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“Miloš…” Branko repeated, as if tasting the name. “Yes, I’ve heard of him. They say he sees things others don’t. But I’m not sure Ahmed needs these… visions right now.”
Aliya sighed. She knew Branko was skeptical of all these psychological tricks. He believed only in medicine, rest, and hard work.
“Branko, please understand,” Aliya began, trying to sound convincing. “I think Miloš is Ahmed’s last chance. He’s stuck in his past, he can’t move forward. And Miloš… he knows how to draw maps that help people find their way out of the labyrinth of memory.”
Branko was silent for a moment longer, as if weighing all the pros and cons.
“You know, Aliya,” he said finally, “I don’t understand all this psychology of yours. But I see that you sincerely want to help Ahmed. So… I won’t stand in your way. But I can’t guarantee he’ll want to talk to you. Lately, he’s become completely wild. Doesn’t let anyone near him.”
Aliya felt a weight lift from her shoulders.
“Thank you, Branko,” she said sincerely. “We’ll be there in an hour.”
“Alright,” Branko replied. “I’ll warn the nurses.”
Aliya hung up and took a deep breath. The conversation with Branko had taken a lot out of her.
She returned to the room where Miloš still stood by the window, motionless as a statue.
“Well?” he asked without turning around. His voice sounded hollow and tired.
Aliya tried to hide her excitement.
“They’ve agreed to see us,” she said, “but… they’re not thrilled about the idea.”
Miloš smirked, and a shadow of irony flashed in his eyes.
“Since when has anyone been thrilled about the idea of digging around in someone else’s dirt?” he muttered. “It doesn’t matter, Aliya. The main thing is the chance. What we do with it is another question.”
Aliya nodded, feeling anxiety growing inside her.
“Let’s go,” said Miloš, heading for the door. “Let’s go draw his map.”
Stepping onto the rain-slicked planks of the gangway, Aliya took one last look back at the barge. It really did look pitiful and abandoned, like a ghost ship stuck between two worlds.
Inside Aliya’s old Golf, it smelled of dampness and cheap coffee. Miloš silently settled into the passenger seat, as if unwilling to break the reigning silence. Aliya started the engine, and the car shuddered into motion. The wipers screeched as they pushed streams of water across the windshield, but visibility remained terrible.
The road wound through the hills like a snake, and Aliya felt the tension in the car growing with every kilometer. She tried to concentrate on driving, but her thoughts kept returning to Ahmed and the impending meeting.
“Do you often work with patients like this?” Miloš asked suddenly, breaking the silence. His voice sounded hollow and detached.
Aliya started and threw a quick glance at Miloš. He was looking out the window, his face like carved stone.
“You mean… with veterans?” Aliya asked, trying to stay calm.
Miloš nodded without taking his eyes off the landscape outside.
“Yes. With those who came back from the war… broken, wounded, having lost faith in everything. How do you cope with them? What do you tell them?”
Aliya thought, trying to find the right words. She knew Miloš expected more from her than just a formal answer.
“I try to listen to them,” Aliya said finally. “Just listen. Give them a chance to talk, to pour out their pain. Not to judge, not to advise, but just to be there. And also… I try to remind them that they are not alone, that there are people who understand them and are ready to help them.”
Miloš smirked, and a shadow of sarcasm flashed in his eyes.
“‘Not alone’? ” he repeated. “Is anyone in this world truly not alone?”
Aliya felt a prick of irritation. She didn’t like this cynical tone, this constant mockery of everything.
“I believe that people can help each other,” she said, trying to remain calm. “I believe in the power of compassion, in the power of human connection.”
Miloš didn’t answer. He continued to look out the window, as if not noticing her or her words.
“And what do you tell them when they ask why they should go on living?” Miloš asked after some time.
Aliya sighed. This was the most difficult question her patients asked.
“I don’t know,” she answered honestly. “I can’t tell them why to go on living. Everyone must decide that for themselves. But I can help them find that answer. I can help them find the strength to keep fighting.”
Miloš looked at her with a strange expression.
“And you really believe that?” he asked.
Aliya looked him straight in the eye.
“Yes, I do,” she answered. “Otherwise I wouldn’t be doing this work.”
Miloš was silent, as if pondering her words.
Silence hung in the car, broken only by the noise of the rain and the sound of the engine. Aliya felt the tension between them growing with every minute. What awaited them ahead? Could Miloš help Ahmed? And what would happen to them themselves when they faced his pain, his despair, his… scars?
Feeling his intense gaze on her, Aliya involuntarily shivered and gripped the steering wheel tighter.
“Oh, that’s right, I completely forgot I can’t stand smoking in the car,” flashed through her mind. But she said nothing aloud. It felt like now was not the time for remarks. Miloš seemed lost, as if he had wandered into a labyrinth of his own thoughts.
He coughed awkwardly and, lowering the window, shook the ash outside. A gust of cold, damp air, mixed with the smell of wet earth, immediately invaded the cabin.
“And why is it always like this with me: if something can go wrong, it definitely will?” Aliya thought with annoyance, but then checked herself. She couldn’t give in to negative emotions. Now she needed to focus on the main thing.
The road was getting worse and worse. What had recently seemed like just uneven asphalt had turned into a real obstacle course. The car shook and jolted on every bump, and Aliya felt her hands going numb.
“Much further?” Miloš grumbled, exhaling another plume of smoke.
Aliya took a quick look at the navigator.
“About three kilometers,” she answered, trying to keep her tone calm. “We’ll be on the highway soon, it should be better there.”
Miloš was silent. It was clear he was impatient to get there. Aliya felt the tension building in him, like before a jump into icy water.
“You know,” Miloš said suddenly after a long silence, “my grandfather always said: ‘The most reliable way to forget your own problems is to help another person.’ But what do you do when your problems are yourself?”
Aliya sighed. She knew what Miloš meant. Often, veterans suffered not so much from physical wounds as from the mental trauma that gave them no peace.
“You need to learn to live with your scars,” Aliya said, trying to speak as softly and persuasively as possible. “Not to hide them, not to be ashamed of them, but to accept them as part of yourself. And to remember that they are proof that you survived. That you coped.”
Miloš smirked, and a shadow of irony flashed in his eyes.
“Easy to say,” he muttered. “You try it. Try living with memories that haunt you every night. Try to forget the faces of those you lost.”
Aliya fell silent. She didn’t know what to say. She understood that she couldn’t imagine the full depth of his pain.
Suddenly the car reached the highway, and the jolting stopped. Aliya sighed with relief and increased her speed slightly.
Soon the gates of the rehabilitation center appeared ahead. It was a small complex of buildings surrounded by a high fence and dense forest. The place seemed quiet and secluded, as if cut off from the rest of the world.
Aliya stopped the car in front of the gates and pressed the intercom button. A few seconds later, the guard’s voice came through the speaker.
“Hello,” said Aliya. “This is Aliya, the psychologist. I arranged a meeting with Ahmed.”
“Wait,” replied the guard.
The gates slowly opened, and Aliya drove onto the grounds.
She parked the car in a small lot in front of the main building and turned off the engine. A tense silence hung in the cabin.
“Well, we’re here?” asked Miloš, looking at the center’s building. His voice held a strange mix of excitement and fear.
Aliya nodded, feeling anxiety growing inside her.
“Yes,” she answered. “We’re here.”
Turning off the engine, Aliya closed her eyes for a moment. The difficult day was drawing to a close, but the hardest part, it seemed to her, was still ahead. The silence in the car pressed on her no less than the noise of the rain outside.
She looked at Miloš, and her heart constricted with pity. He sat motionless, as if petrified, and looked at the rehabilitation center building with a strange expression. It seemed he saw not just the shabby walls and dim windows, but something much greater – something known only to him.
“I wonder what he’s feeling right now?” Aliya thought. “Fear? Excitement? Or just fatigue from all this nightmare he constantly has to see?”
“Well, we’re here?” she said, trying to put some cheer into her voice.
Miloš slowly nodded, as if coming out of a trance. “Yes,” he muttered, “we’re here… To a place where pain becomes commonplace.”
Getting out of the car, Aliya felt a gust of cold wind that cut to the bone. She buttoned her jacket and pulled up her hood, trying to warm up.
Together with Miloš, they headed for the main entrance to the building. Aliya felt her heart pounding wildly in her chest. She was scared, excited, and… curious. She didn’t know what awaited them behind those doors, but she felt that their lives would never be the same again.
On the porch, they were met by the doctor on duty, Branko – a tall, broad-shouldered man with a stern look and gray hair. He looked like a true veteran, tired of life and human suffering.
“Hello, Aliya,” Branko said, shaking her hand. “Hello, Miloš. Glad you made it. The weather today – couldn’t be worse.”
“Hello, Branko,” Aliya answered, trying to smile. “Thank you for making time for us.”
Branko nodded and turned his gaze to Miloš. “I hope you don’t disappoint me,” he said, a slight threat in his voice. “Ahmed needs help. He’s a good guy, but… broken. The war has sucked the life out of him.”
Miloš said nothing, only nodded slightly in agreement. Aliya felt a spark of tension pass between the two men.
“Alright,” said Branko, “let’s not stand on the doorstep. Come on, I’ll take you to Ahmed. He’s in his room, as always.”
They went inside the building. The spacious lobby was warm and cozy, but Aliya still felt a kind of oppressive atmosphere. The walls were painted a dull beige, worn linoleum lay on the floor, and the air smelled of medicine and bleach.
They walked down a long corridor, past doors with nameplates. Aliya saw people with extinguished, indifferent looks peeking out from some of the rooms. They looked at them with curiosity and some hidden hope.
“Here,” Branko said, stopping at one of the doors. “This is his room.”
He knocked on the door, but there was no answer.
“Ahmed, it’s Branko,” he said, raising his voice. “I’m not alone. Aliya and… Miloš are with me. They want to talk to you.”
Silence. Aliya felt disappointment growing inside her. She was afraid all her efforts had been in vain, that Ahmed simply didn’t want to see anyone.
“Maybe he’s asleep?” Aliya suggested, trying to maintain optimism.
Branko shrugged. “Maybe,” he answered. “Or maybe he just doesn’t want to let us into his world. He hasn’t let anyone near him for a long time.”
Miloš was silent, as if not taking part in the conversation. He stood to the side, slightly apart from them. But suddenly, unexpectedly for everyone, he took a step forward.
“Ahmed,” Miloš said, addressing the door. His voice was quiet but firm and confident. “I know it’s hard for you right now. I know what you’ve been through. I know what you feel… I know what war is. But I’m here to help you. Open the door.”
Silence fell behind the door. Aliya and Branko held their breath, waiting for an answer.
And suddenly… the door slowly, with a creak, opened.
Chapter 4
The Ashes of Hope
Sarajevo, Spring 1992. Just yesterday, it seemed life was in full bloom: the air was filled with the scent of flowering chestnuts, the rhythms of Goran Bregović drifted from open café windows, and couples strolled hand in hand through the streets, making plans for the future. An atmosphere of hope and carefree joy hung in the air.
But everything changed in an instant. As if at the snap of fingers, the rainbow-colored picture of the world crumbled to dust. Instead of music – the wail of air raid sirens, tearing the silence to shreds. Instead of fragrant flowers – the acrid smoke of fires shrouding the horizon. Instead of ringing laughter – the quiet whisper of prayers and the loud cries of mothers who had lost their children. War fell upon the city suddenly, mercilessly, and ruthlessly, like a enraged beast ready to tear its victim apart.
The news repeated the same thing: “The situation is under control. Our troops are putting up fierce resistance to the enemy. We ask you to remain calm and not panic.” But no one believed these lies anymore. People knew the truth – the city was surrounded, and there was almost no hope of rescue.
On the streets, like mushrooms after rain, checkpoints and barricades sprang up, built from sandbags and brick fragments. Soldiers with rifles at the ready patrolled the streets, looking for the enemy. At night, the city plunged into pitch darkness, broken only by flashes of explosions and tracer bullets.
All sorts of rumors circulated in the city. They said Serbian snipers were shooting at children and pregnant women. They said marauders were operating in the city, robbing and killing civilians. They said the UN was going to send peacekeeping troops, but it never happened.
Huge lines formed outside bakeries and shops for bread and water. Prices skyrocketed, and many people were starving. Speculation flourished in the markets, and a piece of bread cost a fortune.
In the evenings, gathering around the few working radios, people tried to learn any news. Announcers read lists of the dead and missing, and many recognized the names of their relatives and loved ones in these lists.
An atmosphere of fear, despair, and hopelessness reigned in the city. People understood that their lives had changed forever and that they faced difficult trials.
During this grim time, Miloš, like many other students, received a draft notice from the military commissariat. He was to report to the assembly point and go to the front.
Miloš understood what awaited him. He knew that war was not a romantic adventure but dirt, blood, and death. But he also understood that he couldn’t stand aside. He had to defend his city, his family, his friends.
The night before leaving for the front, Miloš couldn’t sleep. He lay in bed thinking about what lay ahead. He remembered his former life, his dreams, his hopes. He understood that he might never see his loved ones again, never hear music in a café, never smell the flowering chestnuts.
His grandfather’s words echoed in his head: “War is a test of humanity. And only those who pass it are worthy of being called human.”
Miloš understood that he was about to face this test. And he had to pass it at any cost.
Miloš, yesterday’s medical student whose idols were not generals but great surgeons like Nikolai Pirogov, who dreamed of a quiet, peaceful life dedicated to saving people, had overnight become a military doctor. He, along with other senior students, was mobilized in the first days of the war. No final exams, no solemn speeches, no diplomas. Instead – a dirty military uniform, a Kalashnikov, and orders to report to a field hospital set up in the basement of an old, half-destroyed school on the very outskirts of Sarajevo.
On the way to the assembly point, Miloš remembered the words of his anatomy professor, an old, grumpy but very talented doctor: “Medicine is not just a science, it’s an art. The art of compassion, the art of healing, the art of prolonging life.” Back then, these words seemed like a beautiful phrase to him, but now he understood the deep meaning within them.
Chaos and confusion reigned at the assembly point. Hundreds of young guys, just like him, scared and confused, crowded into a cramped room, awaiting their fate. Some smoked silently, some read prayers, some desperately said goodbye to relatives and loved ones.
Miloš, standing in line to receive a weapon, overheard a snippet of conversation between two soldiers.
“They say the Serbs have gone completely wild,” one of them said. “They shoot at anything that moves. Spare no one.”
“To hell with them,” answered the other. “We’ll show them! We’ll stand for our land to the last!”
Miloš shivered. He was scared. He had never held a weapon before. He didn’t know how to kill. He wanted to heal, not to fight.
He remembered his father saying: “War is always a tragedy. And it doesn’t matter who’s right and who’s wrong. In war, it’s always the innocent who suffer.”
Miloš had barely crossed the threshold of the field hospital, located in the damp, mold-smelling basement of a former school, when his senses were assaulted by a suffocating mixture of smells: bleach, masking the stench of rotting flesh; blood, saturating every centimeter of space; and medications, meant to somehow ease the suffering. He mechanically recalled lectures on desmurgy (the art of bandaging), where the professor, as if foreseeing the future, had said: “Bandages and cotton are your main allies in the fight for a soldier’s life.”
In the chaotic cacophony of groans, cries, and incoherent pleas for help, he discerned someone’s muffled sobs. Suddenly, like a whirlwind, Jasmina rushed up to him – a young nurse with a blood-smeared face and disheveled hair, her eyes filled with primal terror. Her fragile figure seemed utterly defensible in this kingdom of death.
“Doctor! Please, help!” she exclaimed, grabbing Miloš by the sleeve of his dirty gown. Her fingers dug into the fabric convulsively, as if he were her last hope. “We have an operation… Urgent! Shrapnel… Very young…”
Miloš, as if snapping out of a stupor, followed Jasmina into the makeshift operating room – a tiny room lit only by a single lightbulb hanging from the ceiling on a thin wire. In this meager light, people’s faces seemed pale and haggard, as if devoid of life.
In the center of the room, on an old, rust-covered table, lay a soldier – just a boy, no more than eighteen years old. His face was covered in blood, and his body twitched convulsively. Damir, an experienced surgeon nicknamed “God’s Scalpel” in the hospital for his incredible skill and ability to save even the most hopeless patients, was bent over him.
“Miloš, brother, thank God you’re here!” Damir exclaimed without looking up from his work. His voice sounded tired but confident. “Need help! Shrapnel wound to the abdomen. Liver and spleen damaged. Heavy bleeding. Time is not on our side!”
Miloš, suppressing a wave of nausea, put on a gown, mask, and gloves with trembling hands, trying not to think about what he was about to see. A quote from Hippocrates surfaced in his mind: “A physician must have the eye of an eagle, the heart of a lion, and the hands of a woman.”
“What needs to be done?” asked Miloš, trying to sound calm and confident.
“Hold the retractor!” Damir commanded, pointing to the instrument. “Need to widen the wound so I can reach the liver. Carefully, don’t damage the nerves!”
Miloš, gathering all his willpower, followed Damir’s instruction. The wound was horrific – blood oozed from it, serous fluid leaked out, and torn tissues of internal organs were visible. He felt sick, but he forced himself to look.
“Pressure’s dropping!” Jasmina panicked, watching the monitor. “Thready pulse!”
“Adrenaline! Cordiamine!” Damir commanded, not stopping his work. “And someone, notify the blood bank! We urgently need a transfusion!”
Jasmina, wound up like a spring, carried out all of Damir’s orders. She worked quickly and precisely, like a robot programmed to save lives.
Miloš, watching her actions, thought that war was not only shooting and explosions but also exhausting labor requiring immense strain of strength and nerves.
The operation lasted several hours. Damir, without straightening his back, methodically sutured torn organs, tied off bleeding vessels, and removed shrapnel. Miloš, despite fatigue and fear, continued to assist him, following his every word.
At some point, Miloš caught the soldier’s gaze. In his eyes, he saw not pain and despair, but a strange resignation, as if he had already said goodbye to life. Miloš felt unbearably sorry for this young guy, forced to die far from home, from family, from his beloved girl.
He remembered his mother, seeing him off to war, saying: “The main thing is to remain human. Don’t become hardened. Don’t lose faith in goodness.” Miloš understood that now, more than ever, he needed to remember these words.
“Done,” said Damir, leaning back in his chair and wiping sweat from his forehead. “Sutured… How is he?”
Jasmina bent over the soldier, feeling his pulse. “Weak, but there,” she answered. “Pressure is slowly rising.”
Miloš sighed with relief. “Will he survive?” he asked, looking at the soldier’s face.
Damir looked at him with sadness. “I don’t know, Miloš,” he answered. “We did everything we could. The rest is in God’s hands.”
Jasmina touched the soldier’s cheek and whispered: “Hang on, dear. We’re with you. You’re strong, you’ll make it.”
Miloš, looking at them, felt a new hope born in his soul. He understood that even in this utter hell, there was a place for mercy, for compassion, for love.
Finishing the operation, Miloš stepped back from the table, feeling his knees treacherously buckling. His head rang, his vision swam. He removed the bloodied gloves, feeling the sticky moisture on his hands, and mechanically threw them into the waste bin. The operation had been unsuccessful. Despite all efforts, the soldier had died right on the operating table. Damir’s last words, sounding like a verdict: “Sorry, kid, we did all we could…” echoed in his head.
Leaving the operating room, Miloš felt as if he had entered a vacuum. The sounds around him muffled, the colors faded. He walked down the corridor as if in a dream, seeing and hearing nothing around him. Fragments of phrases, images of the torn body, the soldier’s dying gaze swirled in his head.
That night, he had seen a person die for the first time. A young soldier, just a boy, with broken legs and a torn stomach. Miloš had done everything he could to save him, but it was too late. The soldier died in his arms, looking at him with eyes full of pain and despair.
Miloš felt the world crumbling around him. He fell to his knees and cried. He cried from helplessness, from pity, from grief. He couldn’t understand how it was possible – for people to kill each other, for the innocent to suffer and die.
“Don’t cry, doctor,” he heard a quiet voice above him.
It was Jasmina. She knelt beside him and gently ran her hand through his hair.
“War is death,” she said. “You have to get used to it. Otherwise, you won’t survive.”
Miloš looked at her with tear-filled eyes, full of pain and despair.
“I can’t get used to death,” he whispered. “I don’t want to get used to death… I want to save people, not watch them die…”
Jasmina hugged him and held him close.
“You’re doing everything you can,” she said. “And that’s the most important thing. You’re here, you’re helping them, you’re easing their suffering. And that’s already a lot.”
That night, Miloš understood that his life had changed forever. He was no longer that naive student who dreamed of a surgical career. He had become a military doctor, a witness to the horrors of war, a man who had lost faith in peace and justice. He had seen hell with his own eyes, and that hell had left its mark on his soul forever.
Leaning against the wall, trying to stop the trembling in his hands, Miloš heard the voices of Damir and Jasmina fading far down the corridor. He felt nauseous, not from the blood, but from the helplessness. The death of the soldier, whose name he hadn’t even had time to learn, had turned him inside out, exposing his utter powerlessness in the face of war. Miloš remembered how the guy had convulsively squeezed his hand, and how his gaze had gradually dimmed.