When Heaven Weeps (50 page)

“Who? I have no idea how to find anyone in Bosnia,” she said.

Glenn smiled as the idea set in. “You will, Beatrice. You will find him. And you will learn about him in this book.” He held it toward her with a shaking hand.

“Who?” she asked again, taking the book.

“Karadzic,” Glenn said. “His name is Karadzic.”

BOOK FOUR

THE BELOVED

“Love is as strong as death,
its jealousy unyielding as the grave.
It burns like blazing fire,
like a mighty flame.
Many waters cannot quench love;
rivers cannot wash it away.
If one were to give all the wealth of his house for love it would be utterly scorned.”

S
ONG OF
S
ONGS 8:6–7 NIV

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Sarajevo, Bosnia
Four Weeks Later

IVENA STOOD at the graves where they'd buried Father Micheal's and Nadia's bodies. She stared up at the pitted concrete cross. It was her third visit in as many weeks since their return. Already the vine she'd brought from Joey's garden curled around the graves and wound up the lower half of the cross in a delicate embrace. The large white flowers seemed totally natural now, reacting as she had expected to the rain and the sun that spurred their growth.

The small village had faded over the years, now hardly more than a collection of vagrants who eked out an existence off the land and lived in the crumbling houses. The church's blackened spire stretched against the sky, a burned-out backdrop to the overgrown graveyard she stood in. Most towns had managed to recover after the war's atrocities. Most.

Some of the others who had been there that day still visited regularly, but they could not keep the grounds up. The locals couldn't care for the grave of an old dead priest, no matter how horrible the tale of his death. The country was simply littered with a hundred thousand stories as terrible.

Ivena sank to her knees and gripped the foot-high grass in both hands. The dirt felt cool under her knees.
Father, are you taking care of my beloved? Is she keeping you company?

She looked up at the cross, still stained with the priest's faded blood. Their bones were under the dirt, but they themselves were laughing up there somewhere. Ivena let the images from that day string through her mind now, and they obliged with utmost clarity. The priest's face beaten to a bloody pulp by Janjic; her Nadia standing and staring into the commander's face without a trace of fear; the marching of women under their crosses; Karadzic's furious snarl; the boom of his gun; the priest hanging from this cross, begging to die. His laughter echoing through the cemetery and then his death.

A tear crawled down Ivena's cheek. “I miss you, Nadia. I miss you so much, my darling.” She sniffed and closed her eyes.
Why did you take her and not me, Father? Why? I would go now. What kind of cruelty is it to leave me here while my daughter's allowed this frolic of hers? I beg you to take me.

She'd nearly found her way there a month ago, in those Twin Towers of Lutz's. But it had not been God's timing, so it seemed. She wasn't finished in this desert yet. Still, she could not escape the hope that her time would come soon. If nothing else, that she would die of old age.

Now she lived with her brother on the very edge of Sarajevo, not so far away from her little village, really. She'd lost everything in Atlanta, but the quick departure felt more like a cleansing than a loss. In her mind it was more good riddance. Janjic and Helen had taken an apartment downtown where he had sequestered himself to write. Ivena saw them every few days now, when she went to visit. By all appearances God still had a firm grip on Janjic's heart. It seemed that the extraordinary play of God's wasn't over yet, and knowing it made Ivena long for heaven even more.

Ivena sat on her knees and began to hum. Americans did not understand death, she thought. They were not eager to follow the footsteps of Christ. In reality, joining Christ was a terrifying notion for most churchgoing Americans. Oh, they would quickly snatch up the trinkets he tossed down from heaven—the cars and the houses and such gifts. But talk to them about joining Christ beyond the grave and you would be rewarded by a furrowed brow or blank eyes at best.

Even Helen, after her incredible encounter with Christ's love, was still confused. Even after being on the receiving end of Jan's love she still did not know how to return that love for the simple reason that she wasn't yet willing to die to her own longings.

Love is found in death. Love is found only in death.

They had come to Bosnia and all seemed well enough; Helen had not gone back to her ways. But she was not a transformed woman either. Not really. She had made it about as far at the average believer, Ivena supposed. But you would think that after such an overt display of love, she would be clambering for Jan. When else in history had Christ actually placed his love for the church in a man? When else had a woman been the recipient of that love in such a unique way?

Ivena sighed and opened her eyes. “Well, I will join you, Father. Call me home now and I will come gladly.” She smiled. “I love you, Christ. I dearly love you. I love you more than life.”

The sun was dipping in the west when she stood. “Good-bye, Nadia. I will visit next week.”

She walked for her brother's old black Peugeot. The town lay in a dusky silence found only in the country. A dog was barking incessantly across the village. At a squawking chicken by the sound of it. “Ah, my Bosnia, it is good to be home.”

Ivena climbed into the car, shut the door and reached for the key. The faint odor of petrol filled the cab. Half the cars in Bosnia were either parked on their axles or patched with twine and wire. Blasco's was no exception. At least it ran. Though with gas or whatever caused this terrible smell leaking it was a wonder it didn't blow sky—

A hand suddenly clamped over her mouth and yanked her head back into the seat. Her fingernail caught on the key ring and tore. She cried out but the sound was muffled by the rag the perpetrator was trying to jam past her teeth. She instinctively bit down hard and heard a grunt of pain.

The strong hand shoved the rag into her mouth and she felt she might gag. Another hand gripped her hair and pulled her head backward. She stared at the bare metal ceiling and screamed from her throat. Blackness covered her eyes—a blindfold, strapped tightly to her skull.

Hands shoved her onto her belly and then bound her wrists behind her back. It was only then, blinded and tied facedown, that Ivena stopped reacting and scrambled for some reason.

Her kidnapper had climbed over the seat and now he fired the car. The Peugeot lurched forward.

Suddenly the sentiments that had preoccupied her mind over the past hour were gone. Another took their place. The desire to live. The desperate hope that nothing would harm her. She cried out to God again, but this time the words were different.

Save me, my Father
, she prayed.
Don't let me die, I beg you!

HELEN WALKED over the concrete slab in bare feet, holding a cup of tea close to her chest. She approached the square window in the tenth-story flat and peered out to the sprawling city of Sarajevo, dimmed by the late-day overcast. Behind her, the living room clacked with Jan's incessant typing.

Clack, clack, clack . . .

Square houses bordered thin streets in the Novi Grad district in which she and Jan now lived. The frequent rains made the trees green enough, but the cold that accompanied them could hardly be in greater contrast to Atlanta's smothering heat. And it was not the only contrast. Her whole existence here was one giant contrast.

For starters, the flat. Janjic's uncle Ermin had offered the place to them for a pittance, a thousand dollars for the year, paid up-front of course. Jan had brought the ten thousand dollars in cash with them and given three thousand to Ivena. The remaining seven thousand was enough to live comfortably in Sarajevo for a year, he'd said. They had spent three thousand already, most of it on the rent and outfitting the top-floor apartment with amenities that helped Helen feel more at home. A toaster oven, stuffed furniture, a real refrigerator, rugs to warm the floors. A typewriter, of course. Jan was a writer once again; they had to have the typewriter. By Sarajevo standards they had done well with the place.

But it wasn't America. Not at all. What was first-class in these hills would do well to pass for middle-class back home.

This is home, Helen. This is your new home.

She sipped at her hot tea. Behind her Jan sat at the kitchen table, a pair of old glasses hanging off his nose. He'd started working on his new book the very day they'd taken the apartment.

Clack, clack, clack . . .

They saw Ivena once, maybe twice a week now, but she had already fit back into her beloved homeland, with greater ease than Jan—no surprise considering what each had given up to come here. The days Ivena came were Helen's favorite. She was family now. Besides Jan, her only family.

Helen looked to the street below; the market across the way bustled with a late-day rush. Which reminded her, she needed some potatoes for dinner. Helen turned around and leaned on the window sill. “Jan?”

He smiled and pried his eyes over those silly black-rimmed glasses. “Yes, dear?”

“I think I'll go down and buy some potatoes for supper. I was going to try that potato soup again. Maybe this time I can get it right.”

He chuckled. “It was fine last time. A bit crisp, perhaps, but in my mouth it was deliciously crisp.”

“Stop it. Not only am I learning to cook, I'm learning to cook strange foods. Maybe you'd like to cook tonight.”

“You're doing wonderfully, dear.”

Helen drank the rest of her tea in one gulp and set the cup on the tile counter with a clink. Every surface seemed harsh to her. If it wasn't cement, it was tile. If it wasn't tile it was brick or hard wood. Carpet was hardly known on this side of the world. She didn't care how upscale this flat was in Sarajevo, it still reminded her of the projects back home.

Clack, clack, clack . . .

Jan was intent over the machine again.

“I'll be going then. Do you need anything?”
Listen to me, “I'll be going then
.
” That's how a European would say, “I'm outta here.”
This land was changing her already.

“Not that I can think of,” Jan said.

She walked over to him and kissed his forehead. “I'll be back.”

“Make some friends,” he said with a grin.

“Yes, of course. The whole world is my friend.”

“I'm mad about you, you know?”

“And I love you too, Jan,” she said smiling, and she slipped out the door.

The steep stairs were enough to discourage more than one or two ascents each day, and the thought that she would be coming back up with a bag full of potatoes brought a frown to her face. They hadn't heard of elevators in this corner of Europe yet.

Helen walked briskly for the market, keeping her head down. A bicycle careened by, splashing water from the morning's shower onto the sidewalk just ahead of her. Horns beeped on the street. They didn't
honk
here; they beeped, a high tone expected of tiny cars.
Beep, Beep.

Clack, clack, clack . . .

Jan could work for twelve hours straight without a break on that book. Well, he did take breaks, every hour in fact. To smother her with kisses and words of love. She smiled. But otherwise it was only the book. Her and the book.

It was really
The Dance of the Dead
, but written from a whole new point of view. Ivena was right; the story wasn't finished, he said. It wasn't even that well told. And so he was up there clacking away, engrossed in a world even more foreign than this wacky world below.

Helen entered the open marketplace and nodded at a woman she'd seen shopping here before. One of the neighbors, evidently. Some of them spoke English, but she was growing tired of discovering which ones did not. A nod would have to do. The tin roof over her head began to tick softly. It was sprinkling again.

The market was crowded for late in the day. Helen passed a shop brimming with bolts of colored cloth. The owner was checking some plastic he'd strung across the back where the tin gaped above. A small kiosk selling snacks made on the spot filled her nostrils with the smell of frying pastries.

Helen made her way to the fresh vegetable stand and bought four large potatoes from a big man named Darko. He smiled wide and winked and Helen thought she'd made herself a friend as Janjic suggested. Perhaps not what he'd imagined.

She left the market and crossed the street. It was then that the deep male voice spoke behind her, like a distant rumble of thunder that pricked her heart. “Excuse me, miss.” Helen glanced back, saw the tall man keeping stride with her ten feet behind, but she immediately dismissed his comment as misdirected. She certainly did not know him.

“You are an American?”

Helen stopped. He was speaking to her. And then he was beside her, a very large man, square and wearing black cotton pants. His shirt was white with silver-and-pearl buttons, like those cowboy shirts she'd seen in the shops back home. She looked into his eyes. They were black, like his pants. Like Glenn's eyes.

“Yes?” she asked.

A crooked smile split the man's boxy jaw. “You are American, yes?”

He spoke with a heavy accent, but his English was good. “Yes. Can I help you?”

“Well, miss, actually I was going to ask you the same thing. I saw you in the market and I thought, now there is a pretty woman who looks like she could use some help.”

“Thank you, but I think I can handle four potatoes. Really.”

He tilted his head up and laughed. “An American with humor. So then humor me. What is your name?”

A bell of caution rang through Helen's bones. “My name? And who are you?” she asked.