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He knocked harder, cursing under his breath. When she didn't look away from the stove, he banged on the window with the flat of his hand, so hard that he feared the glass might break.
    The woman turned to the window. Then she screwed up her eyes and craned her neck, like an inquisitive bird.
    Solomon waved and nodded.
    “Mrs. Berisha?” he shouted.
    “Teuter Berisha?”
    She made a patting movement with her hand, groping for a walking-stick that was leaning against the armchair, then pushed herself slowly to her feet.

The Eyewitness
    “It's okay, Mrs. Berisha,” shouted Solomon, in Bosnian.
    “You stay where you are.” He pointed at the front door.
    “The door, it's open?”
    The old woman nodded and sank back into her chair.
    Solomon walked back to the door and pushed down on the rusting latch. It creaked open, scraping across worn grey slate tiles. He went in.
    “My name is Jack Solomon,” he said to the woman, in Bosnian.
    “I work for the International War-dead Commission.”
    She frowned, not understanding.
    Kimete stepped in beside him, and explained again who they were.
    “Come in, come in, the heat's going,” snapped the old woman.
    Solomon closed the door behind him, took off his mud-caked shoes and put them on the rack by the door. Kimete did the same.
    “Put them by the stove to dry,” said the old woman. She gestured at a stack of old newspapers “On there.”
    Solomon and Kimete did as they had been told.
    “Do you want coffee?” asked Mrs. Berisha.
    “Yes, please,” said Solomon.
    She started to get to her feet again, but he waved her back.
    “Let me, Mrs. Berisha.”
    “No, no, you are my guests,” she insisted, and stood up.
    Solomon wanted to help her, but he could see that the old woman prided herself on her independence. He and Kimete watched as she reached up for an old wood and metal grinder on a shelf and a jar of coffee beans. She poured beans carefully into the grinder, then sat down and slowly turned the handle, every circuit taking almost ten seconds.
    “Who takes care of you, Nana?”asked Solomon. Grandmother.
    She shrugged away his concern.
    “I can take care of myself,” she said.
    “We lived through the war. Anyone can take care of themselves during the peace.”
    Solomon indicated at the stove.
    “Who chops wood for you?” Who shops for your food?"
    __ “A boy comes in every morning with wood and food, and he helps me to bed at night.” Solomon didn't understand, and Kimete translated.
    “A relative?”
    “The son of a cousin. A distant relative. But a good boy. He respects his elders.”
    “You have other relatives here?”
    “Cousins. I had a brother, but he died. He had two sons, but they died, too.” She continued to grind the beans slowly.
    “It doesn't matter,” she said.
    Solomon looked across at Kimete: she should explain to the old woman what they needed. She was about to speak when Mrs. Berisha pushed herself to her feet again, went over to the stove and spooned the ground coffee into a large dzezva, a conical brass pot with a long handle. She put it on the stove, jiggled the handle as the coffee toasted, then poured in hot water from a battered metal kettle. She brought it to the boil and added more hot water. Then she put the dzezva and three cups on a metal tray and carried it over to Solomon and Kimete. She laid it on a three-legged wooden stool and poured the thick, treacly coffee.
    “I've no sugar or milk,” she said apologetically.
    “This is fine,” said Solomon. He sipped: it was strong and bitter, not a brew for the faint-hearted. He smacked his lips and smiled.
    “Ukusan,” he said. Delicious.
    The old woman hobbled back to her chair and lowered herself into it with a groan. Kimete took a cup to her and put it down at her side.
    “Nana, we need you to do something for us,” said Kimete.
    The old woman snorted.
    “I am an old woman, I can barely walk and my eyes are no good.” She fixed them on Solomon.
    “What did you say