Braco

by Lesleyanne Ryan

  “How many more hills like this?”

  “This is it,” Tarak said.

  Atif jammed his toe into the craggy roots at the base of the hill.

  “What’s after this?”

  “A plateau,” Tarak whispered from behind. “It’s a minefield.”

  WEDNESDAY: MICHAEL SAKIC

  MIKE TAPPED HIS fingers on the steering wheel; he was waiting for the Pakistani peacekeeper to finish filling out their passes. He looked into the distance where a city of white modular tents had grown up from the tarmac of the Tuzla air base.

  “They don’t use the airport?” Robert asked.

  “It’s not safe,” Brendan replied. “The Serbs have guns in the hills and part of the airport is mined.”

  The peacekeeper passed the documents through Mike’s window.

  “You know where to go?”

  Mike nodded and then motioned towards the tents.

  “You’re expecting refugees?”

  “They’re coming by bus,” the peacekeeper replied. He glanced at his watch. “The first ones should be here soon. They’ll tell you everything at the briefing.”

  “Thanks.”

  The peacekeeper threw a mock salute and Mike drove onto the base. He pulled up to the administration area and parked and the three men stepped out of the truck.

  “Coming?” Brendan asked.

  “You go on,” Mike said. “I’m going to wait for the buses.”

  Robert hoisted the camera onto his shoulder and picked up a bag. Brendan took another bag and they walked towards the door.

  “Take notes,” Mike shouted after the pair.

  “That’ll cost you.” Brendan opened the door and looked back, a smile plastered across his face. They disappeared inside.

  Mike took his camera from the back seat and walked towards the tents. He stood on the edge of the tarmac, snapping pictures. Peacekeepers were assembling long metal pipes into triangular skeletons and dragging heavy white canvas over them. They slipped under the canvas and pushed up the poles on one side and then the other. They emerged from under the tent and carried on to the next one. A white truck backed up to one of the tents. Peacekeepers offloaded tables, chairs, and cases of water.

  Shouting near the base entrance caught Mike’s attention. Two peacekeepers jogged towards the gate and a third pointed down the road.

  Rumbling.

  Mike moved closer. A white bus approached, its brakes squealing as it slowed. The peacekeepers raised the barrier and the bus tipped from side to side as it made the turn. Mike jogged alongside until it came to a halt near the tent city.

  The door cracked open.

  Mike raised his camera.

  An old woman stepped gingerly to the ground. A little girl followed, grasping the woman’s hand. They took a few steps and then stopped and looked around.

  Lost.

  Within minutes, the area was filled with men, women, and children. Two Dutch peacekeepers moved among them. Mike snapped pictures of the exhausted and bewildered faces and then stopped.

  There are men here, he thought, remembering what Sabir had told him. Was he wrong? Maybe the Serbs are letting the men leave with the women.

  More blue helmets and berets appeared among the refugees. A Pakistani peacekeeper crouched next to a sobbing girl. He wiped her tears and gave her a white teddy bear. Then he picked her up and motioned to the crowd to follow. Mike took pictures as the peacekeeper walked away, the teddy bear swinging across his back.

  He spotted a man walking alone.

  “What was it like there?” Mike asked in Bosnian.

  “Chaos,” the man replied. “The Dutch had nothing for us. All they could do was stand there while the Chetniks gave us bread and water and transportation.”

  “The Serbs provided the buses?”

  “Yes, yes. They dropped us off near Tisca. More are coming.”

  The sound of a woman crying captured Mike’s attention. He followed the noise and found an older woman struggling to stand. She screamed at one of the Dutch.

  “My husband,” she wailed in Bosnian, falling back to her knees. “They’ve taken my husband. Why are you doing nothing?”

  The Dutch soldier shrugged and walked away. Mike snapped a photo and then crouched next to the woman.

  “Who took your husband?”

  The woman raised her arms to the sky. “Chetniks. Chetniks took him,” she screamed, falling forward and slapping the pavement with her palms. “They took him. Dragged him away.”

  Two women helped her to her feet.

  “But there are men on the buses,” Mike said to one of them.

  “They are the lucky ones,” she said. “The Dutch did nothing while the Chetniks killed our men.”

  “What? They’re killing men in Potocari?”

  “I saw them kill a child,” a hoarse voice said behind him.

  Mike turned around and looked down. An elderly woman pulled a scarf tight around her head and stepped closer to Mike.

  “Chetniks,” she whispered. “They killed a little boy sitting next to us in Potocari.”

  Mike pulled a notebook from his camera bag.

  “How little?”

  “Eleven or twelve. All he did was cry. One of the Chetniks came over and told him to shut up. His mother said she could do nothing. She said he was hungry.” The woman paused, her lips tight, her eyes wet. “Then the Chetnik took out his knife and slashed the boy’s throat.”

  A teenage girl wrapped an arm around the woman’s shoulder. She looked at Mike.

  “The Chetnik laughed and said the boy would not be hungry again.”

  Mike stared at the women.

  “It is true,” the girl said.

  “No. Sorry. I believe you. Do you know the boy’s name?”

  “No. We didn’t know them. We were sitting next to them.” She turned around so that Mike could see the back of her blouse. “We sat too close.”

  Mike examined the blouse. Blood spots formed a straight line pattern across the back.

  “What about his body?”

  “The Dutch took it,” she said. “I’m not sure where. Someone said they buried the bodies on the base.”

  “Bodies?”

  “Mostly older people, I heard. Heat exhaustion.”

  Mike raised his camera.

  “Can I get your names and take your picture?”

  The old woman looked up. She was wiping away tears.

  “Do you have some water?” the girl asked.

  Mike nodded and pulled a bottle from his camera bag. The girl gave the bottle to the woman and then helped her sit down on the curb. She took Mike aside a few paces.

  “My father is still in the woods,” she said. “I don’t want to risk his life. If the Chetniks find him and find out what we just said.”

  “It’s true then? The men are in the woods?”

  “Yes. They left last night.”

  Mike pointed his pen at a young man walking away from the bus.

  “Where did they come from?”

  “There are a few hundred left in Potocari. We were the first to board the buses. It was madness. My mother was knocked down twice. Some of the men made it on to the buses. Some were taken out of the line before they could get to the bus. Some they shot behind the factories.”

  “In front of the Dutch?”

  The girl sighed, watching her mother.

  “What can they do? The Chetniks are too strong. They needed the planes to come. Not one or two. They needed dozens. They needed them to drop a hundred bombs. Not two.”

  Mike nodded, jotting notes.

  “How many men do you think are in the woods?”

  “Thousands. And the Chetniks are waiting for them. We
saw soldiers patrolling along the road.” She hesitated, choking back her worry. “Most of them are civilians, not soldiers. They have no weapons. Or food. They left so quickly.”

  “I don’t need your names,” Mike said, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder, “but can I take a picture of you and your blouse?”

  The girl stared at her mother for few moments and then nodded.

  “My name is Fatima.”

  Mike took the picture.

  “Do you know what is going to happen to us?” she asked.

  “The Pakistanis here will take care of you. They have food and water and they’ll have enough tents for everyone. There are doctors too. Was your mother hurt?”

  “She’s fine. She’s just tired. Like all of us.”

  Fatima returned to where her mother sat and Mike followed. She leaned down and took one of her mother’s arms and he took the other. The woman grunted and pushed herself to her feet.

  “You’re a Western journalist, right?” Fatima looked at him with her head inclined.

  “Yes.”

  “American?”

  “No. Canadian. But my stuff can be published anywhere.”

  “Good. Good.” She smiled, picked up her bag, and walked away with her mother. They joined the line of refugees waiting to be processed.

  Mike looked down at his notes. The Serbs had murdered a twelve year old boy in front of witnesses. They had pulled men from the lines and shot them in front of the peacekeepers.

  What are they going to do to the thousands of men behind their own borders?

  Mike flipped the notepad closed and walked back to the base.

  Goddamnit. I have to get into Srebrenica.

  WEDNESDAY: MARIJA STAVIC

  JAC CROUCHED NEXT to Marija and laughed.

  “You have the process down to a science,” he said, pointing at the girls.

  Adila was holding Tihana while Lejla pretended to feed the toy soldiers. She dropped a morsel of food next to a soldier, catching it without letting Tihana see. Tihana chewed her own food as Leila fed the soldiers the same piece over and over. When they finished eating, Maarten poured a few drops of water over the soldiers and Tihana drank her fill from the bottle.

  “Thank you for the meal,” Marija said, touching his arm. “I haven’t been able to get her to eat that much all week.”

  “Are you sure you don’t want to try to get on a bus now?”

  “I think it’s better if we waited until tomorrow. We don’t want to risk being on the road after dark with the girls.”

  Jac’s eyes flicked back to the girls.

  “Probably best,” he said, standing. “We’ll do another circuit and drop by again.”

  “Thank you.”

  Maarten joined Jac and they walked away.

  “Did you hear?” a woman sitting beside Marija asked.

  “Hear what?”

  The woman pulled a shawl over her shoulder.

  “Someone listening to the radio heard that the Chetniks are opening up a corridor so that the men can cross.”

  “That’s wonderful,” Marija said, smiling. The smile faded. “But it doesn’t make sense. Why would they go after the men here but leave them alone in the woods?”

  “There are a lot of soldiers with them. Maybe they don’t want to fight them.”

  Marija relaxed against the drive shaft.

  Perhaps I did the right thing after all.

  She turned back to the twins.

  “Have you finished?”

  “Yes. I think she’s tired,” Adila said.

  Marija took Tihana and placed her against the bus. A family next to them had left on the buses earlier in the afternoon, leaving flattened cardboard boxes on the ground. Marija had taken the cardboard and spread it under the girls. She covered Tihana with a blanket and kissed her.

  “Mama’s coming back,” Adila said.

  Lejla’s brow furrowed. “Why is she running?”

  Marija looked up. Ina was running, weaving her way through the crowd. When she reached the bus, she dropped the empty water container next to Marija and wrapped her arms around her daughters.

  “Under the bus,” Ina said, picking up a blanket.

  “Mama,” Adila said. “It’s still early.”

  “We’re not tired.”

  “Get under there, now.”

  The girls obeyed, sliding in next to Tihana. Marija helped Ina cover the twins, pulling the blanket up to their necks.

  “Don’t get out unless I tell you,” Ina said. She turned and sat with her back to the girls, eyes darting left and right.

  “What is it?” Marija asked.

  Ina took a moment to catch her breath then leaned in close.

  “Chetniks,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “They just pulled a girl out of the factory and dragged her into the bushes.”

  Marija covered her mouth with her hand, her eyes scanning the crowd for soldiers.

  “What do I do?” Ina asked. “I can’t send them into the woods. And what happens when we get on the bus. Jac said they were stopping the buses along the road. What if they take them?”

  Marija turned back to her friend and draped an arm around her. They’d been hoping the Serbs wouldn’t notice the twins. There were a lot of refugees, after all. But the number of soldiers had increased during the day and many were drinking now.

  That’s all we need. A drunken Chetnik noticing a pair of pretty twins—Marija’s thought stopped mid-sentence.

  “That’s it! We have to dirty them up.”

  “What?”

  “If they’re not attractive, the Chetniks won’t be interested. We can dirty their clothes and faces. One of them can carry Tihana to the bus. They won’t be interested if they think she’s not a virgin. And we can make them look sick. Anything so that they don’t attract attention.”

  “Sick,” Ina whispered to herself. “They’re allergic to latex. Both of them.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Don’t you see? Certain types of latex make them break out into hives. It might take a few hours, but with enough contact they get pretty bad. A red rash can also be a symptom of hepatitis or scabies. A doctor could easily tell the difference, but I doubt a soldier would know.”

  “But wouldn’t that be dangerous to them?”

  “No, no,” Ina replied. “They have a different type that just gives them a bad rash.”

  “So where can we find latex here?”

  Ina pointed at the Dutch medical tent.

  “Can you go? I’d like to stay with them.”

  Marija clasped Ina’s hands.

  “I’ll be right back.”

  She threaded her way through the thinning crowd towards the green tent. People were clustered outside the entrance, exhausted from the heat. A Serb soldier rode a white horse through the sick and injured, forcing them to move aside. Marija looked around for a doctor, but there were only refugees. She poked her head inside the tent.

  I don’t need a new pair of gloves. A few discarded pairs would do.

  She walked up to the first garbage container she saw.

  “Excusez-moi, Madame,” a woman said.

  Marija turned. A young woman waved her hands and then touched the garbage container. She was wearing a shirt with Médecins Sans Frontières embroidered on the front.

  “I speak French,” Marija said.

  “Oh, okay. I just wanted to tell you not to go through the garbage. There could be needles in there.”

  Marija jerked her arm back from the edge of the bin.

  “What were you looking for?”

  “Some gloves. Latex gloves. They don’t have to be new. I just need a couple of pairs.”

  The doctor coc
ked her head. “May I ask why?”

  Marija glanced around. “My friend has twin teenage daughters. They are….” she hesitated, trying to formulate the words without coming right out with an explanation. “They are very pretty girls.”

  “Okay,” the doctor replied, drawing out the word. “So, why the gloves?”

  “They’re allergic to latex. If she can cause a rash, she says she can pass it off as hepatitis or scabies or something.”

  “I understand. Most people wouldn’t know the difference. But I’m afraid all our gloves are latex-free.”

  Marija drew a sharp breath. The doctor patted her on the arm.

  “Just a moment,” she said. “Wait outside for me. I may have something that will help.”

  “Thank you.”

  Outside in the waning sunlight, Marija looked north, her heart aching.

  Where are you now, Atif? Are you safe? Have you caught up to them?

  She said a short prayer, hoping he would not have to walk the forest alone after dark.

  “Madame?”

  The doctor waved to Marija from the other opening in the tent. She was holding a paper bag.

  “For the two pretty girls,” the doctor said, handing the bag to Marija.

  She looked; it was full of condoms. She grinned.

  “It was all I could find. But they have latex in them. Do you think our friend will mind?”

  “No.”

  A man holding an infant approached the two women. A Serb soldier walked behind him. Marija tensed, crushing the bag closed in her fist. The man began to speak, but the doctor raised her hand. She looked at Marija.

  “My translator is inside the compound getting supplies. Can you translate?”

  Marija nodded and turned to the man.

  “I’m alone,” he said. “Chetniks want to take me in for questioning, but I have no one to take care of my son. The soldier told me to give him to the doctor.”

  Marija took a moment to sort her thoughts before translating.

  The doctor listened, drawing a hand through her short black hair. “I need their names. And the mother’s name.”

  The man gave them the information and the doctor wrote it on the back of a prescription pad. Then he placed the baby carefully in the doctor’s arms, kissed him on the forehead, and left, the soldier at his heels.