Braco

by Lesleyanne Ryan

  Atif opened his mouth to speak, but Tarak raised his hand.

  “Don’t say anything. Just think about it for a while. Right now, we need to sleep.”

  “Okay,” Atif whispered. He wrapped the blanket over his head and lay down, turning his back to Tarak.

  Better this way, Tarak thought, leaning back against the tree.

  He closed his eyes and willed the images from his mind. He didn’t need that. Not now. He needed sleep. He had to think clearly if he was going to get them both across the road.

  Focus on that.

  In his mind, tanks and artillery lined the road like the Great Wall.

  But do they have enough troops to cover the whole thing?

  That had been the problem with the Serb army from the start of the war. They never had enough troops to do what they wanted. There would be gaps in the road. The army would concentrate on the areas where they expected the men to cross the road, primarily between Konjevic Polje and Nova Kasaba.

  We’ll go west. We’ll skirt south of Nova Kasaba and check the road. Somewhere on that stretch of road there will be a break in the coverage. In the darkness, we only need a few clear metres to get across.

  Tarak glanced at the boy.

  We’ll get across, Braco. We’ll get across.

  THURSDAY: JAC LARUE

  “WAKE UP, SOLDIER!”

  Jac sat up, smacking his head against the roof of the carrier. Maarten was standing outside with a cup in each hand and he was wearing the widest smile Jac’d seen in days.

  “If you keep doing that, you’re going to give me a concussion sooner or later.”

  Maarten stepped inside the vehicle, sat down next to Jac, and handed him one of the cups of coffee.

  “Small price to pay for fifteen minutes sleep. I think I’m closing in on thirty hours without a wink.”

  Jac took a mouthful of coffee and spit it back. “Keep drinking this and you won’t sleep until the next century.”

  “Enjoy it,” Maarten said. “It’s the last of my stash.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “Quiet. Not a Serb in sight. They’re probably all sleeping off the beer at that hotel.”

  Jac moaned. A hotel. Clean sheets, hot water, flushing toilets.

  And real coffee.

  He took a bottle of water from the half-empty case next to him.

  “It’s going to be another hot one,” Maarten said, as Jac soaked his towel with the water and wrapped it around his neck.

  “Any sign of the sergeant?

  “Just for a second. Said he has some guys out and needs us to help with the buses. He wants us easy to find when the convoy is ready to go.”

  Jac’s shoulders dropped. He hated working the buses. His stomach churned at the thought of watching more men being separated from their families, of being spit on by some women and kissed by other women.

  A rumbling sound echoed through the metal skin of the carrier.

  “They’re he-ere,” Maarten said in a high-pitched squeak.

  “Get out, Carol Ann.”

  Maarten laughed.

  “I’m running towards the light, Mama,” he said, ducking outside.

  “You know,” Jac shouted after him, “nothing pleases me more than the thought of that movie being shredded into a million pieces when the Serbs shelled our OP.”

  Maarten peeked back inside. “I’m sure it had another thirty or forty plays left in it.”

  Jac laughed, dropping the half-empty bottle into his pack. He stepped outside. The crowd was on its feet and waiting. Jac led Maarten between the two carriers, to where several other peacekeepers stood waiting. He looked around. The buses sat idling on the road with no Serbs in sight. He walked up to Hans.

  “Where are they?”

  “God knows. What do we do? Load them up?”

  Another peacekeeper joined them.

  “They’re not here. Let’s get the men on the buses and get them out before they show up.”

  “What about the Serbs on the road?” Hans asked. “They’ll stop the buses.”

  “I think they’re willing to take the chance,” Jac said.

  “Jesus,” Hans said. “We better do it fast.”

  Jac and Maarten waded into the crowd.

  “Nema Chetniks,” Jac said to the people waiting between the armoured vehicles. “Men. Get men on the buses. Quick.”

  The crowd scrambled towards the buses. Jac fought against the tide until he came to groups of people sitting on the ground. He grabbed the first man he saw.

  “Nema Chetniks. Go. Now.”

  The man understood. He and his wife rushed away. Jac looked around at the ocean of women and children.

  Where are the men?

  “Nema Chetniks,” he said over and over. Only four other men appeared and Jac rushed them to the front before the buses were filled to capacity.

  “Did you find any?”

  Jac stepped away from the last bus and motioned the driver to leave.

  “A few. I think they’re all too afraid to show their faces.”

  “Or they’re not there anymore,” Maarten said.

  “What about the men inside the compound?” Jac asked.

  “I thought you said they were safe?”

  “I don’t know.” He stared at the camp. “Are they?”

  “They better be. There are hundreds in there.”

  Jac felt a tug on his sleeve. He looked down to see a little boy.

  “Hello.”

  The boy looked away and then back at Jac. He raised a finger and pulled it across his throat and then pointed at one of the houses.

  “I’m not sure I understand.”

  The boy repeated the actions and then ran off into the crowd.

  “What was that all about?” Maarten asked.

  Jac looked at the house and then at the empty road.

  “Another suicide, maybe. We better go look.”

  “That’s outside our area, Jac.”

  Jac walked towards the house and then looked back. “The Serbs are not here, Maarten. If we don’t look now, we won’t get another chance.”

  “You’re not going to be satisfied until I get shot, are you?”

  Jac threw Maarten a brief smile.

  “Fine, fine. Let’s hurry.”

  They trotted through the thinning crowd. There was no one in sight outside the house, although the refugees usually filled their water containers at the spigot attached to it. He glanced over at the other house: women were lined up there for water.

  But why not here?

  Jac entered the house and walked from room to room, finding only smashed furniture, broken windows, and garbage. He left through the back door. Behind the house, the land sloped towards a creek. Maarten was coming around the corner, having completed his circuit of the house.

  “Nothing.”

  Jac stared at the creek. “C’mon.”

  “There could be mines down there, Jac.”

  “It’s clear,” he said, pointing to the ground. “Fresh footprints.”

  “Yeah,” Maarten said, following. “Footprints of the guys who laid the mines. Did you consider that?”

  Jac surveyed the area, slowing as he approached the creek.

  Deserted.

  He crouched next to the creek and took a moment to soak his towel in the cool water. He flipped it around his neck and listened. Birds chirped in the trees. Tall grass swayed in the breeze.

  “Oh shit!”

  Jac turned. Maarten was standing a few metres upstream, behind a clump of bushes. And then he bent over and vomited.

  “What’s up?” Jac asked.

  “Besides my caffeine breakfast?”

&n
bsp; Maarten pointed just as Jac caught sight of a blackened hand sticking out between the bushes.

  “I really didn’t need to see this, Jac.”

  Maarten stepped aside. Behind him, the bodies of five men and one young woman lay in a row, their throats slashed and their skin darkening in the heat. Jac looked away before his stomach reacted.

  “Got a camera on you?”

  “A camera? Are you shitting me? Jesus, when is this crap going to end?”

  Jac looked around. The tall foliage could hide anything lying on the ground. If the Serbs were able to remove the old man’s body the day before, they’d be back for the rest today. Jac turned around and walked towards the compound.

  “We need to tell the sergeant.”

  They re-entered the crowd of refugees without spotting a single Serb. The sergeant was outside the camp entrance; they told him what they had found.

  “I’ll take care of it,” Janssen said, stifling a yawn. “But stick around. You’ll likely be slated to escort the third or fourth convoy. I’m trying to siphon enough fuel from the other vehicles to last you to Tisca.”

  As Janssen walked back into the compound, another group of buses arrived.

  Behind them were trucks carrying Serb soldiers.

  THURSDAY: MARIJA STAVIC

  MARIJA WIPED HER cheeks dry as she watched the sun rise. She ate a carrot, but the ache in her stomach remained.

  The girls stirred. Lejla mumbled in her sleep. People woke and stretched. Children cried. A parade of water containers moved towards the water spigot. A peacekeeper wandered among the refugees.

  Peacekeeper? Yes, she thought. He was alone and unarmed.

  Ina appeared next to him, carrying a full container. Water spilled through the loose cap with every step. She laid it next to Marija and sat down, breathing heavily.

  “Glad I went when I did,” she whispered. “I saw no Chetniks.”

  “They’re drunk and asleep.”

  Ina took out a few carrots, scrubbed off the dirt, and then she poured the water into the bottles. The girls woke up and ate.

  “I’m going to have to cut off your hair,” Ina said to her daughters when they’d finished. She was holding up the pocket knife.

  “Cut our hair?” Lejla said. “No, Mama. Please.”

  “It’ll grow back,” Ina said, opening the knife.

  Lejla sat back, holding onto her long black hair. “No, Mama.”

  “Listen to me. You didn’t see what went on here last night. You didn’t hear what Jac told us.”

  “Lejla,” Marija said. “You’ve been lucky to keep it this long. If you had gotten lice, we would have had to shave it to the skin.”

  “But you’re not even sure it will help.”

  “It’s not going to hurt,” Ina said, holding out her hand.

  Lejla cried as Ina sliced through her hair. The dull blade left a ragged edge.

  Adila turned to Marija. “But if she makes it too obvious,” she whispered, “they’ll know she’s trying to hide something.”

  Marija placed her hand on Adila’s arm.

  “She knows what she’s doing. Please. Trust her. This isn’t over until we are in Tuzla.”

  Adila leaned closer.

  “I’m scared, Mrs. Stavic.”

  “You should be,” Marija replied. “We’re doing all that we can, Lejla. Just do as your mother tells you and we’ll get through this. Okay?”

  Adila said nothing when her turn came. Tihana picked up some of the discarded hair and wrapped it around the necks of the toy soldiers. She was still holding the carrot Ina had given to her when she awoke.

  Marija wondered if she was saving it for Atif.

  “What do you think?” Ina asked, cutting off the last of Adila’s strands. “Should we go?”

  Marija stood up and looked at the crowd forming around the Dutch carriers. No one was pushing or shoving the way they had the day before. Everyone knew the buses would come and they knew that the passengers had been dropped off near Tisca. She sat down and gestured to the twins.

  “How are the rashes?”

  Ina pulled back on Lejla’s sleeve. The rash had become blister-sized blotches. Adila’s rash covered her arms and neck. Lejla scratched at her arms.

  “Don’t scratch,” Marija said.

  “Maybe they should,” Ina said. “Just a little. But don’t use your nails.” She passed Lejla a small towel. “We don’t want them to scar.”

  The twin’s heads popped up in unison.

  “Scar?”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Ina said. “Just don’t drive your nails into them. Rub them with the towel.”

  Marija stood up and looked around. She spotted soldiers walking among the refugees.

  Or are they peacekeepers?

  She turned and surveyed the crowd near the carriers. Nothing had changed. She picked up her bag and slung it over her shoulder.

  “We should get closer.”

  Adila stood, picked up Tihana, and offered her to Marija.

  “I think it’s best if you hold on to her and stay close to me,” Marija said, glancing at the cardboard on the ground. She dropped to her knees and tore off four pieces. “It’s going to be hot on the bus. We can use these to fan ourselves.”

  Ina stuffed the cardboard into her bag. Marija took one last look around the wrecked bus that had kept them safe for two days. Certain they had left nothing behind, she took Adila’s hand and led her towards the armoured vehicles.

  THURSDAY: ATIF STAVIC

  ATIF WOKE AND wiped dew from his face. He looked up at a narrow slice of blue sky wedged between the steep hills. A bird flew from one side to the other and then sat on an outstretched branch and chirped. Another bird flew by. The first left its perch and followed.

  “Thirsty?”

  Tarak sat next to him eating. He pointed to a full bottle of water sitting on his pack.

  “Filled it up for you. Take your time.”

  Atif sat up, feeling every muscle in his body ache.

  “Did I sleep?”

  “You snored.”

  “I don’t snore.”

  “Then there’s a bear in the woods.”

  Atif smiled and opened his pack. He pulled out another Dutch ration.

  Macaroni and cheese.

  He ate and drank his fill and then topped up the bottles in the creek. The sun was still hidden behind the ravine wall when Tarak checked his compass and pointed north.

  They walked through the thick brush for more than an hour, stopping every few steps to listen. The temperature climbed with the sun. By late morning, sweat soaked Atif’s shirt.

  A voice stopped Tarak mid-stride. He lowered himself to the ground and looked at Atif with an index finger against his lips. They listened. The voice took form.

  Names?

  With Tarak in the lead, they walked to the side of a ridge, where trees gave way to tall grass and bushes. Then they crawled towards the bright morning sun on their bellies. Bushes rustled. Twigs cracked. Tarak brushed them aside, encouraging Atif forward until they had crawled to the edge of a rock face. Below them, a stretch of road swarmed with dozens of people.

  “Take a look,” Tarak said, passing Atif the binoculars.

  He pressed them against his face and played with the knobs until everything came into focus. The first thing he noticed was a pair of soldiers wearing blue helmets standing next to a white armoured personnel carrier.

  “Hey, it’s the Dutch.”

  Atif began to push himself to his feet, but Tarak hauled him down.

  “But it’s okay,” Atif said. “Don’t you see? They must have forced the Chetniks to leave.”

  Tarak looked at Atif then raised a finger and pointed at the binoculars. �
�Look again, Braco. Look closely.”

  Atif stared at Tarak.

  “Okay,” he whispered, picking up the binoculars.

  He refocused on the people below. They wore blue helmets and Dutch flak jackets, but the similarity ended there. The uniforms were mismatched like the ones he had seen in Potocari. Atif shifted his view. Other soldiers were walking behind the vehicles. Some wore bits and pieces of the Dutch uniform, but one had on purple and black camouflage.

  “There’s so many of them,” he said, moving the binoculars over the area. He caught movement in the field on the far side of the road. Soldiers were guarding a group of men sitting in tall grass. A civilian walked among them with a television camera on his shoulder. He was following a soldier who had dragged a man to his feet and was hauling him forward.

  “Slaven!” the captive shouted through cupped hands.

  The cameraman focused on him.

  “Mirzet. Come down. Come down out of the forest. There is food here. Water. They are going to drive us to Tuzla. Come down. Slaven! Mirzet!”

  “Is he telling the truth?”

  “What do you think?”

  “I don’t know.” Atif raised the binoculars again. There were more men in the field.

  What are the Chetniks going to do with them if they were lying about taking them to Tuzla? Bring them to a camp?

  “The blue helmets are overseeing the evacuation,” the captive said. “Please. Come down. They have food and water.”

  Two men crawled out of the woods. Serb soldiers searched them and then put them with the other captives. A few minutes later, another man stumbled out of the forest and the process was repeated.

  “Slaven! Mirzet! Come down. Please.”

  “Who is he calling to?”

  “I don’t know,” Tarak said. “Men he was travelling with. Maybe his brothers. Or his sons.”

  Would a father lure his sons out of the woods if he thought they would be in danger? Atif struggled with the contradictions. Safe or not?