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

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