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CHAPTER 24 By late afternoon, some soldiers are stuffing their mouths full of cakes from the elaborate Christmas dinners left behind by the handful of village women who lived in Kravica. The air fills with the yodels and shouts of thousands of hungry Srebrenicans who follow the soldiers to gather sheep, cows, and oxen from the barns, potatoes and cabbage from the cellars, and anything else they can scrounge. Smoke billows toward the sky from dozens, perhaps hundreds, of houses set alight. As the months passed and war broke out in Yugoslavia’s other republics, Tuzlans, too, began to feel the pressure. Nedret’s father, suspicious of the Yugoslav National Army since it had “spoiled” his son, joined the underground Patriotic League, preparing the city for a potential attack by the country’s own military. On March 22, 1992, soonafter Bosnia’s declaration of independence, he and Nedret’s younger brother were forced into Tuzla’s police station for questioning. He grabbed his chest and doubled over, dying of a heart attack before officers could rush him to the hospital. Nedret called his pathology chief, who lived in Serbia, for comfort. He dropped the playing cards on the floor and grabbed his notebook. Dr. Russo explained that they’d heard back from Dr. Dalmau with a confirmation of the diagnosis. Her words flew at him like shrapnel—bang, bang, bang:NMDA, antibody, tumor, chemotherapy. He fought to pay close attention, but there was one key part of the explanation that he could hold on to: my immune system had gone haywire and had begun attacking my brain.
