Braco (26 page)

THURSDAY:
MICHAEL SAKIC

MIKE TOSSED HIS
camera bag in the back seat of his truck and looked around. The sun hovered above the bustling tent city. Bosnian army trucks sat next to the tarmac; groups of soldiers were speaking with civilian men who had arrived on the buses the day before.

“Where are you going?”

Mike shut the door. Brendan leaned against the truck, combing his gelled hair.

“Jure came through with a way to get me to Kladanj. I'm his driver.”

“In my truck?”

“Come with us.”

Brendan opened his mouth to reply and stopped. He turned around to look at Robert, who sat on a step with his camera next to him.

“Tell you what. I'll stick around for the next briefing and you take him with you. He can get some footage and you can tell me what's going on down there.”

“I'll try not to lose him.”

“And keep him away from the land mines.”

Mike smiled and pushed his bag aside to make room for another passenger. Jure appeared and got in the front seat.

“Let's get going. We're burning sunlight.”

“Daylight, you moron.”

Jure laughed and lit a cigarette. He rolled down the window and blew the smoke outside. Brendan was speaking to Robert. The young man's face brightened and he jumped up, hefted the camera to his shoulder, and walked towards the truck. He stashed his gear in the back seat and poked his hand in through the open front window.

“Hi,” Robert said, shaking Jure's hand. “I guess you're the Muslim translator.”

“Yes. I am. And I'm guessing that makes you the Christian cameraman.”

“Umm..., actually, I'm American.”

Jure pulled Robert's hand closer.

“I don't translate the religion, my friend. I translate the language.”

Mike laughed and got in the driver's seat.

“Get in, Robert. Before he bites you.”

“Is everyone in the West like him?” Jure asked in Bosnian.

“Pretty much,” Mike replied. “Now you know why my job is so hard.”

“That's okay. Until I met you, I thought all Canadians were nice people.”

Mike started the truck and then he looked at Jure. “You want to walk?”

“Drive, Jeebes,” Jure said in English.

“That's Jeeves, moron.”

“You see what a blessing this man is,” Jure said, turning to face Robert with his cigarette held high in one hand. “He brings me the finest tobacco known to man and gives me language lessons at the same time.”

Mike looked at Jure and pushed his glasses back with his middle finger. He put the truck in gear and drove towards the gate. They passed through and turned south.

“Anything new this morning?”

“I didn't catch much,” Jure replied. “No question everyone knows about the men. There's even word that they're calling on the Chetniks to let the men through to Tuzla.”

“And what are the Serbs saying?”

“No idea, but I can guess.”

“Okay, guess.”

Jure cleared his throat.

“Yes, Mr. President, Mr. Secretary General, I assure you we are doing everything possible to ensure an orderly evacuation. Those that give themselves up will be treated according to the Geneva Convention and those that are not war criminals will be allowed to go home.”

“What's wrong with that?” Robert asked, leaning forward between the seats.

“Well, you see, my young Christian American cameraman, we are all war criminals. If your last name is Omanovic, like mine, then you are a war criminal. If it's Karadzic or Mladic then you're not.”

“That's pretty stupid.”

Jure choked on the smoke he'd just inhaled.

“Ah, my friend, you are learning. Stick with me, Christian cameraman, and I will teach you so that you can go home and teach them.”

“Yeah. Sure. Okay.” Robert looked at Mike. “You sure he doesn't bite?”

They reached the checkpoint outside Kladanj. Jure raised his ID and they were waved through the barrier. Mike parked on the shoulder across from a line of buses. The men gathered their gear and walked towards the tents set up to dispense food, water, and medical assistance. Refugees trudging on the road were met by Pakistani peacekeepers and Norwegian medical staff. Some walked directly to the buses. Jure stepped inside a tent. Mike fished his camera out and strolled towards the approaching refugees, taking pictures. Robert followed, his camera rolling.

“Where are they coming from?” Mike asked Jure when he returned. “I don't see any buses.”

Jure pointed down the road towards a short tunnel.

“Six kilometres away,” he said. “They make them walk. The doctor said they've been trickling in all night. You should see them in there.” His shoulders shuddered and he rubbed his arm. “I think I'm getting chicken skin.”

“Goose bumps, you moron.”

Mike already had goose bumps on top of goose bumps.

The road was full of refugees. Women carried their children, walking a few metres and stopping to rest then walking a few more. One old woman caught Mike's attention. She was pulling her husband, a double amputee, along the ground on a blanket and stopping to rest after every step. Two peacekeepers approached the woman and lifted the man and his blanket. His wife followed without a word.

Mike backed up, pulling Robert with him as he took pictures of the peacekeepers carrying the man. They disappeared inside the tent and Robert followed. A doctor pulled Jure aside to translate for him. Mike stood alone, staring down the road.

Six kilometres.

He'd hoped to get some pictures of the Serbs. He didn't expect they would be so far away.

Not that a short walk has to stop me.

“Jure,” he said, tapping the translator on the shoulder. “I'm going for a walk. Okay?”

Jure spun around.

“Where?”

Mike walked away.

“Just as far as the buses.”

“What?” Jure said, running after Mike. “You can't go down there.”

“What are they going to do? Shoot me?”

“There are mines everywhere.”

“I'm not going into the woods. I'll stay on the pavement and only go as far as they let me. If the first Serb I meet tells me to leave then I'll leave. Don't worry. I won't be long. And keep an eye on the kid. Don't bite him.”

“Mike!”

“You know what they say, Jure. If your pictures aren't good enough, you're not close enough.”

“Yeah?” Jure shouted after him. “Well. What about the one where if you're still breathing, you're not dead enough.”

Mike glanced back, smiling. Jure threw up his hands and turned away.

He walked quickly through the tunnel. Women plodded along the road or sat on the shoulder, out of the sun. One woman was using a piece of cardboard to fan her infant. Another woman was trying to fill a bottle in a creek running alongside the road. Mike counted eight men in one group, but other than that, there were few men or teenage boys. Bags and clothes littered the road. Mike took pictures as he walked. The refugees asked him questions in Bosnian and English.

“What is going to happen to us?”

“Where are the blue helmets?”

“Do you know what they have done with our husbands?”

“How much farther?”

Mike pointed toward Kladanj.

“Not much farther,” he told them. “Food and water.”

Some who were on the verge of giving up took heart from his words and kept moving. Others remained on the ground, staring up at him as he took their picture.

Farther down, he came across a large tree lying across the road. Walking off the asphalt was a risk, so he pushed his camera bag underneath the tree and climbed over it. He stopped to take a picture of an old woman sitting against the tree on the other side.

“Where are you going?”

Mike turned, looking for the source of the question. A Serb soldier in a clean camouflage uniform was sitting on a guardrail. A rifle hung against his chest. He tossed a cigarette into the ditch and beckoned to Mike.

“What are you doing here?” He pointed at the camera around Mike's neck.

“They sent me here to take some pictures,” Mike replied in Bosnian.

“Who sent you?”

Mike dug into his back pocket and pulled out a business card he had borrowed from a photojournalist who worked for a small paper in Novi Sad, Serbia.

“They want some pictures of the great victory over the Turks in Srebrenica.”

The soldier inspected the card. Mike had used it once before to bluff his way across a Serb checkpoint. Luckily, he had learned the language without developing a strong accent. The Serb passed the card back.

“Novi Sad. I have two cousins there. Never been, though.”

“You should visit and see our bridges.”

The soldier fished out a pack of cigarettes, inspected the contents, and frowned. He crushed the empty package in his fist and tossed it over the edge. Mike dropped his camera bag to the ground, digging into a side pocket. He pulled out a pack of Player's. The Serb's mouth dropped open.

“I don't smoke,” Mike said, tossing the pack to the soldier, “but I try to bring a pack or two with me to share with our brave soldiers.” He raised his camera. “Can I take your picture? For your cousins to see.”

The soldier smiled and poked the cigarettes into a pocket. He stood up straight, threw out his chest, and held the rifle high. Mike took a picture. The soldier pointed to the refugees.

“Another one. With the Turks in the background.”

Mike took another shot. “Are the buses far away?”

“No,” the soldier replied. “Not too far.”

“Can I go?”

The soldier retrieved the pack of Player's from his pocket and sat back down on the guardrail. “Sure. Tell them I said you're okay.”

“Keep up the good work,” Mike said. He walked away, tasting the toast and marmalade from breakfast.

The last refugees had passed him on the road by the time Mike caught sight of the first bus, empty and turning around. A dozen soldiers loitered around the checkpoint. There were three men on the side of the road. Two lay on stretchers and the third was kneeling with his hands clasped behind his head. Mike started to repeat the bluff with the soldiers, but the moment he raised his camera, they stopped asking questions and smiled.

Nothing like the prospect of being famous to make you forget about security.

“More buses are coming very soon,” the senior sergeant told him. The sergeant was two inches shorter than Mike, but his shoulders were twice as broad. His camouflaged shirt was unbuttoned, the sleeves too small to roll up over biceps as thick as Mike's thighs.

“The buses bring the women and children, but the men ran away. We have them trapped. We have soldiers on the road all the way to Bratunac. They can't escape. When we are done, Srebrenica will be Serbian once again.”

“How many have been captured?”

“Thousands,” he said. “They hide in the forest like deer, but we flush them out. They have no food or water. They'll all give up. They're cowards, as you know.”

Mike nodded, his eyes drifting towards the stretchers. The man on the right was unconscious and had bloody bandages on his head. The other man's stomach and thigh were wrapped in bandages and he was coughing up blood. Neither wore a uniform. Mike raised his camera and focused on their faces.

“Take this man, for example,” the sergeant said, kicking the thigh of the conscious man. “He is a soldier who stabbed himself in the leg hoping we would not detain him. But he is a war criminal. He killed Serb women and children. He raped them and burned them alive in their homes.”

Charred furniture. Crackling flames. Roasting flesh.

Mike swallowed and refocused on the Serb. The sergeant turned to the kneeling man, pulled him to his feet, and dragged him to the edge of the road. The man's eyes were fixed on the ground and his whole body shook. Unlike the others, he wore camouflage pants and a green shirt. All three men were barefoot. The Serb pulled out his pistol and cocked it, pointing it up at the man's head.

“Come over here and take a picture. I will show you what we do to war criminals.”

Mike lowered his camera and glanced down the road.

Where are those goddamned buses?

“Shoot,” the sergeant said.

Mike's heart jumped. “Huh?”

The sergeant motioned to Mike with the pistol.

“Shoot your pictures. I have friends in Novi Sad. I want them to see that I have captured Turks. Come on. It's just a picture.”