Bosnia – Herzegovina

   It was nearly noon in the little border village of Tenica. The overcast that had shrouded this spring morning in a damp haze was beginning to clear. Twenty-seven year old Dimiter Markovitch, umbrella in hand, was the first to leave the Eastern Orthodox Church, followed by her younger brother, sister, the elderly Mayor and Mrs. Markovitch. In pairs, they walked the short distance to the center of town where other parishioners were gathering in the square to celebrate, following the Easter Paschal Vespers service. A traditional dinner of lamb, and breads baked by the women of the congregation, would be served in the community hall adjacent to the square.

   The band was assembled and tuning their instruments when they arrived. Dimiter paused to survey the little park. Trees were greening out. Thin shards of sunlight pierced the openings in the clouds, lighting the cypress trees and momentarily illuminating into brilliance a carpet of scarlet red tulips.

   Families gathered around the base of the ornate wooden bandstand, positioning themselves on chairs and chatting quietly while small children carrying bright red eggs skipped and played among the gathering crowd.

   Dimiter left her parents chatting with friends and strolled up a small grassy hill overlooking the park. Listening to muffled voices, of gentle laughter, she leaned against a tree, soaking in the beauty and the joyousness of the sounds and colors below her. At this moment the war seemed far removed from this place, this time. Grateful that her town had been spared the turmoil and the fighting, and and was now celebrating this holiest of days, she sighed in contentment, then drifted deeply into her own private thoughts . . . .

   Puffs of dust rose from the dirt on the pathway below, simultaneous with the sudden deafening din of assault weapons. She stared, first in wonderment, then in disbelief as bullets tore up the ground around the villagers. Screams of the injured and dying pierced the spring air. Dimiter's large, dark brown eyes momentarily widened in confusion, then fear at the sudden, unexpected outburst. She glanced quickly to where her elderly father was standing just as a bullet smashed into his head, sending pieces of skull and bloody debris in all directions. Her mouth opened as a slow groan of anguish rose from her chest and stuck in her throat. She swung around, viewing her mother just as another bullet ripped open her chest. The force of the impact blew her mother backward, slamming her to the ground. “CROSSFIRE! MY GOD - THEY'RE CAUGHT IN A CROSSFIRE!”

   Dimiter, frozen, stared at the sight in ice-like fear. Then adrenaline took over. She screamed - her feet began to move in senseless directions - nowhere, just running as bullets slammed into the ground around her. She heard dull crackling sounds as they splintered the wall of the wooden bandstand. Dimiter ran towards her younger brother and sister but stopped short, watching in horror as they exploded from the bullets that riddled their bodies. She began to run again, slipping on the blood that was slowly covering the ground in a solid crimson carpet. A wave of nausea washed over her as she heard piercing, pitiful screams rising above the sound of the gunfire. Her eyes darted in all directions, finally focusing on the ground at her left. There, sitting amidst the bloody chaos was a tiny child of about fourteen months, crying as bullets danced in the dirt around him. Dimiter raced to the child and without stopping, grabbed at him with one hand, never breaking stride as she jerked him into her arms as bullets suddenly exploded in the dirt. Bullets were flying everywhere. She swung the screaming infant up into her arms and clutched him tightly to her chest as she ran, dodging here, darting there,- out of the square and around a corner. Her heart pounded in her race to escape this slaughter of the townspeople. She darted into an alley and spotted an open door to her right. With the baby clutched tightly in her arms Dimiter lunged for the safety of the indoors. Sick, choking, she wanted to scream, but she knew that if she did, death would follow.

   Dimiter clutched the little boy to her chest while she searched out safety from a dark corner of the room. He was exhausted and hoarse from his screams. His voice had changed to dry, racking sobs as Dimiter's legs weakened. She leaned against the darkened wall and slid slowly to the floor, cradling the child in her arms as she went. As much to solace herself as well as the infant, her body began to rock gently back and forth while she softly hummed a broken melody from a childhood lullaby.

   Dimiter could hear footsteps outside – people running, occasional bursts of gunfire still filling the air. She continued to hum as the child slowly quieted. Now occasional silent sobs shook the little boy as his fingers found Dimiter's blood-spattered face and he played with her lips. Tears began to trickle, then stream down Dimiter's cheeks. She grew cold and her body trembled as she continued to rock.

   An hour passed. The exhausted child slept in her arms. Dimiter's mental faculties began to return. Slowly, she ran her hand over her thick black, nearly shoulder length hair, and then gingerly over the blood-spattered flesh of her face, over her legs, arms and torso, looking for any traces of pain or wounds. She found none. "Impossible," she mumbled. She was covered with blood. She looked at the child in the dim light. Blood covered the youngster's hands. "It must be coming from him," she reasoned. Slowly, she began to examine the baby, all the while humming to him as she had once done for her younger brother and sister.

   Not a scratch. . He had survived. She had survived. . And she knew. . She would continue to survive. . Anger and vengeance would motivate her. . But for now, Dimiter had to think.