Escape from Sarajevo-part 19: Dobrinja

FIVE
I was standing at the edge of the world with Ana on one side and the war on the other. I was holding her hand, teetering on that flimsy line, and knowing full well that once I let go I might never get it back. At least that was how I felt when I awoke that morning. It was hard to be happy about the wedding, at least through the jaundiced prism of the war. A battle erupted in Grbavica as I dressed. A series of ear-shattering explosions shook the plaza. The Serbs collapsed part of an apartment block to keep the Bosnians from taking it. The detonations set off a storm of gunfire from both sides. A grenade exploded against the parliament building showering the streets with shrapnel. Then, with one gigantic eruption the fighting ended.
Hasan had offered to lend me a suit for the ceremony. It was a maroon disco suit with huge bellbottoms and wide lapels. The suit was easily twenty years out of date, and I wasn’t sure whether that particular shade of maroon even occurred in nature. Still it was a thoughtful gesture, but Ana insisted on a “war wedding.” She wanted me to wear the khaki pants and shirt I had worn into the city. They would be the same clothes I would wear when I attempted to reach the tunnel after the ceremony.
A number of Ana’s friends were waiting at Opshtina when I arrived with Nadja and Hasan. They were gathered together near the front steps. There was even a scrappy blond Croatian guy, a friend of Olja’s, a sniper who had taken the afternoon off for the wedding. He walked the two blocks or so from the frontline. I didn’t know him well, but well enough. I knew his mother was hiding in Serb-held Grbavica, protected by Serbian neighbors. He saw her daily through the scope of his rifle, but had no other contact with her since the war began. Beside him was a sweet young woman named Nermila. She lived with her brother Sanin below Ana flat. Nermila’s parents had been killed just a year earlier, purposely bracketed by Serb mortars as they went for water. Olja arrived with her boyfriend, a local blackmarketeers named Edin. She gave me a big hug then burst into tears.
Ana was late as usual. They had trouble getting a car. A friend drove them. She stepped out in a borrowed red dress, more beautiful than I ever believed a woman could be. I her arms was a bouquet of bright red roses. I smiled, and recalled how much she said she hated roses. They reminded her of funerals she said. I felt like a pauper before that exquisite vision and felt less than worthy as she took my arm and we started up the steps.
“Nervous?’ I asked.
“Kill me,” she replied squeezing my arm tight.
“You look beautiful,” I said. Ana beamed. Distant gunfire was drowned in the roar of a passing tank.
“And you look very handsome.”
Everyone crowded into a small second floor room over looking the river. It was an unromantic place with dull eggshell walls and a photograph of Tito on the wall. Four folding chairs were arranged before desk. According to tradition my Kum, Hasan, was seated beside Ana, while Keka, Ana’s Kuma, sat next to me. I looked around the room at the faces of the people there. Even Nadja and Hasan were strangers to me, but I felt safe among them all. More than that I felt protected and loved.
It was a short ceremony, made only slightly longer as the old professor struggled to translate the proceedings. Ana’s friend presided over the proceedings. Not that any of that mattered to me. The words and signatures were the formalities of men. They were legal courtesies, for I had been married to Ana from the moment I saw her. I looked over at her. She beamed like an angel, her face as bright as a child’s on Christmas morning. She seemed to know that I could not take my eyes off her. She bit her lip to keep from crying with joy, and covered my foot with hers.
“William,” said Vesna at last, “Do you take Ana Toshich to be your wife?”
“Da,” I replied without hesitation. Ana squeezed my hand tight.
“And Ana, do you take William to be your husband?”
Ana looked up at me. Her eyes were filled with hope and expectation. She answered quietly. “Yes.”
Nadja, Renata and several others were already crying. Fighting back tears of her own Vesna rose. “It is with great pleasure that I pronounce you both man and wife.”
The room erupted in applause. Renata kissed my cheek and welcomed me to the family. Olja called me her big brother. Hasan swept me into his arms. His voice cracked as he congratulated us.
We were swept downstairs to a waiting car. We laughed until we passed the cemetery. So many lives had been interrupted so Ana and I could find one another. It all seemed so terribly selfish. I pulled her to me and kissed her soft hair. We turned up the hill away from the graveyard. I found Ana’s eyes and wanted to tell her not to feel guilty, but couldn’t find the words.
Ana’s grandmother was waiting with little Tono when we arrived. A neighbor, at great expense, had made a small chocolate cake for us. I had given Renata sixty Dollars for food. There were Bosnian sausages called Chevapi, bread, several kinds of salad and Hrmashitca, which was something akin to a thick sugar cookie drenched in light syrup. It wasn’t much, but for people that were starving it was a veritable feast. As people trickled in they stared at the food as though it was a rare treasure.
Time was running out for us though. I looked across the room to Ana as though from a great distance. It was already growing dark outside and I would have to leave soon to make it to the tunnel before curfew. Most of the food was gone, though I had hardly eaten a bite. Only a few people remained. I quietly pulled Ana into the bedroom and kissed her deeply.
“I thought I’d never get you alone,” My fingers mapped her face and hair, turning them into memories. “I don’t want to leave you behind.”
“The sooner you get out of here the sooner we can be together again.”
“I know.” We kissed once more.
“Bill,” she said softly, “I want you to know that if I die now you have made me the happiest I have ever been.”
“Me too.”
“Hold me tight.”
I didn’t want to let her go, but what choice was there? Her friend Vedran came along so Ana wouldn’t have to walk home in the dark. We went slowly. From the hillside we could see fighting in Dobrinja and on Igman. An old woman picked through a huge mound of trash beside the road. She parceled things she could burn and rotted scraps of food into several bags. Something was burning on the hillside below her, pushing a river of gray-white smoke into a starless night sky. Ana buried her head in my chest. I looked to the sound of the fighting. Lifting her face I studied the touches of gold in her emerald eyes.
“I have to go,” I said.
“Another minute,” she pleaded. I kissed her through tears, kissed her hair and savored her perfume. “I will see you in Chicago.”
“You won’t forget me?” We slowly let go of one another until only our fingertips remained. If I died that night in Dobrinja or on the mountain it could not have compared at the pain I felt that moment. At the end of the street I turned, but Ana was already gone. My heart broke and I cursed myself for all of this.
I hitched a ride to Dobrinja. The driver raced through sniper alley at high speed without lights. At the western end of town the middle-aged guy hardly touched the break as he swung the car uphill, speeding over the open stretch of road between Dobrinja and the city. In the city there were illusions, moments of peace and normality, but Dobrinja was hell on earth. It felt like death, like leaving the world of light and falling into darkness. Indeed the darkness was absolute. Ruined buildings, wreckage and tank barricades reached out like apparitions from a terrible dream, like the paranoid delusion of a diseased mind. I abandoned the car and made my way on foot, not at all certain where I was going. I followed a road. To either side apartment blocks ran away into nothingness. Gunfire reverberated, the echoes overlapping and confused. Before long I had lost all sense of direction. Even Igman, unmistakable across the entire valley was lost to the inky blackness.
There was a checkpoint up ahead. Eight or ten tense looking Bosnian fighters were clustered to one side of the street checking passing troops and civilians. Dobrinja was an intimate place for those who lived and fought there. I abandoned the notion of passing unnoticed through the checkpoint. There was little sense in pretending I was anything other than an American. This close to the tunnel and frontline I was only inviting trouble. Retribution and justice in Dobrinja was swift and harsh. Slipping into line I decided that I wouldn’t hide that I was a foreigner, nor was I going to advertise it. My heart raced. As I reached the line I turned my head from the soldiers and spit, fearing that something in my face would give me away. I felt a hand in my chest and looked into the eyes of one of the soldiers. He knew instantly I didn’t belong there.
“Identification,” he demanded in broken English. “Who are you?”
“I’m and American,” I replied, shaking with fear.
“Where are you going, American?” There was a note of indignance in the man’s tone. The others were gathering around me now.
“Trying to leave Sarajevo.”
“Nothing this way but snipers.”
“The tunnel,” I said. “I’m going to the tunnel.”
“You have papers for the tunnel?”
“What papers?”
“First corps. No papers, no pass.”
Things could have been worse, though, as I retreated back along the street, it was hard to figure how. There was little chance of getting to the tunnel, and even less of getting back into the city before curfew. Gunfire along the road to town made that clear, but I didn’t dare get caught on the street in Dobrinja after curfew. The local fighters tended to shoot first. Most were loyal to a warlord named Khaddafi. According to rumors he cut notches in his rifle for the seventy or so Serb-civilians and prisoners he had executed. It was said he held foreigners and journalists in only slightly higher regard. I kept to walls and over hangs searching for a place to hunker down for the night. Gunshots popped here and there. Tracer rounds split the night above broken rooftops.
Quite by accident I stumbled upon the front line. The apartment blocks suddenly ended, giving way to shattered small houses and clumps of trees. To my right the shallow Dobrinja River angled towards the Serb lines. Shots rang out close by, chasing me behind a mound of debris. Rounds chopped at the air above me. When it subsided I made a run for the nearest apartment. A shot rang out, followed by three more in quick succession as a sniper finished off a victim. Now the air was alive with bullets. With nowhere to go I hugged the ground and said a silent prayer. Someone down the street lit a cigarette drawing fire enough that I was able to get around the corner. Discouraged I fell against a wall and tried to figure some way to make it through the night.
There was a light up ahead. Not much, just a trickle of light through sandbags protecting a doorway. It was a police outpost. At this point I figured there were only two options. The first would be to ingratiate myself on the soldiers there and hope for the best. The other option is that they would throw me in jail. Either way both options were a good deal better than stumbling around Dobrinja all night. Inside I found a half dozen soldiers dozing at the tables of an old restaurant. The acrid bite of exhaust from a rattling gas generator filled the room. It hung in the air like a cloud. I touched the shoulder of the nearest man. He swung around and teetered a moment, drunk from the fumes.
“Hey, ciao,” he said drearily.
“Speak English?”
“Sure, a little.”
“Can you help me?”
“You’re American.”
“I’m lost. I’m trying to find the tunnel.” I had nothing to lose at this point, and it was preferable to be arrested for being an idiot than shot as a spy. Suddenly everyone in the place looked up.
The soldier’s name was Karlo, an easygoing kid. He was tall with short blond hair and skittish blue eyes, but he seemed to genuinely wish to help me. Karlo was a bit awkward and sort of lumbered as he led me down the street. His huge hands wrapped around the stock of a well-used AK-47 as if it was a toy.
“Where are we going?” I asked. We paused beside a wall at the sound of gunfire before continuing.
“To the office for military intelligence,” Karlo replied at barely a whisper. “Don’t worry, they will have some questions for you, and then you can go.”
“Think they’ll let me through the tunnel?”
Karlo shrugged. “I am only a soldier, it is not for me to say.”
The military intelligence office was in a sheltered cul-de-sac. At a glance it appeared to be part of an old schoolhouse. The building was silhouetted in the bright glare of UN floodlights at the airport. The door was propped open with a brick. A sanguine light bled onto the sidewalk. Inside the place was almost uncomfortably warm, which was unusual for Sarajevo. On the wall, behind a school teacher’s wooden desk was a huge map of Bosnia. There was a small office at the back of the room. An old brown sofa faced the desk. Fresh coffee and a heaping plate of palachinka were on a table beside the door. I stood beside the couch looking curiously around the room when three officers entered from the street. Karlo snapped to attention. They ignored us and went straight to the office and slammed the door shut.
I dropped my pack and had the feeling it was going to be a long night. A minute later the officers came out and lined up behind the desk like convening judges. Their expressions were harsh, accusing as they scrutinized me for an agonizing few moments. They were all middle-aged men, who carried themselves with the dignity and discipline of regular military rather than the ad hoc militiamen that formed the bulk of the Bosnian Army. The man in the middle was a dead ringer for a white haired Stalin. A brushy thick mustache helped to conceal the slightest emotion. He seemed to make Karlo nervous as well. Karlo motioned for me to sit as Stalin brought a small wooden chair and sat staring directly in front of me. Though I had nothing to hide terror began to grow in my gut until I almost wished I was back on the street with the bullets and shells.
“So am I under arrest?” I asked anxiously.
“Of course you are not under arrest,” said one of the others, a man in civilian clothes. “But you are not free to go either.”
“Not sure I understand the diff…” the officer cut me off with a wave of the hand. Stalin remained silent: staring.
“Where were you going?”
“The tunnel.”
“The tunnel doesn’t exist.”
“It does.”
“It is a myth.”
“It’s not.”
“It is.”
“That’s how I came to the city.”
“How could you if it doesn’t exist?”
“Because I was there!”
“You weren’t.”
“I was!” I couldn’t help but laugh at the absurd nature of the conversation. Even Stalin seemed to have had enough of this.
“Of course you know,” he said measuring each word carefully, “the tunnel is a military secret. So of the tunnel exists, as you say, how did you know of it?”
“Every grandma in Sarajevo knows about the tunnel.” I was incredulous.
“And how did you know where to come?”
“I told you, I was there before, from the Butmir side with a Bosnian unit.”
“Which unit?”
I shrugged.
“Who brought you here tonight?” the other man asked.
“I hitched a ride from Marin Dvor and told the guy I wanted to go to the tunnel.”
“What guy?” asked Stalin.
“Shit, I don’t know. I paid him forty bucks. We hardly said a word.”
Stalin stood and looked down at me with piercing, contemplative eyes. They almost made me feel guilty. He lit a cigarette and let it dangle close enough to my face that I could feel its heat. With a heavy sigh he blew a great cloud of smoke in my direction and returned to the chair. If this were a play it would been a terrible case of over acting, but it was all too serious. Stalin acted deeply disappointed. Like an actor in a bad detective movie the other man slapped a pad of paper noisily on the desk and rummaged through his pockets for a pen.
“We must have information,” said Stalin. “Everything you have seen, everyone that you know, everything. Do you understand? You must not hide a single detail from us. We are not as stupid as you think. We will know if you are lying.”
There was real danger in being indignant, but just as much in being too passive. I was an interloper here, and for all they knew an enemy, but I was also a man and expected them to treat me as such. It was all that I had. Simply my presence was enough to imperil the tunnel, should I fall into Serbian hands. It was enough to endanger the whole city and Ana. These men held my life in their hands, and people had died in Dobrinja for much less. A show of good faith was in order.
“May I get something from my pack?” I asked.
Karlo stepped in front of it and covered the trigger of his rifle. “You have no weapons?”
“No, nothing like that,” I replied. “Something I think will clear up much of this.”
I fished for my journal and offered it to a perplexed looking Stalin. “It contains every detail, everything I have seen and done, and everyone I know in Bosnia. Everything you wish to know is there.”
“And why do you show us this?” he asked opening the book. He looked over maps, sketches, lists of names and more.
“I have nothing to hide. I only want to go home.”
Stalin nodded. “Tell me, what is your interest here?”
“I came to be a witness, to save some small piece and tell people back home what is happening here. Then I came back for friends, and now I have a wife in the city.”
“A Bosnian wife?” The other man seemed genuinely surprised.
“A Bosnian girl,” said. “I’m not your enemy. If anything I am a friend.”
He laughed cynically. “You’ll forgive us if we fail to recognize our new friends when the old ones are trying to murder us.”
Stalin looked up from the journal. “Why does a friend have the address for a Serbian media organization?’
“They’re a source.”
“Of what?”
“Information.”
“You normally go to the enemies of your friends for information?”
“The Serbs aren’t my enemies.”
Stalin scoffed theatrically. “We are your friends, the Serbs are our enemies, and yet the Serbs are not your enemy. How can that be?”
“Can you see how this sounds to us,” remarked the other.
“I didn’t come to choose sides.”
“You are lucky to hold such an exalted position,” said Stalin. “Very lucky indeed.”
“It doesn’t mean that I don’t make moral judgments…”
“That is very big of you,” he shot back. “I am sure the snipers who kill children in schoolyards, who shoot at people lining up for bread and water will appreciate such fairness.”
“I came to Sarajevo as a witness, to see the crimes of those monsters in the hills. I hear on the street that the world doesn’t care for Sarajevo anymore,” I said. “Well, I care and I’m here risking my life for that, but I don’t hate all Serbs. I can’t!”
They were silent for a moment, but I could see that they were unmoved by my words.
Stalin handed my journal over to the other man. “We already have plenty of witnesses. They are buried in mass graves all over Bosnia by your friends the Serbs. Can you see our dilemma? We don’t need anymore witnesses who come to watch us die.”
“Quite a privilege,” the other remarked. “Only a fool believes he can walk a fence forever without falling to one side or the other.”
“To which side will you fall?” Stalin remarked accusingly. They questioned me well into the night, going over every page and impression in my journal in great detail. They asked about Serbs I knew and what I had done in Belgrade, twisting my words and working in tandem to confuse me. I kept to the truth, a tactic they seemed unprepared for. After a long while Stalin leaned back in his chair as though regarding me from a great distance. The hour was late, and Stalin looked every bit as tired as I felt.
“I feel cheated,” he said. “What are you holding back? Who do you really work for? I mean honestly, do you take us for fools?”
“Of course not.”
“We can arrest you.” Stalin rubbed his chin.
“You can be shot,” said the other.
“For what? I’ve done nothing?”
“You know where the tunnel is. That is enough. What is to keep you from telling your Chetnik friends?”
“Because I have friends and a wife here?” I said. “I would sooner die than jeopardize them. I’ve spent so much time here, I couldn’t possibly give you every detail in only a few hours. I don’t know what you want. Ask me something and I will tell you!”
Stalin nodded and said calmly, “We’ll take as long as we please.”
It was well after midnight when Stalin stood wearily and dropped the journal on the sofa beside me. He turned and went to the huge map on the wall. He studied it for a moment, perhaps seeing the ragged frontlines fracturing the tiny country, or battlefields, mass graves, shattered communities and pockets of besieged land that represented his people. He turned to me. His eyes were terribly sad.
“There is no tunnel,” he said heavily. “It doesn’t. If you wish to leave Sarajevo you must go to your own embassy or UNPROFOR, but if you are caught here again it will be very bad for you. Do you understand?”
“It’s past curfew. Where am I to go?” I asked.
“You can’t stay here,” said Stalin, “and you can’t stay in Dobrinja. The police will arrest you.”
“You are the police.” I stood and returned the journal to my pack. Karlo was dozing on a chair by the door.
They dropped me at a small checkpoint near a place called Mojmilo Hill. The Bosnians had wrested the ground in a series of bloody assaults, but their hold on it was precarious. Serbian fire was relentless as I discovered the moment I opened the car door. The pale dome-light in the car drew heavy fired instantly. The handful of soldiers manning the post dove for the cover of a nearby ditch. I made it to a Volkswagen Golf, chased by a burst of automatic fire. Bullets hammered the car, skipped off the pavement and slapped into sandbags. When it was over I slid down against the car and breathed a sigh of relief. The men in the ditch began to stir, swearing and crawling cautiously up to the road. One of them found me beside the car.
“Okay, mate?” he asked. I nodded, shaken but otherwise unhurt. I could have died half a dozen times that night, and wondered how much longer my luck would hold out.