The Edge of Me (19 page)

21

‘She’s sick,’ Andjela says.

‘I know. I know,’ I say.

After an hour or so, we have to wake her. And for a minute she doesn’t seem to know where she is or even who we are. Her head is hot and her face is flushed.

‘Senka! Senka!
Come on
!’ we say. I help her on with my shoes. Leaning on us, she gets to her feet, swaying and muttering to herself.

‘We must get some food,’ says Andjela.

She’s right. I know she’s right. We’re all hungry but I feel if Senka doesn’t eat soon, she’s not going to make it.

We limp back down towards the road, and Andjela and I take Senka’s weight. At the roadside, we have to stop as she loses consciousness and hangs between us like a rag doll. We look at each other, and Andjela steps into the road with her arm extended.

We don’t have to wait long. Senka lies in my arms, slipping in and out of the world, as Andjela flags down
a car. I see her lean in and beg for help. I see the driver’s look of undisguised disgust.

He spits out the word
‘Roma’
, closes the window and waves her away.

She turns to me with a shrug and it’s then that I lay Senka down and go and stand with Andjela. We have better luck the next time: a farmer’s pick-up. The driver lets us into the back among sacks of potatoes and a sheepdog with a collar of frayed string. Then, with a glance at Senka, he goes to his cab and brings out bread and a bottle of what looks like whisky. Andjela cradles her head while we encourage her to drink. It brings her round at once, coughing. I break the bread and feed it to her, piece by tiny piece, like you’d feed a bird, and she rallies a little.

‘Thank you very much!’ we say.

I ask him about the inn called the Ship on the river near the white churches. He knows it. He can take us to Libač, about fifty kilometres from the inn. From there, he’s going north.

It’s bitterly cold in the back of the truck and after a while, the farmer stops and pulls over. He lifts Senka out and puts her in the warm cab with him and covers her with his jacket. Andjela and I huddle up under sacking and try to sleep. At Libač, by a red brick school with a tall bell tower, he lets us out, giving us directions for the inn.

We cannot thank him enough and there are tears in my eyes as he says goodbye. Before he goes, he reaches into his pocket, pulls out a banknote and hands it awkwardly
to me. Then he takes off his jacket and gives it to Senka. We wave vigorously as he drives away.

The first thing we do is find a shop that sells food. We buy bread and honey, a bottle of sickly sweet juice and some tea towels to use as bandages for Senka’s feet.

Afterwards, I can see Senka’s better for the food but she’s still very frail. We have fifty kilometres to go and it’s a straight road south following the river. As we leave, it starts to rain. The slippers have disintegrated: my feet are torn and bleeding from the rasp of tarmac but I can’t feel them any more. We spend the night in an empty barn near the road, curled up together for warmth, and leave at daybreak.

Another day’s walking. We’re soaked through and weary but something keeps us moving. Every so often, we rest and eat. We’ve spent all the money and we’ve eaten most of the food. We tramp on for the rest of the day until it’s dark.

Then I see it. ‘Look!’

Up ahead, the white spire of the first church looms, and across the river are the lights of the Ship.

We cross the bridge, sliding on wet stones, the river coursing beneath us. The air is iron and salt. I think of Joe. His hands are on my back, his voice in my ear and his lips on my neck; I’m walking for him, to him. And I have my sister.

It’s taken us nearly three days to get here.

On the other side, by the twin church, I stop. Fear catches in my throat, it winds me. I kneel in the wet grass
and the river bellies and sings, and in its reaches, I see lit windows and the bleached bone steeple from the church on the opposite bank. I hold my head.

Senka comes to me. ‘Sanda?’ she says softly, and she combs my hair with her fingers. ‘Sanda?’

‘OK. I’m OK,’ I say.

We walk along the river, past the well, the dark huddle of houses, and come to a stop at the door of the inn.

The door is opened by Natalija.

She holds out her arms. ‘Sanda!’

‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘I’m so sorry.’

‘I should never have let you go.
Never
. Peter said he should go and I stopped him. I’m so sorry.’

The skin around her eyes is lined and pouchy, and her hands are cold. ‘This is your sister?’

‘Yes. This is Senka, and this is …’

I turn, but Andjela’s no longer behind me. Her slight, hunched figure is moving quickly away, crossing the square towards the bridge.

‘Andjela!’ I call.

She doesn’t look back and I know I have to go after her. I leave Senka and race across the cobbles towards her. I catch up with her easily and grab hold of her hand.

‘Andjela! What are you doing? Where are you going?’

‘No police!’

‘But there won’t be police! No police. I promise. I promise, Andjela. It’s OK …’

We stand together for a moment, wet through and out of breath. She shakes her head, then bursts into heaving
sobs, and I see just how frightened she is. I understand I have to let her come of her own accord. I release her hand and stand back. I say, ‘I won’t let anything happen. I promise … No police. No Zbrisć. I promise … Andjela?’

Of course, at that moment I don’t know exactly what awaits us but I do know I’m not going to let any of us go back there. Ever.

Her body relaxes and her arms fall. She even begins to move towards me. But then her eyes fix on a spot behind me: they widen in fear, and she turns to run. I look over my shoulder; Peter is coming towards us, he’s saying something but his voice is lost in the wind. I say, ‘They’re friends, Andjela. They’re friends.’

She seems unsure of what to do. She turns, trips on a paving stone and loses her footing. At once, Peter is there. She covers her head with her arms as I saw her do back in Zbrisć. He picks her up like a child and speaks to her in soothing words. The fight has left her. She’s too exhausted to do anything other than lean into his chest as he carries her back into the inn.

Inside, Natalija asks, ‘Is this your friend from Zbrisć?’

‘This is Andjela. She saved our lives.’

‘Andjela,’ she says it so sweetly, ‘and your sister: you brought her back.’

‘Senka. Is she OK?’

‘She’s upstairs. She’s very weak. I’m making some soup. Peter’s closing the inn.’

The smell of thyme and roast tomatoes fills the room.

Peter sets Andjela down and she comes to stand by me.

I say, ‘Andjela’s so scared of being sent back … I’ve tried, but … will you tell her it’s OK?’

‘Of course,’ says Peter.

‘Thank you,’ I say, and my mind’s humming. I blurt out in a rush of excitement because I can almost see it now: ‘I guess Senka and I can maybe go to England. I mean … there might be foster families … you know … and I was thinking, she could go to my school. The government will look after us, won’t they?’

Peter says, ‘Let’s see.’

Natalija offers her hand to Andjela. ‘Come with me?’

She says it so gently, and her smile’s so bright, that after a moment’s hesitation, Andjela lets herself be led upstairs, leaving me with Peter.

I know there’s so much more to talk about, but I can’t help myself: ‘Is Joe –?’

He shakes his head. ‘He’s back in the UK. His mother flew over when we called her. She insisted she take him back and I don’t blame her. He was so worried about you. He tried to get away and go after you. But she stopped him – she couldn’t risk losing him again. He’s in hospital – an infection – I spoke with her yesterday. He’s left a letter for you.’

A letter.

‘Where is it?’

‘Sanda …’ says Peter.

‘Hmm?’ My head is full of Joe again.

‘I wanted to say how sorry I was. How the hell could I have let you just walk out of here with the first guy that
waltzes up saying he’s your father? I’m an idiot. A total idiot. I should have insisted.’

‘It wasn’t you. I wanted to believe it …’ I falter and look at him. He shakes his head.

I go on, ‘I thought Kristina might have come for you. I was so frightened.’

He beckons me into the kitchen and busies himself with the soup. He brings out a bulging loaf dusted with flour, and slices a hunk for me as he talks.

‘You were gone about two or three hours before I started to get really twitchy. Natalija too. There was something about him that – I don’t know – on reflection just didn’t feel right. We waited until we just couldn’t sit still any longer and then I knew what I had to do. I went to Zbrisć. To the orphanage.’

‘You saw it?’

‘God.’ He’s straining the tomatoes. ‘God, Sanda. What a place.’

‘You met her – Milanković?’

‘After a struggle, yes. And I put it to her that I knew everything, all about what was going on, and that I was in touch with some very powerful international forces – wasn’t too specific – but it did the job. She rolled over. Told me where you’d been taken.’

‘I don’t believe it.’

‘I think she knows the game’s up for her. I’ve been in touch with the authorities about Zbrisć, said if they don’t do something about it, every TV crew in the northern hemisphere will be descending on them. I went there that
night – to the house – with some pals of mine, ex-army, ex-UN, and, well … it’s … there are basically dungeons in the basement. It’s sordid. We found six people down there, starving and abused, two certainly from Zbrisć.’

‘And my father?’

But he carries on. ‘Being sent to the house was obviously the ultimate threat at Zbrisć.’ I can hear Natalija on the stairs now. He says, ‘Kristina’s in custody. She’s wanted for war crimes, and I wouldn’t mind guessing that she’s been overseeing the goings-on in that house from England. She won’t get out for a long time.’

‘And …?’

Natalija comes into the room and shoots a look at Peter. ‘Soup ready?’ she says brightly. ‘The girls are resting. Senka’s going to be OK, Sanda, but she’s malnourished and completely exhausted. I don’t know how you made it, I really don’t.’

‘I should go to her …’ I say.

Again, that look between them. She says, ‘In a minute. I’ll take them some soup.’

‘Sanda, there’s someone we want you to meet,’ says Peter.

Natalija opens the door at the back of the kitchen on to a small room. She stands aside for me to go in. The room is dimly lit by a little stove in a corner, flames dancing and crackling in its belly.

A man is standing by the window, partly in shadow. I know him at once.

22

Smiling, he takes a step towards me. ‘Sanda.’

Instinctively, I back away. Slowly. The stone is cold under my feet. My toes lift away from it.

No one speaks. Natalija goes to leave but I stop her. I look at him. His green-gold eyes are tired and his skin is waxy and bruised. ‘Sanda?’ He speaks very softly. ‘I’m Branko. Your friends are brave. They got me out of there.’

His voice is like a song you hear from years ago, that you thought you’d forgotten until you hear it again. And you know all the words – every one. His voice was already inside my head. It’s been there all along. I just never knew it until now.

I’m crying now, and I look at my father and he has tears in his eyes too.

‘I must get Senka,’ I say.

Natalija says, ‘No, wait. She’s been through so much. Let her rest a little.’

He speaks again. ‘All these years, I’ve thought of
nothing but you and your sister. When I got out of prison, I went all over, every children’s home, every church, every school. I put ads in the newspapers but there were so many, so many looking for daughters, sons, fathers.’ He pauses and checks himself.

‘Those photographs?’ I whisper.

He nods. ‘Yes. Every so often an envelope would be put into my cell with a photo and a date on the back. It used to crucify me. Of you, of Senka too: thin and pale in rags. Every time, I’d will myself not to open the envelopes, but I always knew I’d have to in the end. And you were growing up, every year that passed, getting further and further away from me, from what you’d known.’

Natalija says, ‘So cruel.’

He smiles at Natalija and turns back to me: ‘What Kristina told you, back there, in the house, it wasn’t true. I never led her on. I was never in love with her. I was
kind
to her, that’s all; she’d had a difficult life. It was just some stupid infatuation. At least that’s what I thought.’

He puts his hands on my shoulders. ‘Look. I understand you’re scared. You don’t know who to trust any more. But I can show you papers. I can
prove
I am who I say I am – whatever you want. But … I would like to … can I tell you? My story? What happened to me and how you were lost.’

‘Yes please.’

Natalija says: ‘Please sit down. I’ll leave you to talk.’

There are two armchairs, one either side of the stove. I sit facing my father.

‘When you and your sister were born, it was the happiest time of my life. There were complications. Twins are difficult sometimes but you were healthy, and your mother …! When you were put into her arms, she was more beautiful than ever. She made all your clothes: dresses, little jackets and hats – all the same. We were very happy. Around the time you and your sister were born, we were living in a little town outside Srebrenica. It was in Eastern Bosnia. We are Bosniaks, you see, Bosnian Muslims. The Serbs wanted to gain independence, and to do that Srebrenica was important for them. They wanted to take it. To make it theirs. You understand?’

I nod.

‘So they had to get rid of us. One by one, they took our towns and villages. The military, the police, paramilitaries, they were all involved. They stole everything. They burned houses. They took people out and beat them, shot them. Women, children. It was terrible, Sanda. I began to lose all hope. I had never thought it would happen in my lifetime. Something like this.’

I lean in to hear because his voice has died to a whisper.

‘We made it through that first year, I don’t know how, but we did it. People helped each other – food, hiding places. Many Serbs helped us too, they didn’t agree with what was happening. Then we heard there was a United Nations compound set up close by, in Srebrenica. We thought we could be safe there. But we couldn’t get in.