As he was introduced to them he was lighting a cigar.
Smoke eddied towards them. The man spoke, the girl translated when he paused: ‘I understand. I know how you feel. There are bodies, perhaps of loved ones, and they have not been laid to rest with due dignity. Now they have been discovered and everybody says, “Hey, hold on, wait. An important man is honouring you with his skills and his presence. Be patient.” I’m going to tell you some facts, and then I want to make a promise to you.’
Petar thought his voice similar to many he had heard on programmes broadcast on Croatian TV. He noted control, authority and sincerity.
‘The facts. A judge said of the big crime down the road at Vukovar, “Silence condones. Once awareness exists it is unthinkable to remain silent.” He went on, “The families demand truth and justice.” A colleague of mine who worked here and across the border at Srebrenica liked to say, “Bones are often our last and best witnesses. They never lie and they never forget.” Maybe there was a crime and maybe there wasn’t. If there was a crime, it will be me who says so.’
The man and his translator threw long shadows.
‘I said I would make you a promise. I am now about to do that. I promise I will investigate this grave – I’m told it’s likely to hold the bodies of four local men – to the best of my ability. If there has been a crime I will discover it and search for evidence that will convict those responsible. My work is to find the guilty. Men swaggered when they had victory behind them and a loaded rifle in their hands. They murdered and believed themselves safe from justice. I tell you, those men cringe when confronted with the weight of evidence I produce. They piss their pants. You have my promise.’
He flicked ash from the cigar’s tip, let it fall to the ground. He had them all, Petar understood, in the palm of his hand.
‘I don’t know this village, but I know the town. I was there thirteen years ago. I came to Vukovar to help in the excavation of the war-crime site at Ovcara. I forget nothing. My promise then was to search for the evidence of murder. I continue to honour the promise. Better than I, you know the figures. There is a difference between the numbers taken forcibly from the hospital, when Vukovar fell, and transported to the farm at Ovcara and the numbers of bodies recovered from the mass grave. Somewhere, on that farm land, there is another grave that holds the bodies of sixty men. Because of my promise I come back each year and help to hunt for that grave. I gave my promise, the same promise I make to you.’
The shadow of the man’s hat covered Petar’s boots, had climbed towards his knees. Perhaps that was why Petar was chosen. The eyes fastened on him.
The translator asked, ‘What happened here?’
‘I drove the tractor with the plough. For nineteen years this ground has been mined. We have been told it is cleared. We looked for the bodies.’
‘You knew bodies were here?’
‘We knew that here, where it was mined, was where our men had been. They waited on the path.’
‘On the Cornfield Road that linked Vukovar to Vinkovci?’
‘They were on it.’
‘Who was there?’
‘Our schoolteacher. He had gone out three weeks before to buy weapons. We received nothing from Zagreb. We were betrayed by Zagreb.’
The priest tutted but received an acid glance from the American, muttered, hung his head and was quiet.
‘Continue, please.’
‘Everything we owned in the village was collected and given to Zoran, the teacher. He asked for our trust. What we collected was taken to a meeting and given to a supplier of weapons. A deal was made. That night, Zoran went with three others to receive the missiles and launchers that our valuables had bought. Everything was given as payment. We waited for their return. They would have been heavily burdened by the weight of the weapons. They didn’t come. There was mortaring in this area but that was near dawn and they should already have been long back. With those weapons we could have kept the Cornfield Road open. Their tanks cut it. We lost the road through the corn, we lost the village and Bogdanovci, and a week later we had lost Vukovar. The teacher had sworn to us that the man he had met and paid was honourable. We know now that the lorry with the weapons never reached the far end of the Cornfield Road. Some say it never loaded or left the docks at the harbour where they were supposed to be landed.’
As he spoke, Petar saw that Mladen, who led the community, bit his lower lip, and the Widow, in black blouse, black skirt and black stockings, with brilliant white hair, stood erect and gazed high over the American’s head.
‘How many were with the teacher?’
Petar said, ‘He had taken with him my friend Tomislav’s boy, my friend Andrija’s cousin… and my only son.’
‘If there was guilt we’ll find it, and I’ll work to name those who should face justice.’
From the back of the Land Cruiser, the professor and the young woman took long rolls of tape and circled the raised arm. The professor told the people of the village that he would sleep in the back of the vehicle and that the dead would not be alone. Petar walked back to his tractor, started the engine and led the way back to the village.
Before they had gone far they heard the chugging beat of a small generator and lights lit the place. They had a man’s promise. He could picture his son, Tomislav’s, Andrija’s cousin and the teacher. It was owed them that the guilt should be uncovered and punishment meted out.
3
He thought it would be quick and without pain. He thought it would end the misery. It was two years since Andrija had last tried to end his life. He had waited until his wife had gone down the village street to the shop, then had hobbled to the far end of the garden, put a pistol into his mouth and pressed the barrel to the roof. He had squeezed the trigger, depressed it, and… nothing had happened. He was not dead and he had wet himself.
His pistol had jammed. The malfunction in the mechanism would have resulted from inadequate maintenance, cleaning and care. He had allowed corrosion of the metal parts to spread internally.
Now Andrija was ready again.
He lived on the northern edge of the village, one of the last houses on the tarmac road towards Bogdanovci. He was now at the bottom of his garden, shielded from the house by a row of bean plants that had reached the top of the hazel poles. He could see the tip of the spire of the rebuilt church at Bogdanovci, and he could remember: they had gone from here. On a November night, in light rain and total darkness, the schoolteacher had led, Petar’s boy and Tomislav’s had followed, and his cousin had been at the back. They had taken with them the pram chassis, two wheelbarrows and the handcart from the farm. The guilt ate at him. It had grown more acute with each hour since the lone arm had been turned up by the plough, and had been agonising as the grave workers had excavated the sodden, shapeless corpses. He wanted it ended. This time, Andrija believed his wife was in a front room and wouldn’t have seen him go out of the open kitchen door at the back. She would know nothing until the explosion.
He laid his crutch on the grass, wet from the night’s dew. Soon, as the sun rose, the moisture would be taken from it. There was shade thrown by the beans, and the grass was fresh and cool. He bent his one knee and subsided; the right leg was off just above the joint. He had steadfastly refused a prosthetic limb. Getting down on to the grass jolted his spine, hurting him, and he winced. He reached into his jacket pocket and took from it an RG- 42 hand grenade, the fragmentation type. The ring rattled the canister as he moved it. Inside its casing were – Andrija knew weapons and how to handle them – 118 grammes of high explosive. A similar amount, packed into an anti-personnel device, had all but severed his right leg.
In the breakout, the women and the wounded left in the cellar below the church, he had managed to get some two and a half kilometres clear of the village – a third of the distance to the safety of the forces round Nustar or Vinkovci – and then had triggered a POMZ-2 anti-personnel mine fastened to a stake, with a fine trip-wire in the
