by Verner Jones
“What happened, Zoran?”
“I found a couple of servants hiding in one of the closets when I went looking for a bag. They’re history now. Put your gun down and come and give me a hand.” Toni suddenly felt uneasy. Zoran’s tone had changed, and wasn’t one of the other guys fetching the bags.
“Okay, I’m coming.” Hesitantly he started for the stairs. Something was wrong. He could feel it. He looked pointedly into Zoran’s face as he took the first treads. Zoran hadn’t taken his eyes off of him since he had entered the house. Toni felt himself clasp the grip of his rifle tighter and his index finger slid up to the trigger. A few steps up and Toni took his eyes off Zoran onto a body he could see lying at Zoran’s feet. As recognition sank in Zoran lifted his arm and pointed it at Toni. Toni gasped and swung his rifle up to his hip squeezing the trigger and falling flat onto the stairs in one movement, as two bullets slammed into the wall where he had been standing. Toni kept his hand tightly on the trigger. He watched as Zoran jolted first left then right, then crashed backwards onto the floor.
Toni lay there breathing heavily, unable to think clearly, waiting for Zoran to get up. A minute passed. No one moved. Toni sprang to his feet and ran to the top of the stairs. Zoran was still breathing lying face down and bleeding from three wounds. Streetwise number one was dead a few feet away. Toni ran into the room and saw streetwise number two sprawled on the floor with a hole in his head.
Toni paced around in a tight circle clasping his hand to his head.
“Shit. Fucking shit. What the hell am I going to do now?” He stared at the pile of notes and jewels on the table trying to calm himself and focus his thoughts. Going back to his unit was no longer an option. His mind scurried around a few minutes more, but his eyes never left the table. All that wealth started to have a steadying effect on him and at the same time gave him a buzz; as he realized it all belonged to him. On the table was a life changing opportunity, all he had to do was get it out of the country and get away from his paymasters. His decision was made. But he needed help to see it through. First he needed somewhere safe to store his loot. But where. He couldn’t move it too far in case he was caught alone and unable to resist being robbed of his newly acquired fortune. A plan formed in his mind bringing a smile to his lips.
He dropped his rifle on the floor and went over to the table and collected all the valuables together and put them back into the safe, putting a few notes and one of the diamonds into his tunic. He locked the safe and pulled the rug back over the lid, then overturned the desk onto the rug hiding the safe’s position. He took the butt of his rifle and smashed two of the legs off of the desk then ruffled up the surrounding edges of the carpet. It looked totally in place with its ransacked surroundings, and nobody he thought would ever think to look underneath it. He would go and get his brother in Sarajevo. He would help him. He’d give him half the money and together they could flee the country.
Toni left the room. Zoran was still breathing and groaning in a semi-conscious state. He thought to put a bullet into him to finish him off, then decided against it. He would let the traitor bleed to death. It was what he deserved. He ran down the stairs and out to the jeep. He could make Sarajevo by nightfall and sneak into the city. Tomorrow he would be back with his brother and then across the border into Austria within a couple of days.
4
Marta reached the centre of Sarajevo in the early hours of the morning cold and wet from travelling through the night. Blue and red patches covered her arms and her face was numb. Several times she had stopped riding the moped she had stolen from her friends house to try and get warm, adding more layers of clothing and wrapping a jumper around her head and face. Then she pushed on again, driven forward by her need to find a fresh sanctuary away from the horrors she had experienced. The road had been deserted except for an occasional army truck. When she saw the lights approaching in the distance Marta pulled off of the road and hid until it passed out of sight, too frightened to be caught out in the open. Now she tried to familiarize herself with her surroundings. Sarajevo looked totally different to how she remembered it. It had been five years since she had visited her uncle. It was her last but one year at school and they had just finished for the summer holidays. She had come to stay to help in her uncle’s grocery store because her auntie was sick in the hospital. Sarajevo was a beautiful, cosmopolitan city then and the few weeks she had worked there had been an eye opening experience for her. The street cafés, the art galleries and museums, the bristling city-beat of its multi-ethnic occupants magnetized her, and she visited all the different venues as often as she could. She decided she would come and live here when she finished school, maybe try and go to higher education and stay with her uncle and auntie. That was in another life. One that had been taken away from her. Now she had difficulty recognizing anywhere. It was a city that had open, gaping, wounds. Its buildings were bombed and strafed with bullets; pock marks on the face of the capital.
Her uncle lived on Ulica Sarajevska in the heart of the city above the shop he had kept for twenty-five years. She pointed her moped in what she thought was his general direction and kept looking for familiar signs. After five minutes of turning into different roads Marta saw a dangling street sign that said she was on Ulica Jovana Cvijica. She remembered that her uncle’s road was maybe five or six roads further down and to the left. She accelerated away, her hope renewed. After passing two more streets her moped started to splutter and judder, then it lost all power. She checked the fuel tank. It was empty. Marta cursed then got off the bike and walked it over to the front of a house and lent it against the wall, and continued her journey on foot. Daylight was breaking. Marta walked quickly hoping to reach her uncle’s house before people started to leave their homes. She didn’t want to be seen by anyone in case they looked at her and guessed what she had been through.
One street from her uncles turning, two men came out of a building in front of her and headed in her direction. Marta noted them and watched with growing concern as they approached. To her they were just two more potential rapists. She slipped the bag off of her shoulder not taking her eyes off of the advancing duo. They were looking at her and she could tell that they had started to discuss her. Marta slipped out the pistol she had taken from Milos. If they as much as put one hand on her she would end their lives where they stood. Killing had become easy now for Marta. As the men drew within a few paces of Marta, she became convinced they were going to attack her. She pulled the gun up level with her chest and started waving it frantically at the two men shouting at them to go away and leave her alone.
Both men jumped to the side pushing each other to get out of the way of this mad woman.
“What are you doing? Are you crazy?” shouted one man. “Come quickly. Let’s get away from her.” Both men started to run down the street leaving Marta shaking on the spot watching them flee. She put the gun back into her bag and started crying uncontrollably, knowing full well that she would have pulled the trigger if they had approached her.
Marta ran the remaining few streets until she was outside her uncle’s shop. The front was boarded up. Behind the boards she could see that the glass was broken. The front of the building was peppered with shell holes. She banged the door repeatedly until a man put his head out of the window.
“Who is banging at my door like …” before he had finished his words, he recognised the upturned face staring back at him and rushed down stairs to let Marta in. Five minutes later she was drinking a hot soup and telling her uncle and aunt about the events in Zepa.
After absorbing the horrors that Marta had relayed to them and comforting her as best they could, they put her to bed reassuring her that she would be safe with them. But this was Sarajevo a city under siege, there was no guarantees anyone could give; even tomorrow might be your last day.
When Marta woke late in the afternoon she lay on the bed and stared at the wall. Even though she had slept soundly, her body still ached from the rough treatment tha
t she had received. She was on her own now apart from her aunt and uncle. She had to be strong if she was to survive, she knew that, but inside her were murderous feelings of revenge for her family even though she had shot all the perpetrators who had committed those crimes against them. She would have to find an outlet to channel her aggressive feelings into, or else she would go mad. In time she knew it would come. So sweeping back the covers she hauled herself out of bed, dressed and went downstairs. Depression came easily when she was left alone with morbid thoughts and the best antidote to that was to be with friends or family.
Damir was preparing to leave the house. There was supposed to be a delivery of food at a collection point nearby. The quicker he arrived the better, as the queues grew long, quickly and you had to wait for hours just for the bare minimum of supplies.
“Can I come with you , Uncle Damir?” asked Marta.
“It’s dangerous queuing for food ,Marta. You never know if a sniper is going to take a shot at you. It is happening all the time. It is better if you stay here.”
“I want to come with you. I can help you carry some things.” Marta went to her room and collected a coat. “I need to get out and feel the fresh air again.” Damir looked at his wife Amra. What else could happen to her that she hadn’t already endured. Amra shrugged her acceptance of Marta’s choice, then warned her to be careful. For the next couple of days Marta joined Damir whenever he went out to find food. The threat of death and gunfire around her only strengthened her resolve not to be beaten by their aggressors, and she enjoyed the time she spent with her uncle. He was a lot like her father. Slowly Marta was beginning to overcome the tragedies that had befallen her.
5
“Nice doing business with you,” said the man in the green coat as he handed over fifty dinars. “Anything that I can do to help my friends in the council is always a pleasure,” said Stipe, stuffing the money he had just received into his trouser pocket. “And don’t worry about those other items you asked me about. I’ll have them for you shortly.” The man watched as Stipe turned toward the waiting car and thought, That’s a man who is going far. We could do with him in the party. Then with the pace of an athlete fresh from the starting blocks, he quickly went inside with his illicit parcel tucked under his arm.
Stipe’s trade in black market goods had transpired by accident. He was a finals year student studying medicine with high hopes of getting exemplary results, when the university he was studying at took a direct hit from an artillery shell killing several of his lecturers. His tutoring had suddenly come to an abrupt end. With no reason to stay in Sarajevo he left his cousins house where he had been staying and returned home to his parents house near Srebrenica. When his uncle fixed a job for him working on the refuse collection wagons he readily accepted it. There was little money and practically no jobs around and for the present his ambition to be a doctor had to be put on hold until he could save some money and travel to England or Germany to finish his studies. When they were sub-contracted to clear the refuse from the UN compound nearby, Stipe saw a way to get back on track with his education. The UN troops had a plentiful storehouse, while outside there were gross shortages of everything. He just needed to convince someone that they ought to do a little readjusting of the wealth, for both of their benefits, and that someone was Ton van der Meen.
In the six weeks they had started their operation, Stipe had built up an impressive list of customers, ranging from officials in the council, to shopkeepers and even a couple of high ranking police officers. Stipe was easy to talk to and had a persuasive manner. He was also proving to be a very shrewd businessman and a cautious operator who chose his customers carefully. With the help of Ton, who had brought two more suppliers from the compound on board, he was getting to be known as the man who could just about get you anything. That all started to change on Fridays collection.
The day started off in its usual manner, bright and sunny with a whiff of gun smoke on the tail of the wind. The shelling of the town by the Bosnian Serbs had increased in the last few weeks. People were tense and concerned that the Serbs were going to overrun the city. Stipe thought it unlikely that they would go against the UN troops, after all, Srebrenica was a designated safe area. And only a couple of days ago he had seen two Dutch f16’s attacking enemy targets. If anything were brewing, Ton would have told him about it.
They had an early pick up with the refuse wagon which suited Stipe as he liked to get away early on a Fridays and take care of his other business. They drove towards the compound three miles out of town. In the distance high on the mountain road they could see a convoy of trucks heading in their general direction. They slowed down and observed the line of trucks and armaments that were winding down into the valley. They were Serbian military and that was a lot of positive movement coming in the wrong direction. Stipe turned to his driver, “We had better get to the compound as quick as we can, something is not right here.” The driver accelerated away quickly going through the gears until they were going as fast as the old bus would go. Five minutes later they were at the compound. The barriers were up and the gates were open and there was a lot of activity inside the camp. Stipe started to feel worried, there was never this much activity so early in the morning and the barriers were never left unchecked. He looked at his driver who in turn returned the motion. Beads of sweat had formed on his brow.
“Something’s happening Stipe, those soldiers we saw, the compound open. Go and speak to Ton and find out what’s going on.”
“Drive to the back of the kitchen forget the pick up points, I’ll see if Ton’s about.” They drove into the compound amidst rising panic. Groups of the refugees were gathered around the soldiers waving and shouting at them. Soldiers were gathering at various points and army trucks were being loaded with equipment. They reached the back of the kitchens unchecked by anyone. “Wait here!” said Stipe and leapt out of the vehicle and ran to the kitchen door. Inside he saw Ton in the far corner giving directives to his staff. He looked up when Stipe entered. His eyes were creased with concern, a man struggling to deal with his present circumstances. He signalled to Stipe to wait there and finished talking to his subordinates, gesticulating with importance as he spoke. When he finished they all dispersed in different directions and Ton came over to him.
“ What’s fucking happening, Ton? There’s shit flying everywhere.” Ton put his arm around his shoulder and drew Stipe close.
“There’s been a lot happening that I don’t know about, but orders have come from the top that we’re pulling back lad, that’s what’s fucking happening. From what I’ve heard we’re handing control over to the Serbian army amidst a load of guarantees for everyone’s safety. It sounds bollocks to me and if I were you Stipe lad I’d be thinking to get me and my family away from here as soon as I could. I’ve left a couple of food packages outside in the usual place. Keep them for yourself Stipe, you are going to need them, and forget about paying me any money, keep that as well.” Stipe swallowed hard. He could feel the blood drain from his face as Tons words fell on him like a hammer blow to the back of the head. “What the hell am I going to do now?” Stipe’s voice sounded hollow and strained. Ton felt sorry for Stipe. He had come to like the lad a lot. He reminded him of his younger days, that element of risk taking and exuberance, the hallmarks of youth, like a snakes skin that is shed when marriage and responsibility become the norm. He was that way once himself. That’s what had first endeared him to him.
“If you have anyone up north I’d go to them. It’s probably safer up there.”
“No. My family are all from this region.”
“Well get them together and go somewhere lad, preferably out of the country if I were you. I’ve got a feeling it’s not going to be safe around here.” Ton reached into his top pocket and handed a slip of paper to Stipe. “If you want it here’s my address in Amsterdam. If you decide to leave the country you could go there. Talk to my father he has a jewellers shop in the Magna Plaza. The phone numbers on t
he back. Tell him about our little venture together and he will help you. Good luck to you Stipe lad.” He offered his hand and Stipe shook it. “Bye Stipe.”
“Thanks Ton.” Ton returned to his men. Stipe turned slowly, shaken by the news, and unsure what to do. He put the paper into his wallet and rejoined his friend in the lorry. He relayed the news that Ton had told him to his friend. The driver slammed his head down onto the steering wheel and cried out in disbelief. “We ‘re all doomed. There’s no hope for us now. You saw how close those Chetniks were. They’ll be everywhere in a couple of hours.”
“Well we have no time to loose then do we? Get moving back in to town. We have to warn our families.” The driver started the truck. Stipe remembered the parcels and jumped out the wagon. “Wait a second.” He picked them up and put them in the cab. “There’s one of these each. Ton packed them specifically for us. Now let’s go.”
They drove as fast as they could back to the town looking across at the steep hillside that blended into the valley on the east side of the road. The convoy had disappeared. Stipe knew that they had descended into the lower forests and could emerge out of any one of the tee-junctions that joined their road at any moment. “Hurry it up. If we get caught out here we’ll be killed for sure.” The driver pressed his foot harder onto the accelerator trying to force it passed its already attained limit. As they reached the town general chaos was starting to unfold. The news that the Serb army was coming had travelled quickly. People were on the streets running in and out of their homes, collecting together there loved ones, all fear of the shelling and sniper fire temporarily forgotten in the smog of panic.
“Drop me here,” said Stipe. The driver pulled over to let Stipe out. He collected his package and prepared to leave. Stipe looked at his friend knowing it could be the last time that he saw him. “Take care of yourself buddy.”