image
image
image

Chapter 48 – Luka

image

Dulic Prison Camp, Bosnia and Herzegovina, 1992

A month had passed since my arrival at Dulic. Like the other prisoners who had arrived before me, I fell into the uneasy rhythm of routine. In the morning, we were all eager for guards to open the door. Those who could walk lined up in front of the warehouse door, waiting, anxious to wash our faces, to drink water, to go the bathroom in a civilized manner. Some saintly people picked up the pots that had been filled with human waste throughout the night and carried them to the restroom.

Finally, about seven, the handle on the metal door turned, and the door slid open. Soldiers stood outside, cradling automatic rifles. “First prisoner,” a soldier ordered, “You have one minute to go and get back. Starting now.”

The first guy in line took off running. One minute to get to the bathroom and return. I would have said it was an impossible task before the war, but now each of us somehow made it work. We had no choice. I felt an absurd gratitude to the Serbs for allowing us to use the bathroom. It made us all feel human again, instead of animals.

However, the bathroom was at once a great relief and another potential danger. Inside the bathroom, at any moment a soldier or policeman might come in and ask, “What are you doing here?” As if we hadn’t been given permission. People were kicked and beaten just for being in the bathroom when other soldiers had allowed them to go.

One morning, I felt especially edgy, and I went to the bathroom as quickly as I could, then I stepped to the sink and gulped from the faucet while splashing water on my face. An inner alarm clock jangled, and I ran outside, back across the road to the warehouse door, where another man took off like a relay racer.

I felt keyed up but unsure of what to do, so I stood by my cardboard, leaning against the wall, one eye on the gap by the door. The morning hours crawled by, and soon the simple needs of life began to nag at me again. Thirst, first and foremost, with nothing to drink. Soon I had to go the bathroom again and could think of nothing else. After more time, there was no avoiding it. Each of us did what we had to do, as discreetly as possible, as far away from other people as possible. I searched for a dark corner, one that smelled like a latrine already, and relieved myself.

That afternoon, the warehouse door slid open again. One soldier stepped inside. “Novak, Luka,” he called.

I stood. The soldier waved me over. I walked behind him out the door and across the street to the office building.

Two Serb soldiers were in the office.

“Luka,” said one of them, “I’m surprised to see you here.”

“I’m surprised to be here, but how do you know me?” I answered.

“You’re an Olympic champion.”

I wasn’t sure if this would help me or hurt me.

“You’re also Anya Petrović’s fiancée. Anya’s father was here just a couple of days ago,” the soldier said. “Anya’s father is a good man. Are you a good man?”

I remembered what Nik had told me about their father. I knew what they were talking about. But what could I say?

“Anya’s brother Nik is in here, too,” I said, “And yes, I’m a good man. We’re both good men.”

“If you’re a good man, why are you in here??” the soldier watched me, a fake perplexed look on his face.

“I don’t know,” I mumbled, suddenly wary.

On a desk in front of the soldier lay a file—a file with my name on it. “I have no secrets, nothing to hide.”

“Novak. That’s a Kosovo Albanian name, isn’t it?”

“Your report should tell you I’ve lived my whole life in Croatia,” I said, “born and raised.”

He glared. “Did you vote for independence for Croatia?”

“Yes, I did.”

“That was a serious mistake.” His eyes were stones now. “A mistake that can cost you your life.”

My stomach churned and I said nothing.

The other soldier spoke up for the first time. “Novak, we know who you are. An Olympic champion, but that doesn’t matter in here. Look at those two hundred people in the warehouse. We’ve asked every single one of them if they voted for the independence for Bosnia or Croatia. Each one of them denied it. You’re the first person to admit that you voted for independence. You are either the most stupid of them all, or the bravest.”

“I voted for independence,” I said. “I didn’t intend anything bad by voting. But if voting was my mistake, then I am here to pay the price.”

The soldiers glanced at one another, then the talkative one said. “Enough. Back you go to prison. You’re no better than any of the other prisoners in there.”

And they led me out of the office, across the street and back into the warehouse. After I sank down onto my piece of cardboard next to Nik, I ran the conversation over in my mind. I hope I hadn’t made a grave error by saying I would pay the price. And I wondered why Anya’s dad had been here, and why they had let him go.

“What happened?” Nik asked.

“They said your father had been here recently, but because he’s a good man they let him go.”

Nik frowned but said nothing.

The days dragged by slowly, and conditions in the warehouse deteriorated. It began to take a toll on my health. I got diarrhea, as did many people. Our guards promised medication in exchange for information.

One afternoon, a guard stood over me, looking down in disgust. “Are you sick, Novak?”

“Yes.” I looked up at him, ashamed.

“Come with me.”

I followed him across the street to the administrative building and into an office.

Commander Jarić sat behind a large desk. He had the face of a boxer that had been beaten one too many times. His eyes were close together, a crescent scar furrowed his upper lip, and his nose looked squashed. He set a piece of paper and a pen on a desk and pushed them toward me. “As many names that you give me of Muslim extremists that you know, that’s how many pills I will give you for your stomach problem.”

I should have known it wouldn’t be easy. I sat at the desk and thought about my predicament, then a cramp hit, and I picked up the pen and began scribbling names. Mustafa Stanković, Ibrahim Ahmet, Munib Popovic, Kole Avdić, all members of the local Democratic Action committee, at least the names I could remember. Most importantly, every person on that list had left Bosnia one month before the war started. They were nowhere that the YNA could get to them. But Jarić didn’t know that. The corners of his lips twitched as I wrote, so pleased with my willingness to cooperate.

“Be sure to write that those people are Muslim extremists.” He leaned toward me. “And don’t forget to sign it.”

I wrote the sentence. I signed.

He walked to a cabinet, pulled out a bottle, counted out five pills and handed them to me.

“May I have a glass of water please?” I asked. “For the pills?”

The commander left the office, returning a few minutes later with a large glass of cold, clean water. I struggled not to betray my intense eagerness for water as I reached out with trembling hands. I put all the pills in my mouth and tried to sip the water in a civilized manner but ended up gulping the whole glass. When the glass was empty, I kept holding it to my lips, tipping it higher, just to be sure I hadn’t missed a drop.

In a few hours, my cramps disappeared. Those pills gave me relief, but the cure came with a price.

Early evening, two days later, the commander showed up at the door to the warehouse with another soldier.

“Novak,” he bellowed.

Another interrogation, I thought, wearily. I got to my feet and followed him out of the warehouse. We barely made it outside when he turned on me. “Motherfucker!” He trembled with anger. “You’re playing smart-ass here.”

Instantly wary, I said nothing.

“Those names you gave me,” he continued, “those are people who disappeared before the war.”

I had the sick feeling that those pills, as welcome as they had been at the time, may not have been worth it. Once at his office, Jarić shoved me through the door. Inside, we weren’t alone. Another officer, a big guy about six feet five, waited, his face expressionless, his eyes blank. There seemed to be no human spirit behind those vacant eyes. Then he did something worse. He smiled at me, the feral smile of a predator.

“You don’t need to know my name,” he said in way of introduction. “Think of me as the Serb Adolph.”

It was all I could do to stand on my feet. My legs felt rubbery, and my breath came in gasps.

“Put him in the chair,” Adolph said to Jarić.

A lone chair sat in the middle of the office. Jarić shoved me over to it, placed his hands on my shoulders and pushed me down hard.

“Tie him,” Adolph said.

A growing sense of fear gripped me as Jarić shoved me over, forcing me to bend down. He snapped a handcuff on my left wrist then pulled my right arm around the other side of the chair leg and handcuffed that wrist to the other one. I was helpless, bent over and cuffed to the chair.

Adolph came around the desk and walked toward me from the right. Face toward the floor, I couldn’t see anything, so I twisted my head around trying to get a look. Adolph reached down to his boot and pulled out a long-bladed bowie knife. He had put it there, I suspected, to make sure I saw it.

Terror sucked the oxygen from my lungs, and I felt nauseous and dizzy.

“I’ve been thinking about how I will kill you,” Adolph said, seeming to ignore me as he examined the long blade of his knife. “First, I thought about killing you with a bullet from a pistol, but that would be too quick. Instead, I think I’ll cut you with a knife.”

He moved behind me as I twisted around, desperately trying to follow his movements. Without warning he sliced away my shirt, exposing my back. Then he sliced my flesh. Pain exploded beneath my right shoulder. In blind self-defense I twisted away, then tried desperately to drag the chair across the floor, as far away from him as I could get. But there was no escape, and he came at me again. Another swipe of the knife and fiery pain. I writhed and twisted as he sliced my flesh again and again with the razor-sharp tip.

“You think you’re pretty smart, don’t you?” he taunted as blood pounded in my ears and pain seared my back. “I’ve heard stories about you. You know what I think? I think that I don’t want to cut your throat right away. That would be too easy. I think I’m going to cut your legs first, and after that, your arms.”

Blood ran down my back and arms, dripped onto the wood plank floor beneath my chair. Adolph turned to Jarić and said, “Maybe I should just kill him right now and get it over with. What do you think?”

The sight of my blood coupled with his remark stirred up an unexpected reaction inside—a deep calm. I understood.

Now was my time to die.

Jarić had been watching silently. “We’ve been told to keep him alive for now.”

Adolph’s expression fell. He looked disappointed.

Jarić walked over and bent down low until his face was next to mine. I could feel his heat, smell his sweat. “Next time I ask you a question,” Jarić said, “think twice about the answer you give me.”

I nodded, unable to speak.

He unlocked the handcuffs and my arms fell forward. I sat up, reaching around to press the wounds on my back.

“This time you’re lucky,” Adolph said, “but I’ll get you, Novak. It’s only a matter of time. Now go to the warehouse and keep your mouth shut.”

I stood and stumbled out of the office. A soldier slid open the door to the warehouse and I plunged into the welcome, gray abyss. Once inside, I headed straight for my cardboard and collapsed. Nik jumped to his feet when he saw me. He turned me around and saw my bloodied back, fury seething inside him. But he said nothing. Instead, he gathered a makeshift first aid kit of torn clothing.

I was bleeding. I was in pain. But I was alive. Once again, unexpectedly alive.