by Ayşe Kulin
“I turned into a Serb,” Stefan said, taking off his boot and extracting his ID card to show Rasim.
“March,” Rasim said. “We can’t talk about any of this here.”
Stefan was in high spirits as he left the newspaper offices that evening. They’d reviewed every last detail of his plan to gain access to the concentration camps where the Muslim Bosniaks were being held. His timing couldn’t have been any better. Newsweek had sent a correspondent to interview some of the camps’ inmates, but they’d been unable to get permission to enter. The correspondent sent by the Guardian had also been unable to enter.
Under pressure from the United States, UN Secretary General Boutros Boutros-Ghali had increased pressure on the Serbs. It would soon be impossible to deny monitors permission to enter the camps. In the meantime, foreign correspondents would find it easier to gain entry if they applied jointly with a Serbian journalist and translator. Rasim promised to pull strings to make sure Stefan was that Serbian journalist.
“Do you really think you can make it happen?” Stefan asked Rasim.
“Yes,” Rasim said. “I’ll introduce you to Zlatko.”
“Who’s that?”
“An attorney here in Sarajevo. He’ll be a great help to you. He’s been gathering information about the camps for months now. If we combine his documentation with your Serbian credentials, we’ll have an unbeatable team. Just be sure you don’t do anything idiotic like let your real identity slip. Whatever it takes, we’ve got to get you into at least a couple of camps.”
The best way for Stefan to forget he was Stefan Stefanoviç was to keep his distance from Nimeta. He was determined not to call her.
Stefan moved to a Serbian-controlled zone of the city, settling into a room in a flat left behind by a Muslim family. Rasim had said his “boot operation” was too dangerous and confiscated his real ID card.
“If they found a Croatian ID card on your person or in your room, you’d be dead,” Rasim said. “Go live in the Serbian zone, and I’ll get word to you when we’re ready for you to submit your application.”
He’d been waiting for ten days when word finally arrived in a bakery of all places. He’d gone to his usual baker and picked up a loaf of bread. The baker had taken it from him, claiming it was stale, and given him a different loaf. When he got home, he found a note on the sheet of newspaper wrapped around the bread saying, “Apply for July 10.”
He shaved and showered in preparation for his trip to the press office. When looking in the mirror, he noticed that his hair was growing out and that dark roots were now visible. It hadn’t occurred to him that would happen; he’d imagined once you’d dyed your hair, you were done with it for good. How could he get a bottle of hair dye at the pharmacy? If he asked for one himself, what would they think of him? No, it didn’t matter what they thought of him; what mattered was that a man buying hair dye would arouse suspicion. Why hadn’t he thought to bring a couple of extra bottles with him from Zagreb? But then, what if they’d searched his bags at customs?
“I’m losing it,” he said to his reflection. “I’m getting paranoid. Nobody suspects me, and nobody cares if I dye my hair. Anyway, how do I expect to find hair dye in a city where most people can’t find bread? I’ve got to sort out my hair first and then go and fill out my application.”
He snipped at his hair with a pair of scissors, lathered up what was left of it with a bar of soap, and shaved it clean with a straight razor. This time, a youthful version of Yul Brynner greeted him in the mirror. He winked and said, “Now that’s more like it, Jovan Brynner Plavić.”
Rasim had kept his word; Zlatko had laid all the groundwork. A group of foreign correspondents was expecting him to accompany them to the Manjača camp on July 10.
The camp inmates had their hands chained behind their backs. Their heads were shorn clean, their eyes full of fear and horror, their bodies so emaciated that their ribs stuck out. The wardens waved their clubs continually at their intimidated and defeated-looking charges.
Although the guards kept a close eye on the American and British journalists, they allowed Stefan, a fellow Serb, to wander freely. Stefan set about learning as much as he could as quickly as possible. The problem was the inmates were too terrified to trust him, probably fearing reprisals if they attempted to complain.
Then one of them called out to him, “I don’t care if you’re a spy. We’ll never get out of here alive. If you want the truth about this place, I’ll tell you!”
Stefan raced over. The man told Stefan his story. He’d been driven out of Banja Luka. Men, women, and children alike had all been crammed onto the manure-covered bed of a cattle truck and brought here, with no food and water during the journey. He didn’t know what had happened to the women and children. The men’s hands were kept chained day and night. They slept one on top of the other on a concrete floor. The healthier inmates let the ones with rheumatism and heart trouble sleep on top, so they wouldn’t catch a chill. They were all skin and bones.
Stefan also visited Omarska camp, where the Serbs had interned all the leading academics, intellectuals, and artists they’d rounded up in Prijedor, a city east of Banja Luka. The camp was situated in an old mine, and the Bosniaks were kept caged behind bars. Since there were no latrines, they had to urinate and defecate on the floor. Anyone approaching the camp could smell the stench well before they arrived.
Keraterm camp was in an old ceramics plant. The inmates there had suffered every conceivable type of torture at the hands of the Serbs, who spared no mercy in their efforts to extract information. Those who supported the Bosniak militia or who had served with the defense forces were executed after they were tortured.
Stefan barely slept for several days and nights after visiting the camps. Once the interviews were translated, and the footage they’d shot had been edited and narrated, the material was sent to various news agencies.
When footage of the camps was aired internationally, the first stirrings of outrage erupted. The only way to appeal to the consciences of global leaders seemed to be via the television screen. Men and women who had covered their ears and closed their eyes to months of warnings, pleading, documentation, and other forms of evidence feigned shock as they saw on television what they’d already known.
“Television has achieved what presidents and ambassadors couldn’t, Stefan,” Rasim said. “Many thanks to everyone involved for a job well done. Mitterrand is planning a visit to the Bosnian president. The Serbs will have to lift their blockade of the airport whether they like it or not.”
Stefan kept his promise and didn’t call Nimeta. He was busy all through the winter in any case, acting as a sort of spy thanks to his fake identity. He’d never expected to find himself in this situation—his only intention had been to infiltrate the camps so that he could expose the atrocious conditions—but he was worth his weight in gold to the foreign correspondents, and he started earning huge sums for his services. All because he was able to visit places and get footage available only to Serbs.
As spring approached, he decided to return to Zagreb. He’d made enough money, and he was tired of shaving his head and living like a mole. He missed his home and friends. Rasim also thought it advisable that his friend return home before his luck ran out. He would pack his bags and go as soon as he’d completed his final assignment.
Two days before he was scheduled to leave Sarajevo, Stefan decided to call Nimeta just to see how she was doing. He’d be leaving soon, and if a visit was arranged, it would have to be short, he reasoned. He just thought it would be nice to see her face and hear her voice. He may also have secretly wanted her to know about all the work he’d done on behalf of the Bosniaks. He’d promised not to call, but surely she could spare five minutes.
The phone lines were down that day, so he went to Nimeta’s house. Nobody was home. While he was banging on the door, a woman poked her head out her front door and
told him that Nimeta had moved to her mother’s house.
“Why?” Stefan asked.
The woman shut the door without answering.
He considered stopping by Nimeta’s office, but then he remembered how much that had bothered her.
The following day he went to see Rasim.
“Are you still here?” Rasim said. “I thought you were going home last night. The longer you stay in Sarajevo, the more dangerous it’s going to get for you.”
“There’s something I’ve got to sort out before I go. Are the phones still out?”
“Stefan, you know the phones don’t work. Who do you need to call anyway?”
“It’s personal. There’s someone I’ve got to talk to. Say, are the phones working at the television station?”
“That’s a separate network. It’s the only place in town where the phones do work. Oh, and there’s the president’s office. You could pay a visit to Izetbegović and ask to call your girlfriend on his private line. I’m sure he’d understand.”
“That’s enough out of you,” Stefan said.
He knew he wouldn’t be able to leave Sarajevo until he found out why Nimeta had moved to her mother’s. Had she lost her husband? Was she hurt? How could he find her? He couldn’t go to the television station, not after all the times she’d asked him not to visit her there.
When Rasim saw how upset his friend looked, he said, “Why don’t you visit this person, whoever she is, instead of trying to call?”
“I did. Nobody was home.”
“She might have been out. She’ll be back.”
“She’s moved.”
“Then find out the address of her new house.”
“Rasim, do you think I haven’t been able to figure that out on my own? I don’t have any way of finding her new address.”
“There’s a war on, remember? The person you’re looking for might be dead.”
Stefan went pale. “Damn you,” he said on his way out.
He began running up the stairs two at a time. When he got outside, he crossed the street and began walking toward the city center, not caring whether he came under sniper fire. When he reached the television station, he asked the man at reception to get Nimeta.
“Haso, can you go and have a look?” the man asked a boy.
“She’s not there,” the boy said.
“What time will she be there?” Stefan asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Then go and find out.”
The boy went upstairs, muttering under his breath. He shouted down from the top of the stairs, “They don’t know.”
Stefan hesitated for a moment.
“Then ask if Mirsada is there . . . or Sonya!”
“Who’s asking for me?” Sonya’s voice echoed in the stairwell.
“Sonya! I finally found one of you,” Stefan cried out. “It’s Stefan . . . from Zagreb. Doesn’t Nimeta work here anymore?”
“Ah, Stefan. What a surprise,” Sonya said. “I can’t talk right now, but we can meet this evening when I finish work. You’ve got a lot to catch up on.”
“A lot to catch up on? What happened?” He pulled out a cigarette. “Sonya, I can’t wait until evening. Don’t you have a lunch break? I’ll be at the front entrance at twelve sharp.”
“Don’t come before twelve thirty,” Sonya called out.
Stefan ran all the way back to Rasim’s office.
“You’re taking a terrible risk,” Rasim said. “It wouldn’t matter who stopped and searched you. You’ve got two different ID cards. How would you get out of that one? Go home. Stop chasing after women.”
“I’m going to find out what I need to know this afternoon. Then I’ll go. Now get me a Turkish coffee, Rasim.”
“A Turkish coffee? You’d be lucky to get tea brewed from grass. If I were you, I’d find a church, light a candle, and ask God to help you get home in one piece.”
“Seriously, do you think God is watching over me?” Stefan asked.
“I’m a Muslim. Of course I do. Don’t you believe in God? What kind of Catholic are you?”
“You can’t really call me a Catholic, Rasim. I never go to church.”
“What! Are you an atheist? I always thought you were a Catholic.”
“I’m not an atheist, but I have seen enough of war to know that more blood is shed in the name of religion than anything else.”
“You’re the first Croat I’ve met who isn’t religious. Your mother must have been distraught when she found out.”
“My whole family’s like this.”
“Why?”
“It’s a long story.”
“Everybody needs religion,” Rasim said. “We all need to take refuge in God and pray for divine intervention.”
“Maybe we do,” Stefan smiled.
He was waiting in front of the TV station at ten past twelve. Sonya appeared at half past and started looking around for Stefan.
“Psst! Sonya!”
Sonya turned and looked at the man who’d shouted her name. “What is it? Who are you?”
“Sonya, it’s me. Stefan. Don’t you recognize me?”
“Ah, it really is you. Stefan, what happened to you? You look like you just got out of a camp.”
“I’ve been in and out of more camps than you’d believe,” he said, “but never as an inmate.”
“Why’d you shave off your hair and your mustache? Are you hiding from someone?”
“You could say that. It’s a long story. I’ll tell you all about it. Sonya, why did Nimeta move? Has something happened?”
“That’s a long story too. Let’s go and sit down somewhere.”
“It’s nice outside. Let’s go to the park.”
“Are you crazy?” Sonya asked. “Do you want to get shot? Let’s go to my place. I moved nearby so that it’s easier to get to work.”
“Nimeta?”
“I’ll tell you everything.”
“Tell me now.”
“Stefan, don’t be so impatient.”
All of sudden, Stefan was afraid. “Is Nimeta alive?”
“Of course she is.”
“Hold on a second,” Stefan said. He took a deep breath and felt the pain in his heart recede. Then he pulled a cigarette out of his pocket.
“Where did you find that?” Sonya asked. “Do you mind if I have one? We’re almost there. See those green buildings up ahead? That’s where I live.”
Stefan wasn’t listening anymore as they walked up two flights of stairs. Sonya unlocked the door, and they passed through a dim hall into a small but well-lit room containing a bed, a card table, and two chairs.
“Have a seat,” Sonya said.
Stefan perched on the edge of one of the chairs.
“I’d like to offer you a drink, but I haven’t got anything but water. Can I get you a glass?”
“No, thank you.”
“The war’s been terrible for us all. I had to send my mother and daughter to Istanbul. We rented our house out to an American general. We send part of the monthly rent to a fund for homeless Bosniaks. It was Mom’s idea. I’ve moved here temporarily . . .”
Stefan wanted nothing more than to steer the conversation to Nimeta but tried to be patient as Sonya carried on about things that didn’t interest him in the slightest. Finally, he couldn’t stand it anymore. “Please, Sonya,” he said, “tell me where Nimeta is. Why wasn’t she at home?”
“She’s moved. Her family’s been broken up, Stefan.”
“What do you mean?”
“Burhan joined the volunteer force up in the mountains, and their son followed his father. Nimeta and her daughter are staying at her mother’s.”
“Does she still go to work?”
“Yes. But only three days a week. She should be getting ba
ck from Tuzla today.”
“Let’s go then. Maybe she’s back.”
“Where are we going?” Sonya asked.
“To her mother’s house.”
“I’ll give you the address. You can go on your own,” Sonya said.
“Sonya, I want to ask you a favor,” Stefan said. “I can’t just show up on her mother’s doorstep. Could you go and tell her that I’m returning to Zagreb tomorrow and that I’d love to see her before I go?”
“I can go after work,” Sonya said. “Not being able to phone anyone is driving me crazy. If you need to talk to someone, you’ve got to go all the way to their front door. That’s why it took so long to find out what had happened to Mirsada.”
“What happened to Mirsada?” Stefan asked.
“You haven’t heard?”
“I know she moved to Belgrade. Didn’t she come back to Sarajevo when the war started?”
“So you don’t know.”
“What happened? Tell me,” Stefan said.
“Mirsada’s dead.”
Stefan swallowed hard. First, he thought how terrible it was that a woman who’d always been so full of life could die at such a young age. Then he thought of Nimeta and how she’d lost her best friend. It must have been devastating.
“How’d she die?” he asked in a near whisper.
Sonya didn’t answer.
“A bomb?”
“No, Stefan. Stop asking. I haven’t got the strength to tell you. She’s dead. Killed. The Serbs killed her.”
Sonya got quieter and quieter until Stefan had to read her lips to understand her last few words.
“They shot her in the back of the head . . . They broke her backbone . . . They sliced her to pieces, Stefan . . . to pieces.”
MARCH 1993
Nimeta had been jolted, bumped, and shaken during the entire jeep ride from Sarajevo to Tuzla. There wasn’t a decent stretch of road left in all of Bosnia. Her eyebrows and lashes were coated in dust, and her lower back was so stiff she thought she’d never stand up straight again. But every time her thoughts traveled to her husband, brother, and son, she forgot all about her discomfort. They were somewhere up in the mountains, living in far worse conditions than hers. They didn’t even have so much as a chair to sit on.