The Last Witness

by Glenn Meade

  I worry about Carla.

  At times our love was hard-won. In the past there was sometimes a distance between us, which was often my fault. There were times when I didn’t want her to be so headstrong, so resolute, so independent. It often wore me down. But I overcame our distance by gradually accepting my daughter as her own person.

  Always strong-willed, and quick to criticize an injustice. I remember the day I felt intensely proud of those traits.

  She was nine and would ride to school on the bus, and sometimes I rode with her. Once day a young boy, Tomas, was being teased by the other children. Tomas was a little slow, mentally, and some of the children would tease him.

  Carla said to me, “Why do they do that, M’ma? Why are they so cruel?”

  Before I could even answer, Carla strode up the bus, sat beside Tomas, and glared at his persecutors. Every day afterward she sat next to him, befriending him. If anyone dared bother him, they had Carla to deal with.

  But now I fear the brave little girl I love is becoming withdrawn by the terrible things she sees.

  To shut out the hell around her, some days she sits in a corner and buries her head between her knees and cups her hands over her ears.

  When Luka sees her rocking back and forth, he looks up at me and smiles his milky-eyed smile as if it is a game. Then he does the same, copying Carla, cupping his face in his hands, but peeking at her now and then through his fingers.

  I tell them to think of happy things, of nice things, of good times they remember. When we played on the beach, or on my parents’ farm. Dear God, do they both know how much David and I love them? How much we fret? How our hearts bleed, worrying that they will be safe?

  Living in a city under siege is beginning to take its toll.

  David has become quieter, more solemn, and hardly eats from all the worry.

  He has not painted since we got here.

  We’re all getting thinner, and breaking out in sores. All we eat now are cans of tuna and vegetables and pickles in vinegar. A little oatmeal if we are lucky. Stories are spreading that people are beginning to live on grass and nettle soup. There is no meat to be had anywhere.

  On balconies, instead of flowers, people grow tomatoes, herbs, or potatoes.

  One day the dog, Pablo, goes missing.

  A week passes and we cannot find him.

  A neighbor tells me pets are being stolen for their meat.

  I dare not tell the children.

  It has become impossible even to go out and find food without having to risk being killed. Every day there are more ruined homes, craters, scared people hiding in basement cellars.

  Today I traded Raisa’s last cigarettes for a bag of carrots, a can of tuna, and a jar of pickles.

  Two days later, and the last of our food is running out. David finds a tin of dog food and a few dog biscuits Raisa kept. He reads the pack.

  “It says here they freshen your breath and help prevent tartar.”

  He smiles, nibbling at the dog biscuit. Then he uses the can opener, and scoops the soggy dog food onto a plate. It smells awful.

  “You’re not really going to eat that, David, are you?”

  “You think I’m barking up the wrong tree?”

  Typical of David to lighten the mood. I cringe at his silly joke.

  “It’s got protein. It’ll fill me up.”

  He digs a spoon into the jellied mess, and swallows it down.

  I know he’s thinking of me and the children.

  That at mealtime he’ll insist he’s full and that we eat his share of the food.

  But of course he never says that, just smiles and winks at me.

  “Woof . . .”

  We burn our last few logs and lumps of coal. We are freezing.

  On cold nights we all huddle under coats and blankets for warmth. We’ve burned everything in the stove to keep warm: kitchen chairs, bookshelves, even Raisa’s boots she loved so much, and a pair of Peter’s old sandals.

  I feel sad, thinking of their bodies buried in the back garden.

  To make it worse, the next night we hear growling. David goes out with an oil lamp. Two wild dogs are digging up the graves. One of the dogs has a hold of a rotting hand in its jaws. A horrified David gets a shovel and beats away the dogs, then reburies the hand.

  I don’t want to know whose hand it is, I feel so sickened.

  I see how thin David has become.

  He lost a tooth yesterday—because our diet is so poor.

  I know there’s something on his mind. “What is it, David?”

  “We’ll talk later, after the children are asleep.”

  I see the stress, the worry, his wet eyes. He sees mine.

  I sob, and he puts his arms around me, and pulls me close.

  And there we stand, clinging to each other, swaying in each other’s arms, not like two dancers, but as fragile as young branches shaking in the wind.

  That night, we lie with Carla and Luka.

  The electricity is out. We light a single candle.

  We gave the children our supper. David and I pretended to eat, pushing the oatmeal around our plate. Luka was ravenous and licked the plate.

  David strokes their hair until they fall asleep. As always, Luka clutches his piece of blue blanket and sleeps snuggled up to Carla.

  David beckons me silently into the living room. He sits me down on the couch and blows out the candle to save it. Moonlight filters through a crack in the curtains. Like shadows, we sit there. David reaches out to hold both my hands.

  “Lana, if we stay here we’re dead. This siege could go on for years.”

  “What can we do?”

  “Get out of Sarajevo. Otherwise we’re sitting ducks.”

  I fell silent.

  “You know what they’re saying, Lana? In Sarajevo, everyone who has a soul is leaving. Only the soulless are being left behind.”

  David is right. I see people wandering the streets. They look like walking dead.

  “But where can we go?”

  I’ve heard about people trying to escape over the mountains being caught and slaughtered. We’re trapped.

  “Lana, I met a man today. His cousin’s a Serb officer. He can get us special passes for the airport bus, and plane tickets to Belgrade.”

  I feel my heart soar, and then it falls as quickly.

  Everyone wants to escape on the aircraft that leave the city every evening. If you have money, you can buy a seat. The aircraft bring in Serb troops and supplies, and fly out anyone who can afford the outrageous prices. There’s even a rumor that a unit of Mila Shavik’s Red Dragons controls the airport, gangsters all of them.

  “Don’t joke, David. We have no money.”

  “He’ll take the Volkswagen. And the cash we have left.”

  “You’re serious?”

  “I have an American passport. You’re my wife. Our children are de facto U.S. citizens. The nearest U.S. consulate is where we’re headed.”

  I look at David. I see how malnourished and worried he looks. His eyes are bloodshot, his lips are cracked and sore. Yet I see strength in him, a fierce determination to do whatever he must to rescue us from this madness. When I look in his eyes I still see love in them.

  I touch his lips. “You know what I often think?”

  “What?”

  “That day on the bridge in Mostar.”

  “What about it?”

  “I should have jumped with you.”

  He smiles. “Why?”

  “To honor us. To show you how much I felt for you. Because I think I knew even then I loved you, just as I love you now.”

  His smile widens, and he looks so handsome despite his missing tooth. “Next time we’re in Mostar, you can do it.”

  “That’s a promise.”

  We kiss, we hug, we cry. We hold each other until our embrace is almost painful. I draw back, and rest my hand on his cheek.

  “It’ll be dangerous if we leave. Shavik and some of his men are from my hometown
. They may recognize me. Things could take a bad turn.”

  I have no wish to see Mila Shavik or be recognized by his cronies.

  David shoots me a meaningful look. “If we stay our children will starve to death. Or die like Peter, or by shelling. We have to take the risk. Try to change your appearance. Cut your hair short, cover your face with a headscarf.”

  “When do we leave.”

  “Tomorrow night.”

  14

  * * *

  Carla laid the diary down.

  She felt astounded, if someone had struck her a blow. Reading the pages, it was as if an entire other life was trying to seep into her bones.

  With great effort, she struggled to remember, forcing her mind to recollect until she felt her temples pounding.

  She began to recall faces from her past.

  They floated in front of her, blurred, like spirits from another world.

  Her mother’s face.

  Her father’s.

  Darling little Luka’s.

  She felt a rush of emotion.

  “I think that’s enough for one day, Carla.”

  “W . . . what?”

  “I think you’ve read for today. How are you?”

  “Shocked . . . Stunned . . . Moved.”

  “We ought to talk a little about what you’ve read, if you feel up to it?”

  She wanted to read on and yet she was afraid, afraid of what memories were hiding in the dark furrows of her mind, waiting to ambush her.

  But she knew she had to continue.

  “I’m sorry, I want to read all the diary.”

  “In one sitting? I don’t think that would be wise.”

  “The diary belonged to my mother.”

  “Of course.”

  “Then legally it belongs to me. I want to finish what I’ve started.”

  “Carla, I’m sure it would be unwise of you, and unethical of me to allow that. We really need to approach this bit by bit. Otherwise there’s a risk.”

  “Of what?”

  “Mental overload. With the resurgence of all this trauma, you could go into deep shock, and break down.”

  “I still want to read it. I have to. And I want to be left alone.”

  “I wouldn’t advise that. Remember what I said about pulling the sticking plaster off a burn victim . . . ?”

  “It’s my decision. Please respect it.”

  “Carla, no, I’m sorry . . .”

  “You must respect my decision.”

  He sighed. “Are you really sure about this?”

  “Totally.”

  He heard the determination in her voice. “I’m not happy. Leaving you to read alone goes against every professional instinct I have. But it seems I have no choice.”

  He stood reluctantly, and pointed to what looked like a small brass door buzzer screwed to the underside of his desk.

  “If you need me, or if anything you read proves too upsetting, just press the buzzer. I’ll be in the next room.”

  The doctor left, closing the door softly.

  Warily, Carla picked up the diary again.

  For the first time in many months I feel hope.

  And excitement. That night we pack our few clothes and belongings.

  We’re going to Belgrade, then to America. Once we get out of here, I want to tell the world what is happening in Sarajevo, I want to shout it aloud to every newspaper or television station that will listen. I record every detail in my diary. The diary I want the world to read.

  I cut my hair.

  I wear an old dress, worn flat shoes.

  I wrap a drab old burgundy wool cardigan around my shoulders.

  I wear no makeup.

  With my oldest coat and headscarf I look like I’ve aged twenty years.

  I have lost so much weight I barely recognize myself. My cheeks are sunken, my skin ashen from months of malnourishment.

  At six the next evening we carry our bags four blocks to the bus stop, David ahead of us dragging two heavy suitcases. We are wary of snipers.

  I carry a rucksack on my back and a shopping bag with what little food we have left. Luka holds my hand. On his back he wears the Thomas the Train backpack his grandparents gave him. Stuffed inside is his blue blankie and a few of his treasured toys.

  Carla holds his other hand and drags her pink overnight case.

  When we reach the bus stop, at least two hundred people are already there, milling about with children and belongings. I panic—we won’t all fit on the bus.

  But three buses arrive, with a Serb officer in each. Everyone shows their documents. We are divided into groups, escorted on board, and sit at the back of the packed bus. The engine starts up.

  Carla is keyed up. “Are we really going, Mama? Are we going to America?”

  “Yes, sweetheart.”

  It is the first time I have seen her smile in months. In her palm she clutches the silver American dollar her grandparents gave her. She stares at it now and then, as if it’s her ticket to freedom.

  I hug her.

  Luka wants a hug, too. And he wants his own silver dollar. I insist he keeps it stored in its plastic case, and inside his rucksack so he doesn’t lose it. He’s happy, and giggling. The children and I have never flown before.

  “We going on a big airplane, Mama? Is this for my birthday?”

  “Yes, Luka, for your birthday.”

  Today is Luka’s fourth birthday. We have no cake to celebrate, no party candles, not even a present to give to give our son. All we have to give him are two hard candies I’ve kept in my bag for months. Luka sucks on one, delighted with himself, and gives the other one to Carla. But knowing Carla, she’ll give it back to him later, when the first one’s gone.

  My heart soars. Perhaps David and I can give our children the best present of all—their freedom.

  On the drive to the airport, my stomach churns with anticipation.

  We are escorted by military policemen on motorcycles. At several checkpoints in neighborhoods near the airport, masses of people crowd into the street, wanting to escape Sarajevo. Some try to stop the driver, hitting the bus. It is a terrible sight.

  Mothers lift their young children and press them to the glass, begging us to take their youngest, to save them.

  All of us passengers on the bus are crying and upset, the children, too. I feel terrible for the people left behind. I have to cover Carla’s and Luka’s eyes from the distressing scenes as we pick up speed, leaving the crowds behind.

  We hear shelling as we approach the airport gates. The Serb officer on board talks to someone on his radio. When he finishes he orders the bus drivers to pull over to the curb and switch off their engines.

  We hear shelling nearby. We wait half an hour. We hear an aircraft take off, then the shelling starts up again. The Serb officer chatters on his radio.

  “What’s wrong?” David asks the officer.

  “The runway’s been damaged due to shelling. The Serb army holds the main roads so we’ve been given orders to drive you to Belgrade instead. Be grateful you’re still getting out of this hellhole. Now be quiet.”

  It’s a long drive to Belgrade on clogged roads, a journey that could take all night. The buses start up and head north. The signs of shelling and heavy fighting are everywhere. We are all uneasy as we pass through Serb checkpoints. The passengers on board are mostly Bosniaks, and a few Croats.

  After several hours our vehicles are forced to a halt at a checkpoint. I feel a catch in my throat as truckloads of armed paramilitaries block our way.

  A middle-aged woman with striking, azure blue eyes and poorly fitting dentures, and whose name is Alma, leans across from the seat opposite. She whispers palely, “Something’s not right. What are they up to?”

  The officer climbs off our bus and lights a cigarette. I see him grin as he chats with the paramilitary guards and nods at our vehicles. Suddenly two of the guards replace him, brandishing weapons. People protest and ask what’s going on. The guards wave thei
r guns.

  “Stay in your seats, all of you. And no talking.”

  The buses pull out again. Instead of heading east toward Belgrade we drive west.

  Everyone is worried and confused. I feel my legs shaking, my mouth dry with fear. David is angry. He approaches a guard. “We paid a lot of money for our tickets. How about you tell me what’s going on here? I’m an American citizen, and my wife and children—”

  The guard strikes him with the butt of his weapon.

  David reels back, his forehead cut.

  I rush to him.

  The guard beats us back, his face an ugly grin. “I don’t care who you are. You were told to sit down.”

  The children are crying. Adults cower in silence, everyone in shock.

  Carla and Luka hug their father and won’t let him go.

  “Are you hurt, Papa?” Carla helps dab his cut, his blue shirt stained with blood.

  “No, I’m fine, it didn’t hurt, really. Don’t worry.”

  “Why did that man do that, Papa? Why are they holding us prisoner?”

  “’Cause he’s a bold man,” says Luka, nodding his head, as if it’s self-evident. “Isn’t he, Papa?”

  “Yes, Luka. He’s bold.”

  The children don’t understand. How do we explain to them? This is all happening simply because I’m a Bosniak, and in this war the Serbs hate us.

  David says, “We’ll sort this out when we get wherever we’re going. I’ll speak to someone in authority, don’t worry.”

  He clutches his American passport and tries to sound confident, but I know he’s shaken by what’s happened.

  I’m shaken, too. Where are they taking us? Can David’s passport free us? Despair settles over all the adults. We feel tricked, as if the promise of escaping Sarajevo was a hoax. And I have a sinister feeling that the Serb paramilitaries are up to something.

  But what?

  In darkness, four hours later, the buses halt next to a bombed bridge.

  All the time I could feel my heart beating though my coat. Are we going to be killed? David squeezes my hand the entire journey.

  Luka, wide-eyed, still wearing his Thomas the Train backpack, stares out of the window as the soldiers jump down off the trucks. I can feel Carla trembling when I touch her. She still clutches the silver dollar her grandparents gave her, nervously turning it over and over in her hand. I dread to think what fear is going through her young mind.