The Redeemer(27)

That was how they had tried to crack Bobo.

In November 1991, after three months of non-stop siege and bombardment, Vukovar had finally capitulated. The rain had been pouring down as the Serbs marched into town. Along with the remnants of Bobo's unit, numbering around eighty weary and starving Croatian prisoners of war, he had been commanded to stand in line before the ruins of what had been the town's main street. The Serbs had told them not to move and had withdrawn into their heated tent. The rain had whipped down, making the mud froth. After two hours the first men began to fall. When Bobo's lieutenant left the line to help one of those who had collapsed in the mud, a young Serbian private – just a boy – came out of the tent and shot the lieutenant in the stomach. Thereafter no one stirred; they watched the rain obliterate the mountain ridges around them and hoped the lieutenant would soon stop screaming. He began to cry, but then he heard Bobo's voice behind him. 'Don't cry.' And he stopped.

Morning turned to afternoon and it was dusk when an open jeep arrived. The Serbs in the tent rushed out and saluted. He knew the man in the passenger seat had to be the commanding officer – 'the rock with the gentle voice' as he was called. At the back of the jeep sat a man in civilian clothing with a bowed head. The jeep halted right in front of their unit and since he was in the first row, he heard the commanding officer ask the civilian to look at the prisoners of war. He recognised the civilian at once when he reluctantly raised his head. He was from Vukovar, the father of a boy at his school. The father scanned the lines of men, reached him, but there was no sign of recognition and he moved on. The commander sighed, stood up in the jeep and yelled over the rain, not using the gentle voice: 'Which of you goes under the code name of the little redeemer?'

No one in the unit moved.

'Are you frightened to step forward, mali spasitelj? You who blew up twelve of our tanks and deprived our women of their husbands and made Serbian children fatherless?'

He waited.

'I thought so. Which of you is Bobo?'

Still no one moved.

The commander looked at the civilian, who pointed a trembling finger at Bobo in the second row.

'Come forward,' the commander shouted.

Bobo walked the few steps to the jeep and the driver, who had got out and was standing beside the vehicle. When Bobo stood to attention and saluted, the driver knocked his cap into the mud.

'We have been given to understand on the radio that the little redeemer is under your command,' the commander said. 'Please point him out to me.'

'I've never heard of any redeemer,' Bobo said.

The commander raised his gun and struck him. A red stream of blood issued from Bobo's nose.

'Quick. I'm getting wet and food is ready.'

'I am Bobo, a captain in the Croatian ar—'

The commander nodded to the driver, who snatched Bobo's hair and turned his face to the rain, washing the blood from his nose and mouth down into the red neckerchief.

'Idiot!' said the commander. 'There is no Croatian army here, just traitors! You can choose to be executed right now or save us time. We'll find him whatever happens.'

'And you'll execute us whatever happens,' Bobo groaned.

'Of course.'

'Why?'

The commander went through the motions of loading his gun. Raindrops fell from the gunstock. He placed the barrel against Bobo's temple. 'Because I'm a Serbian officer. And a man has to respect his work. Are you ready to die?'

Bobo shut his eyes; raindrops hung from his eyelashes.

'Where is the little redeemer? I'll count to three, then I'll shoot. One . . .'

'I am Bobo—'

'Two!'

'—captain in the Croatian army. I—'

'Three!'

Even in the pouring rain the dry click sounded like an explosion.

'Sorry, I must have forgotten to load the magazine,' the commander said.

The driver passed the commander a magazine. He thrust it into the handle, loaded and raised the pistol again.

'Last chance! One!'

'I . . . my . . . unit is—'

'Two!'

'—the first infantry battalion in . . . in—'

'Three!'

Another dry click. The father in the back seat sobbed.

'Goodness me! Empty magazine. Shall we try it with some of those nice shiny bullets in?'

Magazine out, new one in, load.

'Where is the little redeemer? One!'

Bobo mumbled the Lord's Prayer: 'Oče naš . . .'

'Two!'

The skies opened, the rain beat down with a roar as though in a desperate attempt to stop what they were doing. He couldn't stand it any more, the sight of Bobo; he opened his mouth to scream that he was the little redeemer, he was the one they wanted, not Bobo, just him, they could have his blood. But at that moment Bobo's gaze swept across and past him and he could see the wild, intense prayer in it, saw him shake his head. Then Bobo's body jerked as the bullet cut the connection between body and soul, and he saw his eyes snuff out and life drain away.