"Show me which," said the tall, skinny man with a
broken nose.
"That one, that one, there... to the right of that
high-rise, the ten storey one, the third to its
right..." The man wore a dull yellow leather jacket
with a rich furry collar, warm fur lined gloves, and
sturdy leather boots. Next to him, on hard icy ground,
rested a thick, brown, fur-hat. He kept pointing with
his finger toward the huge hazy void beneath.
"Oh, don't give me that", a shorter, darker man
with a moustache interrupted him. "Which high-rise?
There are at least a dozen of them down there. And do
you think I can count the storeys from here, with my
naked eye"?
Below the Bosnian Serb battery post No. 37 (long
range 155 mm), in late afternoon winter mist, the
western suburbs of Sarajevo, as on the palm of one's
hand.
"O.K., look! Start from the left, one, two, three
high-rises, then a gap... You see? From that third one
go to the right. It is the third house to the right.
The dark man with the moustache picks up the
binoculars, nods his head.
"You weren't hurtin', buddy. What a place! Were you
a member of the Party?
The man with the jacket had arrived in the morning.
He was a Serb who had escaped from Sarajevo, they were
told, and good for nothing; let him stay a day or two,
fetch the grenades, and the like. Then he will go to
some training camp.
"Screw the Party. I taught math in a gymnasium..."
"So you taught Muslim "Balias" and Croat "Ustasas,"
says the dark one.
"And Serbian kids, too!"
"You city folks!"
"And who lives in that house now? Where is your
family," asks the dark man with the moustache.
"My wife and son are in Canada. They left while one
could still do so. Then an entire "Balia" family from
Bratunac was moved in -- all six of them"!
"So they are in your house, now!?"
The man in a jacket shrugs his shoulders sadly:
"If we could just hit it with this gun of ours, so
that they all go to hell..."
The skinny man leans forward but he lets the dark
man do the talking.
"No problem. We have done it for many other folks.
I'd sooner blast away my own home, than let 'Balias'
crap there. That would be one hundred Deutchmarks, just
for you."
The man in the jacket looks sort of perplexed.
"Why are you staring like that? A grenade costs
more than a hundred. This comes out of the People's
pocket. And each grenade that goes to an ordinary
house, cannot go to some more important target. So, the
service is one hundred Deutchmarks."
"When are we going to shoot again?"
"Who knows. When Mr. Major so decides."
"By Lord, if I wouldn't... - says the man in the
jacket.
Nostalgically, he views the silhouettes of distant
homes, blurred by the evening haze. It will be yet
another cool and dry night. Down there, in the city,
there was no electricity, the heating did not work, and
yet... Luckily he has this jacket, and the hat, and
everything else.
"Such a nice and pleasant home," he says. "We lived
so well. And now, the 'Turks' crap there!"
"You city folks," comes back the man with the
broken nose, "you're good for nothing. You can't shoot,
you can't fight..."
"I will learn..."
"Bullshit! They will send you somewhere behind the
lines to keep books, while the People are dying. Why
didn't you escape before"?
"It was impossible. They watched us closely. In
particular us with degrees..."
"And how was it possible now?"
"One bribes the Ukrainians."
"How much did you pay them?"
The man in the jacket hesitates for a moment or
two. What the heck, he is among his own...
He admits:
"Five hundred marks".
"Not too much. Do you have money"?
The man with the jacket hesitates again.
"What if we indeed shot at your house and cleaned
out the 'Turks'? Would you have enough to pay for
that?"
The man in the jacket has made up his mind.
"Well... yes!"
The skinny man with the broken nose makes an almost
imperceptible wink at the man with the moustache. He
says:
"In that case, we will set it all up now, so if the
orders come during the night everything is nice and
ready, and the first one goes smack right there."
He passes the binoculars to the man with the
jacket.
"Take a good look. For the last time!"
The man with the jacket takes off his fur-lined
gloves and places them on the ground, next to the fur-
hat. He straightens up, takes the binoculars, sets them
up. While he thoughtfully scans the frozen city, the
man with the moustache walks back to a shed next to the
slope, picks up a semi-automatic rifle, walks back,
stops behind the man with the jacket, and then, with
the speed of lightning smashes the butt into the base
of his skull. The man in the jacket remains suspended
in the air for a second or two, than he collapses like
an empty sack.
The man with the broken nose turns him over looking
for the wallet.
"Seven hundred and twenty-three," he says,
counting. "I wish it was even. It would be easier to
split."
"It will be easy," says the man with the moustache.
"I take three hundred, you take three hundred. We will
throw him down the cliff, and when the medics get him,
they will find the rest. Either they keep it, or Mr.
Major keeps it. At any rate, somebody will grab what's
there and ask no questions. Leave the dinars. Whichever
they are, it's trash. You take the hat, it is too small
for me, and I will take the gloves. Too bad somebody
else will get the jacket and the boots, but one must
not be greedy. C'mon..."
They drag the man in the jacket to the edge, and
roll him over the cliff. The body hits the rocks with a
heavy thud, and comes to rest on a ledge some ten
meters below the battery.
"Now go call Mr. Major," orders the dark man with
the moustache.
The skinny man with the broken nose walks over to
the battery and picks up the field phone.
"Yes... this is Zeka, post No. 37... Mr. Major?...
Yes?... There has been a bad accident. That new guy you
sent us this morning... He slipped and fell down the
cliff. He is down there, yes, Sir, some ten meters
below the position... No, we wouldn't go get him, that
may finish him off, though I am afraid, Sir... Yes...
the medics? They are coming? Thank you so much, Mr.
Major... Yes, Sir, I understand, at thirty past
midnight, and then in eight minute intervals. Yes, I
understand... Mr. Major, Sir, if you please...? That
new guy, who fell... just before his fall he showed us
his house down there. Now it is full of 'Turks.' He
said, if only you guys could bang it away so the
'Balias' do not crap there... Yes, I understand! Thank
you so much, Mr. Major, Sir!"
"What did Mr. Major say," asked the man with the
moustache.
"He said we may fulfil his last wish," said the man
with the broken nose, as he put on the fur-hat, and
threw his arms wide open with glee.
Vladimir P. Goss
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