

  “For rifle. I make bullets, then I shoot the pigeons.”

  “You make bullets?”

  “How else I get them?”

  “How do you make them? Where do you get the lead?” I looked up at you. “May I write this down? For my newspaper. Do you mind?”

  “Why not?” But then you looked sad, and you said: “In Sarajevo, we are all stories now.” I thought of Phil, saying as we’d spent lunch, in the icy dining room of the Holiday Inn, working out who we should see this afternoon: “The thing about Sarajevo is you can go up to anyone in the street and they’re a great story.”