And prayed for Josip’s absolution.
That night, they sat in one of the remaining houses in Slitna-few chairs, one square wooden table, beds of straw in every corner-watching as a handful of children gulped down great mounds of eggs. The mothers, in long printed skirts, solid-colored scarves around their heads, stood off to the side, beaming with each child’s eager mouthful. Mendravic watched as well, smiling with the children, his empty cheeks chewing along with them in mock ecstasy, eliciting bursts of laughter from the tiny faces.
Pushing the memories of Josip aside, Pearse managed to get caught up in their delight, its novelty infectious. Petra, too. She took hold of one of the boys-only as high as her waist-and began to dance around the room with him, spinning them both, lifting his feet from the ground, wide eyes from the children as they clapped between each ravenous forkful. For a few minutes, the world beyond seemed to vanish. That fewer than half of them would make it as far as the border, and fewer still survive once there, played no part in their momentary grasp at normalcy. Enough to take what they could when they could.
Perhaps it was the sound of their own laughter, or the high-pitched screams of the exhilarated children, that muffled the telltale whistle of incoming rockets. Whatever the reason, the terrifying screech tore through the small room only seconds before the bomb struck. No time to race to the cellar, to cradle children in protective arms. The far wall was the first to go, splitting down its center as if made of paper, dust and smoke rising in great swirls. Pearse was thrown to the ground, his left shoulder landing with particular force, a jabbing pain as he tried to recover. He reached for his neck-nothing broken-the pain no less intense. Without thinking, he got to his feet and began to grab as many small bodies as he could. The children were screaming, some bloodied, some shaking frantically as he pulled four or five of them close into him. Again the whistle of artillery flooded the air, this time accompanied by a violent groan from the roof. He knew he had only seconds. Clutching the little bodies to his chest, he careened across the room, half-blinded by the dust, and leapt toward what he hoped was the door.
The appearance of stars above and a rush of fresh air told him he had found it. Only then did he feel the weight in his arms; he glanced down at the four tiny bodies still holding tightly to his waist. They were screaming, but they were alive. One of the boys tried to break away, rush back to his mother inside the now-burning building, but Pearse’s grip was too strong. The boy screamed louder, began to claw at his arm-“Molim, molim!”-but there was nothing he could do. A second bomb exploded off to the right, the reverberation enough to dislodge the roof, a wave of wood and stone cascading into the night. Pearse dropped to his knees, trying to cover the children, the little boy still flailing away, the others trembling in abject terror. Dirt showered his head and back, a battering of pebblelike projectiles, four quivering bodies tucked under his torso as the onslaught subsided. One final explosion beyond the town’s fringe, and then nothing.
The attack had been like any other-from somewhere in the hills, arbitrary, and with no real military significance. The tactic to terrorize. A drinking game for late-twentieth-century Bosnia. As quickly as it had come, it was over.
People began to appear, shouts everywhere, panic as they poured from the surrounding buildings, lucky enough to have escaped the night’s target practice. Pearse tried to stand, a shooting pain in his shoulder as two of the children broke free, running haphazardly toward the house. A figure stepped out from the haze, two great arms swallowing them up. Pearse was now on his feet, his hand raised as he tried to shield his eyes from the flames and heat. It was Mendravic, thick hands pulling the two small boys from the ground, cradling them into his huge chest. He was limping, his right thigh soaked in blood, whispering to each child, soothing the small heads buried in his neck. Two women approached and took the boys; another emerged to take care of the children at Pearse’s side.
“You need to stop that bleeding,” Pearse said, nodding as Mendravic neared.
“You, too.” The larger man pointed at Pearse, who was only now aware of the red patch growing on his shoulder. He moved the arm. Superficial. He started toward the burning house. As with the children, Mendravic pulled him back.
“There’s nothing you can do in there now.” His hand was like a vise. “Nothing.”
A second wall collapsed, its bulk smothering a large patch of fire. Muted cries rose from within. Then silence. Instinctively, Pearse tried to break free, but Mendravic was too strong. “Petra managed to get the boy out; I took another three. I doubt more than one or two of the women made it.” Simple facts not open to debate. “A crippled orphan can’t survive,” he said, as much to convince himself as Pearse. “Better for them to die now than alone and starving in a month, a week.” Pearse had heard the rationalizations before, had almost learned to accept them. Not tonight.
“You really believe that?”
The older man said nothing, his gaze on the flames. Slowly, he let go of Pearse’s arm and started to walk off. “It’ll burn itself out. No need to waste the water.”
Pearse stood, weightless, limbs frozen to the ground, his body suddenly trapped by the enormity of the last three months.
Better for them to die.
Each depraved moment-every detail, every image-rushed back to him in perfect clarity. And with each burst of memory, a voice cried out inside of him: What price faith? He stood apart, stunned that the question had even come to the surface. The one constant. The one certainty. Now dancing in flames in front of him.
“Walk with me.” He turned, Petra by his side, only now aware of her. He had no idea how long she had been there, how long he had stood motionless. She waited, perfectly still. A black residue streaked her cheeks, tiny rivulets of blood on her neck, but Pearse saw only the eyes. Clear, alive, and, for an instant, unable to mask the despair behind them. He nodded slowly. They began to walk.
With each step, a sense of hopelessness began to seep into the vacant space, as foreign to him as it was unnerving. Disgust, anger, even hatred had forced their way into his conscious mind in the past, but he had always found a way to diffuse them. Now he could actually feel that mechanism slipping away, in its place something far more destructive.
They moved past a second burning house, out beyond the buildings to an open field, the sound of boots on grass, two sets in perfect synchrony, the pace even, deliberate. The glow of flame receded behind them, moonlit darkness swallowing them as they continued on. Neither said a word, each finding what they needed in the plodding motion of the other. Several times, they came across large roads, sometimes taking them, sometimes not. It was always her choice, her decision. He would simply follow, happiest when back into the mindless rhythm.
When she finally spoke some two hours later-her voice barely a whisper-it seemed to echo throughout his entire body.
“It’s not far from here.” The sound caught him off guard, the rote motion of his legs jarred by the intrusion. He nodded and regained his pace.
Ten minutes later, she stopped. They stood at the lip of a wide patch of open land, perhaps two hundred yards in each direction, untouched as far as the eye could see. A line of shadow defined the far edge-trees, he guessed, thick wood beyond. She started out into the field, he at her side, the center of the far shadow growing taller with each step. It took him a minute to realize that there was something in the middle of the field, its outline ever clearer as they drew closer. Twenty yards from it, they stopped.
Gazing down at them was the perfect facade of a church. No dangling roof, no blown-out walls. Perfect. It was no more than three stories high, a vaulted roof with bell tower rising into the sky, its stone glistening in the moon glow. Exactly when it had been built was impossible to say. Fifty, a hundred years ago. Perhaps more. Too little had changed in the way the men of Bosnia built their churches to make an accurate guess. Weathered was the best one might do. Tucked in at the center stood two large rectangular doors, rusted iron rings on each. Petra made for the one on the right, Pearse a few steps behind her.