Trusted Mole: A Soldier’s Journey into Bosnia’s Heart of Darkness. Martin Bell

in 1914. On the left was the famous Europa hotel, now a grotty refugee centre. On the right, over the river, an area of tight, winding, narrow alleys and rocket-shaped minarets. This was Bistrik.

      At the end of the embankment the city virtually stopped dead at the narrowest and oldest part of this steep-sided valley. High to the right – Serbs. High to our front – an old Turkish fort, and higher yet, an Austro-Hungarian barracks, both of which were Muslim-defended. At the extremity of our journey the road virtually looped back on itself, curving tightly to the left. In the centre of the loop stood the most beautiful building of all, the Vijecnica, or Public Records Library, which until August 1992 had been maintained in the Austro-Hungarian style. Like so many other buildings, it was now a hollow burned-out shell. Even its great marble pillars had cracked and splintered in the savage heat which had devoured its precious contents.

      We were now heading west again. The area between the embankment and us – Bascarsija – was the oldest part of Sarajevo and the heartbeat of Bosnian Muslim tradition. To our right a number of tight alleys led uphill. Suddenly, we swung right up one of them. Peter slowed and checked the map on the parcel. He stopped the vehicle. ‘Ulica Romanijska, Apartment Block 2. This is it. That’s your entrance. We’ll wait for you. Good luck.’

      I stepped out of the vehicle clutching the package. The armoured door closed with a clunk and I suddenly felt very alone, teetering on the cusp of two cultures. One lay in the Land Rover. Up some steps and through a dirty glass and metal door lay another. My heart started pounding.

      Trudging up several flights of cold stairs I could have been in any one of hundreds of thousands of examples of hastily built ‘people’s accommodation’ which littered Eastern Europe. At the top of each flight was a small square landing. To the left and to the right, blue apartment doors, each with a small brass plaque. On the fifth floor the door on the right bore the plaque engraved ‘Pijalovic’. I banged on the door. My heart started beating even faster. What do they look like? What shall I say? No answer. I banged again. Still no answer, no sounds of movement from within. I was about to give it a third try when a woman poked her head around the stairs from the floor above.

      ‘They’re not at home. They’re both out …’ Her voice trailed off when she saw me. Her hand flew to her throat and her eyes bled confusion. The two aliens stared at each other. I realised I was still wearing the flak jacket and helmet.

      I cleared my throat, ‘Er … I’m looking for the Pijalovics … for Minka Pijalovic … I’ve got a parcel from her daughter in London …’

      ‘Aida!! You know her? Where is she? How is she? … quick, come upstairs.’ She beckoned urgently. I wasn’t sure what to do, but I couldn’t admit defeat now. Hesitantly, I followed her upstairs and into her flat. Who is Aida? Is that her name, the girl in London?

      ‘How do you know Aida? How is she? … they haven’t heard word from her since the start …’ She had recovered her composure somewhat, ‘… I’m sorry, but … well, we’ve never had a visitor from UNPROFOR here before.’ There! She does think I’m an alien!

      ‘Well, she’s fine … I mean, I don’t know her … all I know is that she’s the au pair to one of our generals in London … this package is from her, I’m only the postman here …’

      ‘And Arna? Where’s she?’ Who the hell is Arna? I shrugged my shoulders and shook my head, ‘Fine, I suppose …’

      We were standing in her tiny kitchen. It was sparse and bare. The window had been smashed in and replaced with a sheet of plastic. The walls and ceiling were gouged and pitted in several places where shrapnel had flown in. How can people live like this?

      She promised to deliver the package. I wasn’t sure. I didn’t know her. How could I trust her not to keep it for herself? She told me her name was Greta and that she was a Serb. The Pijalovics were Muslims. Could I trust her? I had no choice and handed the package over. She looked up at me. There was hurt and sorrow in her eyes. It was as if she’d read something in mine.

      ‘You see. The war has even touched you. The first demon of war is suspicion … we’re all friends here in this block. We look after each other … we have to …’

      I felt sick at having been exposed. Guiltily, I fished out a cigarette. It didn’t occur to me to offer her one. She was middle-aged, proper looking, clean and smart. She didn’t look like a grubby smoker, but her eyes followed my cigarette with a desperate hunger.

      ‘Do you mind if I have one of your cigarettes?’ Her voice was small and hollow.

      I was shocked and suddenly, for the second time in as many minutes, embarrassed. She was embarrassed for asking and I was embarrassed because she was, ‘… I haven’t had one for … I mean … we have nothing … I can’t offer you coffee … I can’t even light this fire … we’ve nothing …’ Her voice started to quaver and I could see her eyes beginning to mist over. Shame engulfed me. All these trinkets I had, these guaranteed comforts of life, all taken for granted by me were gold dust to her, and she had been reduced to begging for a cigarette.

      I dropped the packet and the cheap plastic lighter on the table. ‘Please, have these, I’ve got plenty more.’ I dug around and found a box of matches in a pocket. What have I got in my wallet? I fished it out. Only 40 Deutschmarks! But I dropped those on the table as well. I wished then I’d had more. She stared at the fortune on her table, but she didn’t reject it. If it was probably the most humiliating moment of her life, it was my most shameful. I wished I’d had more to give her.

      ‘You’re one of us … one of “ours” … I mean, the language.’ Ti si nas! One of ours! Am I? What does she mean … one of ‘ours’? What shall I tell her? I can’t lie, not to her.

      I told her straight. I told her the truth. I couldn’t be bothered to lie, not to a woman who had almost burst into tears in front of me. As I explained, the blood drained from her face, replaced by a look of horror.

      ‘Don’t ever breathe a word of this!’ She was breathless, eyes pleading and concerned. ‘Don’t tell anyone … it’s not safe for you here. You’re from over there. You don’t know what we’re like here.’ Her voice became sad, ‘… they should never have sent you. Go home and save yourself!’

      ‘They didn’t … I sent myself. It was my choice.’ Her words had echoed my father’s. Are they all that wicked here? All of them? Have I missed a trick here?

      ‘Here!’ she announced triumphantly as she rummaged about in a cupboard and fished out a bottle of something pink. ‘We’ve got no coffee, but we’ve all got drink. That’s something we’re never short of. At least I can offer you some cherry brandy!’ She was laughing now. At least they still had their dignity and sense of humour. We started drinking and chatting.

      There was a bang on the door. Greta looked startled and suddenly frightened. Cautiously she opened the door and caught her breath. ‘More UNPROFOR!’

      Peter and David stood at the door, Peter looking both worried and relieved at the same time.

      ‘Mike! We were worried about you … thought you’d been kidnapped or something.’

      I laughed, looked at Greta and then at her pile of gold dust on the table. ‘I have been, Peter … in a manner of speaking.’ I finished the drink, kissed Greta on the cheek and left her. I didn’t see her again for two and a half years.

      Peter continued his guided tour, this time up to Kosevo Hospital and the Lion Cemetery for David’s benefit. I didn’t register the rest of the tour (my mind was elsewhere) but eventually we found ourselves back at the PTT building. We dropped David off; he was going to overnight there and catch the airlift down to Split in the morning. The Civil Adviser and Simon Fox were still in the building somewhere and David promised to make sure they caught the last APC shuttle back to Kiseljak. Peter offered to drive me back in the Range Rover. He had something to buy in Kiseljak and added that it would be useful for me to see the Dungeons & Dragons route through