displaced
georgiann baldino
Many of the Muslims had lived in Siska all their lives, but now their former neighbors evicted them. “Go to Bosnia.“
One man hurled a stone. “Monkeys!” Others hurled bricks, boulders, or manure.
While their homes burned behind them, the refugees took to the road. Spring had just arrived. The sun warmed this wind-swept town but not its people, so the refugees closed ranks, sheltering the children the best they could. Those with sufficient strength raised their parcels to shield themselves. No one fought back. Even if they wanted to, they had no guns to defend themselves.
Grandmothers looked down, studying the uneven ground. Beyond the normal fear of falling, anyone who twisted an ankle would get left behind. None of the refugees looked back. Except Corba.
His clothing hung loose; the flesh had withered away beneath his worn suit. Though his skin was dull and gray, the light in Corba's eyes blazed. Their glassy surface reflected this most recent injustice. He glared at the attackers as if wanting to pick a fight, peering forward and back and focusing his eyes like camera lenses, photographing the details and capturing close-ups of people who would rather smash him in the face than look at him.
His hands clenched the straps of three satchels. “For thirty years,” he told anyone who would listen, “I lived in friendship with the Serb next door. Before the war, he and I would drink slivovitz, toasting each other's health. But after the fighting started, he promoted himself. He became a force I must reckon with. In his estimation, he was now the lord over me. The Serbian guns made him think this.”
The nearby refugees looked away from the ranting old man and scanned the hillsides. So far the Croatian paramilitary hadn't followed, and the Serbian army was busy elsewhere.
“Be still, old man,” a matron said. “You will scare the children.”
“They are not already scared?”
She spat into the dust. “We all have suffered. I lost my sons and my husband.“ She spoke to the woman walking at her side. “And my daughter…” But her voice trailed away rather than say what had happened to her nearly grown daughter.
The two women scurried away as if obeying some unspoken decree, and all the others walked around Corba. “If you want to go mad, feel free, but do it quietly.”
He lunged after one of them. “For two years our family lived barricaded in our home, slipping out a window at night to fetch food. If I went out during the day, people I'd lived with all my life stalked me with clubs in hand. I no longer worked as a cobbler. They murdered my wife. Kidnapped my son and my son-in-law. My other sons went off to fight, and we are reduced to this. Today I flee with my daughter and grandchildren.” He hung his head. “I no longer am a man.”
His daughter, Rasema, urged him forward.
“This former friend of mine,” he said, “slapped my face then taunted. ‘I won't waste bullets on you. I tell you straight to your eyes… I'll burn you out. Or I'll blow up your house and everyone in it.’”
“I know, Father,” she said.
The left side of Corba's face began to twitch. “The final insult came when four men wearing masks charged in demanding money. I recognized two of them. Many times I had repaired shoes for their families. I could guess the identity of the other two. They thought women's stockings pulled over their faces would disguise them. Hah!”
Rasema put her bundle down and brought her fingertips to his mouth. “Why revive the pain by telling it!”
“Such brave men,” he said, “they struck our Betta. The blood ran from her nose and around her mouth.” He paused to examine Rasema's face, which was still marred with bruises. “You screamed, ‘Leave the child alone!’ And so they did. Left the girl to rape you, each of them in turn.” He sucked in a razor-sharp breath. “I tried to stop them, then I tried to look away, but they would not let me.” Corba redistributed the weight of his burden. “They forced everyone in the family to watch.”
The column of refugees was now pulling away from them, but Rasema let him finish.
“When the fighting started, I waited for help to come—but not anymore. We will not return,” Corba said. “There is no life for us here.”
She caressed his cheek. “You, me, Betta and Nazif, together we will begin again.” Then she gently guided him, but Corba closed his mouth, pinned his lips shut, and let his outrage propel him forward.
That night the column bedded down on a hillside. Corba sat alone at the edge of the camp, away from the fires, unapproachable in his sullenness. No one volunteered to calm the old man. He looked off into the distance, and his matted gray head did not bend or fall prey to exhaustion. His anger did not falter, and his eyes did not droop.
A figure backlit by the fires approached him. Her face in darkness, a shadowy Rasema asked, “Will you come?”
“To Sarajevo?”
She held out her hand. “To bed.”
“If we find safe haven before then, we stop.”
“Yes, Father.”
Now he went to his family's fire, spread a threadbare blanket, and collapsed to the ground.
A few hours later, the refugee standing guard was clubbed from behind. Two men, wearing camouflage fatigues, caught him as he fell and lowered his limp frame to the ground. They and ten others surrounded the camp. The Yugoslav Army had equipped them with rifles, grenades, and field rations, all the supplies the Muslims didn't have. These Serbian rebels also wore the dirt and beards of several days. Not one had a youthful or inexperienced face; their cold stares broadcast how many lives they had already taken.
Corba hid his grandson and granddaughter behind him. “No one will hit you again,” he whispered to Betta, and to Rasema he mouthed the words, “no one.”
All the families huddled in clusters. An ancient man with a still-powerful muezzin's voice spread the alarm, “The militia.”
Yanking refugees to their feet, the soldiers herded everyone together. Like wild dogs they barked at the crowd. When all had assembled, their leader addressed the families. “Where are you headed?”
Everyone lost his tongue.
“We've been watching since this afternoon.”
Corba installed Betta behind Rasema and stepped forward. “Why did you wait till now to come and ask us? If you saw us earlier, why do you sneak up when we're asleep?”
The commander didn't look at Corba. Instead he directed his voice, so it passed over the crowd. “You're a brave one—for a Muslim.”
“And you come under cover of darkness to do dirty work.”
The commander pulled Nazif out. With a rigid hand he patted the boy's cheek. “A fine young man.”
“He is only eleven.” Corba lurched forward, but Rasema held him back.
Nazif trembled but did not run.
The commander tilted the boy's head and examined him closer. “Yes, but soon enough he will grow strong and carry a gun.”
Corba seethed. “You joker.”
One of the soldiers charged forward and struck Corba with the butt of his rifle. The crack against the side of Corba's head echoed through the valley. A softer thud followed when he hit the ground.
Rasema knelt over him. Her hands guided Corba onto his back. She kept her voice low. “Father, stay down.”
He concentrated on her face, and Corba struggled to stay conscious. Static passed between them like an auditory distortion of all the times, good and bad, that Corba and his daughter had shared from the moment of conception when his seed became this woman, to Rasema's act of selflessness in now kneeling at his side. In spite of the danger, she helped Corba raise his head, so he could keep track of Nazif.
The soldier, who struck him, now placed the barrel of the gun next to Corba's temple.
“He is ill,” Rasema pleaded.
The man lodged his heel between her neck and collarbone and thrust her away with his boot. He kept the gun in place, and his face bloated with anger. “What do you say now, old man?”
The nearest refugees held their breath, waiting for the shot.
Corba struggled to look at Nazif.
The other soldiers fanned out to make sure no one slipped away.
The wind blew down off the mountaintop with the hoary breath of winter not ready to give way to spring. Though he should be shivering, the soldier with the gun at Corba's head began to sweat.
Corba eyed him and just waited without struggle or comment.
Finally the soldier lowered the gun as if it'd grown heavy in his hands.
Another rebel egged him on. “Haris, get it over with.”
Corba closed his eyes.
But instead of shooting Haris swung away. “This old man isn't worth a bullet. I'd do him a big favor if I killed him.” Then he aimed at his comrade, daring him to open his mouth again.
Pain blurred Corba's eyes, but when Haris turned away Corba took the compass out of his pocket and slipped it inside his waistband to hide this most valuable possession where the soldiers might not bother to search. Other refugees shook with terror. No one spoke or did anything to give the rebels an excuse to fire.
They went through the caravan, looking for able men, but the Croats had already taken them. When the soldiers found no conscripts, they switched to tearing the luggage apart. If they found a Koran, they tossed it onto a fire. They stole the few valuables that remained: a dozen necklaces, a child's tarnished silver cup, a pocket watch that didn't run. The rebels took whatever they fancied. Then they rounded up the boys, including Nazif.
Rasema knelt on the ground, begging. “Don't take him.”
A soldier tossed her aside.
Nazif's legs buckled, but a gun barrel prodded him back up. With the boys as hostages, the Serb commander questioned the refugees. “What do you know about the Bosnian Army?”
No one answered.
The commander jerked Nazif closer, gripping him in a headlock. Again he asked the crowd, “What do you know?”
“Nothing!” the muezzin cried. “We were just expelled from Croatia. We have yet to see the Bosnian Army.“
The commander put his lips next to Nazif's ear. “Shall I believe that?”
The boy nodded.
The man laughed and detained all the boys, no matter how young. Then he ordered everyone else. “On your way.”
Mothers muffled their cries. People scooped up tatters the soldiers had rejected and left their boys behind. They had no other choice. Rasema and Betta got Corba to his feet. They couldn't help Corba and also carry the satchels, so they abandoned their belongings.
A full moon lit the road. Ten boys did their best to stand tall. Toads resumed a nighttime chorus. One terrified eight-year-old couldn't squelch a croak that wrenched free of his throat.
Once they moved out of sight of the militia, the refugees stopped. The women who had lost sons huddled together, rocking and moaning. Rasema went to fetch a drink of water for her father.
Corba turned on her. “Why did you risk yourself to save me?”
“Did I save you?”
Corba's gaze darkened.
She held the cup to his lips.
“Why bargain for my life when you know that Nazif is as good as dead?”
“Drink.” She exchanged places with her father as head of the family and spoke in a soothing voice. “Stay here with the others.”
The rebels didn't worry about moving quietly. Who would oppose them? They marched toward their truck but stopped every few yards to taunt the boys. “Where should we take you?”
“Should we go to the mosque?”
“You fool, we can't. Don't you remember? Somehow the mosque has caught on fire.”
“And unfortunately burnt to the ground.”
“So, boys, we put the question to you. Where should we go?”
Haris jumped out of ranks and yelled at the others. “Shut up!”
“What's the matter, Haris? Lost your nerve? We're just having a little fun.”
“Shut up! Damn you.”
The commander ended the argument. “We stop here.” They had come within sight of their truck. He ordered Haris to stand watch. “You stay here. The rest of you, up the hill.”
The soldiers used the barrels of their guns to direct the children. “Move!” They herded the children off the road like sheep.
Haris took up position at the rear of the truck, but he didn't stand guard. He lowered his automatic weapon and paced, taking three neurotic steps in one direction then turning and covering the same ground again.
The night grew quiet except for Haris, gulping in air, hyperventilating. Each time he turned his eyes wandered up the hill after the boys and each time his eyes jumped back, averting them to the rutted road.
The commander moved the party toward a gully. There he ordered the boys to line up facing a ditch. “Any last use for these boys?” he asked the troops. “Shall we question them further?”
“Let's play a few games,” one man suggested.
Rasema slipped to a position between Haris and the militia, with the boys further up the hillside.
Corba had followed his daughter, but his throbbing head did not permit him to catch up. When he saw where the boys were going, he listed toward their position. He would not allow the soldiers to begin their games. But how could he stop them? He glanced back to check on Rasema.
She emerged from the underbrush into full view.
Once he realized what she was about to do, Corba shouted. “N-n-oooooo!”
Rasema also screamed but more like a banshee, arms flailing, scarf flying, she swooped down on Haris.
He sprayed the apparition with bullets. Her screeching stopped short, and the bullets turned her body this way and that in a deadly ballet, danced to the rat-tat-tat of the rifle blindly pumping bullets up the hillside. As she made her final pirouette, the ammunition went wide and sprayed his comrades. Rasema fell in a heap, but the rebels also dropped. Three cried out, “I'm hit!” The others rolled onto their stomachs poised for battle. When he saw that he had struck his friends, Haris swirled and ran.
Corba took in the sight of Rasema's prostrate form and made his choice. The boys huddled together. Corba whistled to them, but they gazed around in confusion. Only Nazif recognized the sound. He pushed the others up and led them away.
Some soldiers crawled back down the hill toward the unseen enemy, but the commander had taken a bullet in the back. “Oh-h-h!” he screamed. “Help me! Get the medic over here.”
“Cazim is down,” someone said.
Eight soldiers were still able to fight. Two of these saw the boys crawling away and started to follow. But the commander screamed, “Get over here with the first aid kit!”
At that moment Nazif pulled the nearest boy to his feet. “Run!” And they scrambled back to camp with Corba limping behind.
The sentry heard someone coming and ran out to investigate. When he saw the boys, racing for their lives, he called to the others. “Get up! The children are back. On your feet.”
Each son found his mother and wrapped his arms around her. Each mother cried her praise to the Almighty. Corba stumbled in and kicked dirt into the fires. “We must go. We must not wait for them to come back and find us. Up. Up. Let's go!”
The other refugees grabbed their belongings. Corba could only gasp. He cradled his head, but he thought of the boys. “You cannot stay with us,” he said. “It isn't safe. You must run ahead.”
“No!” one of the mothers sobbed.
But another saw the wisdom. “Corba's right,“ she said. “You must reach safety. We will slow you down.”
“Who will guide them?” the muezzin asked.
Corba pulled the compass from his underwear and handed it to Nazif. “Keep moving southeast.”
The mothers nodded, gave their sons their blessing, and the boys stumbled away. As the distance increased, so did the steadiness of their feet.
Finally at five in the morning, the caravan stopped to rest. Betta spread a blanket for Corba and helped her grandfather ease himself to the ground. His breath escaped in a painful hiss, and Corba squeezed his eyes shut.
When she had done all she could to make him comfortable, Betta folded her legs beneath her and melted onto her blanket.
Corba positioned himself for evening prayers. “On the Day of A'last, I made a promise to surrender to Allah and no one else. I have made many promises to Him.”
The nearest woman interrupted. “Thank you,” she said, “for saving my son.”
He shook his head, no.
“In spite of everything that has happened you kept your promise to God.”
“And you?” Corba asked her. “What promises have you made?”
“None.”
“Everyone has made some kind of promise.”
Instead of answering, she turned her back.
Corba poked her. “You must have made a promise.”
“No,” she said, mumbling to the ground. “My heart has broken so many times, I cannot make promises.” But she stirred and grappled with the hardness of the earth. When she couldn't resolve the discomfort, she flipped over to Corba. “All right. I will promise this: that I hope for a better life for the boys you saved.”
“But it was not me…”
The woman waved him off and found a comfortable way to rest.
Corba took his jacket off and used it to cover Betta. “Tomorrow I will tell the whole camp what your mother did.” He patted Betta's head. Though she did not wake up, he told her what had happened. “When I ranted, Rasema acted. When I fell behind, she saved your brother and the others. And I promise that everyone will know how brave she was.”
about the author
Georgiann Baldino is the author of numerous published stories and articles. Her current ebook, “The Nursing Home Fugitive,” is available from Smink Works Books.
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