Field of Blackbirds - Clayton Jeppsen & Lindsey Jeppsen (me reader txt) 📗

good-bye to his Converse All-Stars and his LA Dodgers baseball hat. He wore a black parka over his t-shirt and black wing-tip dress shoes with his jeans. In America, Reed would have been in dress-code violation. However, Kat had assured him that he looked better than ever. Everyone else seemed to do just fine styling themselves, all sporting a similar look. Reed called it the “college-kid-hit-man look.”

Reed would never again complain about the pot holes in the LA freeways. Nor would he badmouth the cobblestone of Brussels again. Just when he was sure the two-wheel-drive would crumble over the weather eroded, dirt road, he saw the outline of a church beginning to take shape in the horizon, and just below the horizon, rested the small town of Kumanovo.


Chapter 21 – A Light in the Dark


Refugee Camp, outside Srebrenica, 1992

She could still hear the distant crackle. She could even picture the tiny embers twisting out of the flames, only to be engulfed by the plume of horror that smothered her hometown. Milla would never forget that cold morning, standing on the other side of the Drina River, soaking wet. She tried to block out the screams, the gasping and gurgling sounds of those who didn’t make it across the river, the gunfire and the cackling soldiers. And most of all, she tried to forget the indignity, the mortification, the human wreckage and the mental slide-show of the besieged.
“That’s far enough Sofi! I don’t want to lose you.” warned Milla. She watched as Sofi kicked around small patches of snow left by the early morning flurry. The camp quickly became over crowded with almost thirty thousand refugees, terrified and hopeless. Hundreds arrived daily. The town of Srebrenica was hosting as many as they could, but the numbers were too overwhelming. With no luck of getting into the city, Milla moved their tent to the outskirts of the camp.
Animosity grew between the Croatians and the Muslims in the camp. The Croatians believed their predicament was the fault of the Muslims. That the ethnic cleansing was designed for them and the Croatians were only in the way. Though Milla found herself in solidarity with the other refugees, disintegrated from tradition and culture and scratching at the bottom of the pit of despair, she also felt crowded by them, uncomfortable around them. People were losing their sanity; becoming frantic and hostile when their sicknesses or starvation got the best of them. She barely knew them. How could she trust them? But mostly, the constant sadness, the depressing weight of their circumstances proved to be too grave bearing. She saw it etched in their faces, heard it in their voices, the horrible accounts they suffered. Though she grieved with the new arrivals, she didn’t have enough to grieve for them. Milla did all she could to avoid them and she felt a need to protect and coddle the innocence of a four-year-old orphan.
Sofi was a drop of color in a black and white painting. She was full of laughter and wit, in spite of the sorrows that loomed about her. Her short blond hair curled just under her ears. Her eyes were deep blue and beamed hope for every misplaced child. She had a bunny-button nose that wiggled with virtue. Her fair, dirt marked skin and light frame testified of her innocence. Her smile, her dimples and the gap between her teeth complimented her youth. She had enough energy to power a small locomotive. One that Milla wished they could board. Sofi awarded Milla a responsibility great enough to keep moving. She granted her the companionship she so desperately needed. During a time where normalcy, dignity, hope, love and reasons to celebrate were all abandoning her, she had Sofi to be thankful for.
Sofi was turning five in two months. She would have to celebrate her birthday without those who loved her most. Her father stayed in Visegrad to fight and it was reported that no one made it out of there alive. Milla thought of Sofi’s mother and tried to fight back the emotion. But just as every day before this one, she wasn’t victorious. Tears escaped one side, and then the other. Sofi’s mother had been shot, but she held on desperately to Sofi. She even managed to get three quarters of the way across the river.
“Milla,” she cried. “Take her!”
She kissed Sofi on the cheek and then pulled her head inward under her chin, professing her love one last time, trusting and hoping that life would be more promising; more merciful to her daughter.
“Take her!” she cried again.
She pushed Sofi toward Milla as hate and bitterness pulled her downward and wisped her away. Milla had almost given up hope herself. She wasn’t even sure she could push through the strength of the Drina. But the screams brought about the adrenaline. The responsibility injected the will and the tiny cold hands smothered her with love . . . . . a recipe for life, beyond hopelessness.
Milla wept for a little longer and then she felt those familiar tiny arms wrap around her neck. Sofi was smiling, “Its okay Milla, I’ll make you all better.” She cupped both of her little hands on each side of Milla’s face, as a mother would a child.
“Your face is dirty Milla,” said Sofi, not knowing that most of the dirt came from her own hands when she mixed them with Milla’s tears.
“I’m not the one who’s been baking mud pies all day long.” Milla was able to smile as she pulled the little girl into her chest.
Milla waited to hear word from Sofi’s father, but it had been almost a month. It was clear to her what was happening. She thought of the challenges that might lie ahead, but at the same time, Milla thought of Sofi as her new pride and joy. As she held Sofi in her arms, caressed her hair, she whispered,
“I love you Sofi.”
Sofi sprang for more action in the snow. It was getting late. Milla saved enough soup earlier for another meal. They ate once, sometimes twice a day. There was almost no food in the camp. They ate oats that were supposed to be for horses. They made bread out of dried squash seeds, paste out of corncobs, and thin soup out of roots, thistles and willow tree buds. They almost never ate meat, except when a refugee was able to escape with their cattle or flocks of sheep, but that usually went very quickly. And lately their supply was thinning faster than usual. Milla had taken up another service project only a few tents down.
Josif Stanic was an elderly gentleman and a Serb. His home was attacked. His wife and children were Muslim. Josif was the only survivor. He stayed in the home with his lifeless family as long as he could, until it was set on fire by the Vojsko Srbije. The only reason he was spared was because of the blood that ran through his veins. He joined the refugees about twenty-five kilometers from Srebrenica. He was alone and contrite, wearing the look of brokenness without purpose. He was struggling with only one crutch, obviously nursing a leg that was injured in some type of attack. He had lost all the color in his hair and the tightness of his skin. And his eyes were glassy with sadness. Milla felt sorry for Josif. The years of life, love and joy were washed clean from his face. It ate at her conscience. Milla helped Josif along the way when she could. Since then, meals scantly designed for two were now divided among three.
As Milla placed the pot into the coals, she noticed how dirty she really was. She looked down at her hands, could see the dirt built up under her fingernails. Smudges crept halfway up her arms. They hadn’t been able to shower for days now. It wasn’t worth fighting the other refugees at the watering hole. Besides, it was too cold and the water was stagnant. People were getting sick after bathing there. For the last three days, it had snowed enough for them to grab a pot of snow before it melted, and that’s what they used for cooking.
Milla knew it was silly, but she felt ashamed about how dirty she was, even if nobody was judging her cleanliness. She longed for a warm shower. She would give anything to feel the soft pull of a brush through her hair. She wanted to put on make-up. She craved the sweet smell of Giorgio Armani perfume on her skin. Milla wanted to lie across her bed, think about school and recite lines for theatre. She imagined riding Mr. Nowak’s horses in the green pastures of Belgrade. Belgrade, a wave of feeling broke over her, unsolicited and unwelcome . . . . . Lazar.
Milla felt a sudden need to gasp for air. A knot swelled in her throat and her heart pounded. She hated him. She hated to think of him with the dirty, repulsive soldiers that raided Visegrad. For a short moment, she became entangled in rage as she suffered the clout of betrayal. There was nothing left for him. Nothing, Milla told herself. Then why was the emptiness discovering every vacancy in her body? Why was her claim so unsettling? Why was she allowing her thoughts to run wild and wide in the narrowest of passages? It had been over a year since she’d seen him last. Milla anticipated a time when she wouldn’t care as much.
Before bed that night, Sofi put in her usual request for a bedtime lullaby and as always, little snoring sounds could be heard before the song ended. Milla lay there next to Sofi, listened to all the sounds of the camp; the crackle of campfires, the sound of goats off in the distance, small children crying, tired and hungry and finally, the intermittent laughter of overly loud, drunk men, carelessly deploying their responsibilities. The Croatians seemed to have ample vodka to go around.
Milla lay there, trying to get the uneven earth to agree with the contours of her body. She wasn’t sure if she was lonely or just alone. Milla knew there was a difference, but she had never really experienced either. But one feeling was sure; she missed the contact of nearly everyone she loved. Mr. and Mrs. Markovich were visiting Milla’s great aunt in Split, a small island off the coast of Croatia. Surely by now, they had to know about Visegrad. Maybe they were searching for her. Milla was separated from her brother, Ibrahim, in Visegrad at the river.