Gerald Seymour - The Untouchable

Mister said, didn't think about it, 'They all sound the same to me, these names.'

'But you must remember the name and the district Mister. Surely, when you go home, you will tell the charities who have made the gift where their generosity has gone. It is important, surely.'

'Yes,' Mister said. 'It is important.'

On the yellowed grass between the track and a small river, in spate, were the heavy tyremarks of the military vehicles parked up. He saw armoured personnel carriers, flying the German flag, an ambulance and jeeps. Beyond them, over the river, above the trees where snow was scattered, two heavy helicopters hovered, then descended.

'Typical of the Germans to strike completely the wrong note. We are trying to tell frightened people that it is safe to come back to their homes. The people have been the victims of war, perhaps the most savage Europe has seen, and we are telling them that the danger is over. But this is the area of responsibility of the German military, and they have VIPs coming by the helicopters and it is necessary for them to make a show. They are so clumsy, so bovine… In Norway we do not have a good experience of the Germans.'

She left the driver with the jeep. They walked into the village, a long ribbon of scattered buildings that stretched up the hill on both sides of the track. Behind them the helicopters disgorged generals, men in suits and women in smart dresses. Some houses showed no war damage, cattle bellowed from the barns behind them, and smoke puffed from the chimneys. But most were destroyed, their roofs sunk between the four upstanding walls, the undergrowth high around and inside them. A few had bright new tiled roofs and new walls of red brick or concrete blocks, new windows and doors, and washing draped in front of them. Men, women and children walked from them towards the track and formed a thin line of welcome.

' The village, before the war, was home to Croats and Muslims It is easy, Mister, to believe the war was only made by Serbs. The Croats were as bad as the Serbs They waited until the Muslims were defenceless then attacked them. Before the war there were three hundred Muslim families here, and sixty Croat families then there was the ethnic cleansing. The Muslims were expelled, their houses were destroyed – not m lighting but by explosives after they had gone.

Most went toGermany, but they have been expelled again, so they try to return to their old homes and to live beside their old neighbours, who became their enemies. Of three hundred, we now have the first twenty families back. They find their homes have been looted, everything of value has been taken, and is now inside the houses that are not damaged-TVs, stoves, baths, bulbs, even the electric wires, and the cattle, sheep and goats. It is not easy, but my job is to help to rebuild the relations between neighbours.'

Women with small children and babies, and old men With dulled laces, stood in a knot outside a square set building, that had no roof, no glass in the tall windows, and a wide hole where the door should have been They had their backs to the ruin as if it did not exist The women wore old coats against the chill, and the wind snatched. at their headscarves; the men wore berets and thick sweaters, had weathered faces that were expressionless, and the children stared back at Mister and held limply to toys. In the field beside the building were short, freshly painted white pegs.

'It could have been worse, Mister. If it had not been for your generosity I do not think they would have come out of their houses to see the VIPs. The coats scarves, sweaters and toys came from Bosnia with Love. At least they are warm, and the little ones have something to amuse them. It is too much, I am sorry, to expect them to smile, but at least they have come

… The building is their mosque. It was not a military target, it was destroyed by their neighbours as an act of vandalism, and the graveyard, all the stones were smashed with sledge-hammers and pickaxes. In such circumstances, it takes great courage and determination to come home. If I ask the Croats who live here, who today hide, who destroyed the mosque, they will tell me it was outsiders who came, criminal scum, under the control of warlords. Perhaps in Sarajevo you have heard of the Muslim scum – Caco, Celo, Serif. The Croats had Tuta and Sela. The Serbs had many criminals – Arkan and Selsjek. I am not supposed to hate, it does not fit with the principles of the UNHCR, but I loathe those scum – they've sucked the blood from good, decent, simple people.'

There was a desultory clapping behind them. She held his arm, did it naturally and without premeditation, and turned him round. The uniforms, suits and smart-styled women were glad-handing their way up the track and through the village. Women were nodded to, men's shoulders were slapped, the babies' cheeks were tweaked in the show of solidarity. He watched the cameras. It was an event. Earnest conversations started up and lasted long enough to be recorded and witnessed on film. A little scrum had developed at the front of the VIPs, and a sergeant of the German army, red-faced, attempted to push back the cameras and microphones, succeeded, then was outflanked to the right, drove the right back, and was outflanked to the left. Twice when he thought a lens was aimed towards him, that he would figure in the background of a picture, Mister did what was reflex to him and presented his back to them.

'We have to have them here because we need the publicity Id go round the world. The need for money for these people has to be reinforced with the pictures and the interviews – but it is degrading. They take the dignity from people. How can people talk, with honesty, about their situation when they have a camera in one nostril and a microphone in the other?

The media has no discipline. They are like frogs, slimy frogs, and you collect them in a bucket but as you put one in another slips out.'

They were both laughing. It was their own moment, and private. She took his hand. She was holding his hand as they laughed, and their faces were close, and he saw the while cleanness of her teeth and the tan of her skin. She led him further up the hill.

Mister let her hold his hand.

The shutter clattered on automatic. Through the viewfinder, using the 300mm lens, Joey watched them laughing and holding hands. Eight frames, or nine, and then his view of them was obscured by the old mill building above the stream. He lay on his stomach, crushing down last autumn's fall of leaves, and huddled behind the camera.

'What other charities, Mister, do you help?'

'Well, bits and pieces.'

'You can tell me – I admire your modesty. Too many people boast. Tell me.'

'I do things for a hospice. You know what a hospice is? Yes? I help them… I put a roof on a church

'Is that your life, Mister? Helping in Bosnia, helping in a hospice, helping a church?'

'Well, not entirely.'

She squeezed his hand. He felt the warmth of her smile.

'Come on.'

In the distance he heard the helicopter rotors start to turn. They'd barely been on the ground half an hour. The VIPs, in a slithering column, retraced their way through the village, and the media were boarding buses. The villagers drifted from the track and meandered in little groups towards the few rebuilt homes. He was surprised the visit had been so short, and she must have read his thoughts. She told him that it was important the visitors were not bored, were enthusiastic, went back to their offices and wrote the reports that would bring in more donations from their governments.

Children now surrounded the two of them as they walked along a mud-packed path. With one hand she held Mister's, with the other a child's. He saw the way they touched her, pinched at her coat sleeve, gripped the hem of her anorak, and he saw the love in her face for them. They went towards a narrow plank bridge spanning the stream. He felt the little tickle in his trailing hand and looked down sharply. A small boy had reached to take the trailing hand. Mister was about to reject him, snatch his own hand away. He'd never allowed his sisters' children to get close to him. His sisters always scolded their children if they came close to him and told them not to 'bother' their uncle. He knew nothing of the trust of children. He let the small boy take his trailing hand as they went across the loose-fastened planks of the bridge. A little girl came behind the boy and took his free hand for the bridge crossing, and Mister saw the upturned tag of her anorak; Marks amp; Spencer, a cast-off. As he came off the bridge, still holding the little boy's hand, Monika looked at him and winked. She approved. He could not remember the last time that pleasure and pride had coursed through him at such a small thing. She took him to a house.