Voices. Luka vaguely remembered voices hovering at the edge of his
awareness. Sometimes the voices spoke English, most times it was
Croatian. He'd been running a dangerously high fever for five days.
Since it was almost winter, sheets and rags soaked in rain water and
hung outdoors were used in an attempt to cool him down. The
hospital's only generator was needed to power lights for surgery and
to keep dwindling supplies of perishable medicines chilled. Ice packs
were yet another luxury.
In his delerium, Luka called for his family, and for Sofia. Despite
the best efforts of the meagre staff, his fever remained high. Two
more days passed and Dr. Markajic sadly went to send for a priest.
The American nurse overheard this and shook her head. Back home, a
course of antibiotics and this infection would be cleared up in no
time. She followed the doctor to his office and waited while he
called for the priest to come. When he hung up, she knocked and went
in.
"He's not going to live is he?"
"I doubt it. He's too malnourished for his body to put up a decent
fight. I'm sorry, Sister."
"May I use your telephone? I'll pay for the call."
"Of course. I was just leaving. This way, you have some privacy."
"Not necessary, Doctor. I'll need you to make up me shopping list.
While they're putting the call through, you start writing down
everything you think you will need in the way of medicines and other
supplies." The woman started dialing.
"Sister, are you sure *you* aren't delerious?"
"Well, that's a good question. I should have been payin' more
attention to what was going on around here. I stupidly assumed you
had medicines stored somewhere else. I'm beginning to think me eyes
aren't worth the looking they've been doing. "Hello? Could you
connect me to the overseas operator please?"
Dr. Markajic smiled broadly and started writing. It took nearly
twenty minutes for the connection to be made. When the call finally
went through, the nurse took the two pages of paper and asked to be
put on a speaker phone with a tape recorder running. That request
took all of five seconds.
"Alright, sir, here's the list." She had already read off
instructions for delivery. "I'll say each item twice. Who knows how
long this connection will last. If we're cut off, just phone Chicago
Memorial and tell them to let you copy their supply sheets for the
surgical, internal, and emergency medicine departments, then double
their usual order. Here we go." She read the list carefully
enunciating each item. The man at the other end must have asked her a
question regarding quantities because her reply floored Dr.
Markajic. "A plane-load should just about do it, sir. We need those
things yesterday. There's good people dying here."
When she hung up, she turned to the doctor who was staring as if he'd
seen a holy vision.
"New supplies should be here in just under 36 hours. Let's see if we
can keep these folks alive until then." Open-mouthed, Dr. Markajic
followed her back to the wards. Twenty-eight hours later, five large
trucks bearing the logo of the United Nations pulled up in front of
the building. All of the able-bodied pitched in with the unloading.
The first thing to come off the first truck was a huge refrigerator
equipped with its own generator. The men raced to install it while
everyone else began carrying boxes initialled C.F.F. into the
building. Some were packed in dry ice.
Dr. Markajic couldn't believe his eyes. Penicillin and other
antibiotics, anaesthetics, disinfectant solutions, disposable
syringes, pain killers, anti-inflammatories, latex and rubber gloves,
gowns, masks... it was like Christmas. The staff went to work
immediately. All while this happy bustle was underway, the woman
responsible sat by Luka's bedside quietly praying her rosary. She
looked up when Dr. Markajic came over with a syringe and a vial
containing a broad-spectrum antibiotic. He administered the first
dose and sighed. Two orderlies came up carrying what looked like a
smouldering blanket. Nothing on those trucks was wasted. Dry ice
wrapped in excelsior and rags were placed at strategic points next to
Luka's feverish body.
Two days after the miraculous delivery, Luka regained conciousness.
Once again, the lady with the odd speech was holding his hand. He
smiled weakly at her and went back to sleep. Each time he awoke
thereafter, his nurse was right there. He swallowed what she gave him
without question. Two weeks later he was able to sit up. This time,
Dr. Makarjic was sitting by his bed.
"Where's the Sister?"
"She and the other American ladies were sent home. It seems the war
is moving a little closer to us than their embassy would like. But
don't worry. I told her all about you. It seems you've been adopted,
Luka. The ladies promised that they would get their parish to sponsor
you to come to America as soon as you're well enough.", the doctor
grinned. "I only wish I was twenty years younger, maybe they would
have sponsored me."
"Doctor. I can't leave you to cope with this place on your own."
"That's taken care of. We're being evacuated soon. Most of the
ambulatory cases have already left. Now, that's enough talking for
the moment. You lie back down and get some more rest."
Luka did not object. He stretched out and for the first time, noticed
the clean linens on his bed. "Doctor? Where did these sheets come
from?"
"The same place you're going to; America. Your devoted nurse's former
employers are very rich. She made one telephone call and like magic
we were sent everything we needed. When you say your prayers, ask God
to watch over those women and bless them. They saved your life and
many more besides. Luka obeyed the doctor, never realizing that the
woman whose name he'd never learned would one day save him again.
* * * * *
Philippa Taylor examined the detailed accounts provided by the INS.
Her grandparents had recounted their experiences in the concentration
camps of Germany, so she thought herself capable of dealing with the
events that took place in L*****e. She was wrong.
Luka had been in hospital for three days when a group of about thirty
heavily armed men rode into the village of L*****e. Firing their
rifles into the air, they quickly gained control of the inhabitants
who were mainly elderly men, mothers with small children and young
boys. For two days, the intruders stole everything in sight. The
women were raped while their children watched. Screams and smoke from
gutted cottages filled the air. One woman managed to hide herself and
her small daughter in her outhouse. Peering through a crack in the
wall, she had a ground-level view as, on the third day, the armed men
rounded up all of the surviving residents and used them for target
practice.
This woman's statement included names she'd heard the men shouting to
each other. The leader of the execution squad had been
called "Lukasha" by his cohorts. She watched horror-struck as this
man shot upwards of thirty-five of her neighbors and friends. When
night came, she crawled from her filthy hiding place and escaped to
the woods. She and her child walked for five days before she found
sanctuary in a United Nations refugee camp. There, she told her story
for the first time.
Two other residents also survived. The first was a boy who was shot
in the face and presumed dead. He did not see too much but he did
glimpse the leading marauder. The youth described him as thin and
dark. The last survivor was a middle-aged man whose amputated leg had
meant he was useless as a soldier. He watched from the tower of their
church as the leader shot his neighbor and her twelve year-old
daughter. "I'll never forget him." The man said when he gave his
statement to the UN representative. "He had the face of an angel, an
angel of death. He was smiling as he killed that family."
Somehow, the UN peace-keepers managed to acquire photographs of known
militia members. Included in this motley assortment of rapists,
thieves, and murderers was the fuzzy image of a young doctor obtained
from his medical school. All three witnesses identified this
physician as the man who'd destroyed their homes and families. None
of the UN officials realized that these witnesses had been coached by
a survivor of a very different kind of disaster: Mateus Rovic.
After the car bomb had failed in its work, Mateus acquired a new
identity and made his way to the same refugee camp that would
eventually shelter the survivors of L*****e. He had been there for
some days before they arrived. Despite the widespread suffering
endured by the people in the camp, the village massacre was the first
such incident to be reported here. Not wanting to trust to his bomb
as the sole means for destroying the man who'd brought an end to his
power, Mateus managed to "befriend" the L*****can woman and her small
daughter. He'd kept his eyes open for likely bedmates and this woman,
once she'd been cleaned up a little, was comely.
He was not the first to hear her story, but he was a member of a
small group who heard her re-tell her horrible saga as they waited
for the evening rations. When the woman took her place in line,
Mateus was right behind her.
"You are very brave." He said in his quiet reasonable voice.
"I did nothing but hide myself and my child from wolves dressed as
men.", she replied. "The brave are soon dead."
"You mentioned a name, the leader's name."
"I'll never forget it. They called him 'Lukasha'."
"Oh? That's a pretty common nickname. Too bad. You didn't happen to
see his face?"
"Not clearly. He looked to be about my age; with dark hair. His cap
hid his eyes.
"I wonder... No, it couldn't be. The only man I knew with that name
was a doctor. He was a member of a militia group, though. Maybe..."
"What was his full name. Did you know it?" The woman had forgotten
all about food.
"Well, your description is pretty vague. I don't think it would be
good for me to give you the name of someone who probably had nothing
to do with what you suffered through." Mateus frowned thoughtfully.
He wasn't a tall man was he?"
"Yes. Yes he was, and thin."
"Oh dear. I hope that wasn't Dr. Kovac. He seemed like an honorable
man, at least until his family was killed... No, it couldn't be the
same man." Mateus muttered as to himself, then changed the
subject. "What's your daughter's name?" But the seeds had been sown.
The grief-stricken woman did not waste any time before going back to
the young officer who'd taken her statement. She told him she
suspected "Lukasha" was a former militia man and she gave him the
surname she learned. She was not unfair. She did mention that Kovac
may not have been the same man.
Thereafter, Mateus kept his ears and eyes open. By volunteering to
help at the camp's infirmary, he was able to casually mention Luka's
name and profession to the other two survivors. Then, in a camp with
over one thousand people and hundreds more arriving everyday, he
disappeared.
As Philippa made her notes, she couldn't know that the witnesses'
descriptions of the massacre, although real in every detail had been
tainted. The leader had been called "Lukasha" only because that was
the name of the small town he came from. None of the three survivors,
or anyone else for that matter, would ever know that Gregor Kondac
was this monster's legal name. By the time the visiting authorities
began to search the town where Luka lived, he had been in the United
States for almost six months. Without Mateus there to corrupt those
who were asked about Luka, the truth was told... after a fashion.
Former neighbors confirmed that the young doctor's family had been
killed in an air raid. However, they added, Dr. Kovac was also in all
likelihood dead as well, the victim of a car bomb. Relieved at being
able to close the inquiry, the UN officials accepted that Dr. Kovac,
his mind turned by grief had been responsible for the massacre and
was now before a sterner justice than any known on earth. *They*
stopped searching, but Mateus didn't.
Copyright Footer', 'This site is not affiliated in any way with "ER", its writers or production company, or NBC, and makes no profit from the show. The ERROS skin is by Brihana. The script is eFiction version 3.4.2© Tammy Keefer, http://efiction.org\r\n