A passage from War Story

Writing in the fictional story thread reminded me of this passage. It has stayed with me for years - I think it's beautifully written. It's from War Story.

Amira waited alone in the cellar, accompanied only by rats and a half-mad cat that stared and hissed at her from a corner.

She felt silly now, squatting with her pillow over her face. It had not seemed so bad when the others had been around, even those who laughed at her.

During a lull in the shelling she stood up and wandered around the dark cavern, touching the walls and running her fingers over the damp bricks, picking at the moss that grew in the mortar.

She thought that she could feel the heat of the flames now, but they had told her that she was in no danger of being burned alive; the door was too old and heavy and the rest of the cellar was stone and brick. The worst that could happen, they said, was that the door might crack and fall apart, but at this late stage such a thing did not matter.

They had been so reassuring, even at the last when they could not keep the worry from their faces. Again she looked at the map drawn in the dirt. It had been a gesture, nothing more than that, and she knew it - she could never make it on her own, but nonetheless she appreciated their consideration.

She reached into her coat and drew out the pistol, holding it out in front of her, posing, her finger lightly on the trigger. And then she smiled. The gun was just like the map, another gesture.

When they had gone this time, they said it was for the last attempt. If they failed it would be the end, no second chance. They would come back for her one way or the other, with or without re-enforcements, and the Arab one had joked that it was a long way to come just to pick up a woman.

And then they had gone and she had watched them until they vanished. She would keep her promise not to move.

The shelling began again, but this time she continued pacing the floor. The noise seemed to be closer now and there were strange sounds like car engines, only deeper in tone and with more of an echo, and the coughing sound of exhausts.

She thought of going up to the door and peering out, but she stayed where she was. Whatever it was, it was better not to know.

She looked at her watch: 0300. There was no need to worry, hadn't he said that the job would take a while?

She slumped to the floor and closed her eyes, drifting into a broken dream of strange images, of explosions and nameless faces, until a scuffling sound at the door jerked her awake.

So it was time.

She rose to her feet, picked up her bag, patted her hair and smoothed down her skirt. At last they were on the move.

Despite her better judgement, she thought of Samir and the Sarajevo parks, permitting herself a moment of self-indulgence, then she moved towards the door.

At first she did not realize that they were Serbs. It was not until she heard the laughter and the strange nasal accents that she knew. She sighed and reached into her pocket again for the pistol, then she backed against the wall as the two men came down the steps, laughing at her and coaxing her.

And still they moved toward her, even as she raised the pistol and placed the barrel in her mouth. They did not even break stride.

She could taste the metal. It was a nasty taste, not something to put inside your mouth, she thought, as she dropped it to the floor.

It had been a gesture.

They grinned as she stepped toward them, her head held erect. At least she would not grovel, she told herself. Whatever happened, she would retain some sort of dignity.