Rose of Sarajevo (24 page)

“I’m first,” the tall one said.

He pulled down his trousers and stood in front of Mirsada.

“Down on your knees!”

When she didn’t move, the others forced her down. Her wrists were still being held from behind, and blood still trickled from her mouth.

“Her tits aren’t bad.”

The tall Serbian’s erection was moving toward Mirsada’s breasts. He grabbed her by the hair and roughly pulled her up against his crotch. Mirsada closed her eyes.

“Come on! Open your mouth, now!”

Mirsada opened her eyes. First, she glanced at the organ being rubbed against her chin and cheeks; then she opened her mouth as wide as she could, took it in as far as she could, and chomped down.

The man bellowed like a crazed beast. Weasel Face was so stunned, he let go of Mirsada’s wrists. Mirsada grabbed her tormenter’s testicles, sank her nails into them, and squeezed with all her might. The tall Serb bent double and bellowed so loud that his companions—whose trousers were already around their ankles as they awaited their turn—didn’t realize for a moment what was happening. As two of them grabbed Mirsada by the hair and tried to jerk her head back, Weasel Face grabbed the tall Serb by the hips to pull him away from Mirsada’s nails and teeth. The man was stretched out on the floor, Mirsada right beside him, her teeth still sunk into his member, her nails piercing his testicles. The others pulled at Mirsada, but her jaw seemed to have locked onto their friend. As they tried to pull her head away, he bellowed even louder. Blood started gushing out of her mouth and the bellowing stopped, but then she was struck in the back and she blacked out. Her ears buzzed, and she suddenly felt light as a bird. She couldn’t feel her hair, the pain in her back, or even the man’s blood in her mouth.

She couldn’t even feel the muzzle of the gun pressing against the back of her neck. But her hands still clutched the testicles of the Serb on the floor, even after Weasel Face ended her life with a single bullet.

Try as they might, they couldn’t hurt her anymore.

Perched on a tombstone, Nimeta luxuriated in a sense of peace and well-being. For the first time since Burhan, Raif, and Fiko had left, she didn’t feel lonely. Stefan was there, listening to her, understanding even the things she couldn’t put into words. He’d always been there, and that must have been what had scared her. Their lives were intertwined. It didn’t matter where she went, how far she ran: he might even appear in the middle of a dark, empty street.

Stefan told her all about his adventures, his reasons for coming to Sarajevo and for going back home to Zagreb, and how determined he’d been to see her before he left.

When they reached the door to Nimeta’s house, Stefan cupped her face in his hands again.

“Nimeta,” he said, “I know this isn’t the time or place, but there’s something I need to say. I know how devoted you are to your husband and children, and I’ve tried to be understanding. But if things were different after the war, do you think we could try again? I don’t want anything bad to happen to anyone. What I’m trying to say i
s . . .
i
f . . .
i
f . . .
”

Nimeta put her finger to his lips. “Shh, Stefan. Don’t say it out loud. Wait for the war to end, for this cursed, senseless war to come to an end.”

She embraced Stefan and went into the house. It was just getting light outside, but the house was still dark and cold. The fire in the stove in the hallway had burned out.

“Do you know which tree this is?” her mother had asked her once as she lit the stove. “Remember that oak you could see from your bedroom?”

Trees were being chopped down across the city. She’d proposed to Ivan that they run a program protesting the deforestation of their city.

“Would you rather people froze to death in the middle of the winter?” Ivan had said. “How do you expect them to cook? We’re at war, for God’s sake!”

She could be such an idiot sometimes. Just then she was so cold she could have burned logs from the majestic plane trees in Veliki Park.

When she’d finished her lemon tea, she noticed a notebook on the kitchen table. Hana sometimes left her homework on the table for her mother to check. She poured some fuel oil into a shallow bowl and lit the wick.

Upon a closer look, she realized that it was Hana’s journal. She’d never read anything Hana had written in her famous journal. She was about to flick through the pages when she remembered what a snoop her own mother had been. But before she knew it, she began reading a page at random.

July 2, 1992

My uncle and Fiko have gone to join my father in the army. I’m here alone with Mom and Bozo. I thought I wouldn’t mind Fiko’s going, but I miss him so bad, as much as I miss Da
d . . .
maybe even more. I’m sorry I was jealous of him because Grandma and Mom love him more than me. Now I wouldn’t care if he pulled my hair and teased me and bossed me around. I wouldn’t even care if they loved him best either. Nothing’s worse than being lonely! May God watch over him, and not let him get hurt or killed.

Nimeta couldn’t read through her tears. She pressed the journal to her chest. Then she took the lamp with her to the armchair by the window. Hana thought her mother loved her son best, just as Nimeta had always thought Raziyanım loved Raif best. She opened the journal to another page.

It’s been many days since we lost Auntie Azra in the market massacre, but I still cry at night. She was my only “big” friend and the only adult who treated me like a grown-up. I used to tell her all my troubles and complain about Mom and Fiko and Grandma to her. How am I supposed to bear not being able to see her again? I never realized how important she was. I try to hide how much it bothers me from Mom. The day it happened, Mom was so beside herself that I was afraid they’d come and take her away again. What would I do if something happened to her too? We’re moving to Grandma’s tomorrow. Three women and a cat. Mom says Bozo will be the man of the house from now on. I’ll ask Grandma to treat him with respect.

Don’t worry, Hana
, Nimeta sighed to herself.
I’m not going anywhere. I’ll never leave you on your own again.

As she continued skimming the diary, the words were like a stinging rebuke for her own selfishness. She’d fallen in love with Stefan when Hana was at an age where she desperately needed attention and affection. She wished she could turn back time and make things right. If only she had another chanc
e . . .
if only.

March 7, 1993

Yasna has started to look like a stork. None of her clothes fit anymore. Her trousers and sweaters and skirts look so funny on her! She says her mother wonders how she could grow so fast when there’s so little to eat. I’m glad I’m not getting any taller. Mom always says she doesn’t have enough money to get us new clothes. Food’s so expensive these days that we have to spend all our money to eat.

Was it true that Hana wasn’t getting any taller? It could be hard to tell whether someone you saw every day was getting taller or older. She’d never complained that her clothes were getting too tight or too short. Had the shortage of meat and fresh fruit stunted her growth? Raziyanım had stopped going to her friend’s garden in the southern part of the city. There were simply too many bombs and snipers about these days, and the Serbs had taken to mining the roads.

Come to think of it, Raziyanım had remarked on how thin Hana was.

“She’s not getting enough food, Nimeta. The other day, Lamia Hanım was talking about getting some pigeons and—”

“Don’t even think about it, Mother,” Nimeta had said.

She’d heard that birds were being trapped and hunted, and she’d been certain that Raziyanım wanted to find a way to sneak Hana some pigeon soup. Now she was sorry she’d opposed the idea. Nimeta decided that if she ever suspected there was pigeon meat in their soup or
börek
, she wouldn’t say a word.

She heard the creak of a floorboard and lifted her eyes from Hana’s journal. It was Raziyanım.

“What are you doing up so early, Nimeta?”

“I couldn’t sleep.”

“Why are you already dressed? Go on back to bed. I’ll fix Hana breakfast when she gets up. You had a long day yesterday. I’ll wake you up at eight.”

Nimeta sneezed several times.

“Have you caught a cold?” Raziyanım placed her hand on Nimeta’s forehead. “You’re running a temperature. You must be coming down with something.”

“It’s just a cold, Mother.”

Raziyanım raced to her room and returned with a thermometer. “Put it in your mouth,” she said.

“There’s no need. I’ll be fine if I get some sleep.”

“Take it,” Raziyanım insisted, holding the thermometer out to Nimeta. Accepting defeat, she took it and placed it under her tongue. Raziyanım stood there waiting until Nimeta checked the thermometer two minutes later.

“What does it say?” her Mother asked.

Why lie? “A hundred three degrees,” Nimeta said.

“I still don’t understand what business you had going off to Tuzla,” Raziyanım started in. “Now go straight to bed. I’ll brew you some linden tea. I’ll go to Selcuković’s house as soon as it turns eight and get the doctor to come have a look.”

Nimeta was in no state to argue. She meekly went to her room, got undressed, and crawled into bed.

By the time Selcuković arrived—at Raziyanım’s insistence—it was nearly ten, and Nimeta’s fever had reached 104 degrees. Raziyanım had placed a vinegar compress on her forehead and was splashing cologne on her arms and temples. When the doctor saw Nimeta moaning feverishly, he felt guilty about his behavior earlier that morning.

“Raziyanım,” he’d said, “the emergency rooms are overflowing with life-and-death cases, and you come here at eight in the morning and expect me to pay a house call just because your daughter’s caught a cold? Tell Nimeta to go to the hospital.”

He’d relented, however, when she kept insisting. They were old friends after all. He’d grown up with Raziyanım’s late husband and couldn’t easily turn down a request from his widow. The last thing he’d expected was to find that Nimeta had come down with such a high fever.

He listened to her chest and heart and examined her throat.

“You’ve caught a terrible chill,” he said. “How did you manage that?”

Raziyanım broke in. “She went to Tuzla. Who knows where she stayed and what she was up to for those two days? She’s got no idea how to look after herself. If I’d known she was going, I’d have made sure she took a heavy sweater and a woolen blanket.”

Selcuković winked at Nimeta. “Does your mother bottle-feed you every morning too?”

Nimeta managed a weak smile, but she was in no condition to speak. The wheezing in her chest had worsened over the last two hours.

“I’ll get some antibiotics from the hospital and stop by this evening,” the doctor said. “I’d write you a prescription, but you wouldn’t be able to fill it.”

“I’ll go to the hospital and get it,” Raziyanım volunteered. “Let’s not wait until evening.”

“Stay here and nurse your daughter,” Selcuković said. “Make sure she gets plenty of fluids. If you’ve got any aspirin in the house, give her a couple straightaway. I’ll send a porter with the medicine as soon as possible and stop by later on my way home.”

Raziyanım muttered and fussed for some time after the doctor went, but Nimeta was too soundly asleep to notice.

Whenever one of her children got sick, Raziyanım immediately set about identifying the cause. She’d have no peace of mind until she found out exactly where they’d caught a chill, whose hand had exposed them to germs, or which particular junk food had led to a bout of diarrhea.

A few hours later, Nimeta opened her eyes to find her mother sitting next to the bed with a bowl of lemony chicken noodle soup.

“Selcuković sent the medicine,” Raziyanım said. “Drink up this soup straightaway. You can’t take your pills on an empty stomach. And promise me you’ll never go to Tuzla again.”

She’d also prepared a bowl of vinegar and water, with a length of folded muslin for a compress. Nimeta surrendered herself to her mother’s capable hands for the next ten days. Just as she had when she was five years old, she ate what she was given and did what she was told.

During those feverish, bedridden days, she was vaguely aware of a visit from Sonya and of Hana tiptoeing in and out of her room. When she was finally able to stand up many days later, she walked as far as the living room. She wanted to receive her daily visit from Sonya not in her bedroom but the living room. Her fever had dropped, but she felt weak, and her head started spinning when she struggled to her feet.

“Ivan’s parceled out your work to the rest of us,” Sonya said. “We can’t wait for you to come back. The interviews you did in Tuzla were incredible. I wish you’d been able to present them yourself.”

Nimeta exploded in a fit of coughing. Though her fever had broken, her ailment seemed to have settled in her chest, and she’d been coughing like a goat for three days. Her mother handed her a cup of linden tea. Raziyanım had risked life and limb to travel to a friend’s home on the opposite end of the city to collect the linden flowers for that tea.