Escape from Sarajevo-part 18: Marriage in Hell

FOUR
I took advantage of a light morning fog and jog the open ground to the Holiday Inn. Fahira was just arriving as well. She thanked god for the fog as she swept a bit of moisture from the sleeve of her coat. She’d heard from a friend in the government that a Bosnian promise to withdraw from the demilitarized zone on Igman never materialized. Overnight they traded fire with French peacekeepers. UNPROFOR threatened air strikes to enforce the DMZ. I wondered what it meant for my chances of getting over the mountain, but Johnson at the embassy assured me that the Clinton administration would never allow US pilots to do anything that would benefit the Serbs or cause the collapse of Sarajevo. He stamped and signed the marriage and citizenship document making it quite official. Ana was waiting anxiously for me at Opshtina. She practically ripped the paper from my hand.
“That’s it?” she remarked, turning it over several times.
“That’s it.” I said, hoping that it would suffice. Ana went in alone. I paced the narrow hallway. Ana appeared several agonizing minutes later. She sighed heavily and shook her head.
“They approved the letter,” she said without emotion.
“But that’s great!” I exclaimed.
“We have much to do and very little time to do it.”
By law, because I was a foreigner, every document needed to be translated. We had the names of three translators in the city, but the lady at Opshtina had no idea if they were still in the city, or if they were even alive. As if that wasn’t enough we had just four hours to get the documents back by the one o’clock deadline. We came up empty for the first two names on the list. No one could be found at the first address and the second simply did not exist. It was already almost noon. Even if we were lucky enough to find the third person on the list there was an excellent chance we would miss the deadline.
The last person on the list was an English Professor from the University who lived along the river. She lived on the top floor of the three-story building. The bell was broken, and there was no telling if anyone would be there. Ana knocked at the door and leaned close to hear if anyone was home. She knocked again and then a third time. Discouraged she hung her head and fell heavily against the door.
“I knew it,” she said. I only looked at her, not knowing what to say. A neighbor lady poked her head into the hall.
“Can I help you?’ she asked.
“Please, gospodja,” Ana pleaded. “We are looking for the professor. Is she in?”
“No, child,” said the frail old woman. “I’m afraid you’ve missed her.”
“It’s terribly important,” said Ana. “Do you know where she’s gone?”
“Why she’s gone to the university, of course!”
“At school did you say?’
“Yes, yes, to school.”
We ran the few blocks to the university building. It was chilly and dark inside the building. There were few students. We found the spinsterly professor just as she was leaving for the market. Five more minutes and we would have missed her entirely. There was still a shred of hope. The professor loved the romance of our tale and said she would have done the work just to hear the story. She didn’t of course, but charged us a reasonable amount and finished the translations quickly.
It was just past one when we made it back to Opshtina. I waited for Ana outside. She came out after only a short time. It was impossible to read her expression.
“So what did they say?” I asked.
“Nothing,” she said. “I have a terrible feeling that we missed something.”
The door opened and we turned breathlessly. A young woman appeared. Her name was Vesna. Ana knew her from school.
“Everything is okay?” Ana’s voice strained.
“Everything is fine,” Vesna smiled. “Congratulations, your wedding will be tomorrow at one.”
The small shops in Bashcharshija were closing for the day. The low branches of tall maple trees neatly framed the old Turkish fortress of Jekovac on the hill. Their huge red and yellow maple leaves drifted lazily to the smoothed stones of the narrow charshija. The final golden light of day painted the forts crumbling stonewalls. At the shop of Sead Isanovich, near the great Mosque, Ana and I decided on two simple gold wedding bands. They cost sixty Marks, a good price from the amiable Isanovich. I was surprised they were so cheap and told Ana so on the way home.
“Perhaps business is bad,” she shrugged. “Perhaps they are stolen. Perhaps they were taken from the dead.”