Braco (21 page)

WEDNESDAY:
ATIF STAVIC

FOR MORE THAN
an hour the ground shook and the air screeched. Atif breathed in dust and cordite. He covered his ears. His teeth chattered and his heart pounded.

“Please stop,” he whispered to himself over and over. He felt as though he was suffocating.

“Count them,” his father had said.

Atif looked up into his father's eyes. They were huddled together in the corner of a church, sheltered from the worst barrage they had experienced since arriving in Srebrenica. The pews and the altar were gone, burned for heat. As a round threw shrapnel against the side of the church, Atif buried his head into his father's chest, trembling.

“Count them, Atif. And write it down when you get home.”

“What? Why?”

“Someone needs to keep records. The information may be important someday. When the shelling is over, we'll find out if anyone was hurt and keep an account of that, too. Okay?”

Atif nodded eagerly and waited for the next rumble.

“One.”

“What do you mean one?” Tarak said next to his ear. “You were somewhere around fifty-four.”

Atif blinked and flipped the dirt from his eyes with a free finger.

“Was I?”

Another round slammed into the earth.

“Fifty-six.”

As darkness encroached, the attack slowed; one-sided machine gun fire punctuated the night more often than shells. Tarak shifted his weight and sat up, keeping low. Atif rolled to his side and came up against a fallen tree trunk. He took the long-sleeved green shirt from his pack and pulled it on. Tarak picked up his rifle, dusted off the barrel, and set to work taking it apart. He placed the parts on his legs after wiping them with a rag.

“Salko would have my head if he saw this go muzzle first into the ground.”

“How many rounds do you have?”

Tarak tapped the magazine on his lap. “That's it. Since I wasn't going up front, they took everything I had.” He pulled a piece of cloth through the barrel several times. “So, why were you counting the impacts?”

“My father told me to.”

Atif reached into his pack and poked around until he felt the hard cover of the journal wrapped in plastic. He pulled it out.

“I wrote it all down. The date of each attack, the number of impacts from the artillery and from the airplanes that used to fly over. Then after the attacks I would ask around to find out who was hurt and record their names.”

Atif passed the book to Tarak. He examined a page in the moonlight.

“This is really detailed. Good way to keep occupied.”

“I think that's why Tata got me started, but after I spoke to some journalists I decided it was important. One guy who was taking pictures said that nobody believed we were being attacked; nobody believed we were starving. He said the Chetniks told everyone they only attacked soldiers. He said he could tell them the truth.”

“Not easy to do if no one is listening.”

“I guess so.”

Atif wrapped the book up and stuffed it under the bottles. Machine gun fire strafed the meadow. Atif peered over the dead tree.

“So, what do we do now?”

“I'd like to wait, but the front of the column will be crossing the road soon. They won't be able to hold it open for long.”

“Do we have to go through the meadow?”

“Yes,” Tarak said, reassembling the rifle. “Like I said, it's a steep hill with a river down below. Once we get there, we should be fine for a while. The woods are pretty thick there.”

“What if they start shelling again?”

“Then drop and don't move.”

Voices echoed in the distance; some talking, some shouting. Others shrieked in pain.

“It seems to have died down. Are you ready?”

Atif nodded, but his legs refused to budge.

“Can we wait? Just a couple of minutes?”

“Yeah, sure,
Braco
. Are you okay?”

“My legs are asleep. And. And I just….”

“It'll be all right. I've been through much worse. All you have to do is follow my instructions. The stuff I've told you really works.”

“I believe you,” Atif said, massaging his calves. “What's it like?”

“What's what like?”

“Living in peace.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don't know.” He slapped his legs. “I was eleven when the war started. I can't remember what it was like before. I get flashes of stuff like going to the hospital when my little sister was born. I remember walking through the parking lot, in the open. I remember not being afraid. And then it all changed: every time I stepped out into the street, I wondered if a sniper was waiting for me. There could have been crosshairs on my head and I would never know.”

“Well, just wait until you get to Tuzla. Imagine going to the market and finding tables piled high with fruit, vegetables, videos, CDs, and clothes. Imagine buying whatever you want. Then taking it home and sitting down to a big meal in the backyard on a hot summer afternoon.”

“You know what you said, about going away?”

“Yeah.”

“My mother said if we got out of Srebrenica, we would go far away and never come back.”

“But you want to stay so you can fight when you're old enough.”

I'm not sure what I want anymore.

“I'm ready to go,” Atif said, wincing from the wave of pins and needles in his shins.

Tarak helped Atif to his feet.

“Follow my lead and stay quiet. Voices can travel in these hills.”

“Okay.”

With the rising moon directly behind them, they walked to the treeline. The moon lit the meadow brightly enough that they could see figures moving between the shadows. They crouched, watching. Voices in pain drifted over the meadow. Ghostly figures moved among the bushes and trees. Some were single men, others were pairs carrying bodies between them. All headed down the hill. There was no response from the Serbs.

“Chetniks may have packed it in for the night,” Tarak whispered, moving forward.

Atif followed. They quickened their pace and crossed the meadow, picking up speed as they descended. Atif heard voices, groans, and screaming to his left and right. He caught glimpses of bodies in the grass. Some still, others moving. When he turned his head to look at one, he tripped over another, slamming into the dirt face first.

A hand grabbed his foot.

Atif rolled to his back.

A face looked at him through the grass.

“Tata?”

Atif blinked.

The face, young now, screamed, “Help me!”

Atif tried to jerk his ankle free from the iron-clad grip. “I'm just a boy,” he said, kicking at the hand with his free leg. “Just a boy.”

Tarak appeared and wrenched the man's hand away from Atif's ankle. He grabbed a strap on Atif's pack, pulled him to his feet, and pushed him forward.

“Don't go!” the man screamed. “Please. I beg you.”

They sprinted away, hurdling over several bodies. Atif heard his feet strike water and tripped again, submerging himself up to the neck. Tarak dragged him out. The moment his feet struck dry ground, Atif started to run. Machine gun fire strafed the hillside behind them.

“We're almost there,” Tarak said, panting hard. “Almost there.”

The machine gun rounds punched the air above them but didn't move down the slope.

“They can't see us down here, can they?” Atif asked.

“Just keep going.”

They scrambled farther into the forest. Tarak changed direction and guided Atif to a rock. They collapsed behind it.

“You did well,” Tarak said, breathing in short gasps.

Atif gulped the air and shivered in his wet clothes. “There're wounded men up there. Shouldn't someone be trying to help them?”

“Nothing we can do for them. We have to get to the road tonight and we can't do it dragging them along.”

Figures moved through the woods. Men rested nearby, others kept walking. Some carried makeshift stretchers between them. Atif remembered his father speaking to his mother after a group he had led to Kravica was ambushed.

“Out there,” his father had said, “it's the law of the jungle. When the Chetniks attacked, it was every man for himself.”

“Every man for himself.”

“Yeah,” Tarak replied. “Something like that. And if I get that badly hurt, you'll do the same for me.”

“What? No.”

“If you get hurt, I can carry you. You can't carry me and no one is going to help you. And I won't let you try.”

He reached inside his shirt. Atif heard Velcro separating and Tarak pulled out a laminated identification card.

“This is my old Yugoslav Army ID. They can identify me with this. If anything happens, I want you to take this and tell the army where I am when you get to Tuzla.”

“I don't know.” Atif struggled with the notion that Tarak might get hurt.“Promise me,
Braco
. I have no family left. I need the army to know.”

Tarak replaced the card.

“Promise?”

Atif stared at him, biting his lip. Tarak gave him an encouraging smile.

“Okay. I promise. But you're not going to get hurt.”

Tarak patted Atif on the shoulder and shifted the rifle. He rose to one knee and looked around before standing.

“We have a long way to go to catch up with the rest of the men. They're not going to be able to keep the road open for long.”

Atif stood, still sucking in air.

“Okay. Let's go.”

WEDNESDAY:
NIKO BASARIC

NIKO SAT ON
the edge of a stolen Dutch armoured personnel carrier watching flashes of white and red illuminate the southern sky. He glanced at his watch. Artillery and mortar had been falling for more than an hour. Heavy machine gun fire erupted between the shells. He dropped from the carrier and walked along the edge of the road. Petar sat on a guardrail, facing south.

“How can anyone survive that?” the recruit asked.

“You'd be amazed.”

It will barely make a dent in the thousands walking this way.

After their section left Potocari, Drach had dropped them in Bratunac to eat. Afterwards, an officer told them they were needed to patrol the road to prevent the men from crossing. The officer suggested up to thirty thousand men were in the woods. The figure surprised Niko; he wondered if the officer had exaggerated the number to get more men and weapons.

“Did you get a chance to call your wife?”

“Phone wasn't working.”

Niko never got a chance to try a second phone call before they were loaded into the carrier and driven to this dark stretch of road. The driver told them they were not far from Konjevic Polje.

They were sitting on the edge of the road near the lone carrier, waiting to face what might be thousands of Bosnian soldiers.

Niko shivered in the warm evening air.

“Are they sure they're coming this way?” Petar asked. “I mean, Zepa is so much closer.”

“You should be happy they're not going that way. I'd rather fight them here than in those hills.”

“I heard someone say Zepa had fallen. Said it was on the radio.”

“But it hasn't fallen.”

“I guess they don't know that.”

Niko heard a sound to his right. He spun around, scanning the pitch black road. A shadow floated across the road.

And another.

“There's someone here,” he whispered to Petar. “Stand up. Quietly.”

“What is it?”

Niko walked backwards, pulling Petar with him.

A voice erupted from the woods. “Hey, Chetniks!”

In one swift motion, Niko and Petar dropped to the ground and raised their rifles.

“Who is that?” Petar shouted.

Niko slapped the recruit on the shoulder and raised a finger to his mouth.

The voice spoke again. “The entire army of Bosnia and Herzegovina. That's who. Ten thousand armed men are going to cross that road. I suggest you leave.”

Behind them, the carrier roared to life.

“Go. Go.” Niko grabbed Petar by the collar and pulled him towards the armoured vehicle, expecting to feel a rifle round penetrate his back any second. They turned the corner and dove inside the carrier. Niko pulled the hatch closed.

“We're in. Go. Go. Go!”

Moments after the carrier left the area, thousands of men poured across the road and melted into the forest on the other side.

No one stayed behind.