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

the ones that are tired of running, tired of being afraid. And some of them, sadly,” Lazar took a momentary glance at Radenko, “some of them are still hoping.”
It was a disheartening truth that permeated the van. Nothing was said after that. Some watched. Some turned their heads. Some resisted their emotions and some, silently prayed for a miracle.
Searching for his camera was pointless. Reed knew the moment wouldn’t last, nor would such a rainbow of real human behavior ever agree to confinement. Bits and pieces of the camp hopped along the highway, stretching hope toward Srebrenica. Reed saw an old man, thin and gaunt, perched over three craggily suitcases. He was holding something to his mouth. As they neared, the whiney bend of a harmonica was sent to greet them. Every ounce of life the old man possessed, he blew into the wooden reeves as though presiding over an angelic brass band. He was offering proof to the camp that, despite the harrowing acts of bloodshed and cruelty inflicted upon them, life itself was still pure and music was its faithful apprentice. There were very few moments in time that Reed felt were worthy of ‘one-word’ definitions. This was one of them; ‘Devotion’.

A crooked sign jetting out of the embankment read, ‘Srebrenica’.
“Stay on this road, Marcielli.” advised Lazar. “There’s supposed to be a hospital up ahead.”
A moan and wince accompanied every bump and pothole found on the road.
“How’s Flo doing?” Marcielli asked sympathetically.
Angelo finally broke his silence. “He’s surviving.”
“I mean, is he still gangly with big ears?”
Marcielli promptly adjusted the rearview mirror, just catching the end of Angelo’s restrained smirk.
“The bleeding has finally stopped.” said Angelo, lifting up the cloth to make sure. “He’s lucky it was a full metal jacket rather than a ballistic tip. We would either be fetching the bullet from his chest, or we would be trying to patch an exit wound the size of a softball.”
“Thanks for the graphic description, Angelo.” muttered Florentine. “Mama Mia!”

************

When they arrived at the hospital, it was agreed that Reed and his team would stay in the van. They would bring too much attention.
Angelo and Otto delivered Florentine into the invisible, Boy Scout gurney prepared by the arms of Radenko and Lazar outside the van.
Lazar let Florentine drape his arm around his shoulder. He peered into the van one last time, studied their faces while trying to make sense of all that had happened. One thing satisfied Lazar’s conscience; he would have a great story to share with Mr. Nowak during a game of chess. He didn’t follow orders. Mr. Nowak would love it. He was thankful for Reed and his team. Thankful they crossed paths. He would have a more industrious heart to share with Milla, attesting his reformation, his restitution.
“Lazar” Reed scooted to the edge of his seat. “If it means anything, you should know that somewhere on the other side of this wild world, in a small farming town next to a big dirty city, you have a friend and a brother.”
Lazar nodded his head and saluted his new comrade. “Send me a post card when you get to Budapest. Don’t let me down, America.”
“I won’t.” promised Reed.
Then Reed nodded to Radenko.
“Zdravo,” Radenko’s smile, upright and honest, made his case. In a different time and under different circumstances they could have all been friends. After all, they were lousy enemies.
“Florentine,” Reed called out, “In three days, you’ll be sunbathing on the beaches of Naples, showing off your bullet hole to a crowd of bikinis.”
All the laughter only pinpointed the pain for Florentine.
“I’m calling in your location to Sam. He’ll send out a chopper for a quick touch and go. You have nothing to worry about.” Reed held his arm to the square, fingers presenting the Boy Scout promise. Then he reeled it in and left Florentine with a salute.
Marcielli said his goodbyes at the house. He encouraged his friend to be strong and thanked him for his dependable and steadfast alliance over the years. He watched as the two natives, kind yet peculiar, carted Florentine into the asylum.

************

The hospital was dirty and unsanitary. Everything was disorganized. Cabinets were open and unattended. The hallway was jammed with medical gurneys. Soiled linens were just left on the floor. An occasional moan or cry for help, crept into the hallway. It was a little warmer inside the hospital. The windows were open, but there was no breeze. The air was stale. There was only one doctor and three nurses and even they were working mostly voluntarily. It was obvious there was no time for cleanliness or to tend to the needs of the facility.
The doctor began working on Florentine almost instantly. Lazar thought it was because of their uniforms or the guns across their backs. He kept an even pace despite the calamity around him, not because he was aged, but because everything had become so callously monotonous. It was merely his routine. But Lazar watched as his careful hands tended to the Italian. He nearly cringed, audibly, when he saw dried blood in the doctor’s fingernails and in the deeper creases of his skin. Florentine, luckily, had already fallen asleep.
“I will take it from here.” the doctor advised. It was a polite hint that he and Radenko were no longer needed.
Some attention was paid, but when they noticed the Serb uniforms, people usually looked away, not wanting confrontation. Lazar and Radenko stood in deliberation outside the hospital, anxious to take in the crisp, untainted air.
“It’s half a day’s trip if we can hitch a ride with someone.” said Radenko. “If we backtrack to the bridge, I think that road goes south.”
“You lead the way from here on out.” conceded Lazar. “I want to meet this legendary General. If we’re lucky, he’ll reassign us.”
The two comrades walked mostly in silence with the bridge in view. The bridge looked old, beaten, on its hands and knees, arching a tired back, only tolerating the constant traffic, both foot and automobile.
When they crossed the bridge, a small premonition escorted Lazar. Warning him that childhood feelings would soon strike, just as they always did when he walked over a bridge. It was a simpler time. If he knew then, what he knew now, the pain, the hunger, and the anticipation, he wouldn’t have been so quick to set his sails. He may have toiled longer at the docks. He might have lingered some in the harbor, waiting on clearer skies. But there was no real time machine, no way to get back, no way to forget.
Lazar kept playing Milla’s voice over in his head, hanging on to the words she left him with by the jeep. “I love you Lazar.” He wished he could write them down, see them, and touch them. It was still the storm around him that caused his vision to blur. Not knowing whether or not she was alive was a reason to hate himself, a hole that was easily filled with self sabotage. It was a clear direction in a narrow world. Finding her alive completely knocked him off course. It was unimaginable, it was mystifying and it was incredible, but it was also perplexing. It overflowed the hole in his heart with a million possibilities. A million possibilities in a future that was uncertain. Lazar knew what he wanted. He knew what he had to have. He just didn’t know if he could have it. He didn’t know if he deserved it. He saw her, resilient, in a world of beauty and grace. He just wasn’t sure if he was the man standing next to her. Doubt was consuming every bit of happiness she brought to his soul.
He hoped, by now, that Milla had reached her aunt’s home in Split. He hoped her suffering was over and that she was still thinking of him.

The river was wide beneath them, testing the banks with melted snow. The black current looked bitter and uninviting, although home to a family of Heron, pecking at the frothy edges.
The sun reigned directly over them, projecting misshapen shadows at their feet and filling in the uneven cracks of the cobble stone. It was almost noon. Daylight graciously joined with the physical effort of their stride to lessen the late winter bite.
At the end of the bridge there was an obelisk-type monument jutting skyward. There was a large bird perched at the tip. It was as motionless as the twenty foot tower of stone it rested on. As they got closer, Lazar noticed the bird was grey and not black, as it initially appeared. Its head was recoiled into the fluffed up feathers around its neck. It had strong wings and breasts that flexed over the soft contours of its belly. And loyal, but violent talons that the curled into the tip of the obelisk.
“Look at that. It’s not even afraid of us.” noted Radenko, breaking a rift of silence.
“It’s a Falcon.” Was all Lazar said, “A grey falcon.”
Radenko brought his hand up to block the sun. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen one, not this close anyway.”
“Me neither.” admitted Lazar.
Lazar thought of the grey falcon Mr. Nowak used to tell him about; the one that flew from Jerusalem to warn the Prince; a mysterious bird imparting knowledge and dominion over an entire nation. A bird, that gave breath to his name, Lazar.
Lazar stopped walking. Radenko continued on a few more steps but then backtracked and shouldered Lazar.
Lazar stopped where the bird eclipsed the sun with its own body. An obscure sentiment told Lazar that the bird, this bird, wasn’t there in vain and he truly believed it. It