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Again, the war in eastern Bosnia reminds Eric of a passionate fight between brothers. On the way back to Belgrade, Eric questions whether the fact that they reached Srebrenica, even with their valuable medical kits, has meant anything. He thinks of the white-coated medical staff standing up in the hallways to shake hands. They seem to have had just enough strength to put on their dirty gowns. In the rooms behind them nobody has thought to separate children with burns—very susceptible to infection—from people with lung infections. A patient’s broken femur wasn’t even stretched into traction. And the most vivid image in his mind is of that crying little girl, with her pathetic homemade splint. “I want to show you what I brought,” he tells the Bosnian doctors. In the mornings, Ilijaz and a few friends hiked up the nearby hill, Kalina, to give themselves a view of the single paved road that wound southeast from Srebrenica toward the Bosnian border town of Skelani and ultimately across a bridge to Serbia. From the hilltop, they watched Serb military patrols pass back and forth and saw tendrils of smoke—first white, then dark—rise and bloom like flowers over the graves of Bosnian Muslim villages to the southeast. They witnessed lines of villagers stumbling into Gladovi?i, bent beneath hastily packed bundles of possessions, searching for refuge from the Serb nationalist soldiers they called Chetniks.
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