Field of Blackbirds


-Prologue-


Kosovo Pojla, the Battlefield, 1389


Prince Lazar had made his decision, made his promise. Embrace the new kingdom, relinquish the old. Surrender pride in exchange for a place at the round table of Gods.
The Gray Falcon, prudent and wise, stretched its wings leaving Lazar in the clearing of trees. The bird assented, higher and higher, finally disappearing into the western sunset. Redemption, thought Lazar. Like an exorcism of his soul, he felt years of hatred, bloodshed and death, physically leaving his body. He stood and ambled through the rolling Serbian grass. Armor clanked as he remounted his horse. The bellowing roar of his men, the tapping sound they made with sword against shied, to Lazar, it was like a dagger twisting under his ribs; they knew nothing. A tear swelled at the corner of his eye. Gravity tugged it downward over his scarred, weathered face before it splashed on the hilt of his sword.
The Serbian Army grew louder as Lazar galloped in front of them, ready to command a secret and unsanctioned exodus. He unsheathed his sword and thrust it skyward, as if to remind them in which direction they might find heaven.
Sweat rolled down Lazar’s face. “For the love of Serbia,” he yelled, igniting the ready and the anxious.
He yelled again, this time, louder, “Salvation.”
Lazar charged the Sultans. Life thickened around him, each second measured. This was the end, yet euphoria toppled his soul. His marriage to the Gods was about to be consummated. The indignation of Serbia and the fate of a nation weighed mightily against the benevolence of one prince.
The wild mass of men tumbled toward Lazar like a distorted smudge over the earth. But one man was born of the mass, the man who would reap his kingdom, his taker, he who would mistake Lazar’s nobility for cowardice. Lightning tore through the Serbian sky, giving a sip of emotion for what was about to take place. With his sword still held high, Lazar began to release one finger at a time and at last, his sword fell to the earth with the sound of thunder. Life became motionless. He was face to face with the Ottoman king. The canvas, splashed with silent valor, then forgiveness, and then came the clash.
The battle was fierce, and the thrill, redolent, but the sound of cold steel meeting the Prince’s warm flesh, was haunting. And the Serbs would never forget it. The Prince disappeared and the entire Serbian army crumbled to dust. All one could see was the hopping blackness that smothered the bodies.
Today, you can find the battlefield on any Serbian map. It is called; Kosovo Pojia, or in English, Field of Blackbirds.


Chapter 1 – In the Mouth of a Cub


Belgrade, Serbia 1981

Lazar’s throat burned. But he sucked in the dry air anyway. He couldn’t stop now. The sun was diving fast in his wake, throwing his long misshapen shadow to the cobblestone before him. The bridge, wrought with civil war, stretched over the Danube River and shot into the old city. The black, rushing water beneath him curled with angst. Halfway over the bridge, there were clover shaped patterns cut from the stone guard rails. Lazar was just tall enough to see out of them.
Burning little calves over tiptoes, Lazar peered through the clover as though it were a telescope on a pirate ship. Mr. Nowak’s shop lights were still on.
“Arrr!” he said out loud. “The light house be lit. Lower me starboard, Mateys’. We’ll be eaten’ good tonight.”
The shop was nestled between the National Bank of Serbia and the Old Church; the one that pierced the sky with a prideful, jutting spire. Lazar saw the dim lights of the shop flickering onto the street. The discovery energized him.
Lazar cut through the market square. Old Town was busy. People squawked and pecked like chickens as they pushed each other around for late afternoon deals. As always, he let the smell of fresh bread and sausages drag him through the food court. Sometimes, if he paced a little, vendors would toss him samples.
At the far end of the market, across the street, he could see that same women in the same place. She was a Gipsy from Romania, an older woman. She placed her crutches across her lap and a picture of Mother Mary at her feet and a small can for donations. He avoided her eyes, but felt the searing burns they left on him. He was embarrassed to pass her with nothing to give.
Before the guilt consumed too much of him, he was there. Over the entrance to the shop, an old wooden, hand-painted sign read; ‘The Time Machine’. He could see the small water eroded cracks in the door, could smell the oldness of the wood. When he went in, Mr. Nowak was still working. The blue light flashed in the back room. He was using his jewelry torch. Mr. Nowak came around the corner lifting up his light mask. He pushed away sweat from his forehead.
“I didn’t think you were coming tonight.” he said.
“Dejana is sick. I had to stay with her while my mother went to the market for medicine.”
Dejana was Lazar’s eight-year-old sister and Jovanka, Lazar’s mother, struggled to make a living for the three of them.
“Does your mother need any help?” asked Mr. Nowak.
“Mom is a very strong woman.” said Lazar.
“I know she is, but if I can help, I want to.”
Lazar just nodded. Mr. Nowak was like a father to Lazar. His real father, Vlado, died in Macedonia fighting off an Albanian uprising three years earlier. Jovanka had a special watch made for Vlado before he left. The watch was hand-made at the ‘The Time Machine’. When Mr. Nowak got the news of Vlado’s death, he duplicated the same watch and gave it to Lazar; something to remember his father by. It was the most valuable possession Lazar had.
Mr. Nowak dipped the rims of his glasses and noticed Lazar was still wearing shoes four sizes too big and his socks were mismatched. One nearly went all the way to his knobby, dirt stained knee and the other stopped mid calf.
Mr. Nowak started wiping the glass on his display cases. Lazar grabbed a broom and began to sweep the shop. He always tried to make it in time to help Mr. Nowak close up business. The shop was humid this time of year. The air condenser kick on. It sounded like a ninety-year-old man waking from hibernation and trying to stretch. It put a mustiness in the air that Lazar would always relate to Mr. Nowak.
“When you’re done with that, it’s your move.” Mr. Nowak sat a small wooden table with two chairs.
Lazar and Mr. Nowak had a game of chess going over the past three weeks. They were almost an even match; at least Mr. Nowak let Lazar feel that way. When Lazar sat down, he took a bishop with his horse. The bishop was guarding a castle, so Lazar knew it would be a one-for-one trade. Players who were confident didn’t mind trading pieces. It was a way to show they were fearless.
Lazar waited for Mr. Nowak to make his move. He looked up into the old man’s work weary eyes as they scoured the board. His king and queen rested safely in the reflection of his glasses on the end of his large, straight nose. Streaks of white swept through his ash-gray hair. He had deep creases around his mouth, proving that he was once the center of a very happy life. He doesn’t talk about that time anymore, at least not with Lazar. Mr. Nowak wore a handsome mask over his loneliness, always repelling any concern directed at him. He was modest and self-controlled. He was wise, but didn’t impart answers freely. He’d bring you along on a journey of insight so you felt like you were discovering the answer for yourself. Mr. Nowak was thoughtful of others, a selfless man.
Mr. Nowak brought his heavy hand behind his neck, gave it a rub. “Lazar, I know I have told you before, but I really do appreciate your help around the shop.” he said. “You always do a good job. You can learn a lot through hard work. You’re turning out to be a fine young man.”
Lazar looked embarrassed and didn’t respond.
“You know you have a big name to live up to.” added Mr. Nowak, finally taking Lazar’s horse with his castle.
Lazar didn’t know anybody else with his name. It was an old name found in history books, not on the playground. He was named after Prince Lazar, the Prince of Serbia in 1389. Lazar felt funny about his name. Sometimes his friends would laugh and have fun with it. But Mr. Nowak’s history lessons always brought virtue and life to his name.
“Mr. Nowak,” Lazar said, with a hint of shyness in his voice, “tell me about Prince Lazar again”.
Mr. Nowak reached for a peppermint from the candy dish and then passed the dish to Lazar. The peppermint sugar wet his throat. Mr. Nowak cast his view through the uneven window panes to the naked limbs of the Gingko trees and then beyond to the century old buildings that lined the Danube. The last sliver of sunlight fell. He pretended to ignore the look of anticipation for a discourse both knew would be recounted. It was each their favorite story, never tiring for the great orator or the audience of one.
“Well, in 1389 Lazar was the leader of Serbia, and the Commander of the Serb Army.” Mr. Nowak looked over the rim of his glasses and nodded to Lazar. As if ‘Commander of the Serb Army’ was impressive enough. “He was the last hope that stood between freedom and years of Ottoman rule. On the morning of the great battle, a gray falcon flew from Jerusalem to Kosovo Pojie with one mission, to find the Prince. After a seemingly endless flight through the majestic Balkan Mountains, the falcon spotted him in a clearing just atop the battleground. Prince Lazar was bent with humility, preparing to receive counsel from God.” Mr. Nowak watched Lazar’s bright blue eyes widen as the story progressed. “The Falcon came to offer him a choice, a choice that would change the course of Serbia forever.”
Lazar anxiously waited as Mr. Nowak chomped the sliver of peppermint in his mouth. Mr. Nowak cleared his throat and then continued. “For a moment, the falcon just watched the prince, analyzed his countenance, determining what kind of man he really was. Prince Lazar believed he could defeat the Ottomans. But the falcon warned him that if he fought the battle, he would only have an earthly kingdom and no chance of salvation for his soul. The falcon told him, if he would lay down his sword and not fight, he and his men would be granted a heavenly kingdom and a throne among Gods.
The falcon sensed the inner struggle and sadness the Prince felt. Nevertheless, he returned to Jerusalem and left the Prince to anguish.”
Mr. Nowak paused, “Perhaps the hardest thing a man can do, Lazar, is to lay down his sword at the feet of his enemies. Prince Lazar did just that.” Mr. Nowak deepened his voice a little. “Because the Prince was a Godly man, irrevocably and undaunted.”
“Mr. Nowak,” Lazar quickly cut in, “what happened to him?”
“Every man dies sooner or later, Lazar. So the question is not when we die, but how we die.We must make good choices while we are alive, even if they are not always popular. If they lead to our death, so be it. It is our struggles that make us strong.” Mr. Nowak reached over the table and lightly squeezed Lazar’s bicep. “Just like the jewelry I make has to withstand a certain degree of heat before it can really shine. You have a great name, Lazar. It stands for more than you know.”
“Is that why my dad died, to make me a stronger person?”
“I think so, Lazar.”
“But that’s not fair to him or my mother.” Lazar studied the chess board and without much thought he quickly moved a pawn forward, realizing it was going to be sacrificed.
Mr. Nowak saw the look of confusion and sadness on the boy’s face. Lazar had such an honest face.
“You’re right Lazar. It’s not fair your father died. I wish I had all the answers. But I do want to tell you something, Lazar. I want you to remember it always”. Mr. Nowak took Lazar’s pawn into his hand and began to turn it in his fingers.
“I make good watches Lazar, but my watches sell because I am Polish. If I was Muslim, or Croatian, or Albanian, perhaps my shop would have already been burnt down, regardless of how nice my watches were. I don’t have many friends, but because I am Polish, I have no enemies either.”
Lazar’s eyes widened again. It was something Mr. Nowak was thankful for. He always knew when Lazar was listening.
Mr. Nowak checked his watch, making sure he didn’t keep Lazar too late. He didn’t want to upset Jovanka. “Lazar, I have seen people treated like dogs because of their race. I have seen people shot down, even massacred for their religious beliefs. It’s a sad thing that you can be hated for things like that. Your father was killed by hatred. The only thing worth fighting for, Lazar, is for the destruction of hatred itself. Hatred is the cancer of Yugoslavia. I tell you this Lazar, because you are a Serb. You will be surrounded by hatred; you will look it in the eyes. It has the power to consume you alive or redefine your soul. You can’t ignore it, Lazar. You must harness it with care.”
Mr. Nowak noticed Lazar shifting more than normal in his chair. He knew the boy might have felt uncomfortable with what he was hearing. He even heard the clicking of Lazar’s big shoes under the table. Those shoes were symbolic to Mr. Nowak. They represented the responsibilities that would be thrust into his lap. He needed to be prepared for it. Now, at only ten years old, Mr. Nowak knew that someday, Lazar would be a great man, before God agreed it was time.
“Mr. Nowak,” Lazar said quietly, “I hope I never have to fight.”
The sincerity in the boy’s voice was heartbreaking. Times were changing. Mr. Nowak knew Lazar would be faced with hard choices. Some of them would be awful. It was more than a young boy should have to worry about. But Mr. Nowak had waited, for what he felt was the right time, to say these things to Lazar.
“That is my wish for you too, Lazar; that you won’t have to fight. But I will tell you this; we will be responsible to God, when he says, ‘Love thy Neighbor.’ Never lose compassion for human beings. Remember; the only worthy fight is that against hatred. Live life, Lazar, as a happy young man. Nobody can steal your youth.”
Mr. Nowak reached over the table again and patted Lazar’s boney shoulder. Then he checked his watch. “It’s getting late, Lazar.”
“Yeah,” was all Lazar could muster.
Lazar scooted his chair away from the table, but not before he took two pieces of candy from the dish and put them in his pocket. He always said the same thing as if he had to explain himself; “For Mom and Dejana.”
Mr. Nowak would just smile.
It was a lot to take in for Lazar and he wasn’t sure he understood everything Mr. Nowak tried to tell him. In time, it would probably explain itself and that would have to do. But he listened and he would remember those words.
Lazar saw a tear in the corner of Mr. Nowak’s eye. He wasn’t sure what it meant, but he did feel that Mr. Nowak loved him with all the compassion of a true father. And Lazar needed that so badly.
Mr. Nowak walked into the back room and came out with a basket full of fruits and vegetables and a loaf of bread.
“Give this to your mother.” he said.
Quite often Mr. Nowak would send a basket of food home with Lazar. It was dark when Lazar walked out the door. The Gipsy woman had already gone home. When Lazar crossed back over the bridge, he walked under a streetlamp that cast just enough light for him to see into the basket. There was an envelope at the bottom. He opened it. Inside was some money, and a note that read; “For Dejana’s medicine”.


************


Hinkley California, 1981


Reed woke to the sound of his dad’s tractor just outside his window. He never remembered actually falling asleep last night. Baseball cards still covered his bed. He’d divided them into two piles; the Los Angeles Dodgers and the Philadelphia Phillies. Of course Reed was a Dodgers fan being from Hinkley, a farming town just northeast of LA. Reed's dad had been promising to take him to a Dodgers game. He would be turning eight in two weeks. Bu today was game-day. And the icing on top was; Reed didn’t have to share the adventure with his five-year-old brother, Reddin or his two-year-old baby sister, Gracie.
It didn’t take long for anticipation to flood his little body. He threw his blanket to the edge of his bed, causing cards to flutter into the air. He grabbed a ball and his red Wilson mitt and bolted toward his door. Before he crossed the threshold, he took one step backward into his room. He glared up at the life-size poster of Don Sutton on his wall. Don was scheduled to be on the mound later.
“Good luck, Don,” he said. “I don’t think Rose will give you any trouble. He’s getting old. It’s Mike Schmidt with the hot bat. He’s got forty-eight home runs and you know he wants to break fifty this year.” Reed plucked the ball from his mitt and tossed it back in. “Just remember, Schmidt likes to reach for those curve balls just outside the plate. Pitch a little inside and you should get your strikes called. I think you can handle the rest.”
Reed could see his dad on the tractor out in the alfalfa field. Reed darted out and was quickly consumed by a trail tractor dust.
Mr. Beckly was a large man, 245 pounds and six feet, four inches tall. He had wide straight shoulders. His back rounded a little from years of operating heavy equipment. His hands, low and weighted like sledgehammers. His legs were like railroad ties, straight and sturdy.
Mr. Beckly had labored in this field before he was even in school. He remembered the burns in his small clammy hands after losing tug-a-war matches with the work mule. He had permanent lines across his finger tips where the thin bands of bailed hay rested against bone. Mr. Beckly believed in faith and principal. To him, life was simple; black and white, not gray. There were very little dos and a lot of don'ts. The only time he would go into town was when Mrs. Beckly would steal him away for an evening at the theatre and dinner.
When Mr. Beckly noticed Reed running up behind him, he slowed and killed the engine.
“Dad, what are you doing?” he yelled. “We're supposed to be on our way to the game.”
“The first pitch isn't until noon, and the stadium is only an hour away. I thought I could get a little work done.”
“No Dad. We have to go now to get good seats.”
Mr. Beckly laughed. He knew their seats were assigned.
“Okay,” he conceded, “Go see if Mom will pack our lunches and then meet me at the truck in ten minutes. And hey, grab my Dodgers hat, will ya?”
When Mr. Beckly turned around to confirm his last request, Reed was already a smear in his own trail of dust. Mr. Beckly wiped sweat from his brow. He would have to admit that he too, had been looking forward to this day.

It was the bottom of the 9th. 6-4 Dodgers. Don Sutton had pitched seven shut-out innings. Then they brought in the new reliever from triple-A, who walked his first batter and gave up a triple and two home-runs.
Reed looked up at his dad, who just finished the last bite of his peanut butter and honey sandwich. Reed, only on his second bite, had admired the fact that his dad was a big man. What kid didn’t? It gave him hope that one day he might be just as big.
The crowd roared as Steve Howe closed the game at 6-4 with a fastball right over home plate; Bob Boone, ‘caught lookin’.

Mr. Beckly requested one of his favorite meals, spare ribs and sauerkraut with potatoes. Gracie already had two handfuls. One of them she tossed over her shoulder. Reed and Reddin were laughing.
“Don’t laugh guys. It just encourages her.” Mrs. Beckly scolded.
Mr. Beckly was also caught with a smile on his face. Reed filled his mom in on all the details at the dinner table. She wasn't really a baseball fan, but you know how moms act like they're into anything just because you are. Mrs. Beckly tried to keep up with the terminology at least.
“Did Don Sutton strike anybody out with that mean slider of his?” she asked.
Mr. Beckly looked at her and smiled. He was still crazy about her, just as he was when they first met, fourteen years ago. Mrs. Beckly had soft, wavy blond hair. Her skin was also soft, but tan, which was why Mr. Beckly thought it looked so beautiful under a white summer dress.
Reed was still counting on his fingers. “Yeah, he struck out four batters, I think.” he answered, glancing over at Mr. Beckly to confirm.
Reddin played with his food like he always did. “Can I go with you next time, Daddy?” he asked.
“We need to get you a hat, Reddin. And you’ve got to learn at least three of the players’ names. But you can come with us next time.”
Mr. Beckly went into the kitchen to help his wife with the dishes.
“Thanks for taking him today, Tom.” she said, scraping a plate over the disposal. “It's all he's been talking about lately and it was actually a nice break for me too.”
“Good,” said Mr. Beckly. “Did you get all of your running around done?” With a facetious grin, she hinted, “You should do that more often. He really does look up to you, you know.”

Something on TV caught Reed’s eye, Channel 3's evening news. Germans from East Berlin were trying to escape into West Berlin, scaling the Wall at night. Lately, Reed heard a lot about the Berlin Wall on TV. And his parents also spoke of it from time to time. Reed never really thought much about it until now. It didn’t mean much to him until now. Oddly, he was glued to the TV.
“Reed,” Mrs. Beckly called out from the kitchen. “What are you watching?”
When she went in to check, she saw Reed captivated by what he was watching. His eyes were fixed. It was footage of a young boy, who couldn't have been much older than Reed. He’d been shot and was lying dead in the street gutter. A communist Russian Soldier stood over the boy holding a rifle. He was also casually smoking a cigarette. Reed saw the look in the soldier's eyes. It said he didn’t care about what he’d done. No one cared about the boy. No one tried to help him. No one came to see if he was still alive. No one even bothered to cover him up. Where was the boy’s family? Where was his mom? Reed tried to imagine what the boy could have possibly done to deserve that.
By now, Mr. Beckly had also walked into the room. President Ronald Reagan, who had been newly elected earlier that year, began talking about all the atrocities committed at the Berlin Wall. He said he was going to be Russia's worst enemy until the Wall was torn down and communism was gone forever. So many Americans praised him for it. So many East Germans hoped he could deliver that promise.
Mrs. Beckly told Reed to turn the channel. “You don't need to be watching things like this.” she said.
Reed walked outside onto the front porch. When it was hot outside, you could hear bullfrogs out in the yard. Reed would throw rocks until the chirping stopped. When Mr. Beckly walked out on the porch he saw Reed just sitting on the bench swing. He still had that look of curiosity and disbelief on his face.
“No frogs out tonight?” Mr. Beckly asked.
“I don't know.” he answered, looking down at the tip of his shoes.
Reed still had his baseball cleats on. He’d insisted on wearing them to the game. His Dodgers cap was also back on his head, a little crooked of center.
“It was a good game today wasn't it?” Mr. Beckly tried redirecting the boy’s thoughts.
“Yeah,”
“Mom says we should go more often.”
“Really?” Reed looked up.
“Yeah, and I think we should too.”
Mr. Beckly sat down next to Reed on the swing.
“Dad,” Reed asked, “Why do people kill each other?”
“The picture of that boy bothered you, didn't it?”
Reed just looked down at his shoes again. “He looked like my friend Ryan. But I know Ryan doesn't live in Germany. He lives over by the school.”
How was Mr. Beckly supposed to explain to an eight-year-old why people kill? He wasn't sure himself there was a right answer, at least one that an eight-year-old would buy. He doubted there would be justification in Reed's eyes. Mr. Beckly had always taught Reed to resolve his problems in ways other than fighting.
“Reed, sometimes there are really bad people, who do really bad things, even kill people, good people. But Reed, that little boy didn’t deserve to die.”
Reed looked up at Mr. Beckly, squinting out the glare of the bright porch light. “I hate that Russian man, Dad. I hate him.”
Now, Mr. Beckly knew they had just sunk a few inches deeper in the soil of perplexity.
“Reed, hate is a very strong word. It is hate that causes people to do those bad things. But I understand how you feel, Son.”
Reed leaned into his dad's side. He didn't want him to see he was crying, but Mr. Beckly already felt the wetness on his arm.

After Mrs. Beckly finished the dishes, she put Reddin and Gracie to bed and joined the boys out on the swing. Reed had fallen asleep. Mrs. Beckly pulled him over to her and laid his head in her lap.
“I hope they get things resolved over there Anna. It’s horrible what’s happening to those families. That boy shouldn’t have been left there like that.”
“I know Tom. I know.”
Mrs. Beckly looked up into Mr. Beckly’s dark firm eyes. She reached and moved her hand over the stubble on his chin and then rested her fingers gently on his soft lips. “You are a good man Tom; you always feel so much for others. I’ve never doubted why I married you.”
“I thought you only married me because I gave good foot rubs.”
“Oh yeah,” she said, “Thanks for reminding me. My feet are throbbing.”
Mr. Beckly chuckled low in his chest and then paused. “It's just that, I know what kind of hurt war brings. I know what happens to people who live through it, and unfortunately, those who don’t. There is so much going on in the world right now. Reagan sounds like he wants to go to war with the Soviet Union and I think it’s going to be messy. Reed’s going to be a fine young man; I just hope he'll be prepared for it all.”
“He will be, Tom. You’re his dad.” Mrs. Beckly ran her fingers through Reed’s hair. “I just hope he forgets about that little boy. I know it bothered him.”
Reed would not forget that boy, lying in the street. It would haunt him for some time. And he would not forget the look on the man's face that killed him.


************

Milan Italy, 1981

It was 7:00 a.m. when Marcielli entered the market square. Church bells caught his attention. He was late again. Pigeons flew from the bell tower, as if the sound was something foreign to them. ‘Duomo,’ the famous gothic cathedral, the church looked old. Marcielli even wondered how old. It seemed sturdy, but tired. Every crack was another sin belonging to some poor soul. Every mark or shade of gray was another's pain, fear or disbelief. Religion was redundant and boring to Marcielli. He never really believed. He saw a priest walking along side two nuns toward the church. Marcielli stopped. A bizarre feeling swept over him, ‘Duomo’ was staring at him, pleading with him. Marcielli began to feel guilty for what he had done.

Three Day's Earlier. . . . ,

Senior Dantis, stood at the front of the class. He just finished reading aloud Luciano’s poem. It seemed entirely too short. Marcielli had an awful premonition that his was next.
Senior Dantis had assigned the students to write a poem on ‘Hope’ over the weekend and was now reading them out loud one by one. He placed the person’s name on the chalkboard as he read. He turned around and erased Luciano's name from the board. Uneasiness began wrestling Marcielli’s stomach. And now when he saw Senior Dantis write an “M” on the board his vision began to narrow. His muscles constricted. Everything around the word ‘Marcielli’ was fuzzy.
“Marcielli, now we will read your poem.” announced Senior Dantis. And as he began to read, Marcielli sank into his chair.

“A bell is not a bell until you ring it.
A song is not a song until you sing it,
and love in your heart wasn't put there to stay.
Love is not love until you give it away.”

In all truth, Marcielli had forgotten about the assignment until he was waiting at the bus stop and heard some of the other kids talking about it. He would be in big trouble if his father found out. In hopes that the dead spirit of Shakespeare would enter his body, Marcielli reached into his backpack for a piece of paper. It was then that he found a birthday card that his grandmother sent to him a couple months prior. When he opened it, he was overjoyed to see the poem on the inside cover. As an added bonus, ‘Author Unknown’ was written at the bottom. Before the bus ride was over, the poem was transferred into his own handwriting.
Senior Dantis held a prolonged stare at the folded piece of paper. “Well Marcielli, that sounded very grown up. Good job, even though it did stray just a little from the assignment.”
Most of the students were giggling now; probably because the poem was so gushy with love. But what Marcielli also noticed was that Marianna Lucini was now glaring at him with a certain look in her eyes. You know, that one look. Did the poem actually work on her? Marcielli had a crush on Marianna the whole year. She knew it too, but never quite returned the same feelings.
To Marcielli, Marianna was the most beautiful of all bella bambinas. She was popular. She was smart. He loved how she dressed, especially when she wore different color socks for each day of the week. She pulled them all the way up to her knees. Today they were blue, yellow, and white plaid. Most of all, he loved how she would sit with her elbows on the desk with both hands supporting her face. And occasionally she would use both hands to tuck her hair behind her ears.
The bell rang for recess. Marcielli was granted a little relief from the attention he’d gathered. He wondered if, while playing soccer, he would see Marianna on the sidelines looking for him.
When Marcielli walked outside, he was surprised to see the sun had faded behind an overcast. The clouds hung low and heavy. A light sprinkle began. Recess, however, had not been cancelled. While teams were being picked, Marcielli heard someone say,
“I don't want lover boy on my team. He’ll probably try to kiss me or something.”
Everybody laughed. Marcielli felt blood pumping to his face. If only they knew the truth; he didn't really write that poem. He had a feeling the consequences of cheating would start weighing in on him, at least they were now. Marcielli glanced over to make sure nobody on the girls’ side of the playground heard the joke. He saw Marianna over on the merry-go-round with her friends. They were dragging their feet slowly in the sand as it turned. Marianna also happened to be blowing a bubble with her chewing gum. She didn’t notice him.
What happened next, Marcielli was not prepared for. Antigo Fetti, the newly promoted school bully was standing in front of him.
“I don't want him playing with any of us.” Antigo then gave Marcielli the old two-handed shove, causing him to land flat on his butt.
Marcielli was fuming, but embarrassment overpowered all the other emotions. This time when Marcielli looked over at the other side of the playground he could see that Mariana and her friends were now paying attention. All the eyes in the world seemed glued to his body. Rage bubbled inside him. Veins in his head pulsated. He clenched his fists . . . . .
The next few seconds flashed like a ride through hyperspace. He only remembered the horror on everyone’s faces. He would never forget the look on Marianna's face, disbelief and disgust. Antigo’s nose and lips were covered in blood. Marcielli looked down at his own hands. They were also red with blood. What compelled him to do that? He’d never exerted that kind of energy.
Marcielli spent the rest of the day in Father Lamonte’s office, the principal. Father Lamonte tried to talk to him, find out why he did what he did. Marcielli just stared into the blackness of his cloak, ignoring the Father’s admonition to repent. He was suspended for three days.
Marcielli didn’t take the bus home. He decided to walk. He made his way down a windy road, lined with narrow, but thick trees. He passed through the industrial part of town. Milan was the second largest city in Italy behind Rome. Milan, however, was the nation’s economic engine, in terms of Trade, Manufacturing and Banking.
He crossed through the square, passed Duomo, the famous gothic cathedral, and turned down his street. The street was long and narrow. It dipped toward the end showcasing all the red tiled roof tops. Foreigners seemed to appreciate the antiquated look of chipped stucco, long running cracks from building to building and eroded cobblestone. But Marcielli thought it looked run-down. He wanted to live outside the city, where homes were newer, bigger and not so bunched up. Marcielli did enjoy the vibrant, multicolored flowers that trimmed window wells and balconies as far as he could see. It was a coziness he didn’t want to get used to.
Marcielli suddenly felt a blast of wind as he was surrounded by pigeons. He looked up and saw an old lady dumping a bucket of dry bread over the balcony. In Italy, bread was considered sacred, because it represented the body of Christ. In that respect, bread was never wasted or thrown out with the trash. Instead, people would feed it to the birds.
Nearing the end of the street, Marcielli heard a sound that was so familiar to him, the sound of a piano, Mrs. Clara Caporetto’s piana. She had left her window open as she did so many times in the past. She was playing a beautiful melody. Marcielli sat down just outside her window, listened to the music and began to contemplate just how to present today’s fiasco to his father.
Dominico Corleon, Marcielli’s father, was a bitter man. He showed no passion for life and he had more enemies than friends. Over the past year, he had become an alcoholic. Most of the time, he would force his authority on Marcielli with his fist. Partly, because of the alcohol, but mostly because it was the way he was raised.
Dominico wasn’t a member of the Italian Mafia, but he did work closely with them. He would occasionally carry out tasks for them. Two years ago, the Left Wing Red Brigade Terrorists captured the former Prime Minister Aldo Moro. They promised they would kill him if the government didn’t release some of their fellow terrorists. The demands weren’t met and Aldo Moro was executed. Aldo was a member of a government party that was strongly backed by the Italian Mafia. Because of Dominico’s assignments in the military, the Mafia had contracted him to assassinate the head of the Red Brigade, Renato Curcio. Dominico completed the assignment.
The Mafia upholds a code of silence; known as the ‘Omerta’. Dominico has been forced to live by it. Marcielli doesn’t know half of the ugly tasks his father has had to face in his ties to the Mafia and the military. It seemed to explain his father’s bitterness. But Marcielli still loved his dad.
The music stopped. Marcielli could see Mrs. Caporetto get up from the piano. He made eye contact with her, but he knew he couldn’t waste anymore time. He bolted across the street to his house. When she came outside he was gone. Marcielli opened the door to their narrow, two-story home. He could smell fresh basil and garlic. His mother was cooking something. His father was sitting at the table.
“Ciou,” sighed Marcielli.
“Marcielli, Bueno seri.” replied Dominico. Dominico was stout, but strong, despite his round belly. He had dark-brown, Italian eyes and a strong jaw, and a face that always seemed filled with impatience and disinterest. He wore a white, tank-top undershirt that revealed more hair on his chest and back than he had on his head.
But today, Dominico was in high spirits. So when Marcielli delicately unfolded his version of what happened at school, Dominico’s only response was; “That boy deserved what he got. He tried to embarrass my son, a Corleon. Were there a lot of people around to see it?”
“Yes,” answered Marcielli.
“Good,” said Dominico.
Marcielli walked through the kitchen to get to the living room. He caught his mother’s eye. Rianna was a typical Italian woman, filled with love and good recipes. She was petite. She had dark, insightful brown eyes and bright red lips. Her dark brown hair was always wrapped tightly in a bun. It kept it out of the way when she cooked and off her neck when she cleaned in the summertime. In the evening, sometimes she would let it down. She looked tired, but Marcielli thought she was beautiful, even though he never heard Dominico tell her that.
The expression on Rianna’s face said that she was displeased with the way Dominico handled things. But she wouldn’t dare challenge him. Rianna had lost enough fights with Dominico over the years that she stopped trying long ago.
They say all boys turn out to be like their fathers. Was Marcielli destined to be just like Dominico, bitter and detached, angry and inebriate? Rianna had said if she knew how Dominico would end up; she would have never married him. She expected more out of Marcielli and often reminded him of it.
Three days have passed now and Marcielli’s suspension from school was up. He had plenty of time to reflect on what he had done. Marcielli didn’t remember the fight, but friends told him, even after Antigo cryed for him to stop, he kept beating him. And when Antigo tried to get up, Marcielli threw him back to the ground and delivered more punishment. It was all so unusual for him. He felt that he was introduced to a small part of who he was, and he didn’t hate it entirely.
It was 7:00 a.m. when Marcielli entered the market square. Church bells caught his attention. He was late again. Pigeons flew from the bell tower, as if the sound was something foreign to them. ‘Duomo,’ the famous gothic cathedral, the church looked old. Marcielli even wondered how old. It seemed sturdy, but tired. Every crack was another sin belonging to some poor soul. Every mark or shade of gray was another's pain, fear or disbelief. Religion was redundant and boring to Marcielli. He never really believed. He saw a priest walking along side two nuns toward the church. Marcielli stopped. A bizarre feeling swept over him, ‘Duomo’ was staring at him, pleading with him. Marcielli began to feel guilty for what he had done. He pulled his hands out of his pockets and looked down at them. They were dirty. He could still see blood in the cracks of his fingernails. He tried to etch it out, it was a constant reminder. Uncertain of what he was doing, Marcielli put his hands back into his pockets, and let this obscure feeling guide him into the church.

************

Ivangrad, Montenegro 1981

“Yes sir, I’m on my way immediately.”
Commander Marshal Gavrillo hung up the phone. His hand was shaking. He began to sob. The time had finally come. He was going to lose her. He knelt down and began to pray. He asked God for courage to face it, courage to face the rest of his life without her, and courage to teach Radenko to do the same.
Five minutes must have passed already. He had to hurry. He wiped his face and walked speedily to the door. Before he reached the door, he stopped and looked out the side window and saw Radenko. He was playing with his friends in a fort they’d built out of chopped wood. They were playing war, throwing pinecones at each other and using sticks for machineguns. Radenko knew his mother was sick, even knew it was serious, but what he didn’t know, was that the sickness would take her life. The Commander waited at the door, tried to compose himself. “Oh, Sasia,” he cried. Then he drew a long, pained breath and turned the knob.
Radenko could tell by the direction they were headed that they were going to see his mother. And he knew there was something terribly wrong. The look on his father’s face, confirmed it. His narrow, blue eyes were fixed, staring into nothingness. They looked like glass and at any moment they were going to break and spill out. The Commander was a tall, slender man with ash-gray hair, his nose, long and narrow, bowing at the bridge. He was known for his resuscitating smile. But that smile had abandoned him on this day.
It was still early in the morning. The sun peered through the tall, Ivangrad evergreens, casting broken rays of light over the road. The flashing of sunlight seemed to make the situation more urgent. Radenko tried to muster up the words, Dad, what’s wrong? But the words got caught in his throat and a knot began to well up. He tried to swallow, but it only made it worse. He’d figured out for himself what was happening. The feeling was so obscure. He wasn’t prepared for it. He wasn’t ready for any of this, and now, he too began to sob.
Radenko began to remember an event that happened about this time last summer. He was sitting with his mother in a crowd of uniformed officers. His father was going to receive a promotion by Josip Broz Tito himself. Tito was the president of Yugoslavia, and had been for the last forty years. Tito’s cabinet consisted of twelve men and Marshal Gavrillo, was now one of them. Sasia was invited to pin the brass oak leaf on his collar during the ceremony.
When she was called up, she leaned over and whispered into Radenko’s ear, “This is your moment. Come with me.”
She held his hand and walked onto the stage. Tito looked at Sasia, smiled and nodded his head in approval. Tito gave Sasia the oak leaf and she turned to Radenko and placed it into his hand. Radenko had never felt so proud and so nervous at the same time.
Sasia kissed him on the head. “You’ll do fine Radenko.” she assured.
He turned toward his father, who had knelt down on one knee when he learned that Radenko was going to do the honors. He too was now beaming with pride. After Radenko pinned on the leaf, Tito and all twelve cabinet members stood and applauded. Sasia walked over to embrace her husband. Radenko felt like he was ten feet tall, and he owed it all to his mother. It was for reasons like this that he loved her so much. Reasons like this, that she was so extraordinary.

Finally they reached Milos Medical Center where Sasia had been staying for the past two months. When they walked in, Radenko peered down the long hall-way and saw his uncle Petrovich sitting outside her door. Petrovich was Sasia’s youngest brother. He met Radenko halfway down the hall and embraced him.
“Your mother is waiting for you.” he said.
The Commander walked into her room first, then Radenko. Petrovich stayed outside. The room smelled like medicine and laundry soap. Radenko first noticed that his mother looked pail. And she had lost even more weight since he’d seen her last. But she was still beautiful. She had always taken care of herself. Her sickness didn’t bother her pretty blond hair, her brilliant sea green eyes or her deep red lips.
“Hello my loved ones” she smiled.
She’s still got it, the Commander thought, that smile that can fill a man with everything he needs, pure love and devotion, complete selflessness. She was still faithful to her cause.
Radenko looked at her. He was almost able to return a smile. The Commander sat next to her and she motioned Radenko to come over to the other side. She sat up in her bed and held out both her hands. Radenko did the same. She took his hands in hers and caressed his palms with her thumbs. Radenko felt awkward staring down at the IVs taped at her wrists. Her hands were cold and pale, nearly translucent. Veins traced her hands and wrists like rivers on a map. Taking Radenko’s hand gave Sasia a sudden burst of life. She smiled again. This time Radenko was able to return a smile, which pushed tears from the corners of his eyes.
“Radenko,” she spoke softly as if Radenko were a baby. “These past eight years have been the best eight years of my life. I never told you this, but I want to tell you now . . . . I almost lost my life in childbirth with you.” She dipped her head a little to make eye contact with Radenko, who was just staring into the pillow on her lap. “But instead, Radenko, I was granted eight wonderful years with you; eight wonderful years to love you, to hold you and to watch you turn into strong healthy boy. It’s all I’ve ever asked for. I often think of the sacrifice of our Lord and how great it was. He loved us and he gave his life for us. For the first time, I think I understand a little why his love caused him to do what he did. I love you and your father. I always will.”
Radenko couldn’t look at her anymore. He wanted to show he was strong, but he couldn’t. Tears continued to wet his face.
Radenko looked over at the nightstand. He noticed the small picture of Mother Mary cradling Baby Jesus. She had always kept the picture around ever since he could remember. It reminded him of him and his mother. Sasia thought the same thing.
“Look at me Radenko.” she squeezed his hand, “I am happy. This is how you will always remember me. And when you need me,” she paused, “when you need me, Radenko, I will be here.” She reached forward and patted his chest. She kissed him on the forehead and granted him one more of those incredible smiles.
Radenko saw Petrovich in the doorway. He knew he had to leave with him. He looked over at the nightstand again, reached for the picture of Mother Mary and Jesus. He took it into his hands and stared at it for a while. Then he tucked it under his arm and walked out with Petrovich.
Walking down the hall, all the sadness in the world seemed to crash down on him. He was only eight years old. Today he didn’t want to be strong. He began sobbing again. Now out loud. He looked at the picture he’d taken and anger swelled in him. Softly he said, “No Mom” and again, “No.” As they walked out of Milos, Radenko released his grip on the picture. It fell to the ground, causing the glass to break. He kept walking . . . . . and his walk turned into a run.

The Commander, who was still in full uniform, removed his boots and crawled into bed next to his Sasia. He took her into his arms. She caught his hand and brought it to her lips. He began remembering highlights of their life. One in particular, their wedding day; they were dancing. To him, the world was spinning and they were motionless. He looked at her face and said to himself; this woman is my life, my everything. I love her so much. And the look in her eyes hinted she thought the same. Now, as she lay there in perfect repose, he was looking into that very same face, having that very same feeling. He pulled her closer and gave her a kiss on the forehead. That sweet smell, God he would miss that smell. For a moment, it owned him. He could feel her breath on his neck; he counted each one. He promised himself, that for the rest of her life, he would not miss even one breath.
“I love you.” he said.
“I love you.” she said.

Petrovich started the car and began to drive away. Radenko turned around in his seat and looked toward Milos. He could see the big oak tree just outside his mother’s window. Time slowed down a little. Radenko stared at that tree. He noticed a leaf was falling. It fluttered back and forth as gravity tugged it downward. He thought of his mother. He watched the leaf until it hit the ground. And when it did, he knew that she had left them.


Chapter 2 – Sun of Serbia


Kosovo - Albanian Border 1992

Lazar leaned back firmly against the wall. He glanced around the corner, almost choking on the anticipation as they neared. He could hear the squeaky tank tracks getting louder and louder. Forty-five minutes of heavy shelling separated him from the other men in his unit. He thought of signaling for help, but he didn't want to alert the enemy.
Lazar kept a firm grip on his AK-47. It was cold outside and he could see every breath. Fog settled in the adjacent field and was now creeping toward him. In another five minutes concealment would befriend him. But Lazar wondered if he even had five minutes. He now felt the vibration in the ground. The rumbling worked its way into his body. It was only a matter of what reached him first, the fog or the enemy?
Lazar pointed his weapon. He saw the long barrel of a tank pierce the corner’s edge. Then he saw the black tip of a soldier’s boot. Just at that moment, Lazar heard an exhilarating noise that whistled down to the earth, and then came the crack . . . . . .!
Lazar's head was pounding. All he could hear was a loud monotone, ringing back and forth from ear to ear. He could tell that someone was on top of him, an Albanian soldier. Perhaps the owner of the black boot he saw coming around the corner. Perhaps the man to whom he owed for his good fortune. Lazar ached all over, but he was alive. He had to remind himself what was really happening. He pushed the soldier off of him and stood up to assess his own damage. His right arm felt warm and was covered in blood. He wasn't sure if it was his blood or the Albanian’s.
He regained control of his weapon and began firing. Now Lazar was fighting amidst fellow Serbs. Air reconnaissance must have located the Albanians and called in the barrage of artillery.
When the fighting ended, he made his way through the rubble, in search of his squad. He knew, because of the separation, he needed to report to the Commanding Officer as soon as possible. By now, Lazar was sure the blood on his arm was his own and the pain began to grow more intense.
When Lazar found his Lieutenant, Vuk Brankovich, he was standing a few yards from a burnt out tank, obviously pleased with the accuracy of the artillery drop. He was talking to a few of the guys.
“The Albanians are still using these Russian T-72 junks of metal. I can’t believe they have the courage to bring them on the battlefield.”
Lazar caught his attention.
“Lazar, are you alright? I thought we’d lost you. I was worried.”
“I’m okay assured Lazar. “I was hoping to see Stefan and Jovich with you. Have you seen them?”
Vuk took a long drag from his cigarette and then put his head down. Lazar knew they didn’t make it. He instantly felt sick. Vuk then stepped over and kicked the tank, which was still smoking.
“I swear, for every man I lose out there, I’ll kill ten of those rats.”

Lazar met Stefan and Jovich in basic training in Belgrade. They bunked together and promised to look out for one another. Lazar and Stefan even helped Jovich hide the fact that he was a Croatian national. If the authorities found out, Jovich could have been executed and Lazar and Stefan would have been severely punished.
Lazar grabbed the black beanie from off his head and began running his fingers through his sweat-matted, brown hair. The cinder smudges across his stone face contrasted his bright blue eyes. Jovanka always told him that he had the most innocent eyes. They would tell you all you needed to know. The Lieutenant noticed Lazar’s arm.
“That looks bad Katich, why don’t you pay a visit to the Doc.”
Lazar almost forgot about the gash on his arm. He still wasn’t feeling much pain.
“It will be fine.” replied Lazar.
The Lieutenant took one last drag of his cigarette and then flicked it. “That’s an order Katich. Get it looked at.”
The Lieutenant looked about ten years older than he probably was. He was a tall, slender man, maybe thirty years old. The hair that was not covered by his beret was almost a silver color. His skin was pale but leathery and there was a jagged scar that peered out from behind his right ear and extended into the middle of his cheek. He’d been fighting this war for thirteen years and was going to make a career of it. But the truth was; Lazar knew it was wearing him down and doubted the Lieutenant had another five years left in him. Lazar could still see a sort of gentleness in his demeanor and in his closely-set, aquamarine eyes.
On the way back from the medical tent, Lazar saw another soldier sitting inside of, what used to be, a tailoring shop. Now only three walls, halfway burnt to the ground, remained. The soldier was reading the ‘Slowodziennik’, the Sarajevo Daily newspaper. Lazar couldn’t help but notice one of the headlines, “Milosevic, Sun of Serbia”.
Lazar had heard a lot about Slobodan Milosevic lately. Up until recently, he was only a name in the Communist party, a man who worked his way into office because he was the son-in-law of a prominent party member. Last week, at an anti-Albanian demonstration in Kosovo, Milosevic stood from a two-story balcony and delivered a resounding speech. He basically gave birth to a New Serbia, identical to the Old Serbia, the Serbia that was clean and pure, self sufficient and independent, a Serbia that was free from the flood of non-Serbs. He couldn’t have planned it more perfectly. It was on June 28th, the same day as the glorious battle of 1389. It was even at the same place, Kosovo Pojie, ‘The Field of Blackbirds.’
What did this Milosevic guy have in mind for Serbia, Lazar wondered? Only time would tell, he thought. But an uneasy feeling took hold, like a massive storm was about to hit with almost no warning.
Lazar was apprehensive about the future, the future of his country and the future of his family. He had already seen many things that bothered him; homes destroyed, families separated and people murdered for no reason. This was what Milla tried to warn him about. Perhaps it was the unpleasant separation from her that was weighing on him the most.
Milla Markovich was Muslim by birth. She and Lazar had been with each other for almost six months. Even though it was a short time, Lazar thought their future together was promising. He really did love her. Milla had initiated the separation with Lazar last year when he decided to join the Vojsko Srbije, the Serb military. The conflict between Serbs and Muslims was swiftly increasing. Milosevic had already signed a creed, promising to relocate all Muslims south into Albania.
Milla had professed her love for Lazar before he enlisted, but she told him she couldn’t support his new decision. He could become an enemy to her family. Lazar denied such things could happen and tried to assure Milla the conflict would soon be over and a man like Milosevic would be short-lived. Nevertheless, Milla couldn’t fall in love with him under those circumstances. Lazar wrestled with the choice Milla had left him and knew he would end up doubting either way. He understood what Milla was talking about; their split would have been inevitable. Lazar yearned for her now more than ever. He felt that he had abandoned someone who was so close to him.
Lazar thought back on the day he met Milla. He was working late at ‘The Time Machine’ when he noticed a racing saddle in the corner of the shop. Mr. Nowak had horses in the country just outside of town but Lazar didn’t think they were racing horses. When he asked Mr. Nowak about it, he explained that a young girl he knew expressed interest in racing. She told him that one of his horses had shown signs of a potential race horse. The girl couldn’t afford to buy her own horse, let alone feed one. Mr. Nowak told her, if she could make a racehorse out it, she could call it her own.
“She’ll be at the stable in the morning, if you could drop this saddle off for her it would mean a great deal to me.” explained Mr. Nowak.
The next morning, Lazar arrived at the stable early. He didn’t see anyone around so he just hung the saddle over a fence post. It was then that he saw someone riding a horse in the distance near the trees. As the person came closer, Lazar realized it the young lady that Mr. Nowak was talking about. She was sleekly suited in jockey attire. As she neared the fence, she came to an abrupt stop. The animal’s hooves dug into the earth, moving little clumps of dirt forward. When she pulled back on the reins, the horse reared upon its back legs and then came back down on all fours. Lazar could see fog leaving the horse’s nostrils every time it exhaled. Then, it gracefully trotted over to the fence where Lazar was standing.
“Hi,” the girl blurted.
“Hello,” Lazar replied. “Mr. Nowak wanted me to bring you this new saddle.”
Mr. Nowak must have set this up, Lazar thought to himself.
She was beautiful. She had honey-blond hair and brown eyes with scattered bits of emerald-green. Her nose was sharp and straight, her lips full. Her skin had been lightly bronzed by the sun. It was hard for Lazar to tell how tall she was while she was mounted on the horse. But her whole look was breathtaking. It had been lightly raining all morning, so her eye make-up began to run at the corner of her eyes. But to Lazar, this only magnified her beauty. Oddly, he began to feel embarrassed, contradicting his usual confidence around the opposite sex.
“You must be Lazar,” she said, with a mouth shaped like a cupid’s bow.
“Yeah, I am Lazar.” was all he could muster. “I mean yes, how did you know that?”
“Mr. Nowak talks about you,” she admitted. “I live in Visegrad, but I’m staying in Belgrade for the summer. My aunt lives right over there,” she pointed. “Mr. Nowak has been kind enough to let me ride his horses.”
Just then, Lazar realized that he had seen her before.
“Are you in theatre?” he asked.
“Yes, it’s my major. That’s why I’m in Belgrade. I’m taking classes at the University.”
Lazar knew he had only seen beauty like this once before. Two weeks ago he had taken Dejana to the Great Theatre to see ‘Romeo & Juliet’. Lazar couldn’t keep his eyes off of her then either. It became so noticeable that Dejana had to physically scold him.
“So you must be Juliet.” Lazar said with a clever look on his face.
“Yes, but most people call me Milla, Milla Markovich.”
Over the next six months, Lazar had taken more riding and acting lessons than usual and Milla stayed in Belgrade a little longer than planned.
It had been over a year since Lazar had seen Milla, but she was all he could think about now. He thought of their passionate moments together, when the day seemed to never end and the night would disappear, and all they could think about was when they would see each other again. He thought of the laughs they shared and even pictured her smiling at him now. It was a smile that confirmed he was the last one standing in the battle for her heart. They had made plans together, even made promises to one another. She was perfect. He wondered to himself what she was doing now.
Why did I give her up? Lazar asked himself. Why did I trade her away? Lazar wanted it all back, but a terrible reality swept over him; It’s too late.
When Lazar got back to his camp, he was comforted to see a letter on his cot from Mr. Nowak. Mr. Nowak kept in touch with Lazar through writing. He sat down on his cot and situated his bandage. He removed his field knife from his belt and opened the letter.

“Lazar, Czesc dobrego syn moje! (Polish – Hello my good son!), All is well in Belgrade. Business is going very well at the moment. I have added two new rooms to The Time Machine. This way we have more elbow space. Your family is well. I was able to help Dejana get into Novi Sad University in northern Serbia. She is very excited about it. Her marks are very high and she has so much talent. It would be a shame for her not to succeed because of lack of opportunity. She will be happy there.” Lazar knew that Mr. Nowak paid a lot of money to get Dejana into Novi Sad. He also knew that his primary reason for helping her was to get her out of Belgrade and to a place where there was less violence. Mr. Nowak loved Lazar and Dejana like they were his own children. “Lazar, your mother has expressed concern that she is being left all alone. I hope you don’t think too much of this or think that it’s for the wrong reasons, but I have asked your mother to move in with me. I would stay in the shop and she could stay in my apartment above. I have already moved some of my things down into the shop. Your mother has told me to give her time to think about it. She says she wants to know how you feel first, if you would be okay with it. Lazar, the truth is, I really do care for your mother. I don’t want her to feel lonely. And I don’t want her to have to worry about making ends meet. I want to take some of her stresses away and I don’t want you always wondering how she is doing or if she is well. Write and let me know how you feel about this. You know you can be honest with me. I can find other ways to take care of her if she doesn’t move in with me. Be careful out there Lazar. Stay true to your character.”

Idz z Bogiem! (Go with God)
-Mr. Nowak

Lazar had a feeling a day like this would come. Not only did Lazar advocate the idea, he anticipated writing a letter home to send his approval. Mr. Nowak’s loyalty and affection for the family was exemplary. He earned his way in. And in so many ways, Mr. Nowak had already become Lazar’s father.


Chapter 3 Visegrad


Lazar had just begun to write Mr. Nowak when his squad leader poked his head in the door.
“Lazar, be ready to ship out by 0500 tomorrow morning. Our mission just changed direction. They’re sending us to Visegrad for a ‘cleansing’. The Muslims there have refused to evacuate and are showing some resistance.”
The squad leader then assured that there would be more Intel by morning. ‘Visegrad’, the word shot through Lazar like a dagger. Uneasiness began twisting its way through his body. He thought of Milla and he began to panic. He thought of her being in trouble or hurt. It was unbearable. What devastated him most was the fact that he would be the one delivering the blows. Lazar couldn’t possibly go through with this. He had to stop it somehow. He wondered if there was some way to contact her before tomorrow. He knew her family didn’t have a telephone and a letter would be too late. He thought he was going to burst with anxiety and grief. He wanted to leave now and run all through the night. Lazar began to shake. His thoughts became scattered and sporadic. It was the worst day of Lazar’s life, only to be dwarfed when the dawn broke tomorrow.
Lazar couldn’t sleep. He was plagued by a clock that wouldn’t stop ticking. It was now 0445 in the morning. He sat hunched over at the edge of his bed, staring at nothing. He hoped that the mission would be cancelled or the people of Visegrad would flee on their own free will. Nausea made its first visit.
Lazar met up with the rest of his company as they were forming the convoy. No one seemed bothered or surprised by the mission. Lazar saw soldiers loading up trucks with extra ammunition and explosives. It was really no different from any other mission they had been on. The only difference was that every other offensive was against armed and uniformed Albanians or Kacak resistors, not civilians refusing to leave their homes. Lazar walked over to the soldiers to help load the trucks. Just as he reached to grab one of the boxes, he unexpectedly vomited next to the stockpile.
“Hey Katich, are you all right?” asked a young private, who was taking a smoking break.
“I’m alright. I don’t know what that was about.” Lazar replied.
But then he vomited again. This time it caused him to buckle over. He felt his forehead begin to sweat and his muscles weakened. Now a Sergeant noticed what was going on.
“Hey Katich, if you’re sick then you should sit this one out. Go see the Doc.”
Maybe he could escape this mission, Lazar thought. He couldn’t possibly bear the guilt of seeing Milla. It was a thought that made him want to crawl into a hole and die. But Lazar knew Milla was in danger and he could do nothing to help her if he stayed behind. Lazar was more confident now than ever. He loved Milla and he would be there for her. Even if it cost him his own life, he couldn’t see her in pain.
“No Sergeant, I’m not sick. It’s tradition; I do this before every mission. I guess it’s just nerves or something.” Lazar tried to smile.
“Then stop wasting time and finish loading these boxes.” he ordered.
When the convoy reached Visegrad, it was still dark. There was little movement in the town. They were obviously not expecting visitors. Lazar’s heart pounded as he tried to control his breathing. He couldn’t believe things had gotten this bad, that it had come to this. Their orders were to clear the homes. If anyone resisted, they were to be shot. If anyone tried to escape, they were to be shot. Everyone else would be detained and shipped to relocation camps in Albania. Resistance was already organized in Visegrad and that’s why they were there. It was reported that the people had small arms and were determined to defend their homes.
Lazar knew that Milla’s brother, Ibrahim, would be part of the resistance. Even though he was only sixteen, Ibrahim was vocal about his hatred for the new Serbian government. Lazar hoped that he wouldn’t meet him today.
Search teams consisted of five men each. They began clearing the houses. Most people were still in their beds. The first house Lazar cleared belonged to an elderly lady. She didn’t try to resist. She only seemed a little confused about what was going on.
After only a few minutes the screaming and yelling came, then the gunshots. Adrenaline started to surge through Lazar’s body. He wanted to scream himself. He felt he had to move fast. He couldn’t stay with his team any longer. He would worry about the discipline later, if he was even alive.
Milla’s home was at the southeast end of the city, next to the Drina River. If Lazar ran, he could make it before anyone else got there. He heard more gunshots, a lot of gunshots……and a lot of screaming. Lazar began running faster and faster. He had to pass the market and cross through the bazaar. She was only about three minutes from there.
No matter how fast he ran. Lazar felt like a boat anchor was chained to one leg and a loud jukebox to the other. He felt like he was in a nightmare. He heard other soldiers calling out to him, trying to get his attention, but he kept running.
As Lazar entered the bazaar, he realized that he was being shot at. He spun around when he felt a bullet whiz right past his head. It sent him to the ground. Lazar didn’t want to stop but he saw a lot of muzzle flash and began to see things exploding all around him. His head was ringing now. His ability to hear had scurried off with his judgment. He was sure to crumble under anxiety. He couldn’t stop himself from shaking.
Milla, he thought. I have to get to her. It was the only coherent plan now.
“I have to get to her!!!” He yelled out loud. And then he screamed in the Japanese bonsai fashion!
Lazar began firing his weapon directly in front of him. He was losing control. Tears began flowing down his face as he ran. His body still wasn’t moving as fast as his will was pushing. When Lazar emptied one magazine, he quickly loaded another. But by then the firing subsided. The gunshots were coming from somewhere else now. Lazar found himself running right through a group of men holding guns, resisters. Not one of them shot at him. Maybe they could tell that he wasn’t interested in them or maybe they heard him scream Milla’s name.
What Lazar feared most, all along, was happening now. He saw soldiers already on Milla’s street. How did they get there before him, he wondered? Perhaps he lost more time when he was pinned down in the bazaar than he thought. Now he could tell gunshots were coming from the soldiers on her street. It seemed impossible. Lazar felt helpless. He gave one last charge toward Milla’s home. He could hear more screaming. He had never heard Milla’s scream before. He didn’t know who it belonged to. Tears were still pouring down Lazar’s face. He was terrified.
Milla’s house was in sight. Lazar wasn’t sure if people were inside. He was going to enter from the back.
Just before Lazar reached the house, a man jumped out of a parked truck wielding a knife. He lunged at Lazar, just missing his stomach with the knife. The distraction ailed his resolve. He wanted to explain to the man that he wasn’t going to hurt him. But Lazar only saw him as a final roadblock, preventing him from reaching his love. If circumstances were different, Lazar would have spared the man. He pointed his rifle . . . . . . . and shot him.
Lazar felt his sanity beating at the inside of his skull. He raced to the back of the house. None of the lights were on. He opened the back door and called Milla’s name.
He thought that could frighten her, so he yelled, “Milla, its Lazar. I want to help you get out of here. Where are you Milla?”
Lazar could give her his CZ model 9mm and they could make a run for it, but he heard nothing. He quickly swept the house. Lazar’s panic intensified when he realized that the house had already been searched. Furniture had been turned over and things were broken. Lazar heard more gunshots coming from outside. He ran out and met other soldiers firing their weapons into the trees.
He heard them yelling, “They’re running toward the river. Don’t let them get across the river.”
Lazar ran, pushing past the other soldiers to see if Milla was out there. There were more gunshots. It was constant now. The screams were terrifying. Lazar heard women and children out there. He couldn’t believe this was happening. As he approached the river, Lazar heard water splashing and saw a group of about fifty people moving through the water as fast as they could. He searched frantically for Milla. He even called out her name over and over again. The soldiers were still firing their weapons into the water.
It was a horrific scene. As the dawn was beginning to break, a pale light cast over dozens of bodies floating down the river. It was the phantom of the holocaust, a symphony of dying voices. He hoped Milla wasn’t among them. Most of the group had escaped across the river into a sympathetic early morning mist. The firing slowed down now.
Lazar couldn’t calm his emotions. He was trembling. He felt like his soul was doused with gasoline and his heart would burst into flames. His body ached and he felt filthy and ashamed. It was a feeling as though everyone he knew was watching him now; watching him in disbelief and disgust. The weight was more than he could bear.
Lazar found a tree that had fallen, in its own defeat, next to the river. He leaned his weapon against it and knelt down by the water. The water was contaminated but he didn’t care. He began washing his face. Lazar hated what he had become. An image formed in his head of the man he shot. He was only protecting his home. He hadn’t done anything wrong and Lazar killed him for it. He would never forgive himself.
Milla flooded his thoughts again. The fright and terror she must have felt. It was devouring him whole. Lazar convinced himself that he was the most evil man he could imagine. He even thought of taking his own life. He unsnapped his holster and reached for his handgun. He brought the cold steel to his temple.
At that moment, Lazar thought of his mother. He thought of Dejana and Mr. Nowak. Finally, he thought of Milla again. What if she was okay? What if he could see her again? Lazar knew that she would not want anything to do with him. But just knowing she was okay was enough reason to go on living.
As much as Lazar wanted to ask God, why, he found himself asking for God’s help. He had never really prayed on his own before, but right now it was the only thing he wanted to do. He knelt under some low-hanging trees by the river. He asked God if He was out there. Then he asked if He was listening.
First, Lazar found himself praying over Milla, that she was alive and okay. Then he prayed over the people that had died this morning, and that their souls rest in piece. Then he began to pray over his own soul, and if it not be too late, he asked God if He could salvage what good was left in him.
With the little strength he had left, Lazar stood; put himself together and started patrolling through the trees. He began calling out her name softly, “Milla . . . Milla.”


Chapter 4 – Lindsey Love & the Skylark


Los Angeles, California 1992

“I love you.” A tear cut the side of her face.
She couldn’t have made it any harder on him. Why did she have to wait until now to tell him how she really felt? Reed reached forward, pushing her silky auburn hair out of her face.
“Lindsey, I leave for basic training in three weeks, I wish I would have known how you really felt about me. I told you I loved you so many times.”
“I know Reed. I just didn’t want to be the reason you changed your mind. I know you’ve always wanted to be a Marine. I know how much it means to you.” Lindsey couldn’t even look him in the eye when she said it. She knew it would be painful.
“I could have changed my mind on my own. We could have made plans together or I could have put it off for a while until we figured things out.” Reed ran his fingers through his sandy-blond hair, leaving it out of place. Then he put his arms around Lindsey to assure he wasn’t mad at her.
“I know we could have planned some things, Reed, but I love you for everything you are. I don’t want to change any of it. I want to help you achieve your goals, not ruin them.”
Lindsey batted her soft green eyes and looked up at him, her red lips flaring. She caressed his forearm and then his bicep under his sleeve. “Reed, when I say I love you, it means I’ll wait for you. I’ll be here for you when you get home, no matter how long it takes.”
Reed really did feel her love, but from now until he could truly be with her again, there would be emptiness, a hole in his heart that ached for repair. It was taking its toll on him now, but for the moment he just wanted to hold her and not let go.

Reed finished one semester at UCLA. He wasn’t sure what he wanted to major in. He considered business, maybe international business or trade. He would pick up where he left off when he was discharged from the Corp.
Reed told his dad that he would come home to Hinckley to help with the farm work and spend time with the family before he left. Now, he wasn’t sure if he could keep that promise. He wanted to spend every last moment he had with Lindsey.
Reed and Lindsey met on a group date. They were going to Huntington Beach for a game of sand volleyball. Afterwards, the group built a big bonfire and sat around talking, mostly about school. Reed was surprised when he found out that Lindsey wasn’t going to school. She seemed to be the brightest one out of the bunch. She also seemed the most excited about life and the future.
The conversation swayed toward politics and one of the other girls said, “Hey Lindsey, I saw your dad on TV a couple days ago. He is so cute.”
His name was Harvey Love. But everyone called him, Mr. Love. Lindsey friends would say he looked just like Robert Redford. He was tall and in good shape for his age. He had peppered, sandy-blond hair that was never perfectly combed and bright blue eyes that could make a girl weak.
Mr. Love worked for the CIA as a spokesman, a political liaison and an advisor to the department head. As the conversation progressed, Reed found out that Lindsey worked in her dad’s office, filing paperwork. She said this was her dad’s way of compensating for the lack of time he spent with the family.
“Lindsey Love,” Reed said quietly to himself, “A beautiful name for a beautiful girl.”
Reed immediately started to take interest in her. By the end of the night, a great opportunity presented itself to Reed. Lindsey had a 1971 pink and purple, Buick Skylark that, for some reason, wouldn’t start. Reed was quick to act and applied his recently learned auto shop skills and got the Skylark started. Reed offered to follow Lindsey home and she accepted. Their next date was single and, to say the least, it was the beginning of many.
Reed’s last few weeks flew by faster than expected. The night before, Lindsey surprised Reed by taking him to a Dodgers game. Baseball was still Reed’s most developed childhood passions. Lindsey knew it would be a while before he would see the Dodgers play again.
Orel Hersheiser pitched the game, but even his best couldn’t calm the bat of the Giants slugger, Will Clark. The Dodgers lost 11-8. Still, it would be Reed’s most memorable game.
Like a genie, Lindsey granted Reed’s request to plan out their last two days together. They spent the morning at the Love’s house in Garden Grove. Of course Mr. Love wasn’t there. Reed hoped to get to know him better or at least, he wanted his approval as a suitor for his daughter. He wondered what he thought of his choice to join the military. After all, Mr. Love was also a man of his country.
Mrs. Love, however, was a very sweet lady, very motherly and down to earth. She was interested in Lindsey and Reed’s relationship and wanted to know all the details. Reed felt her warmth and was content with that. Mrs. Love handed Reed a package that was wrapped in red, white, and blue ribbon.
“Reed, I’m going to miss that smile of yours, with those deep blue eyes and that, ‘to die for’, sandy blond hair.” Mrs. Love laughed. She was a little flirtatious. She looked exactly like Lindsey, but twenty-five years older.
Reed tore the wrapping from the package and saw a top-of-the-line Nikon camera and a Sony voice recorder.
“The camera is so you can send me lots of pictures, mainly of yourself, with your shirt off.”
“Mom,” Lindsey jabbed her arm.
“Well have you seen his muscles?” Mrs. Love laughed.
“Sorry, Reed,” Lindsey tried to excuse her mother. Reed’s face began to flush, as he exposed two moon-shaped dimples in his cheeks. Lindsey loved those.
Mrs. Love pointed to the recorder. “And the voice recorder is so Lindsey can hear your voice when you tell her, over and over again, how much you love her and miss her.”
Still smiling, Mrs. Love wiped a small tear away from her eye. She and Reed embraced.
The afternoon was spent at the Becklys. Every other Sunday, Lindsey had come over to the Beckly’s home for dinner, so she knew the family well. Reed’s family was crazy about Lindsey and complained they probably wouldn’t see her as much. She assured them that she would come at least once a month for dinner.
Tom and Anna were on the front porch swing when Reed and Lindsey drove up. Reed’s younger brother, Reddin, was at the barbecue turning a large rack of ribs with one hand and waving hello with the other. Reddin had just graduated high school and had already been scouted by UCLA to play football. He was the starting quarterback his junior and senior year at Hinckley High.
Gracie, Reed’s sixteen-year-old sister, who had recently acquired a driver’s license, came running down the front steps toward the car.
“Lindsey, can I use your car to pick up Kyle?” she asked.
Kyle was Gracie’s boyfriend. For the past couple of months, Lindsey was letting Gracie secretly drive her car anyway. But now Gracie didn’t have to sneak.
“Sell me this car Lindsey.” demanded Gracie. “I love purple and pink. It’s hot!”
Lindsey laughed. Gracie seemed so spunky and full of life. She was the little sister Lindsey never had. That’s why she felt so attached to her.
“I’m glad you’re so excited to see me.” Reed added sarcastically.
Gracie went over to the other side of the car as Reed was getting out. She wrapped her arms around him tightly.
“You know I am.” she assured.
She held him longer than Reed expected. He knew what that was about. Gracie would probably miss Reed the most. He had always watched over her and defended her in every dispute. In Reed’s eyes, Gracie could do no wrong. She was innocent and pure. And that was found in her sky-blue eyes and strawberry-blond hair with cork-screw curls. Until now, Reed had scared away every one of Gracie’s boyfriends and convinced her that none of them were good enough for her. Kyle, however, underwent one of Reed’s most grueling interrogations, and survived. Reed said Kyle was a good catch and would be good for Gracie while he was gone; although Reed had threatened to use a variety of his new Marine skills to dispose of Kyle if he mistreated his little sister. Reed promised Gracie he would write her almost as much as he wrote Lindsey. He knew she was going to need it.
After dinner, Mrs. Beckly signaled Lindsey and Gracie to follow her into the kitchen to help with dessert. Mr. Beckly, Reed, Reddin, and Kyle stayed outside. Reddin picked up a football and through it to Reed, causing Reed’s cup to tip and splash on his lap. Mr. Beckly chuckled with that deep voice of his.
“Well, I hope Reed’s aim with an M-16 is better than your aim with that football.”
“Yeah Reddin, I thought you were supposed to be a pro quarterback. Are you sure that scout was wearing his glasses that day he found you?” asked Reed.
“Hey you’ve been to every one of my games. You know I don’t miss. I was actually aiming at the cup.”
Now Mr. Beckly was really laughing. Kyle even had a slight grin on his face. Lots of times, around Mr. Beckly, Kyle would try to act more serious than he really was to convince him he was mature enough to be dating his daughter.
Reed stood up and walked over to one side of the yard across from Reddin and threw the ball. Reddin was probably the best quarterback Reed had seen growing up and he knew scholarships would be dangled in front of him because of it. Reed was truly proud of Reddin’s accomplishments.
Reed noticed that Reddin had been quiet all night. Even now, as Reed looked over at him he could see something was bothering him, or at least something was on his mind. Reed waited until his shoulder was all thrown out to ask him about it.
“So, I can tell you’re upset that you won’t have me here to model yourself after anymore.” said Reed with a smug look on his face.
Reddin sat down where he was. He rested his elbows on his knees, still holding the football turning it side to side.
“Reed, It’s an honorable thing you’re doing, joining the Corp. and all. I’m almost old enough to join, but I’m just not sure I’d have the courage to do it.”
Reed sat down next to Reddin. “I hope you don’t think that just because I joined the Corp. that you have to. You should go to college, Reddin and take advantage of the scholarships you’ll be getting. I’m only upset I won’t be here to watch you start college ball.”
“Will you worry about Lindsey while you’re gone?” Reddin asked.
“Why, you’re not planning on moving in on her after I leave are you? It kind of worries me. You’re almost as good-looking as me you know? And if things get hard, she might just fall for you.”
Reddin could always count on Reed to make light of a situation. Reddin did look a lot like Reed. He was the same height, but a little less compact. He had the same sandy-blond hair, but purposely disarrayed, not high and tight like Reed’s. And he had the same bright blue eyes, though his nose was a little more eagle-like.
“Reed, why did you decide to join?”
“I’ve always felt that I needed to serve my country,” answered Reed with confidence.
“How could I expect America to be such a great country and not give back to her? You know how it goes; ‘Ask not what your country can do for you, but what you can do for your country.’”
“Dad told me about that boy you saw on the news when you were younger, the one that got shot for trying to jump over the wall. Does that still bother you?” Reddin laid back in the grass, using the football to rest his head.
“Reddin, I always told myself that I would fight until that wall came down. That boy would be my same age today. In a weird way, I thought I owed it to him. So I made a promise that that’s what I would do. The Berlin wall fell two years ago, Reddin and most of the fighting in Iraq is over, but my feelings are just as strong. I know there are other young boys out there, just like the one I saw, who are suffering because of the evil in this world. You and I just don’t know how bad it really is because we live in America. I want to do something for those boys. I want them to have what we have. I want their mothers to know they’re safe. I want them to be able to protect their little sisters. And I want their little brothers to have someone to look up to.” Reed picked a longer blade of grass and then pulled it apart with his fingers. “All that was stolen away from the kid I saw laying in the gutter. And the soldier who stood over him, smoking that cigarette, well, men just like him are still out there.”
Reddin looked at Reed in amazement. He felt a knot in his chest. He was feeling so much right now. He loved Reed and would always look up to him.
“Reed,” he said. “I hope there are men like you still out there.”

Gracie laughed as she put her mom’s famous peach cobbler into the oven.
“This was obviously Reed’s request.” she said. “Do you remember the time, mom, when you found peach cobbler in his pocket while doing his laundry?”
“Yes, he brought it to school and wore the pants the whole day and it never bothered him.”
Lindsey couldn’t believe it. “My Reed” she said. “He’s too bright to do something like that.”
“Yeah, that’s exactly what he would want you to think.” Gracie replied.
“Actually, Reed is one of the brightest people I know.” Mrs. Beckly proudly added.
“Anna,” asked Lindsey. “Did Reed tell you about the talk we had?”
“Yes,” Mrs. Beckly smiled.
“I really do love him, so much. He has made me so happy,” explained Lindsey.
“Reed has felt that way about you for a long time Lindsey. I’m glad that you told him that you love him. It has meant a lot to him, I mean, to hear it anyway.” Mrs. Beckly assured.
“I have felt that way for a long time now, I just didn’t want to make it hard on him when he left. But now that it has come down to it, I couldn’t bear the thought of us being apart and him not knowing that.”
Gracie looked at Lindsey as if she were soaking in everything she was saying.
“I don’t want you guys to think that I won’t wait for him. I am going to wait, I can promise you that.”
“Lindsey,” Gracie interrupted. “If Reed treats you anything like he treats me and Mom, then you are one of the three luckiest girls in the world. I would wait for him if I were you too.”
Lindsey smiled, but she quickly turned emotional. Mrs. Beckly walked over and wrapped her arms around her.
“Lindsey, we love you just as much as Reed does. It is going to be hard, but we’ll help you. I know you are a strong girl, Reed has told me so. You’re exactly what I want for him.”
“Thanks Anna,” said Lindsey as she finished smearing her mascara with the back of her hand.
Now Gracie joined the circle of emotion, wiping away some tears of her own.
“Lindsey, when Reed met you that night at the beach, I was in the kitchen, skipping out on my beauty rest, when he came home. He looked so happy, so I knew exactly what happened. He met a girl. So I pushed aside my bowl of ‘Lucky Charms’ cereal and told him to sit down. You know we talked about you until four o’clock in the morning. And you know what I remembered the most? It wasn’t anything he said. It was the way he looked when he said it. And then I couldn’t wait to meet you. You’ve been so good for him Lindsey. I know it sounds cheesy, but I think you and Reed really were meant for each other.”

Mr. Beckly got up from the table and walked over to where Reed and Reddin were sitting in the grass.
“So boys, which one of you two is going to take over the farm when I want to retire?”
“Retire?” Reed laughed, “Mom can’t even get you to take a day off. She prays for rain just so you’ll come in for the day.”
“That’s true, but I pay her an awful lot of money to put up with me,” articulated Mr. Beckly. The boys laughed.
Mr. Beckly walked over to his tractor that was sitting at the edge of the cornfield. Reed and Reddin both followed him. Mr. Beckly sat in the seat sideways. Reed sat down on the back disc. Reddin sat next to him. Kyle even made his way over and climbed up onto one of the wheels. The four of them sat under an unforgettable chameleon sky, passing around a bottle of life’s small understandings and shuffling from one masculine topic to another. But perhaps the most important, was a father’s verbal approval of how his sons were shaping up to be.

Chapter 5 - Disneyland


Disneyland, Anaheim, California 1992

Reed dropped a quarter in the slot. He watched the Gypsy behind the glass move her finger slowly as she read his fortune. The truth was; ‘Esmerelda’ was worthless. Nothing she had ever predicted was even remotely related to Reed’s life. But it was tradition to pay her a visit. Lindsey laughed as she read the first sentence.
“You are one who is easily misunderstood. This has complicated your relationships with others.”
Reed was probably the simplest, down to earth, person Lindsey had known. The two of them waited in a large crowd behind a rope for Disneyland to open. After Walt Disney gave his time-honored welcome speech, the crowd stormed the park.
Reed and Lindsey headed for ‘New Orleans Square’. Lindsey suggested the ‘Pirates of the Caribbean’ first. They both agreed that, “Yo ho, Yo ho, a pirates life for me” was perfect note to begin on. The musty smell was so familiar. It was a signature smell. ‘Pirates’ was a long, slow ride, perfect for planning out the next hour or so of activity. Lindsey placed her hand in Reed’s as they passed the fireflies and the old man on the porch. She squeezed as they plunged into a musty pit, under a talking skull and cross bones – “Dead men tell no tales.”
They planned on taking a tour of ‘The Haunted Mansion’ next, but they could see that it was closed down. Reed overheard some people talking about how a young man was escorted off the ride by security. Apparently, he had brought a pellet gun on the ride to shoot the ghosts and he ended up damaging a large piece of glass over the ballroom banquet. So they settled for Splash Mountain instead. Lindsey took the brunt of the water assault and Reed had a souvenir picture to prove it. Half of her body was soaked and the other half was dry. This was when Reed noticed that when her hair was wet, it curled.
“I didn’t know you had curly hair. It’s cute.” Reed blurted out.
“It’s naturally curly, I straighten it everyday. I don’t like it.” Lindsey disputed.
Actually Reed thought it was quite sexy. “Well I think you should wear it curly sometimes.”
After a quick visit to ‘Fantasy Land’ for a ride on ‘It’s A Small World’, Reed and Lindsey passed by a concession stand on wheels.
“Mmmm! Do you smell that?” asked Reed.
“Yeah and it’s tradition. Let’s get one.” Lindsey suggested.
“Two churros please!”
Reed was surprised to see that a churro was two dollars. The price goes up every year he thought. Reed was just finishing the last bite of his churro as they were exiting ‘Fantasy Land’ through the Castle.
Lindsey thought she would woo Reed with some Disney trivia. “Hey look!” she pointed to a gold colored spike that was embedded into the ground. “Did you know that Walt Disney drove that spike into the ground himself, in 1955? It was supposed to mark the exact center of the park. The place has really grown since.”
Reed returned fire with, “Well, did you know that Walt’s pride and joy was ‘Pirates of the Caribbean’, but he died before its completion?”
After their exchange of little known Disney facts, Reed and Lindsey sat down just outside of the Castle on the bridge. There was a little half-moon shaped bench around a flagpole where they sat. For a while they just watched the interesting people as they passed. They laughed as they saw so many Oriental people with their video cameras. It was as if they had just landed on Mars. They joked about how many Oriental home videos they could be starring in. Or that their faces could end up on some large billboard in China and never know it.
Reality began to set in that Reed would be leaving for Basic Training in the morning and then after that he would be stationed in Hamburg Germany for eighteen months. And if things went as planned, he would spend the last year and a half stateside. It was uncertain whether or not he would be granted a short leave after Basic Training. They decided it was best not to get their hopes up. Reed and Lindsey both agreed that after the light parade they would leave Mickey and friends behind for somewhere more private.
When the sun finally tucked itself in for the night the air got pretty chilly. Lindsey was prepared more adequately for the cold than Reed was. She sported a light wool jacket, while Reed was left with his tight-white, Hurley t-shirt. Hot chocolate was definitely in order. The two sat nestled together on a curb of ‘Main Street’ and waited for the parade. Lindsey commented on how cute all the Princesses were, but wondered how they could keep a smile for that long.
When the parade was over, Reed and Lindsey were able to get one of those nice, Oriental visitors to take their picture. The crowd began to make their way to ‘New Orleans Square’ for the ‘Fantasmic Light Show’ and fireworks. Reed and Lindsey headed in the opposite direction toward the exit. The lady at the turn-dial stamped both of their hands with fluorescent yellow ink. It was hard to tell what it said.
“In case you want to return.” She barked, clearly annoyed at the redundancy of her assignment.
They found the ‘Daffy Duck’ isle where they were parked, got into the Buick Skylark and began driving down Harbor Boulevard. The low rumble of the Skylark helped drown out the busy night life around them.
While they were engaged deeply in conversation, Lindsey noticed a sign that read, ‘Beaches - Huntington, Newport’ and an arrow signaling straight ahead. Huntington was the first beach they came to.
“How ironic,” declared Reed. “This is where we had our first date.”
“It was the most spectacular date I have ever had,” admitted Lindsey in a dreamy voice. Then she claimed, “But this isn’t our last date, so I don’t see the irony.” Lindsey winked at him with her head tilted and her shoulder to her chin. “You were quite the catch, though.”
Reed played along. “Yeah, you had me at hello too, babe.”
Lindsey checked the back seat. “We have a blanket in the back,” she hinted.
Reed didn’t waste any more time. He pulled into the parking lot and paid four dollars to the meter. They left their shoes in the car and walked through the sand barefoot. Lindsey grabbed Reed’s arm and pulled herself in as a cool breeze blew in off the ocean. The beach was almost desolate by now. They felt like they were on their own private island. The blanket was large enough for them to lay on half and cover with the other half.
“Bittersweet,” uttered Reed as he stared into the darkness of the sky.
“Yeah, I know exactly what you mean,” assured Lindsey.
“There’s no other place I’d rather be than right here, right now, with you,” professed Reed, as he softly drew his finger down the side of her face.
“Three years is a long time Lindsey.”
Lindsey knew what Reed was wondering; if she possessed the strength to hang on; if the love that he had given her was memorable and worth waiting for and if the plans that they had made together were more than wishful.
“Reed, you’re right, three years is a long time. Logic says it’s too long. But, I’ve never been a fan of logic or a fan of odds and I know you’re not either. I’d rather have a storybook ending; something to tell my grandchildren.” she paused a moment, “This is sounding a little dorky isn’t it?”
Reed smiled, “No, keep going!”
“I guess I’m just trying to assure you, Reed that I can wait for you and I will wait for you. And just to remind you, I’ll see you in eighteen months, not three years.”
This was just the assurance Reed was looking for. He wanted to know that she was at least willing to climb the mountain in front of her, that this challenge wasn’t more than she could handle.
“If we can beat this together, we can beat anything together. I think it’s a rather adventurous way to begin our saga, don’t you?” asked Reed.
“Yeah, I do,” agreed Lindsey.
Reed looked at her as she laid there. He lived for that smile. It was home for him. He could fight through any battle if that smile was his only consolation. Her skin looked pale and soft under the moonlight. Once again, Lindsey batted her green eyes shyly at him as he came within inches from her face.
Reed ran the back of his fingers down Lindsey’s neck and laid them over her heart. “It will always be like this.” he promised softly. “I will always love you. And even though I will be on the other side of the world, the distance between our hearts will never be greater than it is right now.”
“You always say the right things, Reed.” Lindsey said, snuggling closer to him.
“Okay, I admit.” Reed shrugged his shoulders. “I practiced while we were on ‘Pirates of the Caribbean.’”
Reed could always make Lindsey laugh. As much as she enjoyed his looks, she adored his humor. They held each other for a few priceless moments, soon to fall on the list of extinction.
Lindsey hopped up, “Come with me,” she prompted. “I want to show you something.”
She grabbed the blanket and wrapped it around the two of them. Off in the distance was a long row of large rocks that jetted out into the water, breaking the waves as they came in. When they finally reached it, Lindsey rolled up her jeans and walked into the water about knee high and began searching the edge of the rocks.
“What are you looking for?” asked Reed.
“Starfish. Come help me!”
“Starfish?” Reed was curious.
“Yeah, I’m about to get cheesy on you again. Help me find one.”
Just above the water, holding steadfast to the side of a large rock, Reed saw a Starfish.
“There,” gratified, Reed pointed.
“Good eye spy,” said Lindsey. “Now watch it for a while as the waves crash into it.”
Reed watched it, watched the water relentlessly push and tug it. He noticed that it never moved. It never let go, even when the waves were the highest. It didn’t give up.
“It almost makes it seem effortless doesn’t it?” proclaimed Lindsey. “Not everything is as difficult as it first seems. Day in and day out this Starfish hangs on to that rock, and then holds tighter when the waves crash. And believe it or not, it’s comfortable this way. How much do you think that Starfish weighs Reed?” she inquired.
Reed shrugged his shoulders, “A pound maybe.”
“If that,” challenged Lindsey. “Okay, I weigh 135 pounds.”
Reed was astonished to hear her admit her weight.
“I can withstand the weight of the crashing water. I will wait for you Reed, I promise. I will hold steadfast and I will make it seem effortless. And I will pray everyday for your safe return until the Lord brings you back to me”
“Wow.” Reed said out loud. “So Lindsey, who’s the expert with words now?”
“Okay, I have to admit,” she said, “I practiced while we were on Dumbo.” They both burst into a gut laugh.
Somehow, the two were able to turn this, seemingly entirely too short of an evening, into an endless night of memorable bliss, full of promises and small gestures of hope and devotion.


Chapter 6 - Marcielli, Marianna, and the Omerta.


Milan Italy, 1992
Marcielli looked down at his foot. A bead of sweat rolled down his forehead and fell from the tip of his nose. It splashed on the ball. Everything else around the ball seemed to melt into one color. His blood pumped so hard that he felt each pulse that went through his body. Only eight seconds remained in the game and the score was tied.
Marcielli looked at his opponent; detected his exhaustion. But he also saw his determination. He wanted this title for the University of Palermo just as much as Marcielli wanted it for Bocconi University.
The referee dropped the ball, signaling it into motion. Marcielli burst from his ice-frozen stature, gaining control of the soccer ball. If he could only coax his body to hold up for these last few seconds and cooperate with the play. He took the ball for nineteen yards and then kicked it back to Florentine, who took the ball sharply in the opposite direction, causing the game to shift to the north side of the field. This left Marcielli a few yards back but wide open on the south side of the field. Flo kicked it to Franco at mid-field, who mailed the package right back to Marcielli. Even the Palermo goalie was unsuspecting the play and wasn’t exactly in place when Marcielli sent the ball whizzing right past his head and through the goal posts.
The crowd exploded into hysteria. The exhilaration burst like a rain cloud over the field. Marcielli felt the motion emanating from the stands. The entire Bocconi soccer team bum-rushed him. Marcielli sustained more injuries from the celebration than from the game itself. It was Marcielli’s last college game. He had already been signed to start on the National team next year.
After getting his strains iced down from the therapist, Marcielli went to the locker room where the excitement refused to die down. Some were chanting the Italian National Anthem, some were still dumping Gator-aid on the coach and others were naked, snapping team mates with wet towels. Marcielli opened his locker and began packing his sports bag.
Despite the energy level of his teammates, Marcielli couldn’t redirect his thoughts from the two men he saw on his way to the locker room. For the last two weeks, Marcielli had seen them parked next to the kiosk across from his apartment. That black car with tint so dark you could only see reflections. For hours at a time it would be there. He even noticed strange men at mass on Sunday. He wondered if they would ever approach him. Marcielli actually knew all this was coming, he just didn’t know when. He had tried to prepare himself for it.
Marcielli zipped his bag, threw it over his shoulder and walked outside. The subway was only half a kilometer away. Marcielli decided not to take the usual route. He was sure they had made note of it by now. He was going to take Via Galileo. This street was more heavily traveled and he could blend into the crowd better. The city would be busy due to the game traffic.
The sun had just set and the street lamps were flicking on. Marcielli took a minute to look around before he started off. The two men were nowhere in sight. He hurried across the street and past the bakery. Before he reached Via Galileo, he heard a car moving slowly behind him. Marcielli became nervous and prepared for the worst. Dare he look back, he thought? He felt nauseous. He heard the engine shut off and saw the beam from the headlights disappear. As he heard the car door open and close he stopped walking. He waited a minute . . . . . . and then turned around . . . . . . He saw an older man walk to the trunk of his car, open it and take out a tricycle bike. The man walked over to the domophone parallel to his vehicle. He buzzed the phone.
“Hello,” a voice came over the speaker.
“It’s Jarek,” the man said with an accent. “Can I come up?”
Marcielli was relieved. He even paused for a moment as a memory surfaced. It was his grandpa, teaching him to ride his first bike on Christmas morning. Ironic, thought Marcielli.
Via Galileo was just up the way. Marcielli was again relieved when he reached a more crowded area. He made it to the subway with no trouble. At the subway, however he remained cautious, although the shoulder-to-shoulder traffic comforted him; he looked over everyone in the crowd. He saw no one of concern and began to relax.
Maybe tonight’s not the night, he thought. Maybe I’m overreacting, he told himself.
Marcielli waited for another ten minutes until train #560 arrived. It would take him the majority of the way home. He stamped his ticket and began to push his way to the back of the train for a place to sit. Marcielli lifted his bag off his shoulder and plopped it onto a seat. As he was sitting down, something caught his eye, the dark suits. No, he thought.
Three rows back were the two men that had been following him. He sat down and froze. He couldn’t move. His blood began agitate his veins. He thought his heart would burst. His face felt warm and heavy. The excitement was infesting him. The anticipation was more than he could stand.
. . . . . . . . Marcielli stood up, and walked right up to them, not knowing exactly what he was doing, not knowing exactly what he would say. His mouth began moving;
“I’m right in front of you. Go ahead and get it over with. I’m not going to tell you anything.”
Marcielli wasn’t sure if he was even thinking straight. The two men didn’t seem surprised. They actually looked very calm. The shorter, stalky man, with a big nose and bald head turned to the taller, older man with slicked hair.
“Do you know this guy? He asked.
“No, I dun know ‘em.”
The shorter guy looked back up at Marcielli, “Listen wise guy, we dun know you! Now why don’t you sit down, shut up, and stop causin a scene.”
That’s exactly what Marcielli wanted, a scene. He wanted witnesses.
“I saw you at the game. I’ve seen you in front of my apartment. I even saw you at church. Don’t act like you don’t know who I am.”
The taller man grinned, “Hey kid, you know what I think? I think you’re delusional. I think you’re mental and I think you’ve lost it.”
Marcielli suddenly became enraged. Even he, himself, was not sure where he got the courage to say what came next.
“I am Marcielli Corleon, son of Dominico Corleon and if you think I’m going to tell you where he is, you might as well just kill me now.”
Now both men were smiling. The shorter, stalky man, bumped the taller man with his elbow.
“Can you believe this guy? Sit down kid, before you have an anxiety attack.”
Marcielli knew people were staring at him, but he didn’t care. These men would be crazy to try something now. Marcielli sat back down in his seat. When his stop came, the two men did not get off with him.
The Italian Mafia never forgets to pay back; even if those on the other end would gladly wave the payments. Over fifteen years ago, Marcielli’s dad, Dominico Corleon, assassinated Renato Curcio, the leader of the Red Brigade Terrorists. The Gambino family hired Dominico for the task and swore him to a code of silence. After a few years, the alcohol began causing Dominico to talk. Links were made between the Gambino family Mafia and the assassination. The only way for the Mafia to get rid of the link, was to get rid of Dominico Corleon. Because the Red Brigade was also an enemy of the government, the government agreed to take Dominico under their wing and offer top-level government protection and anonymity.
Since Marcielli was ten years old, they’d lived in nine different homes. So far, the government relocation program had placed them in five different cities in Italy. Presently, Dominico and Rianna were living in a small city called, Tivoli, just outside of Rome. Marcielli came back to Milan to play college soccer and to reclaim the heart of Marianna Lucini, who was so unexpectedly and swiftly ripped away from him. He knew it was a risk. Marcielli’s parents even pleaded with him not to come back to Milan and warned him about the dangers of the Mafia.

Marcielli’s apartment was only one street away from his old home. He felt this side of Milan was his true home. It is where he learned most of life’s lessons anyways. Marcielli didn’t want to turn bitter, like Dominico. He didn’t want to live his life in hiding or on the run. He wanted to face his fears, not warm them under the blanket of drunkenness. As a boy, Marcielli learned what he wanted out of life. He wanted to love more. He wanted to hope more and be closer to God. And he wanted to show more excitement toward life. This was why he wanted to start over in Milan. He hoped that he and Marianna could settle down there.
Marianna was happy to see Marcielli again and was touched that he thought about her over the years. They had been together now for over a year and on one occasion; Marianna even hinted to Marcielli that she wanted to marry. After a game last week, she mentioned to Marcielli that her grandmother restored her wedding dress for Marianna. This made Marcielli happy. He loved Marianna and referred to her as, “Bellezza di Milano”, the Beauty of Milan.
Just like when he was a young boy, Marcielli passed through the market square to his home. Everyday he passed the Gothic Cathedral, Duomo. It was where he first felt the tingly grace of God during his first mass. It was where he hoped to marry Marianna and bless his children.
When Marcielli finally arrived at his apartment, he noticed something was stuck on the front door. As he got closer, he saw light reflecting off of a blade. It was a knife. It was holding up a piece of paper with a list on it. Big bold letters scribbled, “OMERTA”.
Marcielli looked over his shoulder to see if anyone was watching. He pulled the knife from the door and walked into his apartment. After taking a quick look around, Marcielli read what was on the list.


1. A code of silence - Never "rat out" any mafia member. Never divulge any mafia secrets, even if threatened by torture or death.

2. Complete obedience to the boss - Obey the boss's orders, no matter what.

3. Assistance - Provide any necessary assistance to any other respected or befriended mafia faction.

4. Vengeance - Any attacks on family members must be avenged. "An attack on one, is an attack on all."

5. Avoid contact with the authorities.


This was the Omerta, the Code of Silence; the Mafia’s Law. It was something Marcielli learned about by his father’s careless ramblings through a bottle of brandy or bourbon. Things began to make sense as Marcielli read the five rules on the list. He knew Dominico had broken the first and last law of the Omerta and it finally caught up with him. If the Mafia couldn’t find Dominico, the next best thing was Marcielli.
Marcielli examined the knife that held the list. He realized that it was an official Mafia switchblade with the words, “Made in Sicily” on one side of the blade and “Omerta” on the other. Marcielli had always wanted one of those knifes. So he wasn’t sure if this was a warning . . . . . or just a gift.


Chapter 7 - Dinner & Proposal


Marcielli worried he would be late. Marianna had planned this special evening for them weeks ago and he knew how important it was to her. He turned his walk into a jog as he rounded the corner of her street.
“Marcielli, Marcielli!” shouted the LaRusso girls. “Where are you going in such a hurry?” They asked him.
The LaRusso girls were six and eight years old and they were, in no way, shy about their affection for Marcielli. Occasionally he would stop to flatter them but this time he knew better.
Marcielli finally reached Marianna’s house. As he buzzed the domophone, he looked down at his watch and saw the five digit change into a six. He was barely on time. Marianna buzzed him in. He climbed to the third floor and began to smell freshly baked bread, herbs and garlic. Marianna told him that she would cook a gourmet dinner for him; one that he would not easily forget. She wanted to prove to him that she could cook. She thought this might remind Marcielli that she was ready and able for marriage. In Italy, first and foremost, a girl must know how to cook. It was only a plus if she also happened to be pretty.
When Marianna opened the door, she had a slight grin on her face, “You’re cutting it close Mr.” she warned.
“Bella Bambina!” Marcielli wrapped his arms around her.
“Okay,” she gave in. “But I must keep you on a tight leash from now on.”
Marcielli hung his jacket next to the door and turned back toward Marianna. He paused and took a second to soak in her beauty. She was gorgeous, he thought. Marcielli had seen her almost every day for over a year, but he was still caught off guard in her presence. She was wearing a pink, long sleeve, angora sweater with black fitted pants and platform heels. Her outfit looked great with her dark brown hair that waved around her face. Her dark brown eyes were sanded with shimmering bits of amber. She was graceful. Marcielli told her she had a harlequin, 1920’s, model-look. It made him want to hold an umbrella over her as she walked down the street in a fur coat or light an expensive cigarette for her, even though she didn’t smoke.
“What Marcielli?” asked Marianna, smiling with her head tilted downward.
“You’re beautiful!” he said.
“Thank you!”
She quickly changed the topic. “I hope you’re hungry.” she said.
Marianna escorted Marcielli over to the table and pulled out his chair. “I’ll be right back.” she promised.
Marcielli took his seat. He was impressed to see a collage of his favorite pastas; Linguini Puttanesca, Penne Filetto di Pomodoro and Gnocchi di Ricotta. Marianna popped in a CD of Luciano Pavarotti and turned it down softly. She turned off some of the lights and lit candles on the table. Marcielli didn’t know what he had done to deserve this. He was moved by the delicacy she gave the moment.
“This is amazing.” he said.
“You’re very kind my dear, but your compliment is a little premature, you haven’t eaten anything yet.” she admonished.
After a Cesar salad, and a side of Focaccia bread, Marianna dished out the first helping of Linguini Puttanesca. Marcielli ended up having a total of three helpings.
While eating dessert, which Marcielli had no room for, but delightfully consumed anyway, Marianna alluded to a subject that Marcielli had tried to ignore, the Mafia. The bus incident occurred over six weeks ago and Marcielli hadn't had any run-ins since. The truth was, Marianna was scared, scared that Marcielli wasn’t taking everything seriously. The Italian Mafia wasn’t known for their empty promises. Marcielli’s argument was that there was no promise, and he refused to run his life into hiding. Marianna thought about what she wanted to say to Marcielli, she even rehearsed it over in her head a few times. She wasn’t sure how Marcielli would feel about it.
Marianna stood and gracefully cleared some things from the table. Marcielli knew the situation caused her anguish.
“Marianna, I know what’s been bothering you. Do you want to talk to me about it.” Marcielli got up and walked into the next room, beckoning Marianna to follow.
They sat down on the sofa. Marianna hadn’t yet sat down when Marcielli noticed her sniffling. Marcielli took her hand.
“Now can I tell you that dinner was amazing?” asked Marcielli.
Marianna subdued a laugh as she used her napkin to wipe away marinara sauce, claiming territory at the corner of Marcielli’s mouth.
“Oh Marcielli, you are so flattering. It’s those little things that make me so comfortable around you. You have a heart of gold.” She leaned forward and kissed his forehead.
Marcielli was feeling humble when he redirected attention to her emotions, “What’s wrong, Marianna?”
Marianna squeezed Marcielli’s thumb as it was in her palm. She used her other hand to pull her hair behind her shoulders.
“Marcielli, I’m really scared.” she confided to him.
This wasn’t new to Marcielli, but he awaited her reasoning.
“Last Friday, I bumped into the mailman while he was delivering to our neighborhood. I was on my way to the library and I asked him if he had anything for me. He pulled out a couple letters. One of them didn’t have a return address but it was labeled, Mrs. Marcielli Corleon. I was curious what it was, so I opened it.” Marianna then began sobbing, this time uncontrollably. “There was a picture of you and me together at the Milan Gardens. We were kissing. I don’t know who took it, but there was a message on the back that read, ‘Nationals - Prague, see ya there. . . . . .’”
Marcielli’s first national game was next week and they would be playing the Czech National team in Prague.
“Marcielli, I’ve had time to think about it. They want to hurt you on National TV. Your father will most certainly be watching your first game. That’s how they will get to him! Oh, Marcielli!”
She planted her head into Marcielli’s chest and dispatched all of her emotions. Marcielli didn’t know what to think. He knew that he should start taking things more seriously. He knew Marianna was becoming impatient with his carefree way of dealing with things.
Marcielli actually was worried this time, worried the Mafia knew about Marianna and where she lived. He was angry that they would bring her into this. He didn’t want this for Marianna. He even thought a time might come where he would have to say good-by to her to protect her from this dreadful situation. But he quickly banished that thought. He knew he could never give her up for any reason. He would find a way.
“Marianna, I know you’re scared. I think we can work through this.” Marcielli tried to reassure her.
“I’ve stayed up all night wondering what we would do, and I want you to listen to me.” Marianna was looking him firmly in the eyes now. “Marcielli, we’ve talked about getting married. We’ve even made plans and talked about where we would live. I know you want to stay in Milan. I love you and I know you love me. Marcielli, let’s get married now.”
“Marianna,” interrupted Marcielli. “I do love you and I could only dream of making you my wife. But that won’t make our problem go away.”
“I told you, I’ve been thinking about this.” she interrupted. “We will have to sacrifice a lot. You need to postpone going to Nationals and I know that it means so much to you. Marcielli, you could join the Army and serve for eighteen months. We could live on the base together. I could put off school during that time. I might even find school on the base. We would be safe there Marcielli. The Mafia wouldn’t be able to get to us. And after a year or so, they would probably forget about us or move on to something else. I’m just worried that it will be too easy for them to keep track of you while you’re playing in the Nationals.”
Marianna knew this was rash. She knew she was pulling the rug from under his feet, sending all he worked so hard for into a coma. But it was the only way she could see them surviving.
Marcielli sat still for a moment and tried to take it all in. Now that Marianna was part of the equation, he did see some logic in the idea.
“Do you think I’ll still have what it takes in two years?” asked Marcielli.
“You’ll be in the best condition of your life, Marcielli, and besides, you’ll probably get more soccer practice in the military than you will in the Nationals.”
Marianna knew what a big risk this would be and that they would have to begin their marriage on a less than healthy budget, compared to that of a professional soccer player. Marianna also knew, however, that this was the only way for them to stay together and she wasn’t ready to say goodbye to Marcielli.
Marcielli sat and thought to himself for a moment. Pavarotti was still playing in the background. He was singing ‘Fedora Amor Ti Vieta’. Marcielli leaned forward and rested his head on hers. They glanced down at their hands, which were intertwined. This caused Marianna more sniffling.
“Marianna, Belleze De Milano. I dare not harbor any other passion over ours and risk losing my true love. I wouldn’t be able to go on. You’re the reason I came back to Milan. And now I know why it is that I love you so much. We’ll do whatever it takes.”
With that, Marcielli stood up and asked Marianna to come out to the balcony, which overhung the Po River. Marianna looked confused when she saw that the entire balcony was filled with roses and flowers. See, Marcielli had been orchestrating his own surprise for Marianna. It took a little cooperation from his soccer buddy, Florentine, who filled the balcony as they ate. Florentine had another assignment. Hanging on the railing by a red ribbon was a little black velvet box. Marianna was in shock, covering her mouth with her hand. Before Marcielli finished untying the box, Marianna looked down and saw a Gondolier in his gondola. He began serenading them with the famous Italian love songs of Eros Ramazzotti. He was also a prepaid edition to Marcielli’s brilliance. Marcielli lowered himself to one knee. Unexpectedly and somewhat humorously, Marianna knelt down with him and looked him directly in the eyes. Marcielli opened the box and there it rested, infinite and resilient. Anxiously and even more comically, Marianna took the ring out of the box and placed it on her own finger. Her gallant smile inspired Marcielli.
“Marianna, Belleze De Milano, will you let me love you forever? Will you let me fight everyday of my life for you? Will you let me be the eternal keeper of your beauty? I’m asking you Marianna, will you love me forever?”
Marianna fell into Marcielli’s arms, causing them both to roll back into a pile of flowers. She kissed him on the cheek.
“Yes Marcielli, you can be the keeper of my beauty!” Marianna laughed and then she pouted, “You mean if I would have just waited twenty minutes, I wouldn’t have had to ask you to marry me?”
“Timing never really was my thing.” Marcielli admitted.
Then, rekindling the tenderness, Marianna ran her fingers through Marcielli’s wavy brown hair and pulled him a little closer, “And yes, Marcielli, I will love you forever.”
After the Gondolier had finished the three songs he was contracted for, he rowed slowly down the river. The moon cast just enough light on the water to see the trail of flowers that spilled over from the balcony and floated after the gondola.


Chapter 8 – The Train Station


Ivangrad, Montenegro 1992

“One ticket to Pristina please,” Radenko asked the man in the kiosk.
The man was wearing a beanie cap and ear-muffs. His hands were shaking. Radenko even saw his own breath settling on the glass. March was the coldest month in Montenegro.
Radenko waited on a bench for his train. He had just completed two years of law school. The military allowed him a free tuition. When eighteen months was up, he could start a private practice. General Marshal Gavrillo, Radenko’s father, was able to get him enrolled six months before he was of age. To say the least, nobody asked any questions. He was the General’s son. Radenko finished second in his class and was able to choose his location of practice. He chose Pristina, the capitol of Kosovo. It was right in the middle of the action and far enough out of his father’s reach. Radenko loved his father, but he also wanted assurance that he could make it on his own. The General had already assisted him more than he thought was fair.
The train arrived five minutes earlier than what was posted on the schedule. Just as Radenko stood up to board, he felt a hand on his shoulder, accompanied by a firm voice,
“Radi,”
Only one person called him Radi, his uncle, Petrovich. Before Radenko could fully turn, Petrovich was already embracing him.
All winter, Petrovich had been in the Crna Mountains, mining coal. It was a risky job, but he couldn’t pass up the pay. He was making a month’s wages in about a week. Radenko hadn’t seen Petrovich for almost a year and didn’t expect him at the train station.
“If I didn’t come all the way down here to tell you to be careful, who else would do it?” Petrovich tried to look serious, but he corners of his mouth began to curl.
“Hey I’m a lawyer, not a combat soldier.” assured Radenko.
“It pay’s to be the General’s son, doesn’t it?” Petrovich smirked.
Petrovich found himself looking up at Radenko. “I can’t believe it Radi. You’re taller than me now.”
Radenko reached and squeezed Petrovich’s bicep. “And almost as strong, too.” Radenko released a pestering laugh.
“That will never happen.” assured Petrovich.
Radenko knew that was true. Petrovich was built like a bulldozer from top to bottom. Every muscle was round and hard. He had just turned forty years old and if it wasn’t for a few rebellious gray hairs above his ears, one would never know that he wasn’t a professional ring boxer. Radenko on the other hand was taller and more slender.
Radenko loved Petrovich like an older brother. He had always been there for him since Sasia passed. When Radenko needed advice or had to make tough decisions, Petrovich was there. He helped him walk a straight line and tried to keep him from making the same mistakes he had as a youth. He even bailed Radenko out of trouble on occasion . . . . . like the pub incident at Bar Opstina, when Radenko was fifteen years old.
Radenko had snatched the keys to his father’s military issue jeep. He promised some older girls from school that he could purchase alcohol for them. This would surely impress one, maybe even both of them, he thought. Radenko tried to look as mature as possible when he walked into the pub with the girls. At first, everything went smoothly. He placed the order, which seemed to satisfy the girls. But he began to wonder why it was taking so long to get their drinks. That’s when he saw two policemen walk into the pub. The bartender must have noticed Radenko was too young and made the call.
The policemen began to question Radenko regarding his age. Radenko’s embarrassment in front of the girls overruled his fear of the authorities. Then reality set in. Radenko had his father’s jeep. They would find papers in the jeep and learn it belonged to Marshal Gavrillo. Word would get around and his father’s name would be jeopardized. Then, more horrifying then the 9mm on the policeman’s hip, one of them spoke,
“Hey, aren’t you the General’s son?”
Radenko quickly replied, “No.” But he wanted to say, just shoot me.
The words, “General’s son”, had caught Petrovich’s attention, who had been in the back of the pub the whole time, but had not known that Radenko was also there. Petrovich realized what was going on and quickly formulated a plan. He stood up abruptly from his table, trying to make a scene and yelled,
“Pavle, I told you, you would have hell to pay if I ever caught you here again. What were you thinking Son; that I wouldn’t find out?”
Petrovich began walking toward them. He unbuckled his belt, jerking it from his pants. Then he folded it in two. The policemen began to make the connection that this was the boy’s father. When Petrovich raised his arm, one of the policemen grabbed it and said,
“Not here, Sir”
Now, able to see out the front window, Petrovich noticed Radenko’s second huge blunder, the General’s jeep parked outside.
Surely Radenko wouldn’t have driven that here, he thought.
Still thinking quick on his feet, Petrovich said, “Boy, you got five minutes to get home.”
He grabbed Radenko firmly by the shoulders, faced him toward the door and gave him a shove.
“I’ll deal with you right after I explain this mess to the policemen.” Petrovich warned.
This would buy some time for Radenko to get the General’s jeep home. The policemen both agreed that the boy would be sufficiently punished at home and decided to dismiss the violation.
Radenko knew Petrovich had saved his bacon. Petrovich never even told the General about it. He never wanted to put Petrovich in that position again. While the policemen saw the rage and anger in Petrovich, Radenko only saw love. It was a gift, that Petrovich was always willing give.
Radenko was glad Petrovich came.
“I wanted you to meet someone.” Radenko almost didn’t notice the petite strawberry-blond that was standing next to Petrovich. She had on a royal-blue, wool coat that hung just above her knees.
“This is Anjia,” said Petrovich, as he put his arm around her to claim possession.
“I’m Radi,” Radenko extended his hand.
Anjia seemed a little shy, but she had a loud laugh. She had a glow about her. Her brown eyes sparkled as though they were filled with every color in the rainbow. She just seemed happy. That was rare during this time of strife and conflict. Her smile was warm and inviting. Radenko was happy for Petrovich. He always seemed too busy for a girlfriend. Radenko wondered if Petrovich would stay settled for long. For this young girl’s sake, he hoped so.
“She changed my life Radi. I don’t smoke or drink anymore. I go to church. I’m even reading the Bible again and another book about Christ’s visit to the America’s. It has made me a different person. I want to tell you all about it when we have more time.”
“Petro, not drinking anymore, no more cigarettes,” Radenko said out loud, “Wow! Come visit me in the field. I’ll take leave and have you back to normal in no time.”
Petrovich laughed, “No Radi, this time it’s for real.”
Although the station was partly indoors, they could still see their breath as they spoke. It was hard not to notice the couple next to them. The man was in business attire with a briefcase, probably leaving for a business trip. The lady was draped on him, refusing to let go.
“Well Radi, I didn’t come all this way just to show you my prize catch. I brought you something.”
Petrovich pulled a small picture from the inside pocket of his jacket. It was Mother Mary, cradling Baby Jesus. It was the picture that Radenko had taken when he was eight years old from his mother’s bedside. When Radenko realized what it was, he felt a knot well up in his chest. The same sensation he always felt when he thought of his mother.
“I dropped that at the hospital and I wished I hadn’t. I thought it was gone forever.” admitted Radenko.
“I picked it up Radi, because I knew one day you would wish you had it back. I just wanted to wait until the right time to give it to you. I think you need it now.” advised Petrovich. “I believe we will see her again, Radi. I believe this now more than ever. Keep this picture close to you, Radi. She’s up there watching over us. It will remind you of what’s important in life. It might help you make some tough decisions, or get through unpleasant times.”
Petrovich gave Radenko a brotherly rub on the head, just enough to mess up his hair. Just then, the train’s hydraulic brakes began to release and the train started moving slowly. Radenko quickly embraced Petrovich, pulling Anjia in with them.
“Thanks Petro,” he said. “Thank’s for always being there.” Then he turned toward Anjia, “and thank you, Anjia.”
Radenko jumped onto the train and waved to the two of them as they wrapped themselves in each other’s arms.
“I love that kid.” said Petrovich.
“I love you.” said Anjia.
“I love you too.” he said back to her.

Radenko picked a cart with a broken window. The cold air was enough to keep others out. He wanted to be alone for a time. His mind was filled with so many things. He sat and stared at the picture Petrovich had given him. As the train picked up speed, the wind caused the picture to flutter. He quickly tucked it into his inside coat pocket, afraid that he might lose it. It felt good there, next to his chest, next to his heart. Radenko situated his scarf, dipped his head down toward his chest, closed his eyes and fell asleep.


Chapter 9 – The Trial


Pristina, Serbia 1992

Radenko was, to say the least, overwhelmed with his first defense case. And he was already troubled with the confidential client-counselor relationship. He was appointed to defend a Lieutenant in the Vojsko Srbije. His name was Nikola Obilic.
Nikola’s orders were simple, to capture and relocate a group of two hundred Albanian Nationals living in Slatina, a small town just north of Kosovo. But Nikola and his men had killed all two hundred of the Albanians.
Nikola’s testimony and report was that they were partisan fighters and were tipped off as to the arrival of the Vojsko Srbije. Nikola maintained that the Albanians had become hostile and were met with resistance and force. He then claimed he was ordered by General Michilo Pec to bury the bodies, an order that the General denied making.
The prosecution insisted that burying the bodies compromised the evidence. Nikola stated that it was the only decent thing to do. The prosecution requested the bodies be unearthed. The Judge denied the motion. Then the prosecution inquired as to the whereabouts of the weapons used by the Albanians and demanded a chain of custody. Nikola was only able to produce thirty-one Serbian, military grade AK-47s. The prosecution made reference to the fact that Albanians primarily use the WWII, Mosine-Nagant and older model SKS rifles. Nikola’s testimony was that they were partisan fighters and probably got the weapons by ambushing Serbian soldiers.
Radenko felt unsure during the trial. He felt inadequate handling a case of this caliber and wondered why he was chosen to defend Nikola. He wasn’t even filled in on all of the details and what he was provided with seemed a little glossed over. Radenko even thought that the outcome of the trial had seemed predetermined. The prosecution made valid claims but buckled when met with any resistance.
In law school, Radenko was known for his fortitude and vitality, but during this trial, he felt that neither attribute was necessary for the win. Radenko was pleased with the success of his first case, but some of the statements Nikola made to him behind closed doors began to peck at his conscience. He only hoped the Albanians were actually armed and hostile. Nikola’s nonchalant behavior throughout the course of the proceedings seemed to tell a different story all of its own. Whatever the case, Nikola’s battalion seemed to be misfits in the guild of the Vojsko Srbije.
The jury agreed on a verdict, “Not Guilty”. General Pec congratulated Radenko personally for his win. He invited him to attend a celebratory evening on Saturday night at the Pjata restaurant. Radenko felt honored but a little uneasy about the invitation. He didn’t know he would be associating with such high-ranking officials. He felt as though he was being adopted into a new and welcoming family; a feeling that was sure to be a conflict of interest.
Radenko walked out of the courthouse with the day’s events on his mind. He clicked the alarm to his gray, Government Issue, Fiat and got inside. He threw his briefcase on the passenger seat and paused to take a deep breath. He saw people trickling out of the courthouse. He could see two Albanian Officers of the Kosovo region, who had come to oversee the trial; they were escorted by Albanian and Serbian soldiers. During the trial, Radenko saw the resolve in their eyes, could tell that they were disgusted with the Serbian Judicial System. Looking at them now, Radenko could only imagine what they were plotting. He started his Fiat and commenced his journey home.

Radenko couldn’t disclose details of his interviews with Nikola to anyone. However, maybe he could confide somewhat in his father, General Marshal Gavrillo. Dad could always make sense of things. When Radenko got back to his apartment he dialed the old home telephone number in Ivangrad.
“General Gavrillo speaking.”
“At ease Dad, it’s just me.”
“Congratulations my Son! I’ve been following your trial.” the General announced.
“The verdict only came down about forty-five minutes ago. How did you hear so soon?”
“Son, your dad is a Three-Star General. I have my sources.”
Radenko laughed. “You’ll have to excuse me Dad. I’m not thinking so clearly. I’m still a little overwhelmed.” admitted Radenko. “Dad, how are things at home?”
“Thanks for worrying about your old Dad. I’m doing well. Petrovich wants me to go pheasant hunting with him. He said he stopped hanging out at the pubs and he’s got to find alternative recreation. I’m worried he’s going to try and lure me from the Darkside as well.”
“Well one thing he’s been talking about almost makes it worth it.” Radenko confessed. “He says families can be forever, I mean after death.”
The General was silent for a moment. “Yeah that’s what he told me too. It really would be nice.”
The conversation was silent again. Radenko finally changed the topic, “How’s the old General’s health these days?”
“Retirement is looking better and better as time goes on,” the General sighed. “The military has gotten so political lately. Whatever happened to the good’ol days under Tito where candor and honesty were requirements for soldiers?”
“Yeah,” agreed Radenko. “Today I began to question the honesty of my own client.”
“Radenko, you have to be careful now. You have been wrapped up into a high profile case. These are big hitters you’re dealing with. General Mihailo Pec will take my seat when I retire. I know he’s one of the people supporting my retirement. Just be careful Son.” warned the General.
Radenko wondered to himself if General Pec had selected him for the trial as a favor to his Dad or as incentive for him to retire.
“Sometimes I wonder if it would have been easier to just enlist in the infantry. Then I would only be responsible for following orders instead of dealing with moral dilemmas from case to case.”
“That might be true Radenko, but you chose to be a lawyer and every soldier is entitled to a good defense. You have to protect the right of the soldier and you have to provide the best possible representation you can. There is a question of consciousness that you will have to answer daily in your line of work. You just have to believe that you act on good faith and that the testimony of your clients is truthful. You’re not a human lie detector.”
“Thanks for making sense of things Dad. That’s really why I called.” admitted Radenko.
“You’re welcome Son. I’m proud of you and I love you. Talk to you soon!”
Radenko found comfort in what the General had said. Radenko was exhausted, his supposedly, meritorious performance was taking a toll on him now. Without dinner, Radenko faded away into the next morning.

Saturday night came sooner than expected. Radenko was met by security when he got to Pjata. From the looks of it, this was an ‘invitation only’ dinner. Radenko obviously hadn’t made a name for himself yet or the guard would have recognized him. By all the laughing and off-key singing, he could tell some of the guys wasted no time letting alcohol disguise the better of them.
"Over there!" the guard pointed.
Radenko could already see General Pec waving his arm. The whole situation still didn't sit right with him. He promised himself he would only stay a half-hour. On his way to the table, Radenko passed an elderly lady playing the violin. She had elegance about her. He nodded to her and placed some money in her violin case.
"Counselor, sit down, get something to eat. Have a drink!" encouraged Nikola.
Radenko knew someone had spent a lot of money when he saw that the table supported the finest foods. On one end, there was veal, Knedle sa Slijivama(potato dumplings with plums), Punjene Paprika(stuffed peppers), Szerb Bableves soup, and Gibanica(a cheese strudel pie), and on the other end of the table, the richest wines from the Navip Company
The table consisted of about twenty ranking officials. Radenko was definitely the lowest rank among them.
Nikola held up his mug and shouted, “Cheers, to the newest member of our family.”
Radenko gave a half-hearted smile and a forced chuckle.
“To an impeccable judicial system.” declared Radenko.
Radenko glanced over at General Pec and noticed the inquiry in his eye. He worried that he had said the wrong thing.
The General raised his glass and saluted, “To Serbia.”
Radenko sat down. He listened to all the foolhardy talk and occasionally it would turn back to trial. During those moments, he would try to zone out or change the topic. Now that the case was over, he didn't want to hear any undevulged secrets or new evidence.
As Radenko sidestepped the spotlight for a moment, he couldn't help but notice the array of colors and paintings surrounding them. It looked like the work of Leonardo Davinci. Pictorals of Christ at the Last Supper, Mother Mary, Saints and babies with angel wings. One picture in particular caught Radenko's eye. The image reminded him of something his mother would appreciate. Christ had been taken down from the cross and Mary was holding Him in her arms. He was covered in blood, vinegar and sweat. But Mary held Him as though He were still the Infinite Being, full of life and love, who had just saved the world. Tears fell from her face, not because her Son was dead, but because the world had forsaken Him as their Savior.
Radenko was captivated by the moment, touched by the ever-presence and feeling of his mother. He felt as though she was enjoying the painting with him. It seemed now, to make sense of what Petrovich had been telling him, that his mother could be watching over him. For a while, Radenko didn't hear all the loud belligerent voices, but only the soft sound of a violin. If for no other purpose at all, this dinner had now become worth Radenko's time.

“Shut up Nikola, you're drunk!” ordered General Pec.
Radenko was jolted back into reality. He looked over at Nikola and couldn't tell whether he was laughing or crying, but he was babbling loudly. Nikolas soft, rusty-red hair, previously combed tightly, had fallen down onto his forehead. A long narrow nose divided his pale blue eyes, now bloodshot and watery. And when he looked at you, drunk or not, his eyes seemed to fall just short of meeting your own. His jaw line was usually square but with alcohol and all the laughter, it softened. He was beyond the point of sound judgement and was making careless statements.
“Two hundred is a good start, but I’m ready to send another two million to their graves. Where can I place another order of two million AK-47s?”
The words turned Radenko’s stomach. He couldn’t believe someone could be so cold blooded. He thought he should leave, but something was holding him there.
General Pec walked over to Nikola and put his hands on his shoulders, “Nikola, accompany me outside.”
“What General, you’re not feeling guilty for what we did are you? We’ve been exonerated. It doesn’t matter anymore! Ask the counselor.” Nikola’s eyes were glazed.
Radenko remained silent. When Nikola stood up, his chair tipped backwards.
“Don’t go soft on me General. I’m just saying I’m ready for the next assignment.”
Nikola pretended to hold and aim a rifle, and then shot it into the air. He uncaged a horrible laugh.
“I’m sorry, Radenko. He doesn’t know what he’s saying.” assured General Pec. “Stay here! I want to talk to you in private when I return.”
Radenko didn’t want to stay. He didn’t like being treated as if he were owned. He certainly didn’t want to make a career out of defending General Pec after each of his conquests. His conscience told him that he had to sever ties tonight.
General Pec called a taxi for Nikola and stayed with him until it arrived. When he returned, he sat at a table at the far end of the restaurant and motioned Radenko to join him. Radenko made a wise decision to stay, considering the fact that General Pec was still a superior officer, even if he wasn’t in Radenko’s chain of command.
General Pec was a stout man in his late fifties. He had salt and pepper hair, mostly salt, that receded at the corners. He had a large nose and large ears and a square jaw with a round chin. The permanent creases between his eyebrows made it appear as though he were constantly analyzing you, trying to figure you out. When Radenko made it over to the table, he didn’t sit down right away.
“Thank you for the invitation General. The food was excellent. I look forward to seeing you again.”
Radenko extended his hand. He only hoped that his departure could be that easy.
“Sit down Radenko. I know you’re uneasy. You’ve heard an earful tonight. If it makes you feel better, you can bill the State for the extra time.”
Radenko knew General Pec disapproved of his eagerness to leave.
“Radenko, I know your father. I’ve worked a long time with him. If times were different, he could probably be the next Josip Broz Tito. But those days are gone. Serbia is headed in a different direction now. Your father is nearing retirement; I know he would want someone to lookout for you.”
“With all due respect Sir, my father is not ready to retire. And I think I will do just fine on my own accord. I appreciate your concern.”
Radenko knew he was walking close to his grave, but he didn’t feel he could set sail in the same direction as General Pec and his shipmates.
“Radenko, you have potential. You are smart. I hope you can make the right decisions. I’m trying to offer you your future.”
General Pec tossed back the last of his drink. Their conversation mixed like oil and water. He didn’t like General Pec taking claim to his future. It made his blood boil. He felt like he was being offered the same job he already had. He was already doing what he wanted to do. After two years of service, Radenko was going to open his own firm. He didn’t want a career in the military.
Without fully reviewing the repercussions of his actions, Radenko avowed, “Sir, my future is not in your hands, it is in my own. I haven’t been assigned under your command. I will serve where Milosevic needs me, where Serbia needs me.”
General Pec bore a look of pure disdain and contempt, appearing to sear out Radenko’s image. Then he took a napkin from the table, patted his lips and stood up,
“Milosevic believes in showing respect to your commanding officers.”
Then Radenko stood up. “Milosevic also believes in justice. Is that what happened in the courtroom the other day?”
General Pec formed another look, not easily forgotten, one sure to have its way with Radenko’s conscience.
“Counselor,” General warned, “You are wrong about your future not being in my hands. You can leave now.”
Radenko prepared for the worst. He went against his father’s wishes to be careful, and careful, he was not. But he had his integrity, his honor, candor if you will, and he felt good about that. He took another moment to admire the painting of Christ again, then, he left the restaurant.


Chapter 10 - North Atlantic Treaty Organization


Mons, Belgium 1992

“Sgt. Beckly, I need you in my office in ten minutes!” ordered Lieutenant Samuel Clay.
The Lieutenant walked briskly past Reed toward the Commander’s office. He was balancing a large stack of papers that was ready to topple over. Reed only spent two months in Hamburg before his Marine Corp unit was assigned to the Intelligence Bureau at NATO headquarters in Mons Belgium. They were to assist in reconnaissance. Reed and Lindsey didn’t get their hopes up for leave after Basic Training and rightfully so, Reed shipped off to Hamburg directly afterward.
Reed had been in Belgium now for six months and had already promoted to Sergeant. He wasn’t particularly happy about the assignment to NATO. He always doubted their relevance and wasn’t sure they were qualified to be the World’s military. However, Reed did recognize the bright side of the arrangement. He would remain under U.S. command and the living standards in the NATO compound were superior to the U.S. military bases he was used to.
Reed slipped into the bathroom to check his appearance. His nametag was shined and in place. His tie and ‘gig-line’ were straight. He got some toilet paper from a stall, folded it and buffed the tip of his boots.
Reed was a few minutes early when he knocked on the Lieutenant’s door. No one answered so he let himself in and had a seat. Lieutenant Clay had a nice view of the city. You could see the entire skyline broken with trees, old buildings and church spires. The sun was just beginning to set. Reed had never seen a place so beautiful in his entire life. The castles and all the visible history was his favorite. He promised Lindsey they would return there together sometime.
Reed glanced around the office. The Lieutenant had photos of his family everywhere. He was obviously very proud of them. He had a beautiful wife and three boys that looked exactly like him.
Lieutenant Clay was of medium-build, but in good physical shape. He had a perfect hairline with hair that was coarse, dark brown and fuzzy, but it all seemed to be going in the same direction, toward his left shoulder. From the top corners of his head, down to his ears was skin tight. His eyes were a definite brown and were proportionately set under a confident brow. He had a square jaw that would manifest a five-o-clock shadow at three-o-clock.
“Sergeant, make yourself at home!”
The Lieutenant burst into the office. He seemed rushed but he made time to laugh at his own joke. The Lieutenant walked over to the window and pushed it open.
“Mmm, you smell that? Coal; call me strange but I love the smell of it! Well Reed, let’s cut to the chase. These directives you see on my desk have come down from the top. That’s right. You’re looking at Bill Clinton’s, John Hancock.”
Reed was curious where the Lieutenant was headed with this.
“There is a report that Slobodan Milosevic of Serbia has ordered mass exportation of Albanian Nationals from the Kosovo region. There is also report of a mass grave next to the town of Slatina. The President wants to know if this information is accurate; if Milosevic is using his military to carry out any of these orders. The reports are coming from a ‘No fly’ zone so we don’t have any air reconnaissance. We’re going to have to go in on foot. If these reports have any truth to them,” Lieutenant Clay poked his forefinger on the stack of papers, “Then Sergeant, we could be dealing with Genocide. Now, Slobodan Milosevic is well regarded by the Serbs. They refer to him as the “Sun of Serbia”. He has promised to restore pride and glory back to Serbia. The same glory they once owned during the midevil ages. He is also being compared to a great prince that lived during that time, Prince Lazar. He fought the Ottoman Empire out of Serbia; to the Serbs, the Albanians are remnants of that empire. Shortly after World War Two, Croatia, with the help of Italy committed genocide on the Serbs. And nobody stepped in for the Serbs. So they’re ripe for revenge. It’s the last thing we need, more turmoil in Yugoslavia.”
This sounded interesting to Reed. He had been anxious for an assignment since his promotion. Even though he was in intelligence gathering, he had heard nothing of what the Lieutenant was talking about. He knew that Serbia was the largest part of Yugoslavia but he hadn’t yet heard of Milosevic. Recently, Reed had been monitoring the Sunni movements by the Iraqi-Kuwaiti border.
“Lieutenant, are you asking me to be your eyes and ears over there?” Reed looked up from the paperwork on the desk.
“I’m asking you to do a lot more than just that, Sergeant. It’s much more involved. The United States cannot be caught taking any military action in the Balkans this early in the game. It would ignite immediate civil unrest and worldwide backlash. The CIA claims their guys don’t have the survival training necessary for the assignment. This is a mission that even the United Nations won’t stamp with their approval. But if genocide is happening, we need that Intel. We cannot look the other way.
To carry out this assignment, you have to relinquish your military status. You have to be decommissioned, even before the planning starts. If you need time to think about it, I’ll understand and if you decline, well, I won’t hold it against you. I can’t order you to do this. The mission will be solely voluntary.”
Confused, Reed stood up and moved a little closer to the Lieutenant, who was leaning against the windowpane with his arms crossed.
“I don’t understand Lieutenant. I’ve never heard of anything like that. If something was to go bad, what kind of protection would I have, what kind of reinforcements would I get?”
“I understand your concern Sergeant.” The Lieutenant gazed out the window. “I’m unsure about it myself, but after today you can start calling me, Sam. I also agreed to be decomm’d. If you accept, you will be in charge of the mission, but I refused to make you carry all the weight on your own. As far as protection, the Commander has given me his word that we will have whatever we need. He said an account has been set up through a private donation that will cover all operational or medical expenses that we may accrue.”
Reed sat back down and positioned the stack of papers in front of him.
“May I?” he inquired.
“Go right ahead Reed. You might discover as I did, why this mission has value.”
Reed thumbed through the directives and studied the Intel, most of which was disturbing; villages raided, lives lost, people in masses being ordered from their homes, families displaced; all in the name of ethnic cleansing. Reed couldn’t help but compare it to the activities that lead to the Holocaust. But he was astounded that atrocities like these could be implemented in today’s world. He wondered how one man could possibly rise again to such power. In Reed’s attempt to remember his studies on the Holocaust, one cry came to mind, “Those who forget the past are bound to relive it.”
At the bottom of the stack was an envelope marked “Photos.” Reed opened it. The pictures were more bothersome than the report. It became real when he was able to unite faces with the suffering.
When the word, ‘People’ or ‘Masses’ is thrown at you, your mind subconsciously leaves out ‘children’. But now, Reed was forced to see them, some dead, some dirty, some hungry, crying, and some scared. Reed held back some emotion. He thought of his reasons for joining the Corp, convictions instilled in him when he was an eight-year-old boy; convictions that his family knew had defined him as a man. He could no longer sit still and ignore the individual struggles for life, the fear. . . . . . the faces.

Reed loosened his tie that seemed to gradually be getting tighter around the knot developing in his throat.
“What kind of team will I have Sir?”
The Lieutenant nodded with a modest grin of approval, “You’ll lead a five-man team. Three men from the Italian Rapid Deployment Corps have been selected. They were transferred from Milan, Italy last week: Sgt. Angelo Gotti, Pfc. Florentine Roccobono and Pfc. Marcielli Corleon. All three have been trained in Special Ops and undercover recon. They currently work in Slavic relations and have an impressive knowledge of the Serbo-Croat language. Commander Riatti has promised them to be his most qualified.
Also assigned to you will be, Otto Reinhardt, a Sgt.-in-arms with the German Bundeswehr Rearmament Unit. He is also trained in recon, crisis reaction and conflict prevention. He will be providing state-of-the-art equipment, tracking devices, wiretaps, night vision and other advanced German technologies, mostly because we want to minimize American equipment over there.
You will also be assigned a secondary auxiliary team that will be primarily Intel support. That team will consist of me, Marko Sava of Kosovo, an Albanian National and Kacak resistance fighter. He has recently gone underground to gather Intel on genocide; basically for the same reasons your team is going over there. He can share a lot of credible, firsthand Intel with you. He can get you things and give you contacts to other supporters, people that will take you in, help conceal your identity, give you a place to sleep and a place to do your work. Simon Weisenthal’s office has also agreed to work with us if we need them. Agent Goldfield has been assigned to you. You’ll find his number in the orders.
If you don’t know who Simon Weisenthal is, he’s also known as the “Nazi Hunter” He is credited for finding and bringing to justice over eleven hundred Nazi war criminals, including: Hitler’s second in command, Albert Speer, the “Angel of Auszwitz” Dr. Josef Mengle, and the Gestapo agent that arrested Anne Frank and her family. In order that communication is understood, I made sure that each of them speaks English. So you can see Sergeant, your team is highly trained and extremely credible and you have the resources for a successful mission.”
The Lieutenant put his hand on Reed’s shoulder and looked him in the eye, “I hope you know Reed, I selected you for this mission because you’re the best man I have. But most of all, I know your heart. I know your conviction will carry you through this one. Maybe it wasn’t right for me to play that card against you, but I wanted someone who would see the honor in the mission and hunger for its completion. I am fully confident in you. You’ve been under my command since you joined the Corp. I know what kind of training you’ve had and I know what you’re capable of. I wouldn’t trust anyone else with this responsibility.”
Reed hoped that confidence was showing in his demeanor now. “I won’t let you down Sir. I’m going to need two weeks to put this together and plan the operation. I’ll brief my team tonight.”
“Thank you Reed, you got the two weeks and whatever else you need. Here’s the contact number to Marko Sava. Give him a call tonight so you know what you’re up against. Let me know when you’re ready to enlist the expertise of the Wiesenthal Office. If I know the Italians well, you can find them in the sports stadium on the soccer field. They’re on their weekend. Otto Rhienhardt is on a ship in the Baltic. He’ll be reporting here tomorrow night. Report your advancements to me in forty-eight hours.”
“Yes Sir!”
Reed raised and lowered his hand in salute. Lieutenant Clay did the same; then he extended his hand to Reed.
“Oh yeah, before I forget,” The Lieutenant removed his commission card from his pocket and tossed it on the table in front of him. Hesitantly, Reed followed suit.


Chapter 11 – The Briefcase


Just outside of Tuzla, Bosnia-Herzegovina 1992

The truck sputtered over the loose, eroded dirt. Lazar had eaten too much, he knew, but didn’t foresee the problem it would pose until he got on the ride.
Lazar’s company was part of five thousand troops, enroot to Vukovar, Croatia. They were going to assist the Bosnian Serbs under the command of Radovan Karadzic. They were supposed to seize Vukovar. Both Serbia and Croatia were fighting over Bosnia and Herzegovina territories. The conflict first broke out in Vukovar when the Bosnian Serbs claimed to be discriminated against and suffered a mass loss of employment. The Bosnian Serbs requested that the National Army intervene. Lazar’s company was only asked to give three good weeks for an initial push into the city; then they could return to the Kosovo region.
Lazar sat in the back of the truck, studying the faces of his comrades; faces that had become so familiar to him. He thought it was unfortunate that they would only share one aspect of their lives together. He wondered what some of them would be like in another environment, like school, maybe. Take Cedomil Kosic, he seemed to be someone with no enemies, the guy that everyone loved, but not handsome or socially confident enough for a girl to ever like more than just a friend. He was one of those guys you just couldn’t greet without a slight grin on your face. It was a shame that the current environment wouldn’t abet his good will.
As Lazar spent more time with his men, little inklings of their personalities would seep through, but he couldn’t help but think that there was more to each of them; that they each had their own history, stories he would never hear. What Lazar did find a little unsettling was that their personalities began to grow dim as the fighting went on. Their love for life, their innocence, sense of humor and vitality were all slowly bleeding. Lazar wondered if those things could ever be repossessed.
After a report that Lazar had “lost it” in Visegrad and voiced his distaste for the operation in Slatina, he thought he might be subject to some sort of discipline. What he didn’t expect, was his promotion to Corporal. Lt. Nikola Obilic said combat experience goes a long way. So he was sent to a military counselor for his behavior, who said his feelings weren’t all that unusual considering he lost his father at a young age to the fighting. For the injuries he sustained during the air-strike on the Kosovo-Albania border, he was awarded the oldest military medal in history, the ‘Iron Cross’. It was a symbol of the German Teutonic Knights; one that was established by Friedrich Wilhelm III of Prussia and awarded for the first time in 1813.
Lazar wondered where he would be if he was still under the command of his first Lieutenant, Vuk Brankovich. He was someone Lazar could trust, and most importantly, he understood Lazar. He was someone who could distinguish right from wrong. When the Yugoslav Peoples Army became the Serbian People’s Army, the command staff was reorganized and Vuk was promoted and transferred to another battalion. Vuk tried his best to bring Lazar with him, but things didn’t work out. He said after a few months as a commander he would have the pull.
Three months had passed since the raid on Visegrad. Lazar made himself believe Milla had gotten word of the raid in plenty of time to evacuate. It was the only thought he would accept. He wished he could go back to a time where people weren’t forced to choose an identity, or a nationality, where it didn’t matter if you were a Serb, a Croat, a Muslim, a Jew, a Gypsy or a Pole, like Mr. Nowak. He wished he could go back to a time where you were permitted to act simply as a human being. Since Visegrad, Lazar’s unit raided another small town just outside of Pristina called Slatina. The massacre there was equally as brutal. They were told that the town was a stronghold for resistance and a training ground for organized ambushes. The only report Lazar even heard out of Slatina was that a human shield, consisting of Croat and Muslim civilians, stood in front of an armored Serb column on its way to Vukovar. The armored column opened fire on them.
When they arrived in Slatina, they weren’t met with any resistance, in fact, Lazar was bewildered that there was no organization at all. The Albanians simply tried to defend themselves once they realized what was happening. Nikola stood by his orders to engage the enemy and take no prisoners. He then feigned ignorance and told the men he would investigate and find out why their Intel was bad. What he did next was even more disturbing; he explained that this incident would defame Milosevic’s good intent and it was necessary to mask the operation. Nikola then ordered in a truckload of arms, munitions and explosives and planted them in homes throughout the town. They spent the next day and a half burying the bodies. Nikola faced trial in a military court, but had been found innocent, vindicated from the death of two hundred noncombatant civilians.
Their faces were filthy with blood and dirt. Their bodies were lifeless and Jell-O-like and the smells were indescribable. Pretending it wasn’t really happening, that the bodies were just dummies, only worked until Lazar’s shovel full of dirt landed over a child’s face. Then, nothing could protect him. He buried four children that day and laid shovel in with the last one. He told Nikola he would clean bathrooms for the rest of his life, but he would never bury another child. Nikola just laughed as he motioned Lazar away with the flick of his wrist.
When Lazar joined the Yugoslav People’s Army, he felt that he was doing a good thing. He even thought Milosevic was a good president with a vision for Serbia. But over the last three months, he felt his core beginning to rot. His convictions were buried in Slatina and he wasn’t sure how long he could stay afloat in the blood of the innocent. It was everything Mr. Nowak tried to warn him of. Mr. Nowak had no clue what was happening now. Lazar doubted he would ever tell him. How did he become so quickly entrenched?
In the military you don’t have time to think for yourself. There is no vacancy for choices or decisions. You are only reacting in a moment or doing what you are told. But then Lazar wondered why he was left all alone to bear the guilt. If these were not his choices, Lazar thought to himself, why did he feel so guilty? This wasn’t the life he chose. Oh, what he would give to be making a move on that chess table right now. He imagined himself leaning over the broomstick, analyzing the table for his next move. It would be a simple move, like advancing a pawn, just to buy himself more time. Lazar wished he could slow things down a little. He wished he had time to organize his life before the rest of the seams unraveled. He wanted to get off this fast, disparaging train. He wanted to find Milla.
Just as Lazar was prepared to decorate the side of the truck with his lunch, they hit asphalt and the ride began to steady. Lazar could see old farmhouses in the distance accompanied by old mills made of stone. The dawn was barely breaking, but a herd of sheep moved slowly in the field to graze. He saw a creek that crawled around the farmhouses and headed off into the distant town of Tuzla. This part of the trek seemed to be more pleasant.
Lazar rested his head against the side of the truck in hope to relax. It was then that he spotted a new soldier in their unit. He was across from Lazar and all the way against the cab. Lazar wondered why he wasn’t told of his report or even introduced to him. He was the first addition in four months. He didn’t look like the new, ready-for-battle recruit. He looked as though his mind were somewhere else, not necessarily at home but on greater things. He wasn’t as muscular as Lazar, but he was taller. He had more of a stringy runner’s build. He had fair skin, but like Lazar, his eyes were bright blue. He had dark brown hair that was perfectly in place. He even had sideburns that were cut perfectly straight at the bottom of his earlobes. That was odd, Lazar thought. It would only be a matter of time before a Sergeant would see them and make him shave them off. His nose was straight, but rounded like a marble at the tip. Lazar saw that he had the crest of Montenegro on his shoulder. Serbia and Montenegro had combined forces after the break-up of Yugoslavia. What caught Lazar’s attention was that he seemed organized, not you typical soldier. He carried a briefcase and occasionally thumbed through the papers inside.
He’s a private. Lazar thought. He couldn’t possibly be that important.
Lazar leaned forward a little to read his nametag; R. Gavrillo. The name sounded so familiar to Lazar but he couldn’t place it. Was he from his first unit? He was curious.

************

Radenko noticed the Corporal’s curiosity and closed his briefcase. He looked over at Lazar and gave a nod.
“The color is back in your face Corporal, you must be feeling better.”
“You’re very observant.” Lazar was impressed. He didn’t think anyone noticed.
“I think I’ll be fine. It’s nothing that can’t be cured by fresh air and good company.” assured Lazar.
Radenko gave another nod and a grin. He made his way up the isle, using the truck railing for balance and sat across from Lazar.
“Private First Class, Radenko Gavrillo, Sir.” Radenko extended his hand.
Lazar noticed a little sarcasm as he belted “Private First Class.” Lazar returned a hand and fired back with,
“Corporal Katich, You can call me Lazar.”
Radenko wondered if the Corporal knew who he was. He wasn’t sure what kind of talk had gone around before he got there. After all, this was the unit that he defended after the Slatina incident.
Lazar was about to inquire as to why Radenko looked so familiar when their convoy came to a stop just around a bend. Lazar and Radenko were in the second truck. They heard commotion coming from the first truck. Suddenly, a command was given to turn around and a lot a yelling was heard. What was happening, questioned Lazar. Cautiously, he stood up and looked over the truck cab. . . . . . . . He saw a tank and small artillery in the middle of the road. There were about three hundred men blocking passage dressed in camouflage and wearing black handkerchiefs over their faces – The Croatian Paramilitary Force, the HOS. Just then, the tank hopped backward as a round was fired at the first truck.
“Get down!” yelled Lazar.
The truck was transformed into a magnificent fireball with projectiles. Then a wave of small arms fire collided with the convoy. Lazar could feel the heat from the truck in front of them. He saw men running past them in hysteria as they were trying to put out their own flames. Then he saw their own driver leap from the cab. Lazar reached for his rifle as his unit began to scramble out of the truck. He grabbed the back of Radenko’s jacket and motioned him to jump over the edge. Because of the traffic jam, the driver wasn’t able to back out. Suddenly the truck began to lift off the ground as the tank fired another round; this time into their truck. A prolific sense of pressure strangled them. Everything went black. Lazar felt cold and then he was out.
Radenko was injected with pain. It surged through his whole body. Everything seemed to be quiet except for a suppressed ringing sound. As hard as he tried to focus, his vision just got blurrier, but he did recognize the yellow and orange flames erupting from the trucks. He was on the side of the road in a ditch. He was nearly twenty feet from the blast. Radenko still held fast to his rifle, but began to panic when he lost site of his briefcase.
His next instinct was to reach into his coat pocket where he kept the picture of Mary and Baby Jesus. Radenko felt comfort when he found it. He lifted himself to his feet. He felt tremendous pressure pulsating in his head. He knew he had, at least, suffered a concussion. Men from his unit were scrambling past him, away from the blast.
“Get to the back of the convoy.” They were shouting.
Radenko saw the Croatians walking toward them, firing their weapons into the chaos and flames. Radenko raised his AK-47 and headed back toward the blast, offering a small degree of resistance to the Croatians. He had to find his briefcase. If the documents inside fell into the wrong hands the consequences would be disastrous.
The trucks themselves provided a little cover, and he was able to close the gap fairly quick. He began searching frantically for the case. It was nowhere in site. All of Radenko’s comrades who were still alive had already evacuated the area.
The ground shifted as another wave of pressure lifted Radenko off his feet and slammed him back to the ground. Shrapnel and debris littered the sky. This time Radenko couldn’t hear anything, not even the ringing sound he heard before. The heat from the blast was getting to him and confusion was setting in. The percussion was almost more than he could stand.
Radenko detached a grenade from his jacket, pulled the pin and lobbed it into the road in front of the Croatians. He hoped this would buy him a little more time. He no longer had control of his rifle. He unholstered his CZ 9mm pistol and began kicking around the debris that surrounded the blast. He moved toward the channel between the two trucks.
Radenko wasn’t prepared for what he saw: a vile display of fallen comrades. He doubted any of them survived the first blast. The vision of lifeless bodies warned him to retreat, lest he be numbered amongst them. Resolutely, Radenko accepted the idea that he would not find the case and bullets were ricocheting into the trucks. He would now have to rely on his last two companions to get him out of there alive: Adrenaline and Fear.
Just as Radenko was prepared to make an about-face, he looked down and noticed whom he was standing over. The nametag read; L. Katich. “The Corporal,” Radenko announced out loud.
The Corporal was still breathing. Radenko wasn’t sure if he could do it, but he had to get him out of there. He grabbed Lazar’s right arm and hoisted him over his shoulder. Only then did Radenko begin to feel the damage in his neck and left shoulder. But it didn’t matter, in a few moments they would both be dead. He detached his last grenade and threw it as he left the cover of the truck. He wasn’t sure if the grenade reached a safe distance but he began running as fast as his body would allow. Radenko was surprised by his strength and was actually moving at a good speed. As he approached the ditch where he had initially landed, he almost stopped in his tracks. He couldn’t believe what he saw; his briefcase, only about five feet from where he had landed. He must have held on to it during the first blast. The ironic thing was; he couldn’t pick it up now. He would have to drop the Corporal. He knew he was risking his life by carrying him out of this mess.
So many things were going through Radenko’s mind. He didn’t know Lazar that well, but he told himself he was probably a good man and might do some good someday. With that, he said goodbye to his briefcase and all that it contained.
Radenko couldn’t hear gunfire but he saw puffs of dirt all around them as the bullets were burrowing in. He turned around and began firing his pistol as he walked backward. When his magazine was empty, Radenko turned back and began to pick up the pace. Soon they would be back with the rest of the convoy where they were setting up for a duel of more parity. A thought went through Radenko’s head. When Petrovich met him at the train station before he left Montenegro, he made a statement to Petrovich, “I’m a Lawyer, not a combat soldier.” How crazy that must sound now. Radenko mumbled to himself.

************

Lazar opened his eyes. He vomited and watched it splash on the ground. Was he still on that bumpy road, he wondered? He felt pressure on his stomach and then he began to make out what looked like the back of a man’s legs as they were moving swiftly. Then he heard heavy breathing, and gunfire . . . . . . . . . and then, he was out again.


Chapter 12 – The Italians


Mons, Belgium 1992

Marcielli had only been in Belgium for five days and he was already missing the ‘Beauty of Milan’. She was all he could think about. They were married in Duomo; Marianna in her Grandmother’s dress and Marcielli in a Giorgio Armani knock-off tuxedo, with Florentine by his side and half of the Italian National team behind them. The team respected Marcielli’s decision to serve his country before playing for his country. Some of the team members chipped in and sent the two on a fourteen-day Mediterranean cruise for their honeymoon.
As it turned out, Dominico and Rianna couldn’t attend the wedding. Rianna was heartbroken and inconsolable. It was Marcielli’s decision for them not to come for their own safety. Rianna made them promise to spend a couple days in Tivoli before they left on their honeymoon. The good news was, the two men in black didn’t make it either and Marianna was relieved at that. She credited their absence to the plethora of military personnel at the wedding. Both Marcielli and Marianna claimed the day to be the best of their lives. Marianna is every bit of the wife Marcielli imagined her to be and she seemed to get more beautiful every day they spent together. Because they lived on the base, this was the first time they had been apart. The mission was said to last as long as two months.
Florentine dropped a bag of soccer balls next to Marcielli. “You talked me into this so I get home-court advantage.”
Florentine laughed, knowing that all three of them were far from home. Marcielli tied his cleats and pulled up his socks so his knees rested just above the stripes.
“Hey just bust your butt out there so I can get back to Milan faster.”
Marcielli thought of how Florentine had been such a good friend over the years. Florentine didn’t make the National team. His sacrifice was for Marcielli, by devoting a couple years of his life to join the military with him. Marcielli felt he owed him for his loyalty.
“You mean to tell me that the Bells don’t play soccer. How is it that we got the whole soccer field to ourselves?” Angelo zipped his windbreaker all the way to his chin to block the snow and cold air.
Sgt. Angelo Gotti was a bit too stocky to be a great soccer ball player. But he loved the sport and he was taking advantage of the fact he could learn from a National player like Marcielli. “Let’s play ball. That’s an order!” he would say.
Marcielli didn’t mind following orders, especially those kinds.
“Sarge, I’ve seen the Bells play. They’re just not fanatics like us, who play in the freezing cold weather.” Florentine added, as he popped a soccer ball up with the tip of his shoe and then bounced it off of his knee.
“Any word on when we’re shipping out Sarge?” Marcielli removed a ball from the bag and kicked it up to Angelo who was already heading out into the field.
“I’m not in charge of this mission Marcielli. I’m still waiting for the orders. I imagine once we’re briefed, we’ll spend about a week in planning. Because of the work we’ve done with the Croatians and our Intel studies of the Balkan region, you can bet that we’re probably going down there. There are rumors of more conflict and disorder in Kosovo.”
The cold didn’t bother Marcielli. Every year before the regular season his college would spend time in Warsaw, Poland at a soccer camp. An athlete who trained in the cold and higher altitude could dominate in any environment.
Marcielli noticed a man sitting in the bleachers at the far end of the field. He had been there the whole time. Marcielli thought about asking him to join them, but he was dressed in full uniform, an American uniform. Then Marcielli wondered why he was there. Americans aren’t really soccer fans.

************

Reed watched the Italians as they played. They were exactly where Sam said they would be, “On the field”. Eventually he was going to introduce himself. But for now, he just wanted to watch them play. He wasn’t much of a soccer fan, but these guys seemed really good.
Reed pulled a letter from his jacket. It was from Lindsey. He had already read it three times. Regardless, he began reading it again.

“Dear Mr. Sergeant, (Reed always appreciated Lindsey’s humor)

Eight months down, how about that? I wish I could say it’s gone by fast, but the truth is, time seems to just stand still without you by my side Reed. I’m trying to keep myself busy to help pass time. I enrolled in school and I’m still working at my Dad’s office. Between the two, I’ve managed to have no social life whatsoever. With my best friend / love of my life halfway across the world, it’s the way I prefer it. When I’m feeling lonely, I just stop by your house for a quick ‘Reed fix’. I adore your family. When I’m around them, it almost feels like you’re home. Last Sunday your mom invited me over for Sunday dinner; pot roast and mashed potatoes, your favorite! Sorry to rub it in. Your mom promised to give me cooking lessons while you’re gone. By the time you get home I’ll be a regular Betty Crocker.
Everyone is doing great. Reddin can’t keep the girls away, but he doesn’t seem to mind that challenge. Gracie is as beautiful as ever and is the proud new owner of my pink and purple Buick Skylark. I sold it to her last month. Your parents are as eager as I am to have you home safe. I am trying so hard to be strong and not think of the ‘what ifs’. At times, I let my mind get the better of me and I start to think of what could happen in such circumstances. I pray every minute of every hour that you’ll come back to me Reed. When you do, I never want to be away from you, not ever. I love you more than my heart can take. Without you, I am not whole. May god be with you till we meet again. I love you.


- Love Lindsey

Reed could almost see the look on her face as she wrote the letter. He missed that, the look, her voice, the way she felt when he wrapped his arms around her. It sounds like she’s doing well, Reed thought, surviving.
At first, time seemed to pass quickly because of the newness of it all and the amount of training he had gone through. But recently, time began to thicken, which gave Reed a lot of time to think about Lindsey. For the most part, he was happy to go on this mission. It would account for a small block of his tour. It would hasten his return to Lindsey.
Reed folded up the letter and tucked it away. He saw the Italians taking a break, sitting in the middle of the field. He thought this would be a good time to introduce himself to his men. Not to mention, he didn’t think he could stand the cold much longer. As he approached, one of them stood up and met him halfway.
Angelo gave a sort of tired salute and then extended his hand, “Good afternoon Sir! Sergente Angelo Gotti. What can we do for you?”
The Sergeant spoke with an accent but his English was fairly decent, Reed thought.
“I was just admiring your skills.”
Angelo laughed.
“Sgt. Reed Beckly, United States Marine Core, 3rd Regiment.” Reed saluted and gave a hand in return.
Angelo motioned Marcielli and Florentine over. “Something tells me you know why we’re here.” Angelo probed.
Reed put on a confused look, “Actually Sarge, I have no idea what must have possessed the three of you to practice in this weather. In my country we make snow angels and drink hot chocolate on days like this.”
Smiling, Angelo declared, “An Italian must excel in three things; eating, singing and soccer, and in that exact order. Nothing else really matters.”
“Well, I can hold my own at the dinner table.” bragged Reed.
“That’s a start I guess. I’d like you to meet Private Florentine Roccobono and Private Marcielli Corleon, my comrades, my team mates, my tenors and well, my very best men.”
Both Marcielli and Florentine saluted Reed. Respectfully, Reed did the same.
Reed spent a moment testing each of their English. He was truly impressed. He didn’t think he would run into any roadblocks as far as communication went. He could deal with the accents. Reed saw the wedding ring on Marcielli’s finger.
“What’s her name?”
Marcielli saw Reed looking at his ring. “I call her ‘Belleze De Milano’ and sometimes I just call her ‘Bella Bambina’, but everyone else calls her Marianna. Are you married Sir?”
“Just call me Reed.” Reed decided that he would wait to explain that. “No. I’m not married, but I do have what you call a ‘Bella Bambina’ at home.”
Both Marcielli and Florentine were built like the soccer players Reed had seen on TV. Their upper bodies were of medium build, but their legs were large and muscular. Florentine was a good six inches taller than Marcielli and thinner. His ears were his most defined features. Marcielli’s, was his Don Juan charm, a magazine page come to life, from his dreamy hair, to his beguiling brown eyes, full lips and chiseled jaw-line. It was Angelo who didn’t fit in. He was older, balding and too squatty to be a soccer player.
Reed looked at Angelo, “Well, you’re right. I do know why you’re here. We’ll be spending a little time together in the upcoming weeks. But first I want to know if I can take you all to dinner tomorrow night? I’ve been here long enough to discover the true taste of Belgium.”
“I must put my foot down, Reed. You’re not really the type of person I’d consider dating.” Everyone laughed. Florentine always had a way of finding the opportune moment. “I’m sorry. You left the door wide open.” cautioned Florentine.
“Then I too must put my foot down,” Angelo chipped in, “He’s talking about free food. I hope you understand Flo, my love for food outweighs any dating or gender issues you might have. What time Reed?” Angelo blew hot air into his hands and rubbed them together.
“Let’s start early. We’ll eat and then we’ll talk. I am still waiting to meet Otto Rheinhardt. He’ll be coming with us. He’s on a ship in the Baltic, but he’ll be reporting here tomorrow at 1500 hrs. I’ll pick you up in the Italian Wing in front of your barracks at 1700 hrs.”

When Reed returned to his quarters, he sat down at the table where he had the operation orders laid out. He began going over them again, the Intel, the maps. He even studied the photos again. Reed really did feel that the cause was worthy. And in a strange way, he felt as though the people in the photos were calling to him, even those who were deceased seemed to be calling out to help their loved ones who were still suffering.
That night, Reed asked God for the courage to seek them out, courage to see the mission through and courage to lead his men. He thought of the ring on Marcielli’s finger. It had been bothering him. He knew he was dedicated enough to make it back to Lindsey and his family, but he didn’t know the determination of these men. He only knew he was responsible for their safety, for their safe return to their loved ones. It was a task he wasn’t sure he was prepared for. He hadn’t let that reality surface so early in the game. He promised himself however, that he would embrace the responsibility.
As Reed lay in bed, he thought of Reddin. UCLA was going to be playing UNC tomorrow. It was Reddin’s first game as starting quarterback. How exciting, Reed thought. He would have loved to be there. He knew the family would be planning a huge barbeque before the game. He even thought that Lindsey might be there. What a memory it would be for the family. What a day for him to miss. Reed never felt so far away, but he was proud of his little brother. He faded off to sleep as he thought of football and tried to play out the first quarter in his head.


Chapter 13 – Devos, on Rue de la Coupe Street


Mons, Belgium 1992

“East Berlin, born and raised. I have four brothers and two sisters. My father was a Corporal in the Wermacht during WWII and retired as a machinist in a Volks Wagon factory. My mother was an old-fashioned Arian women, hard to please and easy to upset. She gave birth to me at forty-three years old. She was bitter about the war and bitter that she’d been left all alone to raise the children and work the farm. Her calloused hands won her the responsibility of wearing the pants in the family. But Reed, I must also tell you, I never missed a meal and I was tucked in every night. She will always have my respect for that.”
Otto Reinhardt was a man of good stature with obvious, rounded muscles. He was definitely the largest of Reed’s crew. He had a perfectly round head, which would explain his desire to keep such a close shaven hairdo. The stubble he did have was ash-blond. His large brow muscles cast a shadow over his eyes. They were a faded blue, weathered and cold from years of weighty Soviet inhibition. He had a square jaw and a vertical scar through both of his lips. He looked like your typical breed soldier. Reed noticed that Otto was a bit older than the rest of the guys. He had been in the Bundeswehr for fifteen years. He joined when he was eighteen years old. Reed already liked him. He seemed to have no other engagements, no distractions. He was a mule to the Army.
“Well Otto, you definitely seem like the right man for the job, raised on hard-nosed discipline and work. If we get caught between a rock and a hard place, you can be the bulldozer.”
Reed reached to open the car door for Otto. “Shotgun’s all yours,” He said.
“I understand getting upset with a mixed up meal order, but why bring a shotgun to dinner?” inquired Otto.
Reed laughed, “It’s only a figure of speech. It means you can have the front seat.”
“English is hard enough. You’re going to confuse me,” warned Otto.
When the Italians climbed on board, Reed introduced them to Otto. No one was in uniform. That was Reed’s request.
“Reed, this doesn’t look like standard NATO transportation,” claimed Marcielli.
“It’s a Chevy, an American thoroughbred!” Reed explained as he placed his hand over his heart.
Sam was able to get Reed one of the new Chevy Suburbans that the Officers drove. It was unmarked, more reliable and most importantly, quieter, as opposed to the NATO vans that you could identify before actually seeing them.
“I’m just happy to lose those blue helmets,” added Florentine as he ran his fingers through his hair. “By the way, where is your hair, Otto?”
Otto rebuttled with, “In my country, hair is for civilians. But I am also glad to lose my blue helmet.”
All the men seemed to share the same views about their assignment to NATO as Reed did; NATO was useless.
They headed off into the older part of Mons where the menus and personalities were more authentic. Reed wondered if he would ever get used to driving these narrow, cobblestone streets, swarming with pedestrians. He was still fascinated that he would occasionally have to share the roadway with a horse drawn trailer.
They arrived at Devos on Rue de la Coupe street. Devos was nestled into the town square and was a place that dignitaries and celebrities would often come to eat because of its well rooted traditions. It was where Reed’s unit had celebrated Sam’s 55th birthday. The menu was a little more expensive but Reed was no longer on his own dime. The private donation that the Sam had spoken of was in. Reed had never seen so much money in one bank account. He was even promised more would be available upon request.
The waiter translated the menu from French into English. This was uniquely funny, Reed thought, an American, a German and three Italians eating together at a Belgian restaurant.
“Order what you want guys, money’s not an issue. I only ask that you exercise abstinence of beer and wine. I don’t need any disruption of thought, or character this evening. Tonight we will start to pull our expertise together. Your alcohol suspension will end when the mission is complete.”
“But Reed,” Otto interrupted, “My body doesn’t agree with water. Beer is all it knows. My thought may be disrupted if I have to go without.”
Florentine added, “He is a German you know.”
Reed realized that he was challenging Otto’s culture and upbringing, but at the same time, what a better opportunity to test the men’s restraint and discipline.
“I already thought of that, Otto. That’s why I’m promising you all the bread you can eat. With all the barley and yeast, your body shouldn’t suffer withdrawals.” Everyone laughed.
The table was littered with food; Croque Madame, Belgian Meatballs and Belgian Mussels, Brussels Sprouts in Vinaigrette, Hutsepot Soep(a traditional winter soup), Tarte Au Fromage( a famous Bruxelles pie), and Belgian Tea Cakes.
Reed took a moment to enjoy the company of his new team, together. He just wanted to observe for a while, listen to them. He was curious how they would unify despite their different backgrounds. Chemistry, thought Reed, was a must for this mission. It took the Italians a little longer than expected, but after everyone had their fill, Reed asked the waiter to clear the table.
Reed glanced at each of the men around the table, “Six months ago, I was in California, at Disneyland without a care in the world, except leaving those I loved. Now I am here, with fine soldiers, at this table. I think it is a unique experience for us to work together like this. We are drawn together from different parts of the globe. We have left our families and our homelands to solve the world’s problems. We believe our actions are noble. We are trained to fight and sometimes we are asked to shed blood. And by the grace of God, we live into the next day.” Reed posed the question, “What compels a man to this lifestyle?”
A moment went by. No one seemed to have the answer. “I’m not a man of colorful words Reed, but give me an order and I’ll carry it out.” Reed expected Otto to say something like that. It was the type of person he was, perhaps even the definition of his life. But Reed was looking for something less regiment.
Reed squeezed Otto’s shoulder, “I appreciate that Otto, but interestingly enough, I won’t be giving you any orders, only asking for your cooperation. I’m asking for your dedication. I’m asking you to lay your values out in front of me. The very reasoning that causes you to choose right over wrong at the exact moment the choice is presented. I want to hear the small, but resonating voice inside you that says, “Help that person”. Guys, I want you to introduce me to the man in the soldier.”
Reed’s monologue injected a new mood at the table. Marcielli hesitated, “Reed, in America, it’s an honorable thing to fight for your country, I know. The honor, the nobility, it drives your passion. I know you’re looking for conviction, but for me, it wasn’t my first choice to join. And recently, my decisions have removed me from the things I love the most; Marianna and soccer. But I am here today and I am willing to accept your conviction, if you’re willing to lend it.”
Then Angelo spoke up, “Excuse me, but what he means Reed, is we are with you. Go ahead and sell us the bill of goods, the way it was sold to you. The reasons we are here have been influenced by American idealism. That much we know and we understand what might be at stake. But I am a good friend to Florentine and Marcielli and I have won their trust. If I ask something of them, they respond, because it is important to me. It’s called loyalty. In Italy, it means everything. You’re a good man Reed. I can tell. I only suggest that you fish with a hook of loyalty rather than nobility.”
“I appreciate that Angelo, I can see why they trust you,” admitted Reed.
The truth was, Reed got exactly what he wanted out of the evening, the softening of barriers and the strengthening of character. He felt that he knew the make-up and moral fiber of his team. With that, he had direction. He never questioned their abilities. He knew it was their exceptional training and abilities that landed them in this predicament in the first place. Reed couldn’t expect them to think like an American. Americans were never like the rest. Growing up in the “Land of the Free” and the “Home of the Brave” would always mean something to Reed. He did feel honor in serving. He was proud to be one the best, most tempered, and highly trained soldiers in the world. Reed had a moment to himself, one that he could not share with the others. He let Lee Greenwoods, “God Bless the U.S.A.” play out in his head. For now, winning the team’s loyalty would suit just fine.
Reed placed his bag on the table and removed the operation orders. The team reviewed them and exchanged dialogue, each offering their own opinions and ideas. The Italians didn’t seem to be taken back much by the Intel. As a matter of fact, it was one area of their expertise. They had previously uncovered similar details from working so closely with the Croatians, who were also subject to a certain degree of affliction due to sharing a border with Serbia.
“Reed, you must know that these countries, the Balkans have been fighting for centuries,” Marcielli explained. “In the late 1940’s, the role was reversed. The Croats were committing atrocities and it was the Serbs who suffered discrimination and genocide. And centuries before that, it was the Muslims dealing the blows to both the Croats and the Serbs. It’s the only life they know.”
Reed fumbled through the photos, “Marcielli, you asked to borrow my convictions and I will gladly lend them to you. My convictions lie here.”
Reed handed over a picture of a small girl. She was standing in the rubble of a bombed out building. She had ash on herself and on her clothing and was holding tightly to a baby doll with a broken face. She looked frightened and displaced.
“Do you think that war is the only life she knows? I don’t think she understands war Marcielli. I think she wants her mother. I think she wants a new home. I think she wants a bath. Marcielli, I think she wants a new doll. In my country, these things are easy to get. They are taken for granted. Why can’t she have these things? Why? I think she should have them. I don’t know where we were when the Serbs were suffering genocide in the 1940’s, but I know of another group of people, approx. six million, that suffered genocide and loss of loved ones, the Jews. And I bet it felt darn good to be one of the soldiers that liberated what was left of them; to be someone’s hero. We live here and now Marcielli. We can be someone’s hero today. We can liberate that little girl. For the price of the meal we just ate, we could buy her a new doll, maybe even a new home. We could restore the life that is important to them, the simple things. I promise you Marcielli, it could be the most exhilarating thing you’ve ever done.”
Reed didn’t care if he was sounding too noble again. It was how he really felt. He hoped that the others knew that he wasn’t only talking to Marcielli. Marcielli just seemed to ask the right question. And now the team was clear on the nature of Reed’s moral fiber.
Marcielli never took his eyes off of the photo he was holding.
“The Americans have that way about them, don’t they?” proclaimed Angelo. “We could all use a little of that.”
Florentine felt that he needed to be included in the exchange, “I hear you Reed and I’m with you. But I was just wondering, it’s been over an hour since I ate last and we haven’t gotten our bill yet, can I order some more dessert?”
Otto laughed out loud, “Yeah, the lack of beer is getting to me. I’ll have another loaf of bread.”
Now everyone was laughing. Reed knew that Otto wasn’t used to this kind of talk, but he was appreciative that he was able to sit through it. Everyone enjoyed another round of desert and then they called it an evening. On the way back to the base Reed presented the idea of giving up military status. He was surprised at what little resistance he got. Everyone thought it to be somewhat adventurous. And none seemed to want to fall victim to another one of Reed’s powerful displays of persuasion.
When they arrived at the Italian wing, Reed thanked everyone for their participation.
“Tonight, my goal was to get to know each of you and help you get to know each other. I presented you with the OP orders and now you know why we’re here and what we’re doing. Now, over the next couple of weeks we’re going to be entrenched in a combination of intense, detailed planning and exquisite dinning. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Marcielli made eye contact with Reed as he was exiting the Suburban, “Thanks Reed.”
“I’ll make you another promise, Marcielli. You get me back to my Lindsey and I’ll get you back to your Marianna. We have a lot more in common than you think.”
Marcielli stretched forth his hand, “You’ve got a deal, Reed.”


Chapter 14 – At Creek’s Edge


Tuzla, Bosnia-Herzegovina 1992

Lazar knew he was dreaming. But he struggled to wake. He just had to open his eyes. He was uncomfortable. The bright light above, the loud noises, the inability to move was annoying him. Faces flashed in his mind; first his mother, then Dejana, Mr. Nowak and then Milla. He heard screams and saw people running. Finally, he saw Private Gavrillo’s face, the truck, the tank, flames. His body tensed as it wrestled his mind. Then . . . . .he heard a voice.
“Hey Doc, the Corporal’s waking up!” Radenko walked over to the cot Lazar was lying on.
Lazar opened his eyes. The urgency he was feeling dissipated. He reached up and pushed aside the bright lamp overhead. He started to see things clearer now. He was in a medical tent. Private Gavrillo was standing over him.
“Hey Private, I feel like I got hit by a train.” Lazar rubbed his forehead.
“No. Nothing like that! Just a tank, you were hit by a tank.” Radenko said with a facetious, but sympathetic grin.
Before Lazar could return the humor he looked over his body to make sure all the important parts were still there. Once he was convinced he was okay, he joined the conversation with the same looseness as Radenko.
“Well, I was just getting ready to throw my best combo, but I think I was blind-sided.”
Radenko played into it, “It was a cheap shot, Corporal. And the Ref was nowhere in sight.”
Lazar chuckled a little, but he was cut short by a sharp pain in his side.
The Doctor pushed aside the tent flap, “Take it easy, Corporal. You don’t want to rupture anything that still happens to be intact. We don’t have the medical supplies. We weren’t expecting this one. The Croats were supposed to be one hundred and twenty kilometers from here.”
The Doctor reached for a box of medical instruments next to Lazar’s cot and then headed back out of the tent.
“Leaving so soon Doc?” inquired Lazar.
“No offense Corporal, but it would have been easier for us if the Private left you exactly where he found you. He carried you here. Now he can baby sit you. I’m dealing with soldiers with missing limbs and burns over ninety percent of their bodies.”
Lazar was quite for a moment. He suddenly felt awkward in front of Radenko. And then another moment went by and he felt grateful. He looked over at the Private and nodded his head.
“You would have done the same for me, Corporal.” confirmed Radenko.
“Yeah,” was all Lazar could muster.
“I guess I owe you a ‘Thank you.’”
Radenko admitted, “Actually, I was looking for something else when I came across your body. You had such a sorry look on your face that I couldn’t leave you behind. But you do owe me something.”
Lazar looked curious.
“A new pair of pants,” Radenko stood and turned around. “Whatever you had for lunch, it’s right here, all over the back of my pants and my boots. The boots should clean up okay, but the pants have to go. The smell is just starting to get to me.”
Lazar laughed and it hurt. “Veal soup with Serbian potatoes and cabbage,” he admitted.
It was easier for Lazar to cope with the lighter side of things. How could you possibly thank someone for saving your life, he wondered? Not only was he thankful Radenko saved his life, he was thankful he made it easy for him to accept. He made it seem like no big deal. Lazar recalled a time when he didn’t want to go on living, a time when he was willing to take his own life. And now here he was, thankful that it had been preserved. One intervention he owed to God and the other, he owed to the Private First Class, standing next to him. Lazar looked up and Radenko nodded again.
“Private,” Lazar tried to sit up a little, “If you don’t mind me asking, what were you looking for out there?”
“I’m still not used to that title. Please, call me Radenko.What was I looking for?” Radenko repeated the question. “My briefcase,” He admitted hesitantly.
“Oh yeah, the briefcase, I was wondering about that. What could have possibly been so important that you risked your life for it? What was in it?”
Radenko wasn’t sure he wanted to explain. He thought he could trust Lazar, even felt a certain bond with him, but he didn’t know where Lazar stood politically. He didn’t know how he felt about the recent conquests of the Vojsko Srbije.
“Just some notes, some of my thoughts I guess you could say.”
Lazar knew there was more to it, but he respected Radenko enough to postpone the interrogation.
Lazar changed the subject. “Then tell me this, where have I heard the name, Gavrillo? It sounds so familiar.”
“One of two places, or both,” explained Radenko. “General Marshal Gavrillo, that’s my dad.”
“I can’t believe I didn’t put two and two together. General Gavrillo of Montenegro, the last commanding officer from Tito’s cabinet. I should have known.” admitted Lazar.
Radenko was impressed that the Corporal knew this.
“You also might know my name because of the Slatina trials. I defended Nikola from the crimes charged by the Albanian parliament.”
Lazar was astonished. “Lieutenant Nikola Obilic, our Lieutenant. What do you mean?”
“I’m a lawyer, Lazar. I went to law school in Pristina. I’m not supposed to be in the infantry. It just turns out this is where I ended up. And just in time to save your butt.” Radenko laughed.
Lazar was still trying to soak in the totality of what Radenko was saying. “Radenko, I shouldn’t be telling you this, but I was hoping Nikola would pay the price for that one. Pay for what he made us do. I never felt right about it. It’s not why I joined the Yugoslavs People’s Army.”
Radenko felt that he knew now where Lazar stood on the political scale just by the way he used the title, Yugoslavs People’s Army as opposed to the new Serbian People’s Army. This somewhat persuaded Radenko that he could share his views with him. Maybe in time, he would.
“Radenko, you did well that night. You did your job and you won. You got him off. I remember the night when the brass celebrated at the restaurant. Some of them were hung over for days. Nikola was one of them. That day, I felt I had lost an inner struggle.”
“I was with them Lazar, the night they celebrated. I left early. Let’s just say it has something to do with why I’m in the infantry now and not practicing law.”
“I don’t understand.” said Lazar, “You won the case for them. Why would they do this to you?”
“The trial seemed predetermined. I don’t think it would have mattered who defended Nikola, or General Pec. Alcohol talks Lazar, and some things were said at Pjata that caused me to ask some tough questions of myself. Not about what I was doing, but who I was doing it for. I still believe in truth and justice, Lazar. I really do.” Radenko paused, “You said that you lost an inner struggle that day. Well that day, I discovered what my inner struggle really was. My conscience got the best of me. And at the end of the evening, I was no longer welcome at the celebration. Why do you think I’m in Nikola’s unit? So they can watch me and make sure I don’t make any more friends in high places.”
“It’s not right what they did to you, Radenko. It proves that they are even more rotten than they let on. I know your father. By the way he was brought up he would have something to say about all this. Why is he allowing them to do this to you?”
Radenko walked over to the tent flaps and gazed outside. “He doesn’t know. I don’t want to cause strife among the Generals. Some of them are already waiting for him to retire so they can assume his control over Montenegro. And I can’t run to him every time things get hard. I know he could have me transferred out of here, but I think I should move through life on my own merit, Corporal.”
“I’ll tell you one thing,” Lazar sat up in his cot with his feet touching the ground. “If you hadn’t followed your conscience that night, I wouldn’t be here now.”
Lazar explained, “I wanted to defend Serbia. I still want to defend Serbia, but I hoped my actions could be honorable. I didn’t want to kill innocent people. Day by day goes by and I feel further away from everything decent. I feel like I don’t fit in anymore. I wonder if Milosevic even knows what goes on in the ranks. He couldn’t possibly approve of it. It’s a mess Radenko, a mess. I think we’re in for some real troubling times.”
Lazar never told anyone those things. He worried one day he would go to far and say too much. But Radenko had triggered the feelings and he hoped he could trust him. So far, he was the only one he had heard speak out against what was happening. He hoped this was the beginning of trust.
Lazar wanted to tell Radenko about Milla, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. He felt like a prisoner in solitary confinement. It was like a darkness inside him that yearned for light, a feeling he wanted to set free. As much as he wanted to believe she was alive, it was eating him up not knowing. He wasn’t ready to share that with Radenko, he didn’t know how.
The rattle of gunfire and mortars was constant. Recently it seemed to be getting closer. Due to the surprise attack by the Croatians, the front had moved up approx. one hundred and twenty kilometers, just outside of Tuzla. They were able to fall back and hold a line behind some old farmhouses. The medical tents were set up by the creek’s edge to get water to the soldiers who suffered burns. Lazar stood up slowly and walked over to where his jacket was lying on the floor. He felt new pain in new places.
“Let’s go!” motioned Lazar, as he buttoned up his jacket. “Let’s go see if Doc could use our help.” He looked at his watch; it was 1432 hrs. “How long was I out?”
“Almost two hours.” answered Radenko.
“That’s a nice watch Lazar, how did it manage to survive the blast? Mine was completely destroyed.” Radenko showed the broken glass on the face of his watch.
Lazar looked down again at the watch on his wrist, watched it tick. Of course it fit him a little better now, but he’d worn the watch since he was eight years old. He too, was amused it was still intact. Maybe Lazar would explain his relationship with Mr. Nowak to Radenko sometime. But for now, he simply replied, “I know a Polish guy who makes them. If you like it, I’ll have one sent to you before the end of the month. It’s the least I can do for a man who saves my life.”
“I would like that. Thank you.” Radenko looked pleased.
Lazar began to walk out of the tent, “A Lawyer must have a nice watch, right? And don’t worry Private. I’ll make sure you get Corporal out of the last stunt you pulled.”
“I like being a Private,” claimed Radenko with a slight degree of sarcasm. Then he grabbed a couple AK-47s near the opening of the tent. “Don’t go out there with out one of these, Corporal.”


Chapter 15 – The Wedding Dress


Milan, Italy 1992

The bells of a distant cathedral rang 5:00. Marianna changed lanes as an excuse to check her rearview mirror. She was relieved to see the gray Mercedes make a right turn onto Corso Europa. She continued on Via Pietro Verri. She would feel safe once she reached the interstate, which would lead her right out of the city.
Marianna knew she was being overly cautious, but she’d never left the base without Marcielli. He had warned against it. But she was on winter break from her studies and the three weeks she already spent alone on the base, seemed to crawl by. She had to rescue herself from the boredom. She missed her parents, but knew it was too risky to visit them at their home. She hadn’t yet returned her grandmother’s wedding dress. She thought this would be a good opportunity to get away from the base. She would enjoy a couple weeks with her grandmother, who lived just outside Milan.
Marianna packed the dress and a week’s worth of clothing into a suitcase and tied it to the back of her red Moped. She called her grandmother so she would know when to expect her. And for a new look, she cut her hair a little shorter, which she was able to hide most of it under a full helmet. She didn’t want to attract the wrong people. With a top speed of forty-five kilometers an hour, Marianna wasn’t going to out run anyone. But her Moped was less noticeable than Marcielli’s Fiat, which the Mafia already recognized from when they were dating. When Marianna reached the interstate she felt a sense of relief. It felt better knowing she was already on her way out of the city.
Marianna couldn’t help but think about her new news. She placed her hand on her stomach as she bumped down the interstate. She almost forgot that she wasn’t alone. A new little life was growing inside her. It was all so new, she hardly knew what to expect from one day to the next. Marianna was amazed how much love she felt for someone she had never met nor seen before. But this baby was a part of her and a part of Marcielli. Marcielli? How and when was she going to tell him? She wished he had been there when she found out. It hardly seemed fair. This baby was just as much his as it was hers. It’s just the heartache of war, she thought.
“Just as long as he makes it home to see you take your first breath,” She said out loud to her unborn child. Marianna felt closer to Marcielli than ever before. She was carrying his future within her and she couldn’t wait to shout it from the rooftops.
Marianna exited on marker 6481. Her grandmother’s house was only three kilometers up Via del Lauro. Just as she was convinced that she wasn’t being followed, she noticed a white van, about two hundred meters back, exit on the same marker. She hadn’t noticed it before. She told herself it was only a coincidence. Marianna continued down the road. She made a right hand turn into her grandmother’s neighborhood. She felt like she had to hurry. To prevent being followed, she passed her grandmother’s street and then doubled back when she didn’t see the van. Maybe she was just paranoid, she thought.
When she reached her grandmother’s house, she was alone. She was comforted by that. Marianna saw her grandmother waiting outside on the second story, outdoor landing. She was wrapped in a blanket, leaning against the railing. She’d been waiting for her. Marianna hoped she didn’t appear too nervous. She was happy to see her grandmother.
With a smile, only a grandmother is capable of perfecting, Rosalina called out, “Ciou Marianna! Come va? The front door is open, come on up.”
Marianna removed her helmet and took one last look up and down the street. She didn’t want to cause her grandmother any undue grief. But then she had a feeling, the Mafia probably already knew of every family relation. She pulled her bike into the car storage and climbed the stairwell to meet her grandmother.
Marianna opened her arms. “Nanno, What are you doing outside? You’ll catch a chill.”
“Waiting for you darling. Come sit with me for a little while before we go in. You can smell my tulips out here.” Rosalina wrapped the two of them in her blanket as they sat on a wrought-iron bench.
Ever since Marianna was a little girl, she had fond memories of her grandmother’s flowers. There were no others as beautiful. She took pride in the way she cared for them. Mossimo, Marianna’s grandfather had died of cancer when he was only forty-one years old. Marianna never knew him and she felt that she missed out on so much. It was times like these that she counted on her grandmother to tell her stories of when Mossimo was alive. He seemed like such a great man; caring, compassionate, hard working and loyal to Rosalina. And Rosalina made him sound as though he were her everyday hero.
What Marianna felt was a sign of true love and devotion was the fact that her grandmother spent the last thirty-nine years alone. Even though her wedding ring was now too big and would often be hanging upside down on her finger, Marianna never saw her without it. This was something Marianna would always respect her grandmother for. It was a symbol of strength and commitment, endearment and true love; a love that she would willingly offer Marcielli. Her heart began to swell for him now.
Marianna got up from the bench and opened her suitcase. She unfolded the beautiful white, satin and lace gown and held it in front of her.
“Thank you so much Nanno, for letting me borrow your wedding dress. I couldn’t imagine myself in anything else.”
Rosalina was amused at Marianna’s excitement. “And you looked breathtaking in it, my dear. I can remember catching you in the attic when you were just a young girl, trying it on in front of an old dusty mirror. You used to spin circles just to see it twirl.”
Marianna laughed at the memory as she placed the dress in Rosalina’s lap.
“What are you doing, dear?” asked Rosalina.
Marianna looked confused. “You don’t want it left all folded up in this suitcase, do you, Nanno?”
“Marianna, the dress is yours,” Rosalina said softly.
Marianna’s eyes began to well up with tears.
“I have no use for it anymore.” explained Rosalina. “It will just find its way back into that dusty old attic. You keep it and pass it on to your daughter.”
It was almost as if she knew Marianna was pregnant. She wanted so badly to tell her, but she knew Marcielli should be the first to know.
“Thank you so much Nanno, this means the world to me.” Marianna wiped away a tear, sat back down by her grandmother and embraced her for a moment.
“Seeing the dress again makes me long for Marcielli. It was such a perfect day. I would give anything to be back in that moment, back in his arms. How did you do it? How did you survive when Nonno was off fighting in WW1?”
“Oh my dear,” Rosalina sighed. “The same thing I’m doing now that he has passed away.”
“Which is what?” inquired Marianna.
“No matter where he is, whether it’s off to war or on the other side, you carry his love in your heart. That will get you through Marianna, until you see him again; the power of his love.”
Marianna noticed that the street in front of the house began to light up. It interrupted her concentration. When she realized that the light was coming from a car, she paid close attention as it drew nearer. It didn’t feel right, the way the vehicle was moving so slowly down the street. Marianna’s eyes were able to focus past the light. What she saw, terrified her. The white van she had seen exit off the interstate.
Marianna pretended to pay attention as her grandmother continued to talk, but she kept her eyes on the van. The windows were too dark to see inside. The van never came to a stop. The sun had already set and it was dark outside. Maybe they didn’t notice them up on the landing. Maybe they were looking for the red Moped. For that reason, Marianna had parked it out of sight. When the van disappeared around the corner, Marianna interrupted her grandmother,
“Nanno, I’m starting to get a little cold, let’s go inside and talk.”
Rosalina had prepared some tea and biscotti for them to eat. Marianna couldn’t take her mind off of the van. As another hour ticked by she asked herself, was it even the same van she had seen the first time? It was so far back, how could she really tell? Or maybe her paranoia was simply getting the best of her. She tried to relax a little. Regardless, she knew she’d made a mistake by leaving the base and knew Marcielli would be angry with her if he found out.
Marianna knew her grandmother would usually retire early in the evenings. Being that it was a couple hours past that time, Marianna suggested that they pick up where they left off in the morning. And Rosalina didn’t resist the idea.

************

Two weeks had past and Marianna already had so much more fun than she had at the base. She took advantage of the time they spent together to learn her grandmother’s secrets of gardening, flower pruning, and sewing. She learned cooking tips and copied more recipes down to take home with her in the morning. Marianna could tell her visit was just as fulfilling for her grandmother as it was for her.

After a trip to the mailbox, Rosalina announced, “Look Marianna, the mailman brought you something too. They are good, aren’t they? They always know exactly where you are.”
Suddenly Marianna was filled with dread. She took the letter, if her grandmother only knew how ironic that statement really was. Marianna opened the letter, it read:

Marianna Corleon,

Sorry we missed your wedding! We were out of town. Now that we know where you’re staying these days, we’ll have to catch up on old times. We hope the best for you and Marcielli.

-Signed, Rico and Dmitri.


Chapter 16 – The Farmhouse


Tuzla, Bosnia-Herzegovina 1992

The Croatians were offering every dying breath to keep control of Vukovar, the destination of Lazar and Radenko’s reinforcement unit. The Croatian Paramilitary Forces (HOS) that ambushed them just outside of Tuzla received their own reinforcements from the Croatian National Army. They also rallied help from many local partisan fighters of Muslim and Bosnian decent. The fall of Vukovar would be a major blow to Croatia, politically, geographically and morally. It was paramount that the Serbs be cut off, never to reach Vukovar.
Radenko hoped they would be able to push through the ambush. It offered him a small chance of reuniting with his briefcase. But it seemed it was all they could do, over the past two weeks, just to hold the line they established. Their own reinforcement simply went around Tuzla and straight to Vukovar. They were on their own. Radenko planned on sending the briefcase to his father for safekeeping, but his transfer to the infantry happened so fast he didn’t have time. Radenko thought to himself that if he could not get his briefcase back, he would then hope for it to be destroyed through all the fighting.

The sun was beginning to set and the fighting seemed to lessen. However, large patches of smoke remained over the city, managing to disrupt the bright orange horizon. Even beauty would not rest without paying its toll to the destabilization of mankind.
Once they returned to their tents, Lazar removed his boots and set them next to the fire to dry out, as he and Radenko prepared for dinner. Lazar began to be good friends with Radenko lately. They stuck together during the fighting. Radenko seemed to be the only one who still had personality. Perhaps that was because he had only been in the fight for a short time. But that didn’t matter right now. He was someone who Lazar could relate to, someone who made him feel he wasn’t so abnormal. Lazar also felt he had a responsibility to take Radenko under his wing. He felt a loyalty to him for saving his life.
“I overheard some of the brass talking on the way back from the line.” admitted Radenko. “General Pec ordered a retreat if we haven’t penetrated the city in one week.”
“That’s understandable. Their numbers are increasing while ours seem to be diminishing. We already know our reinforcements are in Vukovar by now.” Lazar began to rub his feet.
“That’s a good idea!” blurted Radenko as he unlaced his boots.
Radenko had a somber look on his face, “Don’t you wonder why they want us in Vukovar anyway? It belongs to Croatia, not Serbia. So a few Serbs lost their jobs, is that a reason for war? We have enough going on in Kosovo.”
Radenko wasn’t a Serb, so it really was unfair for him to be fighting on this front. But even as a Serb, Lazar felt the reasons for invading Croatia were unprovoked. The truth was; it seemed he was getting farther and farther away from where he wanted to be. He wanted to find out what happened to those people who escaped across the river that day in Visegrad. He wanted to know where they went or perhaps find someone who knew anything at all about them. He didn’t know how long this war would last but he couldn’t wait until then to find Milla. Somehow, he had to get away, even if only for a while.
Radenko barely finished taking off his boots when a runner popped around the corner,
“Private Gavrillo, Lt. Obilic wants to see you in the farmhouse. He said immediately!” The Brass had found a sturdy farmhouse next to the stream. It was said to be vacant and just out of mortar range. They were using it for Officer’s quarters. Radenko wondered what Nikola wanted. He hadn’t spoken with him since that night at the restaurant. He thought he might threaten him to keep his mouth shut about what he knew or try to explain why they transferred him into the infantry. And then, almost immediately, another thought came to his mind. What if someone found his briefcase and Nikola had it? What if he saw what was inside of it? Radenko prepared for the worst and made his way to the farmhouse just up the stream. He prepared himself to take another stand for what he thought was right. He already stood up to General Pec in the restaurant, Nikola was nothing.
As Radenko approached the farmhouse he could see smoke coming out of the stone chimney. At least he would avoid the cold for a moment. He climbed the old wooden steps up to the front door. He knocked.
“Come in, Private Gavrillo,” invited Nikola.
“Sir,” Radenko saluted.
“At ease private.”
Nikola appeared calm, “Have a drink, Radenko.”
Oddly, Radenko preferred Nikola to call him Private. He hated to hear his first name pass through Nikola’s lips. As much as Nikola loved to drink, Radenko knew he had to be pleased with the discovery of a wine cellar in the farmhouse.
“Sir, I’ll take some hot coffee if you have it.” Radenko didn’t think it would be a good idea to drink with Nikola.
“Have a seat.” Nikola yelled into the next room, “Vladimir, Bring Radenko some coffee.”
While Radenko waited for the coffee, there was an uncomfortable silence between him and Nikola. Nikola just watched him. Radenko refused to engage in meaningless, small talk as he waited. He glanced around the room. There was no sign of his briefcase. It was a relief. Radenko did notice a stack of newspapers sitting on the table in front of him. He recognized two of them to be Kosovo underground papers. The LPK, ‘Zeri I Kosoves’ and the LKCK, ‘Climiri’, both of which could get a Serb jailed, just for being in possession of them.
Radenko looked up at Nikola. Perhaps Nikola was going to accuse Radenko of being in possession of the papers. Maybe someone planted them in his tent, he thought. For whatever reason Radenko was there, he didn’t trust Nikola’s antics. What was he up to? Radenko wondered.
“Thank you Vladimir,” Nikola broke the silence as the coffee was placed on the table next to the papers. Then he stood up and closed the doors to the room.
“Radenko, I have some bad news. There was a tragedy in Ivangrad.”
Radenko’s eyes widened. He thought of his father.
“Ivangrad was attacked by the Kacak Resistance and General Gavrillo’s home was hit with a flurry of rockets. Radenko, your father was inside.”
Radenko stood up out of his chair and sucked in the bitter air between them. He thought Nikola was going to report the worst.
“He’s in critical condition, but he’ll survive.”
“Are you sure he’s going to be okay?” Radenko wanted to hear it again.
“He’ll be fine” Nikola claimed, with a hint of, what Radenko recognized to be, regret.
“It was an assault on the morale of the Serbian National Army. It won’t go unpunished, I promise you.”
Radenko was hoping Nikola would grant him some leave. “Can I go see him, Sir?” Radenko waited.
Nikola put his hands together, interlacing his fingers, “I don’t know how much longer we’ll be pinned down here. But it’s not safe for you to leave now. It could be a month before we get out of here.”
Radenko knew they weren’t pinned down and he also knew General Pec had ordered a retreat in a week’s time. He could simply drive south through the Bosnian Serb town of Zvornik. This was outlandish, Radenko thought. He stared Nikola in the eyes. Nikola looked away as if being forced by guilt. As ideas began to spin in Radenko’s mind, he though of his father and then that was all he could think of.
“Is that all, Lieutenant?” asked Radenko.
“Yes Radenko, I’m sorry to be the one to bring you this news.”
Radenko stepped up to the table and poured two cups of coffee; one for himself and one for Lazar. Then he walked toward the front door.
“Radenko,” Nikola stood up. “This only means that now Montenegro is equally entangled in this conflict. Now we both have a reason to help Greater Serbia rid itself of those who hate her, leaving bloodstain after bloodstain on her soil.”
Radenko nodded as he walked out, almost not even paying attention to Nikola’s nationalist remark. He would never win Radenko over with that pathetic cry. And Radenko would never beat his chest to the sound of the war drum the way Nikola did.

************

Lazar thanked Radenko for the coffee. Tonight seemed to be colder than other nights.
“Is everything okay?” asked Lazar. He noticed that Radenko looked worried.
“My father was injured in an attack. He’ll be okay.”
“What do you mean? He’s still in Montenegro right? Lazar was surprised.
“There was a rocket attack on our home. Supposedly it was the Kacak Resistance. My father was inside.” Radenko looked curiously vexed when he said it.
“Someone’s marked him, Radenko. It doesn’t sound like a resistance tactic, friendly fire maybe. Sounds like a cover-up. You’re lucky your father’s alive.”
“He’ll be fine,” Radenko said halfheartedly. “By now my uncle Petrovich is with him, taking care of him. I just wish I was there too.”
As Radenko lay in his cot that night, his mind wouldn’t rest. The Kacak Resistance had only surfaced in Kosovo and only twice in the last year. Why would they travel all the way to Montenegro to the mountains of Ivangrad? And why was the attack not publicized? Radenko asked himself many more questions. Then he thought of Nikola, the way he sounded disappointed that the attack on his father was unsuccessful.
Everything began to click. The only thing that stopped General Pec from getting his long awaited promotion and assuming full control of the Montenegro army was General Marshal Gavrillo; the General that did not see eye to eye with the new Serbia, the General that hindered the stampede of Nationalism, the last standing “Tito” General. Radenko’s blood thickened and his eyes seared holes through the top of the tent as things began to make sense. General Mihailo Pec had ordered the secret assassination of his father.

************

Lazar lay in his cot with his flashlight propped over his shoulder. It was the first opportunity he had to read the last letter he received from Mr. Nowak. He carried it around with him for two days. Lazar tried to drown out the occasional rattle of distance gunfire and began to read:

Lazar, Chlopaki Mojego! (Polish - My boy)

I haven’t heard from you for quite some time. Your last letter was very short. Are you okay Lazar? Are you healthy? I hope you are taking care of yourself. Your mother and your sister are both well. Your mother seems happy again. She’s beautiful when she’s happy. I wish you could see her now. Djana is well into her first year at Novi Sad University. She wants to be an animal doctor. She has been studying very hard and has the marks to show it. You would be proud of her. Things are very busy at the Time Machine. Orders are getting backed up. I can’t make watches fast enough. I could really use your help again. And sometimes I just miss your company. Our game still rests where we left off. It’s your move.
Lazar, I wanted to ask you if you have heard from Milla Markovich. I know you two are not together anymore but last spring she told me that she would be back for one more year of school. She asked if she could tend my horses again. I haven’t heard from her. I would like to find out if everything is okay with her. Do you know anything?
Lazar, times are worse than they have ever been. I have heard some horrible things. This time of war will pass, but the decisions you are making now, the things you do now, will be memories that you will carry to your grave. Don’t be today who you don’t want to be in 20 years. I want you to define the things that are important to you in life. Seek those things out and show passion for them. I know who you are Lazar. I have watched you from when you were a small boy. I have seen you turn into a man and I want to see that same man return to his family. I know I am not your father Lazar, he was a great man, but I do feel like you are my son. You will always be my son.

Idz z Bogiem! (Polish – Go with God) - Mr. Nowak


Lazar clicked off his flashlight and then let the tears flow down the side of his face into his pillow. So much of what Mr. Nowak said was pouring into Lazar’s soul. But Lazar feared it was too late. He had already done so many things, things he would never tell Mr. Nowak. He already had bad memories that would seep through the cracks of his coffin, just to be with him. Could he turn around? Could Mr. Nowak still be proud of him? Or would he see right through him? And Milla, what had he done? How could he explain what happened to her?
Lazar knew this; it was Milla, above all, that he wanted in life. It was she, who defined him. He would seek her out and make her his passion. Lazar silently thanked Mr. Nowak for his love, for his timing and for his ability to reacquaint a man with his life and the things that are truly important. And then Lazar felt another urge. He thanked God for not abandoning him in his hour of need. He was with Lazar that morning by the riverside, in Visegrad and He was with him again tonight. Lazar felt good about this new closeness. He found himself praying over his loved ones at home. He prayed for Milla, “God help her” and he prayed for Radenko and General Gavrillo.
Between everything that was on his mind and the echoes at the war front, Lazar couldn’t fall asleep. He noticed that Radenko, as quiet as he tried to be, kept shuffling in his cot. He couldn’t sleep either. Lazar could only imagine the things that might be running through his head.
“Radenko,” Lazar muttered quietly.
“I’m sorry, I’ll try to be quieter.” answered Radenko, making one more movement, hoping it would be his last.
“It’s okay,” assured Lazar, “I can’t sleep either. I’m glad you haven’t fallen asleep yet, I wanted to talk a while.”
“Sure,” said Radenko, pulling his sleeping bag tighter around his neck.
“Is there a special girl in Montenegro, you know, waiting for you?”
Radenko didn’t answer right away, not sure if he wanted to get into it all. Loosely, he said, “My heart was broken when I was eight years old, not sure whether I want to go through it again.” and that was all Radenko said.
Lazar began talking again, even before he knew what he would say. “Some time ago, I met a girl in Belgrade, a Muslim girl. She was from Visegrad but she was attending Belgrade University, studying theatre. I first saw her in the play, “Romeo and Juliet”. She was Juliet. I had never seen a girl so beautiful. She was mine for a while. And Radenko, I traded her away for everything that I have now . . . . . . nothing!”
Radenko was silent. He wasn’t sure what to say to Lazar.
“I would like to tell you it was our ethnic differences that divided, but that would be a lie. It was me. It was my ignorance to what was happening around us. It was my failure to secure the love that we were feeling. I ripped it all to pieces. I betrayed her, in this uniform, when I ransacked her home. Her name is Milla, Milla Markovich. I don’t know if she is alive, but I have to find out.”
Radenko could almost touch the remorse surrounding Lazar, but all he could say was, “That’s awful Lazar. It really is. I’m sorry.”
Neither said another word, but Lazar felt as though half of what had been weighing him down had disappeared. It seemed, for the first time in a long time, he could breathe.
Lazar rattled his flashlight in hopes to brighten the beam. He began a letter to Mr. Nowak. He assured he was doing well. He expressed excitement for Dejana’s accomplishments and he asked Mr. Nowak to send love to his mother. He even asked Mr. Nowak if he could send a watch for Radenko. But he mentioned nothing about Milla.

************

The morning broke with talk and commotion among the soldiers. It was official; the retreat would begin in one week. Lazar saw Nikola a few yards away in a circle of officers. He overheard them talking. Nikola was displeased with the decision to retreat. According to him, they were just on the verge of breaking into the city.
Lazar paid close attention to what Nikola was saying;
“The only road out of here leads right through Zvornik and then through Srebrenica, every other road is blocked off no more than three kilometers out. We came through Zvornik so it shouldn’t be too bad yet, but there is already a resistance formed in Srebrenica. The Muslims have claimed that city as a refugee asylum. We know they’re only protecting it with small arms fire. The majority of the fighters are the same ones that ran from us in Visegrad. We should be able to cut right through them, just like we did three months ago.”
Srebrenica? She’s in Srebrenica? The possibility made Lazar’s heart race.
Radenko was also following what Nikola was saying.
Nikola pulled a box of cigarettes from his coat pocket, he offered them to the officers in the circle and then he lit one for himself.
Lazar was anxiously hanging onto the news, waiting for Nikola to say more. Nikola took, what seemed to be a very long drag of his cigarette. He turned toward the soldiers in the camp and then blew his smoke.
Still looking in Lazar’s direction, Nikola began talking again, “I’ll have to assign a couple of my guys as scouts to go find out what we got in Zvornik and Srebrenica.” Nikola turned back to the officers, “We’ll give’em a radio and a jeep, and three days head start. If there’s going to be resistance, they can let us know.”
One of the other officers laughed and asked, “Who’s going to jump at the chance to go on a suicide mission?”
The remark was followed with more laughter from other officers.
Nikola looked back toward the soldiers with a terrible grin on his face, “I’m not expecting any volunteers. None of these cowards would volunteer to die. Assignments will have to be made.”
Lazar couldn’t stand still any longer. He had to move before the assignments were made. He grabbed Radenko’s shoulder and looked him in the eye for assurance.
Radenko, knowing what was in it for him, nodded his head, “Let’s do it Lazar.”
Lazar walked straight up to Nikola, “Can I have a minute of your time, Sir?”


Chapter 17 – Strength & Honor at 35,000 ft.


35,000 ft. above the Adriatic Sea, 1992

Marcielli stared out the window of the Bowing 647 as they flew over his country.
“Bella Bambina, I love you.” Marcielli kissed his fingertips and pressed them to the glass.
Laughter disrupted his solo ensemble of love, Flo’s laugh in particular. “Marianna, I’ll be home before Marcielli.” And then he kissed the glass with his lips.
By now, Marcielli was used to the personal attacks. He knew that he set himself up most of the time.
“Flo, I know how frustrating it can be. I’m sure there is a girl out there somewhere who is attracted to gangly Italians with big ears. Don’t give up the search.” Marcielli was pleased with his comeback.
“Ladies and Gentlemen; another graduate of the Florentine school of comedy!” Flo always had to have the last word. “You know I love you Marcielli, almost as much as spaghetti and meatballs.”
Marcielli pointed out the Alps to the rest of the team. None of them, including Marcielli had ever seen them from the sky before. The view was amazing. In twenty minutes they would be over the Adriatic Sea. Then it would only be another two hours before they landed in Skopje, Macedonia, eighty-seven kilometers south of Kosovo. The team flew like regular citizen passengers separated into three different rows. None of them felt right about being unarmed. Marko Sava, their contact with the Kosovo resistance, would meet them at the airport in Skopje. He would drive them to Kumanovo, where his brother was. It was where Sam had confirmed their weaponry and gear had been waiting.
Marcielli remembered what Reed’s Lieutenant, Samuel Clay, had told them before they boarded the plane in Brussels. The words sounded over and over again in his head;

“Boys, when you get off this plane, your lives will change drastically. You will no longer be in that comfort zone; that zone of safety, stability and common sense. It is to be expected, that you will lose more, hurt more, cry more, hate more and even bleed more than you ever have in your entire life. You will begin to doubt the mission and doubt yourselves. Not if, but when that happens, I want you to remember this; those things are only a matter of the mind. The measure of a man depends on what he does in his life, not what he thinks. What you do in the next couple of weeks could alter the lives of hundreds of thousands and their generations to follow. That is greater than you and I. Get the job done guys.
You might discover that when you return from this mission, you will have achieved more, helped more, laughed more, loved more and lived more than ever before. To step outside your realm of safety and enter another’s realm fear and disparity, is to say to yourself; there is need to advance good over evil and I will be the one to do it. Your confidence needs to be impeccable, your integrity; unbendable, your resolve; unshakeable and your trust in one another; beyond reproach. I bid you ado as boys and I will welcome you home, as men. Good luck.”

Marcielli hadn’t heard that kind of talk from his own countrymen. He’d heard it from Reed and now from Samuel Clay; two Americans. If it wasn’t their technology, if it wasn’t their intellect, if it wasn’t their strength, then it was their heart and passion that advanced the Americans as a modern-day superpower.
Marcielli really was inspired by what was said. He did want to return home to Marianna, he did want to play soccer again, but he also wanted to complete this mission successfully. He wondered if he would experience all those things Samuel Clay had spoken of. He wondered how it might affect his life, how Marianna would see him when he returned. Marcielli agreed to embrace whatever modifications were made to his character. He would accept the self-gratification that came from helping those people in Serbia. And he would forgive himself, for thinking like the Americans and aligning his resolve with theirs. Perhaps it would make him a better man, he thought. Though they were still in their infancy, Marcielli noticed his own convictions rising from the dirt. What lay in the road ahead, he wondered? Only time would tell. For now, he would harbor this new feeling; this new resolve.
Marcielli looked over his shoulder and saw Angelo two rows back. He was sound asleep. How does he do it? Marcielli asked himself. How does he sleep with so much to think about? Marcielli was filled with too much anticipation to be that relaxed. He noticed a family sitting next to Angelo, a man and his wife with their three children around them. The man was asleep, his wife, reading a magazine. The older boy was listening to headphones while the younger boy and his little sister shared a coloring book and fussed over who got to color with the green crayon. It was something simple and ordinary. But it was beautiful to Marcielli. It was what he hoped for someday. Marianna would be a wonderful mother, Marcielli thought. When he returned to Milan, Marcielli told himself, he didn’t want to wait to start a family.

************

Reed tried to play out the details of the mission in his head for the final time. All the weight was on his shoulders and he tried to assess the risks involved. But his concentration was broken with sporadic thoughts of Lindsey. He immediately forgave her for breaking his concentration.
Since Reed left her that day at the beach, these sentiments would always find their way through, no matter how deep in thought Reed was. Thoughts of her kept his spirits high and kept him going. They grounded him to reality and fantasy at the same time and would always arrive at the most useful moments.
To Reed, Lindsey represented everything that was pure and beautiful, everything close to his heart. One day he would be able to share this experience with her. Now that they were so close, he depended on her support for things like this. It saddened him that she didn’t know where he was going or what he was doing. He wanted her to know. Reed’s eyes watered up. He wanted her to know that if he didn’t return, it was his honor and his nobility that stole him away from her, not selfishness.
But Reed would still draw on her strength, even though they were apart. The soft glow that she cast was something he counted on and was enough to lead him out of the darkness of war. Reed sent Lindsey a letter only two days ago. But he wanted to write her again and thank her for this obscure way of instilling confidence in him even now, the way she did when they weren’t so far apart. He removed a pen and paper from his bag and began writing.


Lindsey,

If you don’t get a letter for a few weeks I don’t want you to worry. I love you even more than I did yesterday. I wish I could tell you where I was going, what I was doing. One day, when we are guaranteed all the time in the world together and the fog is no longer permitted to settle between us, I will share everything with you and you can fill me in on everyday that I missed. We’re on the plane now, so we are well on our way. I can say I have been waiting for an assignment like this one. It is a cause I believe is worthy of the fight, a cause that cannot afford another day to pass it by and ignore it. Part of what I bring to this fight comes from you. Part of who I am is because of you and most of what I have become, I owe to you. You’re amazing! You sustain my ambition and bolster my confidence. There is nothing I can’t do in your eyes and I’m taking that with me. I can’t stop thinking about you. Knowing that I will be with you again, keeps me afloat. I need to be by your side again. This is who I am and this is what you mean to me. Thank you for everything Lindsey. I love you.

-Reed


Reed knew he couldn’t send the letter from Macedonia. He would have to send the letter to Sam and he could send it to Lindsey from Belgium. As Reed began folding the letter, he noticed Otto on the same row, but about four passengers down. He was leaning forward a little, looking at Reed. He had a kind look on his face and then he nodded his head, as if he knew that Reed was caught up in a moment with someone he cared for. Reed didn’t want Otto to know that it meant that much to him. He thought Otto would see it as a weakness, a distraction. But then Otto nodded his head again. This time he had a slight grin on his face, as if to let Reed know it was okay. Otto made a fist with his hand and brought it to his chest. He held it there for a moment. Reed did the same back to him. The first time Otto made that hand gesture to Reed was after their first meeting at Devos. The next day when Reed asked him what it meant. Otto told him, that in Germany, it meant, ‘Strength and Honor’.
Reed thought he too would try and get some rest before they landed in Skopje. He didn’t want to lay his seat back like the person did in front of him. It was rude he thought. He placed the eight-inch complimentary pillow behind his neck and tilted his head back. His eyelids fell. This time, Reed gave his mind permission to wander. He imagined driving up Pacific Coast Highway in Lindsey’s Buick Skylark. He imagined the two of them walking on the beach and then carrying Lindsey piggyback as they crashed into the water. Then he imagined looking into Lindsey’s face, touching it. Everything he had lived for and hoped for was right there.
If Lindsey was Reed’s weakness, he couldn’t afford to wear it on his sleeve, not the way Marcielli did. He was the team leader. A leader must be steadfast, unyielding and impervious. Could Reed create a façade for this burning hole in his heart and then balance it out with strength and confidence? He promised himself that he could; for the sake of all those who counted on him.


Chapter 18 – Marko & Kat


Skopje, Macedonia 1992

Marko had to be the man sitting in the airport café behind a cup of coffee and a dissipating cloud of cigarette smoke. He wore a brown leather jacket and gray slacks. He was of medium build. He had hazel eyes and coarse, dark brown hair that was manipulated forward into a short, messy mohawk. He made eye contact with Reed as soon as they exited the plane. Marko tipped back the last of his coffee. He just watched as each of them passed him by, one by one. An agreement was made not to make contact in the airport. It was too risky, so each team member would have to find their way to the rallying point; the Alexander the Great monument in Skopje City Park. Serb scouts wouldn’t go that far into the city. Once there, Marko could meet them.
Before he reached the end of the hallway, Reed looked over his shoulder one last time. He could see Marko now standing at the payphone in the café. Marko couldn’t have been more than nineteen or twenty years old. He had a soft, juvenile glow about him. Reed expected someone much older; someone a little more salted and dog-eared. Sam said Marko had been fighting underground for eight years. He would have been only a boy then. For the first time in two weeks the team separated and departed in different directions out of the airport.
Marcielli, Flo and Angelo were all wearing zip-away jogging outfits, supposedly heading to some winter games at the Ancient Colosseum. Otto was dressed as a businessman in a gray suit with a briefcase containing the op orders. He was also greeted by a beautiful Macedonian wife who waited for him at the gate. Otto would soon owe Marko for the long, intense kiss she planted on his lips when they embraced. Reed was more relaxed with his LA Dodgers baseball cap, a white t-shirt, blue jeans and black Converse All-Stars. His story was simple. He was American and he wasn’t going to fool anyone. He was looking to study abroad and was touring the capitols of Europe, checking out their universities.
The Italians all got into one taxicab and headed to the Ancient Colosseum. Otto and his new wife walked to the parking lot and got into an older model BMW and headed for their apartment in the north part of the city. Reed waited for his luggage and then stopped at the tourist info shop and bought a map of the city. Then he hailed a taxicab to the industrial part of the city near Cyril and Methodius University. In one hour’s time, Marko would meet them in Skopje City Park.
Otto knew he had to be watchful. For now, he had the responsibility of safeguarding the op orders. As the Macedonian woman drove, Otto held the briefcase on his lap. He kept checking the rearview mirror.
“Don’t worry, that’s Marko in the blue van. He’s following us.” The women spoke in broken English. But Otto couldn’t complain. His English wasn’t any better.
“My name is Katelina. Call me Kat. I’m with the Kosovo underground. We have been waiting a long time for outside contacts. Marko has done everything in his power to get you out here. You won’t believe what has been going on in the last few months.”
Otto wasn’t sure how much she knew about the mission or how much he was allowed to discuss with her. He didn’t trust anyone at this point and he promised himself not to get beguiled by her beauty. She had silky, sandy-blond hair that was pulled and wrapped tightly in a bun. Dark framed glasses had fallen a little on her nose, magnifying her big green eyes. She had a cat-like mouth that curled flirtingly at the ends. She was in business attire like Otto. Her jacket was cut to fit her petite body. Her skirt matched, both pinstriped. She wore black heels that she removed to drive. Her legs were smooth and defined. Otto could tell that she was uncomfortable in this kind of dress.
“I’m happy to be here. Forgive me for not saying much.” Otto tried to be as straight forward as possible.
“It’s okay. I understand. If you check under your seat, you will find an automatic handgun. Take it and tuck it under your jacket. From what we understand, you need to protect that case.”
Otto was impressed with the amount of trust he was shown. He found the gun, checked it for ammunition and tucked it into his jacket. Otto noticed a large diamond on Kat’s wedding finger. He wondered if it was part of the disguise or if she really was taken. When they reached the apartment, Kat led Otto up to the third floor. They passed four doors before they reached flat number ‘25’.
Kat removed a single key from her pocket and unlocked the door. “Get yourself something to eat if you like. We’ll be leaving for the park in about thirty minutes.”
The apartment didn’t look like anyone had been living there. There were maps and blue prints up on the walls. Newspaper articles and convenient store coffee cups littered the apartment. There were two TV’s hooked up to satellite and an older style ham radio receiver on the floor. Otto wondered when the place had been cleaned last. He walked into the kitchen and was surprised to see there really was food in the refrigerator.
“I’m not hungry but I will have a drink.” Otto grabbed a bottle of coke and walked over to the window. He saw the blue van parked next to the BMW they were driving. And then Otto heard someone opening the front door. The sound startled Otto and he reached inside his jacket; placed his hand on the gun.
“It’s okay Otto. It’s just Marko,” assured Kat. She lunged for Marko and held him tightly for a moment.
Otto was relieved to see that it was the same man who was sitting in the café at the airport. With Kat still holding on to him, Marko held out his hand toward Otto. “Marko Sava, I’m glad you could make it. I don’t think anyone was followed.”
Otto switched the briefcase into his left hand in order to greet Marko. “I’m Otto. Thank you for the coke.”
“We don’t have a lot of time. You can relax for a moment, but I need to prepare some things for the road.” Marko clicked on one of the satellite TV’s and then began packing supplies into a duffle bag. Scenes in Sarajevo flashed on the screen. Dead bodies in the street, people who tried to get through “Sniper Alley”. Even though Marko was young, he appeared to Otto as a very serious man with a lot on his mind. His experiences; this lifestyle, seemed to have pushed him well beyond his age. Otto was headed back into the kitchen toward the window when Marko called him to attention.
“Otto, we already have something in common. We both like to kiss my fiancé. I hope you enjoyed it while it lasted. It won’t happen again.”
Otto was impressed with the command and fortitude of this young man. Otto thought it appropriate to tell a white lie. “It was terrible, I prefer bigger and burlier German women, and much, much older.” All three laughed.


************

“America, yes?” The taxi driver had a clever look on his face, pleased with his discovery that Reed was not a local.
“Yes sir, I’m American.” Reed quickly remembered he needed to change the way he spoke from now on. He had already let his hair grow out a little. He needed to sound more like a college student and less like a soldier.
“What could you possibly want to see in Macedonia, a brewery, a coal factory perhaps?” The driver laughed. Reed could tell he was about 40 years old. He wondered how many Americans this man had taxied around in Macedonia.
“Actually, I’m checking out some colleges. I’m studying abroad next year and I want to see what you guys got.”
“My mother told me I should go to college. I should have listened. Now I drive taxis. But the money is okay sometimes. It depends on the tips I get.” The driver turned his head a little. Reed could see a grin reshaping the man’s profile.
Reed was warned that most people in Europe believed all Americans were rich. There was some truth to that, Reed thought. Compared to other countries, Americans generally did have more money.
“I might find something extra in my wallet if a good place to eat is recommended.” hinted Reed.
“Some of the best places, you won’t find on that map of yours. I’ll drop you off at Leon’s. From there, it’s only a short walk to the University. Tell them Momir sent you.”
Reed noticed most of the buildings in town had a communist look to them. There weren’t a lot of colors, just gray. The different businesses had their names atop the buildings in the same block lettering. Most of the trees had lost their leaves for the winter. There were patches of melted snow that were gray and peppered with fallen coal. Off in the distance, Reed could see spires jetting upward out of the mosques. They drove by meat markets and bazaars packed with people trying to buy and sell goods. It appeared that most Macedonians relied on their own two legs for transportation. Skopje seemed like it was once a beautiful place, only in recent years had it been let go. Her attention was stolen away for a decade while her inhabitants fought for identity and autonomy. She had not yet seen genocide, but had shouldered those who did.
When the car stopped at Leon’s, Reed got out and handed Momir a hundred dollar bill. It was about fifty times the amount he owed him, at least a month’s wages. Momir didn’t know what to say. He knew he didn’t have change, but then Reed began to walk off. Momir just stared at Reed in disbelief. Reed knew he would only cross this path once in his life and besides, under the circumstances, Reed was a rich man.

************

Marcielli was the last to hop out of the cab, which meant he was left to pay the fare. He handed over fifteen dollars. The driver seemed pleased. Marcielli watched as the cab drove away and disappeared into a cloud of exhaust. They were standing on a crowded sidewalk. Hundreds of people following each other toward the Ancient Colosseum like a trail of ants. Every year, one of the Balkan countries hosts the mini winter games. This year they were in Macedonia. This specific day was chosen during the planning of the mission. The foreign traffic that invaded the city would be a great cover. No one would seem out of the ordinary. The Colosseum stood in front of them, waiting to host some of the greatest games ever played. The smell of competition permeated, and for the first time in his life, Marcielli wasn’t interested in the game. He couldn’t believe he was feeling this way. He didn’t want the distraction. He felt the importance of the mission; why they were there. He didn’t want anything to take that away.
The three of them stood aside as the crowd moved hastily by. Angelo checked his watch. “We have almost an hour. It’s enough time to catch a few good plays at least. Should we go in?”
Marcielli looked over at Florentine, who was tugging on the zipper of his jacket, trying to force it through a snag. “What do you think Flo? Do you think we’ll be able to handle ourselves like gentlemen in there?”
Florentine knew where Marcielli was going with this. “I’m not sure it would be a good idea to get Marcielli all worked up like that and then pull the plug on him after one hour. Have you ever witnessed a Marcielli-meltdown before Angelo? I have. And it’s not pretty.”
Angelo laughed, “Look at us. We’re like a bunch of recovering alcoholics standing around a beer bottle. We’ve been sober too long to give in now, right. I get the point guys. You want to stay focused. I think it’s best. The Alexander monument is a thirty minute walk from here. Let’s go.”
Marcielli was glad to find out everyone felt the same way; that the game would only be a tease and a distraction to the mission.
“Well boys, I have to say I’m impressed. You know when to work and when to play. That’s the definition of a soldier. If I could, I would salute you both, but for now, you’ll just have to take this,” Angelo quickly elbowed Florentine in the ribs and then punched Marcielli in the shoulder.
This caused some laughter and a minor street fight between the guys. After a short moment, their better judgment came into play and they composed themselves. The three walked for a while, side by side on the cobblestone of Macedonia. Marcielli, Florentine and Angelo were all three standing for something greater than themselves. All three walking into a mission of unknown risks and possibilities, and all three . . . . . volunteers.
Florentine brought his right arm in front of him as if to lead a symphony. He began singing the words to the Italian National Anthem, ‘L’Inno di Mameli’. It didn’t take Marcielli or Angelo long to join in and execute a tenor’s trio.


Chapter 19 – Love & Rain


Los Angeles, California 1992

11334 Burbank Bvld. Lindsey put her car in park and waited to see if the rain would subside. It had been pouring down all morning. She could only work part time now that she’d been going to school. Between the two, she managed to pass time.
As Lindsey watched the water bead up and roll down the windshield, she began thinking about recent decisions she’d made. She planned on getting her own apartment, one downtown maybe, a little closer to work and school. But she decided to stay at home with her mom. For two reasons: it allowed her to put away more money for the future, for her and Reed’s future. And second, Mr. Love was gone most of the time. Even Lindsey only saw him in the office about once a week when he wasn’t traveling on business. She knew her mom would get lonely if she left. Lindsey knew she needed the attention. It was something she had to live without most of her marriage. Lindsey loved her mom and right now, the opportunity to lean on each other couldn’t have been more sublime.
Her mom was there in times of strength or in times of weakness. She was there for laughs or there for cries. Anna and Gracie were there for her too, like when she wanted to feel close to Reed, Gracie was a wonderful sister to have. But Lindsey always felt like she had to show how strong she was. She felt like if she was having a bad day, they might see it as weakness. But Lindsey could be herself with her mother. She could harbor her ship for repair and not be judged as though she were defeated. She could make believe and plan for their future without feeling silly about sharing her ideas. And well, sometimes she just wanted someone to stay up late with, eat ice cream and fall asleep shoulder-to-shoulder during “Steel Magnolias.” The two of them had emotional accountability to each other, as any mother and daughter would have.
Lindsey was convinced the rain wasn’t going to stop anytime soon. The song, ‘With or Without You’ by U2 was playing on the radio. She told herself when it was over she would extend her umbrella and make a run for it. The business complex where her dad worked was so big that the parking lot seemed half a mile away and then she had to make it through the atrium between the buildings.
Halfway there, Lindsey gave up trying to beat the rain. She was already completely soaked. She couldn’t help but smile. It reminded her of when she was a little girl, trying to find every reason to stay out in the rain. She closed her umbrella and tucked it under her arm. She would dry off once she got inside. Lindsey looked up and the rain seemed to slow. She watched as it came down between the buildings. It was wonderful, she thought. The beauty of it made her think that Reed was seeing the same thing; that they were in some way, sharing a moment together. Today was a good day for Lindsey. She wished Reed the best and blew a kiss toward the sky.
Lindsey barely caught the elevator and pressed the button that lit up number 44. She looked at the man next to her in his business suit. He was also soaked. When Lindsey made eye contact with him he just shrugged his shoulders. They both laughed at the awkwardness of the moment. She could see her reflection in the elevator doors, could see her eye make-up heading south for the winter. Something Reed always told her was sexy. By now, most of Lindsey’ friends were either married or well on their way to some sort of degree. Lindsey felt like she was stuck somewhere in between. But every once in a while, when she was up for “girls night out” she got a kick out of reminding her friends that she worked for the CIA. She even had a badge and a top-secret clearance card.
When Lindsey got to her dad’s office, she wasn’t sure whether he was going to be there or not. It didn’t surprise her to see that he wasn’t there. And if he wasn’t there to give her a special assignment, there was always filing to be done. After changing into a dry sweater that she left in the office and a visit to the break room for a cup of hot chocolate, she walked down the hall where the files were kept.
Last week Lindsey came across a file that spurred her curiosity. It was marked; “American National Bank – Kosovo funding / Lt. Samuel Clay”. Lindsey had heard Reed talk about a Lt. Samuel Clay. American National Bank was her dad’s bank. Inside the folder was a receipt of a $250,000.00 transfer to a local bank in Belgium. That’s where Reed was stationed. It wasn’t uncommon for Mr. Love to keep classified information from Lindsey. But when Lindsey asked him about the folder, Mr. Love fumbled in his explanation and then acted as though that folder wasn’t supposed to be with the rest of the files. On the following day, the folder was gone.
What did the folder mean, Lindsey asked herself? What did her dad know about Belgium, about Lt. Clay? Did her dad know something about Reed? Questions were plaguing her imagination.
Something that always bothered Lindsey was the fact that her dad rarely took time to get to know Reed. Occasionally, he would ask a question or two like; “How’s Reed doing?” or “Now, what is it that Reed wants to do after he finishes school?” confirming that he did plan on finishing school. But it seemed to Lindsey that the attempts were only made in small talk or to fill a void in conversation. Lindsey watched Reed make so many attempts to get to know her dad. She even thought they had a lot in common. If only they could have arranged more time together. Mr. Love had taken on so many responsibilities in his job over the last year. He was an advisor to the head of the CIA and now he had also been given the tasks of Political Liaison and CIA Spokesman. It was a mountain of responsibility, considering the Gulf War had just come to an end and questions needed answers. Lindsey loved her dad and was proud of his achievements. She didn’t want to pressure him at the peak of his career. She only wished the timing of it all was a little better.
Lindsey couldn’t stop thinking about the folder. It was too much of a coincidence. She had to find out what her dad knew, what he was up to. Just before noon when she was about to leave for the day, she heard her dad greet a few people as he entered the office. She knew she would be late for class but she needed to talk to him. If Mr. Love knew anything at all about Reed, then Lindsey was entitled to that information. When she reached his office, she could see he was in a rush, late for a meeting or something. She hoped he would able to spare a few minutes.
“Miss, do you have an appointment? I’m a busy man you know.” Mr. Love looked up at Lindsey with that charming glare of his.
Lindsey took a quick peek at her watch and placed her other hand on her hip, “Hey, I’m in charge of scheduling, not you! I know you have at least a half hour to spare.”
As busy as Mr. Love was, he always found time to spend a moment with Lindsey, no matter how brief. If it made him late, then he was late. It was an excuse he would never feel guilty for. Lindsey thought her dad to be just as charming as Sean Connery or Robert Redford. But he wasn’t acting on the big screens. He really was intelligent, clever, quick witted and handsome. He was the real deal. Mr. Love was approaching sixty years old and stood six feet, two inches tall. He filled out a suit just fine. He had blue eyes. His peppered sandy-blond hair was a good contrast next to his tan skin. In spite of the stress he had accrued over the years, he seemed to age well, suffering only a few wrinkles at the far corners of his eyes.
Mr. Love hit the button on his phone to hear the messages. Lindsey waited patiently for a few minutes as her dad scratched down a message, folded it up and tucked it in his coat pocket. “Nobody knows me as well as you my darling. A half hour is exactly how much time I have, what’s on your mind?”
Lindsey sat at the edge of Mr. Love’s desk. She picked up the picture of her dad and President George Bush at a presidential dinner. “So, you haven’t been in the office much lately. They keep you very busy don’t they.”
“We’re still answering a lot of questions about Iraq and why we didn’t take out Saddam Hussein after beating him out of Kuwait. The press has been relentless.”
Mr. Love had a look on his face as though the media was some kind of disease. “No matter what actually happened over there, the Media will still bend it the way they want. They ask us for the facts but they don’t include them in the report.”
Lindsey usually knew what kind of things were going on in the world because of where she worked. Sometimes it was all that was talked about. The truth was; politics never really interested her. She was glad the war was over and that was pretty much all that was important to her. She was happy Reed wasn’t fighting in Iraq. She’d heard of all the chemical agents that were in the air over there and how some of the soldiers were suffering the effects. They called it, “Agent Orange”. This was also something that was making news lately, something to add to her dad’s stress.
Lindsey paused for a moment, not sure why she was so nervous. She could talk to her dad about anything.
“Dad, I know there is some information in the office that is sensitive and you have to protect it. But if you knew it could affect your family, would you share it with us?”
Mr. Love walked over to the door, which was still open a few inches and closed it. “That’s a tough question Lindsey. It’s kind of why they hired me, because I could be trusted with sensitive information. But I can promise you that I would never hold information that would bring harm to you or your mother. My family is my first priority. I know that sounds odd because of how much time I spend in the office, but I really do love you and mom.”
“I love you too Dad and I know mom is patiently waiting for your work to slow down a little. You owe her a few really good dates.”
Mr. Love gave an honest grin, “Thanks for keeping me on my toes. I need that.”
“It’s my job Dad.” Lindsey walked over and kissed Mr. Love on the forehead and gave him a hug. “Sometimes I just want you to know that you’re loved. It helps take the stress off. Have a good day Daddy!”
Lindsey walked out of Mr. Love’s office. She decided not to bring up the folder again. She loved her dad and didn’t want him to compromise his integrity. He was an honorable man. It was unfair to put him in that position. Lindsey felt her dad knew why she was there, because of the American Bank file. She thought if he would ever talk about it, then it would be when the information was no longer sensitive. But as she walked down the hall, she felt unsatisfied. It was odd that her dad had a file like that and she couldn’t stop thinking about what the connections might be.

************

Lindsey decided to go for a degree in humanities and was currently hammering away at some prerequisite classes. She was late for English and then they took a test, so the two-hour block passed rather quickly. When she got to her World Geography class, her professor, Mr. Allen, had jotted a few current events on the board. The students were to choose one of the topics, research and write a 2500-word essay. The events were happening around the world, most outside of the U.S.

From top to bottom, the list read: Euro Disney opens in Marne-La-Vallee, France / Miami court convicts former Panama president, Manuel Noriega on drug and racketeering charges / The Church of England allows women to be ordained priests / Beijing, China opens its first McDonalds / New York City mob king John Gotti, is convicted on five murder charges after years of eluding arrest / Official break-up of Yugoslavia - Reports of Genocide in Kosovo / and finally, the International UFO Museum opens in Roswell, New Mexico.

As much as Lindsey was interested in Euro Disney, the word, Kosovo, almost hopped off the board. That’s what was on the folder in her dad’s office, ‘Kosovo funding’. Lindsey was getting an ‘A’ in Geography, but she hadn’t ever heard of Kosovo. She asked Professor Allen to point it out on the map. He showed her where Serbia was. She’d heard of that country. Then he pointed to the southern region where Kosovo was. Professor Allen liked to be interactive with his students and enjoyed answering their questions. He enjoyed telling Lindsey all about Belgium, where Reed was stationed. He told her what made Belgium famous and gave her a history review. She thought she would ask him a few things about Kosovo.
“Professor Allen, what’s going on in Kosovo?”
Professor Allen sat on a vacant desk across from the map, keeping his eye on the Kosovo region. “I’m just curious. Have you heard anything in the news lately on Kosovo?”
Lindsey was a little embarrassed to admit she rarely watched the news. She usually got her fix at work. “No, I haven’t, it’s actually only the second time I have ever heard of the place. The first time was a couple days ago.”
“Is this what you’re choosing to write your essay on?”
“Sure,” replied Lindsey
Professor Allen hopped off the desk and walked over to his bookshelf. He removed a book and handed it to Lindsey. The word, “Yugoslavia” was written in bold letters across the front. “This will give you some depth, but it’s not current. I want you to follow the reports on the news. Accusations have been made against Serbia’s newly elected president, Slobodan Milosevic. Over the last week and half, there have been terrible reports of mass graves, new graves. The reports are saying that Albanians and Croatians, who have been living in the region for hundreds of years, are being forced out of their homes and out of the country. Those who refuse to leave are being killed. Do you know what that means Lindsey?”
Lindsey looked up at the board, “genocide, right?”
“Yep, I think you’ll find this to be an interesting investigation. It would be a good one for you to write on.”
Professor Allen didn’t know how right he was. Lindsey wanted to know everything about it.
Lindsey’s commute home had been a little longer than usual lately. A detour routed her back past her dad’s office on her way home from school. It was a little out of the way, but the shorter route had been blocked off by the police. Over the past two months, riots had erupted all over Los Angeles. People were saying a “race-war” had been declared over the decision of the courts to acquit local policemen from the Rodney King beating the previous year.
As Lindsey approached the downtown businesses she saw the office. She couldn’t get that folder off her mind. She couldn’t get Reed off her mind. She could still see a few of the lights on in the building. Her common sense told her to keep driving. But her common sense was commandeered by her curiosity, her desire to be closer to Reed, to know what was going on in his life. Lindsey made a left turn onto Burbank Bvld. and headed for the office.
When Lindsey walked through the lobby, she passed the security desk. She didn’t recognize the guard. She had never been in the building this late. Business hours ended about three hours ago. She wondered if the guard would try to stop her, but she held up her badge and he let her by.
Lindsey took the long ride on the elevator up to the 44th floor. When the doors opened, the entire floor was dark. She walked down the hall until she reached the office. She stopped at her dad’s door. She would look for the file and anything else that might explain things. Lindsey thought if she couldn’t find the file, then she might be able to find something on her dad’s computer. She removed her keys from her pocket, turned the lock and pushed the door open. What she heard frightened her, the chirping of an alarm. She began to panic but then she remembered the code and punched it in. The alarm silenced. She turned on the light and began her search.
Only a few minutes had passed when she saw a light moving down the hall. The security guard was coming to check on her. She thought she might be able to fool him into believing that this was her office. Her confidence faltered when she saw her dad’s name on the door label. But now the security guard was already at the door. He poked his head in.
“Putting in some extra hours are we?” He clicked off his flashlight.
“I forgot something. I’ll only be a few minutes.” Lindsey tried to appear comfortable in the office. She didn’t want to seem nervous. Then the guard glanced at the door label. Lindsey made eye contact with him. She set her badge on the desk and pushed it toward him to read. The last name would be the same.
“My dad needed a file before his trip in the morning. Like I said, I’ll only be a few minutes.”
“No hurry Mamm, I’m just making my rounds.” The guard smiled and then clicked his flashlight back on and continued down the hall.
The file was nowhere in sight. She checked everywhere. Lindsey sat down at her dad’s computer. After a few misfires, she was touched to see that his password was “Madeline,” her mother’s name. She typed Kosovo in the search block and waited for the download. She was anxious. Then four files popped up. She clicked on the first and then . . . . . . . . . she heard the ding of the elevator down the hall; heard the doors open. She figured it was the guard on another round. Then why was her heart pounding? If she stuck her head out to check, it would appear suspicious. She sat and waited. Lindsey couldn’t help but glance back at the computer screen. She noticed Lt. Samuel Clay’s name and then her eyes zeroed in on Reed’s name. She quickly searched for more information. She noticed a few other names. They looked Italian.
Lindsey realized that there was no light moving down the hall, like when the security guard was on his rounds. She heard movement just outside the door. Her body stiffened and then Mr. Love appeared in the doorway. Lindsey was devastated.
“Lindsey, the security guard called me. Is everything okay?” Mr. Love remained at the doorway but was looking at the computer.
Lindsey tried to think of something to say, but nothing made sense. Her thoughts were tangled and her emotions took over. She betrayed his trust. She began to cry.
Mr. Love walked over to Lindsey, placed his hand on her shoulder, “My dear, I’m not clueless you know. I know you care for Reed. I know you love him. I will tell you that I know where he is. I know what he is doing. I know who he is with and I am in contact with him. That’s all I can tell you. He’s safe Lindsey. I’m sorry that I never took the opportunity to get to know him better. I didn’t know that you were so serious about him. If I were home more, I would have known. I’m sorry.”
Lindsey hadn’t composed herself enough to talk, but she was hanging on to every word.
“When I found out what his assignment was, I had to keep my paw on him. If he’s going to be family, if he’s going to be my daughter’s future, I want to help bring him back to us.”
Lindsey took her dad’s arm and pulled him closer to her. Mr. Love’s shirt soaked up the rest of her tears. When she was able to compose herself, she whispered, “Thank you Daddy.” And then she said, “I’m sorry.”
Mr. Love patted her back and explained, “Its okay, you have the right to know. I only wish I could tell you more. But Lindsey, what Reed is doing now is very honorable, more honorable than anything I have ever been involved in. I know you are proud of him. You have the right to be. This young man’s yoke is heavy. A lot of people are depending on him. He needs your strength, your support. Keep loving him Lindsey, it will get him through.”

************

Lindsey spent another hour with Mr. Love. To her, the unexpected reunion was golden. His stature magnified. He could have made her feel terrible, but he made her feel like a million bucks. He could have shown disappointment, but instead, he testified of his love for her. To Mr. Love’s long list of titles, Lindsey would have to add ‘Hero’. And the title of ‘Daddy’, polished up into a beautiful gem.

Chapter 20 – Life and Peace


Skopje, Macedonia 1992

Reed stood alone with Alexander the Great, Marko’s hero. He was the son of a king, a student of Aristotle and a man, who at only age 16, had the weight of a kingdom placed in his lap. He was Macedonia’s real link to history. As Reed gazed upward at his twelve foot, concrete physique, the sky released a soft growl. It tightened and turned to gray. Small drops of water began to mark the concrete around him.
People began to scurry. He could see two elderly gentlemen curse the rain as they gathered up their chess pieces. The older of the two even shook his fist toward the sky and grumbled something in the native language. He saw a mother pushing a baby stroller. She adjusted the canopy above her baby and turned her walk into a slight jog. And then, he saw young children, a boy and his younger sister perhaps. They stopped in wonder, reveling in the fact that their mother wasn’t around to corral them in. A small puppy barked as the two looked toward the sky with their mouths open, with hope to feel the rain on their tongues. Like the children, Reed didn’t seek shelter. He thought the rain was energizing. He sat at a nearby bench and simply enjoyed the time to relax and watch, as Macedonia quenched its thirst.

Reed was the first one to the Monument. If everything went as planned, the others would be arriving shortly. He could hear some of the larger drops of rain tap the bill of his hat. He tilted his head back and stared into the crawling blanket of clouds. He could see each individual raindrop coming down to meet him. Each one carried a small glimmer of light inside. Reed thought it was beautiful against the gray sky. And then, he thought of Lindsey, a glimmer of light in a mist of darkness. She was a life preserver for the tempest tossed in the sea of emotional calamity. She was the hope that fueled his push. And finally, she was the softness where he could rest his head at the end of the fight. Somehow, regardless of the fact that he was a Westerner in the middle of Eastern conflict, Reed managed to doze off.

************

Reed awakened to the sound of screeching tires. He thought he might have overslept. His sight was still a little blurry and rain was still falling. He was able to make out the shape of a blue van at the south end of the park. The side door slid open and a figure stepped out and began waving his arm. Finally, Reed could see it was Otto motioning him over. He appeared anxious. By now, the temperature had dropped about ten degrees and Reed’s clothes were damp. The cold made his joints a little sore as he tried to pick up the pace.
As Reed closed the distance, he heard Otto saying, “Let’s go! Let’s go! The Italians have been arrested by the Skopje Police. They’re being questioned at the station.”
Reed jumped in the van, still unsure of exactly what happened. Marko was driving. Kat was in the passenger seat.
“We don’t have much time. I was worried something like this would happen.” Marko wiped a bead of sweat from his brow. The car was surprisingly warm and the heat was set at the max.
Marko continued, “The three were walking down Ul. Chupinski, when the Police just stopped to talk to them. They said they had been at the stadium all day, but when the Police asked them about the games they were slow to answer. That’s all Angelo could tell me.”
“At least they were allowed a phone call.” added Otto.
Marko was almost causing a scene just by the way he was driving. “Slow down Marko.” Reed advised. “We need some time to think about what we have to do.”
“It might already be too late, Reed.” Marko warned. “If we don’t get to them now, we might not see them again. Once the Diplomats and Statesmen are notified, everything will go public. They will be fresh meat on the menu of political debate. The whole mission will be compromised.”
Reed considered what Sam would want him to do in the current dilemma, cut ties, move on without them.
“Marko, I don’t know exactly what you have in mind, but if the integrity of what we are doing here is lost, so are thousands of lives. If you’re not sure you can negotiate their release without jeopardizing the mission, then we have to leave them behind.”
Otto looked at Reed as if he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Reed, it’s worth a try. The Italians are more than half our team and I was just beginning to like them.” Otto smiled with hope to cut through some of the tension in the van.
Reed was frustrated. “Otto, do you think the Italians are not my friends as well? Marcielli is like a brother to me. But we have to look past that. We have orders. I hope we can get them out. We would suffer a considerable loss with their absence. But you have to be prepared to move forward without them.”
Reed was trying to say the responsible thing. He felt he had to say such things as the mission leader. He had to stress the objective. Any good leader would do the same, follow orders to the end. But in reality, Reed wasn’t sure himself, whether or not, he could actually leave the Italians behind.
They parked a block away from Police Station. Before exiting the vehicle, Marko turned around in his seat and faced Reed and Otto and began to explain.
“The Skopje Police could have arrested me many times in the past for things I have done. They know very well who I am and what I do, that I am part of the resistance. They can’t openly support lawlessness, but they too have resentment for the Serbs. They often turn the other way when the resistance is involved. It is only when things go public that they have to act. Let’s just hope it’s not too late. The only thing I will say to them is that the Italians are with me. Say a prayer that it works.”
Marko and Kat both got out of the van and headed down the street. Kat opened an umbrella and held it over Marko as she intertwined her arm with his.
An image popped into Reed’s head, one he had carried with him for some time. The family was at a town hall meeting and someone alluded to what a great Mayor Tom Beckly would be. Tom thwarted the compliment by professing, “The substance of every man’s greatness is a great women.” And then he looked over at Anna, “Without her, I am just an ordinary man.”
Reed would never forget that. What an expression for someone you love, to raise them on a pedestal for all to see. In watching Marko and Kat, Reed found that to be true. He saw greatness in Marko, but he didn’t have to look very far to see where it came from. Kat was good for Marko. She was his reason to keep his feet on the ground, to be careful in his judgment, allowing him a safe return home in the evening. For how much fight Marko had in him, for how much passion ruled his behavior, he should have already been a martyr for the cause. Kat was the thread that attached him to life. And they both seemed to know it.
Reed noticed that Otto still had a firm grip on the briefcase that held the op orders. Otto looked down at the case. “I understand why we’re here Reed and I understand why you were chosen to lead this mission. You’re a good leader, you’re strong.”
“I appreciate that Otto, but don’t get me wrong.” warned Reed. “I do have a heart, somewhere.”
Otto Laughed.
Reed was surprised by what he saw next; Angelo, Florentine and Marcielli in the distance, all walking toward them.
Otto then asked the question both he and Reed were wondering. “Where are Marko and Kat?”
“We’ll have to find out from the guys.” Reed said as he looked up and down the street for anyone who might be watching them.
As the three approached the van, Reed noticed that Florentine was holding the left side of his ribs as though he was injured. Otto slid the van door open. Marcielli got in first, then Angelo and then Florentine. Otto extended his hand to assist Florentine in. Florentine cringed as he reached for it.
Marcielli smiled, “Flo took one for the team, but he’ll be fine. He’s just overreacting a little. It’s good to see you guys.”
“Have some sympathy for me.” pleaded Florentine. “The man’s foot was at least a size thirteen or fourteen.” Florentine tried to laugh at his own joke, but he ended up groaning instead.
Reed was happy to have the whole team back together again. It was the first time they had been separated in almost a month.
“We’re happy that you’re all okay. Things could have been much worse. Do the police know anything?” Reed hesitated but he had to ask.
Marcielli nodded his head, no. “After we failed to convince the police that we came from the games, no one said a word.”
Angelo chimed in, “We couldn’t even give them our name rank and serial number.”
Marcielli started back up, “They became really frustrated with us. We were all sitting in a room. Flo was sitting closest to the door when an Officer kicked him in the ribs. And then we knew the ‘real interrogation’ had begun. And that’s when Marko and Kat walked in.”
Angelo followed up with, “All they said was that we were with them and then they went into another room and we were released.”
It bothered Reed, wondering what they must have talked about. Another ten minutes passed before Marko and Kat came walking down the street. Reed had to trust Marko, that he hadn’t shared too much information with the police. And he respected Marko enough not to ask him about it.
Marko hopped back in the driver seat and Kat in the passenger. “You were released on one condition.” Marko advised, “And that is that you leave Skopje before the day is over. I told them it wouldn’t be a problem.”

Kat understood that men are always hungry. That’s why she became very popular when she proposed pizza. Marko pulled into the parking lot of Gusto Pizza I Vino. Three pizzas disappeared fairly quickly. However, there was some mutual criticism of the fact that ketchup was used to substitute real pizza sauce. Marko and Kat didn’t know the difference.
The seven of them sat and hashed out the day's events while also acquainting themselves with one another. Kat seemed to be the most talkative out of the bunch, while the others just seemed to enjoy giving her the attention. Marko was more serious than he looked. Although he offered some dry humor, he appeared hasty to get to work, never letting the conversation drift far from the cause of his vexation. Reed respected that and he could tell the others did too.
The atrocities that they had recently learned of, Marko and Kat had been living most of their lives. To Marko, this wasn’t a social event or a chance to meet some foreigners. It was a title he aspired to, as a liberator of the country he loved. It was a possibility for change. It was energy for the second round in the struggle for life and peace. Life and peace, both of which had been unjustly exiled for the past one thousand years and had seemed almost nonexistent. Yugoslavia couldn’t possibly have any more blood to give. Marko wanted to be there to wipe away the last drop. This undertaking was a grasp at hope; one that he prayed was within reach.
Marko lit a cigarette, “We'll take you to Kumanovo. There, you can get your weapons and the rest of Otto's gear. My brother is waiting for my phone call. He has everything waiting for you in an old abandoned church in the northern part of the city. That's if he hasn't already sold it to the underground resistance.” Marko blew a mouthful of smoke. “The resistance would kill for that kind of technology and equipment.”
Otto raised a brow to Marko to get reassurance that he was joking, but Marko didn't reciprocate, he just kept talking.
“The weapons are American, but if you were wise, you trained with local weapons in Belgium. If for some reason you must part with yours to keep your identity, then you must know how to use any weapons you find along the way.”
Reed realized that Marko, a guerilla resistance fighter, wasn't much different than any other soldier in the U.S. military. He understood the concept of knowing your enemy, the importance of adapting to a new environment quickly and making it your own. He was skilled in the art of war. He had the scars. He just didn't have the uniform. The whole thing made him think of the French resistance during WWII, what it must have felt like to aid the civilian fighters in Normandy who were preparing for the massive invasion, or in Poland, arming the Poles who led the Great Warsaw Uprising.
Marko went on, “When you’re ready to venture out on your own, I’ll direct you to an Albanian Officer who attended the trial of a Serbian Lieutenant, acquitted for genocide. This officer can share Intel with you and direct you to things you might be interested in; villages turned to ash, refugee camps, mass graves . . . things like that, things the United Nations would like to see.”
Angelo interrupted Marko, “Marko, you must remember, we’re not with the United Nations or N.A.T.O. for that matter. We're here for personal reasons, on our own time and at our own expense. As much as we value your assistance, you must understand this.”
Angelo glanced over at Reed just in time to catch his nod of approval. Marko nodded his head, almost embarrassed that he was speaking so loosely.
Kat felt a need to fill a short break in the conversation. “Marko, first things first, we’re going to the bazaar. We have to go shopping. These clothes got them into the country okay, but they don't need the extra attention. Now that we know we weren't followed, they should look like they belong. They should blend in. The bazaar will have plenty of fake leather jackets, cheap parkas, argyle socks and used dress shoes. With a little work,” Kat looked each of them up and down, “they can look like the average Eastern European.” Kat was smiling ear to ear.
Marko cracked the slightest grin, “The others might blend in, but good luck on the American. I would more likely believe he was an elephant rather than an Eastern European.”
Florentine laughed out loud, “Yeah, let’s get rid of the American. He's going to slow us down. I say we trade him to the resistance to get Otto's gear back.” This encourage laughter from all.
Reed couldn't put a finger on exactly what features were different, but the differences were profound. A different body shape, maybe. Reed seemed to have a longer torso than the Europeans. His face was square and the back of his head was round, while the Europeans seemed to have round faces with the back of their heads square. His skin was less pale, his nose smaller and his ears maybe bigger. His demeanor and the way he carried himself appeared to be different. Whatever the diversity, Reed accepted the fact that he would have to try harder than the rest of the team to tame outside curiosity and suspicion.
In the bazaar, the group received a fair amount of attention. Reed felt most of it was directed at him. While shopping, he found it amusing that Europeans had almost no comfort zone. They would hold conversations with only inches between themselves. Reed felt himself constantly backing up, while obliging those who practiced their broken English on him. They also seemed to raise their voices for no particular reason.
When the shopping adjourned, Reed was able to retain his white t-shirt and jeans. But he did spend a few moments saying good-bye to his Converse All-Stars and his LA Dodgers baseball hat. He wore a black parka over his t-shirt and black wing-tip dress shoes with his jeans. In America, Reed would have been in dress-code violation. However, Kat had assured him that he looked better than ever. Everyone else seemed to do just fine styling themselves, all sporting a similar look. Reed called it the “college-kid-hit-man look.”

Reed would never again complain about the pot holes in the LA freeways. Nor would he badmouth the cobblestone of Brussels again. Just when he was sure the two-wheel-drive would crumble over the weather eroded, dirt road, he saw the outline of a church beginning to take shape in the horizon, and just below the horizon, rested the small town of Kumanovo.


Chapter 21 – A Light in the Dark


Refugee Camp, outside Srebrenica, 1992

She could still hear the distant crackle. She could even picture the tiny embers twisting out of the flames, only to be engulfed by the plume of horror that smothered her hometown. Milla would never forget that cold morning, standing on the other side of the Drina River, soaking wet. She tried to block out the screams, the gasping and gurgling sounds of those who didn’t make it across the river, the gunfire and the cackling soldiers. And most of all, she tried to forget the indignity, the mortification, the human wreckage and the mental slide-show of the besieged.
“That’s far enough Sofi! I don’t want to lose you.” warned Milla. She watched as Sofi kicked around small patches of snow left by the early morning flurry. The camp quickly became over crowded with almost thirty thousand refugees, terrified and hopeless. Hundreds arrived daily. The town of Srebrenica was hosting as many as they could, but the numbers were too overwhelming. With no luck of getting into the city, Milla moved their tent to the outskirts of the camp.
Animosity grew between the Croatians and the Muslims in the camp. The Croatians believed their predicament was the fault of the Muslims. That the ethnic cleansing was designed for them and the Croatians were only in the way. Though Milla found herself in solidarity with the other refugees, disintegrated from tradition and culture and scratching at the bottom of the pit of despair, she also felt crowded by them, uncomfortable around them. People were losing their sanity; becoming frantic and hostile when their sicknesses or starvation got the best of them. She barely knew them. How could she trust them? But mostly, the constant sadness, the depressing weight of their circumstances proved to be too grave bearing. She saw it etched in their faces, heard it in their voices, the horrible accounts they suffered. Though she grieved with the new arrivals, she didn’t have enough to grieve for them. Milla did all she could to avoid them and she felt a need to protect and coddle the innocence of a four-year-old orphan.
Sofi was a drop of color in a black and white painting. She was full of laughter and wit, in spite of the sorrows that loomed about her. Her short blond hair curled just under her ears. Her eyes were deep blue and beamed hope for every misplaced child. She had a bunny-button nose that wiggled with virtue. Her fair, dirt marked skin and light frame testified of her innocence. Her smile, her dimples and the gap between her teeth complimented her youth. She had enough energy to power a small locomotive. One that Milla wished they could board. Sofi awarded Milla a responsibility great enough to keep moving. She granted her the companionship she so desperately needed. During a time where normalcy, dignity, hope, love and reasons to celebrate were all abandoning her, she had Sofi to be thankful for.
Sofi was turning five in two months. She would have to celebrate her birthday without those who loved her most. Her father stayed in Visegrad to fight and it was reported that no one made it out of there alive. Milla thought of Sofi’s mother and tried to fight back the emotion. But just as every day before this one, she wasn’t victorious. Tears escaped one side, and then the other. Sofi’s mother had been shot, but she held on desperately to Sofi. She even managed to get three quarters of the way across the river.
“Milla,” she cried. “Take her!”
She kissed Sofi on the cheek and then pulled her head inward under her chin, professing her love one last time, trusting and hoping that life would be more promising; more merciful to her daughter.
“Take her!” she cried again.
She pushed Sofi toward Milla as hate and bitterness pulled her downward and wisped her away. Milla had almost given up hope herself. She wasn’t even sure she could push through the strength of the Drina. But the screams brought about the adrenaline. The responsibility injected the will and the tiny cold hands smothered her with love . . . . . a recipe for life, beyond hopelessness.
Milla wept for a little longer and then she felt those familiar tiny arms wrap around her neck. Sofi was smiling, “Its okay Milla, I’ll make you all better.” She cupped both of her little hands on each side of Milla’s face, as a mother would a child.
“Your face is dirty Milla,” said Sofi, not knowing that most of the dirt came from her own hands when she mixed them with Milla’s tears.
“I’m not the one who’s been baking mud pies all day long.” Milla was able to smile as she pulled the little girl into her chest.
Milla waited to hear word from Sofi’s father, but it had been almost a month. It was clear to her what was happening. She thought of the challenges that might lie ahead, but at the same time, Milla thought of Sofi as her new pride and joy. As she held Sofi in her arms, caressed her hair, she whispered,
“I love you Sofi.”
Sofi sprang for more action in the snow. It was getting late. Milla saved enough soup earlier for another meal. They ate once, sometimes twice a day. There was almost no food in the camp. They ate oats that were supposed to be for horses. They made bread out of dried squash seeds, paste out of corncobs, and thin soup out of roots, thistles and willow tree buds. They almost never ate meat, except when a refugee was able to escape with their cattle or flocks of sheep, but that usually went very quickly. And lately their supply was thinning faster than usual. Milla had taken up another service project only a few tents down.
Josif Stanic was an elderly gentleman and a Serb. His home was attacked. His wife and children were Muslim. Josif was the only survivor. He stayed in the home with his lifeless family as long as he could, until it was set on fire by the Vojsko Srbije. The only reason he was spared was because of the blood that ran through his veins. He joined the refugees about twenty-five kilometers from Srebrenica. He was alone and contrite, wearing the look of brokenness without purpose. He was struggling with only one crutch, obviously nursing a leg that was injured in some type of attack. He had lost all the color in his hair and the tightness of his skin. And his eyes were glassy with sadness. Milla felt sorry for Josif. The years of life, love and joy were washed clean from his face. It ate at her conscience. Milla helped Josif along the way when she could. Since then, meals scantly designed for two were now divided among three.
As Milla placed the pot into the coals, she noticed how dirty she really was. She looked down at her hands, could see the dirt built up under her fingernails. Smudges crept halfway up her arms. They hadn’t been able to shower for days now. It wasn’t worth fighting the other refugees at the watering hole. Besides, it was too cold and the water was stagnant. People were getting sick after bathing there. For the last three days, it had snowed enough for them to grab a pot of snow before it melted, and that’s what they used for cooking.
Milla knew it was silly, but she felt ashamed about how dirty she was, even if nobody was judging her cleanliness. She longed for a warm shower. She would give anything to feel the soft pull of a brush through her hair. She wanted to put on make-up. She craved the sweet smell of Giorgio Armani perfume on her skin. Milla wanted to lie across her bed, think about school and recite lines for theatre. She imagined riding Mr. Nowak’s horses in the green pastures of Belgrade. Belgrade, a wave of feeling broke over her, unsolicited and unwelcome . . . . . Lazar.
Milla felt a sudden need to gasp for air. A knot swelled in her throat and her heart pounded. She hated him. She hated to think of him with the dirty, repulsive soldiers that raided Visegrad. For a short moment, she became entangled in rage as she suffered the clout of betrayal. There was nothing left for him. Nothing, Milla told herself. Then why was the emptiness discovering every vacancy in her body? Why was her claim so unsettling? Why was she allowing her thoughts to run wild and wide in the narrowest of passages? It had been over a year since she’d seen him last. Milla anticipated a time when she wouldn’t care as much.
Before bed that night, Sofi put in her usual request for a bedtime lullaby and as always, little snoring sounds could be heard before the song ended. Milla lay there next to Sofi, listened to all the sounds of the camp; the crackle of campfires, the sound of goats off in the distance, small children crying, tired and hungry and finally, the intermittent laughter of overly loud, drunk men, carelessly deploying their responsibilities. The Croatians seemed to have ample vodka to go around.
Milla lay there, trying to get the uneven earth to agree with the contours of her body. She wasn’t sure if she was lonely or just alone. Milla knew there was a difference, but she had never really experienced either. But one feeling was sure; she missed the contact of nearly everyone she loved. Mr. and Mrs. Markovich were visiting Milla’s great aunt in Split, a small island off the coast of Croatia. Surely by now, they had to know about Visegrad. Maybe they were searching for her. Milla was separated from her brother, Ibrahim, in Visegrad at the river. He stayed behind to help buy some time for their escape. They reunited two days later at the camp. Last week Ibrahim was arrested in Srebrenica for stealing food and supplies from a local market. They planned to leave the camp behind and get as close to Split as they could. Now Milla and Sofi were simply waiting for Ibrahim’s return. The authorities said he would only stay a few days in jail.
Milla blew out the lantern. Before descending into slumber, she allowed herself another, harmless, reminiscent. She saw him at the far end of the property by the stables. She kicked the horse and raced up to him. He had trouble introducing himself. Milla was flattered by the power she had over him. But before the night was over, it was she who was awed at the man he really was. Lazar was strong, but kindhearted. He was courageous, but wise, respectful to her, but passionate. He was filled with morale conviction, but was intriguing by the way he teased precision and truth. She loved the way he arrived at every one of her acts thirty minutes before stage time. He was the catalyst of her confidence. She loved the way he always looked at her, as though it was the first time he’d seen such beauty. She loved his soft touch. She cherished the way he cared for his mother and sister. She respected how hard he worked for Mr. Nowak at the Time Machine, the fact that he sometimes worked through the night as she fell asleep at the table trying to provide meaningful conversation. He only joined the Yugoslavs People’s Army because he loved his country. Lazar was the most exciting and the most upsetting exploration of Milla’s life.
Milla wondered if she let herself get carried away with her thoughts. What surprised her was that her eyes were still dry. She truly had nothing left to give. All she could muster belonged to Sofi.

************

Milla had only been asleep a short while when she heard the sound of a bottle break against a rock, followed by the babbling of drunken Croatian men. Probably the same ones she had heard earlier. But this time they were right outside her tent. She looked over at Sofi; hoped she wouldn’t wake. She could see their shadows projecting on the tent.
“That Muslim whore is over here somewhere!” One of them blurted.
Milla lay quietly, she didn’t move.
“If she doesn’t scream, we won’t have to kill her!”
Her body began to tremble. She tried to assure herself that this wasn’t happening, but it was too late. A pale sliver of light poked through the tent as a blade parted the fabric.


Chapter 22 – The Window, the Po, and the Answer


Marianna wished she could capture the moment in a painting. She tried to imagine the bright colors an artist might use to portray the glow she felt. It was the life she always wanted for herself and recently it seemed so far out of reach. But it was kissing her on the nose now and it was more than she could ever ask for. Marcielli moved his hand up and down Marianna’s back. She felt the warmth in each stroke. Then Marcielli motioned her to stop as he reached down into the baby carriage. He carefully picked up the baby and curled it into his chest. The infant almost disappeared into the loving arms of its captor.
“Thank you Marianna. Thank you for this baby.” he told her.
Marianna thought she would melt. Instead she just stared as Marcielli nearly mirrored perfection. Seeing him as a father was only the final touch. Marcielli carried the baby as Marianna pushed the empty stroller through a tunnel of trees that stood witness to their happiness.
As the two walked and laughed and tempted to catch up on times lost, Marianna noticed the leaves on the trees begin to flicker. She caught a light chill as the wind made its way through the park. The birds lost interest in song. The bright colors that once had wisped around them seemed to fall flat. Day was transforming into night with no reasonable explanation. The clouds seemed to embolden one another as they came together to caress the tree-tops. Fog settled in the park.
Marianna was confused at the sudden change in weather. “Let’s get the baby to the car!” warned Marcielli as he placed the baby back into the carriage. Just short of a jog, they both hurried to get back to the car. Something terrified Marianna. She felt an energy moving with them. She thought if she looked back, they would be swallowed up by it. What was she feeling? It was silly. Her emotions were only playing out a scene she’d watched over and over in the movies. But she fight this one off. Then she heard footsteps, out of sync from their own and a voice rang out . . . . . . . “Marcielli!”
The shrill voice strangled her thoughts. Nothing seemed right, thought Marianna. They turned around. Two men stood only five feet from them. They were wearing long trench coats and their hats were tilted so you couldn’t easily see their faces. One of them said, “We have a message for you.” And the other opened his coat and raised a shotgun.
Marianna saw the flash and heard the horrifying noise that followed. The blast hit Marcielli in the chest and threw backward over the baby carriage. As Marcielli and the baby crashed to the ground, Marianna screamed and leaped for them both.
As she leaped, everything turned black. Everything was silent. She could feel the dryness of her throat as the air rushed in and out. The cool breeze was back. When Marianna sat up, she was met with the familiar bulge and tightness of her tummy. The curtains over the window waved as a banner of relief, assuring her it was all just a dream.
Marianna got out of bed and reached past the curtains out into the cold night. She grabbed the windows edges and pulled them inward, evicting the chill that had filled the room. It wasn’t the first time she had a dream like this one. She crawled back into bed, pulled the covers around her body. As she looked over at all the extra space next to her, she was reminded of how lonely she really was. She reached her arm into the space that Marcielli once occupied and began to weep.
Marianna never remembered falling asleep after waking up in the middle of the night. She stood in her side of the closet, contemplating the weather and how she should dress. She settled for more of a traditional look with her long black jacket, scarf and hat to match. She glanced at the pink shoebox, bearing the ‘Fiesso’ label. Though she promised herself she wouldn’t, she reached for it anyway. She brought the shoebox over to the foot of her bed.
Marianna removed both the letters; the one she received when she and Marcielli were dating and the one she recently got at her Grandmother’s house. Marianna grew weary with her sorrows and she became angry. She was angry that someone else had this kind of dominion and power over her, power to control her thoughts, feelings and fears. Rico and Dmitri; who were they? Didn’t it matter to them that she and Marcielli were only a young couple in love? Marcielli was nothing like his father. Couldn’t they see that? Perhaps the most difficult weight for Marianna to carry was that Marcielli wouldn’t run from them. He wouldn’t live his life in hiding. She wondered what kind of fate this might bring them.
She thought about burning the letters, but couldn’t ever bring herself to do it. Marianna read them quietly and then again. She let the fear take hold of her again as she thought of Marcielli, her unborn baby and the joy of family. If these things were hers, then why were they just out of arm’s reach? She felt like someone was smothering her with her own hand-woven blanket of dreams and ambitions. She felt powerless and it was too much for her to watch as life continued to circle the drain.
Why did she keep the letters? Why did she keep them when they were so infectious? Why? Marianna asked herself and then an image raced through her mind. Why? She knew why she kept the letters. Marianna’s thoughts began to play out on a stage of enlightenment. She felt as though she stumbled across a beautiful song that was being heard for the very first time. Excitement and strength moved through her body. But hesitancy followed. Marianna knew what she had to do. She only needed more time to think about it, time to build the courage.
She didn’t know where she was going, but it really didn’t seem to matter. It was Friday. On Monday the new semester would be starting. She knew she had to surrender her worries before she went back to school in order to bring her grades up. She wanted Marcielli to know she worked hard while he was gone. Marianna didn’t ride her moped today. She thought it might give her away. She decided to pay a visit to the kiosk on the corner, just outside the base, for a bus ticket. She and Marcielli’s elderly friend, Don Carlo, worked there. Don Carlo was the classic reminiscent of an aging Italian man; half his original size, bearing the four seasons of every year of his life in the quality of his skin, white hair, revealing itself under an artisan style cap, dark brown eyes, begging for attention, yet, a thinly trimmed mustache, confirming the look of the once, self-made Casanova of his time.
“Ciou Marianna!”
“Ciou Don Carlo!”
“Marianna, as the Alps mark the map of Italy, so your beauty marks my heart.” Don Carlo kissed Marianna’s hand before he placed the bus ticket in it.
“Don Carlo, a man your age shouldn’t have such things on his mind. What would Isabella have to say?”
“Isabella keeps threatening to leave me.”
The humor was a small band-aid for the way Marianna had been feeling.
“I’ll make you a promise, Don Carlo. On your 100th birthday I will pop out of a giant cake for you, in my bikini.”
Don Carlo looked pleased as he might have been picturing the occasion. Then his spirit seemed to tumble as he admitted, “But that’s twelve years away. I might not live another twelve days.”
“Mark it on your calendar, Don Carlo. It will motivate you to keep on living.”
Marianna smiled and began to walk away with her ticket.
“Belissimo,” Don Carlo called her back. He pointed and asked, “How’s the little one?”
She glanced down at her stomach. She was reminded that the world was no longer moving around just her, but both of them. Where she went, so did the baby. And now it was taking on a new identity, a new shape and it was no longer sitting quietly. It wanted to be noticed and it wanted to be introduced. Marianna smiled, “Thank you, Don Carlo. The Baby is fine.”
Marianna spent an hour and a half on the bus. She nearly made a full circle around the city before she came to a stop where she wanted to exit, near her old apartment. It was the where she and Marcielli grew up. She walked down the street for a while before she reached the Po river walk.
Over the past two days it had been raining, but today was clear and the air was clean and fresh. The sun was casting such a light off the Po that the buildings bordering the river walk seemed to beam with pride. Almost like when a girl whips her hair behind her shoulders because she knows she is beautiful.
Marianna saw gondolas with couples holding each other and perhaps making promises for their future. She saw a grandfather and a grandson holding on to one fishing pole, casting a line into the water. The old man, in the evening of life, has all the love and wisdom in the world to give, but not enough time to give it. And the young boy was just caught up in the excitement and naïve to the fact that the moment wouldn’t last forever. She saw venders preying on the tourists and tourists too kind to tell them no. She saw a group of young students sitting at the edge of the river walk. Some were transferring the beauty of the city to canvas, while others were just staring at a blank easel.
As Marianna walked, she found herself placing her hand at the small of her back for support. She even discovered her walk was beginning to mirror that of a duck. She couldn’t help but laugh at the timeless, but humorous quirks of pregnancy. She hoped Marcielli would return soon enough to laugh with her. Though she was tired, Marianna couldn’t rest just yet. In another one hundred meters or so, she would reach her destination, her place in the painting, her page in the novel, ‘Life along the Po’.
Marianna finally found the park bench across from her old apartment. She was able to pick out the balcony where she and Marcielli spent countless evenings overlooking the river. It was where they shared their philosophies of life and love and it was where destiny was sealed with a beautiful gesture and a ring.
As Marianna sat, pigeons began making their way over, pecking at the dirt around her. When they learned that nothing was on the menu, they waddled off in search of new visitors. For the next hour or so, life continued revolving around Marianna as her ideas began to materialize and take shape in her mind. She discovered the answer. There was only one way to take back what was hers and she had to do it without Marcielli. He would never approve of her plan. And she would never tell him what she was about to do. From where did this might come? She was being introduced to personality she didn’t know she possessed. Now that her mind was made up, Marianna became anxious. She had to act now.

She caught the express 305 to the west side of the city. She got off on Via Malpensa, rounded the corner and pushed open the door. Marianna approached the desk Sergeant and asked for Detective Fetti.
Antigo Fetti, once Marcielli’s playground enemy, was now a close friend to the both of them. The busyness of the Police Department kept the pace for the urgency Marianna was feeling. Some Officers were moving hastily out of the building while responding to their radios. Others were escorting prisoners in handcuffs and some just seemed to be buried in paperwork at their desks.
“Marianna, I was just thinking about you and Marcielli. What a coincidence. What brings you here?”
Antigo wasn’t the same bully that he once was on the playground when they were little. He was much more likeable. He had abandoned his pudgy physique and the need to throw his weight around to get what he wanted. Now he was tall with a slender build. He appeared to be milder in nature. Antigo was suited much better as a detective than a beat cop.
“I’m glad to see you Antigo. Can we talk in private?”
“Sure, is my office okay?”
“That’s fine.” Marianna didn’t even attempt to hide her concern.
“Are you all right Marianna?”
Marianna didn’t answer his question, “I need your help Antigo.”
Even though Marianna was spoken for, she was the type of girl Antigo would do anything for. He was happy to help her.
“Do you need me to climb a mountain or cross the ocean? I only need a little time to get into shape.”
Surprisingly, Marianna was able to smile. As she entered Antigo’s office, Marianna was already reaching into her handbag. She removed the two letters.
“Some of the prints will be mine, but I want you to find out who the others belong to. This might help; their first names are Rico and Dmitri.”
“What’s this all about Marianna?”
“I’ve received some letters from them and I just want to know who they are.” Marianna didn’t want to go into their whole history of dodging the Mafia. It was too involved and she didn’t want to waste time.
Though Antigo was curious, his desire to help Marianna and show her how skillful he was seemed to take precedence. Antigo opened a drawer and removed some rubber gloves. He pulled them over his hands and took the letters from her.
“I’ll bring them back to the lab. It will take the ID techs about thirty minutes to make a positive match. In the mean time, would you like me to bring you some coffee?”
Marianna only tried coffee a few times in her life. She never really liked the taste of it. Oddly enough, under the circumstances, she took Antigo up on his offer. “Thank you Antigo. Lot’s of sugar please.”
“You got it!”
Three days after Marcielli had beaten Antigo on the playground, his guilt led him into Duomo, a place he didn’t know could have so much influence over his soul. Marcielli began his confession in a confessional booth, but ended it outside the booth with his head buried in the Priest’s chest, as tears soaked his holy cloak. It was affection he never got from his own father. Marcielli never knew the priest’s name. He returned a week later, but the priest had been transferred to Rome to minister in the Vatican. But whatever he told Marcielli had changed him.
When Marcielli returned to school after his suspension, he had earned the respect of those on the soccer field. He had beaten Goliath. That day, as team captain, Marcielli’s first pick, ironically, was Antigo, whose sudden lack of courage caused him to cower in the back of the crowd. His look of surprise matched the other players around him. They had become friends after that day.
Antigo was only on the streets for eight months before he was reassigned to investigations. He had already received many awards for investigations he successfully closed, to which numerous plaques on the wall testified.
Marianna saw Antigo walking down the hall with coffee in both hands. She stood up and opened the door for him.
“I hope there’s not too much sugar in it. I didn’t know how much you wanted.”
“Thank you Antigo!” It was the least of her worries, Marianna thought. Not being a regular coffee consumer, she nearly burnt her lips on the first sip. As she set the cup on the desk, Antigo apologized. “Sorry, I should have told you it was still too hot to drink.”
“It’s all right.” Marianna assured.
“Have you heard anything from Marcielli lately?” Antigo inquired as he began straightening stacks of paper work on his desk. Antigo kept a very tidy office. Everything seemed to be in order. But Marianna could tell that he still felt self-conscious with her in the room.
“Marcielli sends his love to me all the time, but I don’t know where he is or what he’s doing and that’s what worries me.”
“So he’s not in Belgium anymore?” Antigo finally sat down.
“I don’t know Antigo.” Marianna sighed with frustration.
It was uncomfortable for Antigo to see her this way. He tried to change the topic as he opened his desk drawer.
“I have something for the baby.” He pulled out a small toy policeman. “We donated these to the orphanage, but I kept one for the baby. I’m taking a chance that it’s going to be a boy.” Marianna thought it was a nice gesture.
Marianna didn’t think much time had passed when Antigo received a phone call from the printing techs.
Antigo blurted into the receiver, “Now that’s what I call service. I’ll have to recommend a raise for you two.” And then Antigo’s change in demeanor was obvious as he turned a little and lowered his voice. “Are you sure you’ve got the right guy? Okay, I’ll be there shortly.”
Marianna made eye contact with Antigo, but he didn’t say anything to her as he walked out of the office. When he returned, he was holding the letters and a few pieces of paper. Antigo still hadn’t said anything when he spread the papers out on his desk. Marianna noticed the one with a photo on it. She stood and moved closer to Antigo. In the photo, was a man in his forties. He was balding with a ring of dark, wirey hair around his head. There were dark circles around his eyes. He had a large nose and a slightly crooked smile. His face was round, along with extra fat under his chin, but his weight was only listed at one hundred and seventy pounds.
Antigo took a breath, “His name is Dmitri De La Tori. He’s a bad guy, Marianna. He works for the Gambino family, which means he’s in deep with the Mafia. He has a record of auto theft, money laundering, racketeering and assault with a deadly weapon. He’s also been an investigative lead in two missing person cases.”
Marianna was only hearing bits and pieces of what Antigo was saying. She found Dmitri’s personal information. She moved her finger downward across the paper and stopped at his home address, 205 Via Costello. She said it to herself softly and then she said it again.
“Thank you Antigo.” Marianna gathered up her letters and began heading for the door.
Antigo stood up, “Marianna, what are you doing?”
“Don’t worry. From here I can manage on my own.”
Antigo followed her out, “Let me go with you!” he shouted.
“I’m not going anywhere, Antigo. Relax, I’ll be fine.” assured Marianna.
“Be careful, Marianna. If you need me, call me.”
Marianna turned and waved good-bye. She was grateful to have a friend like Antigo. When Marianna got out onto the street, she noticed it was less busy than before. The sun was beginning to set. The bus would take too long, so she was relieved when she saw a taxi just across the street letting out a few tourists. When it was cleared, Marianna hopped in the back seat.
“205 Via Costello please.”
Marianna tried to find reasons not to go. She could only think of what Marcielli would say if he knew what she was about to do. But her convictions only grew stronger as she thought of living the rest of her life in fear. She thought about the letters and the threats. She thought of how many times Rico and Dmitri had parked outside their apartment. How they showed up at her school. How they stuck a knife in Marcielli’s door. How they had followed her to her grandmother’s and finally she thought about the nightmares she’d been having, of watching her husband murdered right before her eyes. She didn’t want this for their baby. Adrenaline filled her body, expelling anger from her soul. There was no turning back now. She would never have this much courage again.
When they reached 205 Via Costello, she asked the driver to wait for her and call the police if she didn’t return in ten minutes. She wrote down Antigo’s phone number on a piece of paper and handed it to him.

************

Antigo pulled over to the side of the road and turned off his lights when he saw Marianna get out of the taxi. He concealed his gun at his waist and made his way across the street. He made sure to stay out from under the street lamps. He watched as Marianna climbed up to a second story apartment. Antigo reached the stairwell and hid himself in the shadows. He tried to remain as quiet as possible as he waited, watched. Marianna knocked on the door.
Antigo drew his gun . . . . . .

Chapter 23 – Just Causes


Twenty miles north of Zvornik, Bosnia 1992

Though the mission was precariously uncertain, the liberties attached were refreshing. The opportune moment had introduced itself. No one was expecting their return. Nikola even labeled the mission as a suicide mission. They would however, carry out the task in which they were assigned. They would radio in the severity of hostile movements in the towns of Zvornik and Srebrenica and they would map out the best routes for the Serb withdraw.
Radenko hadn’t slept much since he learned of the assassination attempt on his father. It was the even hum of the Jeep’s engine that seemed to break his insomnia. Lazar didn’t want to wake him. He drove straight for the smoldering ball of gold resting on the horizon. It was so bright, Lazar found it hard to maintain obedience to the pale white lines along the blacktop. The sun’s rays cast a beautiful glow on the inhabitants of the valley. Stone farmhouses, rows and rows of unattended crops, trees preparing to bare themselves and frostbitten wildflowers lying slumped over at the highway’s edge. Winter had begun its expedition, an expedition sure to impose added hardship on the refugees throughout the country.
Lazar knew his opportunity for chivalry had been lanced. He didn’t even know if Milla was alive and if she was, he doubted a second chance with her would be granted. But he finally felt engaged in a just cause. If it required his life, Lazar would get the message to the refugees that the Vojska Srbije was headed their way. Resistance would be met with unforgiving force, but there was time to vacate the camp and move south where the Croats had better grip of the territory.
The miles began ticking away. They were just outside of Zvornik when Lazar saw a bus in the distance off to the side of the road. A small multitude gathered around it. As they drew nearer, Lazar could see what was happening. They were refugees, mostly women and children. Serb Soldiers were ordering them off the bus at gun point. Lazar slowed as they passed, but the bus obscured his view of the crowd. He had to know if she was there or even if there were any familiar faces. Lazar applied the brakes and made a u-turn. As the jeep met the gravel shoulder, Radenko woke up.
“Miss a turn?” mumbled Radenko, squinting into the sun.
“There’s a bus back there full of refugees. That’s our first stop.” voiced Lazar.
Radenko didn’t know much about this girl or about what really happened between her and Lazar, but he knew almost nothing would splinter Lazar’s focus and dedication in finding her.
Lazar and Radenko earned the attention of the other soldiers as they pulled in behind the bus. Radenko stayed in the jeep as Lazar stepped out and situated his rifle over his shoulder. After realizing the soldiers weren’t alarmed by their presence, Lazar looked straight past them and quickly scanned the faces in the crowd. The scope of his search so narrow he almost failed to capture the radiation of emotion. They were frightened and tired, their faces heavy with fallen hope. The look of desolation and gloom had sold them out entirely. They had come this far only to trade optimism and anticipation for defeat. She wasn’t there. But he took a moment. He made eye contact with a few of the refugees and wished he could grant some fiber of hope for them. Lazar hated to think of what Milla might have endured or might be bearing now.
“Can we help you with something, Corporal?” inquired one of the soldiers.
A sergeant quickly interrupted, “He’ll have to make his own catch. These ones are ours!” He laughed as he jammed the tip of his rifle into the chest of an elderly man.
“We’re not interested in your refugees, Sergeant.” assured Lazar. “We only stopped to find out if you have been through Zvornik or Srebrenica or if you’ve run into any resistance in the area.”
“We haven’t spent very much time in Zvornik but if you plan to go into Srebrenica, prepare for a fight. The refugees have joined the resistance there and the Croat Paramilitary supply’s them with more defenses everyday. Don’t try to get through there by yourselves.” the sergeant warned.
Lazar got back in the jeep and began to drive away when he heard a scream, followed by the stutter of machinegun fire. He hoped he wouldn’t hear more, but he found himself drowning the opportunity by speeding away. Now was not the time to be noble. He didn’t want to lose the race by scratching at the starting line. Every life is precious, Lazar told himself. But he only had one life to lose, one life to give, redeemable by Milla alone. Radenko could see the redness in Lazar’s eyes, but he quickly glanced away, allowing Lazar time to reconstruct his poise.
It was clear they were nearing Zvornik as little bits of the city began to leap out at them. The farmhouses were in clusters now. They were passing connecting highways, remote bus stops and small convenient stores hoping to attract the first sales.
“Lazar, when you see a place to get gas, pull over. We should fill up while we can and I need to make a phone call.” This was the first chance Radenko had to contact his father.
“You got it Private!” promised Lazar, obviously more optimistic than before. “Give the General my love and support.”
Lazar saw the yellow and green BP sign growing taller as they approached. The two pulled into the station, both appearing overly cautious of their new surroundings. Lazar paid the attendant as Radenko found a pay phone on the side of the store. Radenko reached into his pocket for the one dinar the call would require. It was then that he noticed a green, military-style truck coming down the road. The truck slowed and turned into the station. Radenko saw the big eagle crest of the Croatian Paramilitary forces on the side of the truck. He saw two men in the cab. He anticipated encounters like these, knew he had to be vigilant and ready. Radenko assumed an unyielding grip on his Ak-47, aimed it toward the truck and began walking in Lazar’s direction to warn him. But then something strange happened. Radenko made eye contact with the driver of the truck. The driver was startled and became evasive as he sped out of the station. It struck Radenko that they were equally surprised to see him as he was to see them. This led to a probability that Zvornik was still neutral ground.
Radenko removed the handset, exposing the digits that separated him from silence and his father’s voice. Radenko felt almost weary. He wasn’t sure why, but he hesitated. He wanted to hear his father’s voice, wanted to make sure he was okay. Radenko wondered if his father suspected conspiracy among the ranks and he wondered if it was appropriate to advance the idea. Radenko wanted to make his stand next to his father, regroup, rearm and fortify. He wanted to unburden his mind; his heart. He wanted to confide. But the General didn’t know of his son’s revolt against Michailo Pec and Nikola. He knew nothing of his transfer to infantry, let alone, his and Lazar’s unsanctioned quest of gallantry, indubitably chased by bitter recourse. How could he tell his father that he was on his way, but that hell was following him? Radenko had always leaned on his father as the voice of reason and truth. But for now, he could only inquire about his well being and express his love and loyalty, loyalty to God and family, loyalty to the finest qualities, loyalty to Sasia and the web she had spun around them.
Radenko dialed his home in Visegrad, but was advised by a generic recording that the number was no longer in service.
Surely a product of the attack, Radenko reminded himself.
What he hoped, was that Petrovich was caring for his father. On the second ring, Radenko heard the firm but friendly voice of his uncle.
“Zdravo, Petrovich speaking!”
“Petro, its Radi”
“Radi, are you okay?” inquired Petrovich.
Radenko realized they must have been worried sick.
“I’m fine. It’s good to hear your voice.”
Radenko heard Petrovich yell into the background, “It’s Radi! I told you, you had nothing to worry about.”
“Petro, is my father with you?”
“Yes Radi, he was released from the hospital two days ago. Where have you been? I’ve called. I’ve even been to your apartment in Prystyna.”
“It’s a long story, Petro. I’ll explain it to you when I have the time. Is he going to be okay?”
“He’s going to be okay Radi. He wants to talk to you.”
Radenko had never been this nervous to talk to his own father. He had so much to say, but the delivery had to be handled with care.
“Radenko?”
There was something so distinctive in the way the General said his name. It was old-fashioned and resoundingly honest. It was comforting to Radenko.
“Dad, it’s good to hear you’re okay.”
“You sound far away, Radenko. Where are you?”
“I’m in Bosnia, outside of Zvornik, on a pay phone.” answered Radenko.
The General sounded confused. “When did you leave Prystina?”
Radenko promised himself he wouldn’t go into detail. “I left the court room. The company was more than I could bear.” admitted Radenko. “General Pec found a spot in the infantry for me. I’m alright with it.”
“That’s not where you wanted to be, Radenko.” the General rebuked.
“I know dad. Things change, but enough about me. I want to know when you’ll be back to good health. You’ve got an Army to command.”
“Radenko, your father is an old man. I have served Montenegro for forty-six years. I am the last of the Tito era. I can’t keep up anymore. I’m tired. The Nation would be better served by the younger aggressor, one who understands the ideas and needs of the New Greater Serbia. I think it’s time to be relieved of my post. I haven’t even had time to enjoy the mountains we live in. There are rivers and lakes I haven’t fished yet. I have to build a new home.”
Radenko glanced over his shoulder long enough to see Lazar replace the fuel nozzle on the pump. Lazar drove the jeep over to where Radenko was standing and began studying a map. Radenko faced the booth again.
The General went on. Radenko didn’t want to hear any of it. His father was being pushed out and he wasn’t even putting up a fight. The attack intimidated him. He was throwing in the towel in the last round. Radenko knew what he was about to say would bring him grief, but he couldn’t remain silent.

“Dad, the integrity of the army is hanging by a few threads. You are one of those threads. You are the voice of Montenegro. We’re fighting with Serbia but we’re also independent. You are the last proof. If you retire, you’ll be replaced by a Serb General. You’re right. You are the last of the Tito era. Do you know what that means? You carry the last banner. Forty years of peace. And you’re going to let Milosevic make a fool out of Tito. You’re going to let guys like Michailo Pec burn your banner, our banner. Dad the Kacak Resistance wouldn’t travel to the mountains of Ivangrad. Did you investigate the scene? Were they low grade RPGs? Or were they military grade rockets?”
“Enough, Radenko! Do you know what you’re implying? Do you know what kind of top level conspiracy you’re speaking of? My son, this is lunacy.”
“Dad General Pec wants you dead. I’m sure of it. I’ve gotten to know what kind of people they are. Why does Montenegro have to be involved in the ravages of Slobodan Milosevic? He is a tyrant. Mihailo Pec, Nikola Obilic, they’re all tyrants. Please stay in the fight with me, Dad. I think about Mom all the time. The things she told me that morning. Good men must resist tyranny. Let’s restore freedom and peace to those we love and the country we love, even if the odds are often hopeless with little possibility of victory.”
Radenko wasn’t even sure where he found the words. But it was the message he wanted his dad to hear. That he was finally engaged in a just cause. There were few people in life that possessed the finest qualities of the human spirit. Radenko felt an adoring need to be one of them. He knew his character had been measured in the devil’s cauldron. If he only had a teaspoon of honor, he hoped it would lessen the taste of bitterness that was sweeping through Yugoslavia, the same bitterness that was eating away at his friend. Radenko looked over at Lazar, nodded to him. Lazar nodded back. Radenko knew he didn’t have the wisdom or maturity to counsel the General the way he did. He knew it was mostly out of desperation, desperation for a way off the path they were on.
“I love you Radenko. You are your mother’s son. I have been blessed to be surrounded by great men in my life. I can say that you have joined the ranks. But be careful, Radenko.” advised the General. “I am not prepared to suffer any more losses.”
“Will you wear the uniform for one more year, Dad?” Radenko begged.
“I will wear it as long as you do, Radenko.” the General promised.
Radenko was satisfied with that.
“Dad, we’ve gone through a lot together, since I was only a boy. I’ve never told you how spirited and courageous you’ve been. The last fifteen years you have been without your Sasia by your side and yet you have moved through life as though she were cheering you on. It means so much to me. I just wanted you to know that. You’ve been a great father to me, and a great leader. Every young man would have an honest shot at greatness, if they only had a father like mine. Thanks Dad, thanks for always being there. I love you, Dad.”
“I love you, Son. Thank you for those kind words. The pleasure of being your father is mine.”

Radenko heard the dull clad of the phone meeting the table. He heard Petrovich ask if he was still on the phone. He could barely hear the General’s exhausted voice, “I’m worried, Petro.”
Petrovich picked up the phone.
“Are you still there, Radi?”
“I might have to deposit another twenty-five dinar, but I’m still here, Petro.”
“Come see us when you can. Your father can make some phone calls if you’re in trouble.”
“For now I have an obligation to my Corporal, but I’ll come as soon as I can.” Radenko promised.
“Okay Radi! I want you to know that Anjia is taking care of your father when I am away at work, so don’t worry about him. You take care of yourself!”
“Okay Petro, Zdravo!”
“Zdravo Radi!”
Petrovich hung up the phone.

Radenko reclaimed his position in the passenger seat, “I’m ready when you are, Corporal.”


Chapter 24 – Against All Odds


Refugee Camp outside Srebrenica, 1992

Milla wanted so badly to scream as loud as she could. Fear raced through her body, recklessly plowing over walls of safety and comfort. It was stalking her, breathing over her, ready to sink its fangs deep into her skin. She had to act quickly, but Sofi was all she could think about. Milla couldn’t imagine what they would do to keep the little girl quiet. She threw the covers off Sofi and stood her up. Confused, Sofi began mumbling. Milla pressed her fingertips softly against Sofi’s lips.
“You must be quiet, Sofi.” she whispered. “Please listen to me. You must run as fast as you can and hide in trees. I promise I’ll come for you.”
Sofi nodded her head but gently let her emotions slip when she looked over and saw the men trying to get in. Milla glanced over and noticed the knife had snagged on a seam which graciously afforded them more time. Quickly, she untied the flap on the other side of the tent and faced Sofi toward the woods.
“Run Sofi!”
Milla turned around. One of the men already had half his body in the tent.
“Nice and quiet, nobody gets hurt.” The men were cackling and growling like a pack of hungry dogs. An awful stench had already filled the tent. The smell of alcohol, campfire and body odor was nauseating and repulsive. Frantically, Milla searched for anything she could use for protection. She grabbed a pot in one hand and a fork in the other. The first man slithered toward her, wielding his knife. The second followed.
Towering over her, one of them barked “You got what’s coming to you Muslim whore. There’s no way out.” The other man cheered him on by adding, “Yeah and you better give it to us easy.”
Milla adjusted her grip on the pot. Her hands began to sweat. She swung the pot upward at his head. He raised the arm with the knife, blocking the blow. Then swiftly used his other hand to grab her shirt and jerk her toward him. The second man, who was not as big but twice as unsightly, grabbed the pot from her and threw it down. The first man snapped at him,
“Quiet you fool. Are you trying to wake the camp?”
The man pulled her in tighter, forging his knee between her legs. Milla could feel his rancid breath landing on her skin. The stubble on his face scratched against her neck. He moved upward toward her jaw line.
“Soft and sweet.” he muttered.
By now Sofi was far enough away, Milla screamed as she plunged the fork into the side of the man in front of her. She wasn’t sure it actually penetrated his jacket but he folded to the side and winced in pain. The second man grabbed Milla from behind and covered her mouth to stop her from screaming. The larger man then pulled the fork from his side and exploded upward, firing his right fist into Milla’s stomach. She’d never felt that kind of physical pain. It hurt everywhere. She gasped for air. She tried to scream again, but almost nothing came out and what did was muffled by the large, rotten hand covering her mouth. Milla dropped her weight and tried to curl into a ball. The smaller man stepped to the side. The Larger fell down on top of her, bringing his weight with him. Milla tried pushing him off but she wasn’t strong enough. And now the second man was pinning her shoulders to the ground. The larger man clumsily reholstered his knife at his waist and began tugging on Milla’s clothes. The more she resisted the more forceful they became.
Milla had been through too much to surrender what was left of her dignity to these vile dogs, trespassing all over her innocence. She wouldn’t give in. When she was halfway unclothed, when they were distracted, she would strike again. If she was going to teach Sofi to be strong in a world where outside forces were so unforgiving, then she had to earn her credentials. When the moment was right, Milla unsheathed the knife on her attacker’s hip and stabbed it deep into his leg. She felt the flesh part all the way to the bone, where the knife abruptly stopped.
Like a wounded bear, the man screeched sadistically, dispatching a stomach full of vile breath onto her skin. Milla tried to work herself free, but was met with blunt force to the side of her head. She fell flat against the earth. Her head throbbed. Everything started to spin. She tried to fight the sensation, but it was too overwhelming, too abrupt. She lost all strength. Everything went black before she drifted out of consciousness.

************

Milla had only been out a second or two when she heard the men struggling. Her vision improved to a blur. But there were three men in the tent. The third man was waving a shovel around as though it was King Arthur’s sword, a bit too heavy. The man began cursing at Milla’s attackers as each swing connected with their bodies. Each thud sounded like an angel whispering into her ears.
The frailness of his stature, the raspyness and shake of his voice and the struggle to keep his body up without support, assured her of her hero’s identity, Josif. When the old man saw enough blood, he threatened the two of them. He told them if they even, so much as, glance in Milla’s direction, she would be the last thing they saw. The two picked themselves off the ground and staggered out of the tent.
Josif took a moment to catch his breath, now using the shovel for support.
“Are you okay Milla?” he gasped.
“I’m okay Josif.” she replied humbly.
“I couldn’t save them. It happened all too fast, Milla. Before I knew it, they were gone. I wish I could have protected them. I would have fought my heart out.” Tears rolled down his face.
“I’m sorry about your family.” Milla whispered. She reached for him. “You saved my life Josif. Thank you.”
“I wasn’t alone,” admitted Josif. “There’s a scared little girl in my tent. Put yourself together and come get her.”

************

A few long days had past since that night, a night where innocence and virtue were sealed, and a night where heroes, both young and old, where manifested. As Milla wondered why her hopes for a normal life lay in derelict, one truth was engraved in stone; her alliance with Sofi was infinite. They had each been there for each other when fate was handling their lives carelessly, when stillness and joy had been slain in open view.
Milla hoped to see Ibrahim soon, hoped to leave the camp and get closer to Split. But refugees without transportation were sure to get stopped somewhere along the way. There was no telling which areas were still held by the resistance or had been taken by the Bosnian Serbs. Milla heard that the refugee camps, once known as safe havens, were getting attacked more and more. In a way, she felt like a target waiting for contact. Milla hated to think she would lose another entire semester of school to this new imposing heartbreak. She wondered when her life would be back to normal, wondered when, merely being a human being, was a good enough reason to escape the unsympathetic blows of hostility, when the sun could rise and fall over one nation, blind to indifference. She wondered when she could reunite with the simplicity of basic struggles like homework, what to wear to school, what to do on the weekend. She even wondered whether or not it was time to relinquish her guard on love and trust. Milla rested for a moment, letting the possibilities stoke the fires of her imagination.


Chapter 25 – Sanctuary


Milan Italy, 1992

Antigo pulled over to the side of the road. He turned off his lights when he saw Marianna get out of the taxi. He then concealed his gun at his waist and made his way across the street, making sure to stay out from under the street lamps. He watched as Marianna climbed up to a second story apartment. Antigo reached the stairwell and hid himself in the shadows. He tried to remain as quiet as possible as he waited, watched. Marianna knocked on the door. Antigo drew his gun. He heard movement coming from inside.

When the door opened, it was Dmitri, wearing a white, tank-top undershirt and blue slacks. His jaw dropped. His mouth began moving as if he was going to say something, but the words never came out. Mariana stepped forward, raising her hand. ‘Smack’, she slapped Dmitri right across his face. Then she took the letters and threw them into his chest.
“I’m sick of your threats!” Marianna screamed. “I deserve to have a normal life! I deserve to have my husband!” She placed her hands on her stomach. “I deserve to have this baby! I want my life back! You’re not going to take it from me!”
Antigo prepared for the worst, but Dmitri just stood there with the same face. Only now it was decorated with a large red mark increasing in size. Not quite sure how to respond, Dmitri rubbed his face for a moment, looked down at the letters, looked back at Marianna and then, he closed the door. Mariana stood there for a moment longer, amazed at what she had done and then turned around. Antigo quickly ducked underneath the stairwell. Marianna never saw him. He watched her get back into the taxi and then he headed back to his car. Antigo waited there, across the street. For four hours he watched. Dmitri never left his house. Finally, Antigo went home. Marcielli always treated Antigo like a brother. This was the least he could do in return.

************

For the first time in months, Marianna slept through the entire night. Not remembering what she dreamed was a good sign. As she went about her day, Marianna was taken back by the vividness of it all. Life seemed to squeeze its way out of a bottle top. The sun was brighter, the trees and grass greener, the buildings taller and her tummy, rounder.
Marianna decided to skip class today and just enjoy Milan the way she once did. She had, in a sense, found sanctuary, even if only in her mind. She escaped the straight jacket, picked the shackles and slipped through the bars. She eliminated her greatest foe. Not Rico and Dmitri, but fear; fear of the unknown and fear of not being strong enough. She was no longer drowning. She had reached the shore and was warming herself in the blanket of freedom. She didn’t know what her future held, but she finally felt that destiny had found its way back to her. Her life was back in her own hands. Marianna was confident she could fulfill her role as wife and mother.
Marianna hadn’t made it made it all the way down Via Filodrammatici, when the famous theater, ‘Teatro Alla Scala’ caught her attention. Outside there was a fussy group of school children waiting impatiently to get in. The headlining play: ‘Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs’ - ten dollars a seat. It so happened to be, Marianna had exactly ten dollars in her hand bag. She’d seen the play when she was a small girl. What better way to celebrate, than to partake in the joy of life’s simple things?
Marianna’s excursion lasted into the evening. She thought of Marcielli the whole day. She decided to write him. The bravest thing she’d ever done, she could never tell him. But she did feel it was time to let him in on some of the little things; one little thing in particular.


My Dearest Marcielli ~

I am writing you now, uncertain of where you are or what you are doing, if you’re safe or if this letter will ever find you. Nevertheless, I have some news that cannot wait another moment! Before you get worried, don’t. Just take a deep breath and sit down. Are you sitting yet? Okay, Marcielli Corleon…………… You’re going to be a father!!! I’m pregnant!!! Can you believe it? Twenty-one weeks to be exact. I was just as shocked as I’m sure you are now.
Oh, how I wish you where here. I need your arms around me. They aren’t gonna fit around me much longer you know! I’ve got half of a soccer ball for a tummy and it’s growing by the minute. I can feel our little one moving right now as a matter of fact, a future soccer pro for sure. The morning sickness has past and now I am able to just enjoy the miracle of life growing inside me. It breaks my heart not to be able to share that with you. Just promise me you will make it home in time for the birth. I won’t be able to do it with out you. We both know how well I handle the slightest bit of pain. I’m sure I have overwhelmed you. It’s a lot to take in, isn’t it? Relax, everything will fall into place and you will be changing diapers in no time. Ha Ha! You’re going to be an excellent father, Marcielli. I tell the baby everyday how unbelievably lucky we both are to have you.
I have kept my pregnancy a secret because I wanted you to be the first to know. My parents are in for quite a surprise. I’m planning to take a trip to Uncle Beppe’s vineyard in Tuscany. It’s time for the wine festival. You know, when all the girls crush the grapes with our bare feet? I’ll need my family’s support and it’s been way to long since they’ve seen me. Don’t be concerned about me leaving the base. I really feel everything is going to be just fine. I promise to take every precaution possible.
I’m trying to be strong and not let the loneliness get to me, but I miss you more than my heart can bear. The one thing that gets me through, day after day, is that I have a part of you within me. Please try not to worry. I need you to concentrate on what you’re doing so you can return safely to me and our sweet little baby.

I love you and hope to hear from you soon.
~Marianna~

P.S. I will let you do the honors of telling your parents. Rianna will be overjoyed with the news! She will be the best Nanno.


As Marianna left the post office, she couldn’t help but feel some of the things her grandmother, Rosalina, had shared with her. What it was like to be away from Mossimo during WW1 and what she had to do, day to day, to survive. Marianna was grateful for her grandmother’s strength. It was helping her to get by, keeping Marcielli’s love in her heart. Marianna marveled at the follies of life. With great love comes great sacrifice, even when it’s all around you. The absence of it, however brief, can nudge you into a whirlwind of restlessness and uncertainties. She could be as strong as the circumstances required, but Marianna anticipated the day when everything was snug in its place.


Chapter 26 – Luminous


Kumanovo, Macedonia 1992

At the end of a dirt road, dotted with narrow trees jetting skyward, stood Marko’s brother, Dragan. He waited at the entrance of the church. He was younger than Marko, but bigger, more muscular. He had coarse, brown hair like Marko’s, but Dragan’s was longer and curly. He had a baby face with less stubble and a mild case of acne. He looked abnormal with a bandoleer of shotgun shells around his chest and a Remington-sawed-off at his waist. He appeared all too young. He revealed two missing teeth as he called out to his brother.
“Zdravo Brata!” Dragan raised his arm and held out two fingers in the shape of a ‘V’. In America, it meant ‘Peace’. In Europe and especially amongst resistance fighters, it meant ‘Victory’.
Marko gave a small history of the Serbian Orthodox Church. St. George Storo Nagorichane was built in 1313 by King Dusan for his Queen, Elana. Centuries later, it was used as a lookout to protect the city against the continuous Ottoman attacks. Ironically, in 1990, it was captured by the Muslims and used by the Resistance to thwart the new Serbian advances. What wasn’t destroyed by war’s projectiles, had reluctantly given in to the struggles of time and gravity. What remained had simply been spared to stay behind and tell the story. To the Resistance, it was a symbolic structure.
The path leading up to the entrance was guarded with gothic statues, gargoyles and demons, not to invite evil, but to scare it away.
“This place gives me the creeps.” Otto hesitated before entering the church. “Let’s get our equipment and get out of here.”
Dragan laughed. Noticeably, he didn’t speak English well at all, not like Marko or Kat. But he understood that Otto was less than comfortable about being there.
Once everyone was inside, Dragan led them through a chapel filled with fresco style paintings of Christ, by the hands of Mihail and Eutichios. At the end of the chapel, they entered a long corridor. Cobwebs gathered in the corners, collecting dirt and leaves from the high winds. Past a pile of concrete rubble, there was an opening.
“Watch your step here.” warned Dragan. He descended downward on a narrow stone stairway into a cellar-type room. He clicked on a flashlight, illuminating a room full of shelves supporting old relics and artifacts, but mostly books. Angelo walked over and picked one up. It was dated 1621.
“Hey Marko, what’s this book called? It’s in Serbo-Croat.” Angelo held it up in the air.
“Don’t you recognize your own Bible?” asked Marko.
Florentine patted Angelo on the back, “He’s not Christian, Marko. He’s Italian.”
And then Florentine picked up a book less dated, “The Anarchists Cookbook.” “Dragan, does this help you with your English?”
Dragan answered in broken English, “I make pipe bomb and bomb with light-bulb and chlorine.” Dragan lit two propane lanterns and placed them at each end of the room. He handed the flashlight to Kat.
“Shine the light for us.” he said. Dragan then motioned Marko over to a desk that was butted up against the wall.
“Give me a hand, Brata.”
They moved the desk to the side and exposed a concrete slab in the floor. Dragan hooked chains to each end and he and Marko pulled the slab away.
Minus the screeching bats and flaming torches, Reed was sure he just witnessed this scene in ‘Goonies’ or ‘Indiana Jones, Temple of Doom’. Kat walked over and directed the light into the opening. Dragan hopped down inside. Coughing, due to the dust, he heaved three large crates out. Otto was there to receive them. Kat saw the satisfaction on Otto’s face.
“Merry Christmas, Otto.” announced Kat.
Otto popped off one of the lids, “If I can’t have a date with you, Kat, this is the next best thing.”
Florentine couldn’t resist, “See, for me, Kat would be my second choice, right behind my grandmother’s homemade canollies.”
Otto found a note from Sam with an equipment checklist at the top. Otto handed the note to Reed while he read the checklist: Steiner night vision, binoculars, digital cameras with satellite data technology, heat radar, homing beacon, Geiger counter, pagers, X-ray document scanner, multifunctional lock pick, mini flares and Von Zipper polarizing sunglasses with capability to see through tinted glass.
The second crate contained weapons. Otto wasn’t surprised to see they were American weapons: one 50 caliber bolt action rifle with a scope capable of seeing through twelve inches of concrete, AKA - the God Gun, four M-16s, five tactical Remington shotguns with mounted flashlights, five Sig Saur 9mm handguns, five 22 caliber silenced assassin pistols, hand grenades, flash and smoke grenades and plenty of ammo.
The third crate was marked; MREs (meals ready to eat), 100 count.
“It’s all here, Dragan, excellent!”
“I never opened it, but I can’t say I wasn’t tempted.” admitted Dragan.
“His will power is weaker than his curiosity. The less he knows, the less agony is involved.” accused Marko.

Reed read the note silently;

Greetings Men, if you’re reading this note then you’ve arrived in Macedonia and you’ve met my friends, Marko, Kat and Dragan. Promise me that you will all treat Kat like a Lady. I don’t want to be on Marko or Dragan’s bad side. They are relatives of a Diplomatic family I know. And as far as I know, Kat has put more men on their knees than you will find in Mecca during Ramadan. Everything you will need for a successful mission has been packed in these crates. The rest is up to you. Remember your training. Remember why you are there. Remember, for whom, you are there. Don’t let me down. Don’t compromise the mission. Don’t compromise your integrity. Respect the new environment you are in. Your success will rely heavily on the respect that is shown. Respect for the people and respect for their country. At the bottom of the second crate there are two envelopes with money, $20,000 in each. One is for you and the other is for Marko, Kat, Dragan and the Resistance. They’re not expecting it. It is a thank you and a message that we support their cause. You have my direct line. If you get into a jam, call me. I’ll see what I can do. If hope is lost . . . . . well Men, if hope is lost . . . . . . call God.

-Sam


Reed folded up the note and placed it in his jacket. He decided to share it with the men at a later time.

Reed scanned the room and noticed Marcielli wasn’t with them. “Angelo, where’s Marcielli?” asked Reed.
“I don’t think he came down with us.” Angelo replied.
Reed started back up the stairwell. Before he reached the top, he turned around. “Otto, when you get to the bottom of that second crate, let me know.”
Halfway back down the long corridor, Reed noticed pale rays of light intruding into the darkness ahead of him. It looked as though it were coming from an open doorway.
Upon arrival, Reed was taken back. For seven hundred years, the Church had been bombed, set on fire, suffered infestations of small creatures and weathered Mother Nature’s most violent winter storms. If it was still standing for one reason alone, it was this; for a few minutes at the end of every day, it humbly framed the setting sun of Kumanovo. Reed peered through the room and into the light of a large window-type opening. Its only flaw was the breaking of light by the silhouette of a man at the window’s edge.
“I don’t blame you for allowing yourself to get sidetracked. I’ve never seen anything like it.” said Reed.
Marcielli fumbled for a moment, not knowing Reed was there. He folded up a letter he was holding and tucked it back into an envelope.
“I thought beauty like this could only be found in Milan. I was mistaken,” admitted Marcielli.
All four walls of the room remained, while only a small portion of the roof was intact. Surprisingly enough, grass had grown through most of the room. Wild vines had crawled in through the window and gave warmth to the walls. Reed walked over to where Marcielli was. From here he could see the vivid sunset racing through the city and magnifying each of its colors. Reed felt that beauty, wonder and amazement were all being served on a platter right before them.
The light allowed Reed to see the mood Marcielli was really in. Although it was the luminous sunset that called him in, something greater was keeping him there. He looked as though he were on a train to find the love of his life, only to see her passing him on another train going in the opposite direction.
Reed looked away, pretending not to notice.
Marcielli diverted the awkwardness with dialogue. “Did we get our supplies?” he asked.
Reed smiled, seizing the opportunity to make light. “Do you have a McDonalds in Milan?” he asked.
“Come on,” countered Marcielli. “You’re talking about Italy, not China.”
“Good,” said Reed. “Have you ever seen a small child in the play center, dive into all the colored balls? Then that look that forms on their face as their head surfaces and their arms pop out, tossing more balls into the air. Well, that’s what Otto is doing with our supplies.”
Marcielli burst out laughing and for a short moment, Reed caught a glimpse of honesty in his demeanor.
Reed felt that he had cracked the egg. “So Marcielli, what’s on your mind? You seem down lately.”
Marcielli took a breath, thought carefully of what he wanted to say, not wanting to sound weak. He removed the letter from the envelope he was holding, unfolded it.
Reed noted the eloquent handwriting of a woman. Then he saw watermarks where the ink was smeared. Marcielli still hadn’t said anything. He just held tightly to her words. A new watermark was made.
“I am happier than I have ever been, Reed. I’m going to be a Dad.”
Reed understood everything. Marcielli was here and not there. It was true. He was probably happier than he’d ever been. But two-thousand miles were blocking his view. Reed felt for him.
“You’re a strong man Marcielli. A lot stronger than I. Congratulations! I am happy for you too.”
Reed couldn’t help it, his attention drifted back home. He had lived such a simple life in Hinckley. Had he taken it all for granted, he wondered? Did Tom and Anna really know how special they made him feel? He missed the look of his dad, beaming with pride over his family. Did Anna know that he lived to compliment her cooking? Every meal was his favorite meal. Did Reddin know that he was envious of his athletic abilities? Did he know he would rather hangout with him than any of his friends? Did Gracie know he would drop everything just for a chance to protect her from harm? And Lindsey, did she know she had the power to bring everything in his world to a screeching halt, just long enough to plant one timeless kiss on his lips? Did they know these things?
“Marcielli,” Reed asked, “Would you mind if I offered a short prayer?”
“Very timely, Reed, I would appreciate that.”

“Father in Heaven,

Bless Marcielli and Marianna and their new little one. It is great news. He will be a great father. Bring Marcielli home safely to his family. Bring us all home safely. But first Father, let us bless the lives of these people. Let us complete our mission.

In the name of Jesus Christ, Amen.”


“I think everything is going to be okay, Reed.” expressed Marcielli.

Reed and Marcielli sat there for a moment, pondering, as the radiant sunset poured hope through the window and onto the two of them.
Chapter 27 – Blackbirds


Kumanovo, Macedonia and into the Field of Blackbirds 1992

Otto and Dragan were loading the last of the supplies into the van. The morning was cold and brisk. Sleet kissed the earth adding luster to the rolling terrain. Angelo, Florentine and Marcielli were delighting in Kat’s freshly brewed coffee that she heated over a portable butane stove. Reed only drank coffee on occasion, usually while burning the midnight oil at UCLA, cramming for exams. Reed noticed that Europeans could live off coffee and cigarettes alone.
Reed sat across from Marko at a fold-up table. He spent a moment trying to level out his chair and then he laid some maps on the table and began to study them out loud.
“You are here.” Marko pointed. “If you take this road out of Kumanovo you’ll be headed north into Kosovo. Along this highway you will find many villages ravaged and barren. You can take all the pictures you want.”
“Will we run into any troops there?” asked Reed.
“If you do, they will most likely be Albanian. The Serbs moved out as quickly as they came through. But take caution, the Albanians don’t understand why you’re here. You could be taken captive or even attacked. You’re best to stay completely out of sight. Get your pictures from a distance.”
Reed pointed to Pristina on the map. “We meet your friend here, right?”
“The Albanian Officer you were going to meet up with there, is now in Sarajevo, so you have no contacts from here on out. Most of the resistance has moved into Bosnia to help slow the Serb stampede. The Serbs have concentrated their forces there and are killing anyone who’s not a Bosnian Serb; women, children, everybody.”
Reed moved his eyes over toward Bosnia, found the capitol, Sarajevo with his finger. “I don’t understand Marko, what are we doing over here then? We’re five hundred kilometers away.”
“You began planning your mission three months ago Reed. But when life is hanging by a thread, three months is an eternity. In that time, the Serbs have been around the entire country and back. They’re in Bosnia now, but they’re said to be returning. They’re only there to teach the Bosnian Serbs how to take the country and paint it red with innocent blood, how to spread callous and disgust and how to rape.”
Reed stared into the thickness of Marko’s obsession. While Marko was still, the army of trees backing him began to roll like ocean waves. Macedonian winds were remorseless. Reed weighed his own thoughts for a moment. Reed knew there were two sides to every story. He couldn’t take to heart everything Marco said. Reed just wanted to gather a few facts. Sometimes plans needed modification to complete a mission. Sam even told him to be agile and responsive to the changing needs of the operation.
“We will drive north, as far as Pristina. Then we will head east for Bosnia.” said Reed.
“The road will be rocky.” warned Marko. “You might have to fight if you go there.”
“It’s a risk we’ll have to take.” avowed Reed. “I’m not going back without live shots, Marko. Nothing is more compelling. I need to see genocide in action.”
“Do you have the stomach for it?” asked Marko.
“I don’t know.” said Reed. “I just know that my Boss needs to see it. Our countrymen need to see it. Marko, the world needs to see it. Of course I don’t have the stomach to see innocent women and children killed. Who does? But I’m not here to fail, Marko.”
Now it was Reed, serving up some of his own fixations. Reed glanced over his shoulder; saw Marcielli, Angelo and Florentine kicking around an empty box as though it were a soccer ball, each trying not to spill their coffee.
“We all understood the dangers of the mission, Marko and yet we all still volunteered. I am surrounded by good men, good soldiers. If I have to lead them in a fight, then there are no other men I’d rather fight beside.”
Marko nodded his head, amused with the fervor in which Reed spoke. “When you get to Bosnia, don’t forget to visit the city of Srebrenica. It hosts the largest refugee camp in the country. The Croatian Paramilitary Forces have a large group of Serbs on the run south of Tuzla.” Marko pointed to an area on the map. Reed noted the vitriol in his eyes as he put out his cigarette on the map, causing a small burn mark in the area where the Serbs were positioned.
“The Serbs are sure to run right through the refugee camp. Srebrenica will be a bloodbath. What you are looking to see, you will see there.” Marko squeezed his cigarette with his fingertips and then flicked it irritably.
Reed removed one of Sam’s envelopes from inside his new leather jacket. He laid it on the table and pushed it toward Marko.
“What’s this?” Marko asked.
“It’s from Sam.” Reed answered.
Marko examined it for a moment as he lit another cigarette and kindly blew the first drag out the side of his mouth. He used his pocket knife to open the envelope. He was confused when he saw a large amount of cash.
“I was also happy to see the money.” Reed admitted.
“Sam already paid us for the van.” said Marko, with a look of amusement.
“It’s not for the van.” said Reed. “It’s a thank you. Sam want’s you to know we support you and your cause.”
$20,000 in American currency was nearly $100,000 dollars in Yugoslavian currency. It was more than Marko could earn in five years.
For a moment, rare and short lived, Reed saw Marko’s eyes moisten and turn red.
“This money will save lives, Reed.” promised Marko.
“We know Marko. We know. It fell into the right hands.”

Marcielli poured the last sip into his mouth, noticing little coffee grounds that slipped through the filter. Marcielli found a spot on the waist-high, stone wall at the edge of the property. He seized the occasion to draw his feelings together. It was a heartwarming moment for Marcielli. A subdued pride and humility permeated his soul. His life would never be the same and suddenly everything seemed to matter just a little bit more.
Now two, depended on his safe return. This would be his new lucky charm. He wished he could wrap his arms around the two of them; see the new light in her eyes, the glowing contours of her body. He wished he could speak to his unborn child. He imagined chasing the little one through his own vineyard and then Marianna standing in the doorway of their country home, calling them in for dinner. He tried to picture the feast. He kept seeing the first meal Mariana prepared for him when they were dating. He could almost smell it; Linguini Puttanesca, Penne Filetto di Pomodoro and a side of focaccia bread and then a little wine in the evening when the little one was down and they were all alone. The smell of her skin, her hair, the softness in her touch and the look in her eyes, ruled every temptation.
The thoughts were gratifying and rewarding. Marcielli had so many reasons to celebrate, two of which were replete and vigorously flooding his heart, they could not be suppressed. Marcielli celebrated the best way an Italian knew how; a solo. He sang the words to ‘Bella Notte’, softly enough however, to avoid the unwanted attention.

Otto slammed the back of the van shut, dusted his hands. “I will sing like that someday. I’ve been practicing here and there.”
Dragan just looked at Otto, raised an eyebrow. “Here Otto, have a cigarette, you’ll feel better.”

The team bid farewell to their new friends; Marko, Kat and Dragan. For Reed it was a moment of somber and gratitude. Only two years ago, he couldn’t have imagined himself in a land such as this, with company like these. Marko, his faithful Kat and his young, unstoppable brother, Dragan; how will life treat them, Reed wondered? Would it simply soak up their remains with their cohorts before them? Would they be lumped into a mass movement on a single textbook page? Or would life reward them individually for their resilient and feisty valor? And in years to come, would consumers of the sweet and the robust take time to admire the farmer? Would they notice the labor and love for his craft; naive to the fact that the finest ingredients were his own blood and sweat? Reed seceded to the idea that good men, good men and good women are forgotten every day. But their efforts live on. He watched the three of them through the rear window; their images etched into his mind before they became wispy figures through the fog and sleet. Reed would never forget . . . . . their efforts, their bravery.

************

The team made it all the way to Pristina, only stopping in two villages for photos. Reed wanted to save most of the digital data for Bosnia. It was shocking to see the barrenness of it all. It was as though a giant volcano had spewed its lava, sparing nothing in its path. The villagers had nothing to come back to. Reed didn’t see the point in spending much time in Pristina. The group ate a small lunch in the van and then started east for their five hundred kilometer trek. Florentine offered to spell Otto from his duties behind the wheel. Otto was quick to accept and joined the others in an afternoon mobile slumber.
Florentine positioned the map over the center console and glanced down from time to time. Only fifteen minutes had passed before they entered another modest village. ‘Kosovo Pojie’ was written on a small sign, bent and graffitied. The town only consisted of a few block type buildings and one storehouse. What stood out to Florentine was the large break in the trees just passed the town. A vast field lay down with almost no end in sight.
As they drove, an immense darkness began to ascend from the field; blackbirds. Their numbers were boundless. Their flight only lasted as long it took to deploy landing gear. They smothered the earth again. He wondered what was so extraordinary about this place that it was home to so many blackbirds. It was an eerie, but remarkable sight, thought Florentine. He glanced in the rearview mirror to see if anyone was awake, watching. But the scene was still and composed. And then, a thought, so astoundingly accurate, began to swell in his mind as he cast his attention back into the rolling blackness. For centuries, this nation had harbored so many tales of sorrow, provided plenty of deep earth to receive death and had fabricated countless handkerchiefs to soak up the anguish and grief; lamenting and long-suffering to finally offer up something brighter, something hopeful. The blackbirds, Florentine thought, they were simply fulfilling their role, devouring death, waiting patiently for love, life and liberty to relieve them of their post.


Chapter 28 – Four Seasons


Midtown Manhattan, New York early 1993

It was six o’clock and the redeye was still taking its toll on her. When Lindsey stepped out of the cab she was caught up in a tide of rushing entrepreneurs balancing Starbucks and brilliant ideas. Each so focused, even though their workday had not yet begun. She had never seen so many pinstriped shades of blue, gray and black. Her eyes climbed all the way up to the brim of the building and then repelled back down. At the base was the bellhop. It would be a miracle if they ever got to him. Mr. Love came around from the other side of the car and joined her on the curb.
“Here Lindsey, let me take your bags.” Mr. Love looked down at all her bags and rolled his eyes. He held one thin suitcase and then grabbed two of Lindsey’s three, overly stuffed suitcases.
“Sorry Dad, I don’t travel as much as you. I didn’t know what I would need.” Lindsey tried to articulate.
“Oh it’s quite okay Lindsey, but I think it’s more to do with you just being a girl rather than an infrequent traveler. Your mom does the same thing. It’s why I love you two so much.” It was the first smile of the morning for the each of them.
Mr. Love was relieved to share some of his burdens with the bellhop.
“Sir.”
The bellhop nodded his head. Then with a very welcoming and flirtatious smile, he nodded his head again,
“Miss.”
“Nice.” Mr. Love muttered quietly and then in a more commanding voice he warned, “Don’t even think about it! She’s only twelve.” Mr. Love looked back at Lindsey in time to catch the priceless look on her face.
“The concierge is right this way, Sir.” advised the bellhop in a new timid voice.
A young lady sat behind the counter. Her hair was wrapped tightly. She wore glasses and a black business-type dress. With an exhausted smile, she greeted them. “Welcome to the Four Seasons. Last name please.”

Lindsey was happy to accompany Mr. Love on this trip. It was enough to get her mind off things and spell her from office monotony. She always wanted to see New York. She just never imagined it would be under these circumstances.
Earlier in the week, someone had driven a truck packed with explosives into the lower level garage of the World Trade Center. The blast killed five people and injured dozens more. It was really the first time terrorism had surfaced in the Home of the Brave. Mr. Love was invited to a preparatory evening in the home of New York’s Governor, Mario Cuomo. The Central Intelligence Agency was only beginning to piece together the evidence. It was uncertain how long their stay in New York would be.
Mr. Love assured Lindsey her stay would simply be for leisure. In the cab he handed her a credit card and said, “Just bring me back receipts. Some of it I might be able to write off.”
Lindsey had always been a modest spender but she had to admit she was anxious to see what she could find. She heard no shopping compared to the shopping in the Big Apple. And besides, who knew when her next visit would be?
After examining the glory of their hotel room and receiving Mr. Love’s instructional tips on navigation and safety, Lindsey found herself, for the second time, afloat in a yellow river of taxis.
“Time Square please!” Lindsey asked politely.
“I’ll take you there, but it’s only a few blocks away.” advised a young man of Middle Eastern decent.
“It’s okay,” she answered. Lindsey just felt it was all part of the New York tale, you know, the scene in the movies.
Her first stop was the Red Eye anecdote; Starbucks. An iced cappuccino latte would give her just enough spring to last until lunch.
Stores like; Barny’s, Bloomingdale’s and Saks 5th Avenue had already intimidated Lindsey’s personal spending habits. It was all the high end fashion she could handle. She did, however, satisfy a lifelong craving of buying jewelry from Tiffany’s. She purchased the cheapest diamond earrings in the store at $325.00. She was more comfortable in stores like; H&M, GAP and the small gift shops. Lindsey was surprised to see her shopping spree in Time Square only lasted a couple hours. There was still a lot of sightseeing she wanted to do. She removed a folded map from her hand bag, circled the Rockefeller Center, the Statue of Liberty and Ellis Island and finally, Central Park.
From the Top of the Rock, Lindsey could see the inspiring landscape and magnificent character of New York. At first glance, it had a gentleman like charm and poise suited for the finest ballroom. At second glance, it was the hard working, tough guy look, rugged and dirty, certainly more prominent than the first. But the third glance was most attractive, a personality that looked her right back in the eyes. One that bore a million years of history, a million faces, a million dreams, a million stories told and untold and a collective ownership of pride herald by hard work and humility. It was this glance that brought goose bumps to her skin as she looked down on the nation’s oldest son.
Although she clicked away two rolls of film, the pictures would never do justice. Mr. Love recommended the Rockefeller Center over the Empire State building due to the tourist traps and long waits. She was happy with the pick and bought a bulb, Christmas ornament from the gift shop to remember the occasion.
On her trip to Lower Manhattan, hunger pains began rolling through her stomach. Lindsey asked the cab driver to recommend a good place for famous New York Style pizza.
This time the cab driver, an older, heftier man with a classic New York accent replied, “Miss, do I know da place fa you!” His excitement grew rapidly. Lindsey wondered if he would try to join her for lunch.
“You gotta eat at Joe’s Pizza. It’s thin and greazy, da way New Yorkas like it. Just fold it and eat it. But listen doll, you gotta save some room for a canolli at Rocco’s. It’s just around da corna. I eat two a day. If the Misses ever found out where all my tips wa goin, oh boy, listen da me!”
After lunch, Lindsey was off to Battery Park, where she would board a ferry to the Statue of Liberty and Ellis Island. In the park she was approached by several men, said to be from Somalia. First it was watches, then sunglasses and then one man heaved a large bundle at her feet. He untied four corners of a sheet and exposed, in young ladies terms, a pot of gold. Before her, posed a colorful mountain of “knock-off” purses; Prada, Louie Vitton, Kate Spade, Coach and Channel. Lindsey ordered one of each.
The ferry set sail between the two jagged horizons, Jersey City and New York, both competing for attention. But her attention was already devoted. The rotting metal bled such a beautiful color over her. Her might was invigorating, her message, clear. The Heroin, the Mother, the Matron of America; Liberty, she was breathtaking. Lindsey would never forget the day when she met her in person.
Lindsey rode the subway back through Midtown. The flashing of the tunnel lights were almost in sync to the beat of Tag Teams, “Whoomp! There it is.” Meat Loaf’s, “I Would Do Anything For Love,” just couldn’t keep up. Lindsey exited when she arrived in the Upper East Side where every stay-at-home mom had a nanny. There she found an open space large enough to breathe. It was the patch of green that she saw from the Rockefeller Center and a place seemingly not so far from home; Central Park.
As Lindsey walked through the park, she couldn’t help but notice all the cameo scenes from the movies. Every love story, comedy or mystery had some friendship with the Manhattan commons. Eventually she found herself climbing the uneven steps to the Belvedere castle, the ring bearer of so many matrimonial unions. On a quiet ledge overhanging a pond of turtles, a sentiment began to stir in her core, one she’d been trying to calm the entire day.
For the first time, Lindsey started to question her judgment. She wondered what it would be like if she told Reed she loved him before he joined the Marines. It was selfish, she knew, but where would they be now. Would they be married already; pregnant with their first child maybe? All the beautiful things she was seeing, they could have experienced together. She wished she could surrender all of her strength just for one kiss, one moment with him, wrapped in his arms. Lindsey felt so alone and so guilty, guilty for not believing he left her enough to get through. It was enough, she told herself. She knew Reed loved her. She just never knew how bad the distance would hurt. Lindsey silently asked God to lessen the guilt and the pain, and then silently thanked Him in advance for doing so. She wiped the tear blazing a cool trail down her cheek.
Lindsey looked down at her watch and was surprised to see it was already five o’ clock. She was supposed to meet Mr. Love back at the hotel at six o’clock. He was taking her to Broadway to see ‘A Bronx Tale’. It was Mr. Love's choice. The play was four years old but it had gained new momentum when Robert DeNiro brought it to the big screens.
When Lindsey returned to their room she was disappointed to see the note on the buffet in the entryway.

“So sorry Lindsey, we’ll have to postpone our date until tomorrow night. So many unexpected people taking up my time. I hope you had fun today. – Love Dad.”

Lindsey showered, put on a black silk robe, complimentary of the Four Seasons and lay on her bed. Only then did she realize the soreness in her feet. She looked down at her toes; saw the redness around the edges. She really had seen so much of New York for one day. The city was alluring. As she thought about what she would do on the morrow, she slipped into an unexpected slumber.
Lindsey awoke to the sound of Mr. Love setting his briefcase on the table by the phone. She looked over at a clock that read eleven o’clock. She didn’t want him to think he woke her. She knew how quiet he was trying to be, so she just pretended to stay asleep. The phone rang, which Mr. Love hurried to answer. Lindsey turned her head in his direction.
“Yes this is he. Oh Sam, how are you?” Mr. Love glanced calmly over his shoulder toward Lindsey. She quickly shut her eyes again.
“Yeah Sam, give me just a minute.” Mr. Love took the cordless and walked out of the room into the hallway. Curiously, Lindsey sprang from her bed to listen at the door. She could hear Mr. Love’s deep voice sort of echoing in the hall. She was astonished at what she heard.
“Reed’s team, are you sure? I thought everything was going fine. You told me they would have everything they needed.”
Lindsey’s heart began to pound rapidly. Her ear was hurting from the pressure of holding it so firmly against the wood. What could he be talking about? It was eating her up. Was it her Reed? This wasn’t fair. Mr. Love went on, this time he was a little closer to the door. Lindsey moved back a step.
“I don’t care if they’re in Bosnia. You send in another team and get them out of there. I’ll send more money. . . . . Okay, do what you have to do. Keep me informed.”
Lindsey heard the distinct tone when he shut the phone off. She froze for a second. The door opened. Mr. Love’s silhouette shadowed her body. Then their eyes met, hers already filled with tears. He still couldn’t tell her . . . . . and he knew how badly she was hurting.

“Lindsey, I’m sorry.” He reached for her. She cleaved to him, setting free all that had been locked inside her.


Chapter 29 – To Condemn and Forgive


Refugee Camp outside Srebrenica, early 1993

Masked behind aspiring, golden brown sunflowers and droopy, moisture laden tree limbs, they parked just before the valley began its descent. The morning was still rigid with frost.
Radenko lowered a pair of binoculars, “It looks safe from here; nobody in fatigues and no guns. But I can only see a few hundred deep. There are thousands out there.”
Radenko looked over at Lazar. He didn’t seem to be paying attention to what he was saying. He was fixated on the multitude. And for the first time, Radenko noticed an ounce of nervousness in Lazar’s behavior. His shivers came intermittently and his speech quickened ever so slightly.
Radenko put his hand on Lazar’s shoulder, gave it a brotherly squeeze. “We’ll find her, Lazar.”
Lazar used the sleeve of his jacket to wipe away some fog that settled on the windshield. With his vision no longer obscured, he could see the individual tents butted up next to each other. Anticipation circled around him with battered conviction that she was out there somewhere.
As beautiful as she was, Lazar couldn’t trap a still picture in his mind. He was burdened with a sudden inability to rest his thoughts. He fought to piece together a memory he and Milla shared. Lazar closed his eyes, evicting moisture at the edges. He remembered one occasion. It was after she performed as Christine in the ‘Phantom of the Opera’. He admitted he was jealous of the passion she showed for the Phantom. An argument ensued between the two of them. Milla said it was only good acting and Lazar scoffed that it was more than just acting, that the male actor was always eyeing her before and after the plays.
Later in the evening, when Lazar and Milla were driving home, Lazar was finally able to picture her face and the way she looked when she told him, “Lazar, if that hurts you to see me so close to him, then you must love me.”
His answer was, “I do Milla. I do love you.” It was the first time the sentiment was spoken aloud.
Lazar felt the cold air push into the jeep and move passed his skin. He wondered how Milla would receive him now, wondered if she could even forgive him. But something told Lazar if there was some feeble crutch holding up any feelings she had left for him, surely it was lost in the Drina. He had to accept that. It was all worthwhile just to see her face again; to know she was alive and well. The elation would suspend his selfish needs and his desire to have her back; his desire to be close to her, to watch her perform, to be jealous and to be loved.
Fog returned to the glass. “I’m all right Private. Let’s see who’s out there.” advised Lazar, throwing his shoulder to open the door.
Radenko stepped out of the jeep as well and began removing his jacket. “We can’t go in there with fatigues. They’ll have us for dinner. They’ve seen too many of us to be fooled. We might be able to pass as deserters.”
Lazar agreed, “We’ll leave the rifles, but I don’t want to go in there unarmed. If she’s not here, I don’t want to be captured or even slowed down. We’ll conceal the CZs.” Lazar dropped his belt on the seat and removed the 9mm from its holster and tucked it into his waistline.
Radenko was already positioning more foliage around the jeep. “You know Lazar, when you find her; you better name your first kid together after me.”
Lazar smiled. He knew what Radenko was trying to do, reminding him they were still human, that wit was still and always would be an effective anecdote. He was a good friend, thought Lazar.
“Sure thing Radenko, if you’ll just introduce me to the General someday. Time is flying and the man’s getting old. I’d like to meet him.”
“It’s a deal.” promised Radenko.
The two stood for a moment, looked over the valley of tents and mini smoke trails dancing upwards. The refugees were beginning to wake. Lazar patted Radenko on the back igniting their quest.

************

The howl and sob was almost eerie. It grew louder and louder the deeper they went; a plea not considered from afar. The air was heavy and moist with the steam of boiling soup, so thin, it lacked smell. Instead, the air was redolent with infection. Stagnant water and urine faintly lingered in the air as well. The sun was rising, stretching into the camp, casting some light onto their faces. But nervousness and fatigue strangled them, binding them to the shadows. It was engraved throughout the camp; the shock and horror of the beginning, the monotony and tire of the wait and the uncertain blackness of ending. Dirty, unkempt, malnourished and tainted by the ongoing storm, they waited.
Lazar approached a lady in her late forties or so. She was big-boned with fuzzy, short brown hair. She was vigorously washing and rubbing clothes. Lazar could see the definition in her arms. He didn’t know why she scrubbed so hard. A young lady in her twenties sat a few feet from her, her daughter perhaps. She was silently knitting a piece of clothing. It was hard for Lazar to read her feeling. Her hands seemed to be the only thing alive on her. A young boy came spinning from around the tent. He ran right for Radenko and pulled on his pant leg. The young boy’s movements were so vivid and full of spirit. He was just swimming in a sea of kneecaps and obviously naïve to the suffering. He was outside. He was camping and he was covered in dirt. The young boy was basking in his element.
Lazar described Milla to the woman and asked her if she had seen her. The woman replied, “She sounds beautiful. There’s no one like that here.”
The lady’s expression was so callously empty. This caused Lazar to look even more closely, not wanting to over cast and tangle in the marsh. They were surprised to see their presence wasn’t questioned. The Refugees seemed to be used to newcomers. Some of them even reached for Lazar and Radenko, begging for food or money.
Seconds turned into minutes and minutes into hours and hours into despair. They were calling her name, asking if anyone knew her. Lazar could feel the anticipation and distress pecking away at his conscience. The grief was so thick around him he didn’t notice the group of young men that had been following from a distance. They never really veered from the shadows, but they appeared to be getting closer. Finally Radenko brought it to Lazar’s attention that they were pulling winter ski masks over their heads.

************

“I know him and I swore if I ever saw him again, I would kill him.” Ibrahim pulled the black ski mask over his head. Three others followed suit.
Ibrahim was released from jail earlier that day. He begged Milla to tell him what happened to her, why she was bruised and why the tent had been slashed. Milla decided that knowledge wouldn’t benefit him, but only cause him to act irrationally and perhaps end up back in jail. Ibrahim was too young to control himself responsibly.
Ibrahim did, however, convince Milla to move Sofi and Josif to an abandoned brick storehouse he’d found. He stumbled across it on the way back to camp at the foothills by the city. It was off on a side road and tucked into the trees, enough that it hadn’t been discovered. And yet it was far enough out of Srebrenica that it wasn’t being used. He’d heard from others in jail that the refugee camps, that were supposed to be safe zones, were now getting attacked. He didn’t feel being marked on the map along with thousands was safe anymore. Although he was only seventeen years old, Ibrahim aspired to becoming the protector of the group. Milla was okay with the idea. It was a natural desire for a young man and it was the way he was raised.
Milla liked the idea of a hard shelter. Although the roof needed some repair, the bricks were heavy and intact. She felt she could care for Sofi better and protect her from the cold winds that were sure to proceed the winter hazing. And Josef wasn’t going to last much longer in the camp.
Ibrahim pulled just enough guys together to start a small resistance and when he heard there were two, Serb-looking soldiers wandering through the camp, he had to see what they were up to.
Ibrahim found the handle of his knife and spouted off in a raspy voice, “He ate at my mother’s table. He sat in my father’s chair and he played my sister for a fool. He’s a filthy Serb. He betrayed my family and he murdered my friends.” Ibrahim began breathing heavily. “Let’s go, we’ll surround them.”

************

“Get ready Lazar. They’re moving in.” Radenko reached for his CZ.
“Not yet Radenko, I want to try and talk our way through it. Nobody needs to get hurt.”
Lazar straightened his posture and positioned his feet for better balance. Radenko tilted his head from side to side to loosen his neck.

“Lazar!” one of them challenged. “I should have killed you in Visegrad.”
The voice was vaguely familiar to Lazar. Who was it? Lazar could see the youth in his stature, but the anger in his eyes was mature. He could see they were all just boys.
“We don’t want any trouble. We’re here in peace.” Lazar even raised his hands.
“That was my cry in Visegrad, but it didn’t stop you from killing innocent people, did it?” Ibrahim took a few steps forward. “You ran right at us and I had you in my sights. I should have taken the shot. Since that day Lazar, I’ve prayed for this time to come.” Ibrahim clutched his knife and exploded toward Lazar.
Lazar brought his forearms in front of him to shield the attack, but the blade slashed across both arms. Lazar then launched his own attack with a series of rapid blows to Ibrahim’s face and neck area.
Two of the boys rushed Radenko. He hit the first one, diverting his course. The second boy found himself in a headlock with Radenko’s CZ butted up next to his cranium. The last boy stayed back.
Lazar lost his footing with his momentum forward. Ibrahim fell backward and pulled Lazar down on top of himself. Lazar now had his CZ out. He gripped Ibrahim’s throat with one hand and used the other to steady a muzzle over Ibrahim’s forehead.
“Who are you?” Lazar demanded. He could still see the anger shooting from the boy’s eyes. Ibrahim was spitting blood. Lazar felt his own blood creeping down his arms toward his wrists. It was cold when the chilly air brushed it.
Lazar heard a murmur in the boy’s bloody mouth. Ibrahim forced a broken whisper with Lazar’s hand still on his throat,
“I never told her it was you that I saw that morning in Visegrad. It was too much. She couldn’t possibly bear it.”
The words passed through Lazar like a ghost. He retracted his grip, allowing Ibrahim to fill his lungs. Lazar slid his blood-soaked fingers under the mask and pulled it upward. Ibrahim lay there, unsteadily breathing and staring. Lazar wanted to speak, but he couldn’t organize the words. Ibrahim’s face alone was a serum for the plague that infected Lazar, a dressing for a bleeding wound.
“I will always resist the Serbs. I chose a side when I didn’t have a choice. You destroyed us Lazar, and now we’re digging ourselves out of the grave.”
“Are you all right, Lazar?” Radenko released the boy he’d been holding.
Lazar brought himself to his feet and used the last of his strength to assist Ibrahim to his feet.
“I’ll be okay.” answered Lazar, never breaking sight with the young man in front of him. “This is Ibrahim, Milla’s brother and a fine young man.”
Radenko perked up and walked over to Lazar and Ibrahim. It was a reunion he didn’t want to miss.
Lazar had been weighed down with so much shame lately he never thought he could look Ibrahim in the eyes, but his hunger for Milla kept him as focused as a mountain lion.
“It shames me to stand in front of you now. It has been eating me alive not knowing what’s happened to your family. When I was in Visegrad, I took a man’s life, but only because he stood in the way of me getting to Milla. I tried to warn her. Ibrahim, I am sorry. I’m not asking forgiveness for what I did. I’d never be suited for it. I must dig myself out of my own grave.”
Lazar rested his shaky hands on each of Ibrahim’s shoulders, “Ibrahim, I must know, is she okay?”
The anger had left Ibrahim’s eyes. Only exhausted bitterness remained. “Okay?” Ibrahim repeated, “No, she’s not okay! None of us are okay, Lazar. Look around! But she’s alive.”
Lazar nodded his head. Tears began rolling down his face.
Ibrahim pushed Lazar’s hands off of his shoulders, wiped some of the blood away from his mouth.
“You have no idea Lazar, no idea!” Ibrahim found his knife on the ground, wiped it on his jeans and tucked it away. He regrouped with the other boys.
Radenko walked over to Lazar, “Stop blubbering! I told you we would find her. And now here you are wasting time.” Radenko pointed to Ibrahim and the others, who were already on their way down a beaten path between the tents.
Radenko’s smile was ear to ear, “If she still loves you, she’ll bandage your wounds. If she doesn’t, she’ll let you bleed to death.”

************

Sometimes the view or the scenery would change. Occasionally and only briefly the conversation would change, but the objective, the basic, yet perilous objective never changed; waiting. Waiting for what? Milla asked herself; waiting to hear from her parents, waiting to rummage through the next shipment of supplies, for new shoes perhaps, waiting for a transfer to another camp, another country. Was she waiting for word from the European community or the United Nations, waiting for a future? There were so many things to wait for; nothing to do, nothing for certain, no answers, no way to prepare. How long would it last, this mysterious unknown, between life and death? In a way, this was her own battlefield, a place to express her agony in defeat, a place to replenish her losses and awkwardly enough, a place to savor victory. Milla had already endured defeat. The wait cursed her with time, but time allowed her to master the craft of refortification. Now she was determined to reach down and rescue victory from the depths.
Milla finally gave in to Sofi’s demands to be free from bondage. Sofi burst out of the door and crashed into a pile of leaves that had gathered under the trees. She grabbed two handfuls and tossed them into the air. Milla walked out just in time to catch the lighter, dryer leaves still gliding downward, but by then, Sofi already had one foot wedged in the tree bark and the other pushing off the ground. The fresh air was nice Milla thought. She wanted to stay hidden in the storehouse at least for a few days. She wasn’t sure how populated the area actually was or how much traffic passed through. Milla had to admit, so far, the only things that could be heard were the defiant evergreens, resisting the morning winds. And at night, it was the crackle of Josif’s snore when he finally surrendered guard to the midnight demons at the gate.
Milla sat on the single step in the doorway, folded her arms and rested them on her knee tops.
“Josif, come join me!” Milla looked over her shoulder into the storehouse.
A quiet clatter could be heard as Josif struggled to his feet and moved about with his crutch.
Milla scooted against the door frame and patted the concrete step next to her. When Josif sat, Milla planted an unexpected kiss on his grey stubbled cheek. It was an act of sincerity. Milla simply needed an outlet for the sudden joy that had commandeered her spirit. For Josif, it was merely the human contact he needed, contact he had been brutally deprived of. For the first time in a long time, Milla felt surrounded by light. She wasn’t sure where it came from.
Sofi ran up to Josif and reached for his crutch, “I’ll give it right back!” she promised. The crutch was taller than her, but she managed to drag it around in the dirt. Milla and Josif watched as Sofi drew three stick figures. Then, above the figures, Sofi dragged the crutch around in a circle and as she began applying squiggly lines around it, Milla recognized a sun beginning to take shape.
Fascinating, Milla thought, “Is it shinning for us, Sofi?”
Sofi hopped around her artwork, “For you, me and Josif.”
Josif never really spoke much, but as Milla watched him she wondered, was he able to find joy in moments like these?
Sofi returned the crutch to Josif as promised, placed it in his lap. Sofi took one step back and curtsied. Josif nodded his head and Milla caught him. The slight curl on each end of his mouth was just enough to momentarily inundate an entire refugee camp with enjoyment.
Milla got up and paced through the yard a little. The ripple of her dress and the wind felt good on her skin. She ran her fingers through her long blond hair, freeing a few unwanted tangles.
Sofi broke mid-sentence in a nursery hymn she had been humming, “Look! It’s Ibrahim!” she pointed.
Milla turned and had to pull some of her hair behind her ears to see.
She saw Ibrahim walking along the road. He was being followed by two other men approx. fifty meters back. Milla had told Ibrahim it wasn’t a good idea to let others know where they were staying. As he got closer, Milla could see it in Ibrahim’s face; something was wrong.
“Ibrahim, what’s wrong?” asked Milla. He just walked right by her and went inside, his head down, his brow flexed. Milla saw the blood on his lips.
“Ibrahim!” she shouted again.
Milla didn’t get a response from him.
“Sofi go inside!”
Milla glanced down the road again and noticed that the two had slowed their pace a little and then she noticed their camouflaged pants. A sigh that began in curiosity, ended in a dull fear. Did they get caught? Were they going to be punished for leaving the camp? Milla crossed back through yard and stood in the doorway. She peeked in to check on Sofi. She was holding onto Josif’s arm. She looked frightened. Milla then saw Ibrahim wet a towel and press it to his lips. He kicked a metal bucket on the ground and sent it flying across the room.
Milla became angry, “What is it Ibrahim, what happened?”
Ibrahim looked at the blood on his towel and then back at Milla with an indisposed glare on his face.
“It’s Lazar!”
Uncontrollably, Milla looked outside. She saw him walking toward the storehouse. Milla quickly turned around and walked inside. She suddenly felt an imposing force around her, restricting her breathing, her ability to move, her ability to think clearly. She looked at Ibrahim. His image was distorted. Milla began to shake. She felt weak. She sat down briefly, which only seemed to worsen her breathing. A million feelings were crowding her. When she stood again, a new, more empowering force moved through her, anger, adrenaline and finally, clarity. Milla walked back toward the door, ready to enter a new world. He was already standing in the yard under the tree. Their eyes met, but only for a second.
“Why are you here, Lazar?” demanded Milla, not really wanting to look at him.
“Milla.” was all Lazar could get out as he began moving toward her.
“Don’t Lazar!” Milla folded her arms and then brought one of her hands up to her face, covered her eyes and began to sob.
Time iced over as it had so many times before for Milla.
She wanted to hate him. She had already convinced herself she never really loved him. And what had been, was now gone. But now Milla was forced to be honest with herself. She admitted the rhetoric only clothed the true feelings she had for Lazar. The naked truths had been buried deep. They were too painful to let run free within her, so painful, they were never even welcome. And now they had escaped and were circling around her like a pack of wild dogs. She couldn’t hide from them.
Was it possible for Lazar to cut through so many days, weeks, months of resentment and condemnation? How could he have that much power? How could he be so brave, Milla asked herself? She didn’t trust her feelings. She didn’t even understand her feelings.
Milla lifted her head, glimpsed at him again. His sorrows descended before her, his tenderness, there to soften her landing. None of it was fair.
Lazar looked different than Milla remembered him. His bright blue eyes magnified under the tears, his brown hair waved. It was little longer than when they were dating. He had lost weight. His skin was rough and he looked five years older. He seemed tired and drained.
“Milla, I’ve tried so hard to find you. You must know what it means to me to see that you’re alive.” Lazar looked as though life was pouring back into his soul.
Something inside her wanted to run to him and hang her necklace of sadness and despair around his neck. But she also felt that he had abandoned her and had no rights to this journey. Milla was torn. She would never be the girl he once knew. She was more than just a damsel in distress. She was completely broken and tainted. She was chased from her home, thrown into a river, fired upon. She watched people all around her die; watched Sofi’s mother die. She was hungry, cold, sick and filthy. She was almost raped. She had shed blood and was nearly contaminated with the detailed tragedies of others. And now she was practically a mother. Lazar would never understand, but he was walking toward her now.
Milla took an impulsive and rebellious step backward. Lazar reached for her, slid his arms around her waist. He tried to pull her in.
“I’m sorry, Milla.” he whispered.
Milla arched her back and shook her head, drawing in a long pained breath. She began sobbing uncontrollably.
“No Lazar, No!” she cried. Milla balled her fist and began hitting at Lazar’s chest. She slapped him in the face. Lazar pulled her in tighter, moving his hands up her back and then gently nudged her head down into his chest. He felt her warm tears on his neck. Lazar wanted every bit of it. He should have been there for her. He should have never left her side. He wanted to start all over again. He wanted to love her again, wanted to protect her. He wanted to go to the end of the world and back for her, fervently trying to earn his pardon.
The two melted into each other’s affection, neither knowing the beginning or the end of each others agony. They just held on to one another, letting their new found antivirus begin its work. Lazar never noticed the others in the storehouse. Milla never noticed Radenko sitting on a stack of firewood in the yard. Wind moved around them. Leaves circled to the ground. Lazar watched one of them fall to the dirt by their feet. It was then that he noticed they were standing in the middle of a circle with squiggly lines drawn all around them.


Chapter 30 – Running Out of Time


Refugee Camp, Just Outside of Srebrenica 1993

“Are you sure Radenko?” asked Lazar.
“It’s the only way they’ll survive, Lazar. Our troops are just waiting for our word. I could only imagine what might happen here. They need the jeep more than we do.”
“It’s a great sacrifice for you, Radenko. Thank you!”
Radenko sighed, “It’s a great sacrifice for us both.”
Radenko made eye contact with Ibrahim, who was still uneasy about the two being there.
Ibrahim got up from where he was sitting and began pacing around the room. “I want you to divert them.” he announced.
“It’s not going to happen, Ibrahim. I hope you understand that.” Radenko was frustrated with their limitations.
“If we tell them there’s no resistance in Srebrenica, they’ll think it’s an easy target and surely come this way. If we tell them the resistance is strong and ready for a fight, then they will choose this route and bring a fight with them. Nothing will intimidate them, Ibrahim. Nikola’s battalion is ranked to be the most relentless group of Serbs next to Arkan’s Tigers.”
Ibrahim removed his knife from his hip; turned it a few times in his hand. “Then tell them there is no resistance. We’ll take ‘em by surprise and kill as many of those bastards as we can.”
“Ibrahim, listen to what you are saying!” Milla finally had enough of Ibrahim’s blind chivalry. She decided to put her foot down as the senior sibling. She had climbed mountains Lazar or Ibrahim had never even seen.
“Ibrahim, you will be of no use to the resistance if you are killed in a Bonsai charge toward armed soldiers. Lazar and Radenko are giving us their jeep. We can make it out of here alive. We can go to Split and find Mama and Tata. You can go back to fight when you’re equipped, when you’re healthy and strong, when you’ve had a square meal and gained the weight back and Ibrahim, when your resistance is stronger than just four young boys.”
Milla knew the words would hurt Ibrahim’s pride, but it was the truth. Milla’s hands came together in the praying motion.
“Please, Ibrahim, come with us!”
Ibrahim lowered his head for a moment, looked over his torn pants, the bloodstains on his sleeves and the redness in his knuckles. He felt he was more than just a young boy. And he felt he was doing the right thing. His father would be proud, even if Milla lacked faith in him.
Ibrahim raised his head, beaming passion with his eyes, “What about the others out there, the ones who don’t have a jeep, the ones that are sick, injured or old and don’t have a chance in hell at defending themselves? What about them, Milla? What about them, Lazar?”
Lazar tried to be careful in his response. Emotions were high. “Ibrahim, I will go down there personally and warn the entire camp that the troops are coming. I’ll see how many we can relocate in the city, at least the women and children.” Lazar looked at Radenko. “We could be tried for treason, but we can try and get word to the Croatian Paramilitary Forces that the Serbs are coming this way.”
“Why would you do that, Lazar?” Ibrahim asked.
Lazar didn’t say anything as his throat swelled and his chest pounded. But it was obvious what he was feeling, when he quietly glanced at Milla. It was only the beginning of what he was willing to do to express his regrets.
“I’m not asking you to make traitors out of yourselves, Lazar. I can try and get word to the Croats myself,” advised Ibrahim. “But you both need to help me warn the camp.”
Lazar rubbed his brow and then looked Ibrahim in the eye. “I became a traitor Ibrahim, the morning I ran through Visegrad in this uniform.”
Nobody could find the words to fill the awkward silence that followed. Ibrahim stood and started to walk to the door.
“Where are you going, Ibrahim?” asked Milla.
“To the camp, we’re running out of time.”
“Ibrahim, will you be ready to leave with us?” Milla walked up to her brother fearing what he might say.
“Milla, my dear sister,” Ibrahim wrapped his arms around her, “right now the fire is raging all around me. It’s raging inside me. If I go with you, the fire will grow dim and I won’t come back. It’s the truth. I want to fight with the threat of being burned at the stake. I am stronger now than I ever was, than I ever will be. I will stay behind and slow them down for you, just like I did in Visegrad. You take care of Sofi and Josif and before you know it Milla, I will be holding you, like I am right now.”
Once again, Milla was forced to pay a toll to the saboteur of hopes. She tried to convince herself she wasn’t holding her brother for the last time. He was stubborn, but he was a stubborn man. She would no longer see him as just a boy. Milla silently liberated the few tears she had left.
“We’ll only be an hour behind you, Ibrahim,” promised Radenko.
Ibrahim nodded his head; took one last look at everyone and walked out the door.
“Lazar come here,” ordered Milla. She embraced him quickly and then noted, “I was so overcome by all that has happened; I didn’t see that you were hurt.” She extended his arms out. “Come over to the sink. I’ll wash you up. I brought plenty of bandages from the camp.”
Lazar couldn’t help looking over at Radenko, but he tried to conceal the private victory. Radenko nodded his head and returned a candid expression.

************

Josif made a heaving sound as he tried to lift his potato sack of belongings into the jeep. The hike alone consumed what was left of his energy.
“Let me help you with that, Josif.” Lazar made it look as though it was a bag of cotton balls. Then he gave Josif the boost he needed into the jeep.
“Thank you, young man! Any place is better then here.” This was the first time Lazar heard Josif speak. Lazar didn’t know how Milla had come across this man, but he knew it was his injury that attracted Milla’s heart of gold.
Lazar couldn’t help but ask about Sofi and where her parents might be. Milla promised she would share the details with him soon, when they had more time by themselves. She did, however, introduce Sofi as her very best friend, someone who had been there for her in the darkest times. Lazar was happy to hear that Sofi provided comfort for Milla. She was so full of life. Lazar noticed she had a contagious brightness around her. He feared that her family wouldn’t be coming back. He knew Milla was all she had. Her innocence was heart-settling.
Sofi was already in the driver’s seat turning the wheel from side to side. Her next discovery was the CB radio. She began twisting the knobs, mimicking all the squelching noises.
Lazar walked over to Milla. She had found a tree stump alongside some dried sunflowers. Lazar sat next to her. It was a revitalizing feeling. A place he thought he’d never find again. She found his hand and took it in hers. A cool breeze met them. It caused Milla’s honey-blond hair to wisp back and forth around her face. She tucked it behind her ear and gazed questioningly into Lazar’s eyes. Lazar returned the gaze. It was like looking into the brightness of the sun, it almost hurt. Lazar had forgotten how beautiful she was. Her brown eyes glistened with emerald splinters. Her sun-golden skin was smooth and warm to the touch, almost hard to believe that it was tragedy weathered. And her lips, red like ripened cherry blossoms. Lazar thought about it, but he didn’t dare. He hadn’t yet earned that right.
Milla turned her body a little toward Lazar’s as if to say something. A few seconds later she found the courage.
“Lazar, I want you to know how I feel. I’ve learned a lot about myself over the past few months. And believe me; I’ve had time to think about these things. I was trying so hard to think what was worth living for here in the camp. Why don’t people just give up the fight? The world they are fighting to hang onto is full of disappointment, full of hate, full of fear, full of blood and full of doubt. The end would certainly be easier. It would certainly be clearer.”
Lazar hated to hear Milla speak this way, that it had gone that far. He reached for her. He wanted to touch her face, but he felt awkward and laid his hand on her shoulder.
“Lazar I finally discovered what makes people keep pushing farther, what causes them to do amazing things under amazing pressure. I found it in the last breath of a drowning mother, parting with her daughter. I saw it in an old man’s face when it was brutally beaten away from him, and in what he accomplished to prove that it was still there. And Lazar, I saw it again this morning, when you came to me. Perfect or imperfect, strong or battered, common or deranged as it might be, love is the one thing worth fighting for. Love is the one thing that has the power to crush everything negative. It’s the light that guided you here.”
Milla cupped Lazars chin with both hands and brought it slowly upward, “I love you Lazar.” And then, she kissed him.
This was beyond all Lazar’s expectations. Milla must have ached for him the way he ached for her. She’s right, he thought. It was broken and battered, but it was there and it had brought them together. In his heart, Lazar felt he wasn’t deserving of what Milla was offering.

As Sofi continued to twist the knobs on the CB, under the static, Radenko could hear someone from their unit trying to communicate with them. He walked over and fixed the antenna. Sofi hopped in the back with Josif.
“Corporal Katich, Private Gavrillo, do you copy?”
Radenko motioned Lazar over and picked up the hand held mic. They had already discussed their plans.
“This is Private Gavrillo, I copy.”
The voice changed on the other end. It was Nikola. “Radenko, I’m glad to see you’re still alive.” Radenko sensed his sarcasm. “How’s it looking over there? We’re headed your way.”
Radenko remembered what they promised Ibrahim. And the truth really was that there was no resistance. Radenko keyed the mic, “Zvornik is clear. Srebrenica is clear.” Radenko paused a moment, “No Resistance.”
“Good, I knew they didn’t have it in them.” Nikola’s voice sounded even more disturbing over the radio. “Corporal Katich, are you listening?” asked Nikola.
“Yes sir, I’m here.” replied Lazar.
“I have another assignment for you two. We’ve gotten word from a Muslim rat that there is a group of five to ten men east of the refugee camp in Srebrenica in a bombed out house. There is no information if they are armed or whether they are civilian or military. They’ve been watching the refugees for two days now. Find them and detain them until I get there. I want to know who they work for.”
“Yes sir, we’ll attempt to locate them.” Lazar looked at Radenko, who was shaking his head.
“Good! Don’t get yourselves hurt!” added Nikola, clicking off.
“That’s exactly what he wants.” Radenko announced. “This is another suicide mission, five to ten men?”
Lazar glanced in Milla’s direction. He was glad to see she didn’t hear Radenko’s comments. Radenko removed some extra weapons and a portable radio from a compartment in the back of the jeep. Lazar left a handgun under the seat for Milla. He showed her how to click off the safety and gave her a few pointers.
Lazar showed Milla the basics in operating the jeep. “You have a full tank of gas. It should take you all the way to Sarajevo where you can get some rest and something to eat. Don’t spend too much time there. Get to Split as soon as you can.” Lazar grabbed Milla’s hand, “Here.” Lazar turned her hand over and placed a crinkled wad of money in it. “It’s not much, but you will need it more than we will.”
“I wish you could come with us.” said Milla.
“Me too.” admitted Lazar. “Now that I’ve found you, I don’t want to let you go. But if I go with you now I’ll be considered AWOL. I could be tried for treason and shot. As it stands, they’ll think our jeep was wrecked, abandoned and scrapped for parts by refugees. I might get a Court Marshall out of it or at least latrine duty. But I will stay alive to see you again.” Lazar took her hand and kissed it.
“I understand Lazar. I know you can’t come with us. I just hope to see you soon. I want you to be careful.” Tears filled Milla’s eyes.
Lazar tried to assure her of their future together. “Stay with your aunt in Split. I have her address. I will come for you there. If you’re not there, she will know where you are. Milla nothing will ever keep us apart again, I promise.”
Lazar then took Milla into his arms and kissed her passionately, trying to fill all the empty spaces he knew would come in the months ahead.
He and Milla then said their goodbyes. Lazar walked back and patted Sofi on the head, knowing it was her mother that Milla spoke of.
Sofi smiled and tugged on Lazar’s arm. She pulled him downward and whispered into his ear, “I saw you and Milla kissing.”
Lazar looked at her almost embarrassed. “But I won’t tell anybody!” she announced out loud.
Lazar laughed. “Thank you!” he said, reaching out and rubbing her baby fine hair with his hand.
Lazar shook Josif’s hand, also knowing he was the old man Milla spoke of.
“Take care of them, Josif.” said Lazar.
Josif nodded his head and gripped his crutch with both hands, giving it a little shake.

The engine choked a little and then kicked over. She began moving away from him. He heard the gears shifting and the rocks that kicked up in the undercarriage. Now, on the other side of dust, she was gone. Lazar prayed to the same God who led him to her, that she would make it to Split safely.

Lazar and Radenko had orders, but they kept their promise to Ibrahim. They spent hours warning the Refugees. Only a quarter of them started packing their things and less than that, actually started south toward Croatia. They had contacts in Srebrenica working on shelters for the women and children, but nothing could be promised.
Radenko gave Ibrahim two AK-47’s, a CZ and a couple hand grenades. It was a start for his four-man resistance, and he was grateful.

The two soldiers went east of the camp in search of their five to ten-man audience. They found a group of homes that had been bombed out. Tall thistles and wild sunflowers had grown up around the homes. It was obvious they had been abandoned for some time now. Two of the structures were two-story, quad homes. The north walls were completely blown open. Then there were four, single-story homes. Three, were nearly all rubble. The one closest to the city, had been burnt, but had faired considerably next to the others. In that home, they noted movement, even a faint spark of light. They decided to wait until dark. Then they would make their attack. Radenko made sure their weapons were loaded. He divided the last of the grenades; three apiece. Still, behind a thicket of trees, Radenko raised his binoculars and watched. Over the next two hours he counted five men. All five appeared to be in fairly good shape, military type. One of them, Radenko thought, had to be a Westerner. It was the way he looked, the way he moved. He was different from the others. He looked American, like someone Radenko had seen in the movies.

The day yawned. The night stretched.
“Are you ready?”
“Ready!”
Quietly, Lazar and Radenko moved in toward the house.
Chapter 31 – The Color Red


The small flicker of light was enough to worry Reed. Otto nearly vanished in a costume of smoke, revealing only his hand and part of his arm as he passed the lighter to Angelo.
“Meistergeiger fur das Staenderat.” Otto whispered with his nose in the air. It was German for; ‘Master cigar for the upper-class’. Otto was delighted to find an unscathed box of German made, ‘Geiger’ cigars, from Oberweier, taking refuge in a kitchen cabinet.
Angelo offered his cigar to Reed.
“Hang on to it Angelo, I’m appreciating the cloud already lurking around me.”
Angelo laughed, which turned into a horrible cough.
“Ah ha!” Otto grunted. “I knew Angelo wasn’t a true ring blower.”
Reed had to make some compromises for the morale of the team. He already denied, without question, Florentine’s request to try out a record player he’d revived under a fallen ceiling. It wasn’t an easy decision for Reed, considering Johnny Cash was one of the records Florentine tried to tempt him with. Reed would almost give anything to feel American again. ‘A Boy named Sue’ would do just that. For now, the team would have to settle for Reed’s graciousness in letting them smoke the cigars.
The team had been in Srebrenica for a day and a half. The home they found provided the most shelter out of a cluster of homes, recently destroyed. It was also the nearest to the camp. They were able to conceal the van under a broken down shed next to the house. Otto had rubbed ash on the van to simulate fire damage.
Most of the home had caught fire and the smell of burnt wood was almost too much. Some of the furniture away from the walls was still useable. A German made J. Becker piano with a broken leg rested against the dining room wall. Marcielli spent some time trying to tune it, but finally gave up. What made them all uneasy, were all the family portraits, either still on the wall or broken on the floor. It made them feel guilty, like violating someone’s privacy. But the truth was, privacy was the least of amenities, the least of basic rights robbed from those who lived there.
Reed stood and narrowed the gap in the curtains a little. He adjusted the wooden stool he’d been sitting on most of the day, watching. He held the Steiner night vision to his face and resumed watch over the, now speckled, blanket of flickering lights.

************

Nikola used his sleeve to soak up the alcohol that escaped the edge of his mouth. His forehead began to bead with sweat, as it always did when he drank too much. He stared at the last swig and finally tilted his head back and tipped the bottle; suspended it long enough to allow liberation of all contents. The bottle came down with a clad as the vodka burned its way through his body.
Nikola dimmed his lantern. Black, cold air crept in through the seams of the tent. Loneliness was his only audience. Self hatred was the manna on which he thrived. The more pain he could impose on others, the less alien he felt. Nikola staggered away from the table and slumped over his cot. He fought for a moment; tried to hang on to the last minutes of night before he slipped into a world where he had no power; a world where things were in order and humanely uncomplicated. Caustically, Nikola preferred the conscious nightmare. The living nightmare of those he terrorized, neatly stocked the shelves of his cold, damp cellar of power. The worst part was that he kept track. To battle his slumber, Nikola rolled the mental footage. He counted the villages, counted the bodies. He brought each face back to life and replayed their deaths over and over. The color red clouded his vision and then he fell asleep.

Nikola rose early the next morning. He emerged from his tent, cigarette already in mouth. He straightened his beret and began a quest to find the first morning pot of coffee. On the way back to his tent he motioned Goran Rugova, his most trusted henchman, to follow.
“Sit down, Goran. I’d offer you a drink, but I already drank it all.” Nikola chuckled for a moment forcing puffs of smoke into the air.
“I’ve been watching you, Goran. You’re ruthless and you should be ashamed. I’ve seen you kill people, an old woman even. And here you sit before me with a smile on your face. You’re going to burn in hell.” Nikola laughed again, “Right alongside me.”
Nikola paced around the tent. He removed his beret and rubbed his brow at the hairline. “But before we burn Goran, Greater Serbia pleads with us to do our jobs. And I have a job for you. It will test your abilities. But if you do well, I am looking for a Sergeant First Class that I can trust. What do you say?”
Goran was a well-built soldier, although biasly corpulent. He had bulging grey-green eyes, a blunt quarrelsome nose, pouting lips and a double chin. His hair was dark brown and completely in place. Goran looked at Nikola like a hungry dog waiting for a sausage to roll off the grill,
“You can trust me. I’m in.”
“Good,” replied Nikola. “Pick two men and go to Srebrenica. There is a refugee camp there. Just east of the camp, there are some burnt out homes. One of them hides a group of spies. I sent Corporal Katich and Private Gavrillo to capture them. I want you and your guys to kill them both and their detainees. I don’t trust either of them. Gavrillo betrayed General Pec and he knows too much for his own good. And Katich, he hasn’t been on board with us since he went nuts in Visegrad.”
Nikola tried to invoke a challenge. “The detainees should already be disarmed. It’s Katich and Gavrillo you need to worry about. They have both proven themselves combat worthy.”
Goran stood up, absent of fear. “Give me the Sergeant patches and I’ll have them sewn on when I return. But Lieutenant, there is one condition; I work alone.”
Nikola smiled. “You remind me so much of myself, it scares me. I’ll see you when you get back.”

************

Reed had taken hundreds of pictures of the camp earlier that day; the movements, the conditions, the mood and the people. Their faces, hope ridden and blank, their bodies, careworn and their pride, bedraggled. Reed found every frame captivating. Every frozen image bled a legacy of the human spirit, the need and will to survive and the private victories of those who were still standing. It all fascinated Reed; the soft, but mighty heartbeat of the refugee.
“What do you see, Reed?” Marcielli was seated next to the window. He had the operation orders spread out on the table and two army MRE wrappers on the floor by his feet.
Reed tried to fine tune one of the knobs on the night vision, not sure exactly how to use it. “There’s been a lot of movement out there over the last hour. It’s like they know a storm is coming. Some have gathered their things and started westward, toward Sarajevo maybe. They’re leaving in small groups.”
Marcielli thumbed through a few of the photos in the briefcase. He found the one of the little girl; the one Reed had seemed so mesmerized over. “Where do you think she’s from?” he asked.
“Kosovo,” Reed answered without disrupting his concentration.
“How can you tell?” Marcielli questioned.
“She’s Albanian. They have a certain look. And besides, I read the entire operation, twice. All of our Intel comes from the Kosovo area.” Reed lowered the night vision, seemingly frustrated with its performance.
“What do you think about going into the camp tomorrow? The refugees don’t seem too intimidating.”
Florentine joined Marcielli at the table after hearing Reed’s comment. “Mama Mia, Reed! Are you crazy?”
Marcielli shrugged his shoulders, “I think you’re right, Flo. He’s gone mad.”
Marcielli knew there was more at stake now that he was going to be a father. He was concerned about what they were really doing in Bosnia.
“Reed, if the Intel mostly comes from Kosovo, isn’t that where we should be digging? If there are graves out there we can find them without the Serbs on our backs.”
Angelo dashed out his cigar, making a burn mark on a perfectly good chair. He joined the others at the window.
“Marcielli has a point, Reed. Now that the Serbs have left Kosovo, we have all the time we need to poke around there. It could be too dangerous here.” Angelo picked up the night vision and looked at the camp. “The refugees know something. They’re leaving for a reason. We probably should too. You got some good pictures, Reed.”
Reed motioned Otto over.
“Don’t worry about me, Boss! I go where you go.” muttered Otto, who was nestled into a slanted sofa, shy of two legs. Nevertheless, he popped to his feet and rested the shotgun he was holding against the wall by the front door. Reed could feel the team was uneasy about being there. He wasn’t even sure himself why he wanted to be there. It was just a feeling he had. He was drawn to it. Was it perverse that he wanted to see the suffering up close? Or was it a need to protect those in imminent danger? It was foolish to think he could gallop in on a white horse. It was foolish to think he had the resources to make a difference. He did feel he should have made a better case for leaving Kosovo and going into Bosnia.
“You’re right, Marcielli. It would make for an easy investigation without the Serbs in Kosovo. You’re right too, Flo.” Reed admitted. “I might be a little crazy. It’s just that, I don’t know, Kosovo is quiet now; nothing is happening there. The dust clouds have settled there and now they’re stirring here. It’s like spending too much time at a murder scene when you know where the killer is going to strike next.” Reed exhaled impatiently. “These people are alive. They’re breathing the very same air we’re breathing. The struggle to win this fight is addicting.” Reed raised the binoculars that were hanging around his neck. “With these I can see refined character out there. It’s where new definitions are written for the hero and for the villain and the moment they clash. We can always go back, and maybe that’s the best idea. But let’s not forget a very important lesson; nothing moves a jury like the testimony of an eye witness. Facts and remnants are persuasive, but the emotions of testimony are compelling. Sometimes it’s all we can do; be the perfect witness. And if it’s enough for the UN to call down the wrath of God on this mess, then it’s all worth it.”
Otto felt he needed to clarify. “By ‘the wrath of God’, Reed means F-16s and cluster bombs.”
“Thanks for the interpretation Otto,” said Reed. Otto just nodded his head.
Reed wasn’t sure if his monologue was inspiring or not. He did realize however, that he was walking a fine line. He wanted to get his team back in one piece. But he also knew the value this would have to the mission.
Marcielli listened to Reed, tried to hear everything he was saying. He watched as Reed moved his arms around as he spoke. In Italy, the more people subconsciously moved their arms while they spoke, the more truthful their story was. It was the involuntary passion to persuade.
The notions reminded him of Marianna; how she looked when something was important to her. She tucked her hair behind her ears. She moved her hands a lot and she would involuntarily take his hand in hers and look him in the eyes. When she did that, he was sure of her sincerity. It was something he missed. He pictured that look when he read her letter. He imagined her telling him he would be a father. He imagined it over and over.
Marcielli glanced back at Reed. He had lost track of what he was saying and wasn’t even hearing him now. He only paid attention to the look on his face; in his eyes; the glow that surrounded him as he paced back and forth, moving his arms. If the team was a wheel, Reed was the axle. Marcielli would gladly revolve around him, absorbing the bumps until they reached the end.
Marcielli noticed that Reed stopped talking and was staring out the window. He Reed’s expression in the glass. He thought this young man must have been raised in an exceptional family under exceptional leadership. That was something Marcielli always wanted.
Marcielli walked over to Reed and leaned against the pane. “Listen Reed, you’re going to have to wrap yourself in a blanket and rub dirt on your face to cover the California surfer look. Let me do all the talking. I speak Serbo-Croat. I’ll walk the camp with you in the morning.”

************

Marcielli reminded Reed so much of his little brother, Reddin. They were both so quick to show their loyalty, even though they hadn’t fully examined the consequences, or just refused to be distracted by them. Reed was thankful for the alliance; thankful for the assurance.
Reed took a moment to welcome the arrival of thoughts from home. He enjoyed an inner chuckle as he pictured Reddin in mismatched colors of red from head to toe. It didn’t matter what he wore, as long as it was red. Anna did her best, but ‘Big Red’ always insisted on dressing himself. Anna always said he had a “Big Red Heart”.
Gracie was doomed from the beginning, growing up on a farm with two older brothers. Somehow, with Anna’s help, she beat the odds. She was as girly as a girl could be. Reed would never forget the time when he came home from school and saw one of their young calves wearing Anna’s brand-new, pink summer dress. Anna was trying to carefully remove it without damaging it. Gracie was sitting Indian-style on the ground, pouting that she couldn’t put on the rest of the apparel she’d selected for the calf. And now, a hemisphere away, Reed stood, proud of the man Reddin had become and nearly petrified of Gracie’s new beauty. Mom and Dad had done well, he thought. He wished he could tell them that.
In another month, Reed would take Lindsey in his arms. He would ask for a leave extension, he would go to the beach and some of their favorite places. If the time was right, maybe he would even ask her to marry him. They would discuss their plans for the future. Reed might even ask her what she thought about the Los Angeles Police Department. He’d been thinking about it a lot lately. A lot of the guys in the Corp became police officers when they returned.
Samuel Clay once referred to his men as, Sheepdogs, protecting the sheep from the wolves. He said the Corp protects them abroad and the Police protect them at home. Sam was a veteran cop with twenty years in Arizona. He was activated in 1991 for Desert Storm and then reassigned in 1992 to NATO. Sam told him he would make a great cop. Beside his infatuation with cop movies, Reed never really gave it much thought before. He was curious what Lindsey would say about it. Nothing was set in stone though. When he was with her, she made him feel like a million bucks, at the threshold of a million open doors. Maybe he wanted to be a brain surgeon or a rocket scientist or even President of the United States. She knew he could do it. One thing was for certain though, Reed wanted to spend the rest of his life with Lindsey and raise children with her. He wanted come home to her every evening and tour the country together as elderly folks and block traffic in an RV. But a small hurdle stood in front of him. He must get through this mission. He stared back out the window, through the swaying evergreens and into the sputtering glow of the camp. He kept reminding himself, “Evil only exists where good men do nothing.”

Marcielli sat back down at the table. Ideas and thoughts ran through his head. The feeling among the men was strange. He knew Angelo and Florentine didn’t want to be there. Otto was just eating up the adrenaline. It was what kept him alive and it was all he had ever known. Marcielli hoped Reed’s nobility and passion didn’t get them killed. Marcielli had grown to love the cause they were serving. But it wasn’t greater than the love he felt for Marianna and his unborn child and the excitement of their future together.
Marcielli glanced around the room. Angelo laid out a blanket and removed a book from his bag. It was the Serbian Bible he’d taken from the church in Kumanovo. He began practicing the language.
Florentine stole Otto’s spot on the tilted sofa and was snoring louder than what Marcielli thought was healthy. Otto was using broken two-by-fours to prop up the weaker areas of the ceiling. He had already boarded up many of the broken windows. And Reed had just torn open an MRE and began eating, appearing to be in deep thought, staring at nothing as he chewed.
Marcielli found a blank piece of paper in the OP orders. He knew he wouldn’t be able to mail it anytime soon, but he began writing anyway;


Marianna, Belize de Milano,

It’s great news! I will try to be the best father I can be. I can’t wait to see you and hold you. I just hope I get there before our baby does. It would be so wonderful to see you as a mother. I hope you are taking care of yourself. I hope you are resting and eating well enough for two. You can crush the grapes, but stay away from your uncle’s wine. It’s not good for the baby. I hope our troubles at home are over. I pray for you every day and it pains me that I’m not there to protect you. If anything arises, promise me you’ll call Antigo. I’m happy that you’ve had nothing to report. I don’t like being away from you. Remember, this whole thing was your idea. I don’t know how much longer we’ll be here, maybe only a couple more weeks. It would be so good to see you. I’m tired of waking up to Flo and Angelo and the guys. They’re not nearly as pretty as you are in the morning and they don’t smell as nice. Tell the baby that Daddy’s coming home soon and give him my love. Be strong Mi Amore, for the three of us. There are wonderful times ahead. I love you, Marianna.

- Your Marcielli

P.S. When I see you again, I want you to wear something red. You look beautiful in red.


Otto heard, what sounded, like a twig snapping just outside the window by the front door. He walked over to the edge of the window and waited quietly; listening.
“What is it?” asked Reed.
Otto didn’t respond. He just placed his finger over his lips, motioning them all to remain quiet.


Chapter 32 – America


‘Snap!’
Radenko quickly glanced over his shoulder; saw Lazar frozen in his tracks, standing on a broken twig. Remorse for the blunder nearly struck him in the form of a lightning bolt. Radenko let uneasiness sift through his confidence as he inserted his index finger into the ring. Standing at the embankment of murky waters, a perilous plunge awaited him; the metal, cold in his hand. The slightest pressure against his fingertip brought him one step closer to uncertainty. It wasn’t that he was untried in conflict; he just felt his halfhearted mind-set could get the better of him. One thing was for sure, it was happening now and there was no backing down. An obscure awareness took Radenko by surprise; a sudden softness attempting to tame his irregular heartbeat . . . . Mom, he felt her there; could almost see her face. She was with him, just as Petrovich had promised. Radenko selfishly stole an extra second; granted it to Sasia. He then pulled the pin on one grenade, then another and carefully set them both at the threshold.

************

Reed knew something was wrong. He’d never seen so much gravity in Otto’s behavior. He found an M-16 and signaled Marcielli to do the same. As he started toward Otto, Reed saw a silhouette through the window moving swiftly away from the front door.
“Otto, get away from the door!” Reed yelled, but by then it was too late. The landscape in front of him was already starting to warp. The door was lifting off its hinges, taking Otto with it. Reed tried to get to him, but the massive force of heat and splintered wood was now having its way with him. Reed felt his body slam against the wall, cutting him short of breath. A brilliant light filled the room and then vanished back into the darkness, only leaving behind scattered bits of flickering orange light.
Smoke shot across the floor and climbed up the walls. Reed tried to breathe, but the misguided air was thick and rebellious. It burned as he took it in. He couldn’t distinguish sounds. Everything was fuzzy. He tried to tame stubborn images before they dissolved behind the smoke; tried to find Otto to see if he was even alive.
“Otto!” Reed called out. Only quiet grumblings could be heard throughout the house.
Anxiety flared like a match-tip. Reed frantically sorted through his memory for training but the outstanding pressure in his head made it nearly impossible. Scrambled thoughts tugged from every direction. He found God to be more expedient in times like these. It was his only lucid intuition.
“Father” begged Reed, “Protect the guys!”
Then Reed saw Marcielli bolt passed him in a psychotic rage. He clashed with two figures in the doorway. Reed reached for his M-16. It was nowhere around him. Why didn’t anyone have a gun? He tried to pick himself off the floor but his muscles were oblivious to the adrenaline racing through his veins. A willful sensation blew through his body, he felt hot and cold at the same time. He made out a pair of black combat boots growing larger as they got closer, gliding across the floor. And then, he felt immediate blunt force on the back of his head. The feeling was devastating, there was no slowing it down. Reed thought of the others again and then he lost consciousness.
Radenko bound Angelo, who had shrapnel in his side and was loosing blood quickly. Florentine, thinking he was in some fiendish nightmare, was also too week to fight.
Marcielli hit Lazar with force as they tumbled down the steps of the front door and out into the walkway. It was a struggle of might, a struggle for Lazar’s rifle. Marcielli held his grip on the rifle with one hand and reached for a brick, kicked loose from the steps. He swung it toward Lazar’s head. Lazar used the butt of the rifle to block the swing and contemplated shooting Marcielli. Instead he smashed the rifle across Marcielli’s chest, causing him to stumble backwards and then kicked him to ensure his fall. Between the blast and the fight, Marcielli nearly had all the breath knocked out of him. He stared at the barrel pointed at his chest and wondered what he could possibly do next. He wondered why the man wasn’t shooting at him.
Only for a brief instance, Lazar turned his attention toward the clatter coming from inside the house; hopeful of his friend’s well being. Lazar showed his back, but Marcielli wasn’t sure if he had anything left in him. Then he thought of Marianna and the baby. He thought of their future, without him in it.
Marcielli sprang for Lazar but lost his footing, forecasting the attack. Lazar turned in time to repel Marcielli’s force, knocking him to the ground again, but Marcielli grabbed Lazar’s leg to brake his fall. Lazar shrieked in pain as Marcielli smashed the brick into his ribs. Lazar went down and the ground fight ensued.
Radenko heard Lazar struggling outside. He tied Florentine and Angelo to an exposed 2x4. He looked over at Reed and Otto, but they were still down from the blast. Radenko darted to the front door, rigidly clutching his rifle. He saw Lazar’s rival holding a brick over his head and Lazar fighting to keep it from coming down on him.
Marcielli’s adrenaline was pumping so hard through his body he almost didn’t hear the rattle of machine gun fire. He saw the puffs of dirt next to him and then felt a ripping pain in his left shoulder. His body spun around and then he was on his back.
Radenko moved in closer with his finger still tightly across the trigger. He pointed the barrel at Marcielli’s chest.
“Belissimo! Belissimo!” cried Marcielli. Believing those would be his last words; he offered one to Marianna and one to his unborn.
“Stop!” yelled Lazar.
“But he was trying to kill you!” blurted Radenko as he stood ready to finish off a wounded and panting Marcielli.
“Our orders were to take them alive. That’s what we need to do. Nobody else needs to get hurt.” Lazar stood, hand over ribs and hobbled over to Radenko, lowering his barrel for him.
“I’m sorry, I forgot.” Admitted Radenko; noticing a nervous vibrato in his own voice.
“What about the others inside?” asked Lazar.
“Help me drag this one in. The others aren’t fully contained. We need more rope.”

Reed opened his eyes, but everything was still dark; only small bits of light shifted slowly in front of him. He realized something was over his head; a dusty white sheet or pillow case. His hands were tied and he was sitting on the floor. He felt his back against a wall. His body throbbed as blood worked its way back into limbs previously deprived.
“Otto,” Reed called out, hesitantly.
“I’m here Boss! I’m okay. Everybody’s okay.”

Lazar was sure three of them were either Spaniards or Italians. “This one sounds American.” said Lazar, as he pointed to Reed.
“What about the big guy?” asked Radenko.
“I’m not sure. But I don’t get it. None of them are from Yugoslavia and they don’t work for any foreign press. It’s a mixed team. They’ve got American weaponry and German surveillance equipment. Maybe the big guy’s German.”
Lazar tossed the radio to Radenko, “Hey, why don’t you radio HQ; let’em know the package is secure and we’re code-4.”
“Corporal, with all due respect, if I have to speak to Nikola, I’ll probably vomit.”
“Give me the radio.” Lazar rolled his eyes.
Nikola sounded surprised to hear from Lazar. No questions and no attaboys. He simply told them to stay put until they got there. Lazar was curious of Nikola’s intentions. He understood Radenko’s hatred for him. Radenko was sure that he and General Pec had something to do with his father’s attack. And now Radenko was convinced that they wanted to get rid of him.
Lazar glanced over at the men against the wall; wondered about them. What were they doing? What would Nikola do with them? He knew the question wasn’t necessary. In two days, they would all be dead. Lazar glanced over at Radenko and contemplated his theories. He knew he couldn’t stand by and watch the inevitable unfold. He already owed Radenko his life on two accounts.
One truth was for sure; he’d grown tired of the senseless killing. He wanted a way out. He wanted to take Milla back to Belgrade, spend a day with her at stables. He wanted to be back in Mr. Nowak’s Time Machine, coddling the warm flicker of the jewelry torch. He wanted to see Mr. Nowak; he wanted to see Mr. Nowak caring for his mother. And chess, he wanted to make his move at the chess table. He wouldn’t be so quick to sacrifice his pawns now. He understood their importance. They were frontline soldiers. If any one pawn fell, it created an avenue of attack for the enemy. Mr. Nowak tried to teach Lazar this, but he just didn’t have the patience to move them one space at a time.
Recently Lazar felt as though he and Radenko were just pawns. Except they were holding a line for a cause in which neither believed in. What Lazar feared most, was that his heart would lead him to the location of his demise, and Milla would only be a memory he took with him. But he wouldn’t run. He wouldn’t hide. He wasn’t a coward. He had to make his stand. The key was, staying alive long enough to see Radenko to his father’s side. He owed him that much. Reuniting with Milla, by God’s sweet grace, would only be a plus. One thing he’d convinced himself of was; there were a million places he’d rather be, than here, babysitting prisoners.
Radenko gathered up the weapons. He took time to admire some of them, especially the M-16. He never thought he would get his hands on one. “We ought to get Ibrahim up here. He and his boys could really arm themselves.”
“And we would be hung.” Lazar grimaced.
Lazar sat at Reed’s stool by the window, “Take a peak in here.” Lazar used his foot to nudge the crate of supplies closer to Radenko. “You won’t believe this stuff.”
Lazar looked out the window. He used his sleeve to wipe some smudges off the glass. “I can see why they chose this spot. You can almost see the whole camp from here. They’ve been taking a lot of pictures” Amused, Lazar strapped on the night vision. “The glass is broken.”
Radenko looked up, “Pressure from the blast probably.”
Lazar was more impressed, anyway, with the unfiltered view. The camp seemed bright with fire light. The soft swaying trees around the camp seemed to be standing guard; the dark, heavy clouds courting them. All seemed to be secretly embracing the warmth and solace emanating from the refugees.
Lazar was hoping more refugees would listen to Ibrahim and their warning. They had done all they could. Maybe more would leave at first light, he thought. Lazar said a silent prayer for them. Then he prayed for Milla and those she was caring for, that they would have a safe journey.
Radenko paced in front of his detainees, then squatted down, elbows on knees, “What do you think there doing here? He asked. Radenko reached forward and pulled the pillow case off of Reed’s head.
The sudden brightness caused Reed to squint his eyes. After a few seconds, Reed got his first look at his captors. Young, like they were. Serbs, he recognized the uniforms from the Intel photos. Reed stared back at Radenko. He appeared to be the same age as Reed; didn’t look particularly threatening with his bright blue eyes and pail skin. He glanced over at Lazar, who had taken over his post at the window. He was stockier, tan and had longer hair. He wondered if the two were alone in capturing his team. Their fatigues were thin and faded. Both of them looked tired. They didn’t fall into the pigeonhole stereotype of rogue nationalists. Radenko started speaking to Reed. Reed didn’t understand a word he was saying.
“How’s your head?” asked Radenko. “I hope you understand; we’re only doing our jobs. What’s your name?”
Reed didn’t respond.
“Why are you here?”
Reed looked over at his team; all were bound with pillow cases over their heads. He felt defeated. He felt like he’d let his men down as team leader. How could he let this happen? Look where his convictions had gotten them. Where did he go wrong, he wondered? Why did he feel so strongly about being there? He wished he could contact Sam and order in the cavalry. But they weren’t even supposed to be there and the hard truth was, they were civilians, there was no cavalry. It pained Reed to see his men like this.
“Why are you here?” Radenko asked again.
Reed knew Radenko was talking to him, he just didn’t understand what he was saying.
“I don’t speak your language.” answered Reed.
Radenko paused for a moment and then, in horribly broken English, he asked, “You America?”
“Yes.” replied Reed.
“Hollywood?”
“Yes, Los Angeles”
“Good movies.” Radenko stuttered, his smile pushing into his cheeks.
Reed almost grinned. The soldier seemed childish.
“Why here, America?” Reed didn’t answer. He wasn’t sure what they wanted and he wasn’t about toss the integrity of the mission further into the road.

One by one, Radenko removed the pillow cases from over their heads.
Reed felt remorse and culpability when he saw their faces. Otto almost bore a shameful look, like it was his job to protect them all, being the seasoned veteran. But in the same instance, Reed noticed a man contemplating, devising a way out. He had already moved to the next phase of the game; escape and evade.
Angelo wore a defeated expression, mixed with bitterness. He stared off in front of him, making eye contact with no one; especially not Reed.
Florentine hid his true emotions well. He was almost smirking, letting them know he was still the comedian. Nothing is more crippling to the Devil, than to tell him he doesn’t exist and then laugh in his face. Reed silently voted Florentine the VIP of the moment. The positive reinforcement was much needed.
Marcielli, still loyal and true, couldn’t hide the look of hopelessness that was smudged all over his face. Who could blame him and who would want to be in his shoes? But something deep in Reed’s gut told him Marcielli would be there when Marianna gave birth to his baby. Only how could he convey the idea to Marcielli, under the circumstances, without appearing completely naïve?
As Reed silently evaluated the morale of his team, something struck him very odd. He couldn’t help but notice the bandage on Otto’s head, the wrap around Angelo’s side and the dressing on Marcielli’s shoulder. Their wounds had been treated. Why? Reed asked himself. It didn’t seem fitting of the Serb soldiers Reed had read about. They weren’t rowdy, nor were they brutal; couldn’t possibly be the same Serbs in their reports; the ones killing, raping and terrorizing innocent people, burning villages. But their tactics were very sharp and meticulous. Reed knew they were trained combat soldiers. He could see the wounds on their conscious. It was a look he had seen many times before; a person who is paid to take lives. No fear, but appreciative that, at the current moment, bullets weren’t flying overhead. They were feelings all soldiers had in common; the brief, startling and unpredicted moments of peace.
Lazar hopped off the stool and stood next to Radenko. He looked over Reed’s team.
“What are your names?” asked Lazar.
Finally Marcielli broke the silence, surprising everyone, including Lazar and Radenko. He answered in Serbian, “The big German on the end is Otto. That’s Angelo and this is Florentine. My name is Marcielli, we are from Italy. And this is Reed, he’s American.”
“Who do you work for?” asked Lazar.
Marcielli didn’t answer.
Lazar looked over at Reed, “America, who do you work for?” Lazar spoke some English, but refused to cater to his prisoners.
Reed couldn’t understand him and Marcielli didn’t translate.
Radenko walked over to Reed; bent down again, “America, you boss?”
Reed looked him in the eye and nodded his head.
America, Reed thought, what a peculiar honor to bleed with; a renowned and distinguished title to so many people; The Home of the Brave, the Land of the Free, the Red, White and Blue. America, America! Yes, I am America!


Chapter 33 - One


Soot from the Srebrenica coal factories mixed with the smell of burnt wood. An assortment of which made it hard for anyone to sleep. Watchful eyes scanned the room throughout the night, waiting on the unknown, anticipating the worst. Dew quietly dripped from bits of broken glass left in the window pane. A damp chill offered admonition of the breaking dawn and the thick midnight-blue softened over the waking valley. Except for a few stirring creatures, nothing had broken the morning silence.
Adjourning a ten thousand mile expedition, thoughts barged effortlessly into his mind, setting him apart from reality once again. Fighting them back became tedious and futile. Reed clearly lacked the strength. He allowed the emotion to perch on his heart; thoughts of home, teasing, tugging. Lindsey stretched forth her arms. Reed pulled her in, her body a perfect fit against his; her skin, her scent, her softness, insatiable, arresting every desire. A sentiment almost single handedly destroying him; never convenient, always welcome. The frequent pounding in his chest was a reminder of the life he loved: a compass, pointing homeward.
Reed’s body ached. His muscles tightened through the hours of immobility. His wrists, raw from a natural desire to pull against the fibers in the rope. Nausea toyed with his sleep-ridden mind. He knew he had to put himself together; try to plot an escape. But he was plagued by the decency of his captors. He knew any kind of escape would call their blood to floor. He didn’t know them, which seemed to lessen the guilt, but he convinced himself there were no other alternatives.
The team was able to whisper to each other in English, unchallenged. Reed was surprised by the carelessly relaxed behavior of the Serbs. He and Marcielli were discussing it, when Otto interrupted.
“Don’t make assumptions. They could be the containment team; just infantrymen. The real interrogation is on its way, trust me.”
Reed thought about what Otto was saying. If anyone had a feeling for these things, it was Otto. He’d championed the art for twenty years, twice lugging the chains of a POW; once in his own country.
Otto lowered his voice, “We should plan an escape. Try to overtake them; surprise them, like they did us.”
Reed didn’t make direct eye contact with Otto the way he had. He just conversed with the air in front of him.
“Let’s not rush anything Otto. We need more time to follow their movements, learn their weaknesses.”
“Weaknesses?” mumbled Florentine. He tugged at the ropes on his wrists. “Did anybody notice any weaknesses when they defeated all five of us and tied us up?”
“They’re not amateurs,” admitted Reed. “But I’m with Otto on this one. I’m not about to rot in some Serb prison. We’ve got to get out of here. If one of us can get to the van out back, we can use the mobile phone to call Sam.”
Angelo wasn’t speaking, just staring at the ground in front of him, occasionally turning his head from side to side in frustration. Reed knew he was upset with him. Angelo said it wasn’t a good idea to leave Kosovo.
“Angelo, are you all right?” asked Reed.
“Are you serious? You had to ask!”
Reed knew this conversation was coming and preferred to get it over with. He knew the morale would get a lot worse before it got better. He also knew the one who would cast the most stones at him would be the other chevron bearer. The one likely a little offended taking orders from another sergeant his junior.
“You’re selfish Reed. We had a mission to complete. Nowhere in our orders did it say, ‘Come back with a Bronze Star and a Purple Heart’. Damn you for not thinking about us, the team and the mission. You’re young and foolish, Reed.”
The words were marring and burrowed deep into his confidence. It was Reed’s first assignment as a sergeant. Had he already blown it? Reed didn’t say anything, just nodded, allowing a moment for the poison to spread through his body. He felt he might curl in shame. Why wasn’t his loyal, childlike passion inflating into a life preserver? Nobody denied Reed a chance to respond, but an uncomfortable silence stagnated among them.
It was Otto who attempted to slow the bleeding. Everyone listened. Otto was never one to talk much, unless it was about the mission or war. It was really the first time he’d shared anything personal with them.

“It was 1969 in East Berlin. The Wall had been up for eight years and I was only thirteen. My father said he was leaving the country with a group of workers from the factory. They had been planning the escape for some time. He said once he was safely in West Berlin, he could make the right contacts and secure a way out of East Germany for the rest of us. After no word or contact for two, long years, I was sure he’d left us for good.
My mother’s life had been hard enough during the war, raising the family without him. She had completely broken down and almost gone mad. I couldn’t bear to see her that way. So I was determined to escape East Germany, find him and bring him back. The Wall and the Spree River were too heavily guarded. People were being shot on a daily basis. I heard that a man successfully escaped the country through the Baltic Sea in the north. The man paddled on a raft all the way to Denmark.
So one day I missed school to gather some supplies and build a raft. The next day, my friend Horst drove me to the Baltic. He tried to talk me out of going. He told me that I would drown or that the police would catch me. After the news of the first escape they would surely be looking for others; for more rafts.
But the truth was, if I didn’t find my father, I wasn’t coming back either. I loved my mother, but I couldn’t live with her anymore. She was miserable. She wouldn’t cry. She was too strong for that, so she became unbearably angry. She neglected herself. She neglected all of the kids. We couldn’t do anything right and nothing would make her happy, not even for a moment. She wasn’t the mother I once knew. I wanted to remember her the way she was, not what she had become. So I took my one-man raft and plunged into the cold dark water.”
Otto took a moment to adjust ropes on his wrist. There was a small break in the story. Childish stares were pasted on Otto like a first-grade school project.
“Two hours later and almost relieved that I wasn’t going to die of hypothermia, I was staring into the blinding light of a German Democratic Republic vessel. It was the last thing I saw. I passed out.
When I woke, a man half my size sat in front of me, asking one question after another. Why was I in the Baltic? What was I doing? Where was I going? He seemed to know the answers already. He just wanted me to confess that I was trying to escape. Then I was sure he already knew, when he asked me why I wasn’t in school that day. He said my mother’s name and asked if she knew where I was going. He told me I had been seen with Horst Kaufmann earlier. He asked if Horst had helped me.
The man became frustrated when I wasn’t answering his questions. Then he said something I will never forget. ‘You are traitors. You and your father both have betrayed the GDR. For your mistake and his, you will spend the rest of your life defending the GDR. I will sign you into the Army as soon as you get out of the hospital.’
I was confused by the word, ‘hospital’. Then he pulled something from the drawer in front of him, a knife bearing the GDR symbol on the handle. He stood and walked behind me and put the knife against my neck. ‘I should kill you. You’re selfish. The GDR has given you everything, has given your family everything. And you think only of yourself. What about everyone else? What about pulling your load? What about giving back?’ Then he put the knife to my lips and slowly pulled inward. Otto pointed at the scar across both of his lips. ‘This is so you don’t forget the rest of us, the GDR. You may go now.’ He stood me up and pushed me toward the door. Herr Hubner was his name.”
Florentine brought a set of tied hands up and began rubbing his face. “It’s a horrible story Otto,” he mumbled through his fingers.
“It’s okay, Flo. I’m just saying; I know what it’s like for others to think you are being selfish. I spent a whole lifetime trying to prove that Herr Hubner was wrong about me. In 1989 the Wall fell. Communism and the GDR fell. I continued serving.
‘Good men are born under extreme circumstances. Good leaders make extreme circumstances bearable’. Reed is not selfish.” Otto glared at Angelo. “I know what is in his heart. And it’s not bringing home a bronze metal. I saw it in the beginning, and it has never been that.” Otto looked over to Reed and this time he had to raise both fists to his chest. But Reed understood.

Lazar stood and nodded, as if to thank Otto for the story he’d overheard. He sauntered over to the window by the table. Radenko kneeled down by Marcielli and began speaking Serbian with him. He was amused to learn that Florentine and Angelo spoke Serbian as well.
The sun had finally made its grand entrance into the room. Its beams, illuminating particles of dust suspended in the air around them. It was the kiss of warmth everyone needed.
The briefcase lay glowing on the table, almost shivering at the exposure. Unopened, Reed refused to set his gaze on it as though it were a ghastly leper. The others did the same. But it was inevitable. Lazar was leaning against the window pane over the table, his vision falling upon the case. He knew it was there. It was as if he were planning to get to it, but only after he slowed the mobile of decisions rotating over his head.
Reed watched the Italians as they conversed with the Serb soldier. Their disposition gradually intensified. Reed got Florentine’s attention, who appeared to be the least interested in what was being said.
“What are they talking about Flo?”
“Let me introduce you first.” Florentine shifted his body toward Reed. “The Private here is not a Serb. He’s from Montenegro. His name is Radenko. The Corporal by the window is Serbian and his name is Lazar. So far I think we’ve found out that they were ordered to capture us and hold us. That’s all.”
Reed interrupted, “Why does he seem upset with Marcielli?”
“I’m not sure you really want to know Reed, but I’ll translate what he’s saying:
‘What you’re doing is horrible. Those people out there have no place to go. You’ve run them from their homes and now you’ve come to rub their faces in the dirt they sleep in. Why, because they don’t share the same beliefs as you? Their ethnicity is different? How do you live with yourselves? They’re your neighbors and they’re dying out there; old men, women and children are dying; children damn you!” Florentine’s translation was suddenly interrupted.
“That’s enough Marcielli. You’re saying too much!” warned Angelo.
“The children are innocent!” exclaimed Marcielli.
“I’m sorry Reed.” Marcielli switched to English. “I just don’t see the point in trying to hide the reason we’re here. The operation orders are on the table. They’re going to find out anyway. I know we’re here for the right reasons Reed, like you said. It’s time we own up to the responsibility. You’re not in this alone anymore. I didn’t come this far just to stand behind you and look over your shoulder. I am right next to you Reed and I want to see what we can do for these refugees. It’s the kind of man I want to be. It’s the kind of father I want to be. I can’t turn my back on those children.”
Reed felt he’d just escaped prison, shackled to his favorite cell-mate. He only hoped the heavy clouds of passion would transform into a clear, blue sky.
Radenko stood over Marcielli, contemplating. Being from Montenegro, he happened to agree. The killing was tragic and senseless.
However, for the first time, Lazar felt he needed to defend his identity. He was clearly not in line with Milosevic, the “Sun of Serbia”, who high-jacked the country during the night and rose in the morning to cheer up the downtrodden. But he couldn’t abandon his nationality. He just wanted to help turn the tide. He wanted to restore Serbia to the state it was in under Tito.
Lazar had done things he wasn’t proud of. But he had gone to hell and back to right his wrongs; to feel human again. He too, was disgusted with all the suffering the war brought. But he couldn’t stand by and listen to an outsider verbally disembowel the country he loved. Lazar hoped the war would be over soon and hoped hate would die with the last bullet fired. He was born in Serbia, it was home to his family and he would raise his own children there. He would always love it, always defend it. Lazar would always be . . . . . . Serbian.
Lazar moved closer to Marcielli, but his eyes met everyone’s individually. He spoke English to them,
“One man can’t destroy the heart of a nation two thousand years old. I am a Serb and Serbia is a good country.”
Lazar began to pace back and forth in front of them. Finally he sat down, leaning against the wall; his rifle creating a bridge from knee cap to knee cap. He thought of his father, who died fifteen years ago in Macedonia, fighting this same war. Lazar never really knew him; never knew what he was fighting for. Up until recently, he wasn’t sure what he was fighting for. Now, Lazar was certain. He was fighting for a girl that he loved and adored, a girl that lit up the stage as he marveled in darkness. He was fighting for a girl he couldn’t live without and nearly went mad trying. He was fighting to see Radenko and his father together again. He was fighting to see his mother happy, for once. He was fighting for a chance to cheer his sister on to graduation. He was fighting to get back to ‘The Time Machine’ to embrace an old friend, to make another watch and win a chess match. Lazar was fighting a thunderstorm of controversy in his mind. Finally, he was fighting for normalcy, for his life back, his country back. The uniform he was wearing was simply a remedy for the cold air.
Lazar remembered a promise he made himself. He was 10 years old when he saw her for the first time, the Romanian Gypsy. She would sit across from ‘The Time Machine’, begging for money. She sat there with her crutches next to her and her leg bent outward. She would shake even though it wasn’t cold outside. She had a cup in front of her for donations and a picture of Mary. He felt awful as he passed her. Sometimes she even had little kids next to her, crying. Lazar never had any money. His family was poor too. But he promised himself if he had money oneday, he would give it all to her, just to see her smile.
Then one evening, Lazar was helping Mr. Nowak close up shop when he stopped to watch the woman from the window. A nice Mercedes Benz pulled up next to her. She stopped shaking and gathered her money. She stood up, carried her crutches to the trunk of the car, appearing not to need them. The two children that were with her parted separate ways after she flipped a few coins at them. Then she got into the Mercedes and drove off. She wasn’t at all in need. Lazar was confused and felt betrayed for feeling sorry for her.

“People are not always as they appear or claim to be, Marcielli. I am not like Radenko and Radenko is not like me. Neither of us are like the rest. But my country is full of good, honest, hardworking people. You have to really get to know them. Know what makes them great. Marcielli, I agree, horrible things are happening out there. I too, hope it’s all over soon.”
Reed remembered a conversation his dad had with him and Reddin just before he left. Tom was digging into his favorite repertoire of historical facts, World War Two. He was talking about the regular German army. Not the Nazis, not the SS, but the regular German army, the Wermacht. He said they were a decent army who treated their prisoners with respect. They were active long before Hitler ever became Chancellor. Reed always thought every German soldier was a Nazi. But Tom explained that only Hitler’s most trusted followers wore the Nazi symbol. Tom went on to explain that, collectively, people have a natural goodness about them. Only a few nurture their desire to control others, their desire for power. And they will take that power at any cost, even if it’s the cause of their own demise. It’s what sets them apart from everyone else. Dead or alive, it’s what gets them on our televisions sets, on the front page of our newspapers. It’s what gets them into our history books. These people attract those who admire their power and will do what they’re told until their time comes; their moment in history. This is when good people suffer.
Reed studied Lazar and Radenko. Surely they were only subject to such circumstances, like the regular Wermacht soldier and not the NAZI.
Radenko stood silent for awhile. He cupped his hands together, blowing hot air into them. It was cold enough to see his breath curl upward around his face. He wasn’t sure why it seemed appropriate to share such intimate details of their lives with strangers; potential enemies even. He figured he and Lazar had fallen overboard when they gave their jeep to Milla and warned all the refugees. But it went even deeper for Radenko. He had severed ties in the restaurant when he refused the ‘Partner in Crime’ handshake with General Pec. Radenko left that evening sure of two things: he had disappointed his father with his undiplomatic way of politicking and he had made his mother proud of his stand against compromise.
Radenko took the picture of Mary and Jesus from his coat pocket. He examined the new fuzziness on the corners; the small creases intruding on the Omnipotent, his novel alliance. As he thought of the pain the picture once brought him, it scared him beyond measure to lose it now. He was grateful for its rescue. Petrovich had always been wise beyond his years. He knew Radenko would never forgive himself for irately discarding it outside the hospital that morning.
Radenko thought of Sasia. He allowed her to move gracefully through his mind and then downward to warm his heart. He pushed back the tears bathing his vision. Radenko thought he could share what he was feeling. He just couldn’t find the right words. He didn’t have the heart to make more enemies. Radenko had eaten his fill. He didn’t feel the need to inflict senseless hardships anymore.
These young men seemed to be decent people. He felt he even had things in common with them. But like Lazar, he knew they would all be dead a day or two after Nikola got to them. Radenko tried to disconnect the feeling. He knew he would have to harden himself. He knew the real moral dilemma rested on Lazar, the higher ranking officer.
Radenko realized some time had passed and he had never lifted his eyes from the picture. He didn’t bother drying up the moisture at the edges of his eyes. He didn’t want to draw the attention. But some already seemed to notice his struggle as he replaced the picture in his coat pocket.

The sound of whistling wind caught Lazar’s attention. It was coming from the fireplace, which was filled with broken bricks. The wind meant the chimney was still intact. Lazar began to clear the bricks from the fireplace as Radenko collected splintered wood and broken two by fours. The extra warmth would surely be welcome.
“Can you hear it?” asked Otto, with his head turned slightly; hand behind ear.
“Hear what?” asked Reed.
But just as he concluded his inquiry, he could hear the sound off in the distance; remote popping sounds pursued by inconsistent echoes. Silence lingered long enough to force everyone’s attention. Although mild, each crackle was impaling.
“Mortars and tanks,” Otto warned. “They must be about ten kilometers off.”
“Well then we’re in the right place,” said Reed, trying to lighten the mood.
“They’re in Zwornik.” Lazar explained. “And Otto’s right, it’s about ten kilometers north of here. Nikola won’t spend much time there. He’ll be here in less than twenty-four hours.”
It was Angelo who asked the question everyone was thinking. “What will happen once Nikola get’s here? What does he want with us?”
“It depends,” replied Lazar, knowing full well what would happen. “What is it that you are doing here? Why were you watching the refugees? It all depends on what you tell him you’re doing or what he thinks you’re doing.”
Reed joined the exchange with some help from Florentine. “What will happen to the refugees out there?”
Lazar didn’t respond right away. He thought to himself, if only they knew the truth; about all he and Radenko had done to warn the refugees of Nikola’s coming.
“It won’t be good” was all Lazar could think to say.
“Nikola, your unit, what are they like? Are they the ones killing innocent people, burning villages and running people from their homes?” Reed knew time was running out. He needed to know, now.
“We are not the Arkan Tigers that you’ve probably read about, but our unit has committed its fair share of mayhem.” Lazar began to speak slower as if Reed would understand him better.
“Listen America, I’m not going to lie to you anymore. It’s not going to do any good. When the troops get here, there will be blood. If I could stop it, I would. If I could rescue every one of those refugees, believe me, I would. You don’t understand, America. You have never lived in conflict. My own father died before I was in elementary school. He was killed by the resistance. Forty years ago the Croatians slaughtered nearly two million Serbs and the world never batted an eye.The People and the Government do not get along in Yugoslavia. Your nation, America, has forced us to live with each other; forced us to see no borders and this is the result. We are trying to make it work, one government for seven nations.”
Lazar took one of the bricks from the fireplace and threw it across the room, clearly frustrated he couldn’t do more to stop the bloodshed. He tried to make some sense out of it. He tried to rationalize; but why, perhaps only to restore some dignity for he and Radenko? Perhaps he was embarrassed by his nation’s inability to make humanity work.
Reed’s blood began to boil. They were all going to stand by as women and children were slaughtered outside their window. Men were supposed to be the protectors of women and children. The valiant were supposed to defend the innocent from evil. And he sat there, inept with his hands bound.
“Let us go, Lazar. I’ve got five, well-trained men here. That makes seven of us. There’s got to be something we can do. I can call for more support.” Reed pulled angrily and helplessly at his ropes.
Something Reed said bothered Lazar; the words “seven of us”, the word “us”. They saw him as a traitor. They thought he was weak.
Lazar finished clearing the fireplace and then said under his breath, “Sorry America. I can’t do that.”
Reed growled, kicking the leg of a chair with his feet.
Radenko filled the fireplace with splintered wood and held a lighter under the pile. The sputtering hiss of the fire drowned out the distant sounds of tank and mortar blasts. Radenko felt so much freedom since he and Lazar left the unit for this journey. He hated to see it all coming to an end. He was just going through the motions, letting Lazar make the decisions. He felt the closer Nikola got to them, the farther away his father was. He wanted to pull Lazar aside and talk. They could already be put to death for aiding the resistance. What if Nikola found out? What if they found their guns on the resistance? What if they captured Ibrahim and his friends? What if they talked? Ibrahim owed them nothing. He had no alliance to them. Hundreds of possibilities raced through Radenko’s mind. None of them were slow enough to make any sense. He tried to compose the angst inside himself, as the minutes ticked away.

Eventually Lazar opened the briefcase, but not because Marcielli had pointed it out, he knew it was there. He and Radenko thumbed through it several times. The Italians refused to translate the orders for them and that was the end of that. No pressure and no threats of torture. Lazar and Radenko did the best they could with their elementary English skills. They passed pictures back and forth to each other. Nothing surprised them. They had seen it all with their own eyes.
They found out the team worked for a man named Sam. There was nothing in the orders that identified them to be from a military branch, agents of the government or any other large organization, for that matter. They had Reed’s California Driver’s license, Marcielli’s, Florentine’s and Angelo’s passports and nothing for Otto. There were no more questions.
But in this house, one idea had been born. Each of the young men possessed one common belief, one interest, one desire, one faith, and one love. It was life; the respect for it, the love of it and the sorrow for the loss of it. The idea had unsuspectingly lured them all in, to one.


Chapter 34 – The Portrait, the Vineyard and the Escape


Lindsey handed seventy-five cents to the man in the toll booth. She let the cold air invade every corner of her new Saab, before she rolled up the window. She hopped into Interstate 5’s least crowded lane to escape from under the city’s ominous gray haze. The gentle hint of salt in the ocean breeze faded behind her. Lindsey flicked on the radio and tuned into her favorite station. Right Said Fred’s, “I’m too Sexy” had just ended. Now, more appropriately, Tom Cochrane was explaining how “Life is a Highway”. She turned up the volume to drown the hiss of uneven asphalt.
Soon, the busy horizon began to straighten. The concrete-gray transformed into a soft, two-toned, milky-blue over parched-green. Life moved a little slower when you passed the ‘Welcome to Hinckley’ billboard. Here, gas stations still had rusted, ‘Self Serve’ signs, and car horns were reserved exclusively for hokey town parades.
Lindsey turned onto the ‘no-name’ dirt road that led to the Beckly’s farm. She wasn’t sure how, or even if she could tell them. Moral trepidation toppled her sense of judgment. They had a right to know that Reed was in trouble. But even she didn’t know exactly what kind of trouble he was in. It was careless to scare them when she didn’t have any of the details. But it was selfish to keep it all hidden away in a folder marked, ‘Classified’. One thing she knew for sure; she needed them, to feel close to him. If she was going to broadcast the bad news, she would do it at the end of their visit. She simply needed a constructive, uplifting atmosphere.

Anna greeted her at the door. Her warm expression, the softness of her touch and the elegance in her voice made Lindsey feel right at home. The familiar smell of Anna’s home cooking greeted her next; ribs, potatoes and seasoned vegetables perhaps, with a presumptuous and aromatic indication of something sweet in the oven.
“Lindsey, come in!” welcomed Anna.
Gracie was next to occupy the small space in the doorway.
“Hey sis, how ya been? Get in here. It’s cold out there,” her hug, a little more dynamic, baring the sweet smells of perfume, lotion and make-up. Surely Kyle was taking her out later that evening. Lindsey appreciated the “sis” gesture. She had forgotten how comfortable the Beckly’s made her feel.
Lindsey heard Tom’s deep, rumbling voice in the hallway.
“You’re just like Reed. He hears the word ‘food’ and comes running.”
“Tom!” Anna scolded. “That was rude.”
He cleverly redeemed himself by adding, “I haven’t met anyone yet who can resist Anna’s cooking.”
Lindsey momentarily disappeared into Tom’s six-foot-four, two hundred and forty-four pound stature. She knew his candid expressions were laden with love and care. It was why Anna was crazy about him, though it wasn’t something she might confess.
Tom called Reddin down, who was studying for Midterms. Reddin appeared at the bottom of the stairs wearing a red, tighter fitting, UCLA t-shirt and blue jeans. He had gotten a little taller over the months and football caused him to bulk up some. It was his embrace that made Lindsey uncomfortable. It wasn’t a feeling she expected. His boyish look was gone. He looked more like Reed and his frame was identical. His countenance teased her emotions; his touch, his smell, insufferable. Just when Lindsey thought it might be obvious, Reddin spoke and rescued her from crumbling.
“Hey Lindsey! It’s been a while.” His voice was nothing like Reed’s. It was the same boyish voice she remembered. Her blood began to fall back from the surface of her skin. “Thank you!” she whispered under her breath.
“It’s so good to see all of you.” Lindsey admitted. “I brought you some things from New York.”
“Come sit down at the table. We want to hear all about it.” Anna took Lindsey by the arm and led her through the kitchen into the dining room. Tom took the bag of souvenirs she was holding.

The conversation at dinner was loose, mostly about Lindsey’s trip to New York. She was surprised at how much fun she had recounting the details. But then her vibrant tale sort of fell flat; right about the same time her trip fell flat; when she overheard her father in the hallway at the hotel. It was an opportune moment to bring up the gifts she had bought them. She walked around the table with the bag. For Anna, an eloquent Channel handbag and a Christmas ornament; a beautiful bulb with a wispy hand painting of Central Park. For Gracie, a trendier, yuppie type, Kate Spade purse and wallet and a Statue of Liberty Christmas ornament. For Tom and Reddin both, she got NYPD ball caps and fake Rolex watches she’d hustled off the Somalis.

Halfway through Anna’s famous peach cobbler, Gracie was the first to start talking about Reed.
“We got a letter from Reed last week.” She blurted.
It was about time Lindsey thought. It was all she really wanted to talk about. But she did appreciate the family’s attempt to make her feel special for reasons other than the fact she was dating their son.
“He’s still in Belgium. He says he’s on some top-secret mission or something that he can’t tell us anything about. I wrote him, asking for all the details. He tells me everything you know.” Gracie grinned mischievously.
“He’ll never say anything,” interrupted Tom. “He’s got way too much integrity. He would be a horrible politician.”
That was her answer. Lindsey stopped listening to the conversation. The word “integrity” rang the bell that was quiet and motionless inside her. Reed has integrity, she told herself. Lindsey wasn’t supposed to know anything, but she knew he was in Bosnia. She knew he was in trouble. It was already too much. If he wasn’t going to say anything, neither was she. She would stay true to Reed. She would protect the integrity of his mission, the way he was.
They were all so happy, all so proud of their son. No need to ruin their spirits. Lindsey might need to lean on them again.

After dinner, Lindsey found herself in the living room staring at Reed’s Marine portrait. It was next to the framed American flag over the sofa. She had to get used to his hair, so closely shaven. She got as close as she could to the picture. She tried not to worry about him; tried not to play out the many possibilities.
“Be careful, Reed. I love you.” she whispered. Lindsey took a half step backward and gave him a quick salute.

************

Remembering the baby, Marianna watched her step as she moved through rows of naked grape vines; little dirt clods breaking under her bare feet. She reached out her hand and let the vines brush her fingertips, a sensation returning from her childhood. The soft blaze of the setting sun offered the perfect amount of warmth. She took in the freshness, hoping it would reach the baby. She had never felt so peaceful, so free, so absolved of all fear. She had fought for and nurtured the ideal environment for Marcielli’s return and the arrival of their baby.
Marianna stopped where the vineyard began to descend into the valley. She knew the downward angle could be dangerous. She found a flatter spot in the dirt where she could rest and watch the day’s light nestle into the earth.
Marianna glanced down at her feet and smiled. The purple stains nearly reached her ankles. The boys picked them and the girls squished them. She had forgotten how much fun the festival was. It was just what she needed. For a change, she was surrounded with family, mostly girls. She could talk about girl things; men, love and fashion. Everyone was thrilled with her news and everyone had a baby story. They laughed about the awkwardness of shopping while pregnant. They shared other funny stories and stories that weren’t so fun, like child birth. But the similitude was nice, something she couldn’t find on the base.
A rough, winded voice sounded in the distance. “Marianna, where have you run off to?”
She would never confuse Beppe’s voice with another. Beppe was her great uncle, Mossimo’s youngest brother. He was the closest she’d ever had to a grandfather. She figured they were a lot alike from the stories she’d heard.
“Beppe I’m here.” Marianna stood and waved her arms. She saw him coming from the end of the row. She had always appreciated his vintage look of a blousy white, collared shirt, held back by a brown vest. He wore brown slacks to match and charcoal-black loafers, he’d probably had for fifty years. He walked with care, not because he was balancing two glasses of wine, but because, visibly, he was in the eve of his life. He would always say his best years were ahead of him. Marianna wished it was true. The family wine festival would never be the same without him.
“Mi Amor, come back to the villa. You’ll get lost out here.” Beppe held out a glass of wine for Marianna to take. She accepted only so he wouldn’t have to carry both.
“I know every nook and cranny of this vineyard, Beppe. We used to play hide and seek here when we were little. I could find my way back with my eyes closed.” Marianna laughed.
“You’re my favorite niece you know.”
“I won’t tell the others, Beppe.”
Marianna adored Beppe’s wispy gray hair, his wide blue-gray eyes and his brittle smile. It was all so endearing, so comforting.
Beppe tapped his glass against Marianna’s and then took a sip.
“Mmmm,” A raspy gasp escaped as he lowered his glass. “The best wine in Italy.”
Beppe reached his free hand around Marianna’s shoulder.
“Why aren’t you drinking Mi Amor?”
Marianna angled her tummy toward him, thinking that would satisfy his inquiry. But he waited for an answer.
“Well, Beppe,” she batted her eyes at him, “Pregnant girls aren’t supposed to drink.”
“The doctors are always coming up with new things aren’t they? You know your mother drank my wine when she was pregnant with you.”
Marianna laughed, “And look what’s become of me.”
“Oh Marianna, my wine has made you beautiful.”
“I know Beppe. This vineyard, your wine, is the secret ingredient of our family. It has made us all beautiful.”
Beppe took Marianna’s glass and poured it into his own and then repositioned his arm around her.
He gazed at the endless rows that fell into the valley; animation and vitality, still beating inside his aged body; always waiting, always ready to share insight with life’s young legionnaires.
“You know Marianna. This vineyard was supposed to be Mossimo’s. Papa wanted him to have it because he knew he would take the best care of it. Mossimo was the most dedicated of all us boys. He was the hardest working. Papa knew the vineyard would require precision and exactness. The least bit of carelessness, the least bit of gracelessness could poison the whole vineyard. And the lack of love for it, well Marianna, that would destroy all that it ever was.”
Beppe’s voice was very settling. It seemed to come from deep within his chest and warm the space between them.
“When Mossimo died, I tried so hard to show Papa that I was the one to take the vineyard. It wasn’t easy, being the youngest of the six brothers. The others were older, smarter and stronger, but Papa saw that I loved the vineyard and that he could not teach us. Precision and exactness has taken years to perfect. Mossimo raised the bar for me. Your Grandfather was a good man.”
“Thanks Beppe. It really means a lot to hear that.” said Marianna.
“A long time ago, I learned that Isabella couldn’t bare children. It destroyed me. But the time I would have spent raising my children, I put into this vineyard, so the whole family would benefit. I envy you Marianna. Raise that baby with love, always love first. But strive for precision and exactness in your family and you will have a fine product one day to look back on.”
Beppe tipped his head back and emptied his glass. The same raspy gasp followed.
Marianna thought of Marcielli. She was thrilled with Beppe’s challenge. She was ready; ready to be back in Marcielli’s arms, ready for their baby.

************

They were only two kilometers from Sarajevo when Milla saw a small line of cars forming in the roadway ahead. Sarajevo was still under Bosnia’s control, mostly Muslim Bosnians. It was where they planned on filling up the gas tank and getting something to eat, maybe even resting a night. But when Milla saw the trucks and the soldiers bearing Serbian insignias, terror and panic clashed deep inside her. She wanted to turn around and speed off, but she knew they would start after her. She looked back at Josif and Sofi who were both asleep. Countless ideas fought for a voice in her mind, but the most consequential of all, crowded the others out. Just wait and see what happens, she thought. It took the least effort and there wasn’t time for anything else. She felt helpless. A disquieting feeling of defeat prepared its feast. It was over. She had reached the end of the line.
The Serb soldiers, that were blocking the road, were trying to stop refugees from getting into the city, where they could find help and align with the resistance. Milla feared that they had REFUGEE written all over them.
They were only four cars away. Although most of the cars were being pulled over and the people were being ordered out, some of the cars were being waved through. Why were they being let through, she wondered? There’s got to be a reason. She remembered they were driving a Serbian military jeep. Maybe they could pass as Serbs. Playing noble Muslims would only get them all killed and Josif really was a Serb. But how would she explain the jeep? Time was running out. There was only one car in front of them now and the soldiers had already pointed out the jeep and made eye contact with Milla.
Maybe they would think she stole the jeep. None of them could pass for military, even if they could pass as Serbs. Fear jabbed at her from every angle. She only hoped she didn’t look as frightened as she felt.
Milla took her foot off the brake and rolled forward to the ordered stopping point. Soldiers were poking their heads in the jeep. All were curious at what they found.
Milla had gone too far to give up the fight now. She had already overcome overwhelming odds. She’d promised a life for Sofi. She owed Josif her life, even if he was unaware of what was happening now.
“What are you doing in this jeep?” one of the soldiers shouted, his AK-47 pointed into the car.
There were five of them and more, about twenty meters away. Milla looked at the soldier and was just about to open her mouth; not exactly sure of what was going to come out.
Then, an idea, the first idea that popped into her head earlier, that she so quickly dismissed, made itself available again. And this time it seemed like it would work.
Milla remembered the hospital just at the edge of Sarajevo. It was a sanctuary hospital, whose promise was to care for all sick or wounded. It was even known to take in wounded Serb soldiers.
Hoping it would work, Milla pointed to the back seat, “My husband’s uncle was injured in Zvornik when the resistance bombed his house. Now he has fallen ill. I’m taking him to Kosevo hospital.”
The soldier walked over to Josif and used the barrel of his gun to move the blanket away from his face. “What’s wrong with the hospitals in Zvornik or Srebrenica?”
“They’ve all been destroyed.” answered Milla.
“You never answer my first question. Where did you get this jeep?”
One of the soldiers put his gun over his shoulder and leaned uncomfortably close to Milla.
“How about you come with me?” he said as he reached and twirled some of her blond hair with his fingers.
“Stop it!” yelled Milla. “It’s my husband’s jeep. His name is Corporal Katich. He’s with the Vojsko Srbije, under Lt. Obilic. They’re in Zvornik now.”
The soldier asking the questions seemed to be amused with her answer.
“Private, call HQ in Zvornik and find out if Nikola has a Corporal Katich under his command.”
Milla waited, not sure where it would all lead. She hoped she hadn’t caused any trouble for Lazar, but it was all she could think of. She looked back at Josif and Sofi. Josif appeared to be awake, but he hadn’t opened his eyes. Maybe he knew to play along. Sofi was completely asleep. Milla was thankful for that. She didn’t want her contradicting any of their story.
The time they spent waiting was excruciating. The minutes seemed like hours. At one point, Milla even heard the rattle of machinegun fire. She didn’t dare look around. She didn’t want to know. Milla feared that Sofi would wake any minute. The one thing that offered the slightest bit of relief for Milla was that, three of the five soldiers had departed to the vehicle behind them. They were no longer top priority. But the soldier standing in front of them wasn’t finished. He had a sharp and judicious look on his face.
“Show me your Serbian identification.” he ordered.
Milla was prepared for this question and actually expected it earlier.
“I’m sorry Sir. We were in such a hurry. I didn’t have time to grab it.”
“What about the old man?”
Milla also hoped he would ask this question.
“You can ask him.” She said.
Josif moved a little under the blanket. He had been paying attention, she thought.
“Hey,” the soldier poked him with the barrel of his rifle. “Where is your identification?”
Josif awoke with a horrible sounding cough. It was perfect. Then he pushed his blanket downward in order to get to his coat pocket. The soldier examined the crutch lying next to him. Her story was all falling into place.
“What is this all about?” Josif barked, trying to act disturbed. Then he handed the man his identification.
Right next to his photo was the double-headed Serbian Crest. The soldier handed it back to him.
His questions continued. “Who is the girl?” he demanded.
Milla looked back at Sofi, admiring her innocence. There were still beautiful things worth fighting for; certainly a reason to celebrate. Milla reached back and pulled the blanket tighter up around her neck.
“She’s my daughter.” declared Milla.
The soldier who was ordered to confirm her information was now walking toward them. Milla anticipated the worst.
“She’s telling the truth. His name is Lazar Katich and he is a Corporal under Nikola’s command.”
Milla quietly celebrated this premature victory. She no longer felt the sensation she was going to burst.
“Can we go now?” she asked.
“One more question, Mrs. Katich.” The soldier leaned into the jeep only a few inches from her face. “Why wouldn’t a proud Serbian wife be wearing her wedding ring?”
Milla looked down at her bare ring finger that was gripping the stirring wheel, maybe a little too tightly.
“I told you, Sir, we were in a hurry. I barely had time to get dressed. If you’re done asking questions, you can see that he needs to get to the hospital.”
The soldier took one step backwards and Milla applied pressure, ever so slightly, to the gas pedal. She didn’t dare look back as they drove away. She couldn’t believe it. Silently she thanked Lazar. Without even knowing it, for the second time, he had helped them escape.
Milla didn’t realize how fast she was going. The buildings of Sarajevo seemed to grow right before her eyes. And the wind, yes, it was the wind that forced tears to stream across her face.


Chapter 34.5 - Prayer of the Refugee


It was cold outside, but he was sweating. They were coming. The dust from the convoy circled behind them into a murky cloud of venomous rage. Ibrahim lay in the wash next to his comrades. They were just south of Zvornik. They thought if they met the Serbs here, it would at least buy a little more time for the refugees to get out of Srebrenica. They were armed with the weapons Lazar and Radenko had given them. The plan was to get the Serbs to think the resistance was greater than it actually was and cause them to break down and establish a line of defense. It would buy half a day maybe. Ibrahim checked his AK-47 for the third time and then placed it on the ground next to him.
“You each have two grenades. Stay as low as you can. When the first four trucks pass us, we’ll roll our grenades under the convoy. Then we’ll run like hell to the tree line. About twenty seconds is all we’ll have before they steady themselves and start firing on us. When we get into the trees, we can return fire.”

They were all just boys. Boys who had grown up watching their father’s die for the same causes. Just boys, who had been left behind, boys who had been told they were too young to fight. They were too young to be honorable; boys who were grouped in with women and children, the old, the sick and the helpless. The quandary was; circumstances had mutated their juvenile innocence into flamboyant vessels of destruction; aimless, misguided destruction, with nothing to lose and everything to gain.

“If any of you want to turn back, you should do so now. I’ll understand.” Ibrahim felt a rush of valor when he stated the obvious, “Chances are; we wont make it out of this one.” Ibrahim studied the look of thrill and dutiful concentration on his comrades’ faces.
“All right then, pray with me my friends.”
Ibrahim knew there was an order to prayer. But the truth was, he didn’t pray regularly, not like his parents. He took a guess and faced north, hoping he was faced toward Mecca. The others imitated him. Ibrahim led the prayer.

“O Allah, I testify that there is no other God but You. You are the Supreme One and Muhammad is Your messenger. Whomever, among us You gave life, let him live with Islam. Whomever among us You took life from, let him die with faith. O Allah, purify us. Guide us among those whom You have guided. Support us among those whom You supported. Protect us from evil. Protect the Prophet’s nation from what he feared for it. With this, we were ordered and we are, Muslim. Our lives and our deaths belong to You, Allah. Have mercy on us. Have mercy on the refugees.” Ibrahim paused a moment, manifesting his emotions, manifesting his love. “Have mercy on my sister.” Ibrahim rolled over and threw his back against the edge of the gully. He pulled his ski mask tightly over his head and snapped two grenades from his jacket.

“For the refugee, for freedom, for peace and for a home without fear! Allah Akbar!” Ibrahim shouted.
“Allah Akbar!” they all cheered.

The rumbling of the earth was now in sync with the fear that was causing Ibrahim to shake in every limb. He felt the bits of rubble on his neck and shoulders as they inched off the roadway. The convoy was above them. Ibrahim pulled both pins from the grenades, but kept pressure on the switches.
“One,” he counted out loud and numbered the trucks as they passed, “Two, Three, Four.”
The peak of anxiety popped Ibrahim to his feet. The sense of duty introduced him to the climax of his life. Live or die, no other moment; no other act would be more defining than this. His peripheral spun into a dark blur. Ibrahim was on his own planet, staring at the knees of Goliath. A Goliath constructed of green, riveted, sheet metal and threatening to swallow him whole.
Worried they would burn holes in his hands, Ibrahim released the pressure on the grenades. He rolled one under the tank in front of him and the other under a supply truck that followed. Ibrahim leaped back down into the wash. He felt as though he was floating in slow motion, never to reach the earth’s crust. Ibrahim collapsed and rolled next to his rifle. A small wave of loose gravel accompanied him. And then the explosions, one after the other, shot flames over his head. Pressure forced Ibrahim to stay down longer than he wanted, but soon the weeds were whipping at his pant legs. He looked to his right and to his left. He wasn’t alone. The four of them were in a race for life. The trees appeared to be running from them. Ibrahim pushed harder. An entire meadow of air wasn’t enough to feed the hunger in his lungs.

The wind began to whistle unfamiliar tunes around them. Fresh dirt popped up in front of them.
“Almost there! Almost there!” Ibrahim muttered.
And then, the haunting sound of a waking dragon was spewing it’s fire and lead. He heard the screams around him.

He was only a boy, a nautilus entrepreneur of hope to whom some . . . . . . owed their lives.

God save the Refugee!


Chapter 35 – Until the End


No thrashing brush, not even the twisting snap of a branch. No fall of step. He moved like a ghost through the forest, leaving the fray between nature and beast unseen, unchallenged. The vacillating blood in his veins; the steadiness of his breathing was the metronome to which he kept pace.
Goran buried himself deep in the thicket, not willing to share any secrets with dawn’s lethargic light. He waited, deliberating all that Nikola had pledged; a temptation willing to satisfy his gluttonous desire for power and possession. Goran devoured every crumb. He removed his binoculars from his pack and began measuring his prey from afar. He recognized Lazar and Radenko, but not the others. He didn’t care why Nikola wanted them dead. He had to admit, he never trusted the lawyer from Montenegro. And the Corporal, he had nothing against him. But he wouldn’t lose sleep rendering him forever silent in a bed of dirt. Seven kills, it was nothing.

************

Radenko lowered his voice a little, attempting to alienate the others from the conversation. Lazar was still flipping through the papers in the briefcase.
“You know we’ll be lucky to make it out of this one, Lazar.”
Lazar didn’t respond. It was a perplexity that had a death grip on his conscience since volunteering for the mission. He knew all along what they would do with their freedom. Even though he had already found Milla, the pain still resonated as she drifted a little further into the center of his life.
Radenko was content with carrying the conversation. There was something he had wanted to share with Lazar for some time now. It was a peculiar feeling, admonishing him that later, time would not be on his side.
“Hey Corporal, did I ever tell you why I became a lawyer?”
Lazar looked amused. “I have to say, I was a little curious.”
Radenko passed the picture of Mary and Jesus to Lazar.
“This picture was my mother’s. She kept it next to her bed under a lamp. As long as I could remember, it was there. She was very religious. My father was religious too, but not like her. She always put God first. We went to church every Sunday. We prayed before every meal and we read passages from the Bible daily. I even attended an Orthodox school for some time when I was little. Her favorite study was the ‘B attitudes’. She had the kindest heart. She was everything lovely, everything that kept us together. And she was more than everything to my father.”
Radenko paused for a moment, looked upward a little, attempting to keep the tears from falling.
“Then one day she got sick. Some days she would be her normal self; happy, funny and spontaneously energetic. Then other days she would lie in her bed and cry. My father would go into her room and spend the whole evening in there. I usually played with my friends across the way. I didn’t understand why sometimes she was sick and other times she was fine. Finally she had to live at the hospital. She was only there for a few days when we got the call. I knew what was happening, but I didn’t let my Father know that. I was angry at her for leaving us, as if it were her choice. Why did she let herself get sick? Why couldn’t she fight harder? If she really wanted to, she would stay us. Then I was just mad at everyone. For years I was this way. My father stopped going to church. He lost faith. He felt God should have left her alone. All she did was love God and obey Him. Why did He have to take her? It’s a bitterness that still eats at him. He hasn’t been happy since that time.
Finally my uncle Petrovich, my mother’s younger brother, had enough of my moping and wasting my time and talents. He got me into sports. He found me jobs. He even spent time with me on the weekends. He and my father and I would go camping, hunting and fishing. When I was sixteen Lazar, I started to live again. I started to laugh again. Petrovich trained me in many things; helped me develop many of my abilities and told me I could be anything I wanted to be. I did some serious thinking.
My mother’s death was inevitable. The cancer would have taken her sooner or later. But the doctor she had seen in the beginning had misdiagnosed her disease. He didn’t catch the cancer. If the cancer had been detected earlier, the treatments would have been more effective. It meant that she could have stayed with us longer; years, months, maybe only days. But it would have been worth a lifetime to me.
She wouldn’t have to say anything. She had this smile that told me everything I wanted to know. Just one more, I needed one more of those smiles. I told Petrovich I wanted to be a lawyer, to prevent medical malpractice. The technology was there, Lazar. If I can help grant one more year, one more month or even that one more day to that man or woman or child with their loved one, then Lazar, I will have lived a pretty good life.”
Radenko paused, taking in and blowing out an uneven breath. “She’d be proud of me, don’t you think?”
“I’m sorry about your mother, Radenko. You must really love her.”
“Yeah,” Radenko nodded his head. “I wish I could have known her better.”
Lazar reached and gave Radenko a cheerful slug in the shoulder. “In a way, I understand. My father died when I was ten. I wanted to be just like him. But he wasn’t around much. He was always off fighting and only came home for short periods of time. I always begged him to take me with him. I’m glad that he never did, because now I understand. But I was lucky to have Mr. Nowak around. He definitely filled in the holes.”
Radenko returned the cheerful slug to Lazar, only this time with a little more punch. “We’ve got a lot in common, Lazar. After the war, I’m going to look you up. A trouble maker like you will definitely need a good lawyer.” They both laughed.
Radenko looked over at Reed and his team. “Here’s what I’ve been thinking Corporal.”
Lazar interrupted him. “I know what you’re thinking Radenko. They too, have families. They too, seem like decent young guys. If we turn them over to Nikola, they’re all dead. How will you ever live with yourself when all you ever wanted to be was a good person? Am I right? That’s what you’re thinking, isn’t it?”
Radenko didn’t respond. He was unsure of the new tone Lazar had commandeered. But Lazar had nailed it. It was exactly what he was thinking.
“It’s too dangerous, Radenko. We could be shot for treason, or maybe worse. Who knows what Nikola’s capable of? I am just within arm’s reach from winning my life back. I don’t want to blow it all. I want to see Milla again. And you need to see your father.” Lazar caught himself and lowered his tone a little, worried they were being overheard. “We’ve got to think about that.” he warned.
Radenko had thought about it. It was on his mind constantly. But he knew someday, he would have to look into his mother’s eyes again. He knew he wouldn’t be able to sustain the façade. He would melt at her feet and evaporate into a fog of guilt. He would have broken the most costly gift she’d left him . . . . . . . Love.
Lazar felt the disappointment resonating over the table. He hoped it was because Radenko understood the impossibility of it all. But he knew the truth. He knew Radenko was disappointed in him. Radenko must have felt that, up until now, they were so much alike and now Lazar was flying his true colors. The shame was making him uncomfortable.
“Radenko, this is why we are told not to befriend the enemy. It prevents us from doing what we are told, what we are trained to do. We kill. It’s the reality of war. But we aren’t pulling the trigger here, Radenko. We’re just following orders.”
Enraged, Radenko stood and walked toward the window, biting his lip, not saying anything. Then he sat back down and whispered to Lazar.
“Can I speak to you off the record, Lazar?”
“Radenko, you don’t need permission.” assured Lazar.
“I respect what you’re saying, Lazar, and I understand the dangers of engaging in enemy relations. I haven’t gone soft. We don’t know they’re the enemy. We don’t know who they are. They don’t understand what could happen to them. America, look at him. He doesn’t know hate. He doesn’t know blood. He doesn’t know how horrible life can get, how dark it can be. Not the way we do, Lazar. He’s lived life in a bubble, unexposed. The most pain he’s ever felt was the week they took the training wheels off his bike, or when he found out he wasn’t picked as captain of the football team. He knows honor. He wants to make everyone proud and come back a hero. I can see that he’s trying to be strong for his men. It’s a good life to waste, Lazar. And I’m sorry, ‘we’re just following orders’ is a cop-out that nearly wiped out the whole Jewish race of 1940. Orders, what are they really, if not for the greater good, then what, Lazar?”
Lazar sat silent. He couldn’t possibly formulate a response so quickly.
“At this point, orders are of such little significance to me.” avowed Radenko. “I’m talking about looking my Maker in the eye and being able to stand on my own two feet.”
It wasn’t long ago when Lazar sat across from a man he so revered and heard a similar testimony. He had known these things all along. Mr. Nowak had instilled these truths over many father-son exchanges in ‘The Time Machine’. Mr. Nowak knew full well that Lazar would someday be suspended by this very thread and would need the moral clarity, the moral courage to pad his landing.
Lazar peeled his pride from the floor and smiled. “Damn it, Radenko! You’re going to get us killed.”
“No Lazar, you’ll be responsible. You’re the Corporal.” Radenko also found a smile.
“It figures. You saved my life too.” reminded Lazar. “It’s just the kind of person you are.”
Lazar reached forward and clasped Radenko’s hand firmly in his own. “There’s no turning back now. We’re in this together - until the end.”
Chapter 36 – In Ruins


As time passed, rays of sunlight began to douse the stubborn morning chill. But with each warming minute the somber mood thickened. Reed was sitting next to Marcielli and kept asking him what Lazar and Radenko were saying at the table. Marcielli’s only response was that they were speaking too quietly to understand.
What Marcielli didn’t admit, was that he had tuned them out with random thoughts of his mother’s cooking. Marcielli could feel the acid churning in his stomach as it was teased with each dry swallow. It had only been eighteen hours since he’d eaten last. Nevertheless, he stared at the torn MRE wrapper on the ground, as if it were a bubbling, golden-brown calzone.
He remembered coming home from school and smelling fresh garlic and basil before opening the door. Sometimes he wouldn’t even be hungry until the microscopic particles in the air mocked his appetite. Cooking made Rianna happy. It was the crutch that got her through. It allowed her to be busy during Dominico’s inebriated spells of anger. It satisfied her need to explore and create; her need to please others and her need for accomplishment. And sometimes it just satisfied her need to pass time. She hated government protection. It stripped her of life’s normalcies, lengthy visits from relatives, extended periods outside the home or an unexpected trip to Venice or Florence or just somewhere along the coast. Marcielli knew that, as soon as he could, he would have to bring Marianna and the baby down to Tivoli. Rianna deserved it. She was always a good mother to Marcielli.
Marcielli had to stop thinking of food. He could feel himself shrinking with every thought. But the thoughts were simpler and less risky than the ones standing like an iron wall in front of him, the ones baring the likelihoods, the possibilities of the unknown and the undesired. Marcielli became anxious to see Marianna and hoped to be next to her when the baby was born.
Radenko stood and grabbed his rifle that was leaning against the table. He racked the slide, getting everyone’s attention. Then he walked over and positioned himself in front of Reed and the others. The barrel of his gun studied each of them.
Reed became apprehensive and didn’t understand the behavior. Maybe he underestimated them. Maybe Lazar and Radenko thought it was easier just to get rid of them. Would it end like this? Would he stand by useless, and watch his men die? Then Reed thought of his family, then Lindsey. His stomach crumbled, cutting short his breath and allowing him to feel every pulse of his heart.
Lazar remained seated but pulled his knife from his boot. He couldn’t believe he was doing this. But Radenko was right. It would be a heavy weight to muscle through life. Sooner or later, it would rot him from the inside out. Although he feared the consequences, the idea was morally pacifying. He looked into the blade of his knife. It returned a vibrant image. Lazar could see life in his own eyes. Life, of which he was sure of its absence only minutes ago.
A proposition manifested its way into his thoughts. Lazar remembered a time when he felt so low, so unclean; so evil. On the banks of the Danube River, he had thought about ending it all to slay the beast inside, to ease the pain and settle the betrayal. Then he met Radenko, someone generous enough to share his burden, someone who was willing to listen without turning away. Radenko helped him find Milla, feeding his paranoia a spoonful of harmony. But a portion of the pain he suffered on the Danube, resonated from his first taste of innocent blood. Coincidently, it proved to be the most poisonous fruit he had ever consumed. He watched God’s benevolent gift of life spill to the ground. The man’s only desire was to defend his family and demand liberty from the adversary; nothing malice, nothing unnatural. As Lazar looked over at Reed and the others, he realized that Radenko had offered him yet another chance to make right. Nothing would bring that man back to life. But now Lazar found it amazing that, here he stood, able to save five. The warmth of sanctity flooded his guilt. A man, once in ruins, was now mortaring himself back together, brick by brick. A power Nikola could never have over him. Lazar nodded at Radenko. Radenko nodded back.
Lazar got up and moved toward the group. Everyone bore a look of bewilderment. He stood over Reed, clutching the knife in his hand. Lazar studied Reed for a moment and then knelt down by him, extending his knife. The others struggled with their ropes but looked helplessly on.
“No, not like this!” someone cried.
Reed tensed and then, he felt a release of pressure. He hadn’t realized it, but his eyes had been closed. When he opened them, the blade of Lazar’s knife was glistening between Reed’s hands and the ropes fell to the floor.
“Let’s talk.” said Lazar, now cutting the ropes from Reed’s feet.
“Thank you.” returned Reed, in a broken voice.
Lazar used his free hand to help Reed to his feet.
Pain shot from Reed’s heels to his hip as he straightened his legs enough to stand.
“We’ll free one more right now and the rest of you later.”
Lazar walked over to Florentine, who was predetermined to be the least threatening of the group. The element of surprise was no longer in their quiver. If their detainees decided to turn on them, they would at least have a fighting chance. Lazar freed Florentine and aided him to his feet as well. Florentine suffered from the same blood thickening pains as Reed. Only Florentine was more audible about it, confirming the lighter threat assessment he was awarded.
Lazar put his knife away. “What have you all been eating?”
Florentine, rubbing some life into his backside, answered, “We’ve got MRE’s in the van outside.”
“Good, bring some in to your men.” ordered Lazar. “Radenko, go with him.”
Lazar motioned Reed to come sit with him at the table. As Reed looked out the window from where he used to sit, he saw that not much had changed. The hours he spent in bondage felt like weeks. The camp was still stirring but there seemed to be fewer refugees. They were still on the move. Lazar also studied their movements and was reassured to find the same.
They each sat and waited, accepting the awkward silence. But when Lazar noticed Reed glaring at a pile of weapons in the corner, he called Reed’s attention by audibly clearing his throat. Reed felt funny about the accusation. He really hadn’t thought of making a dash for it. He was grateful for the hand of diplomacy Lazar extended him. It was something that struck him in the very beginning, the feeling that Lazar and Radenko were truly decent men.
After they returned with the rations, Florentine began hand-feeding the rest of his team. Marcielli, for some reason, seemed to be the most gratified. Radenko sat with Lazar and Reed, but kept a close eye on Florentine.
Lazar didn’t ask any questions about what Reed and his men were doing in Bosnia. But during their conversation, he tried to persuade Reed it was too dangerous to remain in the country. A team like his would be considered a threat to either side of the political field and would be dealt with as such.
When Reed asked about the refugees, Lazar showed a loss of patience. He encouraged Reed to go west, back toward Kosovo and warned him that the refugees were not his problem.
Reed looked back, wondering if the guys could overhear what he was asking. Angelo’s zealous glare and edgy demeanor, not only assured Reed he could hear them, but it promised him every captain’s curse, mutiny.
Reed still had to find out. He asked Lazar where the refugees were headed. Lazar just shook his head in frustration.
Radenko answered. “They’re headed south, toward Croatia.”
Radenko was cut short when Lazar stood up and began yelling at Reed.
“It’s a waste. There’s nothing you can do, America. It’s been going on for centuries and nobody’s ever cared. History will play itself out again and again and nothing will be done. Let Radenko and I worry about the refugees. Okay? We will spill our blood for them. Take your men and leave. We are not risking our lives, by setting you free, just so you can follow them to your deaths.” Lazar pointed out the window. “Please, go home, America. Bring your men home.”
Reed remained silent, but Angelo could not. He sat up straight and scooted forward a little.
“You’ve lost it Reed. When I am cut loose, I’m taking the van and whoever else wants to come and I’m driving back to Kosovo. This isn’t the mission I volunteered for.”
Marcielli listened to what Angelo was saying. He had, since the beginning, felt that the only way he would make it through, was if he followed Reed to the end. It was an obscure reassurance that kept him fighting.
“We still have orders Angelo. And Reed is still in charge. I’m with him.”
The little boost was all Reed needed.
“Thanks Marcielli.” Reed tipped his head.
He knew Angelo served in many successful combat missions. He knew he was older and more mature. But Sam chose him to lead the team for a reason. Meeting expectations was suitable for the average soldier, Reed thought. But for a United States Marine, it was going above and beyond the call of duty that made him the finer soldier.
Reed noticed that Angelo wasn’t looking at him anymore, perhaps feeling he had gone too far. Without observing the same mild whisper as earlier, Reed began to speak, accounting for his youngest obsession.
“Angelo, I don’t expect you to understand how I feel about this. I just want you to hear me out.” Reed rubbed his eyes with his thumb and fingers. “I was a small boy, only eight years old. I was in the comfort of my own home and my parents loving embrace.”
Lazar and Radenko seemed interested in the American’s new tone.
“I only cared about whether or not the Dodgers made it to the World Series or if I could successfully sluff off my chores and meet my friends at the dirt tracks. One evening, Mom and Dad were in the kitchen. I was in the TV room. President Ronald Reagan was addressing Russia’s Gorbachov, telling him to tear down the Berlin Wall. I’d heard a lot about the Wall that year, but I never really understood what it was. And then the screen was eaten up by an image that still haunts me to this day.
A young boy, my age, lay bloody in the gutter. He was shot for trying to climb that wall the President spoke of. How could it be such a horrible crime to climb a wall? My friends and I had done things like that so many times. I didn’t understand. His blood was running into the street. I was horrified. I had never seen another person that way; lifeless. Now I have seen many, but I only have nightmares of that one; that boy. I’ve never shared this with anyone, Angelo. Maybe this is what I need. It’s the only nightmare I’ve ever had and I see it every night.”
The silence was the only living object in the room. Their anticipation waited to climb Reed’s every word like a ladder.
“I’m standing over that boy, listening to the deafening cackle of the Russian soldier that shot him. The boy begins to get up; blood still dripping from a wound in his neck; his clothes, soiled. He stares at me for sometime, shivering and occasionally glancing over at the soldier. I’m finally able to see the color of his eyes; pale blue. Then he turns and begins to walk away. He motions me to follow him. I start after his trail of blood. Every night he takes me through the same alley. I crawl with him under the same tunnel. The same scrawny, gray cat hisses at him. The cat follows him from the tunnel down another alley, stopping periodically to lick at little drops of blood left behind by the boy. At the end of this alley, is an old tin shed. It’s rusted and weather rotted. The shed begins to quiver and voices are heard inside. Children are crying.”
Reed paused for a moment, seeming a little uncomfortable with what he was sharing, but he continued.
“The boy stands there for a long time, listening to the cries of the children in the shed. A large pool of blood has gathered around his feet now. Finally he turns to me. He pulls a key from his pocket and places it into my hand. He points to the lock on the shed; the look on his face, anxious and desperate. I approach the shed and insert the key into the lock. But as I am turning it, suddenly I am at the wall again. I’m standing over the boy, who has resumed his position in the gutter. I open my hand and the key is gone. The Russian soldier blows cigarette smoke into my face. I can’t see. Then I am back home in front of my TV, and I wake up.”
It was the first time Reed put his nightmare to script, a tale virgin to even Lindsey’s ears. Everyone appeared to be taken back as Reed recounted his dream. But most importantly, he had captured Angelo’s undivided attention.
“I’m holding the key now in my hand, Angelo. I am so close. The children are out there in this country, waiting for help. That boy will haunt me until I help them. I can’t do it alone.”
Angelo didn’t say anything, but his tone was different now.
“To some degree you are right, Angelo.” admitted Reed. “I have selfishly marched us into the darkest part of hell. But I have surrounded myself with the brightest angels. Those who I know will bring me back.”
Otto’s stone face of deliberation quickly organized into a colossal grin. “I’m no angel, Reed. I’ll fit in just fine in hell. But I’m glad to watch your back. You’re a good leader, a solid leader.”
Radenko just finished saying something to Lazar, who was slightly shaking his head. Lazar, with his gaze upon the floor, considering everything, peered at Reed from under a heavy brow. And Reed thought he detected the smallest amount of amusement, rounding the corners of Lazar’s mouth. Despite diversity of circumstances, a traditional orchestration of friendship was afoot.


Chapter 37 – Mother Nature’s Eyes


“There’s been a turn of events, Sam. We lost our contact in Kosovo and the fight has moved to Bosnia. The Intel provided to us was three months old. In that time, the Serbs have been around the region and back again.” Reed kept pressure on the cord going into the receiver to reduce the static. He was surprised to see there was any reception at all in this part of the country.
“Where are you now, Reed?” Sam asked, with a trace of panic in his voice.
“We’re in Bosnia.”
“Bosnia? Reed, you’re talking about a whole different country. You should have cleared it with me.” Reed could tell Sam was shocked and waiting for an explanation.
“There were signs of Milosevic’s army in Kosovo. Maybe even genocide. Lots of towns were abandoned and burnt to the ground. The people were either, killed and buried in mass grave sites or they’ve joined large groups of refugees on foot to Macedonia. We got some good photos but the place was a ghost town.”
“Reed,” Sam interrupted, “I understand what you’re saying, but you’re missing the point. We don’t have a network in Bosnia, nor do we have Intel there. If something happened to you I would have no way to find you.”
“You’re right, Sam. I should have checked with you first.”
Something Reed learned on the farm as a boy and then in the military, was to instantly admit your mistake when speaking to a superior. You’re always wrong. Once you get the subjection out of the way, you’re invited to the table of discussion. But your time at the table is short, so you must provide your best material first before the command decision falls.
“Are you telling me that Milosevic’s army is in Bosnia now?” Reed detected a trickle of interest.
“Milosevic moved into Bosnia on a claim that Bosnian Serbs were being maltreated and victimized. His forces are arming them and showing them how to deal with the Bosnian Muslims and Croatians. From what we’ve heard, it’s a blood bath and they’re not allowing any local or foreign press in to cover it.”
“Tell me the truth, Reed. How close are you?”
Reed took a breath, “They’re about ten miles north of us. We’re watching a refugee camp just east of Srebrenica. The refugees seem to have gotten some kind of warning that the Serbs are coming and they’re starting to move south. But the ones that are too slow or too weak to get out of the way will be slaughtered. And that’s why we’re here, for the proof.”
“Listen to me Reed, you’ve got twenty-four hours to gather whatever Intel you can and then get the hell out of that country. But I need to know exactly where you are at all times in case your luck runs out and I have to send in another team to find you. Remember, we’re not the arbiter of the Serbs on how they conduct warfare. We won’t mix up in that. We are looking for genocide and that’s it. That becomes an international affair. Now, how are your men holding up? I mean the Italians, how are they holding up? I know Otto is fine and doing exactly what he’s told.”
It was the question he hoped Sam wouldn’t ask. Despite its simple nature, it severed Reed’s buoyancy. The fate of the mission teetered on the substance and delivery of his answer. If he told Sam they’d been captured and their Intel compromised, he would pull the plug and fill in their footprints. But it wasn’t in Reed’s character to hide something like that from Sam. The problem was that Radenko was only inches away. His time to deliberate had expired. He made the decision to tell Sam later.
“Everyone is fine, Sam. Everyone’s fine.”
“You don’t sound so sure, Reed. What’s really going on?”
He was caught, but the timing still wasn’t right. “There have been some setbacks.” admitted Reed. “But we’re okay.”
Reed knew what to expect next. There were a series of duress code words used to determine if a Marine’s answers were forced: Eisenhower = Are your answers forced? Roosevelt = Is the enemy within hearing range? Queens = Yes. Brooklyn = No.
Sam started the exchange, “Eisenhower?”
Reed knew the long pause would concern Sam, “Brooklyn.”
Sam quickly fired back with, “Roosevelt?”
“Queens.” replied Reed.
“Reed, I’m sending someone in after you.”
“Brooklyn.” answered Reed. “It will derail the mission. We’ll manage.”
“I don’t like the way you sound, Reed. Get some distance and we’ll talk again. Remember, twenty-four hours and you’re out. Just be careful. And Reed, don’t forget what it means to be an American. Don’t forget what it means to be a Marine. We’re depending on you.”
“I won’t forget, Sam. Thank you.”
Commissioned or not, Reed and Sam both knew that a Marine would always bleed red, white and blue.
Florentine was the first to hop out of the van, then Reed, followed by Radenko.
“Do they know where you are, America?” Radenko asked, as his GI boots hit the ground with a thud.
“Yes.”
“Are they sending anyone after you?”
“No worries, Radenko. We’re on our own out here. I’m just not sure what’s next. We still have a mission to complete, but I don’t want to push my luck with Lazar.”
“You have to understand, America, It was a hard thing that the Corporal did and he doesn’t want to learn that it was for nothing.”
“I understand, Radenko.” acknowledged Reed, but not necessarily conceding to the admonishment.
Reed lagged a little behind to reposition a board over the opening of the shed. Radenko seemed not to care much about the distance. As Reed turned around, the dense green smear under the horizon caught his eye. The forest seemed to be stretching its limbs after a satisfying, mid-day nap. But a peculiar feeling quickly assembled in the brisk, unsheltered wind. Reed caught up to Florentine and Radenko, who were already near the house. Perhaps it was the insecurity of openness; the thought that somebody might be watching them. Then, the suspected, vast unknown opened its mouth and a ghostly hiss raced through them. The sound, immediate and razor-sharp, collided with the smooth surfaces of Reed’s skin, erecting an army of goose bumps. What happened next petrified him. Florentine’s body distorted and was hurled against the house, a spatter of blood on the bricks above him. Before the earth fully supported his body again, the distant echo of gunshots cracked in succession.
Despite an adrenaline charged impulse to dive for cover, Reed found himself stooped over Florentine. He grabbed his belt at the middle of his back, dragging Florentine’s folded body like a rag doll, toward the doorway of the house. Radenko duck-walked backwards, following them to the door. He kept his rifle pointed at the mass of trees in the distance.

************

Goran sucked in the moist scent of the evergreens. He checked his watch. One minute and fifteen seconds he had held his breath for steadiness. He sat back away from the gun and leaned against a tree, easing his exhausted posture. He reached for a pack of cigarettes from his coat pocket; something he’d waited so patiently for. Goran brought the cigarette to his mouth. The paper absorbed the moisture on his lip, allowing it to suspend there while he struck the match, no longer worried the spark would give away his position.
Goran watched each little cloud dissipate in front of him, waiting to see if the guilt would set in. A short time passed and he was convinced he didn’t have to concede to remorse. He felt nothing. Emptiness burst over him like fireworks. Silence stomped around him in the form of a marching band. He was a killer, by every definition. No pity, no mercy, one down. Only half burned, Goran smashed his fourth cigarette into the ground, reclaimed his position and began twisting the cold knobs atop his scope.

************

“Get down! Get down!” shouted Reed, mopping the dusty linoleum with Florentine’s wilted body. He grunted as he exerted his energy into one last tug, landing him and Florentine in the middle of the room. Florentine began coughing and throttling his own neck, which was proof enough that he was still alive. Bedlam and chaos saturated the new, truce-like environment achieved only moments ago. Everyone was yelling. No one knew where the shot came from or who fired it.
Reed began army crawling toward the box of rifles in the corner. Lazar, who was backed up against a wall, pointed his gun at Reed.
“Stop.” he ordered.
Reed blew out his breath, stirring the dust in front of him.
“We’re under attack. My men need their weapons.” Reed tested.
Lazar took a quick glance out the window and then back at Reed, “Who are they?”
“I don’t know.” promised Reed.
“You made a phone call and now we’re getting shot at.” accused Lazar.
“It was one of my men that got hit, Lazar and I won’t let it happen again. Nobody knows we’re here. You’ve got my word. But if you’re going to stop me from protecting my men, then do it now.” Reed kept moving toward the box of weapons.
“Lazar?” Radenko began propping wood up against the window. “Nikola knows we’re here, right?”
“Listen Radenko, you can still hear the mortars. Our guys are still in Zvornik.”
“Then it’s a local,” concluded Radenko. “He shouldn’t be hard to wash out.”
Just as Radenko finished his sentence, the hiss returned and a burnt two by four exploded over him. It just missed his head, dropping dust and debris down on him. The same bark as before echoed in the distance. It was the closest Radenko had come to death since Tuzla.
Reed dragged the weapons over to Otto, Angelo and Marcielli. Once they were freed, none took time to stretch. Angelo and Marcielli surrounded Florentine.
“Flo!” Marcielli lightly smacked Florentine’s face. “Flo, look at me!” He yelled. Marcielli began stuffing a torn piece of cloth into the soft flesh under Florentine’s collarbone.
Otto wasted no time. The combination of polymer and cold metal melted into his grip like manna in an empty stomach. He loaded five rounds into the 50 caliber sniper and took cover under the window frame with Radenko.
“Could you tell what direction it came from?”
Radenko awkwardly nodded his head in the direction.
“He’s directly north of us. Eight hundred to a thousand meters judging by the sound delay.”
Otto began adjusting his scope. “Right now he’s closing the distance, trying to get a better shot. His aim was a little high on Flo and he missed you entirely.”
Otto slowly raised his rifle to the level of the window seal and bowed his head behind the scope. Then he slammed his fist into the wall followed by a bilingual outpouring of distasteful vocabulary.
“The glass is broken.” Otto pointed to the scope. “The gun is useless.”
“From the blast.” guessed Radenko. “The night vision was also broken.”
“Thanks a lot.” Otto mentioned in the middle of a heavy breath. “You’ve destroyed perfectly good weaponry.”
“Get him down to the cellar.” Lazar pointed to Florentine. “It’s colder down there. It will slow the bleeding and you might even find some vodka to pour on the wound.”
“There is no cellar. We would have found it already.” said Marcielli.
“Every home in Yugoslavia has a cellar.” Lazar cleared some debris from the hallway near the bathroom. Then removed a dirt filled piece of carpet from the floor, revealing a latch. Lazar stomped the ground, checking for hollowness, then motioned Angelo and Marcielli to bring Florentine over.
“Stay down here with him.” ordered Lazar.
Marcielli glanced at Reed for some sign of approval.
“Take care of Flo, Marcielli. Stay next to him.”
Reed was pleased to find a pair of binoculars with one side still functioning. He racked the slide of his AR-15 and walked out the back door.

Marcielli did notice the drop in temperature. He hoped Lazar was right about the cold air slowing the blood flow. Florentine had already lost too much.
It appeared the residents of the home were using the cellar as a bomb shelter. There was a single mattress on the floor, but the blankets were gone. There were empty cans of food everywhere, which made for an unpleasant smell when mixed with musty, underground secretions. The lack of light made it difficult for Marcielli to make out all the writing on the walls. But one thing that was easily identified was a newspaper article pasted to the wall above the mattress. It read, “VUKOVAR TRAMPLED, SERB STAMPEDE BEGINS!” The two photos on the page had been decorated. One large facial of Milosevic had holes poked in the eyes and horns over his head. The second, a large photo of Serb soldiers in the streets of Vukovar waving the Serbia-Montenegro flag. Each soldier had an ‘X’ drawn on his head.
Angelo stayed at the top of the stairs, obstructing what little light was available. Marcielli didn’t even bother speaking with him. He was moments away from a loose cannon tirade.
Marcielli sat over his friend, glared down at him. The wheezing drag in Flo’s breath worried him. He adjusted his hold over Florentine’s wound, found the last dry spot on the cloth and reapplied pressure. Marcielli noticed that the blood was getting sticky and seemed to be slowing.
Florentine’s eye lids flickered, but remained closed.
“Marcielli,” he gasped.
“Shhhh! don’t speak, Flo. You’re going to be fine.”
Florentine turned his head at the sound of Marcielli’s voice and opened his eyes slightly.
Marcielli nodded. “Well, the bullet missed everything important, but it took out your funny bone. You haven’t said anything funny since you got shot.”
Florentine converted the drag in his breath into a cough. Marcielli accepted it as a laugh. It was good that Florentine had a safe place to rest. In the last five years of their life, Florentine had always been somewhere close to Marcielli. Whatever Marcielli was into, so was Florentine. He never really did his own thing. He just seemed content doing whatever everyone else was doing. Marcielli couldn’t count the times he’d relied on that. How many times Florentine had dropped everything to lend a hand, a shoulder or an opinion? Marcielli was a star on the field and Florentine was the platform on which he stood. He would have never made the National team without him. It was Florentine’s creativity that made Marcielli’s proposal to Marianna so memorable. It was Florentine who so willingly joined the army so Marcielli would have company. And now, here he was, at Marcielli’s side again. Marcielli hoped someday his loyalty would pay off. He told himself that after Florentine had rested, he would tell him what his loyalty meant to him.
When Marcielli’s eyes finally adjusted to the dark, he saw that, mixed in with the empty cans of food, were a few empty Vodka bottles and one of them was only half empty. Marcielli began unscrewing the cap.
“This is going to bite a little.” he warned and poured some over Florentine’s wound. Florentine’s body tightened and tendons flexed in his neck. This was the toughest his friend had had to be. Marcielli reached behind Florentine, lifted him slightly and brought the top of the bottle to his lips.
It surprised Marcielli to hear Florentine speak.
He whispered scantly “Reed said no alcohol on the mission.”
“I don’t think he’ll mind, Flo. It will help with the pain.” Marcielli fed his friend the rest of the bottle.
Fifteen minutes passed and Reed came back. No more shots were fired.
“How’s Flo?” he asked.
Angelo was at the entrance of the cellar with the ‘Are you happy now’ look on his face. Reed waited for an answer.
“He’s resting now. When he wakes, you can ask him how he’s doing.”
“Alright Angelo,” Reed declined Angelo’s challenge to a staring match. A more effective use of Reed’s testosterone would be against his enemies, he thought
Reed announced his findings to the others.
“About eight hundred meters out, there’s a fallen tree in the opening. He’s approximately thirty meters east of that. Most likely he took his first two shots from the tree line. He’s moving in on us now.”
“Did you see him?” asked Lazar.
“No.” answered Reed.
“Then how can you be sure where he is.”
“The buzzards gave him away.”
Reed had attended sniper school when he first got to Belgium. He’d learned that, even the most silent sniper had absolutely no control over Mother Nature’s eyes. The best sniper can fool the natural eye, only moving when tree branches flutter against each other or when the wind pushes a wave through the grass. But Mother Nature will always deliver the thorn in her side. In this case, she used her blood thirsty sky pilots, her feathered scavengers, who circled over and over the seemingly lifeless being.
“We could use your help, Otto. You have the most hand to hand experience of us all.” Reed could already see the smile developing on Otto’s face. “We will draw the sniper’s attention here. I want you to swing back and wide from the house and flank him. When you’re close enough to take the shot with your M-16, then do it.”
“Wait.” Lazar interrupted.
Otto looked like a young child being told to wait before opening Christmas presents.
Lazar slowly shook his head from side to side as he began speaking.
“Until I find out who’s out there, I want everyone to stay put. I’ll go after him.”
Lazar ducked under a window and met up with Reed. “It’s not that I don’t trust you or your men, I just need to know who’s out there.” Lazar glanced far into the distance.
Reed felt, that under the circumstances, he should respect Lazar’s wishes. The same plan would still be carried out. Reed handed Lazar the binoculars. And that’s when Radenko stepped foot in the arena of gladiators. He ducked over to Lazar and placed his hand on his shoulder.
“I’m going, Lazar. You should stay.” Radenko pulled his beanie over his head and grabbed the binoculars from Lazar.
“Radenko, I don’t” Radenko cut Lazar off mid-sentence.
“Write me up for insubordination.” he challenged and headed for the back door. “I’ll be back in one hour.” Radenko promised.
Radenko’s chances out there were better. He seemed to be the more skilled fighter of the two, although Lazar wasn’t sure where he got the practice. Lazar had been in the field longer than Radenko. Lazar wondered to himself, considering the measure of his friend, his loyalty. But as Lazar pondered, one simple thought levitated above the others; Radenko was an aristocrat, a true gentleman, redirecting adversity from his ally toward himself.
“Hey Boss, write me up for insubordination too.” Otto racked the slide on his M-16 and headed for the back door.
Reed stopped him in his tracks.
“Nice try Otto.” Everyone laughed, including Marcielli from down in the cellar.

************

Radenko believed he was within fifty meters of the shooter. He was now inside the circle of buzzards. He knew the shooter wouldn’t startle or act impulsively. The lifeblood of a sniper was positional autonomy; classified rule over the tiny bit of earth he occupied.
He waited and watched. And then a blood thickening sound rang out as a little gray cloud pushed through the grass. Radenko saw exactly where he was. He could take the shot. He was only forty meters away, but a horrifying chill ran through Radenko’s body as he thought of who might have been hit by that bullet. He slowly moved his hand over his face and chest in the shape of a cross and said a small prayer for whoever it was.
The mass in the brush began inching forward. At a snail’s pace, Radenko brought the binoculars to his eyes. What he saw shocked him; the Serbian patch, with their own unit number on it. It was one of their own. Radenko even recognized him; Goran Rugova.


Chapter 38 – Guns and Boots


Steady, steady. He reminded himself, resting his assassin’s profile atop his iron sights. The pressure began to swell in his fingertip, nearly dragging the trigger to its limits. Radenko wasn’t sure what impeded his will to follow through. He held the perfect shot for almost three minutes now. The tall dry grass was slightly penetrating his clothing, becoming annoying. It was unfathomable that Nikola would send Goran to kill them. How could it have possibly come to this, Radenko asked himself? How could they know everything? He had to find out. He slowly straightened his finger, invigorating it with blood. Radenko had to act quickly before Goran got off another shot.
He retreated quietly and still, the loyal hiss of the wind was in his favor. He fell back a hundred meters until he was directly in Goran’s wake. Then he started straight for him. He doubled his pace since Goran was also moving forward, away from him.
Fifteen meters away, Radenko was inhaling his own excitement. He slowed and managed his breathing.
“God be with me.”
Goran was peering through his scope, fomenting the will of an evil man. Radenko aimed between his shoulder blades.

“You’re a dead man, Goran!” The words roared past his lips.
Goran froze in position, possibly contemplating springing into action. Radenko noted Goran’s anxiety as the back of his ribcage expanded with each breath.
“Back away from the gun and show me your hands.”
Goran sat up and raised both his hands; one of them cradled a cigarette. The smoke spiraled upward and then ebbed into the wind.
“Radenko, how are you?” Goran roguishly asked as he began moving his cigarette downward toward his mouth.
“Move and I’ll kill you.” Radenko recharged his weapon.
Goran showed his defiance and fearlessness by continuing the drag on his cigarette and then taking his time to raise his empty hand back up.
“I thought I shot you. I saw you go down.” muttered Goran, with the cigarette now dangling from his lips.
Radenko closed the distance between them and smashed the butt of his rifle into the back of Goran’s neck. He kicked Goran’s rifle out of reach and yanked a CZ and a knife from his waist line. Goran was coughing and laughing at the same time.
“Don’t flatter yourself. You didn’t kill anyone. The prisoner you shot even survived.”
“Oh but you’re wrong, Radenko. My last shot was commendable. The guy spun like a merry-go-round before he fell. You should have seen it.” Goran spit a mouthful spiked with blood.
Radenko felt strangled by trepidation. Had he taken too long to get to him? Could he have prevented the last shot? He didn’t want to believe Goran. He hoped the last shot was as horrible as the one before.
“What’s in this for you Goran?” Radenko paid close attention as Goran rolled over and made eye contact for the first time, his bulging gray-green eyes, now bloodshot, his hair misplaced.
“The first guy I shot, you called him a prisoner? What was he doing walking around? No gun on him?”
Radenko didn’t answer the question. “Look at this uniform, Goran. Look at your patch. It’s the same as mine.”
“Your uniform represents nothing. We’re not of the same blood, Radenko.”
“Well I’m Yugoslavian damn it! And so are you.” Radenko felt his blood throbbing at the surface again.
“You’re not a Serb Radenko and you’ll never understand. They should have never trusted you.”
“Then why, Lazar?” Radenko challenged. “He’s a fellow Serb.”
Goran broke half a laugh when he heard the name.
“His fidelity is lost in a Muslim girl. Tell me, how is he going to purify Greater Serbia?” Goran sucked the remainder of life from his cigarette. “Lazar is ill, Radenko. In Visegrad we thought he was going to turn his gun on us. You weren’t there. I nearly shot him myself.”
Radenko was sure of it now, Nikola had sent him.
“What did Nikola promise you, Goran, a throne in his kingdom?”
“Listen Radenko, your citations are worthy. You graduated second in your class. Nikola warned me you were good. Myself, I despise lawyers. That’s why I don’t mind killing one. I didn’t intend to be sitting here at your mercy. You could have chosen the right side. You could have made a name for Montenegro. It was your big chance. But you know too much now. You’re stepping in your own snare, just like your father, always resisting.”
Radenko saw it in Goran’s eyes; he knew something about the attack on his father. Maybe he was even a part of it. Fury possessed Radenko. Every limb was fused with anger. His whole body tightened. If he spoke, fire was sure to incinerate Goran.
Radenko threw his rifle into the grass at his side and reached for Goran, balling up his fatigues under his neck and jerking him instantly to his feet. Radenko pulled him into his chest.
“You’re wrong.” Radenko smashed his forehead into Goran’s nose and released his grip. Goran plummeted back to the ground; blood already covering the lower half of his face. He stayed on the ground in too much pain to get back up again.
“My father is the only real General left.” Radenko growled.
Radenko reached down and cut the laces from Goran’s boots. He pulled them off.
“It figures Nikola would pick another backstabbing coward, like himself, to run his pet projects. You tell Nikola that I might not be not be a Serb, but I am at least a man. You tell him that if he wants to see my father’s or my blood flow, to bring his own knife.”
Radenko un-holstered his CZ, pointed it at Goran’s right foot and fired. When Goran tempered his whimpering and squirming, Radenko left him with one last bit of advice.
“You can lay down for the buzzards or you can hobble back to the unit. But if you even move one inch toward that house,” Radenko pointed, “you won’t finish the breath you started.”
Radenko grabbed Goran’s guns and boots and started back to the house.

************

Lazar and Reed were hunkered down in the hallway, out of sight from any of the windows. It was obvious the shooter had moved in, when he hit Otto’s dummy square in the head. It didn’t resemble anything close to a human, but perhaps the shooter wanted to demonstrate his marksmanship. Anyway, Otto learned his lesson and buddied up with Angelo at the cellar opening.
Lazar told Reed all about home, all about Milla, all about Mr. Nowak and ‘The Time Machine’. In return, Reed told Lazar all about Lindsey, Disneyland and football. Reed knew exactly how to get to ‘The Time Machine’ from the dramatic details of the bridge to the historical tour through Old Town. He knew more about Mr. Nowak than some of his own relatives.
And Lazar had virtually experienced every dark musty corner of the ‘Pirates of the Caribbean’. He even felt a little nauseated imagining Space Mountain, a rollercoaster in the dark. Lazar listened as Reed recounted every inning of Dodgers baseball, but was more interested in UCLA football and Reddin’s trek to stardom. And finally, neither could out-do the other with sweetheart stories. Marcielli even chimed in from the cellar.
It was a time of understanding and recognition. Understanding for the risk Lazar and Radenko were taking. But also understanding for why the risk was self-healing; self serving, like sugar on a slice of grapefruit or finally reaching that itch in the middle of your back. And recognition, awarded to the extraordinarily rare circumstances that brought them together, leading to an exhibition of strength and character, not always found on the playgrounds of war. If Lazar was a sample of the typical Serb soldier, then it was possible that reports of genocide were isolated. Reed was determined not to choose sides in this conflict. There was so much he would never understand. He did, however, feel strongly that peacekeeping efforts by the US were imminently necessary.

Radenko announced his arrival outside the house to avoid friendly fire. He silhouetted himself at the back door, expecting the worst, another casualty. When he saw that everyone was fine, the knots in his stomach untangled and his breathing finally reached the depths.
“All clear.” said Radenko, dropping a pair of boots and two guns left of the doorway.
“Lazar, we need to talk, alone.”
Radenko motioned Lazar to follow him out the back door.
Radenko turned and faced Lazar, propping his leg up on a splintered tree stump, hand on his hip.
“We’ve got a problem, Lazar, a serious one.”
Lazar scoured the horizon over Radenko’s shoulder as though the problem might be in view.
“What did you find out there?” asked Lazar.
“Not what, who.” corrected Radenko, “Goran Rugova,”
“What?” was the only response Lazar could produce.
“Nikola sent him. He wants us dead, Lazar.”
“How can you be sure?”
“I couldn’t bring myself to their level, killing my own men. I tracked him. I spoke with him, Lazar.”
Lazar began stroking the sling of his gun across his chest, moving his hands slowly together and then apart, his mind boiling.
“He tried to kill us, Radenko. He nearly took your head off and you let him go?”
“Listen Lazar, it’s exactly what Nikola wanted. He wins if we kill Goran. He’ll make a case against us, treason probably, punishable by death. And if we die, so does the evidence.”
“Radenko, what ‘evidence’ are you talking about.”
Radenko could see in Lazar’s eyes, the start of feelings of betrayal. Radenko began running his fingers through his hair, suddenly exhausted from the ordeals of the day. He knew he had tampered with Lazar’s trust.
“I should have told you a long time ago.” said Radenko. “They trusted me with way too much. It was all in the briefcase, the one I traded for your life in Tuzla. There are maps of mass graves, copies of private conversations, statements and admissions from high ranking officers. It’s me they’re after, Lazar.”
Radenko mused solemnly before he advocated the obvious. “We should go our separate ways.”

“Where do you plan on going from here, Radenko?” asked Lazar. “I mean, after everything that’s happened.”
“I don’t know.” answered Radenko, staring at Lazar’s feet. Then he looked back up, beaming a subtle hint of hopelessness in his grin.
Lazar shook his head. “Radenko, you’re acting like you’ve done something wrong. At the same time you’re not giving Nikola credit for being a horrible, filthy man. You’re not going AWOL, Radenko. You’re being forced out. And considering the choices we’ve made, I don’t think either of us can go back.”
“I guess I’m starting to realize how serious things can get.” admitted Radenko.
“We stick to the plan. We’re going to Montenegro to see your father.”
Lazar reached and gave Radenko a two-pat hug, hoping it confirmed he was invested.
“One thing, Radenko.” mentioned Lazar, “Tell me about this ace of spades.”
“What do you mean?” asked Radenko, shifting his gun from one shoulder to the other.
Lazar grinned, “The briefcase.”

************

“Hey America, how would you like to trade a briefcase for a briefcase?” announced Radenko, interrupting a conversation.
Radenko explained the prize to Reed and what it could mean for them. Radenko knew it was the type of hard evidence they were looking for. He then traced the route to Tuzla on the map and circled the basin just south, where he lost the briefcase. He went on to explain the risk of encountering Serb forces.
“The Vojsko Srbije will stay on the main highway. They have a lot of heavy cargo and artillery to transport. They won’t drive these desolate bumpy roads on the outskirts. Stick to these roads.” Radenko pointed them out. “Nikola and his men should be in Zvornik by now. Once you’re north of Zvornik, you should be in the clear. Tuzla is only an hour farther.”
Reed studied the map, making some notes of his own.
“Oh,” Radenko added, “After you get the case, you must get rid of the van. Goran has seen it. Troops will surely be looking for it. In Tuzla, at the southern tip, there is a train station. Make your escape to the north through Croatia and then into Hungary. There’s a first rate airport in Budapest.”
Animation worked its way into a decayed lingering mood. But this time, Reed wanted the approval of his team.
“What do you think guys? I say this briefcase earns us the right to go home.”
The decision was unanimous, nothing verbal from Angelo, but no signs of protest.
“Listen America,” Lazar warned, “the briefcase is all you need, but there’s a possibility it won’t be there anymore. I suggest your men still earn a ticket home. You won’t last in this country, not by yourselves. Things are going to get a lot worse before they get better. I’ve never asked you to explain what you’re doing here, but I have a good idea that you’re dedicated to whatever your mission is. But I think you should take what you already have and pass it along. It’s the fastest way to serve your purpose.”
Reed understood the briefcase might not be there, regardless he thought, it was some sort of direction, something tangible in arms reach.
Reed nodded his head and extended his bond, “You’ve got my word Lazar. You have helped us more than you know. Briefcase or no briefcase, my men are going home. They’ve already gone beyond the call.”
Reed glanced over, made eye contact with Marcielli, who was standing at the base of the stairs.
“They’ve earned it.” assured Reed.
Reed then turned back to Radenko, “What did you mean by, “A briefcase for a briefcase?”
Radenko pointed to the briefcase on the table with the operation orders. “We have to destroy that or it will get you killed. If it falls into the wrong hands again, you won’t be so lucky.”
Radenko felt a reverence in what they were doing. He knew that Nikola and his men had pushed into the red zone and away from the Vojsko Srbije. Mass deportation was one thing, but mass genocide was a separate beast. He knew Lazar had seen his fill as well. He knew if Lazar wanted Milla in his life and a remission, which he was convinced he did, he would have to detach himself from the cadence of inhumanity. The truth was; Radenko supported Reed and his team. He had never witnessed so much fortitude. The kind of fortitude you have when you know you’re doing the right thing. When you’re advancing the right causes; causes that fall harmoniously in line with mankinds natural desire for love and peace. They were the types of causes he hoped he would fight for someday.
Radenko kept thinking about what Lazar said; that he was being forced out and it felt good. He counted on Petrovich to be accurate in his assessment. He hoped his mother was watching.

Marcielli was the one to change the topic. “I don’t think Flo can go with us to Tuzla. He needs to be in a hospital and he needs to go soon before an infection sets in.”
“From what I was told by some of the refugees,” said Lazar, “there’s a hospital just off the main highway as you get into Srebrenica. They’ve been accepting refugees that are very, very sick. We’ll clothe him a little more appropriately and they should take him.”

Angelo and Reed helped lift Florentine out of the cellar and load him into the van. Angelo never lifted his head to make eye contact with Reed. Otto packed up their equipment. He progressively became angrier with every discovery of broken toys. Cool toys they hadn’t even got a chance to use: digital cameras, heat radars, homing beacons, Geiger counters and the x-ray document scanner.
Otto was thrilled however, to find his Von Zipper polarizing sunglasses without a nick or scratch. A great marketing testimony, he thought. But every other piece of equipment comprised of glass or soft technology was destroyed from the blast. He was also happy to find the flares, hand grenades and flash and smoke grenades in order.

Lazar was the last to leave the house. The fireplace was still crackling with Reed’s briefcase. It was causing a black smoke to curl around the mantle and cloud up at the ceiling. He offered a small prayer in behalf of the family that had once lived there, that they could, one day, lead normal lives again.
Lazar thought of Goran. He couldn’t believe he had come for them. And he could only imagine the insanity he must feel now, the defeat. Lazar doubted Goran would crawl, indignantly back to Nikola, but rather take his own life.
He directed his thoughts to the strange new décor resting by the doorway, just where Radenko dropped it. Both objects, nothing the same, diseased and unforgiven, but significant to the web in which they were spun. One characterized the hunter, the perpetrator and wrong or right, the fearless. And the other, embodied the sorrows of the hunted, the frightened, the running, always and anxiously running . . . . . Guns and Boots.


Chapter 39 – No Real Time Machine


“You’re driving too fast, Marcielli. Slow down.”
This was the closest Reed would come to them. He conceded to the fact that a ‘one-on-one’ encounter wasn’t practical. The frosty air pushing into the van revealed to Reed only one of their afflictions. Outside in the open, no walls, no protection, no sanctity or decency; the refugees pervaded the landscape. Mortality beamed for promise. Promise for discovery, for reconciliation, for justice and promise to be made whole again.
“It’s a shame that they’ve given up.” said Reed, still casting a steady line of vision out the window. “You said you warned them to leave two days ago. Why won’t they leave?”
“Most of them have.” replied Lazar. “These are the ones that are tired of running, tired of being afraid. And some of them, sadly,” Lazar took a momentary glance at Radenko, “some of them are still hoping.”
It was a disheartening truth that permeated the van. Nothing was said after that. Some watched. Some turned their heads. Some resisted their emotions and some, silently prayed for a miracle.
Searching for his camera was pointless. Reed knew the moment wouldn’t last, nor would such a rainbow of real human behavior ever agree to confinement. Bits and pieces of the camp hopped along the highway, stretching hope toward Srebrenica. Reed saw an old man, thin and gaunt, perched over three craggily suitcases. He was holding something to his mouth. As they neared, the whiney bend of a harmonica was sent to greet them. Every ounce of life the old man possessed, he blew into the wooden reeves as though presiding over an angelic brass band. He was offering proof to the camp that, despite the harrowing acts of bloodshed and cruelty inflicted upon them, life itself was still pure and music was its faithful apprentice. There were very few moments in time that Reed felt were worthy of ‘one-word’ definitions. This was one of them; ‘Devotion’.

A crooked sign jetting out of the embankment read, ‘Srebrenica’.
“Stay on this road, Marcielli.” advised Lazar. “There’s supposed to be a hospital up ahead.”
A moan and wince accompanied every bump and pothole found on the road.
“How’s Flo doing?” Marcielli asked sympathetically.
Angelo finally broke his silence. “He’s surviving.”
“I mean, is he still gangly with big ears?”
Marcielli promptly adjusted the rearview mirror, just catching the end of Angelo’s restrained smirk.
“The bleeding has finally stopped.” said Angelo, lifting up the cloth to make sure. “He’s lucky it was a full metal jacket rather than a ballistic tip. We would either be fetching the bullet from his chest, or we would be trying to patch an exit wound the size of a softball.”
“Thanks for the graphic description, Angelo.” muttered Florentine. “Mama Mia!”

************

When they arrived at the hospital, it was agreed that Reed and his team would stay in the van. They would bring too much attention.
Angelo and Otto delivered Florentine into the invisible, Boy Scout gurney prepared by the arms of Radenko and Lazar outside the van.
Lazar let Florentine drape his arm around his shoulder. He peered into the van one last time, studied their faces while trying to make sense of all that had happened. One thing satisfied Lazar’s conscience; he would have a great story to share with Mr. Nowak during a game of chess. He didn’t follow orders. Mr. Nowak would love it. He was thankful for Reed and his team. Thankful they crossed paths. He would have a more industrious heart to share with Milla, attesting his reformation, his restitution.
“Lazar” Reed scooted to the edge of his seat. “If it means anything, you should know that somewhere on the other side of this wild world, in a small farming town next to a big dirty city, you have a friend and a brother.”
Lazar nodded his head and saluted his new comrade. “Send me a post card when you get to Budapest. Don’t let me down, America.”
“I won’t.” promised Reed.
Then Reed nodded to Radenko.
“Zdravo,” Radenko’s smile, upright and honest, made his case. In a different time and under different circumstances they could have all been friends. After all, they were lousy enemies.
“Florentine,” Reed called out, “In three days, you’ll be sunbathing on the beaches of Naples, showing off your bullet hole to a crowd of bikinis.”
All the laughter only pinpointed the pain for Florentine.
“I’m calling in your location to Sam. He’ll send out a chopper for a quick touch and go. You have nothing to worry about.” Reed held his arm to the square, fingers presenting the Boy Scout promise. Then he reeled it in and left Florentine with a salute.
Marcielli said his goodbyes at the house. He encouraged his friend to be strong and thanked him for his dependable and steadfast alliance over the years. He watched as the two natives, kind yet peculiar, carted Florentine into the asylum.

************

The hospital was dirty and unsanitary. Everything was disorganized. Cabinets were open and unattended. The hallway was jammed with medical gurneys. Soiled linens were just left on the floor. An occasional moan or cry for help, crept into the hallway. It was a little warmer inside the hospital. The windows were open, but there was no breeze. The air was stale. There was only one doctor and three nurses and even they were working mostly voluntarily. It was obvious there was no time for cleanliness or to tend to the needs of the facility.
The doctor began working on Florentine almost instantly. Lazar thought it was because of their uniforms or the guns across their backs. He kept an even pace despite the calamity around him, not because he was aged, but because everything had become so callously monotonous. It was merely his routine. But Lazar watched as his careful hands tended to the Italian. He nearly cringed, audibly, when he saw dried blood in the doctor’s fingernails and in the deeper creases of his skin. Florentine, luckily, had already fallen asleep.
“I will take it from here.” the doctor advised. It was a polite hint that he and Radenko were no longer needed.
Some attention was paid, but when they noticed the Serb uniforms, people usually looked away, not wanting confrontation. Lazar and Radenko stood in deliberation outside the hospital, anxious to take in the crisp, untainted air.
“It’s half a day’s trip if we can hitch a ride with someone.” said Radenko. “If we backtrack to the bridge, I think that road goes south.”
“You lead the way from here on out.” conceded Lazar. “I want to meet this legendary General. If we’re lucky, he’ll reassign us.”
The two comrades walked mostly in silence with the bridge in view. The bridge looked old, beaten, on its hands and knees, arching a tired back, only tolerating the constant traffic, both foot and automobile.
When they crossed the bridge, a small premonition escorted Lazar. Warning him that childhood feelings would soon strike, just as they always did when he walked over a bridge. It was a simpler time. If he knew then, what he knew now, the pain, the hunger, and the anticipation, he wouldn’t have been so quick to set his sails. He may have toiled longer at the docks. He might have lingered some in the harbor, waiting on clearer skies. But there was no real time machine, no way to get back, no way to forget.
Lazar kept playing Milla’s voice over in his head, hanging on to the words she left him with by the jeep. “I love you Lazar.” He wished he could write them down, see them, and touch them. It was still the storm around him that caused his vision to blur. Not knowing whether or not she was alive was a reason to hate himself, a hole that was easily filled with self sabotage. It was a clear direction in a narrow world. Finding her alive completely knocked him off course. It was unimaginable, it was mystifying and it was incredible, but it was also perplexing. It overflowed the hole in his heart with a million possibilities. A million possibilities in a future that was uncertain. Lazar knew what he wanted. He knew what he had to have. He just didn’t know if he could have it. He didn’t know if he deserved it. He saw her, resilient, in a world of beauty and grace. He just wasn’t sure if he was the man standing next to her. Doubt was consuming every bit of happiness she brought to his soul.
He hoped, by now, that Milla had reached her aunt’s home in Split. He hoped her suffering was over and that she was still thinking of him.

The river was wide beneath them, testing the banks with melted snow. The black current looked bitter and uninviting, although home to a family of Heron, pecking at the frothy edges.
The sun reigned directly over them, projecting misshapen shadows at their feet and filling in the uneven cracks of the cobble stone. It was almost noon. Daylight graciously joined with the physical effort of their stride to lessen the late winter bite.
At the end of the bridge there was an obelisk-type monument jutting skyward. There was a large bird perched at the tip. It was as motionless as the twenty foot tower of stone it rested on. As they got closer, Lazar noticed the bird was grey and not black, as it initially appeared. Its head was recoiled into the fluffed up feathers around its neck. It had strong wings and breasts that flexed over the soft contours of its belly. And loyal, but violent talons that the curled into the tip of the obelisk.
“Look at that. It’s not even afraid of us.” noted Radenko, breaking a rift of silence.
“It’s a Falcon.” Was all Lazar said, “A grey falcon.”
Radenko brought his hand up to block the sun. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen one, not this close anyway.”
“Me neither.” admitted Lazar.
Lazar thought of the grey falcon Mr. Nowak used to tell him about; the one that flew from Jerusalem to warn the Prince; a mysterious bird imparting knowledge and dominion over an entire nation. A bird, that gave breath to his name, Lazar.
Lazar stopped walking. Radenko continued on a few more steps but then backtracked and shouldered Lazar.
Lazar stopped where the bird eclipsed the sun with its own body. An obscure sentiment told Lazar that the bird, this bird, wasn’t there in vain and he truly believed it. It had a message for him. What Lazar dismissed as a silly childhood fable, was now presiding over him and vindicating its very existence. He stared into the dark grey coat, so vehemently, that he swore he could see the falcon’s pounding red heart. Lazar shuddered. Sorrows began to drip from his soul. His bosom swelled as the torque of antipathy began to loosen. The obelisk in front of him formed into a stone stairway, enticing him upward. Lazar struggled with the reality of it all, but he didn’t want to abort the feeling or undermine the delivery. He was face to face with the falcon.
“What do you want? What are you trying to tell me?” Lazar wasn’t sure if he was thinking out loud.
The bird, silent in deity, just stared back at Lazar. But his mind was flooded with feelings and ideas, so profound; it was like he was reading them from a page. He was washed clean by God’s mercy. He needed to forgive himself. It was time to get off his knees and stand. He needed to move forward as a whole man to be strong enough for what was to come. What was to come? It was the only void on the page.
Lazar’s vision began to blacken and then he was looking at another blank page beginning to fill with words. He had to dissolve all his fears. He had to pardon all his enemies, including himself. He had to trust in his inner strength, trust in God and yes, like the great Prince, he had to lay down his weapons. In return, life would not only work for him, but it would be kind to him, kind and beautiful. And beautiful only meant one thing; Milla.

Lazar’s eyes began to burn. The sun had shifted slightly around the bird. He looked down at his feet and they were still on the ground and the giant obelisk was just an obelisk.
“Lazar, are you all right?
“Yeah, I’m fine.”
Lazar glanced back up at the falcon, but only for a second, as if to ask, “Are you sure?” But he instantly felt awkward.
He walked to the ledge and stared into the river. He lifted his rifle from his shoulder and held it over the water.
“I’m done, Radenko. It’s over.” He let go, and the gun splashed into the rushing darkness. Then he tossed his pistol like a discus champion at the Olympics.
“I guess you can borrow mine when you need them.” stated Radenko, with a hint of curiosity in his tone.
Lazar felt, not only the physical weight, but the emotional mass nearly evaporate from his body. There was no shame in harmony. No shame in promise. No shame in peace. If he laid his guns to rest, his most infinite aspiration could materialize. The falcon had made this message clear.
“I don’t think I’ll need them, at least for a while. Radenko, what happens if Serbia decides to fight Montenegro tomorrow, because your blood’s not pure? We’re both Yugoslavian. Bosnians, Croatians, Kosovars, we’re all Yugoslavian. Milla is Yugoslavian. I’ll defend our country, but not from her own children. I won’t fight my neighbors. I’ll never fight you, Radenko.”
Movement atop the obelisk caught Lazar’s attention. The falcon stretched his wings but remained posted. Something startled it. The falcon’s head turned to the north. What was it? Lazar wondered. What was coming? There was nothing on the bridge, nothing in the distance. The falcon cawed and spread its wings again. He ascended, gracefully from his podium and challenged the southern horizon, disappearing from reality, disappearing from fantasy.
“Let’s keep moving, Radenko. It won’t be long before they come looking for us.”

************

The farther they got from the city, the fewer cars passed them, dimming hopes of Good Samaritan assistance. When Radenko heard the distant growl of an engine, his thumb went up. At one point, an old farming truck pulled up next to them. But when the old man saw the uniforms, he simply expressed his regret,
“Sorry boys.”
They must have walked five miles or so. Radenko thought about the way Lazar acted on the bridge. He really couldn’t make sense of it. Radenko wasn’t sure what kind of awakening Lazar had gone through. He just knew that he wasn’t ready to consign his own guns over to a watery grave. What about protecting the innocent? What about protecting themselves? And it wasn’t so far fetched to think that he would, someday, have to protect his father, from General Pec or Nikola. And one thing was more definite than his own existence; he would require the ultimate price of anyone seeking his father’s life.
Radenko wanted to take his father, dust him off, and throw him back into the fray. He acted much older than he really was. There were plenty of Generals older than the age of sixty-two, who would swear they were in their prime. There was no time more expedient than now for the incumbency to be heard and felt.
Radenko wondered if he was being selfish. Perhaps he only waited until now to speak up because he was involved. But he put that thought to rest. Things had never been worse than they were right now; never more dishonesty, never more corruption and never more death. He had to get back to his father. He had to reenter the realm of law, brazen and unbridled.

A fuzzy sound, distant and soft, roared into life. Radenko turned toward the sound with his thumb still held high in the air. A cloud of exhaust spawned behind a caravan of trucks and jeeps.
“No,” said Radenko, gnashing his teeth, “it can’t be.” Radenko’s arm dropped. He couldn’t bury the adrenaline in his eyes.
“What?” asked Lazar, discovering the answer on his own, after looking over his shoulder.
“It’s Nikola.” Radenko contritely stated the obvious.
It was inevitable. There was no escape. Lazar and Radenko kept moving forward, beset in their derelict, expecting to be shot on sight.
“What do you want to do?” asked Lazar.
“I want to tell the truth.” answered Radenko. “He’ll expect at least that from us.”
Lazar nodded at Radenko. Radenko nodded back; a gratuitous, but subtle appreciation for the camaraderie, the friendship.


Chapter – 40 Eternity


With both arms, Radenko raised his rifle to the sky, signifying the white flag. Lazar’s empty hands followed. They slowly turned around and watched as the convoy tightened the reins. Down shifting, rubber locking against the asphalt, and bits of sand and small rocks being thrown into the undercarriage; it all sounded like a barking dog warning you that he was about to rip you apart.
A jeep peeled away from the convoy and drove onto the shoulder just feet away from them. They were peppered with dirt and rocks. The occupants of the jeep masked themselves momentarily behind a curtain of dust. And when the curtain began to fall, the shadowy figure behind the glass mutated into a cold sinister being, wrapped tightly in officer’s dress.
Nikola stepped down from the jeep like a black knight dismounting his ominous steed, ready to claim what never belonged to him; virtue. Nikola sauntered over and stood before them. His red beret drooped down the side of his head. He needed to study them to prolong the suspense. Nikola reached for Radenko’s weapon, jerked it from his grip and tossed it behind him. He moved within inches from Radenko’s face. The air was thick and impenetrable like the resisting forces of magnetics.
Nikola loosed a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed the tip of his nose. Clearly he was sick, which seemed to peck at his command presence. His eyes investigated Radenko’s, those glossed over eyes that never seemed to reach their destination, falling just short of target. Radenko wondered if he had been drinking again, or if he was just sick.
Nikola finally withdrew from the contest, never saying a word to Radenko. He turned toward Lazar.
“Corporal, put your hands down.”
Lazar almost forgot that his hands were still up.
“Where is your jeep, Corporal?” Nikola asked, playing a less intense staring game with Lazar.
Lazar had to think about this question. He had planned on telling the truth, but he didn’t want to set anyone on Milla’s trail. He knew Radenko would understand.
“It broke down.” said Lazar. “We had to leave it behind.”
Nikola just stood quietly, glaring, as if to give Lazar a second chance to reform a truthful answer. Lazar was distraught. He hoped they hadn’t already found the jeep.
“Where are your prisoners, Corporal?”
“We let them go. They were civilians. We found them to have committed no crimes.”
“That was for me to decide, not you.” Nikola sniffled and dabbed his nose again. “You disappoint me, Corporal. Now I must risk more troops to do the job you couldn’t handle.”
“I sent Goran to lend you reinforcement. What happened?”
Radenko was so fixated on Nikola that his peripheral had failed him. He hadn’t noticed Goran in the passenger seat, watching them, blowing smoke from the side of his mouth. Today he would collect his debt.
“You sent Goran to kill us!” blurted Radenko, earning Nikola’s complete attention.
“That’s a very, very serious accusation. You should be careful, Radenko. You’re both alive and well aren’t you?” neither responded.
“What should I do with you two? On one hand, I have a soldier who is insubordinate and AWOL in his own mind. And on the other, I have a soldier who is disloyal and who shoots his own men. The truth is; I have no use for either of you. What would you have me teach my men; that this is okay, that this kind of behavior goes unpunished?”
Right or wrong, both Lazar and Radenko knew what they had done was treasonous. Radenko’s tunnel vision also kept him from realizing that more vehicles had off loaded and they were now surrounded by soldiers, most of them pointing weapons.
“Am I weak?” asked Nikola. “Am I weak?” he shouted. “Am I weak and pathetic?”
Nikola glared at them for a moment, trying to rein in his anger. He then reached into his pocket and removed a shiny coin.
“Corporal, you’re heads, and Radenko, you’re tails. I’ll make an example out of one of you.”
He tossed the coin into the air. Time nearly stood still. Was Nikola really reduced to this? Was he really this detached from humanity that he would decide their fate with the flip of a coin; heads or tails? The coin caught the sunlight and flashed each of their destinies over and over again.
When it finally fell in the dirt before them, Nikola sighed, “Thank God. I really didn’t want to shoot a fellow Serb.” Nikola made an about-face and began walking back to the jeep.
There were no words to speak. There were no feelings that made sense of what had just happened. Lazar and Radenko simultaneously fixed their eyes in the dirt. The double headed eagle, wings spread to the very edges, had spoken and had called one of them home.

************

Lazar wasn’t exactly sure where they were. He just knew that they were no longer on the side of the road. After the blow to the back of his head, he struggled, he fought, but blackness enveloped him anyway.
Bright colors waded over his face. He felt warmth on his skin as the sun illuminated a stained glass cast of St. Michael. He was resting on a wooden pew which generated soreness in new areas. When Lazar sat up, he heard the chains on his wrists. He was bound. He looked around; saw two soldiers ten feet away, smoking and laughing. The rest of the church was dark and musty. It had been vandalized by spray paint and fire. Lazar could tell by the frescos that it used to be a Serbian Orthodox church. And then, Lazar remembered what Nikola had said; that he would make an example out of one of them. And then he remembered the coin toss. Where was Radenko? He wasn’t next to him.
“Radenko!” shouted Lazar.
The two soldiers flicked their cigarettes and rushed over, grabbing him at the arms. The abrupt manner in which they jerked him to his feet made his head swarm with nausea. He discarded the clear fluid from his deprived, empty stomach.
“Watch what you’re doing. You almost got some of that stuff on me.” shouted one of the soldiers. “Gavrillo’s in the courtyard. We didn’t think you wanted to watch.”
When they pushed Lazar out into the courtyard, sunlight burned his eyes. For a moment, he saw nothing, but then a figure; standing alone, statuesque and undaunted, appeared in the middle of the courtyard. It was Radenko.

The church was only a few miles up the road and was where they arranged to meet with General Pec to discuss the implications and repercussions of what they were about to do.
“He’s General Gavrillo’s son, Nikola.” exclaimed General Michailo Pec. “We can make his life miserable enough. Why do we have to kill him? I don’t understand.”
Nikola pounded his fist on the table. “Damn it, Michailo! He’ll turn on us. He knows everything and he’ll run straight to his father. We could lose Montenegro to secession if they don’t think we’re following the rules here in Bosnia. We can’t afford that. I have done so much for you, Michailo. I have taken the blame for you so many times. Let me do it my way, just this once.”
“Oh, and you think killing a general’s son won’t cause problems in the union with Montenegro?” General Pec stood up and walked to the open threshold of the church’s live-in, priest quarters. He looked out into the courtyard. Nikola followed him.
Nikola set his eyes toward Radenko. “He dishonored Montenegro by shooting a Serb. General Gavrillo will thank us. His son is a traitor. Do you think the general wants that information to get out? We will be sparing him the shame.”
“Listen Michailo, we can say he died honorably in action. Those in our platoon who know who he is; I’ll threaten them with their lives if they ever open their mouths.”
“I gave him an offer he couldn’t refuse, but refuse it, he did.” The general shook his head. “Stupid boy, he had his chance.”
“I’m glad we finally see eye to eye General.”
“Don’t think it will always be so, Nikola.” said the General, with an exhausted temperament.
Nikola gloated, unleashing an annoying chuckle. He headed for the courtyard.
“Nikola, wait.” The general motioned him back in. “I brought mail with me. You got nothing as usual, but Radenko got a small package. Bring it to him. Let him open it.” The General thought it was the least he could do for a man he’d just ordered to death.
Nikola entered the courtyard and stopped twenty paces from Radenko. Nikola examined the small box for a moment. He tucked it under his arm so he could light a cigarette. The flame burst into life as he sucked it through the tobacco.
Nikola looked around at the soldiers, hoping this execution would ignite fear and trepidation in them if they ever refused to follow orders. Consciously, Nikola overlooked Lazar, who was in handcuffs and on his knees. It confirmed everything Lazar thought him to be; pathetic and spineless, nothing more.

As much as Nikola hated both Lazar and Radenko, he also feared them somewhat. If he had his way, he would shoot Lazar along side of Radenko, but he knew the General would never approve of it. Now Nikola had to fear that, as long as he lived, Lazar would never forget this; that one day he would be waiting around the corner to take his life.

Lazar wished he could trade places with Radenko. He was a good man, Lazar thought. He just wanted to get to Montenegro to check in with his father. He had done nothing wrong. He faced death for doing what was right. Lazar felt guilty for the way things worked out. He got everything he wanted. Radenko got nothing. He felt justice had been robbed. It was he who should be standing at attention, as demise shouted in his face, not Radenko.

Nikola parted his own cloud of smoke as he walked toward Radenko. He extended his hand half-way to him, held out the box.
“You’ve got mail, Counselor.” he announced, reminding him of a title he once had.
Nikola smiled with the cigarette at one corner of his mouth, causing a crooked grin. But it was enough for Radenko to notice the cracked tooth that always bothered him. Radenko reached for the package. It was a small box wrapped in brown packing paper. It was postmarked, Belgrade, Serbia. A small insignia was stamped in the upper left hand corner of the box, an old-fashioned style pocket watch. Over it was written, ‘The Time Machine’.
Radenko opened the box and removed the watch. He’d only seen one of its kind before. The watch was white gold with sapphire glass, encrusted with brilliants. It had a chronograph and a lunar calendar. There were others more lustrous, made with more precious metals, but it was the craftsmanship that impressed Radenko. In its craftsmanship, the watch was unique. It was solid. As the hands ticked, Radenko knew that few other watches would outlive it. Radenko gave the watch a new home around his wrist. He looked over at Lazar and nodded his head, rewarding him for remaining true to his word.

Lazar found himself awkwardly imparting thanks to Mr. Nowak, once again for his timeliness. Lazar returned a nod to Radenko, then, bound in handcuffs, Lazar raised his right fist to his chest and brought it inward. Lazar stared at his friend for a time. He broke line of sight only once; when he was ashamed of his undisciplined emotions. The air thickened. The clear, blue sky invited they misty gray. A light rainfall touched down and accompanied them, helping Lazar disguise his tears.

Nikola reclaimed his original position in the courtyard across from Radenko. The fuse had been lit, and was nestled in between Nikola’s fingers. As he took another long drag on his cigarette, Lazar watched half of it disappear. In another drag, it was gone. By now Radenko was only a blur, Lazar was fixated on Nikola. He watched Nikola’s hand move slowly toward the ground. He separated his fingers enough to release his grip on the cigarette. It seemed to fall in slow motion as it tumbled to the earth. It landed next to his boot. The last bit of smoke disappeared before reaching Nikola’s kneecaps. He didn’t waste anymore time. Nikola had been looking forward to this moment. He reached over his shoulder and took a remorseless grip of the AK-47 that was strapped to his back. He moved it slowly, like the turret of a tank. He took aim at Radenko.

It was happening, and Lazar couldn’t do anything to stop it. Lazar struggled to his feet and called out to his friend.
“Radenko, look at me!” Lazar wanted Radenko to look upon a friend’s face as he left them all behind. “I won’t forget you! You’re a good man Radenko! You are my friend! You will always be my friend!”
Radenko appeared unusually calm as though he had already forsaken the inevitable and collided with serenity.

It brought some comfort to Radenko that Lazar was not standing next to him. He felt Lazar was a first-class soldier, but more importantly, a man who was supposed to do something great with his life. Not everyone escapes death twice, he thought to himself. He quietly bid farewell to his friend, and then he quietly bid farewell to his father. He was disappointed he never made it to Montenegro to see him. But failure was something he wouldn’t plague himself with now. There was no time for regret, no time for sorrow, no time for hatred. It was a good time for realization, a good time for achievement and completion. It was a good time for expression, and a good time for acceptance. Radenko removed the picture from his coat pocket, the one he took that heartbreaking morning so long ago. He felt its smooth surface between his fingers, moved his thumb slowly over it. It felt like home.

“See you soon.” he whispered. “I love you.”

And finally, the moment proved to be too small for him and Nikola both, reminiscent of light and dark constantly fighting to occupy the same space. The smallest flicker of light, the unsuspecting static of electricity, could destroy total darkness. And Radenko had that much light in an eyelash. But his heart had already boarded an express train to one destination, and he wasn’t getting off.

************

Lazar blotted out the blameless landscape and the grave, unsuspecting circumstances and just concentrated on Radenko’s face. His eyes were cheerful and undefeated; the gateway to the plains and fields of prolific ideas, undiscovered treasures, and sagas never to be unfolded. Sagas about love, loyalty, patriotism and brotherly kinship, all of which Lazar promised an outlet. Small beads of rain joined together and dripped from Radenko’s brow and eyelashes.
Despite their short journey together, Lazar’s memory was vivid with every detail; from the moment Radenko plucked him from an intense battle to the light humor he kept until they were captured. Lazar lost himself in these small indulgences, but the momentous serenade was broken, all too soon by a deafening crack. It was time. The smoke that circled around the barrel had testified. Eyes, magnificent and full, were rendered shut. Lazar stood witness as Radenko’s life, his legend, his remarkable symphony of sound was ordered silent. Lazar lowered his head, as his friend’s body fell.

Radenko had once saved Lazar’s life and now Lazar failed to return the favor. The forces of emotion plowed him through; love, beaten down by hatred. A monster of frustration and agony twisted out. The demands were more than a lone soul could meet. He growled. He screamed out. And he dispatched a bloodletting of emotional anguish.

Lazar could still hear the shot ringing out. Everything else was silent and still. He threw his weight forward and broke free from the soldiers grip. Detention was no longer an issue. He hobbled over to Radenko and stood over his lifeless partner. Lazar fought back the guilt, knowing that a portion of the blame lay with him. He covenanted silently that he would live the life that had been pilfered from Radenko and allow him move forward as a stowaway in his own countenance.

A gust of wind pushed through the courtyard. Lazar noticed something flutter between Radenko’s fingers. He reached down, hesitated and then removed the picture. He raised it up to where he could see it; Mother Mary, cradling the Savior of man. He studied it. It was everything Radenko stood for. It was everything he loved. He understood and departed with contentment. The moment was surreal as Lazar looked down at the picture, and the shackles on his wrists. He seemed to be rediscovering something he had known from the very beginning. There was only one single path, one way to gain freedom from the chains that bound him. Lazar knelt next to his friend and made the symbol of the cross over his body.

It was then that Lazar noticed the watch on Radenko’s wrist, the one that Mr. Nowak had made. The ticking sound was in sync with his own. As the second hand moved, Lazar felt inspired and couldn’t help but think, even though Radenko’s body lay motionless, he was living on. Eternity, wouldn’t turn him away. His mother was welcoming him home now, cradling him in her arms.

************

“Radenko,” She called his name. It didn’t seem like it had been that long, but when he heard her voice it was like a thousand years of warmth and gentleness pouring back into his soul. Sasia was beautiful and full of life. Radenko embraced his mother for a time, and looked forward to more endless moments, just like these.


Chapter – 41 Proof of Genocide


Just south of Tuzla, Bosnia Herzegovina

“It’s got to be coming up. It’s just how Radenko explained it.” Reed kept straightening the map on his lap, thinking they might have passed it.
“There’s the creek he was talking about and we’re at the furthest tip of the mountain where it starts to bend.”
They had passed few vehicles on their way to Tuzla, just as Radenko had promised them if they took the off roads. They didn’t encounter any military convoys which was the peak of their worries. However, Radenko warned them that if they made it as far as Tuzla, it would be the Croatians they would have to look out for, not the Serbs.
“That must be Tuzla.” Marcielli pointed to a jagged horizon in the distance.
“This must be the place. Slow down.” The change in pace woke Otto and Angelo, both yawning and stretching.
Marcielli pulled off to the side of the road and came to a stop under the shade of an aged oak. Reed started out on foot. He traced the edge of the highway glancing off at the distant farmhouses drinking from the creek. Old stone mills also piggybacked on the water. Marcielli began canvassing the tall desiccated grass. With the sun directly above them, he was hoping to be the first to make a discovery.
Ahead in the roadway, Reed detected large burn marks and bits of melted rubber. There were two areas where the debris was concentrated. Radenko told Reed the first two trucks in their convoy were hit with tank mortars. Radenko and Lazar were in the second truck. A blast would throw them approximately fifteen to twenty feet, Reed thought to himself. He paced the distance out into the field, where he traversed twisted metals and charred pieces of wood.
“Take a look at this.” Marcielli closed the gap between him and Reed. He was holding up a crescent-shaped AK-47 rifle. “I’d hate to find the guy that was holding on to this.”
“Yeah,” Reed barely broke his concentration as he focused more intently into the brittle shrubs. As seconds turned into minutes, uncertainty transpired into improbability. A black suitcase would surely stand out, Reed admitted to himself. Whoever removed the bodies and the larger debris, surely found the case.
Over an hour had passed and Reed began kicking at the rubble in the field. “We were stupid to think the case would still be here. Let’s get back on the highway before we’re discovered. We’re going home.”
“What do you say we check out some of those farmhouses first?” Marcielli petitioned, still clutching the molten artifact. “Most of them look abandoned, but that one,” Marcielli pointed, “there’s smoke coming from the chimney. Maybe they rummaged through the crash site.”
Reed had seen the smoke, but was so focused on finding the case in the field, he hadn’t bothered to consider that the house may be occupied. It sounded invigorating to speak with the natives. It was also a chance to hear what they had to say about the invasion. There was only one hesitation;
“Do we know if they’re Serbs or Croatians?” asked Reed.
“I’m not sure, but we at least know they’re Bosnian. We’ll start there.”
Reed saw Marcielli’s point. Not everything had to be so complicated. The golden rule was, if you treated someone with kindness and respect, you would receive the same in return. Chances were; the residents would be relieved that it wasn’t someone trying to deprive them of their home or their decency.
“It’s a good idea, Marcielli. I’ll let you do all the talking.”
“I don’t think you have a choice, Reed.”

They parked under the rotating shade of a stone mill, about a hundred meters down stream. This would lengthen their approach and keep from startling anyone. Otto and Angelo stayed with the van. Reed decided they would leave their rifles behind. But they weren’t naïve, so their Sig 9mm’s were tucked comfortably under their jackets.
It was a long shot and there were no promises, even if these people had found the case, they may not want to share it. But the quest was their last move, their last hope. Their time was running out.
The earth seemed a little gentler and more prolific next to the water. There were more colors, more flowers, more bugs, both infantry and airborne. Tied to a fence post, there was one excited goat, sounding the bell around his neck. Also tipping their arrival, were uncaged chickens, running aimlessly around the house. But there was no motion inside, no acknowledgement.
Although the farm was managed it didn’t appear maintained. Traces of hard labor and toil were now covered up with dust, scattered leaves and animal droppings. Trash collected at the edges of the home and decorated the dry, ungroomed bushes under the dirt painted windows. Clearly the proprietor had lost the relationship it once had for the farm.
Marcielli knocked on the uneven door. Finally, a sound, not from inside but from around the home, leaves crunching and then silence.
“Who’s there?” a voice called out. An elderly voice, waking from hibernation, deep, but broken and gruff.
They stepped back from the door and laid their eyes on a man carrying a rake like a baseball bat. He wore overalls with holes in the knees. He was an old man. Everything about him was old. He was thin and gaunt with deep erosions in his skin running the length of his face and neck. His eyes were the same color as the tropic seas but they aimlessly darted around. He was blind.
“Its okay.” assured Marcielli. “We’re not going to hurt you.”
“What do you want?” the old man’s knuckles still white around the rake.
“A few short moments of your time. That’s all. We promise you no harm.”
The old man came closer; his skin worse than initially perceived with sun blotches and scars; none of them new. They were as old as the rusted farm equipment he used to operate, that was now scattered in the fields around him.
“You’re not from here.” The old man suggested, spotting Marcielli’s accent.
The man was harmless, thought Marcielli. “No, I’m not. I’m from Italy and my friend is from America.”
“Hello.” Reed greeted in English.
The old man lowered his rake and began walking the trusted, beaten path to his doorway. “I haven’t got a lot of bread. It’s been a while since I’ve been into town, but I’ve plenty of tea.” The old man motioned them in for a shaded cultural intimacy. “Come inside.”

His name was Tomo; one of the more common Bosnian names. He lived alone, and had for the last four years after he’d lost his wife to a severe case of influenza. His eyesight began to deteriorate after that. He said it was because he couldn’t see a future without her. In reality, he had developed cataracts.

As they entered the home, Reed’s eyes subconsciously scrutinized every nook and cranny of the room. The briefcase, not so easily estranged from his thoughts, declined to self surrender. He would have to dig. But first he would relinquish his eagerness to build a relationship of trust with Tomo. If he was anything like his grandfather, whom he did remind him of, he would simply be required to listen, while Tomo shared two or three, or four overly deprived chronicles of his life.
Reed was surprised to see that the inside of the home was tidy and nearly spotless. It made sense; here, trust and comfort were bound within arms reach; no reflection of the outside, where openness, great and deviate, could sometimes be impatient with an old blind man.
He brought them mint tea, sweetened with honey. He also placed a pot of white rice on the table and a side of canned pineapple and demanded they eat.
“I was happily in love, when our country was invaded by the Germans, in World War Two. But then, I was young, boisterous and unruly. I was able to fight.”
Tomo quickly displayed a wavering, clenched fist in the air in front of him.
“I joined the Yugoslav National Army and I fought like hell for three months until the German tanks were rolling down our streets.”
Tomo smashed his sun rotted hand onto the table, breeding small ripples of angst into their cups of tea.
“Now, I couldn’t even fend off a prowler with my rake. I’m old and I’m blind. Sometimes I think I can hear cries in the night of those who are suffering unimaginable losses. I just thank God that I can’t see them. It would bring spoil to the little time I have left. I have been left alone because I am a harmless old man. But oh what I would give to be that young man now.”
And that was it. Tomo had reached his fill of hostile rhetoric. He spent the next forty-five minutes justifying his boycott on suburban life, while abdicating his addiction to the farm. He was a simple countryman, one who found joy in the day-to-day things around him; family, friends, good food and good weather.
Marcielli was very courteous in translating and if he forgot, Tomo would stop speaking and nod his head toward Reed. Reed felt awkward staring into the pale nebulous of Tomo’s eyes. And somehow he felt Tomo detected his phobia.
Marcielli received Reed’s nonverbal nudge to inquire of the case.
“Tomo, we have to leave soon.” said Marcielli. “Could you answer a question for us?”
Tomo poured more tea for Reed when he heard him slurping at the bottom of his cup. It was a benign sentiment, sure to accompany him back to the States.
“I was sure you didn’t come just to hear the ramblings of an old blind man.” Tomo admitted. “What is it that you want to know?”
“About a month ago there was an ambush on the highway out there. Do you remember that?” Marcielli asked.
“Sure do.” replied Tomo. “I brought Billy inside and we took cover in the cellar until the tank rounds stopped.”
“Billy?” Reed said out loud. “I understood that. Who is he talking about?”
“Who’s Billy?” asked Marcielli.
Tomo looked amused as he set his countenance in Reed’s direction, realizing that he understood. “He’s my goat. It’s an English name. Billy’s the only family I got left. I’m surprised he didn’t alert me of your coming.”
It was proof that even Tomo’s hearing was failing him. The goat had danced the polka with that bell.
“What about the chickens?” asked Marcielli “Are they not family?”
“They migrated from another farm. But I swore that I would never eat family and those chickens are good eatin’.” Tomo never really laughed. He just breathed in and out heavily as his eyes went to the top of his head.
“Tomo,” Marcielli ordered his attention back. “Did you ever make your way out to the site?”
Tomo instantly changed his demeanor and grew silent.
“What did you find out there?”
“I found a lot of things out there. Things I wished I hadn’t. But I couldn’t just leave them out there.”
Reed sat up straight, attention cast. What things could he be talking about?
“What do you mean, Tomo?” asked Marcielli.
His eyelids began to lick the dryness from his eyes.
“They were just young boys, maimed and dismembered. I almost couldn’t go through with it. All I remember is that their bodies and clothes were sticky with blood, flies buzzing around them, enticed by the stench.”
Marcielli wasn’t prepared for the depiction and felt the rice in his throat crawling upward. He quickly took the last swig of his tea.
“There must have been thirty of them left there to rot. I loaded them, one by one, onto a hand cart and buried them out by the mill.” Tomo pointed in the general direction.
“It must have been awful.” Marcielli remorsed.
“I know is sounds deranged, but I wish I could have seen their faces.” admitted Tomo.
“If I could have seen their faces, I would have felt more human. Instead I felt like a monster in a horrific movie sorting headless bodies.” Tomo’s tropic seas began to storm.
“I need to give him a minute before I ask him anything else.” said Marcielli. Reed understood.
“Is that why you’re here?” asked Tomo. “To find out where the bodies went?”
“No Tomo. It’s not why we’re here.”
“Then what, son?”
“We’re looking for a black briefcase, Tomo. It may have been left in the field.”
Reed waited, hoping.
Tomo stood up and paced the length of his kitchen, dragging his fingers along the counter tops. Finally he came back to the table. He found Marcielli with his hands. He held him for a moment and then he ran his hands upward until Marcielli’s jowls were resting in the sunken palms of his emaciated hands. He worked his bony fingers under Marcielli’s ears, then over his temples, his brow, his eyes and finally his mouth.
Tomo then walked over to Reed and repeated the enigmatic gesture. Reed was ghostly still. It made him uncomfortable and he swore his physical took longer than Marcielli’s.
Tomo broke the silence. “You have faces I can trust.” Suddenly Reed understood.
“I’ve kind of been waiting for a special occasion to open the case. But I can’t promise you that the color of the case is black. It could be pink or purple or yellow or something.”
Marcielli laughed, and Reed’s spirits found their way through the century old cracks in Tomo’s ceiling.

Tomo cleared the table and disappeared into the shadows of the far end of the home. He returned escorting a black briefcase that he set on the table in front of them.
There it was, the Holy Grail of their mission, the Magna Carta, authorizing the inauguration of discovery in this disparaging land. Reed silently thanked God for anointing a keeper of the case; an old blind man.
“Just tell me what’s inside.” said Tomo.
The case was striped with battle wounds. There were two gold latches, tarnished and misaligned, that had kept the box sealed. There was a combination dial between the latches.
Reed took his pocket knife and slid it down the eyelid of the case. He applied the right amount of pressure and popped it open. Dirt sprang from the seams in liberation.
Marcielli stood over Reed’s shoulder, “Happy birthday, Boss.”
It was all there, just like Radenko had said. The documents were all in order. Audio cassette tapes of the trials and recorded private conversations were lined in a row. Each one was labeled and dated only six weeks old. General Pec and Nikola’s names were everywhere.
“Fresh Intel.” said Reed. “Sam will be pleased.”
There were large manila envelopes marked ‘Confidential’ in Serbo-Croat. Inside were pictures with numbers on them. It almost appeared as though the evidence belonged to the prosecutor, not the defense. How did Radenko get them? Why was he keeping them safe? Reed didn’t understand.
The pictures captured scores of soldiers digging in a field next to lifeless rows of Albanian bodies. There were more pictures of the soldiers burying them. There were pictures of a truck full of AK-47 rifles and pictures of soldiers scattering them over the dead bodies. And then, Reed planted his foot on the land mine. He felt his core transcend the perimeters of his body. He could have never prepared for what lay blistering in front of him. It was pure evil and it seared his conscience.
Marcielli turned and walked away. “Oh God,” he pleaded.
Reed couldn’t look away, despite the consequences. Maybe three years, maybe four years of her life, was all she managed to steal away for herself. How selfish of her to think she deserved more. An innocent young girl, what could she possibly give to the world? The opening in her forehead gladly provided an escape for the childhood innocence she refused to surrender. What was she thinking?
Resentment began feeding on Reed’s belief that men could be benevolent. There was no benevolence in the human race when there was proof that it could be reduced to this. Reed felt unclean and ashamed. He dropped the picture on the table and leaned back. He brought his hands to his neck to massage the knots around his esophagus that were denying him air.
Tomo just sat quietly, patiently waiting his turn and sensing the morose.
There were more pictures of children joining their parents on the dark, deep soil. In the pictures, soldiers and officers were both seen. Regrettably, the smoldering contents of the case, was exactly what they were looking for. And Reed remembered his promise to the boy in his nightmare.
Marcielli resurfaced when Reed tucked the envelope back in the case. “Hey, look at this.” he said, reaching for a set of maps behind the tapes.
Marcielli unfolded the first map. It was a map of Serbia, nothing significant, just long arrows penciled in a southern direction. He guessed they were troop movements. But when he laid out the second map, he saw that it was a more detailed map of Kosovo in southern Serbia. This map had different markings on it; X’s and one large X in a shaded plot of land just west of Kosovo, Pojie. It was labeled; ‘Mass grave site, in the Field of Blackbirds.’ Someone had scribbled some notes next to it. They wrote:

“I’m sorry. We will come back for you. You won’t be forgotten. Justice, won’t forget you. – Radenko”

When explained to him, Tomo was happy to rid his home of such an ulcer. He never asked what they needed with the information. He kind of changed the topic all together.
“Won’t you boys come back and visit sometime?”
“Someday I hope that we can, Tomo.” assured Marcielli.

When Reed walked back outside into the openness of Tomo’s uncertain world; the farm that he used to challenge and wrestle with everyday, but had finally thrown in the towel, an image popped into his mind. He pictured him and Reddin working side-by-side on their farm in California. They were times he wouldn’t trade for the world and wished he could occasionally transpose himself back into those very same moments. Mr. Beckly would be off sailing the brown seas on his yellow iron boat. He and Reddin would be trying to collect as much of that brown treasure into the pours of their skin in lieu of their assigned responsibilities.
It was a lifestyle he had grown to love. He understood the pain that Tomo must have felt in loosing that final battle with his farm.
Reed waved over Otto and Angelo, “We’re not leaving you just yet, Tomo.”
After introducing the rest of the gang to Tomo, Reed took off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. He grabbed the rake that was propped up by the front door, right where Tomo left it. “We’ve got four hours guys. Let’s kick this farm into shape. Angelo and Marcielli, you take care of the obvious. Otto and I will be at Tomo’s service.”
Angelo chuckled, “I really misunderstood you, Reed. You’re not at all a selfish person. You are truly a good man.”
“Thank you, Angelo. The feelings are mutual. Now get to work.”

The sun had grown tired and four hours turned into five. Reed was proud of the way his team had come together. He hoped that Tomo and the country of Yugoslavia appreciated their service.

Reed extended his hand and took Tomo’s into his own. They united under a faint cloud of dust spawned from their rigorous labors. Reed motioned Marcielli to translate. “We’ve got a train to catch, Tomo. I hope to see you again. But if that doesn’t happen in this life, may we meet again in a more perfect world.”
Tomo nodded; his eyes more wide and magnificent when mirroring the evening sun.
Reed patted his back pocket and found the grimy envelope containing their money. He removed half of it and placed it back in his pocket. He planted the other half in Tomo’s hand.
“It’s $10,000.00 in US currency. Take it to a bank you trust, and hire some help around here. It’s a beautiful farm.”
Once again, the tropic seas tossed and spilled over. Tomo couldn’t even manage a thank you.

Otto and Angelo led the way back to the van. Reed and Marcielli followed. Their bodies ached as if they were back in basic training. Reed turned to see that the old blind man had made his way over to Billy. Tomo patted the goat’s brow as they were both folded into the silhouetting influences of the sun. Even though Tomo couldn’t see him, Reed waved and silently thanked the old man for protecting the Holy Grail, the Proof of Genocide.


Chapter – 42 Long Way to Hungary


The train rattled noisily over the decaying tracks. Otto opened the curtain just enough to see a few cabins down. He reached under his jacket to caress the grip of his 22 caliber, handgun. He pulled it out and twisted the slack from the silencer. Then he put it back. He heard the shrill barking voice of the ticket inspector.
“Tickets please! I need to see your tickets.”
The man was short and pudgy. He had a classic look to him. On his head was the circular, hard top hat with a short brim and ribbon going all the way around it. He wore a blue jacket with gold studded buttons and gray slacks. He wasn’t going to be a problem. Otto had his ticket ready.
It was the young, hefty Serb breathing over his shoulder that was the problem. He was looking for something, someone. He poked his head into every cabin. He wore the same uniform Lazar and Radenko had worn. Only his was pressed and in nicer condition. He couldn’t have been older than nineteen or twenty, but he was already hungry for his first bust, the way a new author is to break his first book.
Otto sat down and prepared himself. He tucked two fingers in his collar to loosen his tie a little. He was uncomfortable in a business suit. The briefcase, taught between his legs on the floorboard.
The inspector popped in the doorway. “Good day, Sir. Ticket please.” He spoke Serbian.
Otto nodded, “Guten Tag.” he said in German and held up his ticket.
The man looked him over. Otto expected that. He wasn’t going to act like he was local; he would never pass.
The man asked a simple question understood in most languages, “Business?”
“Ja,” Otto replied, smiling, all the while waiting for the soldier to pop in behind the inspector.
Avoiding awkward conversation, Otto directed his sight out the window while his ticket suffered undue scrutiny. He saw distant smoke stacks waiting to pollute the horizon at dawn’s early light. His view of the deep sunken moon broke intermittently with bursts of shadowy evergreens. Then, he heard the clicking sound of his ticket being punched and the man was gone.
By now, the ‘Be on the lookout’ warning had surely been broadcast throughout the country. And in a land where seventeen year olds were forced to spend eighteen months in the military, the search didn’t lack man power. It’s why Reed had split them up again. But Otto, once again, carried the case.
Otto waited for the soldier to fill the doorway, bearing his authority. But he heard him grueling the next cabin with questions. An uncomfortable period of time passed. He looked around his door; could see the pudgy ticket inspector was already two doors down.
Unexpectedly, the soldier laughed out loud, but that was all. He heard him in the hall now. When he stopped at Otto’s cabin, he only looked in briefly, almost like Otto’s stature had bothered the young boy. Even the eye contact was brief. The soldier began to move on, but then, like a bird vacillates in the roadway, deciding which direction to fly, to avoid getting hit, he came back.
He puffed out his chest and charged himself with the necessary amount of command presence to engage in conversation with Otto.
“Where are you going?” he asked in Serbian.
“Ich bin Deutch.” replied Otto.
“You speak English?” The boy asked in poor English of his own.
“Ja, a little.”
“Where you go?”
“To Vukovar.” answered Otto. He knew that if he admitted to leaving the country it would hint at an escape.
“What you go to Vukovar?”
“A building contract,” Otto knew that Vukovar had literally been destroyed by the fighting. Construction seemed to be the only legitimate business there.
“Let me see your ticket.” The boy examined it, not appearing to know what he was looking for. He passed the ticket back to Otto.
He pointed to Radenko’s briefcase between Otto’s legs. “Why a businessman like yourself can’t afford a nice briefcase? It’s all banged up.”
“I left it on a few job sites. I was lucky to get it back.”
“Do you mind if I take a look inside?” Perhaps Otto’s intimidating demeanor caused the young boy to ask permission. Otherwise he would have just taken the liberty.
Otto hoped it wouldn’t go this far.
He seared the young boy with his eyes. “Yes, I do mind. Is there anything else I can help you with?”
The boy was caught off guard. He stared at Otto, nothing to say. Otto waited. The boy took one step backward out into the hall. He brought a radio to his lips. Otto noticed the uncomfortable gasp the boy took and the movement of his hands. The boy was nervous as he cleared on the radio.
Otto had to act. It was the very reason he held the case. He stood and quickly glanced down the hall. The pudgy ticket inspector was almost at the end of the car, facing the other way. The boy was rambling in his native tongue trying not to appear scared as Otto towered over him.
Otto grabbed the back of the boy’s collar with one hand and knocked the radio down with his other. The boy released half a yelp before Otto covered his mouth and violently jerked him into the cabin. The boy’s arms flailed about, landing a few weak punches on the side of Otto’s head. Clearly a waist of muscle mass, thought Otto. Otto hoped the constant racket of the train would remain loyal.
Next, the boy tried reaching for the pistol on his hip. Otto knew this kind of altercation would only promise one thing; a fatality, and surely not his own. He brought the boy’s head down in front of him, pulled it inward and twisted.
Twenty years in the German Bundeswehr; it wasn’t the first time Otto had heard the snapping sounds of a breaking neck. Otto wondered if he should feel guilty. But he told himself the boy was just part of the problem, part of the evil that haunted Yugoslavia with the poisonous drip of its own blood. And now, he had four good men to look after. The young soldier could have gotten them all killed. And the mission would be lost and over.
Otto propped the lifeless body into a sleeping position against the window. He heard the constant buzzing sounds of radio traffic. They were trying to reach the young soldier. The train would soon be littered with camouflage. The radio was just outside the cabin. Otto poked his head out. The struggle had called no ones attention. Otto grabbed the radio and twisted the knob to off. He tossed it on the bench next to the boy, and pulled the curtains tight.
Marcielli and Angelo were three cars down. Reed was at the end of the train. Otto began the seemingly precarious charge to find his friends. At the end of the car was the ticket inspector. The pudgy man was backing out of the last cabin. Otto made eye contact with him, but was still too far for conversation. He could see the inquiry in the inspector’s eyes. The inspector was looking passed Otto, possibly searching for the soldier who, up until now, was in his back pack.
As Otto closed the distance, the inspector nodded with a half grin. He too was plagued with inferiorism under Otto’s menacing shadow. He watched Otto as he passed by.
“Bathroom?” Otto asked, pointing to the sliding car doors.
The man also pointed to the sliding doors and said something Otto didn’t understand. So he just nodded his head and kept walking. Otto only turned around once as he waited for the sliding doors to part. The inspector was comatose in the isle, waiting for the soldier to pop into view.

************

Marcielli and Angelo were sitting in their cabin when Otto flashed by the door. Marcielli poked his head out into the isle.
“Otto!” he said, in an elevated whisper.
Otto turned around, relieved that he’d found them. “Are you guys alone?”
“No, there’s an elderly couple with us. What’s going on?”
“Get Angelo out here.”
Angelo pulled the curtain closed behind him. The three stood in the hallway. Otto looked behind him and then over Angelo and Marcielli’s shoulder.
“A soldier was asking questions and he asked to see the case.” said Otto.
“What happened?” interrupted Angelo, realizing he had spoken too loudly.
“We have to find Reed and get off this train.” explained Otto.
“What happened?” asked Angelo, this time less excited, but with more fervor.
“I had to kill him. Nobody was around. It was quite. But he got to his radio. Let’s go. It’s only a matter of time before the police will be everywhere.”

Marcielli and Angelo were dressed in their light soccer wear; the same clothes they had worn when they arrived in Macedonia. All their stories were the same; Otto was there for business, Marcielli and Angelo had come for the winter games in Macedonia and Reed was there researching large universities. They abandoned their van in a thicket of trees a few kilometers south of the train station in Tuzla. It was decided that their equipment and big guns would stay in the van. They were each armed with a silenced, 22 caliber assassin’s pistol and that was all. From here on out, if they had to take life, it needed to be quiet.

“Reed’s in the last car.” confirmed Marcielli. “Otto’s right, we have to get off this train. Let’s move.”

************

“Tuck and roll.” yelled Reed. “Don’t try to brace yourself when you hit. You have to relax or you’ll break something. Cover your head with your arms.”
The four of them stood on the small platform at the end of the train. The train was slowing down but the wind continued to aggressively whip around them. The sound of communist air-raid type sirens competed with the shrieking resistance of asbestos and lead against steel. It made it nearly impossible to hear each other.
“I’ll jump first. Otto will toss the case and then he’ll jump, then Marcielli. Angelo, you jump last.”
Reed climbed down onto a side step and got his footing. He pushed off and disappeared into the darkness. Otto pitched the case, covered his head with his arms and jumped.
Marcielli looked out and saw the yellowish lights of the buildings trickling past. Another second would be too long. He hesitated and then jumped. Clearly the train was moving faster than he anticipated. He covered his head and tried to roll but the force of the impact just unraveled his body. The burning sensation on his arms and face assured him he didn’t land in that soft patch of grass he’d hoped for. Shoveled up to the tracks was about a meter and a half of black cinders. But in some areas the cinders had bled out into the grass. Marcielli knew he was scraped up, but the adrenaline popped him to his feet. He heard someone running toward him, breathing heavily. It was Otto. He seemed to be fine. The case was still intact. Otto had tightened his belt around it to keep it from bursting when it hit the ground. Reed caught up to Otto, but he was limping with a banged up knee.
“Are you okay?” asked Reed, ignoring his own injuries.
“I’m fine.” Marcielli huffed.
“You don’t look fine.” said Reed.
“Neither do you, Boss. Let’s catch up to Angelo.”
Marcielli never saw Angelo jump, but he heard the groaning ahead. He most likely found the cinders as well. He had the same burns and cuts as Marcielli did on his arms and face.
The sirens on the train were still blaring.
“Nobody saw us jump.” said Angelo, panting like a dog. “But when they don’t find us, that’s what they’ll assume, and then they’ll be crawling all over these tracks.”
They stayed low and moved quietly.
“There’s another train.” Angelo pointed. “We’re inside the train yard.”
Up ahead they could see yard clerks and the dim beams of their flashlights. They began sounding their whistles. But it was impossible that they could see them from this distance. Maybe someone had seen them jump.
“It looks like they’re moving towards us?” Otto whispered.
Then, on the far east platform, under a newly illuminated spot light, they saw the local police filtering out of the station. There were four or five barking dogs diving into the tension of their own chains, clearly riled up by the sirens and flashing lights. One of the K9 officers straddled his dog, facing it toward the rear of the train. He unsnapped its collar and smacked it on the tail. The dog peeled into the darkness. The other K9 officers did the same with their dogs. Darkness never seemed to make so much noise.
“Follow me.” ordered Reed. They cut between two trains and jumped the areas where the cars connected. “Get your pistols out. The silencers will also suppress the flash.” Reed tried to explain under choppy breaths. “We can’t get caught. If a dog gets near you, don’t be afraid to put it down.”
Marcielli pulled his weapon and quietly charged it. Angelo reached for his, but it was gone. He must have lost it when he jumped from the train. The four of them waited between trains, contemplating the direction they needed to go.
Marcielli looked at Otto’s weapon and made a split command decision, “Otto, give your weapon to Angelo. You need to concentrate on keeping that case secure.”
“Smart thinking Marcielli.” concurred Reed.
Angelo was happy to wrap his fingers around the grip of the handgun. “Marcielli and I will stick right next to you. He’s right,” said Angelo, “we’ve got to protect that case.”
The dogs were getting closer and the whistles were getting louder.
“This way.” said Reed. “Give me a boost.” Reed found a train car slightly open.
Marcielli boosted Reed into the hollow car. Then, one by one, Reed gave the others a hand up. Once inside, Reed pushed the sliding door shut. But it didn’t latch from the inside. Reed climbed a little ladder and looked over the edge to see if he could latch it. That way the car might skip an inspection.
He put one leg over the edge and that’s when he saw light pop through two cars in front of him. He froze. It was a yard clerk. Luckily the clerk’s eyes were confined to the parameters of his flashlight. Reed was not yet within that parameter. He slowly pulled his leg back into the car and ducked silently inside.
The yard clerk began banging a stick on each of the cars as he passed. Reed wondered what he could possibly accomplish by doing that; unless he knew the sound of a hollow car. And maybe he knew which cars were supposed to be empty.
When the yard clerk got to their car he rapped his night stick against the walls and listened. He paused longer then usual and then he rapped again. The sound echoed in their ears. Then, they could hear the shifting of the medal handle on the sliding door. Reed silently motioned the guys to stand flat against the same wall the door was on. They each pressed their bodies firmly against the cold, pitted steel.
A ray of light cut through the darkness. Everyone tried to control their breathing. Otto, bearing the largest chest also had the loudest lungs. Fortunately, the silence was already compromised by the sirens and barking dogs. But the dimmest glow of light could prove to be fatal.
The light moved slowly, over the bare, rusted walls. Then it hit the tip of Marcielli’s boot and the light stopped. Marcielli could see half of the clerk’s bill shadowed, stone face. He thought of jumping out and shooting the man. The thought was probably on all of their minds. But Marcielli waited, and the light moved away from his boot. The sound of barking dogs was around them now, which diverted the yard clerk’s attention. The light disappeared and the sound of his boots crunching over the cinders brought comfort to them all.
Reed spoke the obvious. “We have to keep moving.” He slowly slid open the door on the other side of the car; scanned the breezeway between the long trains and climbed down. Once everyone was out, they crossed under the darkest shadows to the third train and waited between two cars. Otto reached into his jacket and pulled out a second weapon; his Sig 9mm handgun.
Reed looked surprised.
“Sorry, Reed, I couldn’t pack just one gun.” Otto admitted. Both Angelo and Marcielli were shaking their heads.
“You can’t fire that weapon unless we’re being shot at. Do you understand?” asked Reed in a serious whisper. “It’s too loud.”
“Understood.” said Otto.
“Look.” exclaimed Marcielli, pointing to the next train over. “It’s moving.”
“It’s leaving the yard. Let’s go.”
Reed checked the next breezeway. It was clear. They waited for the last car to pass and judged their speed as they jogged. Otto jumped on first with the case. Angelo ran next to the platform and held out his arm. Otto pulled him up. Reed was next. Marcielli had to run the fastest which seemed to be effortless for the soccer champ.
Just as Marcielli closed the distance, something came flying out from under the next train in a furious rage. Marcielli looked over his shoulder and saw a black mass at his feet. He knew it was a police dog. The glowing row of flesh ripping teeth authenticated his fear. He could feel the dog’s panting breath against his clothes with every bark. Marcielli pushed harder, but the dog stayed with him. His pants began to tear over his calf. He felt the dog’s cold wet nose against his skin, saliva now dripping down his leg. Now he was feeling an honest burn in his lungs as his mind pushed his body where it never wanted to go.
Angelo pointed his weapon but Marcielli was in the way. He couldn’t get a clear shot.
Finally, Marcielli felt Otto’s strong grip tug him upward. The dog was unsuccessful in sinking his anchors. Marcielli was catching his breath now, sitting at the edge of the platform. The dog was still chasing, barking. It was going to tip their escape, Marcielli thought. He pointed his weapon into the mad face of his opponent. He hesitated.
“Shoot him Marcielli. He’s going to give us away.” ordered Reed.
Marcielli pulled the trigger. The dog yelped and rolled into a ball of dust over the cinder and rocks where it came to rest, motionless. The train was out of the yard. No one had seen them.

************

Reed verified every small town they passed on his map until finally, the signs were written in a different language; Hungarian. They’d made it. The sun woke, just in time to greet them. It was a new day, a new hope, and for some, Otto raised the case to the sky, a new life.


Chapter 43 – No More Blood to Bleed


“We’ve no more blood to bleed, no more tears to weep.” he said.

************

The children burst into harmonious laughter as she poured her heart out for them. Their smiles contradicted the scars, the memories, the empty stomachs and the tear-cut, dirt faces. It was beautiful Milla thought, and it made it all worth it. She pinched the edges of her dress and brought her arms out, twirling into song;


“Hello.

Oh.
Did I frighten you?

Wait. Wait, please.
Don’t run away

Now that I’ve found you,
Here what I have to say.

One song

I have but one song

One song only for you

One heart tenderly beating

Ever entreating

One love

That has possessed me

One love thrilling me through

One love

My heart keeps singing

Of one love

Only for you.”


Milla loved theatre. It made her feel like she was in school again where there wasn’t so much suffering all around her. But these epic performances, here in Split, were the most gratifying of all. Oscars, Grammies, and even Nobel Peace prizes were awarded her every time innocence returned home, through the wide grin of a child.
Over the last three weeks, Milla never missed an afternoon to volunteer her talents in the Great Lecture Hall, nestled in the steep banks of the Mediterranean. Her audience consisted of tired refugees, fresh off the bus, to returning loyal fans throughout the city and the children always crowded the first few rows.

“Heigh-ho, heigh-ho,
Its home from work we go!

Jiminy Crickets!

The door is open
The chimney’s smoking.”


A little dwarf stumbled onto the stage; blond bobbed hair and deep blue eyes, short and innocent, yes, there she was, a drop of color in a black and white painting and buried in rags five sizes too big. Sofi played a very convincing Happy.


“Well uh, what is it?

Why, i-it’s a girl!

She’s mighty pretty.

She’s beautiful, just like an angel.”


Milla grabbed a broom and danced through the cardboard painted cottage. Her seven little friends had saved her from the poisonous apple.


“Good bye Doc, good bye Happy
Good bye Sneezy, Grumpy, Bashful and Sleepy
Good bye Dopey.

Some day when spring is here

We’ll find our love anew

And the birds will sing

And wedding bells will ring

Someday, when my dreams

Come true!”


The crowd stood and cheered as always. Milla bowed behind her seven little friends. And when she rose, when she looked up, she saw him. There he was in the audience, standing taller than anyone else. He was glowing with a renewed look of achievement and satisfaction. His magnificent blue eyes were like sapphires waiting to be discovered, waiting to adorn her skin. Her poise failed her as his sudden presence stole the very breath from her lungs. A fairytale ending indeed.
One thought, one feeling, one act of love executed dominion over all the rest; run to him. She glided down the steps and pushed into the crowd, panicking when she’d lost sight of him for only a split second.

************

She still loves me, Lazar said to himself. He trembled. Lazar pushed for her like a dying soldier for a shot of morphine. She was everything, his cure, his life, his future, his secret treasure. And finally she was, here, in his arms; her breath, bursting on his neck, her fingers pressing into his back and her scent, more enticing than an apple orchard in spring time.
“I missed you, Milla.” he said. She squeezed him tighter as if he told her he was leaving. But she was the glove he never wanted to take off.
“Do you know how happy I am to see you?” asked Milla, now beaming up at him.
This time Lazar and Milla weren’t standing in a picture of the sun etched in dirt. They were the sun, radiating hope for the faces spinning and cheering around them. Hope for anyone who had lost faith in the single greatest power in the world; love.
One of those was Josef, who was now looking skyward, shaking two hands clasped together. He was thanking God for the sweet image of Milla stuck in-between a laugh and a cry, and a kiss.
Next, Lazar felt a little body leap onto his back and little fingers that smelled like sugar and candy covered his eyes.
“Who am I?” she asked.
“Hmmm, let me think.” Lazar led on. “Happy. Check mate!” He declared victory.
“No silly. It’s Sofi!” she giggled, with her arms now around his neck, slightly choking. He swung her around in-between he and Milla. It was then, that Lazar lost control of the emotions he had struggled to temper. Seeing Milla on the other side of a child was charming. He wondered if she felt the same about him.

Lazar and Milla walked the sheer, curvaceous paths that dropped into the sea. Split was a city of the romantic era. Everything was capped in terracotta red. The old buildings were unevenly mortared together with mismatched blocks and long columns. They were bleached by the sun and salt of the Mediterranean. The salt was redolent in the air now and the sun, warily casting over them. Milla held Lazar’s hand tightly and glared off into the sailboat speckled bay. She looked fascinating Lazar thought, in her blue and gold dress with white stockings up to her knees. Her skin radiant, her hair glistening, her eyes blooming, and her lips blazed, hinting at a lifetime of endless magenta sunsets. She was softer than when he saw her last in the camp. He loved to see her this way.
The two of them sat on a waist-high wall that was cracked and eroded. Lazar let Milla tell him all about her trip to Split, her reunion with her parents and all she had done since she got there. Lazar was saddened to hear about Ibrahim.
“He died fighting for a cause he believed in.” said Milla. “We can honor his life for that. It’s really all he wanted. Thank you for helping him, Lazar. Thank you for helping us.” She still had her head down but she looked up at him. Lazar reached behind her head and pulled it into his neck.
“There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you, Milla.” he promised. “The thought of being with you has kept me alive.” Lazar’s leather jacket creaked as he flexed his arms around her.
“I need you with me, Lazar. I’m doing what I can with Sofi, but I have to get her into a school. She needs her shots and Josef, I can’t begin to tell you the care and medicine he needs. He’s told me that I don’t need to care for him, but he saved my life and he’s so sweet. I can’t push him off with the other refugees. But I need help. I need you, Lazar.”
Lazar tilted his head down to look Milla in the eyes. “Milla, you are a woman now, a strong, courageous, beautiful woman.”
It was hard for Lazar to hear that he was so needed. But it made him feel like a man. It made him feel whole and it was more than he could hope for.
“Lazar,” Milla whispered softly, “I really don’t mean to complain about things or about how hard it is for me. I guess I’m just scared.”
“Scared of what, Milla?” asked Lazar.
“Scared that I’m going to lose you again; that you’re leaving soon or something. It’s why you haven’t said anything about it. Isn’t it?”
Lazar remembered the promise that he’d made that day on the bridge. Now listening to Milla, things were starting to fall into place. He couldn’t suspend her fears anymore.

“We’ve been through a lot, haven’t we?” Milla just waited silently, dreading what she might hear. Lazar lifted her chin with his fingers. A single tear was already paving the way for more. “I promise you, Milla, we’ve no more blood to bleed, no more tears to weep.” he said. Then he pushed away the sadness with one gentle stroke of his thumb.
“How is it so, Lazar? How can you promise that?” Milla wanted to hear more. She wanted Lazar to clarify what he had said.
“Three weeks ago we were arrested, Radenko and I, for helping the refugees and refusing to follow orders we knew were unjust.” Lazar waited for the knot in his throat to subside. “Radenko was shot because of it.”
Milla only knew Radenko for a short time, but they were the refugees he’d helped. And he was dead because of it. Milla curled into Lazar’s chest and sobbed quietly.
“Good and innocent people are dying everyday in this terrible mess. Like your brother, Radenko died fighting for a cause he believed in. I’ll never forget him.”
Milla continued to sob, realizing Lazar nearly lost his life as well.
“Lazar, you’re here with me. It’s a miracle.”
“My first Lieutenant, Vuk Brankovich, found out about my situation, that I was in prison and everything. He said I’ve served my time in the Army, more than most soldiers. He also said; witnessing my best friend’s death was punishment enough. But the truth is; he knows I don’t have the heart to fight a war like this.” Lazar paused, “Milla, he ordered an honorable release for me.”
Milla raised her head and cupped Lazar’s face.
“I’m sorry for everything your family has gone through Milla. I’m Sorry for hurting you. I’m sorry I didn’t believe you that one summer-day when you told me not to join the Vojsko Srbije. I can only offer you my love now. It’s all I really have left, and it’s certainly not enough. But if you’ll take me, I’ll work every day of my life to make you happy. I’m here now Milla, with you. I can help you with Sofi. I can help you with Josef. Milla, I can help you.” Lazar placed his hand over Milla’s heart. “I love you.”
Milla didn’t say anything. She couldn’t. It was all too much. She never realized how much she loved him, how badly she needed his touch. She climbed into his lap and draped her arms around his neck. She let his strong arms cradle her in, something that made her feel human again.
The two of them just sat for a while, letting their imaginations run wild with what could be. They had futures ahead of them now, futures filled with love, laughter, promises, and long, long reminiscent moments of what it took, to get there.

************

The small ripples crawled back to him. He didn’t have quite the same cast as he did when he was a young man. But he was patient, and that virtue seemed to pay off.
“Reel it in, Marshal!” said Petrovich. “Don’t let him get away.”
“I’ll let him enjoy his last meal first. He doesn’t know he’s caught just yet.” the General explained. “There’s no fight. He’ll fight when he’s ready.”
Petrovich fixed his pole to the boat and got the net ready. The General always seemed to reel in bigger fish.
Almost ignoring the fact that he hooked a fish, the General leaned back and kicked his boots up on the edge of the boat. He tilted his head and tipped his brim down and waited.
“It’s there in the tackle box if you want to read it.”
Petrovich looked over at the box. He’d seen the letter earlier, just didn’t know if he was ready to read it.
“Let’s reel this one in, Marshal. I’ll read it later.”
“This one’s not ready. He’s stubborn. He won’t admit that he’s stuck just yet. Read the letter Petro.”
Petrovich tossed the net in the bow and sat next to the tackle box. He grabbed the letter and patted it on the palm of his hand for a second. Then he took a breath and opened it.
“He would have wanted you to have the picture.” the General admitted. “You kept it safe for so many years.”
Petrovich bowed his head, brought the picture of Mother Mary and Christ to his lips. It was softer now and faded. “Radi,” he mumbled. Petrovich had to shade the letter from sun’s stare. It read:


General Gavrillo,

Hello Sir. You don’t know me, but I knew your son. I served with him in Bosnia. My name is Lazar. I only knew Radenko for three months, but he became my best comrade very quickly. Let me tell you how.
It started when he carried my unconscious body over his shoulder through more than 500 meters of machine gun and tank fire, until I was safe. That was the first time he saved my life. I watched him rescue a woman, a child and an old man from certain death. And for that, I will think of him every time I look into my wife’s, and daughter’s eyes. Then, when everything went dark, so horribly dark, Radenko stood in front of me, wielding a light, bright enough to blind the sun. And then he took a bullet that should have hit me. It’s a debt that I can’t ever repay.
I’m sorry you lost your son, Sir. I’m sorry I lost my friend. I know there’s nothing I can say to make him more of a man in your eyes. He’s done well enough for himself. I just wanted you to know what he meant to me, and that there are others who are grieving his absence.
He admired you Sir, and referred to you often as the ‘Last Real General’. He said you’re the only one who can stop the rising swell of corruption in the ranks. The Vojsko Srbije is honorable, but some therein are trampling her for power and personal gain. Judgment will fall on us all because of a select few. Someday, if I could, Sir, I would like to meet with the Last General to serve in Tito’s cabinet. There are things I think your son would want you to know.
Until then, God speed, and God save our country.

p.s. I think Radenko would have wanted this picture to find its way back to you.


Corporal Lazar Katich


“Are you alright, Petro?”
“Yeah, I’m okay, Marshal.”
The General slowly tugged against his line. “Will Anjia be coming over tonight?”
“She’ll be over for dinner, yes.”
“If it’s not too much to ask, do you think she can press my best uniform?” Petrovich cast a curious eye at the General.
“I’ve got to go back to work.” he said. “I don’t know where I’ll begin, but I know what needs to be done.”
The General began reeling in the fish, his pole a crescent. “He’s a stubborn fish.” He said.
Petrovich got the net ready again. “Like Radi.”
The General laughed, for the first time in a long time. “Like Radi.” he agreed.


Chapter 44 - Meet Him in Mons


Airport, Mons Belgium early 1993

Lindsey glared anxiously at the runway every time a plane touched down, wondering, hoping it was Reed’s, even though logic told her it wasn’t. Reed’s plane wouldn’t arrive for another hour. But still, just knowing he was coming made it exciting to watch.
Lindsey looked over at Mr. Love, who winked and bore a look of pure adoration for his daughter. And another look of; See, I told you everything would be okay. But there was no way he’d actually known that and like Lindsey, he was just happy it had been a successful trip.
“Thanks for bringing me here, Dad. First New York and now, Belgium” Lindsey was amused when the intercoms chirped in French.
“It was Reed’s request. And in my line of work these things are easy to oblige.”
“Who was that man you were speaking with earlier, Dad?” asked Lindsey.
“He’s a buddy of mine.”
“Come on, what’s his name?” Lindsey insisted.
“Sam.” he answered, with a look saying; your efforts are futile.
“So, you’ll never tell me what this was all about huh?”
“Oh, I wouldn’t say never. You can ask again in five years or so.”
Lindsey rolled her eyes.

Lindsey took out a small compact mirror for the second time in fifteen minutes. She looked herself over, ran her fingers through her hair and reapplied her lipstick.
“Lindsey, you look gorgeous.” Mr. Love assured. “Reed hasn’t forgotten. Relax.”

Lindsey noticed the girl sitting directly across from them. She sat alone and looked as nervous as Lindsey felt. She had dark brown, wavy hair that was styled a little old fashioned, Lindsey thought, with most of it pulled to one side with a beret. She wore a beautiful red dress. Lindsey thought she looked elegantly attractive. She sat on a bench next to the restrooms, and had gotten up frequently to use the facility. It must have something to do with the fact that she looked twelve months pregnant, she guessed.

“This is it, Baby.” Mr. Love pointed toward a 737 screeching onto the runway.
Lindsey turned just in time to see the smoke curling around the tires. She felt her heart drop and her skin flush. Her stomach contracted and began to upset.

Lindsey waited twenty gut wrenching minutes at the gate; sure that anxiety would call her home when the gate opened. But it did finally open, and she was still conscious. Lindsey ignored the pain in her calves as she stood on her tipi-toes, monitoring the crowd as it filtered out of the tunnel. She quickly began discarding face after face, trying to find the one that matched the portrait on the wall.
After some time, Lindsey looked back over her shoulder at Mr. Love, who was still sitting by the window. She shrugged her shoulders. And Mr. Love just smiled, clearly entertained by her anticipation.

************

Marcielli tried to keep a normal pace as feisty businessmen pushed around him to get to their meetings and appointments. He found it funny that he deliberated how he should hold himself as he came out of the gate. Should he carry his bag at his side, or should he carry it over his shoulder with his free hand in his pocket? Marcielli couldn’t believe the moment had come. He was grateful to Sam that he arranged for Marianna to meet him in Mons.
When he came out of the gate, as much as he tried to play the cool tempered war hero, he all but lost it when he saw her, spectacular in red, waving; her other hand nervously covering her lips, and her eyes, big and brown, holding nothing back.
He ran for her. She waddled for him. He stretched out his arms. She used hers to support her bouncing belly. He nearly stopped in front of her to take it all in; her beauty, their baby, the three of them, finally together, a monumental moment. He was convinced he could endure a thousand deaths if it would lead to another moment, like this.
He pulled her and all her awkwardness in tight. She put her hands on his face and kissed him. He kissed her back.
“Mi amore, Belleze de Milano.”
Marcielli looked down at the noticeable distraction between them. It was something he could only imagine doing, over and over. He slowed his movements as his elation simmered to tenderness.
Marcielli rested his hands atop her stomach. He cried softly. He let both of his hands fall slowly around to the bottom, and then back up again. He caressed the very life that would make him a father, the very life that would change him forever.
“What do you see Marcielli?”
“The rest of my life.” he said.
Marianna’s tears followed Marcielli down as he dropped to one knee. He pressed his ear against the firmness of her belly. She cupped his cheek and prayed the baby would move.
“He kicked me! The little bambino kicked me.” Marianna felt the grin in his cheeks.
“Are you sure it’s not a Bambina?” she asked.
“Oh Marianna, thank you.” He pulled away enough to look up at her. “Thank you for this.”
And then Marcielli spoke to her tummy. “Papa’s home. Thanks for waiting for me bambino.” He planted a kiss and then rose to his feet.
Like the weight of an airplane crashing down on her, so arrived the very reasons why Marianna fought so hard for Marcielli and his baby.
“I love you Marcielli.”
“I know Marianna. I know.”

************

There she stood, only feet from him, waiting, like an air traffic controller, safely guiding him in. Reed walked calmly to her, never deviating the course. He stopped within arms reach of her.
“You kept your promise.” he said.
She smiled at him, “Sempra Fi.”
Reed too was smiling now. “Sempra Fidelis,” he said softly, “Always faithful.”
“Always faithful.” she repeated.
Reed held out his hand, palm to the sky. Lindsey took a step forward and placed her hand and all her love in his. Reed pulled her in and felt that perfect tightness, that perfect fit.

************

Otto sat in a long row of interlocked leather seats. He watched his comrades embrace their loved ones, his hand still painfully molded around the handle of the briefcase. It was perhaps the greatest task he had ever been assigned; definitely the most rewarding. Sam approached him and saluted.
“Sergeant,”
“Lieutenant,” Otto returned the salute.
“Well done.” Sam said simply and shook Otto’s free hand. Otto then handed him the case.
Ironically, in twenty years of dedicated service to his own country, it was the first time Otto had heard the words: ‘Well done.’ It was a good finish, he thought.
“What will you do now, Sergeant? You’ve already put in your twenty.”
“It’s a good question, Sir.” Otto rubbed his brow. “I think it’s time to settle down, find a girl to love and raise a family.” It was touching to hear a man of Otto’s definition speak so tenderly.
“I think you will enjoy that.” said Sam.
Then Otto added, “And I think I will paint.”
“Paint?” said Sam.
“Yeah, it’s my trade. The Russians are finally leaving East Germany. I would like to see more colors there; greens, blues, reds, and yellows. For too long everything was this dull gray color. Do you know how disturbing it is for a painter to see life as one, large gray canvas? It’s time to live my life.”
Sam tapped the case, “Perhaps a lot of people will begin to see more color in their lives. You’ve got my number, Sergeant. Call me if you need anything.” Sam passed Otto a business card.
“My gratitude goes out to the Bundeswehr, thank you. You’ve served well, both your country and your neighbors.”

************

Reed lifted his head enough to see out into the busy airport. People were passing in every direction all around him. He couldn’t help but notice one family, as motionless as he and Lindsey were. Angelo had a child in each arm and a third, reaching, jumping at his leg. In front of him stood a beautiful Italian woman, wiping tears and smudging eye makeup.
And then it dawned on Reed, exactly what Angelo had at stake, perhaps the most of them all or more that he could count, anyway. It would explain why he maintained a higher level of doubt and unwillingness to go along with Reed’s decisions. This very moment could have been stolen away from Angelo if the mission didn’t go well. Reed understood and he wished many hopeful years for him.

Angelo caught Reed’s eye, their view was broken with passerbies. But Angelo saw a brotherly kinship in Reeds eyes; shared reflections of a timeline of events that would surely define his life, or at his age, refine it.
Angelo nodded his head to Reed. Reed did the same.

“One month. You’ve earned one month of leave.”
Reed felt a firm pat on his shoulder. Sam was there.
“Reed, Lindsey.” Sam shook each of their hands. “You ran a phenomenal mission out there, Reed. I’m putting you up for another promotion.”
Lindsey patted Reed’s chest and clearly he was embarrassed.
“I just wanted you to know that I have a chopper in the air right now on the way Bosnia. Flo’s going to be fine. Then Sam held up the case. “We’ll talk when you get back. In the mean time, take that girl on a date.”
“Thank you, Sam. I will.”
Sam reached into his front shirt pocket and removed something; held it out to Reed. It was his commission card; ‘Reed Beckley, United States Marine Core’ was written on the face. Reed took it and studied it for a moment. The great Marine seal reflected a new sense of pride.
“HUA!” said Sam.
“HUA!” replied Reed.
Sam started to leave. “Oh sir,” Lindsey called out, “thank you for the time off.”
“It’s the least I could do,” Sam tipped his hat.

Sam walked briskly down the crowded corridor. Reed’s eyes fell to Radenko’s case which seemed to be glowing at Sam’s side. Reed considered all that it represented, all that it had cost. He couldn’t help but think of his friends, Lazar and Radenko. The fuzzy scars in the leather announced the struggle, proclaimed the victory and defined the heroes. Reed couldn’t say he knew where Lazar’s and Radenko’s lives would lead them. But one hope resonated its way to Reed’s conscience; the two men were measured in the time-honored arena of Good vs. Evil, and they bled with good. And Reed, Otto, Angelo, Florentine and Marcielli had bled with them.

There was so much Lindsey wanted to do with Reed. She draped her arms back around his neck.
“It’s been a long nine months,” she said.
“Yeah,” he agreed.
“Where do you want to go first?” she asked. “Baseball season is over.”
“The beach, Huntington Beach.” said Reed.


45 Epilogue


“There he is, Reed. We found your guy.”
Reed felt the wind on his face when the folder fell on his desk. The papers inside peeked out at him. He shifted his bodyweight in his Attila the Hun style chair. The leather creaked.
“The thug stole nine and a half years of freedom. He won’t get ten,” assured Mr. Love.
“Where did you find him?” asked Reed, running possibilities through his head.
“In Serbia. He was arrogant enough to think he could come home.” Mr. Love shook his head in disbelief. “He must have thought we forgot about him.”
Reed opened the folder and browsed. He picked up a mug-shot style Polaroid. He ran his thumb and forefinger along the ridge of his chin.
“Finally,” he said smugly. “When should I leave for Serbia?”

************

Otto Reinhardt finally married a young German bride named Brigitte. They moved and settled smack dab in the middle of West Berlin; a city that had been cut off from every deprived East German citizen for twenty-nine years. Otto fathered a baby girl. They named her, Katelina. They called her, Kat, for short. Only Reed knew why; it was the name of Otto’s first love. After two years of improving the color of his country, Otto decided to improve the way his country operated. He ran a successful campaign and was elected into the Free German Democratic Congress in 1998.

Angelo Gotti devoted his career to the military and was the first Italian officer to achieve the status of Commander in the NATO forces.

Florentine Roccobono was rescued from the Bosnian hospital in Srebrenica, but returned only months later to claim the heart of the nurse who took care of him there. Lejla was her name. They stayed in Bosnia and have six children now. Three of their own, and three adopted from the hospital’s abandoned children’s unit.

Marcielli and Marianna Corleon named their . . . . . . son, Christiano. Marcielli was right all along. And the boy has become a young soccer champ after the makes of his father. Marcielli was quickly absorbed back into the Italian Pro National team and was awarded MVP three years in a row. In addition to that, in 2000, he led them in the battle for the World cup. During the off season, he and Marianna have enjoyed spending their time under the Tuscan sun at their vineyard in Tuscany. Dominico and Rianna live very comfortably in the guest quarters there. Coincidently, the Mafia never bothered them again. Marianna never told Marcielli of her gutsy encounter with the Mafia. But it was the only thing she ever kept from him. Marianna awarded him all the happiness he could ever imagine and Marcielli thanked Rosalina for the recipes.

************

“Take us to ‘The Time Machine’.” Reed told the cab driver.
“Old Town?” the young driver was anxious for business.
“Old Town,” Reed confirmed.
In the car, the cab driver kept smiling in the rearview mirror, clearly happy with the hundred dollar bill Reed handed him.
“America?” he asked.
Reed chuckled low in his chest. “Yeah, America,” he admitted. He might as well have been wrapped in the flag. He was an open book, a walking constitution.
“Ah, I was right,” the cab driver waved his finger in the air.
Lindsey’s eyes skipped along the mature European landscapes of Belgrade. She was awed by the dramatic exploitations of quartz, sandstone and granite. It all cried out to her at once. She loved the intricate details of the brickwork, the cobblestone, Serbian kings, heroes and relics all frozen in concrete. And finally, the waist-high, rot iron fences closing off all the open spaces around churches and government buildings. She wanted to get out and explore.
“Slow down,” announced Reed. “Let us out here.”
The driver looked confused. He began to check his rearview mirrors for a lane change.
The pitted concrete stretched over the black rushing water, taking hold of the antiquated city by the shore. The guard walls were pricked with clover patterns as far as one could see. Reed recognized the bridge from what Lazar told him years ago. The vividness was almost eerie.
Reed thanked the young driver and wished him well in work. Then he joined Lindsey on the sidewalk and put his arm around her.
“It will only be a short walk from here,” he promised.
“It’s all right,” assured Lindsey. “It’s a beautiful day.”
It really was a nice day. There was a light breeze to escort them over the Danube River. Lindsey’s summer-faded auburn hair curled over her shoulders and shifted softly with the wind. Her green eyes and red lips flared over her winter born skin, giving her a porcelain doll-type look. More beautiful than ever, Reed thought. She wore white capree pants and an elegant, Asian-style, yellow blouse with a high collar. The silkiness rippled with the wind and caught the sunlight. Reed found himself entangled in lustful thoughts as the wind defined her womanly contours. Leaning over for a small kiss would have to tide him over. Reed also dressed casually in a white, button-down and tan Dockers. Lindsey also caught herself admiring the way the wind molded his shirt around his muscles.
“So,” Lindsey said, with a mother’s ‘one-track mind’, “Do you think Rhett and Bella Grace will be good for my mom?”
“They’ll be fine, Babe.” Reed rubbed her back. “Are you going to be okay?”
“I don’t know. How many days are we going to be gone?” Lindsey asked for the second time that day. Reed just smiled at her. Lindsey smiled back
“Look, I think you can see it from here,” Reed pointed. “There, in that group of shops between the church and the bank.”

Reed and Lindsey married a month after Reed served out his commitment to the Marines. Soon after that, with Lindsey’s reluctant approval, he joined the Los Angeles Police Department. He worked the most dangerous streets of LA for three and a half years, until Mr. Love successfully recruited him into the CIA. He worked directly under Mr. Love and was an agent assigned to the War Crimes bureau. He had personally apprehended twenty-three war criminals since joining the bureau four years ago, all of whom were turned over to The Hague and successfully prosecuted.
Reed’s mission led to a series of Intel gathering operations in Serbia-Montenegro, Kosovo, Albania, Macedonia and Bosnia-Herzegovina. Finally on March 24th 1999, President Bill Clinton ordered air strikes and troops into the Balkan regions. The area is now controlled by NATO forces. Slobodan Milosevic was arrested on April 1st of 2001 and is awaiting trial in The Hague, Netherlands.
Lindsey continued school and majored in Psychology. However she chose to work fulltime as a stay-at-home mother and wife. They had two children; Rhett, who was five and Bella Grace, who had just celebrated her third birthday the previous week.

Reddin chose to forego an exhibition game where NFL scouts were sure to be sited. Instead, he graduated with a degree in agriculture; placating Mr. Beckly’s oldest wish; to pass the farm onto a son. Anna no longer had to pray for rainy days. Tom was hers everyday.

Gracie finally said yes to Kyle’s third proposal. They are both living happily in Southern California. Gracie still drives the pink and purple Buick Skylark.

One day, Lindsey stumbled across “The Time Machine” on the internet. It was only a listing, not a website, but the address was attached. She asked Reed if it was the same one he had told her about. And it turned out that it was. He sent a letter to Lazar just before Christmas three years ago. He wasn’t sure if Lazar would get it or even if he still worked there anymore. But it was an opportunity to contact an old friend.
By chance, Lazar did respond. Lazar caught him up on old times and recent events with him and Milla. But he was disheartened to find out what happened to Radenko Gavrillo, shortly after they parted ways. Lazar explained it all in a letter.

Reed took in a long breath. “Can you smell that?” he asked. “It’s coal.” Reed actually missed that smell. The poignant feeling brought him right back for a moment.
Lindsey began to hear the buzz of public transportation as they sauntered into the old city. Trams rattled loosely over the beaten, uneven tracks in the middle of the street. Buses pushed impatiently through crowds of people as they forged around the street-side deals. Lindsey could even pick out the sound of horseshoes clicking over the cobblestone and the old-fashioned wagons that followed.
“I feel like we’re in the 1940’s.” said Lindsey, amused by the sincerity of it all.
“I didn’t have time to appreciate it when I was here the first time,” admitted Reed. “But now that I’m here with you, it’s going to be unforgettable.” Lindsey squeezed his hand for the flattering remark.
They had just turned onto a street named, ‘Majke Angeline’.
“See, I told you it wouldn’t take long,” said Reed.

There was a wooden placard over the doorway. The paint on the sign was just beginning to peel. But the letters boldly spelled out; ‘The Time Machine’. The front window was crystal clear. The sun was reflecting off each carefully placed piece of jewelry in the display. The watches were radiant with pride, defying their lifeless state. It was apparent that the craftsman devoted his time and skill to his craft, rather than his workplace.
Reed pulled on the handle. The door creaked and swung outward. Reed let Lindsey in first. They were greeted by the warm authenticity of honest trade. A man in his late sixties came from around a glass counter to meet them. His clothes were casual, but tidy. He wore a brown v-neck sweater that was out of season and tan slacks. Thick spectacles rested on the bridge of his nose, but he examined them with his bare blue eyes. He owned a healthy smile that he seemed to abuse, due to the deep creases in his cheeks. His salesmanship was buried in a heap of wisdom and ingenuity. You would buy anything from him; beach front property in Arizona, an everlasting gob-stopper, bottled water from the ‘Fountain of Youth’ or maybe just a fine watch. He was drenched in trust, like every young child’s grandfather.
“Madam, Sir” Mr. Nowak extended his hand to Lindsey and then to Reed. “What are you doing so far from home?” he asked, ignoring simple rules of conversational discovery.
Lindsey quickly shot him with a wary glance.
“Is it that obvious?” she asked.
“Come with me.”
Mr. Nowak took Lindsey by the arm, but waited for Reed’s nod. He walked over to a vertical display case that was rotating. He waited for a second and then opened the glass, stopping it from spinning.
“See, my Dear,”
Mr. Nowak lifted a smaller watch from its stand and placed it in Lindsey’s palm. She took a moment to rein in her disbelief. It was white gold, with a pearl cream band. Inside, etched on the face, was a soft, watermarked Statue of Liberty. It was so subtle, but it was breathtaking. Lindsey never expected to be so overcome by a piece of jewelry. It reminded her of her trip to New York; when she saw the matron for the first time with her own eyes. Maybe it was Liberty’s promise to bring Reed safely back to her. Maybe it was only she, who was tall enough to watch over him from the New York Harbor. Lindsey’s pride swelled in her chest and her eyes watered as she batted them downward.
“You must understand people,” said Mr. Nowak, “if you expect to understand time. And here in this shop, time is all we have. Don’t rush yourselves. Take a look around.”
Mr. Nowak went back around the counter and continued assembling some piece of jewelry.
“I think she’s already found what she wants,” declared Reed. He and Mr. Nowak both laughed as Lindsey was already fixing the watch to her wrist.
Reed walked over to Mr. Nowak, wondering if, at any moment, Lazar would pop out of the back room or come in from off the street.
When Reed got to the counter, Mr. Nowak peeked over his glasses again. “She’s a fine young lady. You’re very lucky you know.”
“Yes I am,” admitted Reed, “and I see that you are also a lucky man.” Reed pointed to picture frame in a little work area behind the counter.
Mr. Nowak turned and smiled. “We were married last spring.” Mr. Nowak and Jovanka, Lazar’s mom, had finally decided to tie the knot.
“I wonder if you can help me?” asked Reed. “We didn’t come here by chance. I knew a man once and I admired his watch. I had never seen one quite like it before. When I asked him where he got it, he told me; “The Time Machine”. If I describe it for you, do you think you would remember it?”
“I’ve made so many watches young man, but I haven’t forgotten a single one.”
“Alright then,” said Reed.
As Reed began describing the watch, Mr. Nowak’s eyes widened. He removed his spectacles and laid them on the counter; folded his arms and began listening more fervently.
He interrupted, “You’re name is Reed, isn’t it?”
Reed paused, “Yes Mr. Nowak, my name is Reed.”

The three of them talked for nearly an hour. Jovanka came to bring Mr. Nowak a warm lunch. Reed and Lindsey also enjoyed meeting her. Reed could see the resemblance between her and Lazar. Her hair was mostly dark brown. It was long and wavy. She had the same honest, wide blue eyes as Lazar did. She still appeared youthful in her age, but she did have the lines in her face telling the stories of her past. Despite those stories, Jovanka was genuinely kind.
“Every Saturday, Lazar hikes to the Monastery of Ravanica, just a few kilometers south of town. You might find him there.” said Jovanka.
They all stood in front of the shop. Jovanka pointed to a tram that stopped in the middle of the road.
“If you take that tram south for eight stops before it finally turns onto Skender-begova street, you will see a church; behind the church, an open meadow. From there you will see a dirt path parting the tree line. It’s a thirty-minute walk from there. But you should go now.”
Lindsey hugged Jovanka and then Mr. Nowak.
“It was so nice to meet you both.” She declared. “We’ll see you soon.”
Reed stretched forth his hand to each of them, “Lazar is surrounded by good people.” he said.
“The pleasure is all ours, Reed.” Mr. Nowak assured. “Your watch will be ready in two days time. Come see us.”
“You’d better hurry now.” Jovanka motioned at the sound of the tram’s hydraulic brakes releasing pressure.

************

Only Lords and Kings should feel this good, thought Lazar, as he lay in perfect repose under a shady oak. The day’s light, soon to surrender its grasp on the land. After nearly ten years, Lazar could probably count, on one hand, the number of times he’d missed his Saturday hike to Ravanica. It was home to the remains of the ancient Prince Lazar. But to Lazar it was more than that. The Prince was the will to live through catastrophe. He was a legend.
Lazar took what he could from the Prince and measured his own life. There were things he may have done differently than Prince Lazar. But he had to admit, there were things he would have done differently in his own life as well. And here at Ravanica, Lazar was reminded that heroes are born everyday. You just have to teach them to believe in themselves, the way Mr. Nowak did for him. Now, Lazar was teaching his own children that; it matters not how hard you can hit, but rather how hard you can get hit, and keep moving forward. Milla was his proof.
Move forward, Lazar thought to himself. The words were as bright as a handful of new coins, and the idea, prosperous and prolific. For three years, his country was quietly peaceful and it felt good. Tonight, Lazar would take Milla on a date, and walk openly through the streets of Belgrade, hand and hand with his Muslim wife.
Lazar stood up in the matted grass, just in time to see two people ambling happily over the dirt path. They weren’t looking at him. They were letting Ravanica reel them in, the way it did Lazar when he first saw it as a young boy. But when Lazar got a closer look at them, he was astounded. It didn’t seem that ten years had passed. And his face hadn’t really changed much. The girl, however, was much more beautiful than the description he let ferment in his mind over the years. Lazar watched them for a couple of minutes, still amazed they had come all this way. What could they possibly be doing here, he wondered? And then, Reed saw him.

“Lazar,” Reed waved his hand high.
“America!” Lazar shouted back, from a few octaves away.
The distance quickly vanished and the two were embracing like brothers.
“You didn’t tell me you were coming.” Lazar kindly scolded.
“I didn’t tell you the first time we came either.” said Reed.
“But last time you made more noise. I was ready for you.” They both laughed.
“This is Lindsey.” Reed put his arm around her as she reached hers toward Lazar.
“She’s my better half.” proclaimed Reed.
“That’s for sure.” Lazar smiled wildly as he pulled Lindsey in to kiss her on each cheek. It was a European custom Reed had prepared her for.
“Nice to meet you, Lazar.”
Lazar nodded his head.
Lindsey still held his hand. “You saved his life you know.” She elbowed softly at Reed’s ribs.
Feeling the words take root in his heart, Lazar dipped his head shyly.
Then Lazar’s excitement popped back. “Have you eaten?” he asked.
Reed patted his stomach. “No, we haven’t. But we’ve worked up an appetite after that hike.”
“Then you’re invited to dinner at my place. Milla would love to meet you.” Lazar led the way.

Lazar and Milla had built a home on Mr. Nowak’s ranch, just outside of the city. Mr. Nowak had purchased many more horses and Milla took over their training. When she had free time, she volunteered at center for victims of hate crimes. She mostly tended to the young children. And four times a year she was a star at the Great Theatre in Belgrade; ‘Sleeping Beauty’, ‘Fiddler on the Roof’, ‘Christmas Carroll’, and finally, where Lazar had seen her for the first time, ‘Romeo and Juliet’.
When they got off the bus, Reed looked back at the city in the distance. The final light of day cracked like an egg over the city. The churches and mosques threw shadows spires into the darkness. It was beautiful. He pointed it out to Lindsey.
When they approached Lazar and Milla’s new home, it was all very welcoming. Deep red brick rooted firmly in the soil. The windowpanes were glowing at the first touch of twilight, a wisp of smoke twisting from a second story chimney. It all seemed like a picture waiting to be painted. And now a beautiful young lady had walked out of the door in a bright green summer dress, bringing life to the canvas.
“Lazar,” she called out to him.
“We’ve got company Milla.” Milla gave them a contemplative stare, wondering if she knew them.
Lazar introduced them. “This is Reed and his wife Lindsey.”
Milla paused for a second and then she gently brought her hand to her mouth.
“America?” she asked, under her breath.
“America.” replied Lazar.
“Oh, please come in.” she warmly invited.

Lazar walked Reed and Lindsey into the living room. Milla scurried and tidied around the house that already seemed spotless, save a few children’s toys left on the floor. The home was just as inviting on the inside as it was the outside. Though the home was new, an old-fashioned, iron stove stood in the corner of the room they were in. The walls and the floor were made of hard wood, adding a cabin-like touch. Family photos in mismatched frames decorated the walls.
Still studying the photos, Lindsey motioned Reed over. “You have a beautiful family Lazar.” She announced, loud enough for Milla ears as well.
“Thank you.” he replied. “Do you have any children?”
“Yes, two,” she answered, “Rhett, he’s five and Bella Grace, she’s three.”
Reed was about to ask Lazar the names of his children but Milla was already calling them down.
“Sofi, Radi, come down!” Milla stood at the base of the stairs and waited for them. “We have company, so make sure you’re dressed properly.”
Radenko down glided down the stairs first and had his mother not been there to brace him, he may have tumbled on the floor. He popped into the room, straightened his shoulders and expanded his chest. Then he saluted, “Reporting for duty, Sir.” But he had a huge smile on his face, revealing two oversized front teeth and one missing tooth. Reed and Lindsey were audibly amused. Reed even stood and returned his childish salute.
“This is Radenko.” Lazar introduced.
Reed glanced solemnly at Lazar and then back at Radenko. “You’ve got a good, strong name, Radenko,” then Reed walked over and kneeled in front of the young boy, “a hero’s name.” he added.
“I’m already ten years old.” he blurted.
Lindsey noticed Milla standing behind her son. She was wiping a small tear from her eye as she rubbed Radenko’s shoulder.
Reed stood and messed the boy’s hair with a few strokes of his hand. And then he held his hand out in front of him.
“It’s nice to meet you Radenko.”
Milla looked behind her and saw Sofi at the base of the stairs. She was sixteen now, nearly a women. Sofi had soft bouncy, blond curls, just over her shoulders and was as tall as Milla when she stood next to her. She put her arm around Milla and squeezed her as she spoke.
“Mom,” she said gently. And then in a more bubbly tone, she said, “Hi everyone, I’m Sofi.”
Milla and Sofi walked over and sat next Lindsey on the couch and began exchanging compliments on each others beauty.
After nearly forty-five minutes of conversation Lazar finally asked, “What brings you all the way to Serbia?”
The girls seemed endlessly intertwined in their conversation, but Reed still motioned Lazar out of the room.
“Can we go into the kitchen?” he asked.
“Sure.” Lazar looked concerned.
Reed leaned against the island in the middle of the kitchen, folded his arms.
“We found him, Lazar. We found Nikola.”
Lazar shot a wary glance toward the living room and then back at Reed.
“Nikola?” he asked. “I thought he was in South America somewhere.”
“That’s what we thought too.” Reed lowered his voice a little. “But he showed up here in Serbia, in Belgrade.”
Lazar didn’t speak. He was still processing the news. Reed could see bother sweeping over Lazar’s face.
Finally Lazar asked, “How did you find him?”
Nikola’s name was already designated on a list of war criminals, but when Reed found out what Nikola had done, he quickly marked his name as ‘priority one’. But Nikola had left no tracks for them to follow. That was until Wiesenthal had found some.
“Simon Wiesenthal, the Nazi Hunter. Does the name ring a bell?” asked Reed.
“I know who he is, yes.”
“Simon was in the area tracking some old, decrepit Nazi when he stumbled across Nikola. He knew he was on a list of wanted war criminal and he’s been very gracious in sharing Intel with us, especially the CIA War Crimes Bureau. We have the resources and the revenue to make the arrests. And now I have that Intel packed tightly in my suitcase, Lazar. And I could use your help.”
Lazar was quiet again, thinking. He looked toward the living room again, could hear the girls laughing. Radenko was in the next room, watching TV too loudly. Lazar glanced back at Reed; bit his bottom lip before he spoke.
“Reed, you must understand. I have no enemies anymore. At least any that I want to seek revenge on.”
Reed nodded his head. “That’s interesting.” he claimed.
“Interesting, why?”
“Simon Wiesenthal and his wife lost over eighty members of their family to brutal concentration camps. After the war, Simon began hunting the Nazis down and turning them in to the authorities. Simon was responsible for the capture of over eleven hundred Nazis. Including; the second in command to Adolf Hitler, Albert Speer; the ‘Angel of Death’, the ‘Doctor of Auszwitz’, Josef Mengele; and finally the Gestapo agent who arrested Anne Frank and her family.
He was often accused of seeking revenge for the atrocities inflicted on his family. He would always say; ‘It is not about revenge. It is about justice.’”
Lazar cracked a slight grin. “I understood why your boss sent you to Serbia the first time. And I understand why you’ve been chosen again. Nobody is more kind to justice than you are, Reed.”
“It’s good to see you again my friend. It’s been a long time.” said Reed.
“Too long.” added Lazar.
The two embraced.
Lazar pulled back, letting his hands rest atop Reed’s shoulders.
“Before we talk business, let’s celebrate.”
Lazar walked toward the living room already calling out,
“Milla, lets go out tonight. It’s time to celebrate with our friends.”

The night bowed before them, the city silent, as though it were holding its breath, humbly awaiting a chance to host them. Lazar and Milla, Reed and Lindsey, all walked down the ancient esplanades of Belgrade; each harboring their own stories of strength and resilience, during times where hope, improvisation and God’s saving grace had to suffice.

Impressum

Tag der Veröffentlichung: 22.03.2010

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This book is dedicated to Mike Katich, whose heritage and offspring define the content threrein. He was a great man.