CALL MAMA (6 page)

Rogue moneylenders operated a lucrative business, targeting vulnerable people who usually hung around bars, spilling not only their drinks but also hard luck tales to anyone within earshot. Overheard by loan shark crooks, they were often rescued from their plight with promises of instant dollars, never more than a few thousand at a time to entice them to sign up. Too inebriated to think clearly, they signed paperwork completely oblivious of interest rates, fees or penalties for late payments. Such illegal activity had interest rates rising in some cases to three hundred percent, too steep for victims to repay. Often fraudsters resorted to enforced payment by blackmail or threats of violence. Within this criminal fraternity, the corrupt Barclay Ellis-Jones found a niche. His smooth-talking, charming manner made it easy for him to build up a profitable business in a vile trade. To his unfortunate victims, he appeared as a charming financial saviour.

Dale Greer had been an innocent victim of banking mismanagement, which had led to the global crisis in the banking industry. He lost his life savings and his house was foreclosed, his wife and sons left to the care of relatives, while he tried to pick up the pieces of his shattered life. He developed a need to escape through alcohol. He spent most of his time and money in seedy bars attempting to escape his miserable existence. His drunken rant in a bar was overheard by a fellow drinker, a well-dressed man who listened to his blustering conversation about the injustice of it all. His new buddy encouraged him to continue with his sorry tale, while plying him with more drink.

Clara Black had lived most of her life in a rundown area of New York. Her marriage failed, leaving her to raise her son and daughter by herself. She held down two jobs, took in sewing but never seemed to manage her household bills. She resorted to petty thieving, mainly from grocery stores in order to feed her family. Her teenage son got into trouble with the law and was jailed for drug dealing, burdening his mother with lawyer's fees that she had no means of paying. After yet another court appearance and watching her wayward son jailed for a second time, she took refuge in a seedy bar near the courthouse and, having over-indulged, poured out her troubles to a stranger who encouraged her to drink and talk.

On one of his legitimate visits to New York for a computer study weekend conference, George North became increasingly frustrated with his own financial situation, not helped in the least when one of the instructors commented that his computer was way out of date and if he wanted to attend further conferences, he would have to purchase a more up-to-date machine. This for George spelt disaster. He would either have to abandon his plans to set up in business or somehow or other get his hands on some cash. He joined some others from his conference for a drink at the bar and when they left to have dinner, he stayed for a few more drinks before heading off to wander the streets to clear his head.

He found himself outside a bar in a none too salubrious part of the city and was enticed in by the smell of alcohol and the sound of raucous laughter. His drunken rant was overheard by a fellow drinker, a well-dressed man who listened to his rambling conversation about the injustice of life and encouraged him to continue with his sorry tale, plying him with more drink.

To Barclay Ellis-Jones' team of rogue money lenders, further evil criminals found a niche. Alfred Wysoki was a violent, gun-carrying criminal who had spent time in Cook County correction boot camp, re-offending some years later, resulting in a mandatory three-year prison sentence. It was there he befriended Barclay Ellis-Jones, imprisoned for four years for embezzlement. Barclay Ellis-Jones had already served most of his first year sentence when Alf, as he called himself, shared his cell and his life. A third cellmate was Les Soubry. The three compared criminal history, outdoing one another with their tales of bravado. They contrived a get rich quick scheme for their release and made the decision to move east to the Big Apple, which suited Alf who wanted a fresh, albeit corrupt start. Alf was proud of his criminal past. He had several facial scars and with his broken nose and staring eyes fronted an air of foul, menacing superiority, confident that no one would mess with him.

“There ain't nothing mechanical I can't mess with and crack; safes are a walkover, and as for autos or engines of any kind I can fix or fiddle whatever's required. I'm ace!” boasted the crook.

Freed from incarceration, Barclay Ellis-Jones dropped his middle name, calling himself Barclay Jones and saw himself as
Mr. Barclay Jones, Money
Lender of Repute
. He was an expert at changing his accent, becoming a polite, well-spoken Englishman or a southern gent, changing from his west coast accent to east coast and on occasion resorting to his native east London cockney accent, all of which made witness identification of him a difficult task. He travelled to New York and rented a small basic apartment in the Bronx.

Alf joined him some time later and the pair began their illicit money-lending business and searched for vulnerable or needy customers, mainly from poorer areas of the city where poverty was rife, people wide open to tempting loan offers from the suave, polite-talking Englishman offering sympathy and ready cash to free them from their misery. Later, Les, released from prison and living nearby, joined in their shady business. Barclay Jones, having hidden thousands of dollars from previous crimes, funded the illegal scheme.

“I'll recoup my money in no time at all,” he told Alf as he laid the ground rules. “Maximum of $2,000, easy repayments, what they can afford, starting $5 or $10 weekly, to get them hooked. We draw up paperwork, they will be so out of it when they sign, they won't know the rate of interest we charge. Give them a few months' respite before calling round for repayments. I don't want you turning up with the cash at the bars. How about we use crazy Les to do the donkey work?”

“He ain't so crazy. I had many conversations with him in the prison library. He's a qualified pilot and an engineer. A really clever dude. Got into trouble drinking on duty, did drugs, got himself dismissed and jailed. Used to fly all types of planes, from big commercial to private ones. Told me he once flew some VIPs to the White House.”

“Good, we'll make use of him. Right, Alf, you're in charge of collecting repayments in cash. Turn up at their house and one look at your ugly mug, they will pay on the nail.”

“Or pay the consequences. Wow, I am gonna love that bit, buddy,” sneered Alf.

“Not too rough at first Alf. Take it gently, show them your sweet side, and then, when they can't pay, go in for the kill.”

“Yeah, man, the charges will escalate through the roof. Bring it on!”

The 19
^th
January 1996 was the day Amila Tanovic's life changed forever. She was exhausted from non-stop nursing, attending to emergencies pouring in to the hospital where she worked. The task was relentless; medical supplies were in short supply, staff morale at a low ebb and space at a premium as more and more casualties piled in, the strain etched on each face.

The war in Bosnia had taken a toll on its people. Unrelenting violence against inhabitants of her home city of Sarajevo reduced them to a state of constant fear. Nowhere was safe in Sarajevo, not work, school, home, nor hospital. Deliberate attacks on the hospital had already reduced a section of the building to rubble. The death toll rose daily as the siege of Sarajevo continued relentlessly. It was the longest siege of a capital city in the history of modern warfare.

More and more victims were being brought in by any means possible, by family, friends, and compassionate strangers. Constant demands rapidly depleted the already limited supplies of bandages, drugs and basic equipment. Amila, in early stages of pregnancy, worked on autopilot. Blood stains covered her uniform, face and arms. There was no time to clean up, no reason for a change of uniform – finding a fresh one was now out of the question. The noise of heavy machine-gun fire constantly filled the air, assaulting eardrums and spreading panic and dread throughout the city. An explosion was heard nearby, causing alarm in the hospital.

Word came quickly: a tram had been attacked not far from where they were and soon more casualties were carried in. Amila looked up momentarily from attending to a young man whose arm had been severed to see her distressed husband, Nikol, carrying a wounded victim, tension etched on his handsome face as he frantically looked for a space to place the casualty, his police uniform unrecognizable now from weeks of the ravages of war.

“Amila, dragi, darling, such tragedy. A tram was attacked, a grenade was fired from Grbavica neighbourhood. Such carnage. One person dead, many injured, about nineteen, we think. When will it end?”

Amila helped her husband place the injured man gently in a corner space, hugged Nikol and wished, how she wished, she could stay there in his arms and rest her exhausted body.

“I have to get back, honey, so much to do, so much… I will come for you later to take you home. You must rest soon. Think of our little one.”

He tenderly kissed his wife and took off once more into the carnage of the city.

Home, a name that should conjure up images of peace, tranquillity and safety, was none of these. Their little haven had been reduced almost to rubble in an artillery attack that took the lives of Amila's parents, grandmother and young sister. They lost most of their personal possessions, documents, birth and marriage certificates, family photographs and treasured mementoes.

Nikol's family had been wiped out in a previous air strike, his brother still missing, whereabouts unknown. The couple, along with Sergei, Amila's only brother, escaped because fate decreed they were not in the vicinity at the time. The three shared what was left of the family home, one room barely big enough for them to move, but it was luxury compared to what some other people had. Tragedy again struck when Sergei was shot by a sniper's bullet while out searching for food.

While tending to casualties of the tram attack, Amila collapsed from exhaustion. Doctor Josef, attending nearby, rushed to her aid, noticed the flow of blood on the floor and feared the worst.

“Another innocent victim,” he sighed.

Several hours later a worn out Nikol arrived to be told the devastating news that Amila had lost the baby they so longed for.

“Take her home, Nikol, let her rest, find nourishment from somewhere and get out of the city as soon as Amila is strong enough to travel. It will be a difficult journey for you both. Thousands of our fellow citizens have already left. May your God go with you!”

“What about you, Doctor? Will you leave?”

“No, Nikol, I have work to do here. I am needed to care for my injured fellow citizens. My wife and family are safe in Germany with her cousin. I will remain here in the city I love, until I am forced to leave. I weep for my Sarajevo, such a picturesque, cosmopolitan city.”

Doctor Josef bowed his head, composed himself and continued.

“All three ethnic groups lived harmoniously. We worked and lived together in peace until propaganda sowed seeds of doubt in the minds of frightened people. I must remain, but you, Nikol, you must get out soon. You are young and your future is elsewhere. Go to America, the land of the free, build a new life there. I have not yet told Amila that she will no longer be able to bear children. I must go to her now.”

For almost a month, Nikol tended his young wife. Amila's grief for their loss was carved on her face, the horrors of past atrocities haunting her every waking moment, her every dream. In sleep, she called out for her family. Nikol cursed the war and resolved to leave as soon as Amila was strong enough to travel. With the city completely blockaded, life was harsh, electricity cut off, water was in short supply and communications became difficult.

“Get well, my dragi, we will leave this accursed place and go to America, the land of the free, where we will begin our new life with hope in our hearts.”

Amila, spurred on by the promise of deliverance from the hell of their existence, took the meagre nourishment offered to her and began to emerge like a fragile butterfly from its cocoon, shaking off her dark mood and setting herself to help sift through their few belongings and pack what was practical to carry.

When Amila was well enough the couple joined thousands of other Sarajevos making their escape from their war-torn city. They queued for long periods to board a bus with other frightened refugees. People who would normally behave courteously now pushed and shoved, elbowing their way to find space for themselves and their pitiful belongings. Nikol guided his still frail wife to a seat, settled her as best he could, and faced a long, dangerous journey to freedom, conscious always of the threat of attack at any time. Amila slept for most of the journey, while Nikol, always alert, kept watch from the barred window for signs of danger. Many hours later, the driver refused to go any further. His passengers walked in convoy, huddled closely together, as if human contact would protect them from onslaught of attack. They hitched rides by any means. A farmer piled as many terrified people as he could onto his cart, took them a few more miles before having to leave them to their fates.

“Halva, thank you,” shouted the crowd to their helper as he drove off to attend to his own pitiful life.

Various means of transport eventually conveyed them to the outskirts of Zagreb where, dishevelled and exhausted, they took refuge in a disused railway carriage and sheltered as best they could from the cool of the evening. There they attempted to rest, always anxious, always alert and never totally relaxing.

The couple were approached by a man who offered to obtain documents and passports for them at a hefty price, promising them flights to freedom. In desperation, Nikol handed over a good part of his savings and waited. Days passed. Just as they feared they had lost their savings, the man appeared with paperwork that he assured them would pass scrutiny at any port or border. He took them and other refugees to a safe house where they waited several more days for his return. Amila rested well, with the anxiety sitting on the shoulders of her young husband. At length the man returned, escorted them to the airport and handed them flight tickets to Germany.

“Sorry, my friends, not enough money for your choice of America. It's the best I can do in these hard times. Good luck to you. I wish I could do more, but these are dangerous times.”

With that, he vanished into the night. Such was the chaos at the airport that harassed officials herded passengers to waiting planes with only a cursory glance at documents.

“Hurry along, people, keep moving.”

Much to the relief of the couple, the plane taxied down the runway and took off, leaving them to adjust to new identities. Nikol studied the new forged passports and smiled.

“Goodbye Nikol and Amila; welcome Kristof and Zelda,” whispered the new Kristof to his smiling wife. For the first time in days, the newly named Kristof slept.