Escape to Life by Cigarz

“Your parcel is packed?”
“Yes.”
“You have the money, the papers? You have our wedding album?”
“Yes. It’s all packed.”
Ena Refik ran her hand over the white lace tablecloth that had taken her so long as a young woman to crochet. She traced the circles and floral patterns of its design, remembering the pains it gave her hands and how when it was finished, how much stronger her hands had become. She had brought the cloth when they moved here to Sarajevo from Dubrovnik and it was the first thing she had unpacked. They had come to this city of chaos only five months ago, but the stress and the wear of life had made it seem a lifetime away. The memories were a burden at times, but it was impossible to leave them behind. In her brown leather satchel she had placed their money, passports, photographs and memories. Their weight made her feel like a woman of eighty, yet she was only twenty-five.
Her husband stood at the gutted wall, looking through the plastic tarp they used as a window. His hands were braced against the wall, and she could hear him sigh as the sun finally set beyond the mountains to the west. On his back he carried a pack with water and their food for the trip.
She had married Butzo as her family had always planned. He had left Dubrovnik to train as an engineer during the communist regime, traveling here to Sarajevo where a young man with promise could make something of himself. He graduated with honors and then took a position in Pazaric with the Public Works department. Ena still had the letter he had sent her to ask for her in marriage.
“We will leave in a short while, my sweet,” Butzo said. “The sun is nearly down, and we can travel more safely. Be ready.”
Ena cradled the satchel and stood next to her husband. She could make out the drumfires along Marsala Tita, the first road they must cross on the way to the airport. Though it is very cold in the city in February, no one stood by these fires. She could imagine the families looking out of their own windows, cold and hungry, standing as they were dreaming of that warmth. The Chetnik snipers lit them every night as a lure for targets. For each target they hit, it was rumored, the Serb soldiers would receive a bonus of $300 American money.
“They say the Jews are flying out of the airport,” she said.
“Who says that?”
“Mirko told me. He said they are paying the Serbs to let them through the roadblocks, and are then paying the Blue Hats to fly out of the city.”
Butzo spit on the floor and crossed himself.
“The Jews are God’s chosen, but I don’t think they are paying their way out. The Chetnik roadblocks rob and rape and kill every citizen who tries to cross through. Anyways, the council is still holding press conferences in the Gallery on Ferhadija. They have run so much in the past that here they have taken a stand.”
“They are God’s chosen? What are we?” Ena asked him.
“We are God’s victims,” Butzo cursed.

It was one in the morning when Ena closed the front door of their apartment behind them. She pulled out her key, but Butzo placed his hand on hers and shook his head.
“If others can live here, then let them,” he said.
They walked in silence down the darkened stairwell to the front of the building, careful of the steps they knew were old and creaky. Coming out of the stairwell into the main foyer, they crept to the front of the marble entrance. Butzo pushed open the heavy wooden doors and peered across the haunting stillness of Kulovica Avenue. The only light was from the half moon and the fires of the drums. Motioning for Ena to stay back, he slipped into the shadows close to the wall and crept to the corner of Marsala Tita. In a moment, Ena lost view of him and shivered. The cold was encompassing her, sapping her strength and creeping under her black shawl. Neither of them had winter coats, as they had sacrificed them last month for cooking fuel. The meal had been a chicken that Butzo had bought on the black-market, and it was worth it, even now.
The crack of a sniper rifle shook Ena, and she turned frantically left and right trying to see whom it had fired at. There was no other noise, so it may have missed. Or it could have been two blocks away, but the old stone of Sarajevo played tricks with the mind late at night.
“My sweet,” Butzo whispered from the corner. “My sweet, let’s go.”

They stood on the corner of Marsala Tita and Kulovica looking south toward the glow of the airport’s lights. For Ena, it promised a chance to take a breath; a deep, life-giving breath that she had not felt in the two years since they had left Pazaric to move back to Dubrovnik. The Serbian forces had begun their destruction of the town that summer, and she and Butzo had stayed as long as they could. His parents had died early in the devastation, and once her father was killed, they had no longer had a reason to stay. They packed what little they could and moved here to Sarajevo soon afterward.
“Kulovica is not as safe,” Butzo said. “The Chetniks will be watching more closely there. It is quicker and more direct, but it is much more dangerous. They control the National Theater and the Bosnian Cultural Center.” He motioned down Marsala Tita. “They will not be watching as hard along this way, and there is more dark cover. We have a much better chance. Are you ready?”
Ena nodded and patted his arm.
“I am ready. I trust you, and I am ready.”
Crossing Kulovica, they slipped across the street, careful to step over debris, to the shadows of the shelled out shops along their route. Butzo was in the lead, stopping occasionally to touch Ena and be reassured she was still behind him. It was difficult for Ena to see his face, but she knew he wore a grim look. As they passed the Sorte Alleyway, Ena grabbed his arm and made him stop.
“Aimic. This is where Aimic died,” she whispered.
Ena took Butzo’s arm and placed it over her shoulder. They both looked reverently out into the street at the familiar pile of rubble where their neighbor had been shot while collecting firewood. She could not see the stain, but knew it was there. She missed Aimic, who as an old widow had informally adopted the young couple when they had moved into the building. She had taught them where to watch for the snipers, where the best places were to gather wood and what water ration lines would be the shortest. Aimic had introduced Butzo to the manager of the Public Works and had been instrumental in his getting the job. She had been gathering fuel for dinner when a sniper put a bullet through her chest. Her bundle had dropped before she did, and Ena remembered watching Aimic crying to heaven before dropping dead. It had happened last week.
“God bless her soul,” Ena said.
Butzo crossed himself.

They were coming closer to Radiceva Street where Butzo planned for them to cross down to Obala Kulina Bana. Obala Kulina ran parallel to the Miljacka River that cut Sarajevo in two. The river had cut the valley where the city rested, and the surrounding mountains rose high and snow capped along its edges. It was these mountains that hosted the 1984 Olympics. Now, they only were home to the ferocity that was the Serbian forces. The mountains belonged to Slobodan Milosevic and his tanks and his mortars and his snipers. The southern passes were not as toughly held, and it was through that southern route that Butzo was taking them to get to Pazaric. They still had friends there, and the Chetniks’ presence was not as strongly felt.
“Stay here, my sweet” Butzo whispered as he gently pushed Ena deeper into the shadows. She caught a glimpse of his face as he looked across the street. It had changed from the grim steadiness to a look of fear. He was sweating in the cold of the night, and his eyes were darting to every hidden space. “Stay here, I’ll call for you.”
She watched her husband crouch as he left the safety of the shadows and speed between the rubble in the middle of the street. There were large, broken blocks of concrete warped with steel girders to his left and a burnt out husk of a Mercedes to his right. She held her breath as he stopped at an open area and then cringed as she watched him sprint through a ring of light from a nearby drum. Once past it, he slipped out of sight.
While she waited for his voice, she gripped the satchel that held their very life. In this leather pouch was their future, she knew, as well as their past. There were color photographs of her in the virgin white dress and Butzo in his rented tuxedo. There was a picture of their first dance, and of the wedding cake his sister had made for them. In every one, they were smiling and shining in their love. Thinking of them, she began to smile herself. Life, she thought, is better than this.
The report of a sniper rifle made her drop to the harsh cold of the sidewalk, her arms folded across her head still holding the leather pouch. She stared across the void but could see no movement.
“Butzo,” she whispered. “Butzo!”
There was no sound from across the street.
Ena shivered and began to cry softly. She wouldn’t believe her husband was dead, yet she heard nothing from across the way. Shaking, she gathered herself and her parcel and stood up, one hand on the cold stone of the building for support. Looking to God, she prepared for that first step.
“My sweet, hurry!” It was Butzo hissing, his face barely illuminated in the darkness by the fire.
Ena drew her courage and quickly traced her husband’s footsteps in the scattered snow between the debris. Reaching the other side, she threw her arms around him and kissed him all over his face.
“You’re alive! My darling love, you are alive!” she cried. “Never leave me again like that. Never, never again. That bullet was for you, and…” she couldn’t finish.
“If it was for me, my sweet, I wouldn’t be here,” he said. “Now collect yourself, we still have a ways to go.”
They passed in silence along the shadowed edge of Radiceva, pausing now and then to listen intently to the sounds of the night. It was darker along this street, but ahead, they could see the glaring light of the firedrums along Obala Kulina. It was known throughout the world as Sarajevo Avenue, Sniper Alley. It was this they must cross to get to the airport.
Suddenly, there was a loud creak, and ahead, just three meters away, they saw light escaping from an opening doorway. A hand passed into the night holding a white plastic bucket that then emptied out the night’s wastes. The hand paused a second and then withdrew, but the door did not close. Instead, a familiar face slid out and peered at them through the darkness.
“Ena Refik? Butzo? Is that you?”
The couple slid closer and stared into the light.
“Maja!” Ena responded. “We thought you left the city last month! What happened?”
Maja stepped into the street and closed the door behind her. The darkness kept her in silhouette, but the couple could still see the age and the weariness of their old neighbor.
“Maja, why are you still here?” Ena whispered.
Butzo pulled on his pack’s straps and then looked down the street.
“My sweet, we must go.”
“One second,” Ena replied. “Why Maja?”
Maja grasped their arms and drew them into the black of the doorsill.
“We tried to make the runway, but when we got the fence… the black marketers were running through, and gunshots were everywhere. We saw through the fence people being hit and falling down, then the spotlights came. They lit up the runway and there was more gunfire. Blisivic Kochinkic was killed, and her husband Diema. We didn’t see the children. It was too much to bear and we couldn’t do it, so we came back here.”
Maja let go of their sleeves and backed away.
“You are going tonight? Be careful. Be quiet. The tunnel below the runway is sealed, so you’ll need to go across the top. There’s a hole across from the Fine Arts Academy. For God’s sake, be careful.”
With that, she hugged Ena tightly, then Butzo, and went back inside.
“We must keep going,” Butzo whispered.

They had reached Sniper Alley. On the other side lay the Miljacka River bridge and even further, the fence. They could hear the rushing of the mighty water and the sheets of ice it pushed along. Even in the dead of winter’s freeze, they could smell the rot and the dredge that fed it. Obala Kulina was too well lit for a slow crossing, as was the bridge. It was here that the greatest danger lay. They paused, and Ena watched in silence as Butzo outlined their path through the wreckage and the wall of gutted cars with his finger.
“We will run through there,” Butzo pointed, showing a wide break along the wall of cars. The path slipped between a shot-out ambulance and a yellow school bus with it’s back broken by mortar fire. In the early days of the siege, people of the city had placed the vehicles there as a barrier to hinder snipers from the mountains and for a time it had worked. But soon, the Chetniks had moved to higher elevations and the walls only worked if you stood right up next to them. No one crossed here on foot except for those fleeing the city, and it was customary for ambulances using the road to the hospital to drive as close as possible to the wall. Not all of them made it safely.
Ena clutched her leather satchel and prepared to run. Butzo touched her arm and looked into her eyes.
“I love you my sweet,” he whispered, then tugged at her sleeve. They were off.
Butzo led the way, dodging and weaving around the debris field. Ena kept up, and at times was instinctively prepared to pass him in the wider spaces. They rushed through the wall and on to the bridge. Without slowing, they weaved through the wreckage and the shell holes until they reached the far side of the bridge. The river was behind them. Sarajevo was behind them. Ahead lay the mountains and Pazaric.
Crossing the airport access road, they flew and stumbled into the drainage ditch surrounding the airfield, only a few feet from the high fence that blocked their way. They lay on their backs catching their breath. Butzo’s chest was heaving, and Ena watched as he stretched out his arms and legs in the high grass.
“They didn’t see us,” he gasped. “Ha! The bastards didn’t see us!”
He gripped Ena’s hand and squeezed gently. She squeezed back and softly laughed her first real laugh in two years. Their clothes were getting wet from the snow, and her hair was beginning to freeze but she didn’t care. They had made it this far, and the mountains were only across the United Nations held airfield. She knew the Blue Hats did not shoot at those leaving the city, but there were still Serbian snipers. They were not out yet. This realization ended her joy.
Ena sat up and straightened her shawl. It was wool, but it did nothing to stop the cold. She has carried it with her from Dubrovnik, and the holes in it made it even worse. She shivered and checked the buttons on her blouse.
“Do you know why women wear black at funerals, Butzo?” she asked.
Her husband grunted and sat up, his arms still stretching above his head.
“It is respect for the dead, isn’t it? Black is a somber color, and it is fitting for a man or a woman to wear it to show respect for the dead.”
“In a way,” Ena whispered. “But let me tell you the real reason. We wear black to funerals to remind men they we are still alive. I am still alive, Butzo, and I will continue to live.”
Ena squeezed his hand and stood up. “Let’s go,” she said.

Butzo led her to the hole in the fence 200 meters east from where they crossed the road. It was closer to the buildings held by the UN forces, but the lights of the compound were still far enough away for them to slip underneath undetected. Butzo held the wires apart as Ena crawled through, then followed her in. They sat for a moment on the edge of the concrete runway and checked their belongings. Ena still had her leather satchel that held their money and passports and the wedding album and Butzo still wore on his back their food and water. They were ready to run their last stretch of danger. Brushing off the snow, Ena stood up and held out her hand for Butzo.
“I love you, my sweet,” she said.
Together, hand in hand, they ran toward the dark shadow of the mountains where is draped over the far side of the runway. Their heads down, they didn’t watch for anything except the cold concrete below, dodging patches of ice and broken pavement that had been chewed up by mortar rounds. They were 50 meters from the complete darkness of the shadows when the firing began.
To her left, Ena saw the moonlight catch chips of concrete as they shot into the sky. She could hear the zing of the bullets as they bit into the hard runway and ricochet off into nowhere. Butzo pulled on her arm to hurry her, and she dropped her satchel. They were less than 10 meters from the darkness that would save them when she staggered, pulling back. The snipers were getting closer in their aim, and she began to hesitate.
“Butzo!” she cried out. “I dropped it! We have to go back! Our pictures, our money…”
But Butzo kept pulling her, dragging her closer and closer towards the shadows of the mountain.
“No, we have to go back!”
They crossed the darkness of the shadows and collapsed on the cold concrete. Gasping for air, trying to catch his breath, Butzo lay across Ena to hold her from going back into the light of the moon. She struggled, twisting and grasping at his sleeves, trying to get away from him and run back to the leather pouch which lay so close to the edge of their safety. Butzo spread himself out on top of her and quieted her struggle.
“Butzo, I have to go back and get the satchel. Our life is in that pouch,” she cried softly. She had stopped struggling and was now sobbing, wiping away tears with the back of her hand. “I have to go back…”
Butzo placed his hands on her arms, her back against the cold runway, and knelt over her. He looked into her eyes and gently smiled, tears running down his own face.
“My sweet,” he said. “My sweet angel, you are my life. There is nothing in there that we truly need. We are alive, and we are safe. The photographs, the passports, the money… it is nothing. We are alive and we have each other.”
“But our memories. We’ve had them for so long…”
“We still have them, my sweet, and that is all that matters.”
Butzo grasped Ena’s arm and pulled her to her feet. He spun her once, brushing off the snow and the dirt and hugged her closely.
Ena looked out onto the lit runway and dropped her shoulders. The satchel was so close, but she knew she could never make it. She would be a target, and that was something she never wanted to be again. She brushed some snow off of Butzo and looked up at the mountains.
“I know,” she whispered, kissing him on the cheek. “We are free to live again.” She began to walk toward Pazaric and Butzo followed.