Fiction  
Back | Next

Song for Sarajevo

by
Tim Tibor

The summers of 1992 and 1993 are burned in my memory forever. They were the best and the worst summers of my life.  

In 1992, Bruno Fausti, my Italian friend, took me on an Adriatic cruise. We planned to follow the spectacular, mountainous Yugoslav shores southward down to the Albanian border.  The weather was perfect.  I lazed in the shade of the mainsail and Bruno sat behind the wheel of his 16 metre yawl, "Lucifero."  He shouted above the din of the engine, "This is Ulcinj, the last Yugoslav town. We'll turn back at the Bojana river, the Albanian border."  

I liked what I saw of Ulcinj. Colourful beach umbrellas on the dark volcanic sand gave the place a carnival atmosphere. Sun worshippers, some in the nude, some topless, waved to us as we sailed by.  

"Is this a nudist colony?" I asked Bruno.  

"No, the nudist colony is in the mouth of the Bojana, on Vada island," Bruno said laughing, winking mischievously.  

There was total calm. Only the Lucifero's auxiliary motors broke the peaceful quiet as we chugged along the shores, passing picturesque small bays enclosed by tall, green trees.  Suddenly two shots were fired from the direction of the river mouth. Then more sporadic shots rang out.  

"What's going on?" I asked Bruno.  

"Probably boar hunting," he said unconcerned.  

"We'd better not go any closer. Let's turn back here," I told him fear nagging at my chest.  

A few seconds later Bruno said, "There's somebody in the water."  He pointed to a bobbing dark head about two hundred metres away. I picked up my binoculars and found a brown-haired girl swimming erratically, wallowing in the dirty river outlet. Another shot rang out and the bullet missed the girl by some five metres.  

My heart raced.  "Full throttle ahead, we'll bring her in. Get between her and the shore," I shouted to Bruno.  

Without thinking, I dove into the water and swam as fast as I could. When I checked my direction for the second time, I could not see the girl.  Bruno shouted something, but I could not make out the words. I pushed myself to swim harder, kept my head in the water and gulped air only when I felt my lungs were about to burst. I swam another fifty metres, thought I must be almost there and looked up. To my surprise, I saw a small, grey patrol boat about twenty metres away. The World War II vintage boat flew a red flag with the double-headed eagle and the five-pointed star of the Albanians. A soldier stood at water level on a ladder fixed to the side of the boat. He pulled the girl out by her hair.  

I treaded water and gulped for air.  I heard the girl shout.  She struggled to escape from two soldiers who tried to subdue her. Her desperate cries spurred me to swim toward the boat as fast as I could.  The soldiers were absorbed with the young woman and paid no attention to me. I looked back and saw the Lucifero approaching. I climbed up the side of the patrol boat and peered over the edge of the deck. The girl fought and shouted. She was naked. A third soldier held the wheel in the cabin.  

I cannot let them take her flashed through my mind. One against three made for bad odds and I realized I would have to surprise them to have any chance at all.  I jumped onto the deck, knocked out the soldier on the left with one blow to his chin.  I pulled back my arm swiftly and hit the other man with my elbow in the middle of his face, breaking his nose with a satisfying crack. The first soldier slumped over without a sound, the second bent down screaming, smearing blood all over his uniform.  

I had no time to lose. I ran to the open cabin where the third soldier turned from the wheel and reached for his gun.  I  karate kicked him in the throat and watched him fall into a heap.  

The girl lay on the deck. She looked up in bewilderment. Her eyelids fluttered. Before she could faint, I picked her up and jumped in the water.  I pulled her to the Lucifero. We laid her down on the deck. I brought a pair of shorts and a terry cloth gown and dressed her. She was a young, slender girl, with olive skin. Long, dark hair framed her oval face. Her eyes were closed. I forced her lips open and poured some brandy into her mouth. She coughed and opened her eyes.  She looked haunted, like somebody brought back from another world.  

She said something haltingly, which we did not understand. "You will be all right, you are safe," I told her and Bruno joined in in Italian. She whispered "Thank you" and sighed.  

When she regained her composure, she told us her story. Her name was Aida Beganovic.  She was sunbathing with friends on the eastern beach of Vada island when a young boy put all her gear in a bucket and, before she could prevent it, he threw the bucket in the river. Aida jumped in to save her things but before she could reach them, Albanian soldiers appeared on the opposite bank and fired shots in the air. They shouted, "Come out, or we'll shoot you!"  She grew frightened and swam toward the sea. There was more shooting.  She kept swimming until she felt the water pulling her down.  She lost consciousness. The pain of the soldier yanking her out of the water by her hair brought her around.  

Aida was holidaying in Ulcinj, staying in the Hotel Albatros with a German girlfriend called Isolde. She asked to be taken back to Ulcinj. Bruno knew the Hotel Albatros well and suggested we should stay the night there.  We stayed two days. Aida's exciting natural beauty and the open display of her feelings toward me, made me feel I was in paradise. I wished I could stay longer, but I had already broken the rules. Foreign correspondents were not allowed to enter a country without prior approval of their bosses.  

I spent the second night with Aida in her room. Our lovemaking was perfect. I was so aroused by her natural sensuality, I felt I could go on forever. It was daybreak when nature put an end to the passionate, rhythmic movements of our bodies.  I wished I did not have to go and told her I would never forget her. She told me she loved me and asked me to write to her as soon as I could.  

"I'll write and I'll see you again. I want to see you again," I answered.  I meant every word.  

"I work in the Public Relations section in the Sarajevo Town Hall. You can write to me there. We are leaving this morning. This was our last night," she told me.  

We embraced and clung together as if we could hold back time as long as we did not let go.  

After Aida and Isolde left, Bruno and I finished our journey as we planned and sailed back to Bari. I said good-bye to Bruno and returned to Brussels to report at the NATO Press Section.  

I wrote to Aida.  I planned to visit her as soon as my assignments would allow. I waited for months, but there was no answer.  I had no way to know if she received my letter.  Word came to me of heavy-handed censorship in communist Yugoslavia.  I wrote to her again and waited for her answer in vain.  

In the meantime, we became very busy in Brussels. News of warlike clashes accumulated. First, the declaration of independence by Slovenia prompted threats of military intervention by Belgrade, then Croatia followed suit and the shooting war began.  I tried to contact Aida on the phone but the lines of communication were cut. Full scale war erupted and Serbian troops besieged Sarajevo.  

When I heard there was a chance to get into Sarajevo with a UN plane delivering medical supplies, I volunteered to go.  In June 1993, we landed at the Sarajevo airport amid the deafening roar of the artillery.  Sniper fire peppered our truck as we drove in from the airport. The driver dodged torn down electric wires, building rubble and bomb craters.  He dropped me at the building that formerly housed the Olympic Committee and that now sheltered a group of foreign correspondents, UN and European Community observers.  

Climbing over the debris caused by the unrelenting bombardment, I entered the cellar where a girl distributed press releases to a group of disheveled men and women who represented the world press. She wore jeans and a ski parka.  An elastic band at her neck held her long, dark hair.  I felt shock and relief as I recognized the girl.  

It was Aida.  

She did not see me, but must have felt my eyes on her.  She turned around and I saw her mouthing my name as she came to me.  

"Why did you come? How did you find me?" she asked. Her dark eyes sparkled with joy.  

"I cover the war for the Washington Post. Journalists were talking about a girl.  They said she's superhuman. It had to be you!"  

I looked deep into her beautiful, tired eyes and saw she remembered those two days in Ulcinj.   I said, "It's been a whole year. Haven't you received my letters?"  

She shook her head and sighed.  I touched her hand.  That broke the spell.  

Reality settled over her.  "Do you want some coffee or something to eat?" she asked.  She moved to leave but I stopped her.  

"The Serbs have gone berserk. With the continuous bombardment and the blockade they'll kill everybody. Those who aren't killed by the shells will die of starvation and disease. I'll take you away!"   My words tumbled into the cellar.  I could not bear the thought of leaving her behind to face the mortal dangers.  

Her lips turned up slightly, deep sadness showing through her smile.  "It's too late," she said. "I'm a Bosnian and would be fighting on the street with the others, but the Prime Minister ordered me to work with the foreign correspondents. The world must learn the truth. At least we'll break the information blockade."  

I tried to convince her that she could do more for Sarajevo in Washington.  

"No, this is where I belong. One day the war will be over and we'll have an independent democratic Bosnia," she told me with a brave smile.  

While I was desperately searching for a convincing argument to wrench her out of that hellhole, she turned and started for the door.  

"I'll get some coffee and bread for you," she said.  

I followed her, stepping and jumping over the feet of men and women who had lived in the cellar for days. Aida opened the heavy metal door and the full, horrible cacophony of the battle filled the cellar.  

I heard a shout, "Hey you!"  Somebody grabbed my arm and held me back while Aida stepped out and closed the door. I pulled myself free and grabbed for the door handle. At that moment, a terrible explosion shook the building and knocked me to the ground.  Everything went black.  

When I came to, my eyes were caked with dirt.  My ears rang.  Dust-covered figures moved silently around me in a ghostly pantomime.  I tried to pry the door open but could not. A Yugoslav Air Force bomb had hit the building directly.  Only those sheltered in the cellar survived.  

The thunder of nearby collapsing buildings caused the ground to tremble under my feet.  It was not just bricks and stones that lay in rubble around me that horrifying day.  I thought I heard the clatter of hooves, as the horsemen of the Apocalypse rode away carrying with them Aida's young life, and our future, leaving me with only memories and a deep ache. 

 

Tim Tibor recently signed a contract for the publication of a book "HOPE DIES LAST" with SCRIBE PUBLICATIONS of Melbourne. He is also completing a manuscript about a small  Sicilian town, Noto, where the people take on the Mafia, and another novel about a young Hungarian migrant, a painter, who marries an Australian girl who tries to teach him Australian customs. He is the author of numerous short stories which have appeared in publications such as SYDNEY LIFE, the  annually published anthology of the FAW (Fellowship of Australian Writers).  He has interviewed Morris West, the Australian writer, and had two short stories published in NEWS-WRITE, the monthly journal of the New South Wales Writers' Centre. He was born in Budapest and migrated to Australia in 1956 and is the author of 29 English language scientific publications in the Biomedical field. He has been writing full-time for six years.  Tim and his wife Eva have been married for fifty-three years and are the proud parents of daughter, Agnes and son, John.

Study of a Girl's Head, by Thomas Eakins Courtesy CGFA- Carol Gerten's Fine Art

Have comments you'd like to send the author?
Please e-mail Tim or fill out the form below:

Comment (s) / Feedback 

Your name:

Your email address: (e.g.: you@aol.com)
 

Title Of Story/Poem/Article: 

 

Send the Author your comments