by Carrie Arcos
I’ve never felt so hopeless that I wanted to end my life. Not even now, when things are the worst they’ve ever been.
I put the phone down and hold the photo of my mom again. This time it feels heavier in my hands. I wonder who D is. I wonder where Mom was sitting when she wrote that letter. I lift the paper again and smell it. It smells old, like opening the door to a room that’s been shut for far too long. It smells nothing like my mother.
1993
Winter
Sarajevo
BiH
NADJA STOPPED WRITING and reached for the small shard of colored glass, turning it over in her gloved hands. She’d seen it on the side of the road a few days ago and kept it. Her mother had always called such discoveries treasures. Some of her best jewelry pieces came from broken glass. Her favorite piece was a necklace with a silver chain and a heart made from glass with petals inside. She had always seen the beauty that came from the broken. Now Nadja struggled to do the same.
Amir snored loudly on the opposite side of the room. Nadja put on her headphones. She imagined there was music to drown out the sound. Her father had snored, but she couldn’t remember the exact sound. Just a faint feeling that he had. Even now, she couldn’t be so sure.
She removed the glove on her left hand and touched the razor-sharp side of the pale green glass, letting her finger teeter on the edge. Like her life, it could go either way. She pressed until her fingertip bubbled with blood. She brought it to her mouth and tasted it. She could do it. End it now.
The door opened above, and Faris’s eyes found hers in the candlelight. He put his fingers to his lips and motioned for her to come. She blew out the candle she wrote by, folded the paper and hid it and the glass underneath her pillow. Then she shook Dalila awake next to her. They got up and tiptoed out of the womb of the basement and followed Faris out of the house.
“It’s freezing!” Dalila said as soon as they were a couple of homes down.
“Here,” Faris said. He gave the two girls a cigarette. “This’ll warm you up.”
Dalila grunted, but she took a puff and passed it to Nadja, who did the same. It didn’t make her warmer, but seeing the small ember gave the illusion of heat.
They kept close to the buildings, but there was no darting tonight. By some miracle, there was no shelling, only the syncopated gunfire coming sporadically from the distant hills. Maybe the enemy knew that some days, like Christmas, were too sacred for killing. They had the cover of night on their side, too, though Nadja knew that snipers had special goggles. Faris said you could practically count the hairs on someone’s head through those things. The image was stunningly close and real and personal. So real, he said you could maybe even see the color of the eyes. Nadja wondered how many snipers noted that hers were green.
“Got a new joke for you,” Faris said as they walked.
“No Mujo and Suljo ones, please,” Dalila said. Mujo and Suljo were joke characters popular more with Dalila’s parents’ generation than theirs. Nadja nodded in agreement.
“I said a new one. Okay, so these two guys are walking and talking. One of them puts his cigarette behind his ear to save for later. They start crossing the Latinska Bridge when a sniper starts shooting at them. The guy with the cigarette gets hit on the side of his head, and his ear falls to the ground. He stops and frantically searches the ground. His friend tells him, ‘Get under cover! Don’t be stupid! You’ve got two ears!’ And the injured guy replies, ‘I don’t give a shit about the ear, I’m looking for the cigarette!’” Faris laughed aloud.
Dalila groaned. “Everyone has heard that one already.”
“Not me,” Nadja said, and chuckled.
“Yes. The other day in school. That kid with the bad breath told it.”
Nadja shrugged, not remembering. She struggled to concentrate in the makeshift school that met in a basement a couple times a week. The teachers mostly volunteered because there was no money to pay them. The mothers took turns guarding, sitting outside the door on chairs they dragged from their homes.
“You love me. Say it.” Faris nudged Dalila so she tripped a little and put his arm around her.
Nadja felt like she was an intruder on an intimate moment, until Faris pulled her in too. They walked that way down the narrow hill, like they were stumbling home from a party and not putting their lives in danger.
As they descended into the graveyard of the city, Nadja felt as if she were slumbering and this were a dream. The valley of Sarajevo’s old town, Baščaršija, lay to the left below them. Across was the other side of the valley, where the enemy watched or slept. The homes still standing rose on both sides like two- and three-story tombs with red-tiled roofs. Everything was gray except for those rooftops.
The week-old snow and ice crunched beneath their shoes. Nadja’s boots were a size and a half too big, so she wore two pairs of socks, one with holes in the heels. But still she had to hold on with her toes every time she stepped so they wouldn’t fall off.
The sky hung above, so full of stars, looking like it might burst upon them. She felt big and small at the same time, letting the potential of the night meet her.
As they left their neighborhood behind, they stopped speaking, knowing they took a risk being out past the ten o’clock curfew imposed by the Bosnian government. Finally, after walking in the cold for many kilometers, they arrived at the church. There was a silent line of people snaking out the door. Nadja didn’t recognize the faces because they were in a different part of the city. The danger of being outside meant that people primarily stayed within their neighborhoods. Her usual range of motion was so small—basically a kilometer radius around the house that included a few neighbors, the basement school, the hospital, a water station and, when the UN truck came by, humanitarian aid. Nadja still hadn’t had a real chance to explore the city.
Mirela, Faris’s girlfriend, found them in line. Faris kissed her and then she gave Nadja and Dalila a hug. He took Mirela’s hand as they moved forward into the building.
Inside the church basement, it was standing room only, shoulder to shoulder, warmer than outside. Every time someone moved, shadows crept up the candlelit walls. It was a secret midnight mass that somehow many people knew about. An unofficial act of resistance. They were all there as Sarajevans first and Muslim, Croat, Serb, Jew second.
A violin player and a double bass player played a song from Handel’s Messiah. Nadja recognized it. Her music teacher had given her the songbook when she turned thirteen. She didn’t remember the words—something about comforting people. It seemed fitting now.
After the music, the priest led the people through the rituals of mass. Nadja was familiar with the rhythm of the service because she’d gone to midnight mass a couple of times with her family and their neighbors. One of her dad’s coworkers had been Catholic, and they had spent many Christmases with his family. Though they were not Catholic, it was common to celebrate other religions’ festivals. She had always loved Christmas, with all the lights and the presents and the baby Jesus.
Nadja listened to the story of Jesus’s birth. Of Joseph and Mary. Mary, who wasn’t much younger at the time than her. The priest explained how Jesus was born into a difficult, oppressive time, much like how they were living now. In those days, the people were subject to the Roman Empire and lived in poverty and suffering. In fact, the priest said, Mary and Joseph were kind of like many of the people in Sarajevo—refugees, rejected, with no place to call home. But in the midst of all the pain of the world, God chose to meet the pain with a sacrifice of His own. The gift of His son. His gift was love.
“There is no safe place for love,” said the priest. “Love only travels into dangerous places. And look at us lucky ones here, in the most dangerous place of all.”
He got some small laughs at that one.
“The only way through suffering is love. Love will define us. Not what happens around us
or what happens to us. We must not let hatred destroy us. Many of us are broken, but love will put us back together. The light of the world has come. His name is Jesus, and no darkness will snuff Him out.”
Nadja wished his words were true. But the darkness had destroyed all that she loved. Dalila reached for her hand. Nadja felt guilty that she had allowed some love in, almost like she was betraying her family’s memory. But she held Dalila’s hand because she wanted to believe.
At this time, people were instructed to hold up the small candles they had brought with them. Normally, a candle would have been given, but these were not normal times.
The priest lit a candle in the front row. Nadja watched as the light began to grow, first in one small line and then in a wave that flooded back to where she was standing.
Dalila unpocketed her candle, and she and Nadja held it together.
A small choir of five people faced the crowd and led them in the singing. As they sang, their breath rose in front of them like a visual piece of the music. Nadja watched the candlelight flicker every time her breath hit it. Even though she knew the words, Nadja didn’t sing. She couldn’t. It was like her voice had been stolen. So she closed her eyes and tried to let the music penetrate the part of her that she knew was dead. Maybe it could be healed. Maybe she could be healed by this love that the priest talked about.
Though she doubted she would ever know love again.
The music swirled around and inside of her, traveling in her blood, pumping through her veins, returning to the source: her broken heart. As the chorus swelled, Nadja held her breath, waiting for new life.
She found that she was still broken. Nothing healed. No miracle performed. But . . . she was no longer a barren wasteland, no longer the way she was when she’d first arrived to Dalila’s family. Something grew now in the cracks. No matter how she felt about it, she would continue on. Nadja lived. She was not dead. She didn’t know why. But she had been spared when others hadn’t.
She stood with all the others in a crowded room. She couldn’t deny the hope that came from standing together, looking to God together. They were still here. They were survivors. She had survived.
It was like being in a room full of fallen stars. And they were beautiful.
* * *
∙ ∙ ∙ ∙ ∙
At the end of the service, the mood was lighter than it was when people entered. The ancient story of Jesus was more than just a symbol of hope tonight.
People milled about, hugging and kissing and wishing one another a merry Christmas. She even heard a few say, “Essalamu alejkum.” Peace be upon you.
Outside they waited for Faris as he said good-bye to Mirela.
Dalila sighed as she watched them slip away behind another building. “I’m going to die a virgin. Fucking war.” She smoked the last cigarette she had in her pocket.
“Dalila. Nadja.” Mrs. Vinković, an older woman who lived a couple blocks down the other side of their hill, approached them. “You’re not here alone, are you?”
“No, with Faris,” Dalila said.
Mrs. Vinković breathed in deeply. “Beautiful night.” She played with the prayer beads in her hands. “My grandmother’s,” she explained, noticing Nadja looking at them. “Never was much for praying before the war,” she said. “Now I pray. It helps. Are you coming next week, Nadja? My piano is old and lonely.”
Mrs. Vinković’s piano was lovely. Nadja hadn’t played on a nicer one. Somehow it was still in tune. Mrs. Vinković kept it clean, free of dust. Once a week, Nadja usually visited and played for her and a couple of other women on the street.
“I will.”
She leaned forward. “I may even have payment for you. Maybe some sweets. A package arrived from my sister in Germany.” Mrs. Vinković brought her fingers to her lips. “Don’t tell anyone. Merry Christmas, girls. God be with you.” She patted Nadja’s shoulder as she walked into the night.
Crack.
The sound whipped through the air. Startling them all. The whistle following it.
Everyone ducked and ran. Hands over their heads, as if that could protect them from the sniper’s bullet. But Nadja just stood there. Someone grabbed her, threw her against the safety of the building. Faris’s body, thick and tense, covering her. A couple more shots echoed, making it difficult to tell where the sniper lay in wait. Maybe it was two snipers.
The beads were on the ground next to the open hand. Nadja darted out and grabbed them. She wrapped them tightly around her wrist.
“What are you doing?” Faris yelled at her. “We have to go.”
He pulled her with him and Dalila as they ran away from the building. Away from Mrs. Vinković’s body, lying still in the dirty remnants of snow as the blood began pooling from the wound in her chest.
* * *
∙ ∙ ∙ ∙ ∙
In the morning, Dalila woke Nadja and led her outside to the entrance of the house. The smell of something baking hit Nadja as soon as she opened the front door. She joined the rest of the family in the kitchen, huddled around the stove. Ramiza had made kiflice. It was a simple crescent that could be made from flour, oil and powdered milk—their typical UN rations. Normally it would be stuffed with cheese or have some kind of jelly. Nadja bit into the warm one Ramiza gave her. She didn’t even miss the cheese. It was nice to be in the kitchen. The stove, though it didn’t heat the whole house, provided enough warmth so they didn’t have to wear their jackets or gloves. The sun was out and shone through the plastic tarp covering the windows.
There was no sound of gunfire or shelling outside. Faris thought there must be a ceasefire this morning, since it was Christmas Day. Amir didn’t trust it; the Serbs followed the Orthodox calendar, and technically their Christmas was a couple of weeks after December 25. He kept looking outside, waiting for the bombs to start falling.
“Okay, so time for presents,” Ramiza said.
“What?” Dalila asked. She looked at Amir, who raised his arms and shoulders like he didn’t know what Ramiza meant. But he gave a little smile too, like he was in on it all along.
Ramiza removed three small parcels from a drawer in the kitchen and handed one each to Dalila, Nadja and Faris.
“I thought we didn’t have money for gifts!” Dalila said.
“It’s not a big deal,” Ramiza said. She turned back to the stove, focusing on the pot of boiling water. “Not even a proper Christmas.”
Each gift was wrapped in a new scarf that looked like it had been made by Ramiza’s friend who lived a few houses away. Dalila’s bundle contained a romance novel, lip gloss and a new toothbrush and paste.
Dalila smiled. “Thanks, Mom! Dad!”
Faris’s scarf contained a new pair of gloves, a pack of Drinas and a toothbrush and paste. He wrapped the green scarf around his neck, declaring it was the best scarf he owned.
Nadja opened hers, and her legs went numb. The comic was used. The edges curved as if the previous owner had stuffed the book in his back pocket. It was an X-Men, Volume II. She recognized it immediately as one Benjamin used to read. She ran her hands over the cover showing Cyclops blasting something off the page with his eyes. Wolverine, in red, waited below him. There was also a Superman comic, one that looked a little older, a little worse for wear. A pair of thick gray socks tumbled to the floor. Nadja couldn’t even bend to pick them up.
“I noticed you needed new socks, Nadja, and Amir mentioned the comic books. I hope you like them.”
Nadja couldn’t speak. She nodded and held the books to her chest. Months ago, she and Amir had gone to the market, back when they had a meager amount of money to spend and cigarettes to barter with. There was a store with a basket full of old comic books. Nadja had stared at them, picked one up and smelled it. While Amir shopped, she read them. He must have noticed.
Amir put his hand on Nadja’s shoulder and squeezed it.
“These are great, Mom, Dad,” Faris said, already wearing his new gloves. “Perfect for when I’m back with the guys.”
He hugged Ramiza and Amir.
Nadja still couldn’t speak.
“So, I’ve got something too.” Faris ran outside, down to the basement, and came back in with a bag. “Nothing’s wrapped, but, you know . . . So this is, like, for everyone.” He removed the items and placed them on the kitchen table: five eggs, two oranges, three bananas, sugar, two cucumbers and three tomatoes. Ramiza’s and Amir’s eyes went wide.
“Where did you get such things?” Ramiza said.
“Oh, I have my ways.” Faris’s eyes sparkled.
Ramiza’s hands fell softly on the eggs. “We haven’t seen eggs in . . . I can’t remember when.”
“Faris, how?” Amir asked him.
“I may have given an interview or two to some British journalists.”
Amir grunted, but he kept quiet. Normally he would have ranted about how the journalists are like addicts, their drugs being war and misery. He might have said, What good has all of their reporting done other than reveal to the Bosnian people that they have no value in the eyes of the world?
Nadja opened the first page of X-Men. The panels were just like she remembered.
“I didn’t know you were into comics,” Dalila said.
Nadja shrugged.
“We can switch when I’m done with this if you want.” Dalila held up her book, some romance novel set in Paris.
“Okay.”
“Oh, and here. Nadja, I got these for you.” Faris tossed her a pack of batteries.
She almost fumbled the catch. She stared at the batteries in her hand. Faris just ruffled the top of her head like he sometimes did to Dalila.
Nadja had nothing to give them. Nothing to give the family that had taken her in. She suddenly felt the pain of that. Of being the burden, the orphaned girl who could only take and take and never give back. Worried that she might cry, Nadja rose from the floor and did the one thing she could do. She sat at the slightly out-of-tune piano and played for an hour. Her only gift.
