Families buried the skeletal remains of Srebrenica victims on Monday at the 10th anniversary of the massacre and the West acknowledged its failure to prevent Europe's worst atrocity in 50 years.
Thousands of men form long rows, passing the 610 green-draped coffins one by one above their heads to freshly-dug graves where women in white headscarves waited by wooden markers, many weeping or silently praying.
Each narrow, cylindrical box was tagged with a number and a name. Each was light, containing only bones painstakingly identified by DNA analysis. Each family buried its own, shifting the sodden earth with shovels, buckets or by hand.
The dead had lain for years in hidden pits where they were flung by Bosnian Serb troops in July 2005 after the systematic slaughter of 8,000 unarmed Muslim men and boys taken from what was supposed to be a U.N.-protected "safe area."
"Srebrenica was the failure of NATO, of the West, of peacekeeping and of the United Nations. It was a tragedy that should never be allowed to happen again," said former U.S. Balkans envoy Richard Holbrooke.
Monday's funerals raise the number of identified and buried victims to about 2,000. There are 7,000 body bags with remains still to be identified and 20 more mass graves await excavation.
Daria Sito-Sucic and Maja Zuvela
"Bosnian grief, Western regret at Srebrenica"
Then
She had promised to try to get them twelve hours, but when the knock at the door came, six hours later, Kostmayer knew at once who it was. He swore, slid from beneath the surprisingly clean sheets and into his shorts. "Be right back," he whispered, though he knew Anne was wide awake.
He unlocked the door and stepped into the dim hallway. "This better be good."
Lily gestured and he pulled the door shut. She leaned close, spoke softly. "We found it."
"The dump?" He couldn't bring himself to call it a grave.
"Yes."
"Shit." He rubbed his hand over his face. He needed a shower and a shave. "What's the play?"
Lily looked pointedly past him down the hall. "The boss wants pictures."
"Sure he does."
"We have cameras," she offered. "We can cover it."
They stood very quietly, very close. Sharing air, sharing the same thoughts. Finally, Mickey nodded. "Let me talk to her."
As he turned for the door, Lily touched his arm. "It's bad, Mickey."
"We knew it would be. I'll meet you downstairs."
Anne had already scrambled into her clothes and was waiting on the edge of the bed. "What is it?"
Mickey sat down next to her and kissed her hard. "They found something."
"The graves?"
"Yes."
Anne waited. "Can we go there?"
"If you go," Mickey said slowly, "they'll probably be the most important pictures you ever take in your life."
"I know."
"But you'll never be able to sleep through the night again."
Anne studied him – her husband, again, finally – for a long moment. There was grief in his eyes, and great weariness. Concern for her. But he was not telling her she couldn't go. He was only telling her what it would cost.
"Are you going?" she asked softly.
"I have to."
"Then I can go. If you're with me, I can go."
Mickey nodded, with resignation. "Get your stuff together. I don't think you're coming back here."
Now
McCall stared at TV screen. It was the top of the hour again, one in the morning, and the anchor was starting to wither. The words he read from his teleprompter had already been read more than a dozen times, and he was losing his ability to put any new emphasis on them.
NATO bombs were falling in the Balkans, and there were new startling horrifying pictures …
McCall looked away. He finished his drink, thunked his glass down on the bar.
Pete O'Phelan said, "One more?"
"No," Robert sighed. "I think I've had enough."
She gestured towards the television. "We knew it was coming."
"Oh, yes. Yes, we did. And the knowing doesn't help one bit."
His old friend folded her arms on the bar. It was Friday night, a holiday weekend, and the place was crowded. She acted like he was her only customer. "How can I help, Robert?"
"You can produce Lily Romanov for me." He'd been driving around for hours, mostly along the waterfronts. O'Phelans had been a forlorn hope; he didn't really think the agent would be there. He just needed a drink.
Pete's eyebrow rose. "Is she missing?"
"Yes. No. I don't know. She flew back with Anne Keller. And those pictures. And she seems to have vanished."
"Have you checked her apartment?"
"Yes. She's been there, but she's not there now. Her car's still in the garage."
"The office?"
Robert shook his head. "I don't think she's really in any danger. But," he gestured towards the television, "she was there. And on top of everything else she's been through … I don't know, Pete. I'd just be happier if I knew where she was."
"You're seeing yourself."
"I'm not. I just … " He stopped. "Perhaps you're right. Perhaps I am."
Pete nodded. "You're not going to find her in here, Robert."
"I know. I know." He stood up. "If she does turn up here, you'll call me?"
"Right away."
"Good. Thank you." He kissed Pete on the cheek and went out to the streets again, in search of Lily and in search of himself.
August 18, 1995
The Christian Science Monitor
Evidence Indicates Bosnia Massacre
NOVA KASABA, BOSNIA-HERZEGOVINA – An on-the spot investigation by The Christian Science Monitor has uncovered strong evidence that a massacre of Bosnian Muslim prisoners took place last month.
A Monitor reporter, traveling without the permission of rebel Bosnian Serbs, looked into charges by American officials that hundred, perhaps thousands, of Muslims were killed by the Serbs after they overran two UN-protected "safe areas."
The Serbs deny the US charges, which were based on spy-satellite photos.
The visit by this reporter was the first by a Western journalist to the site of the alleged atrocities near the former safe areas of Srebrenica and Zepa. The physical evidence was grim and convincing:
At one site shown in the spy photos this reporter saw what appeared to be a decomposing human leg protruding from the freshly turned dirt.
Large, empty ammunition boxes littered the open field where the ground had recently been dug.
Diplomas, photos, and other personal effects of Srebrenica Muslims were scattered near the areas of disturbed earth.
At a soccer stadium in a nearby town, human feces, blood, and other evidence indicated large numbers of persons were confined, and perhaps shot.
UN officials estimate that 4,000 to 6,000 Muslim men are still missing in the wake of the Srebrenica and Zepa assaults. So far there is little indication that these men are being held prisoner. Dozens of local Bosnian Serb civilians and soldiers, most of them unaware they were speaking to a foreign journalist's translator, said they heard nothing about a large group of captives from the former enclaves.
David Rhode,
"Evidence Indicates Bosnia Massacre"
Then
The sun was just starting to rise when the truck finally stopped. They were in the deep woods, but no birds sang here to greet the dawn. There was only the whisper of leaves on the air, and the smell.
There were seven of them. Lily drove; with her in the cab was Nancy Campbell, a young courier Anne barely knew. Anne rode in the bed of the truck with Mickey's arm around her shoulder the whole way. Jacob Stock was with them, and two other men she didn't know at all. They all looked alike. Silent and pale and utterly exhausted.
Lily said, "Stay with the truck," to the other woman and started into the woods.
Behind her, the younger courier protested. "I want to come with you."
"Stay with the fucking truck!" Romanov snarled. Then she disappeared into the brush, up a bank. Anne and the men scrambled after her.
It wasn't a far walk. Just through a little stand of trees and over a low ridge. There was a valley below them, cleared for farming, and the dirt was churned in uneven heaps. On the far side, trucks had worn a rut through the tall grass in the direction of the enclave.
The smell was intense. The silence was oppressive.
There were trenches filled with bodies, as if they had begun the massacre in a very orderly fashion. Then the bodies were merely piled. Others were scattered, left where they were killed.
Mickey pointed to the two strange men. "There, and there. Don't let anybody sneak up on us." They moved into the trees, glad to be away. To Stock, he said, quietly, "Let's try to get an estimate, at least." Stock nodded and started to the north side of the mass grave.
He put his hand on Anne's elbow. "Annie? We need pictures. If you can't take them, give the camera to Lily. We have to have the pictures, or none of this ever happened."
She stared at him, in shock. His eyes, his warm and weary eyes, reached her in a way that nothing else could have. And his words. The most important pictures of her life. And of their lives, too. Without her pictures, perhaps no one would ever believe what had happened here.
An old man, with his arms around a small boy. His grandson? But his frail thin body could not protect the child. His wasted arms had only given a last moment of shelter, to let the child know he had not died alone.
She took a deep breath, mourning the smell of waste in the air, and she got out her camera.
She was aware, vaguely, that Lily was at her side. That the courier stayed with her, guided her, just as she had done in Berlin a million years ago. Somewhere, it registered that the agent was weeping. But she didn't have time to feel it. There were only the pictures, and the sudden sense that they didn't have much time.
The trenches, the center of the killing. Organized, orderly.
Out from the trenches, more chaotic. More violent. Half a dozen teenagers heaped together who had not been shot. They looked as if they'd been beaten to death.
A line of smaller boys, all stabbed.
The last in the line had had his head severed crudely from his body. The bones of his spine shone white in the rising sun. His eyes were open, looking towards the trees, looking for rescue that never came, perhaps, or just looking towards home. His eyes were brilliant green.
Not even birds sang here.
And then Lily shouted, "God damn it, don't!"
Anne spun, the camera still clicking in her hands. Fifty yards away, at the top of the ridge, Nancy Campbell stood, frozen in horror. Just looking.
The young woman did not look at the other agents, even when Lily shouted again. The loudness of her voice seemed shocking, and Anne could not understand why she was yelling until Campbell's hand came up, gloved in black …
… no, not gloved …
Mickey shouted, too, and they were both running, he and Lily, but the ground was too soft and the ridge was too far and the woman didn't hesitate, didn't slow, and Anne's camera clicked of its own accord as the agent brought the gun up to her head and simply pulled the trigger.
November 16, 1995
The Christian Science Monitor
Graves Found that Confirm Bosnia Massacre
SAHANICI, BOSNIA-HERZEGOVINA – From 100 yards away, the freshly turned earth of the field appeared to be covered with haphazard dots. Five feet away, the dots became empty shoes, shattered eyeglasses, and decaying clothing.
In the woods nearby, three canes and a crutch jutted from a mildewing heap of more than 100 windbreakers, sweatshirts and leather jackets. No evidence of battles having been fought was found.
The forlorn debris and areas of fresh digging, discovered by the Monitor on Oct. 29, are the most specific and convincing evidence yet that Bosnian Serb forces massacred thousands of Muslim civilians – including the elderly and crippled – after the fall of the UN "safe area" of Srebrenica.
Bosnian Serbs say no massacres occurred and the graves are filled with Muslim soldiers killed in combat. But the crutch that was found is something no combatant would lean on. The three wooden canes are supports no soldiers would need.
The Monitor has visited four of six possible mass grave sites identified by US spy planes and satellites around the fallen Muslim enclave of Srebrenica. At each site, human remains, documents from Srebrenica, Muslim identity cards, personal photos with Muslim names on them, or civilian clothing have been found.
Europe's worst massacre of civilians since World War II was apparently carried out with brutal efficiency on the nights of July 14, 15 and 16, as nine survivors interviewed by the Monitor in September say it did. Bosnian Serb military commander Gen. Ratko Mladic, whom eyewitnesses place at this and three other execution sites, apparently ordered the cold-blooded executions of as many as 5,000 Muslim prisoners.
…
US intelligence officials announced last week that Bosnian Serbs have already tried to destroy evidence at one of the mass graves last month and could be tampering with others now.
The US has had photographic evidence of six graves around Srebrenica since late July and US agents may have visited the sites to confirm that they are not the results of agriculture or construction work, according to intelligence officials. US officials estimate that six graves are large enough to hold up to 2,700 bodies.
The Bosnian Serbs have repeatedly refused to grant the UN, tribunal investigators, and journalists free access to the area around Srebrenica since the enclave fell. Using pinpoint locations obtained from US-based intelligence sources, the Monitor visited the Sahanici area for three hours on Oct. 29 without the permission of Bosnian Serb authorities.
This correspondent changed the date of issue on a Bosnian Serb press accreditation from 19/12/94 to 29/10/95 and used it to pass through Bosnian Serb checkpoints and reach the area. This correspondent was arrested at the execution site by Bosnian Serb police, stripped of all documents and photos taken of the area, accused of espionage, and jailed for 10 days.
David Rohde,
"Graves Found That Confirm Bosnia Massacre"
Now
Robert McCall drove slowly in the far right lane, with half an eye on the traffic and the other on the people to the sides. He barely noticed the patrol car the first time it passed him. The second time it went by, more slowly, Robert realized that the officer in the passenger seat was staring pointedly at him.
He was going to get arrested if he kept this up.
McCall waved reassuringly to the officer and turned the next corner. When he saw a parking space, he slid the Jaguar into it and brought out a road map. As he'd expected, the patrol car passed him one more time.
He put the map away as soon as they were gone. This was ridiculous. He was looking for one woman in a city of millions. The proverbial needle in the haystack.
And if this particular needle didn't want to be found, she was more than capable of utterly vanishing.
Robert rubbed his eyes. It was late. Control should be back in the city soon. Lily was his problem, wasn't she? Robert wouldn't be out here, risking life and limb and wrath of police, were not Lily Romanov his old friend's lover. Would he?
He would, Robert admitted to himself. If only because he had been in the darkness where Lily Romanov now walked, he would be here.
He took a deep breath and moved the car into traffic again.
For all his attention, he nearly missed her. He would have, if not for the baseball cap. She was sitting alone at a plastic table on the sidewalk in front of a coffee shop. The red hat had been replaced with a black one, the brim pulled low over her face, but it was enough. She still had the same clothes on.
There was not, of course, a convenient parking space. If he went far looking for one, Robert feared that the woman would vanish. He snapped the Jaguar around the corner and parked in the mouth of an alley.
Even in those few seconds, he feared she would leave. But when he walked back to the coffee shop, she was waiting for him, her hands wrapped around a mug. "I ordered you a decaf espresso," she announced.
Robert sat in the plastic chair across from her. "Thank you."
They were silent until the waiter had come and gone. Then McCall said, "Let me help you."
"How?" Her face was blank, expressionless. Eerily calm. He'd seen this look on her before. Even her body language gave away nothing.
How, indeed, Robert thought. "A hot shower and a real meal, for starters," he said with more confidence than he felt. "And in the morning, I know a psychiatrist you can talk with …"
"And lie to?"
"I'm sure the Company has people."
Lily shook her head.
"I've seen the pictures, Lily. I understand how you must …"
The woman held up her hand. "Robert, can we just pretend?"
"Pardon?"
"Just pretend," she repeated. "You pretend that you've just given some lovely, eloquent speech about serving the greater good, about sacrificing our individual lives to help the downtrodden of the world. Or maybe about how freedom can emerge from chaos and horror. How people are at their hearts good, and how the evil of a few men will ultimately be overcome by the overwhelming good of the world. Whatever words of encouragement you're about to come up with, let's pretend you've already said that. And I'll pretend that I've taken your words of wisdom to heart and I have a new perspective on the total cluster fuck that has been Bosnia. Can we just do that and skip the whole conversation?"
If her words had had any emotion, Robert could have been hurt or angry or defensive. But because her voice remained flat, emotionless, he could not respond with emotion. In cold logic – she was exactly right. He shrugged helplessly. "Then how can I help you?"
She looked at him steadily. Her eyes were a thousand miles and a thousand years away.
McCall sighed. "Control's on his way back," he sad quietly. There was a barest, briefest flicker of feeling in her eyes. "Can I at least tell him where to find you?"
She sipped her coffee slowly. "There is a place he used to go with his father …"
"To watch the ships come in." Robert nodded. "I know the place."
She drained her cup and put it down. "I'm sorry, Robert."
"Don't be sorry, my dear. What you've been through, what you've seen these past days …"
"You're about to get a parking ticket."
McCall twisted around swiftly. A parking officer was standing behind the Jaguar, writing on his little ticket pad. "Bloody hell." He twisted back around as he climbed to his feet.
Lily Romanov was gone.
Cut off thine hair, O Jerusalem, and cast it away, and take up a lamentation on high places; for the LORD hath rejected and forsaken the generation of his wrath.
Jeremiah 7:29
Then
They rolled the body in a tarp and put it in the bed of the truck.
"You drive," Mickey said.
"No," Lily answered. She rubbed her eyes impatiently. "I'll stay with her."
She climbed into the truck bed and sat with her back against the cab, her legs stretched out next to the canvas-wrapped body. In the east, the sky was brilliant orange. Birds finally sang, shyly, in the trees.
The wind shifted and the smell of the bodies drifted gently past her. Lily shuddered. The boy, her beautiful friendly green-eyed boy, was somewhere in that scent.
The truck started and bounced gently away. Lily looked at the tarp. The bumps in the road jostled the body, making it look like the young courier was sleeping restlessly under the covers. Nancy Campbell had been her trainee. They'd never been especially close, but they'd spent a lot of time together. There had been a time when Lily could have said one word and kept the girl behind a desk for the rest of her life. It might have been a much longer life.
Lily wanted to feel guilt. Or rage. Or grief. Or anything at all.
She had wept at the grave, unashamed, almost unnoticed. But here, with Nancy Campbell's body beside her, her eyes were dry. She felt hollow, cold. Empty.
She knew the feeling, the lack of feeling, much too well.
Lily closed her eyes. For a moment she was a child again. Alone by a dark road. Wounded as no child ever should be. A fire blazed behind her, gasoline fed, but she did not look back. Her father was dead in the fire. She was alone in the world. And she felt – nothing.
Just walk, just keep walking. Don't feel. Don't worry that you don't feel. Just walk. Just live.
Her head itched and she scratched it absently. Something came off under her nail. She brought her hand down and examined her fingertips. It didn't surprise her to find a tiny black bug there. She scratched again. Then she scratched with both hands.
The bottom of the tarp beside her grew dark with moisture. A good portion of Nancy Campbell's blood was still in the field where she'd died. The rest was now seeping onto the floor of the old truck bed.
Lily's hair hadn't been cut for months. It was as long as it had ever been, nearly to her waist, and it was back to its original color, a pale brown. The ends were badly split. She looked at her hands. Both had small black specks under the nails, and white nits, and specks of red.
"This is ridiculous," Lily snarled to herself. She gathered up the ends of her hair in one hand, twisted it swiftly until it started to knot on itself, drew out her knife and hacked it away.