Page 11 of Spread Your Wings

CHAPTER FIVE

Another week passed. Sammy saw Mustafa across the crowded lobby daily.

They exchanged a few polite words at the coffee bar on the mornings he worked there.

Otherwise, they had no contact. It seemed like an unspoken pact.

Mustafa didn’t show up at his door, and Sammy didn’t request clandestine meetings over the front desk.

The snipers hadn’t been back, and Karadzic and his family were in the wind. The hotel had been quiet, compared to other parts of the city and the country. Mustafa also hadn’t returned to Sammy’s room since that night. Maybe it took snipers to get Mustafa to his door, he mused.

The knock at his door on the evening of Wednesday, April fifteenth, surprised him. He opened the door to Vasily, not Mustafa.

“I need your help.”

“Come in,” Sammy said as the thick man barreled past him. Vasily was built like a pit bull.

“What would you say if I asked you to make an investment in your future?”

“Are you threatening me?”

“I’m offering you something.” Vasily sighed. “My boy likes you. He likes you a lot. He has hopes and dreams outside of this war. If he stays, he’s going to die here. You can take him to America, give him the life he deserves.”

“Okay,” Sammy said, ignoring the spreading warmth in his gut. If he and Mustafa had a chance outside of the war, that would be a miracle. It also sounded too good to be true. “What do you need from me?”

“How much money do you have?”

Sammy balked. He’d been saving his bi-weekly paychecks, sure, but he needed some of that money for London. “Fifteen hundred?”

“That’s all? You’ve been here two months.”

“I was broke.”

“I need at least two thousand Marks,” Vasily said.

“Two thousand Marks,” Sammy said, exhaling. “If you exchange my dollars for Marks, you’ll have it.”

“Wait,” Vasily said. “You’re going to give me fifteen hundred American dollars?”

Sammy nodded. “Whatever I can.”

Vasily smirked. “You like him.”

For an answer, Sammy grabbed his wallet from his backpack and handed over the cash. While it made more sense to put the money in his checking account, it was easier to exchange small bills at the local bank.

Vasily counted the bills, grinned like a madman, and then he was gone.

After the door shut and Vasily’s boots echoed in the hall, Sammy wondered what his investment had purchased. He had a moment of panic before he ran out of his room and down the hall, chasing Vasily. “Hey, wait a minute. What’s the plan?”

“You’ll see on Sunday.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“Trust me, American. You’ll see return on your investment.”

“I think I need an answer now, or I’ll call the front desk and report a robbery.”

Vasily rolled his eyes. “Americans. Fine.” He trudged back to Sammy’s room and shut the door behind them. “Give me your plane ticket now, so I know I have enough money.”

“Not until you tell me what the hell is going on.”

“I will exchange your ticket, no cost to you. You’re riding on Air Vasily, for free. Then, I will arrange a school visa for Mumu through my contacts at the UN.”

“Wait. Are you bribing UN officials?”

“How else can I get Mumu to the United States?”

“Go on,” Sammy said, not believing a word. The entire plan seemed surreal, and yet, he wanted to believe, for Mustafa’s sake.

“You two will be part of a Jewish evacuation flight. One rabbi has already paid for the rest of the passengers, so your flights will be cheap. Then, you land in London and go your separate ways, if you want. Mumu can stay with a friend of mine until Tuesday, since Monday is a holiday. Christians and their holidays.” Another eye roll from Vasily.

“All the paperwork should be approved by Tuesday morning. You will be on the same flight to Atlanta, and Mumu can start his new life.”

He held out his hand, and Sammy reluctantly handed over his plane tickets to Vienna and London.

Sammy shook his head as Vasily tucked them into his inner coat pocket and left the room again. Sammy had a feeling he’d get to the airport on Sunday and still have no clue what Vasily had done with his money. Worse, he might find himself screwed out of a flight to London.

The eighteenth of April seemed like any other day, if Sammy didn’t think about the war.

Spring had finally taken hold in Sarajevo.

The temperature warmed to fifty degrees Fahrenheit by ten o’clock in the morning, with the predicted high in the upper sixties.

Granted, the papers didn’t measure temperature in Fahrenheit.

Sammy guessed and hoped he got the conversion right.

During a two-hour break in the afternoon, he packed his belongings into his two bags.

His tight finances had kept him from buying souvenirs, at least. His clothes still fit in the rolling bag.

He’d even dropped some books he’d purchased and read at the local library, making his backpack even lighter.

He wanted to find another English book before they reached London.

It would be a long travel day if he had nothing to read.

After a late night preparing for the early morning broadcast, he said goodbye to his teammates. Tima hugged him. Howard shook his hand and wished him luck until they met again. Tol was Tol. A side hug, a “Good job,” and then, “Get out of here. Make us all proud back in Atlanta.”

It was already one a.m., and Sammy’s alarm was set for four.

He tried to sleep and couldn’t. He couldn’t stop thinking about Mustafa.

He’d been working too hard the past few days.

They hadn’t seen each other at all. Thoughts of Mustafa filled his head.

He’d seemed so small in his hospital gown.

He’d been so scared the night the snipers overran the Holiday Inn.

Sammy wished Mustafa safe passage to the US, and soon. He hoped Vasily had it all figured out.

The room’s alarm clock blared before Sammy even shut his eyes. He dragged himself out of bed and into the shower with little ceremony. His tired body completed his morning routine on autopilot. His brain still worried about Mustafa.

He was brushing his teeth when someone banged on the door.

“Housekeeping.” He only heard it because the bathroom was next to the main door.

He spat the last of the toothpaste into the sink and wiped his mouth. He opened the door, and Mustafa bumped him aside, grabbing his suitcase from the closet floor. “Are you ready?”

Mustafa looked comfortable in a hooded sweatshirt and jeans. The sweatshirt was the kind Sammy liked, a zipper down the middle. It was only half-zipped, showing the tops of the Yankees NY logo.

“Only if you are. Vasily’s plan worked out?”

“If by plan you mean, ‘Bribe everyone on the planet,’ then yes.” He stared fixedly at his feet. “You going to get dressed?”

Sammy hadn’t finished his routine. He shuffled to the bed and pulled on his long-sleeve T-shirt, sky blue with the Braves logo in the middle.

He slipped into his black Oxfords, the last item of clothing he’d laid out the night before.

As he reached for his jacket in the closet, he brushed shoulders with Mustafa, who blushed.

“Your eyes are the same color blue as your shirt.” Mustafa turned without another word and opened the door.

Sammy slung the backpack over one shoulder and stepped into the night-dark hallway.

In the low light, the red lobby carpet resembled dried blood. Vasily’s BMW was parked under the awning, protected from the snipers above. Mustafa took his backpack and directed him toward the passenger door. “Get in and stay down so you don’t get shot.”

Sammy did as he said. He felt like a coward as he leaned over his legs. He touched his forehead to the cool metal glove compartment door.

Mustafa ruffled his hair as he climbed behind the wheel. “Just like that.” Sammy whipped his head around at the rasp in Mustafa’s voice, and his breath caught at the need in Mustafa’s eyes. His throat felt tight and his eyes stung. He had to look away.

The scent of pine air freshener overwhelmed him as Mustafa weaved through parked cars and merged onto the freeway.

Sammy winced each time he heard a gunshot.

Mustafa drove. With his head down, Sammy couldn’t see how fast they were going.

The way his body slammed into the door with each swerve and the way his butt bounced against the seat at each stoplight suggested they were speeding.

The gunshots faded into the distance, and then Mustafa slowed to make two left-hand turns and parked.

“Can you get your bags?” Mustafa asked, his voice a whisper in the quiet car.

Another shot, distorted by the acoustics of the airport buildings, destroyed Sammy’s hopes for a leisurely stroll into the airport. Instead, he got a hasty nod and a dash to the back of the car.

Sammy’s pulse quickened as he saw two other bags: a small carry-on and a large suitcase behind his.

Sammy took his bags and hooked the loops of his backpack over his shoulders.

Any other time, he would have draped the bag over one shoulder, but he wanted his balance for the run to the building.

He grabbed both large suitcases, and Mustafa closed the trunk.

Patchy fog covered them in the parking lot. Mustafa ran, and Sammy followed, hoping the Sarajevo native knew where he was going.

A shot rang out as Mustafa opened the door. “They’re shooting from the hills,” he said, “Hoping to scare travelers.”

Sammy nodded. They’d done more than scare travelers, though. Hundreds of Bosnians had been murdered by the Serbs, with no end in sight.

Sammy made it through the military security checkpoint with no problems. Mustafa’s bags were checked, and then he was pulled off to the side for a pat-down. Two of the security guards pointed toward the back room.

“Find Vasily,” Mustafa said as a guard dragged him that direction.

Sammy stepped forward to intervene.

A hand on his elbow stopped him. “Let me handle this,” Vasily said, suddenly appearing beside them. Sammy had never been so glad to see anyone in his life.

Sammy did his best to stay calm as the two security guards raised their voices at Vasily.

They spoke in one of the country’s languages.

Bosnian, Serbian, or Croatian, he couldn’t tell.

After more terse words, and one of the guards resting his hand on his service weapon, Vasily turned to Sammy.

“Take Mumu to terminal seven. I’ll join you in a minute.

” One of the security guards took Vasily by the arm and dragged him into an office.

“He will be fine,” Mustafa said, heading for the concourse. “The Jews paid good money for a pilot.”

Sammy didn’t ask.

Thick wire grating covered the storefronts. One was a bookstore, with English titles on the covers. As much as Sammy wanted a new book, he hoped to leave Sarajevo before the stores opened. Now that Mustafa was with him, Sammy had better ways to pass the time, anyway.

Mustafa led him to a small terminal with only a couple of benches.

They were already overflowing with women and children.

The older boys sat on the floor by their mothers.

The men leaned against the walls or milled around.

An elderly gentleman with a full beard and corkscrewed ringlets from ears to chest leaned against the terminal desk. He brightened when he saw Mustafa.

“Where is Vasily? We need to board the plane, and he promised to fly us out of this hellhole.”

“Detained by the guards. He’ll be here soon.”

The old man nodded. “Glad you made it.”

Mustafa nodded, and his cheeks flushed pink. “This is Rabbi Gustav,” he said, and introduced Sammy.

“The American?” the Rabbi asked, pointing at Sammy.

Sammy nodded. “Your people are leaving Bosnia?”

“Not all. The ones who want to leave can leave. Many of us are staying to help. It’s my duty to help however I can. That’s why I arranged this flight with Vasily.”

“Best of luck to you, Rabbi.” Mustafa shook his hand.

“I will look out for your uncle, I promise.”

Mustafa led Sammy toward an out-of-the-way kiosk with barstool chairs.

“Are you all right?” Mustafa’s mouth barely moved with the words, and his eyes never left the table top.

Sammy shook his head, still unable to form words.

He felt numb inside. They’d driven through sniper alley.

They were fleeing a war-torn country with a handful of Bosnian Jews.

Vasily had not yet returned from his encounter with the security guards.

Sammy didn’t have words to express how wrong it all seemed, and words were his thing.

After a tense half-hour of growing restlessness in the overcrowded terminal, Vasily arrived.

Two flight attendants with him began pre-boarding the flight.

Sammy and Mustafa boarded last. They threaded through the sea of anxious faces to the back of the plane.

There, Mustafa gestured to two seats usually reserved for flight crew.

Mustafa stowed his backpack under his seat and buckled his seatbelt.

Sammy copied his movements, feeling like he had no more room in his head for independent thought.

The plane taxied smoothly down the runway. The flight attendant gave the routine safety protocols in Bosnian. Sammy rested his head on Mustafa’s shoulder, humming, “Safety Dance.”

Mustafa chuckled. “You sound better, at least. Do you want to talk about it?”

Sammy sighed. “I don’t know if I can do this job.”

Mustafa inclined his head against the top of Sammy’s.

Sammy felt comforted, and brave enough to continue.

“I thought I could go to war-torn countries and report the news. I guess I was na?ve. I’ve heard gunshots in downtown Atlanta before, you know?

It wasn’t a big deal. I don’t know why it’s so scary now. ”

“It’s terrifying,” Mustafa said. “We had the occasional gunshot during Russian occupation, too, but always at the sky, as a warning. There are no warning shots in a war. They shoot to kill.”

Sammy settled against Mustafa’s shoulder, overcome with relief and drowsiness. Mustafa was a warm, solid presence. The drone of the engines lulled him to sleep.