Braco (5 page)

“Go back the way you came,” the translator said. “Don't go near the main gate. The Chetniks can see that side of the camp.”

The refugees drifted away from the fence.

“He's right,” Ina said.

She wrapped her arms around her daughters and turned. His mother's features softened and she nodded. Atif dropped Tihana on her feet and they followed Ina into the crowd. Tihana stopped and sat down on the ground. People bumped into them and tripped.

“She's tired,” Ina told Atif.

“We need to get to the factory,” he said. “Before it fills up.”

“We'll worry about that when we get there,” his mother said. She directed them to the brake factory wall and then bent down to untie the rope around Tihana's waist. “I'll carry her.”

Atif untied his end of the rope first and let it drop.

“No, it's okay, Mama. I'll carry her.”

“You're sure?”

“I don't mind. She can sit on my shoulders.”

His mother hesitated then nodded.

“Okay.”

Ina passed around a cup of water from the green container. After they drank, his mother picked up Tihana and swung her up and over Atif's head, positioning her half on his shoulders, half on his pack. Atif grunted from the extra weight and fought to keep his knees from giving out. Tihana wrapped her hands around Atif's head, her nails digging into his skull. The toy soldier dug the tip of its machine gun into his temple.

“Are you okay?” Ina asked.

“Yeah. Let's go.”

They rejoined the crowd, trudging through the narrow gap between the brake factory and other buildings. Atif held his sister's hand to keep the toy soldier from impaling his eyes. Her fingernails found his stitches. Sweat dribbled into his eyes. He could see nothing, plodding behind Ina and the twins. A Dutch voice called out, shepherding the crowd towards the zinc factory. People dropped out of the line, sitting on the road or the grass.

“Almost there,” Ina said.

They reached a door which kept opening and closing, making a high-pitched squeal. Next to it, a larger door hung open. They stepped through the open door and shuffled to the right. As his eyes adjusted, Atif made out a choppy sea of bobbing heads belonging to people who occupied the long, narrow factory floor. Some were moving upstairs into the offices. Dust filled the air; it was like standing in a hot oven.

Could there be asbestos here too?

“We might be better off outside,” Atif said.

“By the buses,” Ina replied. “It's shelter at least and won't be as crowded.”

They turned around and fought against the tide. When they got back outside, Ina led them across the street to the side of a wrecked bus partially tipped on one side. They settled down against it, out of the sun. Atif laid Tihana in the tall grass. She went to sleep, the toy soldier nestled under her chin.

Atif leaned against the fender of the bus. People were claiming every open patch of ground, placing blankets, plastic, and cardboard on the grass or pavement.

“What do we do now?”

His mother rolled up a blanket and placed it under Tihana's head.

“We wait.”

Atif didn't want to wait. He wanted answers.

Why only two planes? Why did the men go into the woods? What are they going to do with us?

He stared at his backpack, remembering the young journalist who had ridden into Srebrenica with the first convoy three years earlier.

“I want to show the world what's happening here,” the Western journalist had said in flawless Bosnian. “They need to see that you don't have a lot of food. If they see that, they won't be happy about it and they'll send food.”

Atif stared up at the young man, whose eyes were hidden behind sunglasses.

“How can I do anything about that?”

“You're pretty skinny. Let me take your picture. The rest of Europe will be angry to learn that you're not getting enough to eat.”

“But I've always been skinny.”

“That doesn't matter.”

“I'll have to ask my father.”

“That's fine. Perhaps I can take a picture of your family.”

“My little sister, too?”

“Yeah. Sure.”

Atif had stared at the journalist's backpack, chewing on his lip. The pack had a gold embroidered emblem with three words underneath.

“University of….”

“Manitoba.” The journalist crouched down and let Atif take a closer look. “I went there for a few years.”

“Where is Manitoba?”

“In Canada. Do you know where that is?”

“Yes.”

“Manitoba is a province in the middle of Canada. I was born there, but I live in Toronto now.”

“But how come you speak our language?”

“My grandparents emigrated from Croatia to Great Britain before the Second World War and then they went to Manitoba during the war. My grandmother never learned English, so I had to learn her language.”

Atif smiled, staring at the pack again. He liked the gold embroidery.

“Do you want it?”

“What?”

“Consider it a gift, for letting me take your picture.”

The journalist opened the pack and transferred most of the contents to his camera bag. Atif took the bag and looked inside.

“I left some treats in there,” the journalist said. “You can share them with your sister.”

“Any cigarettes?”

“Aren't you a little young to be smoking?”

“I don't smoke them. I trade them. For food and stuff.”

“Oh. Right. Hold on a moment.”

The journalist had gone to his truck and returned with a white plastic container the size of a cigarette pack. When he opened it, there were twelve cigarettes and a lighter inside.

Atif stuffed the container into the bag. “Thanks.”

Later, he had traded the lighter for a pound of salt. The cigarettes had bought meat and a winter jacket for Tihana. His father agreed to the pictures, standing silently to one side as the journalist snapped shots of his son wearing only a pair of shorts.

The journalist asked him to suck in his stomach each time he took a photo. Atif didn't like doing that.

He stared at the road leading to the Dutch base and wondered if there were any journalists there now.

Do they know what's happening? Do they care?

TUESDAY:
MICHAEL SAKIC

MIKE GROANED AND
rolled his head into the pillow trying to silence the thumping between his ears. He wondered if he had any Aspirin left but didn't have the energy to open his eyes to look.

“Never again.”

The pounding came from outside now and his name came with it. He tilted his head.

“Mike!”

“Goddamnit.”

He rolled his head back into the pillow and pulled up the sides, covering his ears. The thumping stopped and he slipped into sleep.

Burning furniture. Table legs. Armchairs.

Keys jingled.

A click followed.

Mike opened his eyes on a bright window. A moment later, a shadow eclipsed the light and a hand shook his shoulder. Mike's vision adjusted; Brendan's stocky frame stood in front of him.

“Get up, Mike.”

“I am up.”

Clothes landed on his head.

“You're awake. You're not up. For God's sake, you said you'd go.”

Mike squinted, wondering what he had said. The last thing he remembered was a soldier leading him into a basement full of black-market alcohol.

“I wouldn't have wasted my time if I knew you were going to fall off the wagon.”

“Wasn't my fault,” Mike said, wiping drool from his chin.

Brendan shook his head. His short, flaming red hair mirrored his mood. “What? Does Bosnian beer have legs? Did it walk up to you and force its way down your throat?”

Mike chuckled into the pillow.

“Fine.” He heard zippers. “Where are we going?”

“Srebrenica, you fool. I expected you in the lobby an hour ago. I thought you of all people would jump at this chance.”

Mike rolled onto his back; the room spun. He swallowed bile and looked up. A blurred form stuffed a black bag.

Brendan worked for an American news affiliate, but neither he nor his cameraman spoke Bosnian. In the last month, the pair had lost their translator to the BBC and their driver to a sniper. Mike had offered to do both jobs; it supplemented his income enough to keep him in the country longer than he had anticipated. The agreement also landed him more photos.

“I didn't think we'd go,” Mike said. “The UN said there would be air strikes today. The zone of death, remember? They won't let us anywhere near the town.”

“Christ, Mike. Have you been asleep all day?”

Brendan sat down on the edge of the bed and handed him his glasses and a cup of coffee. Mike stuffed a pillow behind his back and sat up, taking a sip. He glanced at Brendan who glared back.

“What?” Mike asked.

“They dropped two bombs and went back to Italy. We're guessing the Serbs threatened to kill the Dutch they took from the observation posts. The Serbs are probably in the town by now. Last I heard the population was heading for Potocari.”

“Goddamnit,” Mike said. The coffee repeated and he swallowed the acidic sludge. “There's going to be a lot of body bags.”

“And we need to leave now if we want a front row seat.”

“Fine. Fine. I'll meet you downstairs.”

Mike dug into his jeans pocket and pulled out his wallet, opening it.

“What the….”

“They drank you dry, didn't they?”

“Bastards.”

The soldiers he'd met the previous night had told Mike they would take him to meet a man who helped people escape from Sarajevo through a tunnel in the hills. Mike rubbed his forehead and pushed his glasses up.

I should have known better than to accept that first drink.

Brendan dropped the packed bag at the foot of the bed.

“Look. Shit, shower, and shave and get down to the lobby in fifteen minutes. I'll take care of the bill. Consider it payment for your translating services this week. And next week.”

“I'm still doing your soundman's work. How about we call it even?”

“Then you're out of luck. He's cutting through the red tape in Zagreb. I expect him here in a week or so.” Brendan moved towards the door then hesitated. “On second thought, skip the shit and shower. Just piss and pack.”

He stood at the door, staring at Mike.

“I'm up. I'm up.”

Brendan shook his head and left. Mike swung his legs over the side of the bed, immediately regretting the motion. He dropped his head into his hands to steady the rotating room. The coffee repeated.

After a few deep breaths, he stumbled to the bathroom and turned on the hot water faucet. Cold water sputtered from the tap. He soaked a towel and held it to his face. Feeling half awake, he dressed and then checked his camera bag to make sure the soldiers hadn't made off with everything else.

Cameras, lenses, film, meter, filters, batteries. Everything present and accounted for.

A metallic noise suddenly shattered the silence of his room. Mike's knees gave out and he dropped to the floor behind his bed.

Damned garbage containers.

He stood up, walked to the window and looked out over a pile of sandbags. On the street below, teenagers were diving into dumpsters looking for the food they knew the Western journalists wasted without a second thought. Three dogs sniffed the rubble at the base of the containers, roving back and forth like caged wolves.

Then a cat scrambled to the top of a container, startling the teenagers; it took a long leap through a broken window. A dog tried to follow. It yelped as it hit the window sill and dropped.

Another lid crashed down.

Mike shivered.

As much as he hated the noise, he preferred it to the alternative. The hotel routinely assigned journalists to the rooms facing Putnik Street, a wide multi-lane Sarajevo roadway in front of the hotel. On his first trip into the battered capital he learned that the road was visible to Serb snipers.

He closed his eyes, remembering every detail.

The first time he had heard the popping sounds outside his window, he didn't flinch or duck. He thought a car had backfired. Then he'd looked outside.

Two women lay in the middle of Putnik Street, the contents of their bags strewn around them. One lay still in a puddle of blood. The other cowered behind her friend's body, shrieking. A French armoured personnel carrier rolled into the middle of the street to protect the women.

Mike had done the one thing he had come to Sarajevo to do: he grabbed his camera and rushed outside to take pictures. The next day, the same thing happened. A repeat on the third day had bewildered him and he'd buttonholed a British officer in the hotel lobby.

“Why are there no sea containers there to protect them? You've got them on the road behind the hotel. Why not here?”

“They won't let us,” the officer had replied, glancing around.

“What do you mean they won't let you? Who?”

“The city government.” The officer had turned and pointed to the crowd of reporters huddled near the hotel entrance. They looked like they expected Tom Hanks to walk by at any moment. “This is what the Bosnians want. A sniper victim falling dead in front of the media. This way, they make sure the world doesn't forget what is going on here.”

Mike had turned away from the peacekeeper in disgust and walked over to the front desk to request a room change. When he sent out the photos he'd taken the day before, he included a commentary on the politics behind the killings. They'd published the picture but cut the “unsubstantiated” story.

“Ready?”

Mike opened his eyes. Brendan's new cameraman, Robert, stood in the doorway. He carried a video camera on his shoulder, which looked too big for his slight frame.

“Brendan said to tell you the escort leaves with or without us in ten minutes.”

Mike tossed the towel on the dresser.

“I'm coming.”

Robert didn't move. “He told me to help you.”

“No, he told you to make sure I was up and moving.” Mike picked up the black bag and tossed it at Robert's feet. “Go on. I'll be right down.”

Robert picked up the bag and walked away. Mike turned to the dresser and shuffled through some papers. He picked up a laminated black and white clipping that showed an emaciated boy wearing only a pair of shorts.

The caption read, “Starvation in the heart of Europe. Twelve year old Atif Stavic weighs only 63 pounds. Food drops and convoys are doing little to alleviate the hunger. Should the UN intervene?”

Mike had never returned to Srebrenica to tell the boy his face was known worldwide; at least it had been for a few days. His photos and the footage from other journalists had sparked outrage over the Serb blockades. Within months, the UN designated Srebrenica and a fifty-square-kilometre area around the town as the first United Nations Safe Area. Only the Canadians responded to the UN request for troops, sending in one hundred and fifty peacekeepers when ten thousand were needed. Eight hundred Dutch replaced them a year later.

Mike liked to think the photo had made a difference. The truth usually did.

“Where are you now,
Braco
?”

He dropped the picture into his knapsack, checked the room over, and left.