Rose of Sarajevo (27 page)

Then he started thinking about something else. After a long silence, he spoke. “You know something, Raif,” he began. “I think I know a way we can solve our problem.”

“Are you saying we should wait until dark and try to carry Fiko through the forest?”

“No, that’s not what I’m talking about. I was thinking about our predicament, and it suddenly came to m
e . . .
Is there no way to get into a city under siege?”

“They’re dug in to positions on the mountains. They’ve got snipers ready to pick off anyone walking along the street.”

“What if we didn’t go overland but undergroun
d . . .
”

“What are you saying?”

“A tunne
l . . .
If we dug a tunnel all the way to our point of exit, we could get shipments of food and pharmaceuticals out, and our wounded in.”

“Are you saying we should start digging a tunnel?”

“Not right now I’m not. But we should develop this idea of a tunnel.”

Raif knew Burhan was prepared to die to get his son out of this hopeless situation. As long as they remained calm, they might find a way. But now the guy was starting to spout nonsense. A tunnel! He didn’t even bother to respond.

The cloud of dust they’d noticed a short while ago seemed to be getting closer, seemed to be a vehicle of some kind, winding its way up the steep road.

“I think something’s coming up the mountain,” Raif had said. “It looks like a jeep, and it must be going fast to kick up all that dust.”

They held their breaths and waited. Fiko was grimacing in pain. He turned his head from side to side in his father’s lap. Raif dampened the undershirt on Fiko’s forehead again and rubbed his temples.

“If we could only lower his feve
r . . .
” Burhan said.

He’d gone white and looked prepared to cut a deal with the devil himself if it would save his son. But even the devil hadn’t visited this isolated mountain for some time; the devil was down in Sarajevo, blocking the roads into the city.

“It was more important that we staunch the bleeding, and we’ve managed that at least,” Raif said.

The roar of the approaching vehicle was growing louder. Burhan thought he heard a horn honk, a beep-beep-beep off in the distance, as though whoever was coming wanted to make sure they knew it. He sat stock-still so that he wouldn’t jar his son’s head.

“Raif, go have a look,” he said.

Like Burhan, Raif had been sitting still, scared to get up and find out that the vehicle they’d pinned all their hopes on was nothing more than a mirage.

When Burhan glanced out the window, he saw Raif gleefully waving his arms about in the air. It was a jeep. So Nimeta had come through for their son. He checked his watch and was astonished to see that they had only been waiting for a few hours. The entire history of Bosnia, from beginning to end, had been related in little more than half an hour.

Raif was running down the hill. He shut his eyes and waited. Then he heard Nusret’s voice.

“Commander,” he said. “We’ve succeeded. Your wife found someone who can get Fiko through the Croatian zone with no problem.”

“Could you hand me that bag?” Burhan said, pointing to a spot in the front seat.

He took the bag and gently slipped it under his son’s head before he got out of the ambulance. The man in the jeep also got out and started walking over. A man in civilian clothes with a clean-shaven head. He recognized the face but couldn’t place it.

“I hope I’m not too late. I’ve come to get Fiko,” the man said, holding out a hand. “Burhan, it’s me, Stefan. Don’t you remember me?”

Stefan was left with his hand in midair.

Stefan! It couldn’t be! Stefan!

“Nimeta’s frien
d . . .
from Zagreb T
V . . .
She introduced us a while back, in Zagreb.”

Burhan’s ears were buzzing. His knees shook. So the devil had arrived and was ready to cut a deal for his son’s life. He’d wanted help to arrive, even in the form of the devil himself, and here he was, standing right across from him.

“Give me your son,” he said.

But Burhan no longer wanted to deal with the devil: he wanted to kill him.

“How do you think you’ve kept your job in Knin when everyone else lost theirs?” a rough voice said in his mind. “If it weren’t for the connections of that Croat who’s screwing your wife, you’d have been fired ages ago, just like the rest of us. Then we’d have seen what you were really made of. Are you ready to fight and kill Croats or not?”

Burhan clamped his hands over his ears, but he could still hear that voice. The man had run off, cupping a broken nose. It had been so long ago, but his voice still echoed in Burhan’s ears. “That Croat who’s screwing your wif
e . . .
screwing your wif
e . . .
”

He reached for the gun at his waist before he realized what he was doing.

“Burhan!”

Raif’s voice brought him to his senses. Nusret and Raif were staring at him.

“What?” he managed to say. “What do you want?”

“I’ve come to get the boy. Fiko. I was going to take him to Sarajevo via Stup, but Raif tells me we don’t have much time. I can get him to a fully equipped hospital in our zone. We need to hurry.”

“Where did you come from? Who sent you?”

“Nimeta sent word, because I’ve got transit passes for both sides. Sonya was lucky to find me. If she’d called half an hour later, I’d have been gone. I was planning on leaving Sarajevo a few weeks ago, but some work came up and I stayed. Must be kismet.”

Burhan heard Fiko moan in his sleep. His son was seventeen. He had to live. Nothing else mattered. He’d sit down and deal.

“Kismet it is!” he said. There was a reason for everything. Like he’d said to Nimeta, he must be paying for some sin wrongly ascribed to him.

“How soon can we leave?” Burhan asked.

“I can’t take you with me, Burhan. It would be dangerous for the boy as well. I promise to send you word as soon as I get him to a hospital, though.”

“If you can’t get me across the border, how are you going to get Fiko through?” Burhan asked.

“I told you, I have a transit pass. Fiko’s still underage. I’ll say he’s my son or nephew and that he’s badly hurt. It’s an emergency. I’m sure I’ll get him through any checkpoints.”

The two men stood across from each other.

First you take my wife, and now my son
, Burhan thought to himself. He’d compressed his lips so tightly that his mouth looked like a scimitar. His gritted teeth ached.

Stefan guessed what was going through Burhan’s mind. The expression on Burhan’s face had instantly told him that he knew everything. If he drew the gun at his waist and pointed it at Stefan, he could pull the trigger.

A vein throbbed in Burhan’s temple. His eyes were like two dark wells, drained of color, retaining nothing but the pain he felt. He took a deep breath. The animosity that had rankled in Bosnia for centuries was searing his heart. He felt trapped, but there was no other way out. He’d have to surrender his son to Stefan and hope Fiko made it to the hospital.

Burhan felt he’d aged at least a decade in a matter of seconds. The years rolled past, and he was shaken and buffeted by memories from centuries ago. He looked at this man from a neighboring land: at times, his ancestors had lived in harmony with his; at others, they had gouged one another’s eyes out.

It was strange. The moment he resigned himself to saving his son at all costs, his fury started to subside, until finally the scorching rage in his heart had dissipated until it left no trace. He suddenly felt as though he’d known the man standing across from him for the longest time. Was it because Stefan was the only person able to save his son?

He spun around and walked over to the ambulance. Fiko was talking deliriously in his sleep again. He poured the last drops of water in the canteen onto the undershirt folded on his son’s forehead. Then he went back to Stefan.

“I’d rather Fiko didn’t have a rough ride. Could you take the ambulance?” he asked.

“Of course,” Stefan replied.

“As soon as you hand Fiko over to a doctor, call the TV station. As you know, the phones work there,” Burhan said. “There’s not much left in the medical supply bag, but you’ll find some rolls of gauz
e . . .
If he bleeds on the way, press down on the wound.”

“Okay,” Stefan said. “I know how to administer first aid, but there shouldn’t be any need for it. I’ll drive straight to a hospital and let you know how he’s doing. I’ll look after him like my ow
n . . .
” He stopped himself from saying “son,” and said instead, “like my own brother. Don’t worry.”

Burhan got back in the ambulance. He took his son’s hot hand into the palm of his own hand and pressed it to his heart.

“Have a safe journey, Son. Stay safe, get well, and come back to us in one piece. Godspeed.”

He touched his lips to his son’s cheek, got out of the ambulance, and stood before Stefan. This time he was the one who reached out his hand. The two men clasped hands for a moment. They were from the same race, and maybe even the same bloodline. They were roughly the same height and about the same age. They loved the same woman. Their ancestors had chosen different paths by which to get closer to God, and for that reason one of them was a Bosniak, the other a Croat. It hadn’t been their own choice, any more than they’d chosen this war or their fate.

They had one more thing in common: neither had any expectations for tomorrow. Tomorrow would be filled with bullets, bombs, and blood. Still, whether they realized it or not, each man hoped for a “brighter tomorrow.” For all the pain, sorrow, and violence inflicted on this magnificent world by people of different faiths for whatever misguided reason, hope springs eternal. Hope is life.

As the ambulance bounced over the rough road, Fiko opened his eyes for a moment. When he saw he was headed for the Croatian zone with a stranger, his heart sank.

“I’m not really a stranger,” Stefan said. “I’m a close friend of your mother’s, a colleague. I’ll get you to a hospital soon. Don’t worry. Once you’ve been treated and you’re well again, you can decide if you want to go home or stay with your relatives in Istanbul.”

“What would I do in Istanbul?” Fiko asked. “If I get better, I’m going back to Sarajevo.”

“If you want to live in safety for the rest of the wa
r . . .
Never mind, you can make up your mind when you get out of the hospital.”

“If I survive.”

“You’ll live,” Stefan said as though he were issuing an order.

Fiko couldn’t see much more than blue sky and leafy treetops from where he was stretched out.

“Are we close to the border?” he asked.

“We’ll be there in less than fifteen minutes.”

When the barricades marking Croatian territory came into view, Stefan slowed down.

“Fiko, close your eyes and pretend to be asleep,” he said. “I’ll tell the police you’re unconscious. Don’t give me away, no matter what.”

Fiko glanced up one more time at the skies over his homeland. Then he shut his eyes tight.

“Good-bye, beautiful Bosnia,” he said to himself. “Good-bye to the land of my birth, to my country, to my family. Good-bye.”

Bosnia, long-suffering Bosnia, would be waiting for yet another one of her sons to come home. Waiting with hope.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

After graduating from the American College for Girls of Istanbul, Ayşe Kulin worked for many years as an editor and writer for several newspapers and magazines, as well as in the cinema industry. Her first book of short stories,
Güneşe Dön Yüzünü
, won two prestigious literary awards (Haldun Taner and Sait Faik), and her first novel became a bestseller. Kulin has been the recipient of numerous other literary awards for her work and was selected as Author of the Year several times by Istanbul University. Some of her stories and novels have been turned into TV series and films. Her work has been translated into twenty-four languages. She has been a UNICEF Goodwill Ambassador since 2007.

ABOUT THE TRANSLATOR

Born in Salt Lake City in 1964, Kenneth Dakan is a freelance translator and voiceover artist who has translated numerous works of fiction and nonfiction from Turkish to English, including Ayşe Kulin’s
Farewell
and
Last Train to Istanbul
, Ece Temelkuran’s
Deep Mountain: Across the Turkish-Armenian Divide
, Buket Uzuner’s
Istanbulians
, and Mehmet Murat Somer’s
The Prophet Murders
,
The Kiss Murder
, and
The Gigolo Murder
. In 2011 and 2012, Dakan participated in the Cunda Workshop for Translators of Turkish Literature.