World in Between

by Kenan Trebincevic

  I expect to see a small group, but there are tons of Croatians here, like a whole city. I guess seven or eight hundred people, all looking battered and dazed, some with bandages. It really is like I’m in the middle of a zombie movie.

  One guy takes a whiz against a tree, and I quickly look away. It’s weird, but then I realize there’s no bathrooms here or on the buses. A lady on a bench cradles a baby. She has red hair like Mom.

  “The soldiers took my husband. We don’t know where he is,” she wails.

  “I’m so sorry,” Mom says, handing her diapers, baby wipes, formula, and water.

  “Thank you for your compassion, ma’am,” the lady says between sobs. I’m about to cry myself.

  An old man in a felt hat puts a towel against his bleeding forehead. A boy tapes his own broken eyeglasses. Then he wraps gauze around the hand of an older woman. A blond lady who looks my mother’s age whispers, “They murdered my son. He’s dead!”

  I feel a chill growing in my chest. I’ve never seen anyone this sad before. Their eyes look so frightened, it hurts my heart. I help Mom hand out the money and medicine, wishing we had more clothes and cash to give away.

  “Who did this to them?” I ask Eldin. I think of all the bad guys in the World War II movies I watch with Dad. Could it be the Hungarians or Germans?

  “The Serbs occupying their town,” Eldin says, his jaw clenched.

  But my best friend, Vik, and lots of my classmates are Serbian. So is Mr. Miran, my favorite teacher. I’m sure they’ll be really mad when they find out all the damage their soldiers have caused. I bet they’ll throw the guys who did this in jail.

  I feel horrible. Standing in the middle of this swirl of exhausted, sobbing strangers, I try to keep up as Eldin fills me in on what he’s heard on the radio: Serb soldiers forced the Croats to leave their own city, Vukovar, two hours north of us. They threw rocks and shot at the buses filled with fleeing refugees. I’m stunned when Eldin tells me it took three days for them to get here because they were forced to drive through Serbia and kept getting stopped. How could a two-hour trip take three days?

  I picture the map of Yugoslavia from geography class, with Croatia bordering my home of Bosnia at the top, and Serbia surrounding us at the bottom. To get the Croatian passengers from Vukovar to their capital, Zagreb, Eldin explains, the drivers felt the safest route was through Brčko.

  “We’re caught between two warring republics, stuck right in the middle,” he says.

  “What’s going to happen to us?” I ask.

  He shakes his head. His lower lip is twitching. I’ve never seen my brother scared. His face lets me know: being the jelly in the doughnut is bad. Really bad.

  I turn and notice a girl my age sitting on a bench near the playground. She has a bloody sheet wrapped around her head. I walk over and offer her water and my fudbal shirt. She takes my canteen and sips from it. Her long, dark hair is the same color as Lena’s.

  “Are you okay?” I ask.

  “No,” she bawls. “Serb soldiers with machine guns ordered us out of our house. They shot at us in cold blood. I don’t know where my mother is—I have to find her!” She glances over at my mother handing out bottles of water and food, then she looks me in the eye. “Be careful, you could be next.”

  This is flipping me out. I used to be sure my parents wouldn’t let anyone hurt us. But what if they can’t protect us anymore? I watch a bunch of neighbors from our building bring out jackets, blankets, and food. The survivors keep telling us what they’ve been through.

  “The Yugoslav Army set fire to our homes,” a man with a gray beard mumbles. “They burned everything we owned. My dog, Staza, was in the house. They didn’t care.”

  I picture a puppy stuck in a burning room, not able to get out.

  “All that remains is ash,” he goes on. “My whole life savings, gone, my poor Staza . . .”

  It’s too hard to hear. I want to put my hands over my ears and make him stop talking.

  I find a spot away from the crowds to get my bearings. As I look around the park, I notice something odd. I only see the Muslims and Catholics I know helping out the Croatians. Vik isn’t here. Or Marko. Or Ivan. None of my Serb friends or their relatives come.

  “What’s going to happen to these people?” I ask my brother.

  “The buses will take them to a refugee camp near Zagreb, I heard,” he tells me. “They’ll be safe there.”

  I want to believe him. At home that night, I sleep with the lights on until Eldin comes in and flips the switch off.

  * * *

  On Monday morning, walking to school with the gang, I plan to ask Vik if he heard what happened to the Croatians over the weekend. But before I can, Marko says, “Did you hear about those filthy Croat traitors? They got what they deserved.”

  Everyone laughs, including Vik.

  I don’t. The back of my neck is tingling. “What makes them traitors?” I ask in a calm voice.

  “Duh! They’re rebels trying to overthrow the government, Bugs,” Marko answers.

  Vik and Marko don’t know what they’re talking about. The people at the park were just like us.

  “Why did the army shoot at those passengers on the buses?” I ask Dad that night, sitting on the couch after dinner. I want to make sense of it. I’m sure there’s something I’m missing.

  My father shakes his head and clicks his tongue in disgust. “Remember I told you how our country is made up of families from different backgrounds who don’t think the way we do?”

  “But you said President Tito taught brotherhood and unity. And we should treat everyone the same,” I say quickly. “That’s why we gave out food and clothes to those poor people at the park.”

  “Well, after Tito died, in 1980, leaders from the Serb Republic decided they wanted to control the Croatians and the Bosnian Muslims,” he says. “They’re causing stupid fights that harm the innocent. It’s despicable. This is how history repeats itself.”

  “But why are they doing it now?”

  “They’re mad because Croatia and Bosnia want independence,” he explained.

  “Is that why Vik and Marko were happy those Croats got beaten up?”

  “They were?” Dad looks horrified. “They must be listening to their parents.”

  On the Croatian TV station, it sounds even worse than what we saw. “More than one thousand Croatians were relocated to a makeshift migrant shelter in Zagreb,” they report. The conflict is escalating, with Serb soldiers committing atrocities, burning towns and villages, attacking civilians. Murdering entire families. They give a microphone to a young woman, who says, “We’d like to thank the Muslims and Catholics of Brčko who came to our aid, brought us water and blankets, and emptied their store shelves to feed us.”

  “That’s us! We did that!” I tell Dad proudly. I secretly hope our good deed might keep us safe. The reporter and the woman are singling out the Muslims and Catholics as the good guys and Serbs as bad guys on television, in public, for all to hear. But I’m still nervous as I remember the words of the girl with the head bandage: “Be careful, you could be next.”

  “This fighting won’t go on much longer,” Dad assures me. But now he looks spooked too.

  * * *

  On Saturday morning I wait for Vik to holler for me to come down so we can play ball, like we do every single weekend. Nobody calls. When I walk outside, I see him and the other guys in the parking lot, already choosing teams. What’s going on? I rush over.

  “Vik, why didn’t you call me? Don’t you need my ball?” I’m talking too fast, too loud.

  “We have our own,” Ivan yells back.

  “Yeah, we don’t need yours anymore, Bosniak!” Vik holds up a ball that’s ripped and a little deflated.

  Vik has never called me a Bosniak. He says it like it’s a dirty word. “Come on, I really want to play with you,” I beg. I know the political stuff in our country is getting weirder, but I can’t believe Vik—of all people—is trashing and benchin
g me.

  “Fine. We’re on the army’s team and you’re on the rebels’ side,” Marko decides.

  I don’t like being called a rebel, since I’m not. But I jump in anyway, annoyed that Vik chooses Nizar and Ivan over me, even though they’re lousy players. Their fathers are in the Serb army, like his.

  Vik knows I’m not a traitor. I try to figure out if I’ve done anything to make him say that. I picture all the times we biked, swam, and played ball and marbles together. It’s always been like this, ever since we were little. I know them, and they know me. I don’t see Vik and Marko as “Serbian” or think of myself as “Bosniak.”

  I decide to play my best, show him I’m the same guy I’ve always been. I hope he’ll lose, realize he needs me, and pick me next time. But as I dribble, Vik and Marko pull my shirt and kick at my ankles so I’ll fall.

  It’s no shock Marko’s a jerk. He hangs with Ivan, after all.

  But—my best friend?

  “Vik—why are you—”

  “Shut up, Bugs Bunny.” He tries to trip me again.

  I can’t believe this. I won’t believe this. I stare at Vik, trying to make my eyes ask him why? But he looks away.

  Of course, the “army’s team” wins. Afterward we stand in the street, watching the real army trucks pass by. They kick up dust as they turn into the base. Vik and Marko wave at the drivers. Black smoke blows from the trucks’ tailpipes. The smell of diesel fuel makes me cough.

  I don’t want to be here, but I can’t leave. I keep glancing over at Vik, waiting for him to say he’s sorry, nod, or give me a sign that he just can’t talk now in front of the others. That he has to act this way in front of his brother and Ivan or they’ll beat him up.

  Still, he avoids my eyes.

  “They’ll be coming soon to slit the rebels’ throats,” Ivan says, sliding his finger across his neck, smiling at me.

  A shiver runs through my body as it sinks in: I’m not safe here anymore. I turn and head back into our building, thinking of Lena and her sister, gone. I have a bad feeling and keep remembering the girl with the head bandage. I hope Lena’s okay. None of Eldin’s friends are calling or coming around. Other Muslim families have been sneaking out of the country too. The problems are not blowing over, like Dad keeps promising. They are blowing up.

  * * *

  Early the next morning, the doorbell rings. I run to answer, hoping Vik has come to say he didn’t mean to screw up yesterday’s game or call me names.

  It is Vik, but he’s with Marko.

  “Give us our marbles back,” Vik says with his chest puffed out.

  “What? I’ve been the marble keeper the whole year,” I say. I even spent my allowance on a bunch of sets and won most of the glass and ceramic ones myself.

  Marko gets right in my face. “We don’t want them at your house anymore.”

  “Why?” I feel my voice shaking a little. I say it quietly, since I don’t want Mom to hear. My eyes prickle. No way am I going to cry. Not in front of them.

  “Because you’re a traitor,” Marko insists. “We’re not sharing anything with you.”

  “I am not! I never did anything bad to you,” I tell him, adding, “My dad says the Serb politicians are lying.”

  Vik is quiet, but Marko sneers, “You Muslims are the liars.”

  I know we aren’t, but can’t think of how to prove it.

  Vik and Marko follow me to my room. I get the canvas bag from under my bed. They snatch their share of marbles. Marko lifts his shirt, using it as a pouch to carry the loot.

  My head pounds. Vik can’t really hate me for my religion. That doesn’t make sense. He’s never even mentioned it before. It has to be something else. Is he jealous that Lena likes me better? Now I worry that he’s only been pretending to like me since first grade.

  That day I shoot the leftover marbles by myself for hours, feeling homesick in my own room. All week, the guys ignore me. I sit alone at recess, eating beef sausage from the food truck lady, watching everyone play without me. It sucks. I feel like I’m being punished, but I’m not sure for what. I’ll have to switch schools to find new friends. Where will I go?

  When Ivan comes over to the bench where I’m sitting, I expect him to call me more names or keep threatening me. Instead, he points to the fence. “Hey, come check this out,” he says, as if we’re still pals.

  Surprised, I throw out the sausage wrapping and follow him across the field. On the other side of the fence, soldiers from the base are unpacking new rifles outside the warehouse. Every year a fresh batch of eighteen-year-olds do their mandatory service in the barracks, like Dad and Uncle Ahmet did. All the boys in my neighborhood look forward to turning eighteen so we can do our year of service. Staring at the new weapons being unloaded, so close, I wish I could touch one.

  “Last week when I was swiping a bike, they were bringing in more equipment,” Ivan tells me. He talks about stealing as if it’s an everyday activity, like turning on the TV.

  “What else do they keep in there?” I ask.

  “Uniforms, gas masks, helmets, and duffle bags,” he says, fixing me with his bugged-out blue eyes. “I know a secret entrance. We’re sneaking in tonight. Meet me, Vik, and Marko here at nine. I’ll bring bags to cart out the stuff.” It’s creepy how excited he looks.

  Still, I’m pleased to be invited. Though I wonder if it’s a trap. Or a test, to tell if I’m a traitor? I hope they just forgot they’re supposed to be jerks to me.

  I don’t get why they’d rob from the army they like. Everything’s upside down, but I want to prove to Vik that I’m still one of them. If we’re caught, my parents will be really upset. Mr. Miran might make me stand in the corner all day and never choose me for another recess team. I know robbery’s a serious crime I could get thrown in jail for. But I really need to win my friends back.

  Four

  It’s dark out and raining. Ivan is waiting for me with Viktor and Marko.

  “Hey,” Vik says, nodding.

  “Hey.” I’m glad he doesn’t seem to hate me anymore. But I’m still not sure if they’re messing with me. I hope his brother and Ivan made him call me names when he didn’t really want to. I nod, like nothing strange went down, pretending everything’s fine.

  Vik hands me a plastic shopping bag. Ivan leads the five-minute walk to the edge of the school playground. My stomach is doing jumping jacks as we sneak through the hole in the fence, squeezing in sideways, one at a time. I slip in easily.

  Ivan points to the new army recruits in the distance, patrolling the base. I’m nervous as we crouch down and hurry to the dark warehouse, getting wet from the rain. Ivan speed crawls to a window that’s open. We follow without a sound. Are the soldiers so confident they’re not even guarding their own guns?

  It feels like we’re on a spy mission. Ivan squeezes through the window. He reaches down for Marko. One by one, we boost each other inside. I’m last. As soon as we’re all here, Ivan turns on the lights. I can’t believe it. I want to scream, “Stop being stupid! Someone will see us!” But I don’t say a word. I’m not gonna challenge the ringleader on my first heist.

  The place is packed with shiny, cool military equipment in mounds stacked taller than we are. There’s a raw, new smell, like wood. I stare at the fresh uniforms, tools, and gadgets. I wish I were eighteen and could wear a soldier’s uniform and fire a rifle and ride in a tank, like Dad and my uncle do in the reserves. I try not to remember I’d be on the opposite side from Vik, Marko, and Ivan. Right now, we’re all just plainclothes spies.

  “Grab what you can,” Ivan orders.

  I work fast, putting bandages, a canteen, a green flashlight, and a small shovel that folds in half into the shopping bag. Wow, this stuff could be really useful. The gas masks are black rubber with big goggles to protect your eyes. I take four for me, Dad, Mom, and Eldin, so we’ll be prepared in case the war comes. Viktor and Marko take shovels too, along with combat sweaters, socks, and gun holsters. Ivan seizes a helmet, camouflag
e pants, a gas mask, and some shirts. Nobody spots any guns or ammunition the way we’d hoped. We all find backpacks and stuff more stolen goods inside.

  Each of us takes turns as lookout. My throat is dry. It’s nerve-­racking but thrilling to be back on the same team where I belong.

  “A soldier is coming,” Viktor hisses. “Hide!”

  We look around frantically, then burrow under a pile of blankets that are thick and scratchy. I almost pee my pants. A soldier who looks Eldin’s age stares through the window, but he doesn’t see us. He probably thinks another recruit flicked on the lights.

  “Let’s get out of here,” I whisper. What will my mother do if she finds out? I don’t know who’s more scary—the militia or Mom.

  “Let’s come back again tomorrow,” Ivan says loudly, like we’re hanging at home and not about to get arrested. Of course he isn’t nervous—he’s been ripping off things his whole life.

  We hurry toward the window and climb back outside. It’s raining harder now. My breath is fast. It’s a struggle to move quickly carrying so much stuff. Ivan goes through the hole in the fence first, and we hand him the backpacks and bags, then squeeze through after him.

  The rain hammers down on our heads, and there’s no one around to see or hear us. I follow their lead, and we dig ditches in the mud with our new shovels, stashing our take along the outside of the fence. I put mine under a bush near a weeping willow tree that I’ll use as a marker to find later. Ivan takes a whiz near another bush. I do too. What a relief.

  We run back to our apartment complex, and I wave bye to Vik. He nods back! Does he think I did a good job?

  At home, I dry off and put my wet clothes in the hamper, acting like I’ve just been out playing. Mom, Dad, and Eldin barely notice me. I go to bed but can’t fall asleep. I stare at the ceiling, watching the shadows move. I’ve just gone against everything my parents believe. But I’m psyched to get away with it.