Rose of Sarajevo (8 page)

MARCH TO JUNE 1991

Fax in hand, Nimeta raced down the hallway and burst into Ivan’s office without knocking.

“Anything wrong?” Ivan asked.

Nimeta handed him the fax without a word.

“It’s from Mirsada,” she said after a moment.

The fax contained certain encrypted codes that they’d agreed on previously.

“Get the team together in the conference room and give me a few minutes,” Ivan said.

Belgrade was up in arms. Students were protesting the government clampdown on the press and television, as well as its racist and fascist stances. Bulevar Revolucije had filled with mounted police, police dogs, and tanks. The cries of students being clubbed by the police mingled with the sounds of gunshots. Tear gas had penetrated every corner. A seventeen-year-old student lay in a pool of blood. Four years earlier, Milošević had bellowed to the Serbs of Kosovo that nobody would ever dare to beat them. Now, unable to bear criticism, he had unleashed tanks, batons, and bullets on his own people.

When his staff had gathered around the conference table, Ivan said, “This was inevitable. Milošević has taken over Belgrade Television for his own purposes. Serbs were being continuously incited to hate first the Albanians of Kosovo, then the Slovenians, and finally the Croatians. Within the borders of his own republic, it appears that Milošević will not tolerate dissent or opposition of any kind.”

“When he tried to use the television station against the opposition, it backfired,” Mate said. “He’s only just begun to realize that he’s been playing with fire.”

“Are there any deaths or injuries?” Sonya asked.

“One death so far,” Ibo said. “But just think about it, Sonya: they’ve killed a seventeen-year-old boy.”

“Keep the line with Mirsada open,” Ivan said. “Do I have any volunteers to enter that hell?”

There wasn’t a peep from Nimeta, who used to jump at assignments outside Bosnia, especially in Croatia.

“Shall I get my camera ready?” Mate asked.

“Hold off for a bit,” Ivan said. “Let’s see how things develop. The students have demanded that opposition leader Drašković be released, that Dušan Mitević be relieved of his post at Belgrade Television, and that the minister of the interior resign.”

“Milošević would die before he served up Mitević’s head,” Nimeta said. “Theirs is an alliance of devils. Milošević would never have gotten where he is today if Belgrade Television hadn’t been in his pocket.”

“Oh, Mitević will be handed over all right. Milošević would sell his own mother.”

The demonstrations continued throughout the rest of the week. The students set up camp around the nineteenth-century fountain in Terazije and announced they were staging a sit-in until their demands were met. The liberal intellectuals of Belgrade kept the students supplied with food, drinks, and blankets. Writers, professors, actors, and artists joined hands and sang peace songs. On a platform temporarily erected over the fountain, speeches were delivered and telegraphs and messages of support from the other republics read aloud to the crowd.

On March 11, another fax arrived from Mirsada. Fearful that the student protests would spread across Serbia, Milošević had agreed to meet with student representatives.

Ivan and his team excitedly awaited the next phone call from Mirsada. Finally, it came.

“Tell us quick,” Ivan said.

“Ah, Ivan,” Mirsada said. “You won’t believe it. Milošević really does deserve an award for best actor.”

When the young leader of the student uprising and his companions had been received, Milošević had sat down at one end of the table, the students at the other. Then Milošević had begun shouting across the expanse of table about the dangers posed by the Ustaše, the separatist Albanians, and numerous other unsavory elements. Unimpressed, the students listed their demands. Milošević claimed that it was not in his power to grant them.

Mirsada began laughing as she summarized the meeting. “Do you know what happened next, Ivan?”

“No, what?”

“A student asked permission to open the window to air out the smoke-filled room, and the moment he did, the room filled with chants of, ‘Slobo Saddam! Slobo Saddam!
’
”

Mirsada fell silent.

“What’ll happen next?” Ivan asked.

“They’re trying to assemble all of the federal chairmen to vote on the imposition of martial law,” Mirsada said. “I’ll keep you posted minute by minute.”

“You see that?” Raziyanım later said to Nimeta. “You and your husband got so worried for nothing. Slovenia’s declaration of independence hasn’t led to war. Your generation has never known war. Do you think it’s easy? I wouldn’t wish it even on my enemies. Nobody with a lick of sense favors war. I know; I’ve been through it. It’s not the fear of death, the hunger, and the deprivation that scares me, it’s what people are capable of doing to each other when they’re at war. Even worse, we’re all relatives in Yugoslavia. We’ve been marrying each other for at least seventy years. Do you really think people would shoot their relatives and neighbors? You’ve been worrying for nothing.”

JULY TO DECEMBER 1991

Nimeta reread the report, this time with the radio turned down, Bozo fed, and the dishes washed. As hard as she tried to concentrate, she couldn’t make sense of it. Croatia was in turmoil, and even though Nimeta kept her eyes trained on the printed words, her mind was elsewhere.

If war broke out, would Stefan be conscripted? War meant casualties and fatalities. She hadn’t heard from him for so long. There must be a woman in his life. Perhaps he’d gotten married. A man who loved and wanted children so badl
y . . .
But wouldn’t he have told her? Of course not. Why would he feel the need to report on his love life to a former lover who’d let him down?
He can do what he likes, of course, but I hope he doesn’t join the army and die in the war
, she thought to herself.

Burhan noticed his wife was feeling down. “Nimeta, you’ve been rustling those sheets of paper for half an hour now,” he said. “Is something wrong?”

“I need to summarize something, but I just can’t concentrate.”

“What’s the problem?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps I’m a little upset about Fiko joining the soccer team. Couldn’t a boy with such high grades and all the options in the world choose a better pastime than football?”

“Don’t even try to understand the way kids think these days. You’ll never get it. Just let him do what he wants.”

“Is it really that simple?”

“Yes. You can’t force anyone to do anything. You want him to play the violin; he wants to play football. Just be happy Hana plays the piano, and let the boy be, Nimeta.”

“You’ve got a real knack for problem solving, Burhan.”

“Give me those notes of yours, and I’ll see if I can help,” he said in a bid to change the subject.

He took the dossier, scanned it, peered at it over his glasses, and began speaking in soothing tones.

“You really must be bothered by the thought of Fiko out on the field. There’s nothing complicated here, Nimeta. It’s clear that Croatian President Tudjman and Defense Minister Spegel have been unable to reach an agreement. Spegel wants to arrest the YNA members in Croatia, seize their weapons, and win a military victory. Tudjman prefers to seek freedom for their country on an international platform. He thinks that if they reach for their weapons, they’ll miss out on that opportunity. It’s that simple.”

“Well, what do you think?” Nimeta asked.

“After the Slovenia fiasco, the Serbs are looking to boost their morale. Whether Tudjman wants to or not, he’s going to have to fight. Belgrade is itching for a fight.”

“So you expect war to break out in Croatia, Burhan?”

“Definitely. That’s why I need to go to Knin soon to give the engineers their final payment and close the office.”

“I thought you’d already done that a while ago.”

“I’ve still got to sign a few papers. I wish I’d sold the office furniture before. Who’s going to be interested in furniture on the eve of war?”

“You’ve already set the process in motion. Nobody got hurt in Slovenia. Perhaps they’ll fire a few shots and then come to an agreement with Zagreb.”

“I doubt it. That so-called war was a bit of theater staged by the Serbs and Slovenians to make it easier for Slovenia to secede, to disgrace the YNA—which had become a nuisance to the Serbs—and to prove how worthless the Federal Republic is.”

Nimeta couldn’t help feeling strangely envious of her husband, who, even though he didn’t follow politics on a daily basis, had proved to be remarkably forward-looking and astute. She had no doubt that if Burhan had chosen politics or the media, he’d be more successful than most people she knew—even her.

All through July and August, the Serbs expanded their checkpoints along the border with Croatia. Serbian youths organized by the Interior Ministry in Belgrade had formed the “Serbian Voluntary Guards” and received training from a mafia figure known as Arkan, who was a former torturer with the secret service. The YNA had finally decided that if war was to break out, they would fight on the side of the Serbs. “Arkan’s Tigers” went on a one-night rampage in Croatia, forcing people from their homes, looting and burning houses and workplaces. Street signs that used the Latin alphabet were torn down and replaced by Cyrillic ones.

The Croatian forces were a pitiful sight compared to the Serbian army. Tudjman had launched an operation in May to raise a standing army that was mainly composed of policemen. In stark contrast to the Serbs, who had tanks, armored vehicles, and heavy artillery, the Croatians relied on a ragtag army of inexperienced volunteers and military vehicles fashioned out of delivery vans and tour buses. It was enough to make their supporters laugh through their tears. Although the army was ill equipped for the onslaught of the Serbs, Tudjman hoped to win the war at the negotiating table, not on the field, just as Burhan had predicted. The problem was that the Serbs of Krajina and the YNA would eventually embroil Trudjman in a hot war regardless of what he wanted—again, just as Burhan had predicted.

Burhan had delayed his visit to Knin several times but finally made the trip in August. First, he was unable to locate the engineers. They’d all disappeared, having migrated to escape an attack by the Serbs. What did their outstanding paychecks matter when they were already leaving everything else behind? In this area now completely dominated by Serbs, the municipality objected to the presence of foreigners and made it difficult for Burhan to hand the company over to anyone else. Burhan fixated on the term “foreigner,” joking to the Serb on the other end of the line that it was quite a feat to remain a foreigner in one’s homeland of five hundred centuries. “If Bosniaks are foreigners,” he said, “what on earth do you call people who aren’t from Yugoslavia? Martians?”

“It’s interesting,” Nimeta said to Ivan. “My husband’s been right all along about what would happen.”

“Don’t take offense, but if he’s so smart, what’s he doing in Knin?” Sonya said.

“He had to go. It was now or never. They’ve set up roadblocks, as you know,” Nimeta said in defense of her husband. She might have had her complaints about Burhan, but she wasn’t going to let anyone else criticize him, not her mother, and most definitely not a colleague.

“But now he won’t be able to get back.”

“Ivan, please send me to Kijevo!” Nimeta pleaded.

“The situation has gotten quite serious. I think we’d better send a man.”

“I’ve gone everywhere you’ve asked me to go, Ivan. You never had a problem with sending me to Kosovo and God knows where else.”

“That was different. War is about to break out.”

“Are you telling me that you’re practicing sexual discrimination, Ivan?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Nimeta. Now leave me alone. Why don’t you go check the afternoon bulletin?”

“I’m begging you, Ivan.”

“This isn’t a domestic matter.”

“Iva
n . . .
please.”

As Nimeta walked dejectedly over to Studio 2 to check the bulletin as instructed, she considered how she might get to Knin.

Kijevo was a Croatian village next to Knin that found itself surrounded by towns taken over by the Serbs. Ever since the armed conflict in Plitvice, the Croatians had encircled the village with barricades and refused to leave. But the Serbs wouldn’t allow this Croatian boil to fester within the borders of the newly declared Republic of Krajina for long. If Croats were living in Kijevo, Kijevo would be wiped off the map, and that was that.

Nimeta ran her eyes over the bulletin. The Croatian police had been given an ultimatum to clear out Kijevo within forty-eight hours. The grace period would run out that day, August 20. Her husband had been in Knin for three days, and she hadn’t heard from him once during that time. Her hand trembled as she held the bulletin. The words blurred through her tears.

“What on earth is wrong?” Sonya asked.

“I haven’t heard from Burhan,” Nimeta said.

“Haven’t you got a house in Knin?”

“We emptied it out ages ago. Burhan was going to stay at a hotel. All he had to do was sign a few documents to shut his business down.”

“Have you tried calling the hotel?”

“Of course. He wasn’t at the hotel where he always stays. Even worse, he hasn’t called me. He always calls as soon as he arrives, just to hear my voice and talk to the kids.”

“Who knows who bagged him?” Mate said.

“Why would they shoot an innocent man?” Tears began streaming down her cheeks.

“What happened to your sense of humor?” Mate said. “I was talking about a Serbian wench, not a hunter.”

“Burhan would never do something like that,” Nimeta said.

“That’s what you think,” Mate said in a low voice. “You never know where a man’s organ will lead him.”

Nimeta was too engrossed in the bulletin to hear Mate’s final remark. She focused instead on something about Lieutenant Colonel Ratko Mladić. It was as though her female intuition was trying to tell her that this man would play a pivotal role in her life one day.

Ratko Mladić was a Serb born and raised in Bosnia. He’d been transferred to Knin from Pristina. Like so many soldiers his age, he’d been a brainwashed communist. When communism collapsed, he’d found another obsession to stave off his own psychological collapse: this time, he was going to defend his country against Croatian fascism. By “country,” he was now referring not to Yugoslavia but to Serbia.

During one of those days when there was still no word from Burhan, Nimeta was in the midst of making up a soothing story to explain his absence to the kids when the phone rang. An old friend in Knin told her not to worry about Burhan, who’d been forced to hide out for a couple of days. He’d be unable to return to Bosnia by the usual route but was well and would call his family at the first opportunity.

“Please, Boris, tell me where and how to find him,” Nimeta said.

“Don’t risk it, Nimeta,” he said. “I’ll keep you posted. Burhan’s fine, but he’s got to stay in hiding for a while. Only Serbs are allowed to be in Knin and the vicinity. He’s trying to find a way to get home.” He hung up the phone.

The following day, on August 29, a full week after the Croatians had been ordered to abandon their homes, Kijevo was razed to the ground. Ratko Mladić led the operation, which was backed by Belgrade.

Tudjman was now forced to rule out the possibility of a peaceful resolution. If the people of Croatia heard the word “peace” one more time, they were liable to topple their president.

On the day Kijevo was cleansed—the term favored by the Serbs—Croatia mobilized its forces and declared its war of independence.

Burhan suddenly found himself stranded in a country where balconies and windows were sealed with sandbags, roads were barricaded with barbed wire, a single lane remained open to traffic on the highways, and the telephone lines were down. He had no idea that his wife had done all she could to reach him, even trying to get an assignment to Croatia. In his most recent communication to Boris, he’d said he would try to make it to Zagreb, even though it was in the opposite direction from home. But you’d have had to be a sorcerer to get from one town to the next in those days. The people of Croatia flooded the streets in a frenzy. Although not a single shot had been fired, hundreds of thousands of panicked people rushed about in circles, with no idea of what to do or where to go.

Nimeta reached Croatia on the same day that Vlado Trifunović, the commander of the encampment in Varaždin, surrendered with his arms in order to save his young soldiers from being slaughtered by the Croatians.

“You just kept blinking those blue eyes until you got exactly what you wanted,” Mate said. “I did everything I could not to get sent, but to no avail. Ah, to live on this earth as a woman! Why did God have to endow me with these useless bits?” He pointed to his crotch.

“If you think I ‘want’ to be sent to a war zone, you’re even stupider than I thought, Mate.”

“Then why did you keep begging Ivan to send you?”

“I’m the only person who can get my husband out of there. International organizations are extremely responsive to journalists.”

“So you’re some kind of guardian angel?”

Oh that I were
, Nimeta thought. With her white skin, honey-colored hair, and large blue eyes, she bore more than a passing resemblance to Renaissance depictions of angels, but she’d been unable to guard either her husband or her lover from the ravages of war. All she could do was find out where Burhan was and try to ensure their safe passage back to Bosnia. She sent an appeal to every NGO and television station she knew. She and Burhan had agreed before she set out that if anything went wrong, they would try to communicate via the media. She expected to hear from him within a few days.

Although she had no idea where Stefan was and hadn’t tried to reach him, Stefan was very much alive in Nimeta’s heart. She was certain she would run into him again one day. She’d see him, and they might exchange a few words. She’d touch his arm, squeeze his hand, and give him a kiss on the cheek. They’d spend no more than ten or fifteen minutes together. They’d be a bit stiff and distant with each other, if for very different reasons. “Did you get married?” she’d ask, or perhaps she’d phrase it, “Is there a woman in your life?” She’d wish him joy. Then she’d turn around and walk off, trying not to stumble. For a long time—a very long time—his voice would remain in her ear, his face seared in her memory, the warmth of his touch on her hand.