Field of Blackbirds, Clayton Jeppsen & Lindsey Jeppsen [historical books to read TXT] 📗

“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