A nurse bends over the leg and shaves it with bare hands and a serious expression, ignoring the putrid smell. A tendril of dark hair escapes her blue cloth cap and curls beneath the birthmark on her left cheek. When she finishes, Ejub repeats her work, picking up the razor and inching it up from the blue, livid ankle to the pink, healthy thigh, postponing the inevitable moment when his scalpel will meet skin. Neither he nor any of the handful of doctors who have, over the past few days, made their way from islands of neighboring“free” Bosnian territory to the town of Srebrenica has experience as a surgeon. Ejub cannot recall surgery ever having been performed in this small, Spartan hospital, where women used to come to give birth before the war. No, Ejub is no surgeon, has never aspired to be a surgeon. Although he has talent for fine manual work—he practices woodcarving—his short, chubby fingers make performing even some non-surgical medical procedures difficult. But now he has war experience, having worked as the sole doctor in a nearby Muslim village that was isolated for the war’s first three months. Here, there is no one any better qualified than he, and if he doesn’t try to do something, this young man will most certainly die. purchase brand cialis purchase ventolin
MUNJKANOVI?, NEDRET, 31 (mooy-KAHN-oh-veetch, NED-reht)—Surgical resident who volunteered to walk to Srebrenica across enemy territory in August 1993. Handsome, with an athletic build, a clean-shaven face, and a highly charismatic, if temperamental, personality.
Old Man River, Father of Waters, “body of a nation,” Big Muddy—by any name the mighty Mississippi cuts a mythic figure across the American landscape.
Twenty miles south of Tunica’s casinos, just west of US-61, Moon Lake was home to one of the South’s most famous Prohibition landmarks, the Moon Lake Club. Unlike speakeasies associated with thugs and tarts, this club was a family destination where parents could dance and gamble while the kids played by the lake. In a place and time when planes were still so rare the sound of their engines could interrupt work and empty classrooms, the club flew in fresh Maine lobster and Kansas City steak for its clientele of rich, white Memphians.
Moon Lake has a literary history, too, appearing in a number of Tennessee Williams’s dramas. Williams knew it well: Not only was the club property owned by a cousin, but as a boy he had been a frequent guest, accompanying his grandfather, the Reverend Dakin, on parish calls throughout the county