painted white, sarajevo

XI

An hour later, Ada had sent the next translation to Elias.

Kane was stretched across a bed, a computer resting on his stomach. While the position looked languid and relaxed, his eyes looked like polished buttons, sharp and focused to pick out fine details of what he read.

"The water supply of Wistinburg comes from the mountains, accordin' to this," he said, tapping his screen with a finger. "I wonder if the Sara-what's-it-called's water was the same."

"Sarajevo," Elias said softly, opening up the file on another tab. "Do you wanna read the story, or no?"

"I can wait until it's fully translated. I just need the information you're gonna tell me—that way, I can, y'know, research. Like ya asked." He turned his attention to his computer screen again. "Anythin' ya want me checking right now? Like, any really special events? Disasters?"

"No, not right—"

The memory of reading Safet's first entry swept through Elias. His breath caught in his throat as he remembered the words, littered with fear, hastily written.

"Uh, yeah, actually," he managed. "The burning—the burning of the national library. Of Sarajevo. Bosnia, I think."

"Why'da think that there's going to be anythin'?"

However, Kane fell silent directly afterwards, eyes locked and fastened on the information that he was reading.

Elias finally turned around to look at the file Ada had sent him. Just like the first time, his heart beat faster in his chest, jumping, hooting, excited.

This war in Sarajevo—this attack, this siege, it was something that fascinated him and scared him at the same time.

How inhumane were these people attacking Sarajevo?

March 28th, 1993.

It has been almost a year since it all started.

The memories are as clear as glass. I remember the smells, the noises, the images permanently burnt into my eyes and mind. Dark surrounds me on either side as I suddenly awake.

Despite the cold that bites at my skin, I feel like I'm embraced by fire. The air is scorched hot in my memory, rippling. Smoke stings my eyes as ash, like a light snow, starts to sprinkle down.

The books. They're burning. Paper, of stories, of tales, of our history, is burnt away without a second thought.

The burning of the National Library.

I remember writing about this before—in the beginning. In the beginning, when I was a man with too little knowledge and too much fear.

I've learned to fight, I've learned to take care of myself.

Vijećnica. The beautiful library.

I recall looking up into the sky, looking at the library as flames danced within its windows. There were cries of those trying to save all the manuscripts inside—only for their efforts to fail.

How devastating.

That is—was—the trigger. The burning of the library was the trigger. At that moment, we realized this siege will not end any time soon. Survival is the name of this game.

For survival, people need food, water, and shelter. We need human touch, a physical contact to distinguish us from them, from those animals on the hills around us. We still need to go to work and do our jobs. We still need to walk the streets every day.