Don't Leave Me (11 page)

Steven Kovak, born Svetozar Zivkcovic, looked at his son and almost wept. For his son, yes––for what he was not and never would be. But also for himself, for how he had failed to forge a will of iron in his only child.

But while there was time left, he would not give up. He had never given up on anything. If he could only get that through to his boy, his work on earth would be truly done and he would have peace with God.

They were on the balcony overlooking the dark Pacific. The stars were bright, the sky clear. Kovak enjoyed his pipe, but his son still looked lost in the muck of his own confusion.

“This country is the problem,” Kovak said finally. “It always has been. Oh, maybe not at the very beginning. Or during World War II. But after that the country became meek, womanish. It has allowed women to take away its martial spirit, its grit. They raise girls, not boys or men. This is why their time of greatness is gone. It will not survive. And their weakness is our advantage.”

His son’s head moved slightly downward, as if listening through one ear.

“We must never forget who we are,” Kovak said. “We come from a proud race. Deep inside us we have flowing the memory of the Turks slaughtering us in Kosovo. That was June 15, 1389. The day hell came. The day you must never forget. We learned what subjugation was then. The Turks, the Mohammedans, took our children and conscripted them. Their blood tax bled us dry. Their abuses of our women taught us to hate on a scale never before known. History is what we must remember, son, because that is what keeps us strong.”

His pipe was cold. Pausing to relight it, he looked upon his son and loved him.

“I have never told you this,” Kovak said. “Now is the time.”

Dragoslav’s head came up slightly.

“It was August, 1968,” Kovak continued. “I lived with my mother and father, your grandparents, on a farm in Kosovo. We had fields of wheat and cattle. Then the Soviets invaded Czechoslovakia and that scared Tito, Prime Minister of Yugoslavia. He was not Serb. He was Croat-Slovene, and to keep power he took the side of Albanians in Kosovo. Who then began to drive all Serbs out. One day they came to our farm. They told us to get out or die. My father refused. They took my mother and cut her open in front of us. Then they hanged my father. I pretended to scream and cry, but by then I knew I would never feel such emotions. The will to power and life flooded into me, and I surprised one Albanian with a rifle by jamming a stick into his eye. I took his rifle and killed two men before escaping on foot. I was three days without food. I thought I was going to die. Perhaps I did die, for I saw a great light just before I woke up in the bed of a Serb woman who found me, and nursed me back to health.”

He noted Dragoslav was listening intently. This was the time he had been hoping for.

“I was in an orphanage, but ran away a year later and joined the Army. It trained me well. I made a name for myself. I knew God was with me. The great light. I knew I had a destiny. In the early 1990s I came to the attention of Radovan Karadzic.”

“Karadzic?” Dragoslav said.

“The very same.”

“You never told me.”

“The time was never right. It is right now. The world calls him a war criminal. They call what we did ethnic cleansing. That is no crime, not in the eyes of God. You need only read the Jews’ book to know that. I am proud of what we did, and you need to feel that pride, too.”

“I want to, Father. I do.”

Kovak put his pipe down on the small table between them, and put his hand on his son’s head. “Of course you do,” he said. “Why then do you allow your emotions to take you away?”

“It’s the alcohol,” Dragoslav said.

“Yes,” Kovak said. “In that you speak the truth.”

“I want to stop,” Dragoslav said. “I can.”

Kovak took a handful of Dragoslav’s thick hair. He gently pulled his son’s head toward him and kissed his cheek.

Someone knocked on the French doors. Kovak saw it was Simo, indicating something in his hand.

He stood and opened the doors, went inside.

“Further information on the teacher Samson,” Simo said, handing Kovak a folder.

“Ah. Dragoslav, come inside.” He waited until his son joined them. “This concerns you as well.”

“I’m sorry, Father, I—”

“No, say nothing. To apologize is to be weak.” Kovak opened the folder.

His breath left him.

“What is it?” Dragoslav said.

“The hand of God,” Kovak said.