We Are All That's Left

by Carrie Arcos

  “It’s okay. I have to see if he’s here.” And with that, he ran off.

  Nadja leaned against the thick tree. Her teeth chattered, and she shook, and though she should have felt cold, she wasn’t. She held her knees to her chest and tried not to think of her family. She tried not to think of poor Benjamin.

  She heard rustling and was glad that Marko was back. She never wanted to be alone again. She stood up and went to the sound, but it was not Marko. It was the green-fatigued back of a soldier. She froze when she saw him, but it was too late; he’d heard her.

  She bolted, running she didn’t know where, because she didn’t really know where she was, but still she ran. The leaves stirring and breaking beneath her.

  “Hey!” the man said, and chased after her.

  He was upon her quickly. She was no match for his speed. He grabbed her by the arm and spun her around to face him.

  “Where are you going?” he asked, but she wouldn’t answer him or look him in the face.

  “What’s your name?”

  When she didn’t answer, he grabbed her head and forced her to look up at him.

  “Name?”

  “Nadja,” she said. Her voice cracked like the old forest floor underfoot as she realized her mistake too late. She’d shaved her head for nothing. She’d given her real name by accident.

  “A girl?” He pulled tighter. “Surname.”

  She gave him a fake name, hoping that hearing a Croat one would appease him.

  “Croats, Muslims, you all smell the same.” He kneed her in the gut. She doubled over in pain. He punched her in the face, and she fell to the ground. Her body contracted into a fetal position without her even telling it to. He kicked her. The taste of blood came into her mouth. This time it was her own.

  “You want me to kill you?” he said.

  She didn’t answer him. She couldn’t. But if she could have, she would have said yes.

  He pulled her up and turned her over. With one hand, he pressed her face into the dirt. The leaves were broken pieces of glass cutting into her cheek. She heard him doing something behind her, fumbling. She didn’t know. She caught a glimpse of light floating. And then another. And another. Tiny orbs. Fireflies. Early for this time of year. Their light made her think of her mother because of how beautiful she looked in the shiny earrings Nadja had made her for Eid this year. Small gold hoop earrings with green beads. Nadja had surprised her. Her mother had beamed with pride at the skill.

  Had she worn the earrings when she went to look for her father and brother? What had her father been wearing? Nadja couldn’t remember. Something he normally taught in? That black button-down with his trademark tie? Benjamin had on his favorite shirt, the one with the Superman emblem.

  Huh, she thought as she felt her pants being pulled and tugged down over her bottom and scrunched up at her ankles. She’d just realized they took Benjamin before he had a chance to put on any shoes. She’d have to go home and get him his shoes. How could he walk around outside without his shoes? He would ruin the bottoms of his feet. Get sick. She had to find a way to bring him his shoes.

  A cracking thud, like a bat hitting a gourd, sounded. Something heavy slumped on top of her. Nadja was still thinking about Benjamin’s shoes as the body rolled off her and landed at her side. She was picked up. Her name said over and over. Hands cupped her face. She stared into Marko’s eyes. They were dark and wet with tears. He hugged her to him.

  Marko? Nadja thought. How did he get here?

  The soldier lay facedown in the dirt beside them, unmoving.

  Marko pulled Nadja’s pants back up, gently. He wiped away the blood from her nose and mouth with his shirt. He examined the cuts to her face.

  “Nothing broken,” he declared, but she did not believe him.

  Everything was broken.

  Nadja winced when he helped her stand. She bent over and threw up, which made it even worse for the pain in her side. It hurt so bad, even to breathe.

  Marko swore and kicked the solder twice, stomped on his face. He reached into the soldier’s boot and pulled out a knife. He then took the rifle and pistol from him as well. He aimed the gun at the soldier’s head. His hand shook. He was crying.

  Marko lowered the gun and stuffed it in the back of his jeans. He picked up Nadja like she was a small child and carried her the rest of the way.

  * * *

  ∙ ∙ ∙ ∙ ∙

  Later, Nadja was forced to take a few sips from a water bottle held to her lips. A woman washed her face with a wet rag and kept whispering soft murmurs to her, like she was her mother. Nadja became confused. She didn’t know where she was and pictured her mother there with her and clung to the woman, crying.

  After a few moments, another voice said, “Now. Quickly.”

  Dark figures moved around her. Marko picked her up and placed her in the trunk of a car.

  “I love you,” Marko said. “I’m sorry, but this is the only way through. It will be dark, but you can breathe. You are safe in here. Try to sleep. I will see you soon.”

  Even though he kissed her softly, it hurt and stung as his sweat and tears met the cuts on her face. He put headphones on her ears and placed a Walkman in her hands. “Close your eyes. Listen to this. Think of me.” He pressed Play and shut the trunk.

  Nadja felt the car start and move along the bumpy dirt road. She listened to a love song. She didn’t need to close her eyes because the black was river deep. She let the music and the darkness wash over her, swallowing her up.

  She never saw Marko again.

  July 24

  IT’S BEEN FOUR days since I brought Mom her box. Since then, I’ve learned that after Marko helped my mom find passage to Sarajevo, he was killed. She didn’t find out until years later that he’d been shot, that he never made it out of Višegrad.

  I’ve learned about my grandparents. How Mom used to do fashion shows with her friend Uma, how her brother, my uncle, liked to draw. Of course some things are still too hard for her to talk about, but I can see she’s trying. She’s slowly regaining more and more command of her speech, too, and beginning physical therapy.

  We’re sitting and talking in her hospital room when my phone buzzes.

  “Hello?”

  “Hello, may I please speak with Zara Machado?”

  “Yes. This is she.”

  “Hi, this is Rosa, from Gallery 57.”

  My heart stops. “Oh, hi,” I say.

  “So, I made some calls, and I was able to track down the source of that photo you expressed interest in. You’re never going to believe this, but your source is actually in Manhattan. I didn’t feel that it was appropriate to give out your information. But I have a phone number if you would like it.”

  “Okay, yeah, let me . . .” I look around for something to take down the name and number with. “Just a second.” I grab a napkin left on a tray of food and a pen from the bedside table. “Ready.”

  I take down the number and notice Mom beginning to doze off.

  “Thank you so much,” I say quietly.

  “You’re welcome.”

  I sit there for a while watching my mom sleep, napkin in hand.

  “I’ll be back, Mom,” I tell her, just in case she can hear me.

  I find my way to the hospital garden, where I can have a private conversation.

  I dial the number and hold the phone gently to my cheek. My breaths come quicker with each ring.

  “Hello?” a woman answers.

  “Hello. Um, this is Zara Machado. I got your number from this woman who works at a gallery in Boston, and well, I know this is going to sound a little strange, but I recognized a photo of yours in an exhibit by Klema. The one of the girl by the bridge in Višegrad. Um, I’m her daughter. I was told that you were the one who actually donated the picture.”

  Silence on the other end.r />
  “Hello?” I say again. “I’m sorry, is this—”

  “Is this really Nadja’s daughter?” the woman asks before I can even finish.

  “Yes,” I say.

  And she begins to cry.

  July 25

  DALILA IS SHORTER than me. Her brown hair is as straight as a blade of grass over at Baker’s Beach. Her lips are red, and she paints her eyebrows in smooth brown arches like my mom’s. She’s dressed in all black—black T-shirt, black jeans and black boots.

  I pass the original photo across the table toward her. We’re sitting outside a coffee shop in Providence.

  “I found it in a box, packed away at the top of her closet,” I say.

  She breathes deeply. “I used to see Nadja looking at photos late at night when she thought I was sleeping. She’d hold them and sometimes cry.” Dalila’s eyes water. “My friend Klema, the artist who put the exhibit together, asked me if I had any photos from the war, and he was especially drawn to Nadja’s. I made a copy of it for him. Marko loved to take her picture, and there were a couple of her in this one pose. She gave me the photo one night so I would remember her. That was when she thought she was dying from an infection.”

  “An infection?”

  She shakes her head. “It ended up being nothing to worry about.”

  “Were you close?”

  The woman takes a sip of her coffee before saying, “We were inseparable during the war. When your mother came to us from her village in eastern Bosnia, she was mute. Her head was shaved so close there were nicks in her scalp. She was dirty and had cuts across her arms from the barbed wire she had crawled under to cross at the airport. I was scared of her. I thought, ‘What could have happened to her?’ But my mother and father said that she was my sister now. I only had a brother, but I always wanted a sister. So I helped to feed her the rice and little food we had. I helped bathe her. Gradually she got better.”

  I lean forward, her words feeding a hunger inside.

  “Mom never talks about it—the war. Until a few days ago, I didn’t even know anything about her time in Višegrad before the war either.”

  “That sounds like your mother. It was her way of coping. Everyone does what they have to do to survive and then you have to live with it. I do not fault her for this. We all dealt with our displacement differently. Some needed to cut ties completely, while others have clung so tight to their Bosnian identity. Your mother was not a clinger.”

  “Are you . . . I mean, do you cope the same way?”

  “Not now. Now I can talk about it without falling apart. But at first, yes. After the war, no one wanted to talk about it. It was like everyone wanted to just go back to living a normal life. But what is normal after such a thing? After neighbor turns on neighbor. After you lose a brother. You stare into the heart of humanity and see a darkness.” She smokes. “But there is also a light. And this light chases away the dark. There were many people who helped us. And then when my family eventually came to the States, I remember all of the people who reached out and befriended us, who helped me with English and helped me find a job. It was not easy, but I made good friends.”

  But something she says confuses me. “Did you come to the States with my mom?”

  “I did, yes.”

  “So then why hasn’t Mom ever mentioned you and your family before?”

  Dalila leans back, turns her head to the left and lets out a long plume of smoke. She turns and looks at me.

  “I think for Nadja, being around my family was what saved her in Sarajevo, but in the States, she needed to start completely over. At first I was very hurt. I didn’t understand why she wanted to leave us. We resettled in Chicago because my father had a cousin already there who could vouch for us. Nadja came with us, but then she wanted to go to school in Boston. She had read about the city and became obsessed with going. It was difficult for my parents to let her. For me too. But now I am not angry. I have my own kids and husband. It is a good life. I am happy.”

  Dalila says she’s happy, but it seems like a sad happy. Maybe it’s because I’m asking her to talk about the past.

  “When was the last time you saw my mom?” I ask.

  “Almost twenty years ago. Just after she left Chicago. I wanted to stay in touch, and your mother knew how to reach me, but I never heard from her again after that.”

  “Wow,” I say. I guess my mom has always used silence—used distance—to protect herself from pain. I have no words. I’m just so grateful that finally, through everything, Mom and I have found a way to talk to each other. I start to tear up.

  “How is Nadja now?” Dalila asks.

  I take a deep breath. I explained to Dalila when we spoke on the phone that we had been in the terrorist attack in Rhode Island. She insisted on coming up from Manhattan the next day. Dad thought it might be good for Mom too. That given all we’ve been through, a connection to her past might bring more healing and comfort than harm.

  “She’s getting better,” I say. “But she’s not fully recovered.”

  Dalila nods. “I was hoping that I could see her. What do you think?”

  * * *

  ∙ ∙ ∙ ∙ ∙

  An hour later, I’m in Mom’s hospital room. This time I’m not alone.

  “Mom?” I say as I approach her bed. “Mom, there’s someone here to see you.”

  She slowly opens her eyes.

  “You have a visitor, if that’s okay.”

  “Okay,” she says.

  “You can come in.” I speak in the direction of the door to Mom’s room.

  Mom’s eyes open wide in recognition and then surprise as her past walks in.

  At first she can’t speak. Then, finally, “Dalila?”

  Dalila moves toward Mom and sits on her bed.

  “Yes, Nadja. I’m here.”

  Mom smiles and begins to cry as Dalila leans in and kisses her on both cheeks.

  “Dalila.” Mom says her name again. They speak softly in Bosnian, words meeting and overlapping and becoming laughter.

  I stand back watching and am filled with gratitude. Because here is a beautiful picture of love. I remember what Joseph said about love connecting everything, about how love wanted me to find the picture. About love taking something evil and making it good, making it a conduit for healing.

  And I suddenly understand something. It’s not that the attack needed to happen. Who can explain such a thing? Who can find or understand the reason for suffering? It’s more like love would find a way, no matter what happened. Through the good, through the most heinous of acts, love is the greatest weapon against the darkness. Love is always working, always reaching out to find us in the dark and bring us into the light.

  I smile and make a mental note to text Joseph. Maybe he was right. And maybe it’s not really about religion. Maybe God is love.

  I watch Dalila hold Mom’s hand and take in this moment as the room swells with this truth and this love, this perfect, simple love.

  I take their picture.

  I take photo after photo so I’ll never forget how this feels.

  July 25

  THE CHAPEL IS empty except for Joseph. He’s sitting straight backed, perfect posture, hands resting on his knees. I enter and sit in the seat next to him. He opens his eyes, notices me and takes out one of the earbuds he’s wearing. He gives it to me, then goes back to his position.

  A man with a British accent tells me to breathe in through my nose for a count of four and then breathe out through my mouth for a count of four. Joseph’s eyes are closed, so I close mine and start to count. I follow the man’s instructions, which are to think about the highest point of a mountain, to climb my way to the top and imagine what I see. Feel the wind and the sunshine.

  I peek to see if Joseph still has his eyes closed, because a mountain, really? But he does, and his face is so relaxed. I
blow out some breath and try to imagine the mountain. And the sun. And the wind. Then the voice tells me to feel the sunlight at the top of my head, the energy of it, and let it begin to travel from my head, to my face, to my shoulders. The voice tells me to let the light scan my body. To bring my awareness to what my body is feeling. And not to judge what I’m thinking or feeling. Just to be aware of what I’m experiencing.

  Without warning, the image flies in and I see my mother’s naked foot poking out from underneath the rubble.

  I open my eyes. My heart’s racing. I’m not ready to fully experience that morning again.

  The voice tells me to let thoughts and images come into my mind and then to let them go. Just observe them. Let the warmth of the sun hit them. I try to calm myself by taking deep breaths. And since Joseph is still, I try again and close my eyes.

  The voice tells me to focus on my breath. To count to ten and then, when I get to ten, to start over. To just keep breathing and think about my breath.

  I sense Joseph move next to me, and I suddenly imagine him kissing me. The thought comes fast and makes me blush, which makes my cheek tingle. It distracts me and takes me out of my head because now I’m hyperaware of him next to me. The small hairs on my arm reach out toward his as if there’s a magnetic field between us.

  The voice tells me to take one last deep breath through my nose and then out through my mouth and then to open my eyes whenever I’m ready.

  It takes me a couple of seconds before I am. When I do, it feels strange. I’m not sure if I’m imagining it, but I feel a bit lighter somehow. The mosaics in the room only add a sense of peace and tranquility.

  “Well?” Joseph says.

  “That was . . . interesting.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I mean, I couldn’t really focus the whole time, but I can see it as being valuable.”

  “It takes time to get used to. At first, I could only go three minutes. You went almost five. That’s amazing.”

  A woman enters the chapel, so we get up to talk somewhere else. I notice her eyes are puffy and red-rimmed like she’s been crying. I try to send good vibes her way.