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It was Easter weekend. On Saturday, the surgeon’s head nurse arrived to describe the preparation for the brain surgery. She seemed upbeat and managed to make the biopsy sound routine. This did not quell my father’s fears. As she described where they were going to shave my head—the front part above my right forehead about four inches in toward the crown—I listened impassively, and my dad was impressed by my dignity. It was only later that night that I began to break down. Seeing me upset made my dad cry too. Then he heard me laughing. There is an urgent need for more doctors, especially as Nedret, Ilijaz, and the others begin to burn out under the flame of constant responsibility. Ham radio operators continue to transmit requests to Tuzla for relief. Then, a few days after the last aid convoy and the offensive toward the Drina, thirty-six injured and frostbitten men stumble into town, some carrying others. They are remnants of a group of 102 who set out for Srebrenica from Tuzla, bent beneath American-made rucksacks filled with fifty to one hundred pounds of German medicines and munitions bought in Croatia by refugees from eastern Bosnia. Serb soldiers laid an ambush. Some of the Muslims managed to get away. Lost in the snowy hills, they trekked for twenty-one days in sub-zero weather, running out of food. Pause. I raised my hand rigidly in front of me. He wrote“stiff-bodied” on his chart. “Wha?” No emotions. Nothing.
