Rose of Sarajevo (9 page)

After the Croatians had seized Trifunović’s weapons, they’d made his forces exchange their YNA uniforms for civilian clothes and sent them home. They hadn’t yet realized that they’d given the Serbs yet another excuse to whip themselves into a fury.

On the morning of September 19, journalists awoke in their hotel rooms to a bombshell of a news item. A convoy of Serbs nearly ten kilometers long was headed for Croatia. The convoy, which included more than a hundred tanks, as well as trucks carrying troops, plus heavy artillery, had been seen off by an enthusiastic crowd of well-wishers, just as the one leaving for Slovenia had been two months earlier. Serbian women lined the streets and hung out of windows and balconies, tossing cigarettes, food, and flowers to the soldiers.

This time, the army would not return empty-handed.

The journalists gathered in the courtyard of the Ministry of Defense. Everyone was talking at once, firing off questions, and pushing and shoving as they awaited the arrival of the press spokesman. Nimeta lost Mate in the crowd. Then she got distracted trying to help translate for an English journalist. At the touch of a hand on her shoulder, she spun round to greet Mate and instead found herself confronted by Stefan.

“What are you doing here, Nimeta?” Stefan asked. “Are you the only war correspondent they could find?”

“Ah, Stefan!” She realized she was beaming. Nimeta was unable to prevent her feelings from shining through her eyes.

Stefan took her hand and gave her a peck on the cheek.

“You look well. You always were a tasty little thing.”

“How are you, Stefan?”

“What do you think? We’re going to war, and I’m joining the army in two days. We were unable to stop the Serbian butcher, as you see.”

“Are you volunteering?”

“Any Croat able to stand on two feet is expected to grab a weapon. As you well know, we don’t have a regular army. Until recently our army was the YNA, but the Serbs stole it, so I’m going to do my part. So that’s how I am. What are you doing in this hellhole?”

“My husband,” Nimeta said.

“I’m sorry?”

“Burhan had no choice but to turn over the building site in Knin. He went to Croatia to wrap up some final business matter
s . . .
” Her voice trailed off. Knin wasn’t in Croatia anymore. “He was in Knin when the trouble in Kijevo exploded. I didn’t have any news from him. He sent word through a friend that he was going to try to get home via Zagreb. I was going to wait for him here so that we could return home together, but now this has happene
d . . .
”

“You’d better go home to Bosnia, Nimeta. Croatia’s going to be a mess. Burhan will find a way to get back.”

“I insisted they send me here. I can’t leave now just because war broke out. I’ll stay here until things calm down, and then I’ll send word to Sarajevo.”

The press spokesman appeared on the balcony, and the roar of voices subsided. As his voice blared from the speakers, Stefan said, “Nimeta, come to the hotel for lunch. Let’s have a bite together.”

The English journalist began tugging at Nimeta’s arm.

“Just wait. They’ll be repeating everything in English,” Nimeta told him.

By the time she’d translated a couple of lines at the journalist’s insistence and turned back to Stefan, he was walking away. He’d left before she even had the chance to tell him she couldn’t have lunch.

Nimeta didn’t go back to the hotel for lunch. All the journalists and television crews were up to their necks in work. They followed the press releases on the hour, did their best to gather information through unofficial channels, tried to get a sense of the general atmosphere, and prepared their own commentary for immediate transmission to their television channels and newspapers. Nobody had time to scratch their head, let alone lunch with friends. Nimeta had been far too busy to reflect on her meeting with Stefan. This time, God appeared determined to protect her from him.

After running around all day, writing up her final bulletin and dispatching it to Ivan, and fending off Mate’s entreaties that she join him and some of their colleagues for a drink at the hotel bar to wind down, she finally closed the door to her hotel room some time after midnight. Barely able to stand, she dragged herself to the shower, waited in vain for hot water, settled for a cold bath, wrapped herself in a towel, and then stretched out on the bed. She picked up the phone and called home, even though she knew her mother would be asleep.

The voice on the other end of the line was sleepy and worried.

“How are you? Where are you? Are you okay?” Raziyanım asked.

“I’m sorry, Mother, I knew you’d be sleeping, but I need you to pass on some news to the children first thing tomorrow morning, and I might not have time to call tomorrow. I got some news about Burhan. When some skirmishes broke out where he was, he went on to Zadar and got in touch with some colleagues of mine. I was even able to speak to him. When things settle down, he’ll come to Zagreb and we’ll come home together. So don’t worry about us.”

“Why are you waiting for him in the middle of all that chaos? Come home to your kids. Burhan will find his own way home.”

“Ivan won’t be able to replace me. I have to stay here a bit longer, Mother.”

“Do you have to? You could have called your husband from home.”

“It’s too late to argue,” Nimeta said. “Don’t worry about me. Take care.” She wanted to hang up before her mother launched into another diatribe. “I’m exhausted, Mother. You’re nagging at me as always. I’ve got to hang up now. God bless.”

“Did you wake me up just to give me a scolding?” Raziyanım said.

“I woke you up to tell you I’ve located Burhan,” Nimeta said, putting down the phone.

Her mother had worn her out yet again. She slipped out of the damp towel and under the covers. Just as she was falling asleep, there was a knock on the door. She sprang from the bed, retrieved the coverlet that had fallen to the floor, and raced to the door.

“Who is it? What do you want?” she asked.

“Open the door, Nimeta,” Stefan said.

Nimeta opened the door a crack, caught a glimpse of Stefan’s pale, drawn face and unlatched the chain.

Walking into the middle of the room, Stefan asked, “Why didn’t you come?”

“Come where?”

“To lunch at the hotel.”

“I was busy, Stefan. I couldn’t leave the press center.”

“Don’t lie.”

“I swear it’s true. I didn’t get back to the hotel until half an hour ago. I was so tired, I was just nodding off.”

“Would you have come if you hadn’t had to work?”

Nimeta didn’t answer.

“Why are you scared of me? I won’t force you to do anything.”

Stefan sat down at the foot of the bed. Neither of them spoke for a moment as Nimeta stood, wrapped in a coverlet, and Stefan sat on the end of the bed.

“Come here, Nimeta,” Stefan said.

Nimeta didn’t move.

“Come sit beside me. I suspect this really will be the last time we see each other. There’s a war raging outside, bloodier than you can possibly imagine. Everyone’s turned into a monster. Both the Serbs and us. Soon it will be your turn. But I was meant to die. I’ll be in the army in two days. The Serbs are strong. They’ll show up with their heavy artillery, tanks, and a professional army. And we’ll fight back with hunting rifles, pots, and pans. None of us are soldiers; we’re just men trying to defend our country. We’ll all die, don’t doubt it for a minute. The Serbs are going to win this war. But they won’t do it without a fight.”

Nimeta walked toward the foot of the bed, her feet tangled in the coverlet.

“Nimeta, be with me before I go off to die. Let me make love to you one last time.”

Stefan reached out and tugged at a corner of the coverlet. Nimeta’s skin gleamed mother-of-pearl in the dim light. Tears ran down her cheeks and spilled onto her breasts. Stefan touched his lips to one of the teardrops. His hot lips.

“Make love to me, Stefan,” Nimeta cried. “Love me without stoppin
g . . .
until you go.”

Nimeta awoke as the first rays of morning light struck the bed. She glanced at the man next to her. She’d succumbed to her emotions as always. Mirsada had been right. “You’ll always find a reason not to refuse him, a good reason, Nimeta. Because you’re still in love with him,” she’d said. Just when Nimeta thought she had run out of excuses and regained her self-control, she found herself with him again for reasons she’d never imagined. “One last time” before she sent Stefan off to die. One last chance to be held in his arms and feel the touch of his hands and his lips again and again.

For two days she’d believed that this expression of their love would last her a lifetime. She’d sent Mate a note to silence his persistent calls: “Mate, don’t call me for a couple of days. I’ve got some personal business to attend to. You understand.”

She was certain Mate would think she was spending her time trying to track down her husband, or that she had found him and wanted to spend some time alone with him. Everyone knew why she’d been so insistent about going to Croatia. As she wrote those few lines, she’d reddened with shame. Her hands had trembled. She was using her husband even as she deceived him. She wasn’t aware of it just then, but she instinctively wanted to protect Burhan from gossip. To protect the husband she was unable to leave.

Spent from love, she and Stefan had eaten, dreamed, and laughed together.

“If you’d agreed to marry me, we’d have had children that look like you,” Stefan said. “You’d have chosen our girl’s name, and our boy would have been named Stefan. My father’s name.”

“Was your father named Stefan too?”

“Yes.”

“And your grandfather?”

“Him too.”

“Why were you all named Stefan? Don’t you Croatians have any other names?”

“According to family legend, it was the last wish of a dying ancestor. It’s been passed down from generation to generation and become a family tradition. We’re all Stefans.”

“If I have another son, I’d like to name him after my father.”

“Fikret was your father’s name, wasn’t it?”

“We named our son after my mother’s beloved uncle.”

Stefan clasped Nimeta’s hands, looked into her eyes, and said, “I’m serious, Nimeta. If this war ends, and I survive—”

“No, Stefan. I can’t leave Burhan. He’s the father of my children. You made me a promise: ‘the last time.’ I beg you, survive the war and live a long life, but keep your word and never call me again. If you love me at all, don’t call. Every time we meet, every time we make love, I feel as though I’ve just been through twenty wars. I feel wounded. I die. The shame and regret kills me, just as it kills me to leave you. It’s so hard for me to pull myself together again, Stefan. Please!”

“All right, Nimeta,” he said, just as he’d done so many times before.

She looked at him still asleep beside her. This time really was the last time. Nimeta felt it in her heart. When Stefan woke up this morning, he would get dressed and go off to join the army and probably die in a bomb raid before the end of the day.

She silently got out of bed and went to the bathroom. She stayed under the cold water for several minutes in an effort to cleanse both body and spirit. She took her time brushing her teeth. She brushed her hair and tried to conceal the dark rings under her eyes with powder. She applied lipstick to her lips, then put a dab on each cheek and smoothed it into her skin to put some color in her pale face. When she returned to the room, the bed was empty. Stefan had left a note on the bedside table: “Good-bye, darling. You sent me off to my death a happy man. But if I do survive, I’ll keep my promise.”

With war breaking out everywhere, Burhan and Nimeta were stranded in Zagreb. Nimeta was struggling to get press credentials for her husband so that they could leave Croatia alive and well. She also scanned the list of fallen soldiers every day, looking for Stefan’s name. Most volunteers and recent recruits to the Croatian forces were deployed to defend Vukovar, a city under siege. Though she didn’t know for certain that he was there, she sensed that he was, fighting for his very survival against a much more powerful army.

In Zagreb, everyone was calculating how long the irregulars could hold out against a professional army. Meanwhile, the ever-hopeful Tudjman waited for someone to tell the Serbs to stop, be it the UN, the EU, or the US.