Braco Page 2
Atif’s knees failed him. He slid towards the pavement, dragging his mother down with him.
“We can’t go down there.”
“It’s okay, Atif. They’re not shelling the road. That’s why we have to move now. We’ll be safe in Potocari.”
A second shell struck a parking lot, driving shards of concrete, rock, and mud into the air. Atif climbed to his feet, staring at the twin columns of dust drifting between the houses. He clamped his arms like tongs around his mother as they joined the river of refugees. People pushed, not caring who they knocked down in their panic to get away from the town and the encroaching Serbs. Sweat clouded Atif’s vision again.
They approached the small Dutch compound called Bravo within minutes. White trucks sat parked in the motor pool. Blue helmets scurried between them, carrying equipment and stretchers. A truck roared to life and moved forward. Peacekeepers hefted stretchers into the back.
A cloud puffed up behind the trucks, the report following a moment later. Atif and his mother ducked with the rest of the crowd. He looked back. A second pillar of dirt sprouted behind the camp.
“They’re shelling the blue helmets. What’s going on, Mama?”
She pulled him forward. “We have to hurry, Atif. The soldiers are saying the tanks are in the town.”
Atif watched the camp, hoping to glimpse a familiar face. The peacekeepers ran back and forth between the buildings and trucks carrying boxes, packs, and blankets. Sentries watched the crowd. A woman approached the wire fence and spoke to a peacekeeper on the other side. He stepped inside a bunker and returned, tossing a bottle of water over the fence.
A line of peacekeepers stretched across the main gate.
“Go to Potocari,” one of the Dutch shouted in English. A truck idled behind him.
Atif turned away and spotted the top half of their house across the street. The white concrete face was pitted from shrapnel. The second-story balcony had no rail and was piled with split firewood. Thick clear plastic covered the windows and a hole in the roof had been repaired with scrap lumber.
Atif’s mother fought against the current of refugees and they emerged on the shoulder of the road. The front lawn had been converted into a vegetable garden and now swarmed with people digging up the potatoes and carrots. Atif released his mother and ran into the yard.
“What are you doing?” he asked a man, tugging on his shirt. The man ignored him. “Those are our carrots. Get away.”
“Leave him alone, Atif.”
He looked up. Ina stood in the doorway dressed in jeans and a flowered blouse. She ran her hand through her short black hair and pointed inside.
“We have all that we can carry,” she said. “Come get your pack.”
“But it’s ours.”
His mother took him by the shoulders and directed him up the steps. “Go get your pack. We have to go.”
Atif walked up the rotted wooden stairs, his feet pounding each step. He was careful to skip the second-last one. He expected the spongy tread to fail soon.
His mother followed him into the poorly lit kitchen. Firewood covered the windows and the only light came from the door. Empty cupboards lined a wall and dishes sat unwashed in the sink below them. Ina’s twin daughters, Lejla and Adila, stood at a table sorting through a pile of carrots, potatoes, and clumps of soil. They wore head scarves, long sleeved blouses, and brightly coloured baggy trousers, despite the heat. Atif knew the twins preferred jeans and short-sleeved tops. He had never seen them wear head scarves or dimijes. They turned to Atif and smiled.
“We left your pack on your mattress,” Lejla said. “We didn’t know what you wanted to bring.”
“Pack light, Atif,” his mother said, helping the girls. “You don’t need any clothes. Leave room for the food and water.”
Tihana sat on a stack of split wood next to the stove, watching everything that moved. He stood above her and peered down into the reflection of his own green eyes.
“Hi,” he said, crouching next to his seven-year-old sister. “Did you miss me?”
She nodded but said nothing, her eyes following Adila across the room. Atif stood and turned to his mother.
“What’s wrong with her?”
“She hasn’t said a word since,” she whispered close to his ear. “She ran to the alley after the shell hit, but some men had taken you to the hospital before we got there. We didn’t know for hours. She thought you were in the alley when the shell hit. And she saw Dani.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“You had a concussion. I doubt you remember much from the last couple of days.”
“She’ll be okay,” Ina said, touching his arm. “She just needs time. Now go get your pack. Hurry.”
Atif stared at her then nodded. He trusted her judgment.
He turned away and took the stairs two at a time into the basement. Mattresses covered with clothes and blankets lined the damp foundation walls. A broken light bulb hung from a loose wire in the middle of the ceiling. A wool blanket with sewn up holes separated his space from the girl’s section of the room. He brushed by the blanket and knelt on his mattress. His black knapsack sat in the middle and he picked it up, dumping the clothes out.
What do I need?
He picked up a red hardcover journal and skimmed through the pages of notes, numbers, and dates until he found his identification booklet and cards.
All there.
He wrapped the book in a plastic bag and stuffed it inside the pack then checked the outside pocket. Empty.
Where are my cigarettes?
He checked around the mattress but couldn’t find them.
Mama must have them.
His eyes swept the mattress and spied his favorite neon-yellow A-Team t-shirt. He stripped off the blood and sweat-stained shirt he was wearing and pulled on the clean yellow shirt and then he surveyed the wood stacked on one side of the room. He picked up four die-cast toy soldiers sitting on a piece of split wood and dumped them into the single outside pocket.
He stood up and looked around the room that had kept them safe for three years.
The farm. The cabin. Now this. I hate running away.
“Did you take my cigarettes?” he shouted as he scaled the stairs.
“I have them,” his mother said.
She tossed a small plastic container to Atif. He opened it and counted nine cigarettes.
“I had to buy some water containers.”
Atif followed his mother’s gaze to Ina, who pointed to a large green container the Dutch usually used to store gas. Two smaller clear plastic bottles were on the table. Lejla had carried in a bucket from the rain barrels in the backyard and was pouring it into the green container.
He had been saving the cigarettes to buy winter boots for Tihana for her birthday.
But nine cigarettes can buy more valuable things now.
His mother took his pack and dropped the two small bottles inside. Ina picked up a handful of potatoes and stuffed them in between the bottles. Adila handed her carrots and she laid them on top.
“Is this too heavy?”
“It’s fine,” Atif said, without picking it up.
People shouted outside.
“What’s going on?” Lejla asked.
They went outside and leaned over the railing, looking south.
“I don’t see any tanks,” Ina said.
The people in the crowd looked skyward. Fingers pointed to the north. Atif ran into the yard and looked up, shielding his eyes from the high sun. He scanned the clear blue sky above the steep hills surrounding the town.
Thunder rolled and faded then rolled again.
A helicopter? No.
The noise didn’t have the chopping echo of a helicopter.
A plane?
But this wasn’t a mosquito.
Bigger. Louder.
Hornets?
Two silver-grey blurs split the air like lightning.
Thunder clapped. The crowd screeched.
Atif slapped his hands against his ears and bent over as air rushed in to fill the vacuum left behind the fast moving aircraft. His ribs vibrated. He straightened up and swung around to look at the planes as they threaded the needle between the hills and disappeared towards the south. He made a fist and punched the air.
“Yes! Yes! They came. I knew they’d come. I knew they’d save us!”
The crowd slowed down; thousands of eyes settled on the south-western horizon. The distant rumble changed pitch. An explosion echoed between the hills. People burst into cheers and applause.
“Yes, yes!” Atif screamed at the sky. “I knew you’d come. I knew it.”
The planes rose, two dots above the horizon. As they turned, the sun glinted off their wings. Then they dove again.
“Come on. Come on.” Atif eyed his mother. She was smiling, but it was a reserved smile. He glanced at Ina; her expression was like his mother’s.
They should be happy. We don’t have to leave now.
Thunder grew in the south. The planes rose into the sky a second time. He waited for more explosions.
Nothing.
The aircraft dove and disappeared from sight. Smoke drifted up behind the southern hills. The crowd scanned the sky, looking for their saviours. Fingers pointed in every direction and then the roar returned. A single jet came down the same path from the north, swooped low over the edge of town and then streaked straight up into the sky. A second bomb detonated.
“Go, go, go. We’re going to be okay, Mama. We’re going to be okay.”
They waited for more, but the thunder faded and the glints vanished from the sky. The crowd resumed their walk to Potocari. More people entered the yard and dug for potatoes.
“Come on, Atif,” his mother said, stepping inside. “We have to get ready.”
“What? No,” he said, climbing the steps and following her. “We don’t have to go. They’ll come back. The Chetniks won’t come in now.”
His mother took him by the shoulders.
“Listen to me, Atif. We both know that two bombs mean nothing. There are too many Chetniks and, until we know for sure, we’re better off in Potocari.”
Atif glared at her.
“Look at them.” She motioned through the open door to the refugees; a Dutch peacekeeper was walking among them. “We have to follow them. We’re not going to turn back until they do.”
“To Potocari,” the peacekeeper shouted. “Chetniks come. To Potocari.”
No one turned back.
Atif’s elation evaporated. He looked at his mother. She returned his gaze, her lips tight. He drew in a sharp breath, remembering the last time he had seen the same expression.
Atif had woken to his father’s touch that spring night three years earlier, back on the farm near Kravica.
“Get up,” his father had said. “Get dressed. Quickly.”
Atif had sat up in his bed and wiped the sleep from his eyes before looking up. His father’s eyes darted away, his calloused fingers fidgeting with the buttons on his own shirt.
“What’s wrong, Tata?”
“Chetniks are coming. We have to leave.”
“Now?”
His father didn’t answer. He’d reached under Atif’s bed and pulled out a knapsack they had packed months earlier. The war in Croatia had convinced his father the fighting would spread to Bosnia and he had set to work building a place to hide in the woods behind their farm. He had stocked it with enough food and supplies to last them for months and traded Yugoslav currency for Deutsche Marks and American Dollars. He’d bought cartons of cigarettes even though he didn’t smoke.
“Get dressed,” his father had said. “Bring a sweater and the pack. Nothing else. Understand?”
“Yes, Tata.”
“Come downstairs when you’re ready,” he’d said, pulling the door closed as he left.
Atif had dressed and wrapped a light sweater around his waist. He looked around his room.
Nothing else?
His eyes had scanned the room, seeing the wool blankets rumpled on his bed, the blind teddy bear sitting next to his soccer trophies on the dresser, and the poster of the 1990 Yugoslav World Cup team.
I hate penalty shootouts.
A line of die-cast metal soldiers the size of his hand sat next to the billowing curtain. He’d picked two infantry, one machine gunner, and a mortar man, stuffing them into the knapsack. Light flashed in the distance. Thunder rumbled.
A storm? Now?
He’d taken one last look at his room and left. When the Serb army swept through the town, his family hid in the cabin while their Muslim neighbours were murdered.
Atif tore his gaze away from his mother and looked down at his sister.
I wish you were here now, Tata.
“Okay,” Atif said. “But if they turn around, we can come back, right?”
“I don’t think anyone is going home this time,” she said, holding up a length of white rope. “I want you to tie yourself to Tihana. That’s all you have to worry about. If we get separated from you in the crowd, I want you to meet us at the bus depot in Potocari. Get as close to the fuel tanks as you can. I’ll find you there.”
Atif took the rope and stared at it. His vision blurred and his knee felt weak.
Am I still dreaming?
He rubbed his eyes and walked over to Tihana. She sat on the wood, holding her knees to her chest. She was shaking. Atif crouched down next to her.
“Come on, Tihana,” he said, holding up the rope. “We have to go.”
She shook her head. A shell struck high on the hill across the street, a dirty cloud of dirt erupting among the field of stumps that covered the hillside. Tihana sucked in air, staring at the window. Atif glanced back at his mother. She was helping the twins with their bags.
Atif retrieved his bag from the table and returned to Tihana. He took one of the toy soldiers from the pack and held it up. Her eyes widened.
“Remember him?” he said. “I told you the machine gunner is really good because he can shoot a lot of bullets, right?”
She nodded.
“Why don’t you hold on to him? He’ll take care of you. I have the rest so that no one will be able to hurt us. Okay?”
She took the toy soldier.
“Don’t let go of him, okay?”
She wrapped her fingers tight around the soldier. Atif offered her his hand and she stood up. He wrapped the rope around her waist, tying a tight knot, and did the same to himself.
“Are you ready?”
She held the toy soldier close and then looked up, smiling.
“Not too much slack,” his mother said. She loosened a knot and pulled them closer together, tying it back up securely. “There’s going to be a lot of pushing and shoving. Keep her close to you and stay away from the trucks. Understand?”
“Yes, Mama. I’ll take care of her.”
“I know you will.” She kissed him. “Don’t forget. The fuel tanks.”
“Yes, Mama.”
He pulled on his pack. The weight unbalanced him and he grabbed a chair to steady himself. Everyone slung their bags and the twins picked up the green water container between them.
Atif led Tihana outside. His mother closed the door.
She didn’t lock it.
Three shells plowed into the hill above the camp in quick succe
ssion. The crowd dipped like a rolling swell before moving on.
“I’ll stay in front with the girls,” Ina said, eyeing the hillside. “I think we should stay in the centre of the crowd. In case a shell falls short.”
“Agreed,” his mother said, leading Atif and Tihana down the steps and through their looted garden. They followed Ina and the twins into the chaotic crowd. The shelling intensified as the last few homes and factory buildings of Srebrenica faded behind them and gave way to countryside dotted with homes, farms, and forests. Two shells detonated among the trees on a hill far to the right and another fell in a cultivated field to the left. The crowd paused each time and then continued walking.
Atif understood. The Serbs weren’t trying to shell the people. They were herding everyone towards the Dutch base.
He encouraged Tihana to quicken her pace.
The shelling persisted, close enough to drive the crowd like cattle but never close enough to hurt anyone on the road. Atif’s group walked for more than an hour, stopping twice in the shade of trees to rest and drink water before rejoining the crowd. With each step, the scorching sun and blistering pavement sapped their strength, slowing their pace. They watched people too exhausted to continue collapse on the edge of the road or seek shelter in the houses.
A Dutch troop truck crept along, the crowd streaming around it like the wake from a ship. Atif kept glancing back as it got closer, astonished at the number of people clinging to the vehicle. They sat on top of the tarp, hung from the sides, and occupied every open space on the cab. They positioned and repositioned themselves like bees working a hive.
How can the driver see the road?
Two men carrying an unconscious woman on a door brushed by Atif and laid their burden in the middle of the road in front of the truck. The rusted hinges clinked against the asphalt and the doorknob propped the makeshift stretcher up on one side. The men slipped back into the crowd. Atif looked at the truck.
“He doesn’t see her, Mama!”
His mother stepped in front of the woman and waved her hands above her head.
“Stop,” she screamed. “Halt! Halt! You’ll run her over.”
Atif crouched next to Ina and wrapped his arms around Tihana. The truck lurched to a stop, the passengers falling forward. A boy slid off the hood and another one took his place. A blue helmet surfaced between a group of teenage girls holding on to the driver’s door.