painted white, sarajevo

VIII

When Elias checked his email for what felt like the thirtieth time that night, an email from Ada was waiting.

"She works fast," he said. He glanced at the subject of the email, felt a smile cover his face.

First entry of notebook translated

His heartbeat quickened.

Opening the email, he noticed an attachment. As the file downloaded, his heart started beating even faster.

I'd decided to write, to keep a diary, to record this event... to pour my feelings, emotions, fears down on paper...

Event? Elias bit his lip, his mind already racing. What was this "event"? Did something happen?

August 28th, 1992.

It's 1992, and I'm trapped underground. When I breathe, I can feel and see the dust particles float around my face.

I'm not quite trapped underground—it's of my own will, for my own safety.

It's much better to suffocate from dust inside my basement or accidentally hurt myself here in the darkness with barely any light than to be out there, where even the slightest misstep can put you in a sniper's sight or directly into the path of a shrapnel.

My job includes handing out newspapers—even now, I have newspapers covering my feet. I had given my shoes to someone else after seeing their broken skin and bruised toes. I still have my old, full of holes shoes, I still have to do my job. The people of Sarajevo can't just not get their newspapers. They need them. They need news. They need hope. My job is my purpose now...

Vita. My girlfriend. Is she alive? Is she dead? I don't know. Before all this started, we were together, planning our future. Safet and Vita. Vita and Safet. Two puzzle pieces of contrasting personalities, but we fit perfectly with one another.

He was bleeding. Elias had bit down on his lip so hard that he broke skin surface and drew blood.

April 12th, 1992. The date when the Serbians opened fire from the hills. Opened fire on innocent people, opened fire on people who had done nothing to them. Why? I remember seeing a body twist before my eyes... Pictures so dark, so taunting.

My mind won't stop. It won't stop thinking, it won't stop racing, it won't stop replaying ugly memories.

Even down here, in the moldy basement, I can still smell fire in my nose. The burning of the National Library...

The National and University Library of Bosnia was burnt. Even now, I can see it in my head, the fire, the headlines... Is it still burning? I can't remember.

Our history. Thousands of books. Our library. Our culture. Our enemy's attempt to sever, to erase, what Sarajevo is.

The building itself might get restored, but the books and manuscripts we lost can't be brought back to life, can't be replaced. They burned, turned into ashes and covered the streets of Sarajevo as early snow.

I'm scared.

I have another round of papers to pass around tomorrow, but what are the chances that, in Sniper Alley, a bullet pierces my skull?

Our world now is one trapped within the city limits. Enemies are on hills around us. I don't know where Vita is and I don't know where Momo is—perhaps they're the bodies that lay at rest, forgotten and left to rot, in the square with speckles of blood on their clothes? Maybe they're wounded and in a haze of pain. Maybe they're just sitting in dark basement, alone, just like I am.

Without realizing it, Elias pulled his thumb's fingernail away from his lip. Rather than the excited feeling that he had coursing through his body beforehand, it was more solemn now. He silently cried for the men and women of Sarajevo.

News words buzzed in his mind—some of which he recognized, some of which he didn't. Bosnia, Sarajevo...

How patriotic do you feel towards your country, your city, your home? Do you still feel patriotic when that same city is a trap, constantly preying, constantly eating away at you, under the watchful eye of someone else? 

- Safet Kapić

The entry ended there.

Elias let his mouth part in surprise, head spinning from the onslaught of information that had been thrown at him.

He saved the file, then rocked back in his chair.

Elias doubted that the National and University Library of Bosnia was still standing, even if they had rebuilt it. Was Sarajevo a part of Bosnia? Or was Bosnia a part of Sarajevo?

Safet had mentioned that Sarajevo was a city, hadn't he? Or were Bosnia and Sarajevo two different cities? Then why would the library be in Sarajevo if it was the National Library of Bosnia?

Letting his fingers tap against the table, Elias opened up the email again.

Thanks, Ada. Great job!

Moving towards his phone, Elias picked it up, and tapped in Kane's number as he pulled up the file again.

"Yo? Kane?"

"What do you want?"

"I found evidence. For you to see. Evidence—you know, of the thing I told you about earlier."

Kane barked out a laugh on his end, the noise grating. "Probably just something made up. I wouldn't put my hopes up. Stop messin' around. Why are ya even here, anyway? Go out in the city and explore. Go ta' libraries, museums, and n' parks. Ask around. It's no use if yer tryin' to save a city and you're dwellin' on a history that doesn't exist anymore."

"But—"

"Elias, what good will that do for ya?"

"Huh?" He froze, thoughts flickering through his mind. "I mean—"

"It ain't gonna help you." Elias couldn't see Kane, but he was probably shrugging. "If you thinking of usin' that in your reasoning to save this place, which you better not be thinking of doing, it ain't gonna help."

Biting his lip, the archaeologist sighed into the phone. "Can you just come over?"

"Fine."

Kane hung up, and Elias was left with a beeping phone in his hand. Looking at the file again, he tapped his fingernails against the surface of the table, pondering for a moment.

Was it really a good idea to trust Ada with such an important find? He just met her.

Elias knew he was gullible. He couldn't help it. He was friendly, he was a people-person (which is why his heart hurt—he was alone in his room, at least until Kane came), and he was easily swayed by other people.

But he had handed over the notebook to Ada without a second thought—the notebook belonged to museum, not to him to pass it onto someone else.

I was an idiot, wasn't I? Why did I allow her to take it...?