Braco

by Lesleyanne Ryan

  “I don’t know. Maybe I’ll see if the blue helmets need a translator.”

  “You have to be sixteen.”

  “Then maybe Ina can get me something at the hospital. Or I can get something at the post office.”

  His father stopped and raised a finger. “No. Not with the army. Listen, Atif, when you’re old enough I’ll see what Ina can do for you at the hospital. For now, your mother needs your help.”

  Atif looked away. He felt the weight of his father’s hand on his shoulder.

  “If it weren’t for this war, you’d be more worried about which girls like you than about getting a job. Go play soccer with your friends. Go to the movie room with them. Find a girlfriend. Just be a boy for a little while longer.”

  “But I want to help.”

  “You have been helping. You don’t see it, but you have been a great help. More than you know.”

  Two soldiers materialized out of the fog.

  “Coming, Yassir?” one soldier muttered without stopping.

  “I’ve got to go,” his father said, touching Atif on the chin. “I left my razor if you want to shave off that scruff.”

  “What? No. I like it.”

  “Because you think it makes you look older?”

  Atif smiled. His father kissed him on the forehead. “I think it looks scruffy.”

  He patted Atif on the shoulder and turned to follow the soldiers. Just before the fog swallowed him whole, his father turned and waved.

  So long ago.

  Insects chirped. Stars shot across the sky. Branches swayed in a light breeze. Atif’s eyes closed.

  Stay awake!

  He shivered and rubbed his arms. After the oppressive heat of the day, the night air felt as though the temperature was just a degree or two above freezing. Atif stuffed his chilled hands inside his pockets.

  Curious.

  He fingered something in his pocket.

  Did the Chetniks miss something?

  He pulled out the bag of salt his mother had given him. Atif sat up and stared at the plastic bag. He’d forgotten about it.

  I need water.

  He listened for vehicles, voices, and footfalls.

  Nothing.

  He used his elbows to crawl to the edge of the creek. Opening the bag, he dipped his fingers in the salt, licking them clean in between gulps of water.

  Is this what Kemal meant? Was it a sign from God? Or was it there because a mother had been looking out for her child and a lazy soldier hadn’t bothered to check every pocket?

  Atif lay back and let the water soothe his swollen feet while the salt rejuvenated his spent body.

  “Thanks, Mama. I’ll try. I promise.”

  For you. For Tarak. For my friends. For Tata.

  He knotted the bag closed and stowed it safely in his pocket. Then he considered his feet. He had a choice between being cold and not being able to walk.

  Not a difficult decision.

  He pulled off the blood-soaked neon yellow T-shirt and used his teeth to tear it in half. Then he used it to wrap his feet. He stood up.

  Razors. Knives. Needles.

  He sat back down and massaged his painful feet. A machine gun popped to the south. A dog barked.

  Atif got up again and gasped. Blades sliced to the bone. He turned his back to the moon and walked to the edge of the meadow.

  Is it mined?

  He knelt and felt the ground for a stick, then crawled into the field, probing the loose, moist soil as Tarak had taught him. The stick sank deep with every attempt.

  Maybe it’s just hay.

  Vehicles rumbled on a road to his left. Gunfire erupted some distance away to his right. He heard nothing ahead. The moon was high by the time he crept into the trees on the far side of the pasture. Gunfire reverberated from the south.

  Kalashnikovs.

  He recognized the rifle’s distinctive sound. Automatic gunfire followed by single shots. No one returned fire.

  They’re still doing it.

  Atif grabbed a branch and climbed to his feet. He took a step onto a bed of nails. Another step and the nails caught fire. Atif leaned against a tree and chewed on his lips until he tasted blood and salt.

  I can’t stay here. I have to walk.

  He spit and took a step, then another and another. He stopped to give his feet a break and to listen then repeated the process, three steps at a time.

  “Keep walking until you find someone.”

  “But what if that someone is a Chetnik?” he whispered.

  He took three steps. Then another three.

  The woods opened onto a road. Atif dropped to his knees and felt the ground.

  Gravel.

  Damn it.

  He looked to his left. Darkness.

  To his right, lights. He glimpsed part of a house, its light hidden behind heavy curtains. Something moved next to the house.

  Laundry on a line?

  He looked at his feet and then at the gravel between the edge of the road and the clothesline. A shirt waved.

  Too far.

  He drew in a long breath and started to crawl across the road, the gravel clawing at his knees.

  Voices.

  He froze and then looked right.

  An orange glow floated above the road near the house. A match flared like a sparkler on a birthday cake. Now two orange glows walked in his direction.

  How stupid can they be?

  Atif slid back into the woods and crawled under the bough of a fir tree.

  Are they soldiers? Are they walking this way?

  Voices drifted through the trees. Gravel crunched.

  “It’s not football,” one voice said. An orange glow swung up, glowed brightly then swung back down. “They don’t even use a real ball.”

  “But it’s exciting,” another said. Atif counted four helmets, the features under them shaded from the moon. They stopped a few metres away. “The American game is full of strategy. They plan every move. They don’t just kick it around and hope someone on the other team doesn’t get it. All you do is sit for three hours and you’re lucky to see one or two goals.”

  “It’s easy to get excited about that when you’re drunk.”

  One of the orange glows dropped. The other one brightened for a moment. Air seeped between Atif’s teeth.

  “You don’t understand. I mean, in the last Super Bowl I saw, they were apart by a single point. All the other team needed was a field goal. That’s three points. So, they march down the field and are well within field goal range. Only seconds left. The kicker comes out to make a sure thing. He kicks the ball and it sails to the right and misses by a metre. They had the win within their grasp and they lost it. You don’t get that kind of excitement with our football.”

  “I don’t need excitement. I just need a reason to get drunk.”

  “I’m out.”

  “Here.”

  A match flickered. Something splashed against a tree on the other side of the road.

  “After the war, I’ll take you to England to watch a good rugby match. No padding. No helmets. Just brute force. Those bastards know how to play.”

  Boots crushed gravel. The orange glows floated away.

  Atif’s muscles relaxed. He released the rest of the air in his lungs and filled them without a sound. He counted the seconds until he hit one thousand and then he rolled out from under the bough and crawled to the edge of the road. He looked left, right, and then left again.

  Dark. Quiet. Deserted.

  Or had the soldiers doused their cigarettes? Were they sitting on the side of the road waiting for me to move out into the open?

  He swiped the gravel aside and crawled out. Rocks stabbed at his knees. H
e brushed more gravel away, watching the road and the house and crawling until his hand touched grass that smelled of urine. He stood, checked the moon, and stepped into the forest. Every step found more red-hot razors. The land sloped up and he hiked until he came to a steep embankment. He sat on a rock to rest and stared up at the hill. Then he looked behind for the moon.

  Zenith?

  He turned his back directly to the moon and looked at the hill. If he wanted to go north, he had no choice. He had to climb.

  This is going to hurt.

  He stood and waited for the hot blades to recede into the ground and then grabbed a tree. Sap coated his fingers. He placed a foot at the base of the tree and grabbed a branch. Then he pushed himself forward with the same foot, cringing from the pain now radiating up through his legs. He moved from tree to tree like a monkey in slow motion until the slope levelled near the top. Then he dropped to his knees and crawled the last few metres. He lay back on the grass, panting quietly.

  A sound.

  He held his breath and listened.

  Soft, rhythmic, nasal.

  Snoring?

  Atif crawled towards the sound, planting his sticky hands and knees carefully so he wouldn’t crack twigs or crush brittle leaves. The moon lit the small clearing above him.

  Does the blautsauger snore?

  Then he saw the outline of a boot beside a tree.

  Another survivor? No, he told himself. They had been stripped of their footwear. Would a Chetnik patrol the area alone?

  He rose to his feet, his teeth clenched against the pain, and stepped up to the tree. He peered around it, catching himself before he reacted to what he saw.

  A Serb soldier was sleeping against the tree. His rifle was lying next to him. Atif stared at the weapon and then at the soldier.

  What do I do? Leave?

  That risked waking the soldier.

  Steal the rifle and shoot him?

  But that would bring other soldiers.

  Atif crouched next to the rifle. The soldier’s hand lay motionless next to it. Then the soldier stirred, taking in a nasal breath. His head jerked back against the tree.

  No choice.

  Atif grabbed the rifle and skipped backwards, fumbling for the safety. He switched it off as his feet landed on the thorns of a wild rose. He grunted from the pain. The Serb woke up.

  The soldier’s arm swiped the ground and found it empty.

  “Stand up,” Atif said.

  The soldier hesitated and then climbed to his feet. He stepped forward, his wide eyes reflecting moonlight.

  He looks my age.

  “Don’t shoot, please,” the soldier said.

  “Why shouldn’t I?”

  “I’m not going to hurt you.”

  “Liar. You’re killing us by the thousands.”

  “What? Where?”

  Atif motioned with the barrel of the rifle. “Down there.”

  The soldier looked south for a moment. “What are you talking about?”

  “Don’t be stupid.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “How can you not know?”

  “I’ve been up here for weeks on the checkpoints near Memici.”

  Automatic fire erupted in the distance.

  “Don’t you hear that?”

  “The fighting?”

  “That’s not fighting.”

  “Of course it is.”

  “No. That’s your people murdering people like me.”

  “They wouldn’t do that.”

  “They’re killing thousands.”

  “That can’t be true.”

  “They tried to kill me.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  Atif stepped forward and aimed the rifle at the soldier’s head. “They killed my friend.”

  The soldier stepped back into the shadows. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

  “No, you’re not.”

  “I didn’t kill anyone.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “They drafted me.”

  “You’re still a soldier.”

  “I don’t want to hurt you.”

  Atif glared at the soldier through the rifle sight. Images of his friends, his father, Ratib, and Tarak raced through his head. The look on the faces of the men who had given up. Their screams as they were beaten with bats and iron bars. The arm hanging from the car. Tarak’s lifeless eyes.

  And the Serb who had stood above him and spared his life.

  “Why are you by yourself?”

  “They said soldiers were coming this way. Tonight was my first patrol.”

  “By yourself?”

  “I got separated. I don’t know this area very well. I thought I’d wait till morning to go back.”

  “Take off your boots.”

  “Okay.”

  “I want your shirt and any food or water you have.”

  “Okay.” The soldier removed his shirt and tossed it to Atif and then he sat on the ground and removed his boots. “That’s my webbing. There’s water and ammunition. There are extra socks too. They’re new. You can have it all.”

  He stood up.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Stefan. Stefan Maric.”

  “Are there any mines along the front lines here?”

  “There’s a map in my pack. All the mines are marked.”

  “Okay. You can leave, then.”

  Maric looked around. “But I’m lost.”

  “Just walk towards the moon.”

  “What?”

  “The moon. Walk towards it and keep walking until the sun comes up. It will bring you back to your people.”

  Maric glanced at the moon and then back at Atif. “Okay. I’ll go. I won’t come back. I promise.”

  He turned and began to pick his way down over the embankment. Atif waited until the sound of cracking twigs and pained grunts faded and then lowered the rifle. He peeled his fingers from the stock, rubbing his hands on his jeans to remove the sap. Then he shouldered the rifle and webbing and slipped his swollen feet into the boots. Walking north, he found two trees with overlapping boughs; he hid underneath them, listening.

  Nothing.

  He leaned back and gently took off the boots. Then he emptied out all the pouches attached to the webbing. He felt the contents.

  Cloth. Wool. Leather. Canvas. Foil. Long hard plastic cylinder.

  Atif felt for a button on the cylinder and found one. A red light flickered on and off. He tightened the battery cap and pointed the light down.

  Towel. Socks. Wallet. First-aid kit. Half eaten chocolate bar.

  Atif devoured the bar.

  Inside the medical kit were bandages, a bottle of pills, and alcohol rubs. He cleaned his feet with some water from the canteen and the towel and then used the alcohol rubs, biting on the towel from the pain. As it subsided, he wrapped his feet in the gauze bandage and pulled on the socks.

  That feels so good.

  He lay back and listened. Once he was sure no one had heard his grunts, he sat up and pulled on the boots.

  A perfect fit.

  Two days ago, the boots would have been two sizes too large.

  Atif hauled on the shirt and picked up the bottle of pills, hoping they were for pain. The label was torn. He opened it and inspected the round white tablets.

  Aspirin? Atif’s shoulders slumped. Why would a soldier carry Aspirin?

  Ina had told him that Aspirin keeps the blood from clotting. If he took them, they might make his feet bleed more.

  He stuffed the bottle back into the medical kit and repacked the supplies. He picked up the wallet and opened it, pulling ou
t money, identification, and a picture of the soldier standing next to a man.

  His father?

  The thin man was tall; he had his hand on the boy’s shoulder.

  The man looks like Tata.

  Atif stared at the photo, stifling his tears.

  No, it’s not him. Tata’s gone.

  Atif stuffed the wallet back inside the pack. He would send it back to the soldier. He slung the webbing over his shoulders and picked up the rifle, the stock, and the grip coated with sap. He looked south. The moon had begun its decline into the southwest. Atif kept it to his left and took a step. The razor blades were dull now. He took another step and reconsidered the Aspirin.

  Keep walking. Just keep walking.

  The terrain sloped down and he lost sight of the moon. A glow emerged from the east.

  Already?

  He looked around. He would have to find somewhere safe to spend the day. Somewhere with more cover.

  He resumed walking north, willing his second wind to kick in. Willing his feet to stop aching.

  A little farther. Just a little farther.

  Every step brought him closer to freedom and safety.

  And peace.

  The eastern sky brightened. Atif walked through a dense forest, which ended in a large meadow. A dark house sat on the edge of the field.

  Abandoned?

  Atif sat down. Dew soaked through his jeans. He picked at the soft foliage carpeting the field.

  Carrots!

  He pulled one out and chewed on it. Dirt crunched between his teeth. He swallowed and then pulled as many carrots as he could carry and stepped back into the trees. He sat down, brushed the earth from the carrots, and ate. The moon set below the trees and the sun rose over the farmer’s house. There was no movement.

  Stay or go?

  Stay.

  Rest.

  He curled up and fell asleep.

  SATURDAY: MICHAEL SAKIC

  MIKE SAT ON the hood of the truck, nursing his vodka hangover for the second day. Never again, he had promised himself as he emptied his stomach for the fourth time that morning. He popped another Aspirin and drank the last mouthful of Coke.

  “Well, that’s a good sign.”

  Mike looked up. Brendan and Robert strolled towards the truck.