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T he Serb coroner held out the skull to Radojka Todorovic. That was the operation he had on his ear. This is your boy. Radojka raised both her arms, looked at the skull and then down at the terrible remains at her feet. There was a rib cage partly covered by a rotted T-shirt, a mouldy pair of trousers and a pile of dark flesh.
It had lain in the mass grave at Glamoc for almost a year. Show me his socks — then I can identify him. All around us in the dark and terrible warehouse lay the dead, of them, Serb soldiers and civilians alike, 12 women among them, the oldest aged Most appeared to have had their skulls beaten in or to have been shot at close range.
They had been placed in ghostly ranks, numbered according to the mass grave in which the Croatian troops had put them in the last days of the Bosnian war, always supposing the war has ended. It was hot in the warehouse and Dr Karan, the coroner, a thick-bearded giant of a man, held the skull in one hand and swatted the flies from his face with the other.
He dearly wanted Radojka to accept that this heap of bones and decayed flesh was Radovan, the earnest, tousled-haired young man whose photograph she carried in her handbag. She was weeping now and her husband, Nicola, tall but head bowed, touched her on the arm. She nodded. Yes, she wanted to see just one sock. Dr Karan pulled out a long knife and cut away at the mud-caked army boot. Then, with gentle, appalling ease, the foot detached itself from the body and the Serb pulled it out of the boot, cleaning the sock with his knife.
