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After the dinner party I caught up with Olivia. “May I walk you home?”
“If you like.”
I fell into step beside her, and we followed the trail through the trees, the other couples breaking off as they scattered toward their own cabins.
We walked in silence for a short while. “I’m sorry you were embarrassed. I know what it’s like to be singled out for your past.”
She glanced up. “You do? That’s hard to imagine, since you’re an Olympic star and all.”
“Exactly,” he said. “In the same way you were singled out for being successful at your job. Yes?”
“Yes. Okay, would you like to tell me how you were singled out, besides people like Trisha gushing over you.”
“Gushing?”
“You know, all excited to meet you.”
We were nearly to her building.
“I would share my story of getting singled out, but it’s not a pleasant story, and it would probably take a good hour and at least one cup of coffee to tell.”
She stopped at her door. It was late. She seemed to hesitate, then said, “You got it. An hour and coffee.”
Olivia stopped in her office and cranked up the Starbucks, waiting while it brewed and poured the coffee into a carafe. She grabbed two cups and handed me the full carafe. “Follow me to inner sanctum,” she said, and opened a door in the back of her office and climbed the stairs to her apartment.
Once inside we settled into two easy chairs with a small, round table between us. Sipping coffee in Olivia’s apartment felt so safe. So pleasant. I hadn’t let myself think about the days when a cup of coffee was a luxury. I sipped and studied Olivia.
“Go on,” she said gently. “You can tell me.”
“Are you sure? As I said, it’s not a pleasant story.”
“Let’s hear it,” she insisted.
***
I was back in Bihać, working at the power plant for the Serbs all day and sleeping on a cot in a locker room at night until one day a police car showed up and they arrested me.
It was a short drive to the downtown police station, a concrete, three-story building with windows on every floor overlooking the main street of town like spying eyes. They pulled me from the back of the van and shoved me in the front door. A few policemen and clerks inside stared as we walked through, their looks curious until their eyes locked onto my hands tied behind my back. Then their faces turned to stone, and they looked away.
Someone slipped my wallet out of my pocket and pushed me past a waiting area to a door that said Room Thirteen on a brass plate. They shoved me inside. When the door closed behind me and a lock clicked into place, the world went black. Not a single source of light illuminated the space. No windows, no lights, just black nothingness, like outer space without the stars. A black hole filled with a stale and putrid smell, like blood mingled with shit.
I gasped and struggled to manage my shallow, fear-fueled breaths. I conjured up my training, the importance of controlling my breathing to relax before a race. I inhaled deeply through my nose, held it, then blew out slowly through my mouth. Breathe in, hold, exhale. Breathe in, hold, exhale, until my heart slowed its beating, until my muscles released. When I felt in control of my body again, I listened hard, peering through the darkness.
After a long while, my eyes adjusted. I could make out a man sitting in the cramped room’s only chair. Another guy sat on the floor, slumped up against the wall, perfectly still.
Breathe in, hold, exhale.
I wanted to pace but the room was so small. I moved to the wall opposite the unconscious guy and leaned back. Breathe in, hold, exhale. I lost track of time.
Finally, the door creaked open, flooding the room with light. The unconscious guy had one eye swollen shut, a split lip, and face caked with dried blood. Despair descended over me.
“Novak,” a voice called, tone indifferent.
A pair of policemen stood outside the door, including a Serb I had met before named Edin.
Edin pushed my wallet back into my pocket but held up my ID which he had extracted. “I’m keeping this, Luka. Come with us.”
The three of us walked back past the reception area, then Edin held the front door open.
I walked outside. “Where are you taking me?” I asked, grateful to breathe fresh air.
“Dulic,” Edin answered.
My heart froze. Terrible rumors about Dulic jumbled in my head, whispered rumors of the place.
Edin nudged me, and once again they pushed into the back of the police van and drove away.
They drove me to one of the huge warehouses that were part of Dulic. I jumped out of the van and Edin grabbed my arm and walked me across a paved street. Giant doors slid open, and Edin shoved me inside. “Behave yourself, Luka,” he said and left.
Inside, the smell of the place overwhelmed me—a putrid smell, as bad or worse than Room Thirteen. I stared into the cavernous space before me. Hundreds of people were lined up against the warehouse walls, in pitiful condition. They were thin, haggard, dirty, sitting on thin scraps of fabric or cardboard to protect them from the cold, concrete floor. Once a storage warehouse, Dulic was now a makeshift prison. The air reeked of human sweat, urine, and feces. Apparently, there was no bathroom for the two hundred or so prisoners. Mostly men. Mostly Bosnian Muslims. Some Croats, like me. Unlucky souls in the wrong place at the wrong time.
After I’d been inside for several hours, the large metal door slid open, and three soldiers walked in.
A soldier wearing a camouflage uniform had swaggered into the middle of the warehouse. They called him Ratko. Two soldiers trailed behind him, sweeping the muzzles of their automatic weapons from one side of the room to the other, threatening everyone. People stared in fear. All three soldiers wore camouflage uniforms, and Ratko gripped something shiny in his hand, I couldn’t make it out.
“Where is that athlete who came today?” Ratko bellowed. “Novak!”
“Here I am.” I stood up.
His head snapped around toward me. “Come here, Novak.”
I walked toward him, my Adidas silent on the concrete floor, and stopped about ten meters away.
“Luka Novak,” he beckoned. “Come here.”
Up close, I could see that the metal object in his hand was a large wrench—the kind firemen use for hoses and hydrants. Ratko lunged at me, swinging the wrench at my head. Purely by instinct I ducked to the side. He missed and lost his balance. The two soldiers with him snickered. He glared at them, then at me. Like a fighter in a boxing ring, he held his arms above waist level hefting the wrench in his right hand as if calibrating its weight. Then he came after me again and started swinging. I dodged too slow this time. The heavy wrench smashed into my shoulder. Pain exploded, knocking me to my knees, robbing me of vision for an instant.
“This one is very strong,” one of the soldiers ridiculed. “Two swings and he’s still conscious.”
Ratko’s frown deepened.
From my vantage point on the concrete floor, I stared at Ratko’s black military boots, dull with dirt. Then those boots got busy. His first kick landed in my ribs. I gasped in surprise. His second kick found my stomach, knocking the breath out of me, and I doubled over, gasping for air. Then he kicked me in the head and the world went black. One of the soldiers grabbed the back of my shirt and yanked me to my feet. The room swam back into focus. I found myself face to face with Ratko, his features distorted with hatred. He pulled out a pistol, cocked it, and jammed it into my mouth. The barrel of his gun clanked against my teeth, scraped the flesh of my palate. For an eternity, nothing happened. I had enough time, even in my dazed state, to realize I was about to die. I closed my eyes. Ratko squeezed the trigger.
Nothing happened. No sound, no bullet. I opened my eyes. The barrel still in my mouth, Ratko stepped closer, his face so near to mine I could feel his heat, smell his sweat.
“‘It looks like you’re lucky this time,’” he breathed, “but I’m not through with you, Novak. Next time I’ll have a bullet for you.’
The soldier behind me released my shirt and I fell to the floor. Like an animal on four legs, I crawled away.
