Free The Devil Couldn't Break Me by Laura Aslan

note. He wasn’t as happy as the first bus driver, telling me off and saying I should have changed it at one of the local bars or shops. He was speaking Albanian too so I answered him in the same tongue and said that we were free now and that the United Nations were here and they had saved us and who cared about money anyway. It seemed to work as he reluctantly allowed me on board albeit with a grumble and a shrug of his shoulders.
    After an hour we came across a huge military checkpoint. There were soldiers everywhere and the atmosphere on the bus could be cut with a knife as I heard someone say that we were pulling into a Serbian populated town called Gracanica where there had been a lot of trouble. This time the traffic was heading in the other direction and it was convoys of Serbs fleeing for their lives as Kosovans and Albanians took out their frustration and bitterness on the town of Gracanica and the Serb men women and children who lived there. This was no different to what I was doing, fleeing from the town where I had grown up. It was utter madness, the futility of it all, how blind can man be?
    I peered into the back of a large car as it passed by the bus window. There were five small children squeezed onto the back seat, the youngest about a year old and the oldest, a girl, probably no more than a eleven years old. Like me they looked lost, puzzled and were looking for answers to why their parents were running for their lives. My heart went out to the little ones.
    It took over an hour to get through the checkpoint at Gracanica after two UN soldiers had meticulously checked the identification and documents of the bus driver. Twenty minutes after that, the bus driver announced that we were driving into Pristina bus station.
    I was aware that I was thirsty, so very thirsty, as I climbed from the bus. I had finished my last bottle of water just outside Gnjilane and that had been some hours ago. It was cold now too, and dark and I pulled my scarf tightly around my neck as I buttoned up my coat. I felt frightened and vulnerable as I looked around for somewhere to go. I didn’t know what to expect but thought there might be some sort of information desk at the bus station or at least an employee to ask directions to the Red Cross people. There was nothing. I looked across the road and spotted a bar on the main pedestrianised street and thought at least I could get a drink of water in there. It was next to a large hotel and a police station. Someone would help me in there, I was sure of it.
    As I opened the door I was hit by a wall of noise, not the peaceful tranquil scene I imagined as families took a quiet coffee on the way home for the evening. It was full of UN soldiers and policeman drinking beer that the bar tender was pulling from a shiny silver pump perched on top of the counter. I had never seen anything like it before. The beer in Veliki Trnovac all came from glass bottles or tins and was only ever seen at a wedding or celebration. This was another world. I had never seen so much beer and it was obviously good because everyone looked as if they were having a wonderful time. It was as if the war outside had stopped at the doorway to the bar. I became aware that many people were staring at me as I walked in but nevertheless the barman greeted me with a big smile. I asked for a water and he poured it from the tap saying there was no charge. He began talking to me and asking where I was from, where I was going. I felt exposed and for some reason didn’t have the confidence or courage to share my predicament with him. I looked at the UN soldiers and the policemen and for the first time since before the incident on the hill actually felt quite safe.
    I emptied the glass of water and asked for another trying to pluck up the courage to walk over to a table of policemen and ask where the Red Cross Camps were. The barman was asking me more questions and clearly flirting with me. That was the last thing I