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presence, this toast would raise a bitter echo. Let us live. He can’t help thinking of the television images from Srebrenica, and of Mladić and the Dutch commander drinking a toast together. Živeli . And eight thousand people died.
    That evening in her kitchen, none of this occurred to him. How hindsight alters meaning and makes even single, utterly harmless words take on other connotations .
    Then, he only thought of how good it was to be alive, they drank another toast and another, and he said “ Živeli ” every time.
    She laughed, because the alcohol had such a rapid effect on him. “You still have to learn to drink.”
    “Why do I have to?”
    “Because it’s part of life.”
    He closed his eyes as he drained his glass and soon afterwards his whole body felt off-balance. He opened his eyes again and gripped the table with one hand. She watched him, bent towards him, kissed him on the ear and whispered to him in that voice of hers, which he had been in love with for so long, a single word that he’d only known as a name. “ Zlatko .”
    “Do you know what that means?” she asked.
    He shook his head.
    “Sweetheart.”
    That word, too, could have such different meanings! He wondered if he and Ana would ever reach a point of mutual trust in the other’s language. Sweetheart. How could he ever pronounce that word again? Or hear it spoken?
     
    Next morning, in the courtroom, a man takes his place as a witness. He seems troubled, and clearly doesn’t know what to do with his hands, sometimes placing them on his lap, sometimes on the table. He pulls at the collar of his white shirt so often it becomes noticeable. He is gaunt, with sunken cheeks. There is a small piece of plaster stuck on his neck, obviously to cover a razor cut.
    The man does not recognise Šimić. He stated that at the start of the interrogation. “No,” he said curtly and after a short pause, repeated the single syllable, but this time lengthening it and shaking his head at the same time.
    He sits behind the glass, allowing the witness’s voice to work on him. He closes his eyes. The man’s voice is surprisingly strong; he had expected it to be weaker.
    The prosecutor takes his time to look the witness over.
    “Could you please tell us what you know about the houses that burnt down?”
    “The houses belonged to Muslims.”
    “How many burnt-out houses do you know about?”
    “I can’t tell you precisely how many, but I saw several houses on fire. I had a full view of Višegrad from the attic in my house.”
    “Could you also see the River Drina?”
    “Yes. I saw a lot of corpses in the Drina. We couldn’t get them out of the water, because of all the shooting. I remember a woman with a small child. They were drifting down the river, sitting on a plank.”
    “You stayed in Višegrad until when?”
    “Until the 14th June 1992.”
    Mr Bloom pauses, as if to make everyone in the room take note of the date.
    “Why did you leave town on just that day?”
    “On the 13th of June, a neighbour came to see me. He’s a Serb, his name is Antić. He told me that ethnic cleansing would begin soon and that a convoy had been organised to move inhabitants out of the town the following day. He was sure it would be better for me and my family to travel with the convoy.”
    “Did you trust him?
    “Yes, I did. At the time, I thought he was going out of his way to help us. Look, I’d lived next door to him for thirty years. I never had any reason to distrust him.”
    “Do you know if any official organisations were collaborating?”
    “Antić said he had heard on the radio that all inhabitants were advised to leave town with the convoy. The news item had been repeated several times. He also mentioned the Red Cross. But at the time we didn’t check up on any of it.”
    Mr Bloom glances at the presiding judge.
    “What happened on the morning of the 14th June 1992?”
    “Two buses arrived at seven o’clock. Many of us were waiting. Serbs, too,