“Yeah, he’s moving,” Robert said, opening the back door. He laid his camera on the seat.
“Anything new?” Mike asked, dumping his notebook into his bag.
“Not much more than Jure has told you. I’ve gotten some confirmation that the Bosnian army is finally going to move south to help the men break through the front lines.”
“Oric’s not too happy with the slow response.”
“Yeah, I heard that, too. Anything new with you?”
“I’m waiting for Jure now.”
“Can he get you to the front lines?”
“Not now. And I tried the UN, the Red Cross, and Doctors Without Borders. They’re either not going or aren’t interested in taking a passenger. Not yet, anyway.”
“They expect the men to cross tomorrow or Monday. We’ll have a better idea of what’s going on then.” Brendan checked his watch. “Are you coming to the briefing?”
“No. I’ll wait for Jure.”
“I’ll stay here,” Robert said.
“I’ll take notes.” Brendan walked away.
Robert turned to Mike.
“Now, if we could read his writing that might mean something.”
Mike laughed and then put his hand on his head to quell the hammering.
“So much easier to do this job when you can just stand back with a camera on your shoulder, isn’t it?”
“In some ways,” Robert replied, his eyes darting away.
“Had enough?”
Robert leaned against the truck and motioned to the tent city.
“The stories they tell are like something out of a Stephen King novel.”
“Your parents let you read King?”
Robert smiled for a moment. “I mean, if even half of what they say is true.”
Mike grunted an affirmative. Robert faced him.
“So, what did you see?”
Mike raised an eyebrow.
“You don’t seem to have a problem believing it all. What did you see?”
Charred furniture. Roasted flesh.
“To tell you the truth,” Mike said after a moment. “I was a lot like you when I first came to cover the war.”
“Naïve as hell?”
“Something like that,” Mike replied. “I thought I’d come here and expose Serb atrocities against my grandparents’ people.” He shook his head. “A couple weeks after I got here, I was in a village that had been attacked. I looked into the ruins of this one house thinking it was full of smouldering furniture.” He swallowed. “But it wasn’t furniture. The soldiers had forced sixteen people into the basement and burned them alive. So, I took pictures thinking ‘I’ve got it, I finally got proof the Serbs are committing atrocities.’ Then I see an Orthodox cross on the wall.”
“A cross?”
“The Serbs are Orthodox Christians. Their cross is different from the Croat Catholic cross.”
“The Serbs didn’t do it?”
Mike shook his head. “The Croats did it. My own people were just as bad as the ones I was trying to blame it all on.”
“No good guys,” Robert said. “So, why do you keep coming back?”
“I don’t know. I just do, even if I file my pictures and stories and watch them get sliced up until they’re meaningless.”
“I don’t know how you put up with it.”
“What you see is not true and what is true is not seen.”
“Huh?”
“Just something an old friend told me once.”
Robert’s brow furrowed.
“Never mind,” Mike said, turning towards the main gate. A pick-up was stopped at the barrier and peacekeepers were arguing with the driver.
“What’s going on over there?”
“C’mon,” Mike said, gathering up his camera bag. Robert followed him to the barrier and they slipped under it.
“I can translate,” he said to one of the peacekeepers.
“Please,” the Pakistani peacekeeper said, motioning to the driver, a short man in his fifties wearing jeans and a white shirt. “He keeps pointing to the boy and saying Srebrenica, but I think he’s just trying to offload an orphan. The boy can’t possibly be from Srebrenica. The men haven’t crossed over yet.”
“Srebrenica?” Mike glanced behind the driver to see a boy curled up like a kitten, his head buried in his arms and knees.
“Who is he?” Mike asked the driver in Bosnian.
“My dog found him in my field this morning,” the driver replied. “He had eaten some of my carrots. He was wearing military clothes, but I don’t think he is a soldier. He had blood all over him and his feet are a mess. All he said was that the Chetniks tried to kill him. I don’t think he has slept much. He can’t stay awake for more than a few minutes.”
Mike told the peacekeeper what the driver had said.
“Ask him to bring the boy out,” the peacekeeper said.
Mike started to translate, but the driver seemed to understand. He roused the boy, who sat up, rubbing his eyes.
“Yes! He’s from Srebrenica.” Mike pulled the camera from his bag.
“How do you know?”
Mike raised his camera and stared at the boy, his finger hovering over the shutter release. Movement drew his attention to the left. A crow landed on the grass and hopped towards the pavement where a rat had been run over. The crow picked at the rodent and then flew away.
Mike lowered the camera.
“I know him.” He poked the camera back into his bag and pulled out the laminated photo of Atif, waving it at the peacekeeper. “His name is Atif Stavic. I took this picture in Srebrenica almost three years ago.”
The peacekeeper looked at the picture and shrugged.
“Okay.”
Mike turned to Robert and dropped the keys into his hands.
“Bring the truck over here.”
“What? But I don’t know how to drive.”
“You’re shitting me.”
Robert shook his head. Mike spun the cameraman around and gave him a polite shove.
“It’s time to learn. Just put it on D and bring it over here. The brake is the one on the left.”
Robert ducked under the barrier and jogged towards the truck. Mike returned his attention to the driver.
“I’ll take him. He’ll be okay.” He walked around the pick-up and opened the passenger door, the rusted hinges creaking. “Atif?”
The boy stared at Mike.
“Do I know you?”
“Remember?” Mike asked, showing Atif the picture.
Atif struggled to keep his eyes open.
“You’re exhausted.” Mike looked at the driver. “Where did you find him? What town?”
“I’m not far from Memici.”
“Really?” Mike replied. “That far north?”
He did the calculations. Four days since the enclave fell. Srebrenica to Memici was too far to walk in that time. And the boy was alone. It didn’t make sense.
“He had some money on him. I took enough for my gas. He has the rest.”
“Thank you.”
The driver shrugged and climbed inside the truck. Mike picked up Atif; the boy fell asleep in his arms.
Skin. Bones. Weightless.
“I’ll take him to the doctors,” Mike told the peacekeepers and then he walked through the open gate, Atif’s elbow digging into his chest. He shifted Atif’s arm, slowed, and then stopped.
Robert was inching the truck in their direction.
SATURDAY: ATIF STAVIC
ATIF WOKE TO a white sky.
Cloudy?
He reached for another carrot, but his fingers found smooth cotton instead. He felt the soft fabric, his hand moving from side to side until it found an edg
e.
Straight. Soft. Unnatural.
Adrenaline drove him upright. A blond blue-eyed man wearing hospital whites was staring back at him.
“I hear you speak good English,” he said in a thick accent.
“Where am I?”
“The UN base in Tuzla.”
I’m dreaming!
He looked around. Cots lined both sides of the tent. Men and women in whites were attending to the needs of the people who occupied the other cots. One man was draping a stethoscope around his neck. He glanced at Atif and smiled.
Atif lay back on the pillow.
“I made it?”
The medic wiped Atif’s face with a cool cloth.
“I guess so. Are you really a Muslim from Srebrenica?”
Atif ran his tongue over his cracked lips.
“I’m from Srebrenica.”
The medic dipped the cloth into a bowl of water.
“Well, how you managed to make it that far on those feet, I can’t imagine.”
Feet?
“A farmer found you stealing his carrots,” the medic said. “He cleaned you up and brought you here. Your journalist friend brought you to see us.”
“Journalist friend?”
“Yeah.” The medic showed him a newspaper clipping. “He’ll be back in a few minutes. He left you this to read when you woke up.”
Atif took the laminated clipping and read the caption.
“That’s me.”
“Your friend said that picture was printed all over the world.”
The world!
“Where is he?”
“He’s gone to see if your mother is here. He’s assuming she came in on the buses.”
“Yes, yes. She said she would meet me at my uncle’s house.” Atif sat up and tried to throw his feet over the edge, but the medic stopped him. “I need to get to her.”
“As soon as we find you some crutches, young man. Your friend has a vehicle. He can take you. Do you know the address?”
Atif nodded and laid back.
“Hungry?”
He nodded again. The thought of food made his mouth water and his stomach churn. The medic left the tent and Atif propped himself up on his elbows. A group of medics stood at the end of the tent whispering. One of them, a woman, pointed towards Atif and every face in the group looked at him and then turned away. The group broke up; each member eyed Atif as she or he walked by him.
The medic arrived with a tray and set it on a table next to the bed. Steam rose from slices of chicken and two ice cream scoops of potato. Gravy smothered everything except a pile of sliced carrots. A large square of chocolate cake sat on a saucer, covered in a thick layer of icing. The medic pulled two small cartons of milk from his pocket and laid them on the tray.
“Is this okay?”
Atif stared at the food and swallowed.
“Are you kidding?”
“Don’t eat it all,” the doctor said, catching Atif before he could dig into the food. “You probably haven’t eaten a lot in a while. Just take a taste of everything and stop before you’re full.”
“I understand. Thank you.”
He savoured every mouthful. Moist chicken. Chunky potatoes. Mushy carrots. Salty gravy. Creamy icing. Ice cold milk.
“You’re awake,” a familiar voice said from behind.
Atif looked up: the face was older than he remembered.
“How are you doing?”
“I’m okay,” Atif replied, handing back the photo.
“You can keep that if you like.”
“Thanks.” Atif placed the photo in the chest pocket of the clean shirt he was wearing. He had no idea where it had come from. “The medic said you could take me to my uncle’s house. My mother might be there.”
“Yeah. I can. She’s in the town, right?”
“Yes,” Atif said through a mouthful of cake. “How did you know?”
Mike held up a piece of paper with his mother’s writing on it. Atif read it. His vision blurred.
“She made it.”
Mike pulled up a chair.
“You must have quite the story to tell. I can’t imagine how you got so far north so soon.”
Atif stopped chewing as the memories returned. Dani. Tata. Tarak. He willed the thoughts to stop.
“I want to tell it to you,” he said. “I want everyone to know. Everyone.”
“I think I can arrange that.”
“Will you take my picture again?
“If you like.”
“I don’t want to hold in my stomach this time.”
Mike laughed.
“You won’t have to.” He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a card. “They found this in your back pocket.”
Atif stared at Tarak’s identification card.
“Who is he?” Mike asked.
“He saved my life,” Atif whispered. “He wanted me to give this to the army and tell them where he was.”
“I can do that if you like.”
Atif stared at the faded, outdated picture.
Tarak Smajlovic.
Tarak hadn’t told Atif his last name. He handed the card back to Mike.
“I want them to know what he did for me.”
“I can do that, too.”
Mike helped the medic adjust a set of crutches to Atif’s height while he nibbled on cake and chicken. The medic fitted a pair of slippers over the bandages on Atif’s feet and helped him stand.
No razors. No blades. No fire.
“Don’t lean on them with your armpits,” the medic said. “Put your weight on your hands.”
Atif hobbled the length of the cot and back.
“I can go? Now?”
“The doctor wants to see you back here in two days. Do you think you can do that?”
“Yes.”
“Okay.” The medic handed a clipboard containing a release form to Mike. He signed it. “Two days, young man.”
“I’ll be back.”
Atif fumbled around the corner of the cot and then hopped towards the exit. Outside, he squinted against the late afternoon sun. A cool breeze drove dust across the tarmac, spinning it like a tornado. A field of white tents bustled with activity.
In front of him, a white truck with “TV” stenciled in black on the hood was parked next to the curb. Mike opened the passenger door and helped Atif inside. The breeze flowed through the truck, leaving a layer of dust on the dashboard and seats. Mike climbed in the driver’s side.
“Do you know the way? I have a map if you can’t remember.”
“I know where to go,” Atif said.
They drove to the main gate. Mike showed papers to the sentry; he opened the barrier without a word. They turned right.
Tuzla. I’m really in Tuzla.
Two women pushed strollers along the sidewalk, chatting. A bus stopped to pick up passengers. Men stood on a corner, smoking and arguing. No one watched the hills.
Someone squealed. Atif shrank behind the door and then straightened up and looked out the window. Children in uniforms were playing soccer in a field. The members of one of the teams were hugging one another and the spectators on one side of the field were cheering. Atif turned away.
“Is this it?”
“Yes. Yes. Turn left. It’s at the end of the street.”
Atif felt his pulse race as they approached his uncle’s home.
Mama. Tihana. Have you given up on me yet?
“That’s it,” he told Mike, indicating the second last house on the right.
Atif opened the door before the truck came to a stop. He left the crutches behind and slid out. His feet exploded in pain the moment he hit the ground and he collapse
d. He grit his teeth, waiting for the ache in his feet to subside. When he looked up, Mike was holding the crutches out to him.
“You go ahead. I’ll wait here.”
Atif fumbled with the crutches and then stood up and stared at the quiet house. A wrought iron fence bordered the small yard. A vegetable garden in full bloom had replaced the grass and a short pile of firewood leaned against the wall. Curtains waved through open windows.
Mike held the gate open and Atif crossed the yard and stopped in front of the door. He raised his hand and hesitated, looking at the window to his left.
On the windowsill sat his mother’s walking shoes and the toy soldiers he had given Tihana.
Atif knocked.
EPILOGUE
MICHAEL SAKIC | OCTOBER 12, 1995
MIKE APPROACHED THE checkpoint, his fingers drumming on the steering wheel. It had taken him an hour to bluff his way through the first checkpoint and he wasn’t sure how much longer he could maintain the charade.
The Serb soldiers loitering around the barrier gave his credentials a cursory glance. They assumed he’d made it through the checkpoint near Memici and let him pass.
Mike knew they had other things on their minds.
Zepa had fallen shortly after Srebrenica, but NATO air strikes convinced the Serbs to keep their hands off the largest safe area–Gorazde. Rumours of large scale massacres around Srebrenica circulated throughout the Western media, but the reports, including Atif’s, were not deemed credible. No one wanted to believe another European genocide was possible only fifty years after the Second World War.
Despite denials from the Serb leadership, the West quietly lifted the arms embargo that had hobbled the Bosnian army from the start of the war. With arms flowing freely into the country and with support from their Croat allies, the Bosnian army reclaimed more than half the country in a matter of weeks. The United States brokered a cease-fire in early October and the three sides promised to hammer out a peace deal. The Serbs, who were on the verge of losing everything they had held from the earliest days of the war, were eager to comply.
Mike glanced at Atif’s hand-drawn map as he drove. He could have walked the same route Atif had taken through the brush, but he decided to try the bluff first. The site wasn’t far from Memici. He could be in and out in a matter of hours.
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