Chapter 13, The Factory

English translation by Steve Schein

Again the cannons thundered threateningly close to us for days on end. We had nothing left to eat; practically no supplies were getting through. Every day there were those who fled further on, most of them heading for Srebrenica. At daybreak on the third day we were called to assemble on the square between the barns. The Inspectorate wanted to update us and warn us.
I stood holding Mother’s hand, right behind Esma. At first Esma blocked my view of the men, but then they stood up on a box, as usual, so we could better follow what was going on. I still mostly saw the back of Esma’s head, but I could clearly hear what the men were saying.
People in Srebenica were starving like us. Illnesses flourished. The townspeople had been without electricity and running water for two years. By now over 40,000 people were staying in the besieged city. It was definitely not an alternative to Husene, the camp leader emphasized, and had his assistant repeat the slobbering words from his war-wounded mouth, just to be sure we understood.
The assistant’s words made just as little impression as the camp leader’s. Everyone was afraid and discussed the situation among themselves. Most of those who had the energy wanted to carry on towards the town.
“Samir will come and fetch us before we know it,” consoled Mother.
There was a call to maintain order. The camp leader cleared his throat and read from a piece of paper in a ceremonious voice. The international community maintained and assured that they were looking out for us. We could relax. We were situated in a UN-secured zone; the Dutch UN soldiers were protecting us.
In front of me Esma was scratching her neck bloody from sheer nervousness. Fear sprang from my sister to me as the camp leader maintained it was meaningless to head in the direction of Srebenica – it was practically suicide. He urged everybody to stay, and trust the UN as well as the Inspectorate.
“Oh, God,” Mother burst out. “Not again.”
She let go of my hand and took hold of Esma’s shoulder.
“Stand still a moment, I just have to …”
Mother scrutinized my sister’s neck and scalp. I moved closer. Then I, too, could see the hundreds red dots and scratch marks on her neck. It looked like some kind of eczema, but after being in the forest, I knew what it was.
“Well, we have lice again,” said Mother. “What about you, Little Sis?”
We went over behind the barns and inspected each other. Common as it was, most people were ashamed of getting lice. Mother and I had gone free, but Esma had to be treated right away, down by the creek behind The Tree.
Mother already had a scissors and a knife, and Esma sitting in the right position on the ground, when Dag came by:
“Well, who have we here …? Pardon me, I guess I’m intruding. I didn’t notice …”
She formed her words with particular caution, as though searching for the ones that were the most mitigating and gentle. She smiled knowingly at my sister.
“It’s nothing to be ashamed of, Esma. Nat and I had lice, too, after … when we came here. I still have a fine-toothed comb and oil over in the barn.”
Esma said nothing. She’s feeling Baby burning in her lap again, I thought. My sister and I had been sort of keeping our distance from Dag for that reason; we couldn’t talk to her without Baby joining in from the oven. Mother kindly declined Dag’s offer, saying cutting the hair close was the surest.
“Lice can neither live nor lay eggs in really short hair. But I’ll stop by later.”
Dag nodded and continued up towards her barn. Mother got to work.
“It’ll grow out again,” she said. “One day it will be longer and prettier than ever.”
“Just get it over with,” answered Esma. “I want to go in and rest,”
“It’s only one or two o’clock, at the most,” said Mother, looking up at the sun. “Wouldn’t it be better to find something to do with Little Sis?”
“I’m so tired, I just want to sleep.”

At the end of May the UN’s peacekeeping forces gave all participants in the war an ultimatum: they must cease fighting the next day, by noon at the latest.
But the next day fighting continued. The bombs rained down over our cities and towns. A woman – whose husband and children were in Tuzla – screamed and collapsed on the square when she heard Tuzla’s town center had been hit, and that there were dead, dismembered and wounded everywhere.
Later we learned that NATO had subsequently launched an air strike against some of the Bosnian Serb positions. The Inspectorate’s enthusiasm was short lived. Next day came the details. A single enemy tank had been neutralized and the Bosnian Serb army had retaliated promptly by taking several hundred UN soldiers hostage.
Food shortages continued in the days to follow. Many of the children and young people had gotten themselves something to eat at the UN post that lay nearby. Now Esma and I were also allowed to go.
But Mother spoke anxiously and had red splotches on her neck as we were about to leave.
“I just don’t like it … Two girls, alone out there …”
“I look like a boy now,” said Esma, and ran her fingers over her short-cropped scalp. “Even more than when you cut my hair in the forest.”
“All the better,” said Mother. “It’s safer if a stranger thinks you’re a boy. But you must still be careful.”
“It’s not only the hair that does it,” I said. “It’s just as much the jeans and Samir’s green shirt.”
Mother almost didn’t hear me. She was focused on Esma.
“Don’t let anything happen to you. The men must never … I won’t allow it, do you hear me? I’m the one looking out for you now, may God forgive me.”
Mother had begun sniffling. Esma comforted her.
“It’s okay, Mom, I’ll be careful. Nothing’s going to happen.”
“I’ll be careful, too,” I said.

We knew from Samir that the 260 Dutch UN soldiers who were going to protect us were spread out between 13 observation posts in the Srebenica area – if they weren’t taken prisoner. The nearest position lay only a few kilometers upriver from Husene. The observation posts weren’t meant to fight military battles; the UN didn’t want to risk being blamed for helping escalate the war. The soldiers were primarily observers. With them monitoring everything, the UN believed no one would seriously consider overstepping the mark. Which was why their positions were visible and easy for all to find.
We didn’t speak much along the way. We concentrated on walking where others had trodden down the grass before us, so hopefully we’d avoid the mines. Esma went first; I followed in her tracks. She was sweating; the shirt was wet under the arms.
There were many others who had come before us and taken up their position at the foot of the wooden structure from which the Dutch had previously shared their good food so generously. But in recent weeks it was only potato peels they threw to the hungry. Now everybody was waiting for the soldiers’ refuse. If one were lucky, it might contain leftovers from a meal. We waited hopefully with other refugees, in competition for something to stuff in our mouths.
I could see some of the soldiers and wanted to shout “hi” to them, but I didn’t know a single word of Dutch. The English “hello” was no longer capable of passing my lips; “hello” had become stuck in my throat, together with Pas.
“Bonjour,” suddenly popped out of my mouth, so that I could both be heard and noticed among all the other beggars. It was also to encourage Esma to use her French.
But the soldiers didn’t answer. They looked sad. An old man who was already leaving said we might as well give up; the Dutch soldiers had run out of fresh food and were living off meager field rations themselves. There were no more food scraps in their garbage. The Serbs were preventing them from getting supplies. They’d run out of diesel fuel as well, and couldn’t use their vehicles. The man shook his head in resignation:
“The ones who are supposed to watch out for us can’t even watch out for themselves. Y’know how they get around from outpost to outpost? On mules! You’d do best to get out of here.”
The man left, but we stayed; maybe we’d be lucky and something edible would be thrown out. By afternoon we still hadn’t gotten anything. We had to leave if we wanted to make it back to Husene before nightfall.
“Maybe we can find some berries on the way back,” I said.
“They’re not anywhere near being ripe yet,” said Esma, who was leading the way again. “And we can’t go off the path, either. Remember the mines.”
The old man had made me think about Granddad. Then my father. I followed in my sister’s footsteps as best I could, and said:
“Do you think we’ll ever see Father again?”
“I don’t know.”
“Yes, but … Do you really want to see him?”
“What do you mean?”
“The beatings. It was even worse when I wasn’t around. You’ve said so yourself. Once in our old room you called him a swine, too.”
Esma stopped and turned to me:
“Dad? There you’re mistaken.”
“He hit you. I can remember the sound. Then afterwards he said it had hurt him more than it hurt you. He shouldn’t have treated you like that.”
“It wasn’t all that bad.”
“Why was it almost always you?”
“I was probably the closest. And Mom would have woken up. She had eyes in the back of her head and didn’t want a repeat performance. You had to be protected.”
“I got a few smacks once in a while.”
“Right. But not the other thing.”
“’The other thing’?”
“It wasn’t Dad. It was Granddad who couldn’t control himself when he’d had too much slivovitz.”
“Granddad?”
“That’s right,” my sister nodded. “He couldn’t leave me alone. The first time was down in the potato cellar.”
“Yes, but what did Mother and Father say?”
“Dad was at the factory, or else off in his own, little world. Mom was in the beet fields, with the hens or … She was always working like a slave, you know.”
“What did Granddad do?”
“He fooled around and whatever it is men do to women. But then Mom discovered what he was up to and gave him and Dad an ultimatum: Dad must never hit us anymore, and if Granddad touched me one more time, she was moving out with you and me, even if it meant living in the street. And Granddad was exiled to the stables – on his own farm.”
All of a sudden I remembered the day where Mother insisted I go with her to the henhouse, even though I would have rather been with Granddad or playing with Pas. She said we were going to clean their crapping perches, collect eggs and air out the henhouse. But then she suddenly dropped the egg basket, plopped down in the middle of the filthy floor, and cried and prayed to God, who didn’t even exist at that point. And I didn’t understand a thing, but I picked up the basket and went around from nest to nest, collecting eggs. Later that day there was a lot of loud yelling and screaming in the house, and in the middle of the night I heard Mother’s voice from down in the kitchen, saying: “I’ll slit his throat!” But when I woke up the next morning, I was convinced I’d just been having bad dreams. And Mother said that the stalls needed whitewashing, and did I feel like lending a hand?
“No man is ever going to touch me again against my will,” said Esma. “Or hit me … Well, we gotta keep moving.”

Black smoke rose to the sky from burning villages and isolated farms around Husene in the days that followed. Still closer, the all-to-familiar sound of volleys of shots could be heard once again. People’s anxiety rose. Mother asked about the courier who was supposed to reunite us with Father and Samir if our brother didn’t fetch us as planned. Red Beard appeared the next morning and for a moment we were relieved, until he said we couldn’t wait much longer, we had to leave. The final battle was in full swing and it was certain death if we stayed much longer in Husene. The Serbian troops were attacking everywhere around Srebenica in order to confine and reduce the UN’s “safe” zone. With that accomplished, they were likely to try taking the town itself.
A female figure was approaching us along the path as we listened to Red Beard. Lugging a little bundle, she staggered towards the hospital and collapsed on the steps.
“Stay here,” said Mother, immediately setting off towards the woman.
Other women rushed over to help and men came out of the Inspectorate to see what had happened. Esma went over, too.
A few moments later the scene erupted in panic. People screamed, their eyes wild with fear. Esma threw up, even though we had eaten nothing for several days. A woman fainted as the recent arrival related fragments of what she’d experienced, her words punctuated by loud sobbing. With clenched fists and tears running down his cheeks, the camp leader swore gruesome revenge in Allah’s name.
I sensed it best to keep my distance, but at the same time something was drawing me closer. Even at a distance one couldn’t help but hear what had happened. People screamed louder and wailed more wildly as they implored the gods for help, swore revenge and repeated to one another what had happened.
The woman, her husband and their young son had hidden in the henhouse when the Serbs stormed their farm and they couldn’t escape. They were quickly captured and interrogated.
Then the man was given a choice. Amid threats that the Serbs would kill the entire family, he was given an alternative that would save them. Survival had its price, however. The same as men before him had been forced to pay, or else see their family executed. The price had a funny name I’d never heard before: “oral castration”.
The father was forced to castrate his own son with his mouth - bite off the boy’s sexual organ – or else they would all die. First the wife and son. Then himself.
After the cruel deed was carried out the farm was torched and the man shot before the eyes of his wife, who was clutching the wounded child to her breast. The son had bled to death on the way to Husene; now he was wrapped up in the bundle that the mother wouldn’t let go of.
It was a dreadful night. The barn was dark, and full of lamenting and uneasy murmurs.
“What’ll happen if they come here?” one wondered.
“That’s not hard to figure out,” another blubbered. “First they wanted us out of the area; now they want us out of the world altogether. What have we done to deserve such suffering?”
Images raged in my head. The castrated boy was only three years old. Could these horrid men get the idea to do the same thing with older boys? If only Samir and Father hadn’t found each other!

Powerless and desperate, the last of those capable of fleeing did so. They went by foot, or – if they were lucky – were transported like cattle when they became too weak to walk or stand. Up into the mountains, out into the woods, in towards Srebenica.
We ourselves were ready to take flight. We dared not wait any longer. But Red Beard – who was supposed to help us – had disappeared during the night. Like many others, we had to leave any way we could. Still, we were so afraid of never seeing Samir and Father again that we chose to stay another twenty-four hours. One, absolutely final day. Maybe one of them would show up. Then we had to leave, no matter what. Only a little group of us remained.
My body quivered and shook all over and suddenly I broke down in tears. Esma went around as though paralyzed. Mother got us into the barn. Sitting on the floor, she laid an arm over each of us – Esma to her right, me to her left – and drew us to herself. Her heavy breathing and the pressure from her hands lay over us like a protective blanket.
All night long we heard shots and screams that were much too close by. I must have slept a moment, anyway. Again I was together with Samir, then Baby and the little, castrated boy, and then Pas – a death mask in the air that made me wake up with a scream and a flaming message before my eyes: Pas could have been lying by my side if I hadn’t let him loose and used his leash to tie my boots, and at the critical moment lose my grip on the nape of my warm dog’s neck.
Several of those who had fled in panic with their families returned alone in the course of the morning. Defeated, they staggered into the square between the barns and collapsed. It had been impossible to break through to Srebenica or anywhere else. We were surrounded. In the woods and mountains they’d been like hunted quarry. Each of those who returned had his or her personal account that only served to enhance horrors that were already too great to fathom. Some tried to give a coherent description of what they’d experienced during the night; most merely moaned or retreated deep inside themselves.
Mother called us back to the barn in an attempt to spare us these horrors. She looked terrible, jaw muscles jerking as she spoke our names and assured us that Father and Samir would be coming soon. And Esma said:
”I just want to help you, but I don’t know what to do.”
The words made Mother heave a sob:
”Can you forgive me, my girl?”
Esma laid her arm around Mother’s shoulder and motioned me over to join them.
A little while later Esma and I left the barn. I wanted us to hide from it all in the Tree of Peace. We said nothing along the way, just walked hand-in-hand with sweaty, interlaced fingers.
We didn’t dare go farther than the tree. From there we could see what we’d been listening to all night.
Nature’s own components had been brought from the forest to complete the evil deed. Freshly felled pines had been stuck in the ground, from the path all the way to the Inspectorate. Every, single tree had been meticulously freed of its branches, each pole cut to a sharp tip at the end, pointing towards the sky. The naked tree trunks stood there like totem poles, blocking the way out. The ground leading to the path was bloody and spotted from abused bodies. High up on every pole sat the decapitated, impaled heads of the people who had fled Husene the day before.

I awoke to the sound of a voice I knew, but hadn’t heard in a long time. I rubbed my eyes and saw the figure of a man bent over my mother. He sat down and put his arms around her. The two bodies trembled and made some half-suppressed sounds.
I couldn’t immediately recognize Father in the half darkness, but I could tell from his voice and from Mother that it was him. Esma woke up as well. I’ll never forget the picture of Father and Mother sitting there, holding each other in the barn in the middle of the night. Their eyes. The tears. Their voices. Their shaking bodies.
They let go of each other. Father turned and pulled Esma to him. He cried openly as he hugged her and felt the bones right beneath her skin. Then it was my turn for a long embrace.
Father had come in a cattle truck with wounded men. I crawled over to Esma without taking my eyes off him as he spoke. At one point I whispered to her that, if Father could sneak into Husene, we could sneak out. She didn’t answer.
Father had lost two toes to infection and frostbite, but had salvaged the foot. Maggots, penicillin and medical treatment had saved him. He had a limp, but was able to walk.
Breathlessly Father said that what he’d seen during the past days was indescribable and we had to leave immediately. Mother nodded. She didn’t waste time telling about our own horrors in Husene. She only asked about Samir.
Father hadn’t seen him. He sobbed in despair when he heard his son was headed towards Srebenica:
“Oh, what have I done? Why did we wait so long? We should have gone when we had the strength.”
Mother put her arms around Father. She wanted us to set out for Srebenica immediately, where she was sure we all would be reunited. But Father shook his head: no, that would mean certain death.
“Besides,” he said, “it’s impossible to get through. We have to hope that Samir …”
Father stopped a moment while he fought to get hold of himself. He looked at us, and continued:
“The city’s being bombarded. The fronts are about to collapse. Srebenica will fall soon. We have to hide in the woods. From there we can get further up in the mountains and then head west.”
There was the sound of an explosion close by, followed by a quick round of shots. There was no time for long conversations; we had to get out of there. Father was already limping towards the barn door, trying to make us hurry.
Mother and I stood up quickly, but Esma remained sitting stiffly on the floor. Noticing this, Mother said:
“Hold hands, girls. The weather’s with us this time and the forest’s not cold. It’ll give us good cover now. Even the mountains are passable.”
We got outdoors. The camp was disintegrating totally. People were running around in panic, with the sound of screams and moaning between volleys of shooting.
Mother led us quickly around behind the barns and on past the Tree of Peace. Esma and I, hand in hand, and then Father. On the way down to the path, Mother turned to us, and said:
“We’ve got to move faster. You can do it. C’mon!”
“Do as Mother says,” came Father’s voice from behind.
Esma and I let go of each other’s hand and started to run. Then there were more shots and shouting and enemies closing in from all sides. I saw my parents raise their hands in the air while paramilitary men with ski caps came closer and closer, their rifles trained on us.

We lay on the ground for hours. Some of the men pointed at us with their rifles while others searched the area and hunted down those who had tried to hide. We lay face-down on our stomachs and weren’t allowed to look up. Still it was impossible not to tell what was happening. Two boys took off for the woods, sprinting right past our heads, but didn’t get far; they were shot in the back as the sun was coming up.
The trucks arrived around noon. The paramilitaries shouted for us to stand up, hitting some of the adults. Suddenly several quick shots were fired, one after the other. The camp leader toppled over and didn’t move.
We were herded together and made to line up by two trucks. Esma, Father and some of the women from Barn III in one line, Mother and I in the other. The tailgates of the flatbed trucks were swung down. We were ordered up. Dag was standing right in front of me. She turned around with weary eyes and whispered:
“Pray!”
Two men blindfolded us as soon as we were up on the flatbed. Just before they blindfolded me, I saw Father and Esma being driven away in the first truck.
We didn’t drive for very long before the truck stopped. The men with the rifles shouted at us again to keep the blindfold on and get out of the truck as fast as possible, which was difficult, since we couldn’t see anything. They didn’t think we were quick enough at following orders, so they yelled even louder. I could hear from the dialect that they were from our own part of the country.
Some of our group fell and began crying, others whimpered as they were struck with rifle butts. Mother’s whispering voice reached me several times: Easy, Little Sis, easy. Then I heard her pained wail as she was butted on our way off the truck.
We were herded forward. The next sound was that of a sliding door being drawn to the side. I sensed us entering a room with a lot of other people. The door gave a metallic clank as it was closed behind us. An unbearable stench of urine, feces, blood and rotting flesh was about to knock me over.
We were packed together so close that I was bumping against other prisoners all the time. It felt like getting an electric shock; I could tell the other people were just as frightened as I was.
I heard Mother calling my name, but the voice got fainter and fainter. It was hard to breathe because of the stink of these all-too-many people.
I was about to collapse, but there was nowhere to sit down. I was shoved into a wall that I tried to support myself against while I listened for Mother’s voice.
But I only heard a hushed complaining, the door being opened, more people being driven into the room, and then again the metallic bang.
A woman’s voice told us we could remove the blindfold. I no longer dared move, not even to take off the blindfold. I felt two hands at my head and the blindfold was removed.
At first I could see nothing. I was blinded when I looked up at the light bulb that was hanging high above the center of the room. As my eyes adjusted, I saw I was standing close to the windows, all of which were shuttered.
I looked for Mother, but saw only frightened faces beneath the light bulb. The room was crude and shabby, with beams along the ceiling and a stone floor. Otherwise it was bare. We were about eighty people.
In spite of the lack of space, many were trying to move about in the room. Unfamiliar bodies shoved against each other, setting more and more of them in motion. We became as one, single organism. It was impossible to withstand this wave of humanity. I myself got caught up in it and moved toward the middle of the room. Everyone was looking for family members, calling out and shouting. Then I felt a hand grab my arm. I couldn’t turn around - only my head - and saw Mother’s battered, swollen face. The wave had hold of me and was already trying to move me away from her. But she wouldn’t let go. She pulled harder on me and shoved her way until we could throw our arms around each other and be close together.
I woke up with my head in Mother’s lap. She was sitting on the floor, squeezed up against the wall opposite the sliding doors. She was sobbing quietly and stroking my hair as she continually whispered Esma, Samir and Father’s names. There were several prisoners who had died. People were stacking the bodies on top of each other so the rest of us had a bit more room.
We were only women and children. Many had been there for a number of days. They weren’t sure how long. The light bulb in the ceiling was on twenty-four hours a day, so we couldn’t tell whether it was day or night. I slipped in and out of a strange kind of sleep.
We saw nothing of the paramilitaries and were given neither food nor drink. Nor did we dare try to break out and escape. These hostile men were probably just waiting for us to try, so they could rape and shoot us.
Nobody spoke about the terrible thirst or hunger. Only the youngest children gave voice to their feelings. Their cries of distress alarmed us all, but there was nothing we could do.
There was a woman dangling from a beam in the ceiling when I awoke. She had hung herself from her dress. I heard someone say she had lost both her sister and her niece. I looked up into the woman’s face. Mother and another woman cut Dag down and lay her in a pile with the dead.

After a long while we heard the soldiers’ voices outside again. The sliding doors opened and we were shooed out. Mother and I clung to each other. We hadn’t any idea where we were. I didn’t understand immediately, because the place seemed so familiar, yet completely different. The first thing I saw was the dead, lying in a heap outside. Behind them, sooty ruins and a few buildings that were still standing. The river lay further off. Through a dusty filter I could make out the green, summer landscape of my childhood. It was then that I knew where we were: Father’s old workplace, the chemical factory just before Milena’s house.
I noticed another group of woman behind the pile of corpses who were clutching each other. Then I heard shouted commands. Real soldiers had arrived and were giving orders to our paramilitary kidnappers.
Another sliding door was opened, this time to the main warehouse behind the ruins. Then out of the dark opening in the wall, into the sharp sunlight, came the men. In long columns, two by two, hand in hand. They were hustled over to the square, to the other side of the pile of bodies from where we had been commanded to stand. Unwillingly and blinded by the light, they moved with dragging feet. A woman from our group screamed like I’d never heard anyone scream before. Then another.
”My husband!”
“My son!”
“Show mercy!”
Suddenly the entire group of women was in motion. I held onto Mother as the women swept us with them towards the men. Some called out, wailing, at the sight of their loved ones. Others howled in helplessness over those they didn’t see. All screamed in the hope that their screams would reach a place from which some kind of mercy would be shown.
Tumultuous scenes erupted; orders flew through the air. I saw Father in the first row. The soldiers fired shots over our heads; the paramilitaries knocked us down with their rifle butts. Two men who tried to run forward were shot. Lying on the ground, I whispered to Mother:
”Father’s there.”
”I know. Mrs. Mesinovic’s son, too.”
”Mirsad?”
”Yes, I’m almost positive.”
I couldn’t see him, and asked:
”What about Samir? And where’s Esma?”
”We’ll have to look for them … Shhh!”
The real soldiers bawled out the paramilitaries and gave them new orders. A tightening-up was necessary. Order and discipline were needed.
The blood was washed away and the dead placed on the heap of bodies. Bundles of straw, used to protect the harvest from rain, were laid over the pile. The most seriously injured were led off behind the factory.
The soldiers in charge decided the women should no longer be lying down. We were ordered to sit on the ground and not move a muscle. The men and older boys stood paralyzed in their rows as we did as we were ordered. Quiet descended over us. I noticed a familiar figure further down the row, across from Father. There stood my school teacher with dead eyes - escaped from our own, captured by our enemies.
One group of Bosnian Serb soldiers took position before the rows of men, another before our group of women and children. They pointed at us with their rifles and kept a close eye on everything and everyone. The senior Serb officers smoked cigarettes and talked among themselves as they monitored the entire scene. A thickset commandant in an olive-green uniform and large, matching cap looked impatiently at his watch and spit out orders left and right. Nothing escaped his attention. He ran his eyes over the soldiers and rows of prisoners. His voice stung the air. Even the soldiers and paramilitaries seemed a little afraid of him.
I could hear the sound of traffic in the far distance. Cars, tractors, large farm machinery … Tanks? Then I saw Mirsad, too. He was standing in Father’s row, two men further down, looking awful, with his clothes in tatters and a bruised, swollen face. It occurred to me that two of the men I cared for the most were standing so close to one another without knowing each other at all. I dared not whisper to Mother anymore, but reached out for her hand and gave it a squeeze. She squeezed back and held on tight.
The stocky commandant stepped forward. Only the sound of traffic accompanied his imperative voice.
He stated that the women and children were to stay absolutely calm. Those who did not would be shot. The men would be evaluated according to their misdeeds and punished accordingly.
The traffic sounds were very close now. A bus drove into the square and stopped behind the truck that had brought Mother and me. An excavator and a bulldozer followed the bus. The noise they made interrupted the Commandant momentarily. The drivers turned off their motors, jumped from their vehicles and started walking towards the superior officer. Before reaching him, the Commandant waved them back irritably with his hand, and yelled:
“Get those machines back behind the factory and start the job!”
He gave further instructions to one of his officers, who immediately ran over toward the men and the machines. The Commandant resumed instructing us:
All women and children were to be driven away from the Serbian areas, after which we could do as we wanted. But first, the children – who had suffered so much from the war – would be given something to eat.
A sigh of relief went through our group. But then came a whispering voice:
“What about our men?”
The voice vanished in the silence of renewed fear that arose when the Commandant began pacing back and forth before our group, studying us individually in order to select the children who were to get something to eat. He pointed at boys and girls, one by one, and called them forward:
“You … you … and you.”
Two soldiers jumped up on the bed of the truck, while a third handed them a box. At the same time three well-clad civilians emerged from one of the two undamaged buildings. They were carrying some kind of equipment.
The Commandant raised the chin of a little girl with black curls and studied her closely. She was likely an orphan, since no mother had tried to conceal her.
“Roma?” asked the Commandant.
The girl looked up at him with big, dark eyes, totally devoid of fear. She didn’t answer. Perhaps she didn’t understand the question. The Commandant’s hand glided up to the curls. He stroked her hair and said, in a friendly voice:
“That’s good, my dear. In a little while you’ll get something to eat.”
The girl smiled at the Commandant. He lifted her up and looked at her. She stuck her thumb in her mouth. Then he laughed to the girl and carried her around on his arm while he continued his inspection and picked out the last children.
The three civilians were getting their equipment ready beside the truck. One of them came over and looked at us. He said something to the Commandant and went back to the others.
The Commandant set the girl down with the other children and looked out over us with a grave expression. He bawled us out for being slovenly. We had to adjust our clothes and hair; we were going to be on television. The TV crew waved and nodded to him. He gave us one last order: we must do as the director said and everything would be just fine. Only the children he’d chosen were to run forward when the sign was given. The mothers and everyone else were to stay in the group. It was good if we smiled, waved and were happy on behalf of the children.
It was completely quiet as the Commandant walked over and stood behind the TV crew.
“Ready to roll!” yelled one of the crew.
“Action!” said another.
The cameraman panned away from the factory we’d been locked up in, over the river and then to the children and the two smiling soldiers on the back of the truck, who were tossing candy and caramels on the ground. The children charged forward and threw themselves at the sweets. Some were lucky; others fell, had their fingers stepped on and began crying. But the soundman wasn’t satisfied:
“We’re getting noise from the excavator.”
“Okay, we’ll take it one more time,” said the director of the TV crew.
This annoyed the Commandant, who yelled something about damn civilians and unnecessary delays. But he accepted the complaint, ordering:
“Turn off that machine!”
And to the mothers, he shouted:
“Call your children back. Get them ready again. Get them to look glad. The ones that start blubbering will be punished.”
He gave the director a strained smile, waved his arm, and muttered:
“Anything for art.”
The mothers called to their children. Several had to run out and fetch them when they didn’t obey. Only the little Gypsy girl kept on looking for candy on the ground. I wanted to go get her, but dared not move. I could hear a little cry of joy when she finally found a piece of candy. Our eyes met. She smiled so I could see she was beginning to get her second teeth. An older, lame woman stepped forward. She took the girl by the hand and went back to the other group of women behind the stack of corpses.
Children and adults were quickly herded together into the correct grouping. The soldiers reassumed their positions on the truck with a new supply of sweets. Once again the ready-to-roll sign was given, and then the cry: “Action!”
The soldiers waved and laughed. All the children wanted something in their mouths. They stretched their arms up towards the men, who began tossing candy. The children again threw themselves on the ground, sending clouds of dust into their small faces. Some cried; others were lucky.
I could no longer stand to watch the children, and looked over at the TV crew. For a while the camera was trained solely on the children and the smiling soldiers on the back of the truck. Then it panned over the shore of the river with its green trees and bushes. I followed it with my eyes and could make out the contours of Milena’s house in the distance. The camera continued over the covered-up corpses toward the group of women with the Gypsy girl, who was no longer to be seen. In the midst of our burnt out and sooty surroundings, I could still spy something comfortingly green in this group of the women. A bush, or … I focused on the spot of color. There could be no doubt.
“Esma!” I exclaimed to Mother. “Over with the other women … Samir’s green shirt!”
“Shit!” yelled the soundman. “Someone couldn’t keep her mouth shut!”
“Take it easy,” said the director, then turned to the cameraman.
“Camera?”
“It’s in the can,” he answered.
“It’s okay, then,” said the director. “No problem. We got what we came for. We’re finished.”
The Commandant nodded impatiently and began giving concise orders again:
“Get back to work with that excavator! Children back in the ranks! Carry out the age check! Get the bulldozer in position!”
Two Serbian officers turned up. They saluted and exchanged a few words with the Commandant, who disappeared. Then the officers inspected us. Mother squeezed hard on my hand. Women with older boys were ordered to step forward. The senior officer did the talking:
“Boys over the age of twelve are no longer boys, and they’ll never become men if they stay with their mothers. Send them over to the fathers.”
A terrible quiet fell over our group. Every mother held onto his son, no matter how old he was. Across from them, a mere thirty or forty meters away, stood the men in two dead-straight rows.
The older officer flew into a rage and started bawling out the women. The younger one seemed uncertain and looked back and forth between us and the noisy machines that were digging in the soft, summer topsoil. Suddenly a youth in front of me spoke up:
“What about us who haven’t got a father?”
The older officer came over and shoved the boy’s mother aside. He pulled the boy forward and sized him up:
“Where is your father?”
“He’s dead.”
“A boy your age isn’t supposed to still be with his mother. You need discipline, with or without your father. Do you have any more questions?”
The boy hesitated a moment, then thought of something:
“Yes. Are you digging to bury the dead?” he asked, and pointed at the heap of bodies. “I can help bury them.”
The officer turned around and winked at his younger colleague, who was fidgeting behind him. Then he took the boy’s hand that had been pointing, raised it again, straightened out his forefinger and pointed it back towards the pile:
“Yes,” he said, “that’s what we’re doing. Along with all bad boys who don’t obey orders.”
Slowly he forced the boy’s pointing hand in the direction of the two rows of men:
“Over there is where you’re supposed to be, so get going!”
The boy immediately started running towards the men. His mother crumpled to the ground. Another woman whispered:
“We’re going to lose them. We’re going to lose them all.”
The women began sobbing and crying again. The sound spread to the rows of men, which began breaking up. At the same moment a short wave of gratitude washed over me. At least my brother was nowhere to be seen.
Suddenly some of the men started running towards the river, others toward the forest. Those farthest back headed for the warehouses. Screaming, several women began running toward their husbands and sons. Mother and I screamed and ran, too, not knowing where. Volleys of shots rang out. Mother tried to cover my eyes and my ears as we continued running aimlessly. We fell down in the middle of the courtyard.
”Stay lying down,” Mother ordered, her voice trembling.
I lay there with my left cheek against the ground and saw several people shot down. Others raised their hands in the air and surrendered. Above the commotion I could hear the excavator digging away indifferently. Behind the factory’s flat roof I caught glimpses of the shovel rising with new loads of earth to be deposited next to the hole it was making. A young man lay near me on the ground. Every minute or so he crawled about a meter. Our eyes met. He put a finger to his lips. Then I saw the little Gypsy girl. She was sitting on the ground in front of the truck, poking around after more candy.
The men were led back with hands held above their heads. The soldiers struck them in the chest, back and face with their rifle butts. The rows we re-formed. My eyes peered out over the battered bodies and faces. First I saw the university professor, standing third in line in the row to the right. Then I spied Father, farther down the row to the left.
“Father’s still there,” I whispered to Mother, “but not Mirsad …”
We were ordered to stand up. All those who didn’t do so immediately would be considered dead - and shot, just to make sure.
I got to my feet easily enough, but Mother was having problems with her legs. For a moment she wobbled under her own weight. I saw her right foot was at a very wrong angle and grabbed her around the waist. Now we had to make it back as quick as possible to the other women, who were in the process of re-assembling.
Some paramilitaries collected the dead and most seriously wounded and lay them next to the pile of corpses. Order was practically re-established. No more shooting and screaming, only the sound of the excavator and bulldozer among sporadic commands.
The bundles of straw that had hidden the stack of corpses during the TV shoot were removed to make room for the new dead. Among the bodies lay the young man who’d signaled to me not to say anything. The paramilitaries poked around in the bloody corpses with the point of their rifle barrels to make sure there was no one left alive. Everything was swimming before my eyes. It was impossible for him not to be found out. But then the younger officer yelled to the paramilitaries to hurry up, and they began simply throwing the dead and dying on top of him. At that moment I saw Esma. I promised myself never again to let her out of my sight. I watched as she searched up and down the rows of men, then her eyes fixed on something and she became completely still.
She left the group of women. With hands above her head, my sister walked past the piled bodies, not even noticing the paramilitary men. She continued out to the middle of the square, stopping for a moment to scan our group. But we didn’t make eye contact and she turned her gaze back to the rows of men. Then she continued moving, placing one foot before the other with determination, practically strolling towards the men.
“No, Esma!” I cried. “No, here! We’re over here!”
The Commandant and both officers entered the square. The soldiers and paramilitaries were pointing their rifles at the rows of men and us women. My sister took a few steps along the row of men to the right and stopped between the third and fourth man. Then she got into the row directly behind the university professor from Sarajevo.
The Commandant gave orders to the officers, who in turn shouted them to their subordinates, who got the paramilitaries to deal with the practical details.
“Take the men behind the warehouse!”
“Women to the vehicles!”
The men were hustled off. First Father’s row, then the one with Esma and the professor. One of the paramilitaries called out the tempo:
“One, two, one, two …”
The ragged men had to march in time as they were led behind the warehouse, from where the noise of the excavator and bulldozer could still be heard.
Most of those around me were sobbing; several fell down. Then a desperate, pleading scream drowned out the lamentations as a woman broke ranks and ran toward the men:
“My husband … Don’t! We haven’t done anything, we’re innocent!”
A single shot rang out over the square and the woman fell to the ground a few meters from the men, who continued marching.
“One, two, one, two …”
“Mother, Esma’s with the men!”
“Are you sure? Where?”
“The row opposite Father, behind the teacher from Sarajevo.”
“Get going! Off with you!” came the order.
Now it was time for us to head for the waiting bus and truck, in the same direction as our brother and sons, fathers and husbands.
The other group of women walked in front and was told to quickly take a seat on the bus. One of the paramilitaries shouted that the bus was about to leave and today we didn’t need a ticket - as though we were at a bus station. Another added that those who didn’t make it onboard in time would face the consequences.
Then came our group, led by two young soldiers. Paramilitary men lined the route, pointing their weapons at us.
A line quickly formed before the bus and truck. From there we could see the men and boys standing by the peeling wall of the warehouse. The excavator was at work diagonally opposite the building. By now several women were resisting being separated from their husbands and wouldn’t board the vehicles.
Behind me I heard a woman whisper to a member of her family who, like me, was called Mlada Sestra:
“Don’t cry. That’s not how they should remember us. We must help in whatever way we can … They have to see us smiling when …”
The soldiers and paramilitaries showed no mercy. Those who resisted or weren’t fast enough were struck with rifle butts and forced onto the bus with punches and kicks. Mother and I clung to each other, afraid of being separated. We were next-to-last in line to board the truck.
Most of the women had boarded the bus. There were only four women getting into the truck in front of us, when Mother pleaded to one of the soldiers:
“There’s been a mistake. My daughter is with the men …”
Her voice cracked and she broke into tears as a rifle butt hit her in the face and knocked her down. I joined in, yelling:
“It’s true! My sister’s over there! In the green shirt!”
I scarcely felt the blow, only that I fell to the ground and Mother’s arms closed around me to protect me against the kicks and punches that followed. The blows rained down over Mother’s crouching body with me folded inside, but I could hear the thudding of the soldier’s boot in my mother’s face. It hit her so hard that I flew out of her embrace.
Strong arms lifted us off the ground and shoved us in line behind the truck from which the soldiers previously had tossed candy to the children.
Mother squeezed my hand tightly. We were both trembling so much that we could barely stand upright. With one last effort of willpower, she tried again to make herself heard:
“For God’s sake, see for yourself! It’s a girl – my daughter!”
Two very young men pushed us up to the other women on the back of the truck. Blood was running down over my one eye and into my mouth. I was about to choke. Then we were both knocked down as the last women were lifted onboard and shoved into us. The two soldiers followed, closing the tailgate behind them.
I stood up again. Lying down was too dangerous; the truck was so packed with human bodies that we risked being trampled to death. I began tugging at Mother, but didn’t have the strength to get her to her feet, and besides she could no longer support herself on her sprained foot. The motor started and the truck shook. I shouted as loud as I could in the direction of my sister and father:
“Esma! Father!”
Mother crawled the short distance to the rear of the truck. She clung to the tailgate with one hand and to me with the other. We could still see Esma, Father and the professor as the truck lurched into motion. Despairing cries from all the women rang out over our native countryside:
“Not my son!”
“Not my husband!”
Slowly the truck began following the tracks of the bus in front of us. The two soldiers sat stiff and untouchable in the rear corners of the truck, guarding us with their rifles. Mother grabbed the leg of one of them and shook it hard:
“Listen to what I’m saying! It’s not a boy, it’s a girl! Take me instead! She’s my daughter! Don’t do it!”
The soldier pushed Mother away with the toe of his boot. She fell over on her back, sobbing. But she wouldn’t stop:
“That’s my daughter. Her name’s Esma. Think about your own sister, about your mother … your God!”
Mother struggled to her knees in front of the young soldier:
“Let the child live … She’s a girl … Spare my daughter!”
She looked back and forth between the two young men:
“You’re children yourselves. Don’t do it! Take me instead!”
The truck stopped again suddenly, toppling several women. The bus in front was having problems. The truck’s motor was turned off. The drivers of the bus and truck jumped out of their vehicles and spoke together.
Smoke was coming from the bus’ motor. The driver said he’d been freighting people all day and the motor had overheated. It needed water and maybe oil. Soldiers came rushing up, led by the senior officer.
He yelled at the drivers and sent a couple of privates off to find what was needed for the bus.
Mother was on her knees, attempting to fold her hands together in a Christian prayer, but her fingers were stiff, gnarled and swollen by arthritis. Still, she forced them together, and began praying:
“Lord, it is true. My daughter is hiding among the men.”
The officer sized Mother up and looked from her over to the men. There was some disturbance in one of their rows and a man stepped forward. Now he’s going to be shot, I thought, but at that moment his voice rang out so loud and penetratingly that I could hear it was Father. Mother’s hand flew to her mouth in fear.
“You’re being cheated,” Father shouted. “This one here is deceiving you. She’s a girl!”
Father pointed at Esma, who was standing completely still, eyes on the ground. A soldier struck Father with his rifle and forced him back into the group of men by the warehouse wall. But then another man stepped forward. It was the university professor, who shouted:
“It’s true what he says. There’s a lovely woman hiding from you.”
Behind the officer the bus driver was nervously rotating his cap in his hand like a string of prayer beads. Stammering, he said that, if it pleased the officer, they were now ready to leave.
“Well, get going, then,” came the command.
The motors were started again. The officer returned to his men in long strides. The truck began moving slowly.
Mother and I were crying aloud, but the sound was drowned in a chorus of wailing and screaming voices:
“My husband …! My son …! Oh, God! Have mercy …! Spare the children!”
And I screamed as loud as I could:
“That’s my sister, the one in the green shirt! She’s my sister!”
And my mother joined in:
“Not my daughter! Take me, not my daughter!”
The officer stopped in front of Esma and studied her for a moment. Suddenly he stuck his hand into her pants. I squeezed the talisman in my pocket. Then he gave her a blow to the face that sent her to the ground.
The truck began picking up speed. The officer grinned and heaved Esma to her feet. He ran his hand over my sister’s flat chest.
Mother prayed to God between her sobs. The officer began pulling my sister away, in the direction of the room Mother and I had been shut up in.
We turned onto the main road. The shots began echoing as we passed Milena’s blasted house and continued for as long as I can remember.