One afternoon in the summer of 1993 a rangy American photographer knocked on the door. He was in his forties then, and I knew of him only by reputation. He asked me for a ride up the road to see if he could recover his car, which had been shot up a couple of nights earlier when he had inadvertently driven into no man’s land.
The war in central Bosnia was moving so fast that June that what had been a safe stretch of road one day could be a death trap 24 hours later. Each morning the smoke from burning villages gathered in palls around the horizon. On summer evenings the hillsides twinkled with pretty flame. And in every valley cupped within those lush
