Braco Page 5

  “Sorry. Are you going to get water?”

  Atif nodded. The woman held up a baby bottle.

  “Could you? Please. I have nothing to give you.”

  “That’s okay.” He took the bottle.

  “Thank you.”

  Atif got to his feet and looked around. A sea of women, children, and old men surrounded him.

  Women, children, and old men?

  For the first time since he’d arrived in Potocari, Atif took a close look at the crowd. Almost every face was female. The few male faces were very old or very young. He could see no young men, no older boys. His heart vibrated in his chest as he walked towards the water line, searching for another young male face.

  Have they all gone? Am I the only one left? They couldn’t have all been missing their documentation.

  His eye shifted from face to face until they fell on the features of a middle-aged man sitting with his wife and two young children. Then another young man. And a teenage boy. Atif drew in a long breath of relief and took his place in the water line. But the anxiety remained.

  What is going to happen to us?

  He knew the entire population would have to leave, most likely for Tuzla. He imagined the blue helmets trying to put together a convoy of trucks and buses. But will the Chetniks let them in?

  The sun had sunk below the horizon and the moon had risen in the southeast before Atif had his turn at the water spigot. He filled the containers and returned the baby bottle to the woman. When he got back to the bus, the twins were asleep with Tihana between them. Ina was talking with the man who had lent them the pot.

  “Any problems?” his mother asked.

  Atif shook his head and sat down next to her.

  “Have you heard anything? Do they know what’s going to happen?”

  “Nothing yet,” she replied. “The Dutch must be working on something.”

  “Everyone is talking, passing information around,” Atif said, pointing towards the water line. “Someone said the Chetniks have forty thousand troops coming this way.”

  “I don’t believe that.”

  “What if it’s true?”

  “Even if it is true, they won’t hurt us. They could have shelled us on the road this afternoon and they didn’t. In fact, they went out of their way not to shell us. They know if they start hurting us, the planes will attack. They don’t want to risk that.”

  “Then why did the men go into the woods?”

  “I don’t know, Atif. Maybe they didn’t want to take the chance.”

  Atif wanted to ask more questions but resisted. She didn’t know the answers any more than he did. He sat in silence for a long time, watching. A woman force fed a fussy child. An old man washed the stump of his amputated leg. A family prayed.

  “Is Tata dead?”

  “What?”

  “I mean is there something you know that you’re not telling me?”

  “No. Absolutely not.” She laid a hand on his shoulder. “You were there when the soldier came to the door. He said they found no bodies. He said he was sure the snowstorm took them by surprise and they just got stuck somewhere.”

  “That was three months ago. Why isn’t he back?”

  “They were probably forced to go elsewhere. They might be in Zepa or Tuzla. One soldier said they might have crossed the Drina into Serbia and simply can’t get word back to us.”

  Atif stared straight ahead. His chest ached as he tried to haul in a full breath.

  “If Tata were here, do you think he would have gone with the men?”

  “Well, he knows the way. I’m sure they would have used him to lead a group.”

  “Would he have taken me?”

  “I don’t know.” She smiled. “Do you remember the first time you went into the woods alone?”

  Atif returned the smile as the memory surfaced. He had been six-years old and had stayed in the woods behind their farm until dusk. After a lecture from his mother, Atif went to sleep but woke an hour later to find his father sitting on the edge of his bed.

  “You scared her,” his father had said.

  “I didn’t mean to. I just lost track of time.”

  “You need to be more careful, Atif. There are things in the woods; things that can be dangerous.”

  “All I saw were rabbits.”

  “That’s good, but there are other creatures there. Has anyone told you about the blautsauger?”

  He pulled the blanket to his chest. “You mean the lampir?”

  “No. Not quite the same thing. I’ve never seen a blautsauger, but those who have survived an encounter have told us about it.” His father raised a hand above his head. “It is a tall creature without a skeleton. It has large eyes and its body is covered with hair and it can change shape. Sometimes into a rat and sometimes into a wolf.”

  Atif had pulled the blanket to his chin.

  “At night, it comes out of its tomb and walks around. It picks up a handful of dirt and holds it behind its back and then it goes looking for a victim. When it finds one, it puts the dirt into their mouth and turns them into another blautsauger.”

  “How do you stop it, Tata?”

  “Hawthorn flowers. If you put hawthorn flowers on the tomb of the blautsauger and the ground around it, it will have no choice but to pick them all up. If there are enough flowers, it will keep the blautsauger busy until the sun rises. Sun is its enemy; if sunlight touches it, it will be destroyed.”

  “I know where there are some hawthorn flowers. I can put them on its tomb.”

  “But we don’t always know where its tomb is. We keep the flowers on the ones we know about, but we can never be sure. That’s why you have to be careful and stay out of the woods when the sun starts to go down.”

  Atif had nodded his head with enthusiasm.

  “Don’t worry, Tata. I won’t go back in.”

  His mother laughed.

  “And you didn’t go back in the woods for years after that.”

  And never alone, Atif added to himself.

  Her arm draped itself across his back.

  “We have to hope, Atif. Until we know for sure we have to believe he is out there somewhere trying to get into contact with us. We both know people who have been split up for a long time and somehow find their way back together. Until the war is over, we can’t be sure.”

  “That could be years.”

  “Then we’ll wait years. All that matters is that you and Tihana are safe. That’s what he would have wanted.”

  “I guess.”

  “I miss him, too,” she said, kissing him. “Now, why don’t you try to get some sleep?”

  “No.” The word caught in his throat. He swallowed and faced his mother. “I slept most of the day. We should take turns keeping an eye on our stuff. You should sleep now. I can wake you in a few hours.”

  His mother studied his features for a few moments then smiled.

  “In a few hours?”

  “Promise.”

  She curled up next to Tihana and fell asleep in minutes. Atif wondered how long it had been since she had last slept.

  He leaned against the rusted wheel rim and looked around. Children slept. Parents stayed awake next to them, watching everything that moved. Some cried while others prayed. Atif sought a glimpse of the peacekeepers, hoping to recognize Jac or one of his friends. He wasn’t sure if Jac could get them inside the compound, but he might have some answers.

  There was a distant rumble; Atif stood up and moved a few short steps away from his family. A Dutch armoured personnel carrier with smoke pouring from its engine was creeping along the road towards the compound. Peacekeepers walked with it, in the shadows. Atif guessed the vehicle had come from one of the observation posts.

  Jac would
be among them sooner or later.

  Atif sat down against the tire rim and kept watch.

  TUESDAY: JAC LARUE

  SOMEONE SHOOK JAC’S foot.

  Mom?

  His foot rose and fell, the heel catching on a metal edge. Jac sat up, smacking his head on kit strapped to the ceiling of the armoured personnel carrier. His book and pen flew across the cramped compartment. A thin sheet of stationary floated to the floor. He swung his legs to the side.

  “Goddamnit.”

  Maarten Wendell stepped inside and sat down next to him. He slipped his helmet off his shaved head and leaned forward.

  “Didn’t mean to startle you.”

  “Sure you did,” Jac said, rubbing his face. He took note of the growing stubble then peered at his watch.

  A full hour?

  He rubbed his face again, trying to wake up. An hour of sleep had done little to compensate him for the last three days without any. He leaned back and looked around at the gear piled up to the roof of the vehicle, which had been their home for two days. The armoured personnel carrier was a metal box on tracks meant to transport, not house them. The engine and driver occupied the front; the crew commander and gunner’s hatch was behind them. Two benches ran the length of the passenger compartment in the rear with enough room to seat half a dozen troops. They could exit the vehicle down the back ramp or through a large hatch on top.

  All the hatches were wide open, but two days of oppressive heat and six men who hadn’t showered in more than a week meant that the interior smelled like a mixture of oil, lubricants, and sweat.

  “I thought I said to give me fifteen minutes,” Jac said.

  “Oops.” Maarten picked up the book. “Lord Jim. Where’d you get this?”

  “Found it. I think one of the Canadians left it behind.”

  Maarten fingered through the first few pages and stopped, clearing his throat.

  “He was an inch, perhaps two, under six feet, powerfully built, and he advanced straight at you with a slight stoop of the shoulders, head forward, and a fixed from-under stare which made you think of a charging bull.” Maarten closed the book and tossed it to Jac. “Well, what do you know? It’s about you. Except the part about being an inch or two under six feet. Four or five is more like it.”

  “Yeah? I’d like to see you brag about that the next time we have to dig a trench deep enough to hide your head.”

  “Oh, I don’t mind, except when I have to find a box for you to stand on.”

  Jac raised a middle finger then flipped through the book. He stopped and looked around the cramped space.

  “Where’s the letter?”

  Maarten moved his foot, which was pinning a light blue sheet of paper to the floor. He picked it up.

  “Dear Mother.” He laughed. “Are you serious?”

  Jac tore the sheet from Maarten’s hands and folded it inside the book.

  “What am I supposed to say?”

  “Hi, Mom. How are you doing after….” He hesitated, counting on his fingers like a first-grader. “Seven months? By the way, you were right, Mom. This place is screwed up and I should have gone to university like you wanted.”

  “Forget I asked.” Jac poked the book into his thigh pocket. “What’s going on?”

  “We just bombed Srebrenica.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Yeah. Two planes. Two bombs.”

  “And?”

  “And what? They went back to Italy in time for dinner.”

  “After two bombs?”

  “Budget cutbacks.”

  “What did Sergeant Janssen say?”

  “Nothing. He’s gone into Jaglici to speak to the Bosnian commander.”

  “Nezir?”

  “Yeah,” Maarten said, pointing. “That’s Nezir’s family over there.”

  Jac leaned forward. A woman sat near the carrier’s rear ramp with three children around her. She held an infant in her arms.

  “Does Janssen think he’ll let us go?”

  “Might,” Maarten said. “A lot of men passing by are saying something about walking to Tuzla.”

  “Long walk,” Jac replied. He hauled a bottle of warm water from a half empty case sitting on top of their gear, swallowed a mouthful then pulled a towel from around his neck and soaked it. He ran the wet towel over his face, hung it around his neck, and then poured the rest of the water through his hair and down his chest and back. He secured his flak vest.

  “Some of the men said Zepa has fallen,” Maarten said, glancing outside. “Believe that?”

  “I don’t know what to believe anymore.”

  Jac looked outside. Refugees had been gathering since the morning; mostly women and children left behind by their husbands and fathers. A hundred metres up the road, the remains of their observation post smouldered. The Serbs had shelled it two days earlier, only minutes after the Dutch evacuated the structure.

  After the observation post had been destroyed, the peacekeepers had boarded the carrier, intending to return to Potocari. Nezir heard of the peacekeepers’ impending departure and ordered his soldiers to stop them. He believed that if the Dutch left, there would be nothing to keep the Serbs from taking the northern towns. The Bosnian soldiers had set up a machine gun in a nearby house; one other soldier walked around carrying an anti-tank missile. Nezir ensured the Dutch he didn’t want to harm them. He only wanted to keep them from leaving the area.

  A rumble overhead drew Jac’s attention outside. He slipped his helmet on and picked up his Uzi submachine gun. He slung it over his shoulder and let the weapon hang against his chest. Maarten followed. They stepped onto the ramp and stared into the sky. Two jets circled like hawks high above.

  “Think they’re the same planes that hit Srebrenica?” said a voice from above.

  Jac glanced back. Erik Klein, their gunner, sat cross-legged on the top of the carrier.

  “No idea,” Jac replied. “Definitely good guys.”

  “Probably American,” Maarten said. “They’re flying high and fast.”

  “Yeah.”

  The Americans had lost a plane to Serb anti-aircraft fire the month before and since then they had been flying higher and faster in order to avoid the missiles.

  “Bad guys!” Erik shouted.

  Jac and Maarten wheeled around and looked up. Erik pointed; two missiles were punching through the air towards the high-flying jets. They missed by a wide margin and the planes disappeared into the west.

  “Well,” Maarten said. “We won’t see them again.”

  Good guys my ass, Jac thought.

  “We have to be neutral,” the officer had said. “No good guys, no bad guys.” That was the theory. In practice, each side played both roles. One day the Serbs would agree to a ceasefire then shell the town, killing civilians who had left their homes believing they were safe. Another day, Bosnian soldiers would crawl across the front lines so they could shoot at the Dutch observation posts. The Bosnian soldiers hoped they would be mistaken for Serbs who were firing on the UN and invite reprisals against the Serbs. Both armies hated the presence of the UN and manipulated the peacekeepers for their own ends.

  Jac crossed his arms and rested them on his Uzi and then surveyed the growing crowd of civilians. They were the real losers, he thought.

  For three years, the Serb army had Srebrenica under siege. The civilians had used every opportunity to get out of the enclave, but the Bosnian army had prevented as many as possible from leaving. They even shot civilians caught trying to walk through the woods. From the Bosnian army’s perspective, the town would be lost if the civilians were allowed to leave and so they kept them there in squalor and with less food to eat than those who endured the Siberian gulag. Now the army had abandoned the civilians, leaving them at the mercy of the enemy.<
br />
  “Hey, Jac.”

  He turned to see Karel Meyer leaning against the carrier. Karel pushed his helmet back and lit a cigarette. The smoked swirled around his sunglasses.

  “What do you call a Bosnian, a Serb, and a Croat woman standing together?”

  “Give it up, Karel.”

  “A full set of teeth.” Karel blew smoke through his nose.

  Maarten looked back.

  “Are you still telling that stupid joke?”

  Karel held up a middle finger and tapped himself on the forehead. Maarten laughed.

  “Only if you buy me dinner.”

  “Go to hell, flikker,” Karel said.

  “Oh, isn’t that sweet, guys. He still thinks insults mean something to someone over the age of twelve.”

  “Will you two give it up,” Erik said.

  “Kankerjood.”

  Jac turned and walked up to Karel.

  “I’m not gay or Jewish, so what’s your problem with me?”

  “You like them,” Karel replied and then laughed.

  “Go stand somewhere else.”

  “Learn to take a joke, Jac.” Karel sauntered away.

  “Might be time for the sergeant to have a talk with him,” Maarten said.

  Jac nodded. The last thing Karel had wanted was a tour in Bosnia. He took his frustrations out on everyone, including the locals, but it had gotten worse in the past few days. One of their own had been killed three days earlier. Karel had known him and took the death hard. Now all he cared about was getting home.

  “Jac.”

  He looked up at Erik.

  “Some of the men are saying that the Serbs are killing civilians in Srebrenica.”

  “Sergeant Janssen didn’t say anything about it the last time he spoke to Potocari. Don’t worry about it, Erik. They’ll be fine.”

  Jac stepped off the ramp. Their medic, Arie Smit, was examining a pregnant woman. Two other women held a blanket over them as a sun shield. A man stood nearby holding two cows by a tether.

  “We’re not going to be able to transport them all,” Maarten whispered from behind.

  Jac glanced back and up. Maarten was tall and lanky like most of the guys in their unit. Jac, on the other hand, had inherited his Dutch mother’s blue eyes and black hair but none of her height. His French father had burdened him with shoulders so broad he had to get his uniforms custom made.