“Don’t walk any farther or they’ll take you too,” he warns.
We stumble, crying, back to Aunt Bisera’s, where Mom falls into her sister’s arms. I rush to the bathroom, my whole body convulsing with the runs. It only stops when Aunt Bisera feeds me leftover grounds from the coffee filter, her home remedy.
* * *
By Friday, we’ve still heard nothing of Dad or Eldin. I’m sick and scared every minute. I continue doing chores with Almir and Omar in the mornings, but we barely speak. Their dads are at Luka too.
At night, it’s pitch-dark, ninety degrees, no air conditioning. Mom and I share the twin bed, sleeping feet to head for more room, with nobody on the small couch Dad and Eldin used, like it’s waiting for their return.
When we hear gunfire, Mom worries someone will walk past the first-floor window and shoot us, so she stays awake all night being our lookout, taking only a short nap at sunrise. I can’t sleep either because of all the sounds—crickets chirping, frogs croaking, ammunition blasting.
“I’m sure they’re okay,” I lie, trying to comfort Mom, telling myself that since everyone in Brčko knows and loves Dad, nobody will hurt him in Luka, out of respect.
One morning I go to Almir’s house to do chores, but no one’s there. I search the orchards and the barn, yelling my friends’ names as the animals silently watch me. Back at Aunt Bisera’s house, Mom tells me that Almir’s and Omar’s families and the other farmers must have fled in the night.
They didn’t even say goodbye to me, just like Huso and Lena.
We hear cow and chicken noises around the clock. With nobody feeding the animals, they’re dying. I want to run back to the barn to save the starving livestock, but Mom says it’s too dangerous, I can’t go that far from the house now.
Soon there’s a cow’s body rotting in the middle of the road, and three dead chickens. Halil buries the animals in the backyard, while Aunt Bisera weeps.
The grownups don’t talk about it, but I know food is running out. My aunt is upset she can’t serve us much, just bread, corn, the last ripe apples and apricots Halil picks from their trees, and the trout he catches. We’re hungry and tired, petrified that Dad and Eldin might be dead. Though I haven’t known Almir and Omar very long, I miss my new buddies. But I keep quiet, trying to be brave for my freaked-out mom.
One day while I’m playing by the road in front of the house, I see a black Mercedes speed by, driven by a Serb soldier in aviator glasses. When I hear shooting a moment later, I dive down to the ground and watch as the car screeches to a halt and the soldier—wearing dark jeans and a military shirt—steps out to see who shot at him. When he can’t spot them, he pulls out a rocket-propelled grenade and launches it across the river, at nothing, just because he’s angry. The trees on the opposite shore explode in flames. I run inside to tell Mom.
“You could have died!” she yells, then hugs me close. “From now on, stay behind the house.”
* * *
The next morning, when I wake up, I forget where I am for a minute, ready to play fudbal for a smiling Mr. Miran at recess, as if the nightmare were over. But it’s only been six weeks. Dad said World War II lasted six years.
A friendly visitor stops by Aunt Bisera’s with a message of hope: my cousins have made it to non-Serb territory with Majka Emina. I think about whoever shot at that soldier in the Mercedes, and about Uncle Ahmet, fighting to defend Bosnia. I wish I were old enough to join and could find a way to get there. I’d rather be a fighter than helplessly living in fear.
We hear nothing about Eldin and Dad. Aunt Bisera tells me to pray, but I don’t really know how. Nobody I know covers their head or follows conservative Islam. I’ve only gone to the mosque once, with Uncle Ahmet. I don’t fast for Ramadan or know the official prayers. Dad studied the Koran in school when he was young, but I never did. Mom’s grandpa was a popular imam, but we only celebrate major holidays.
Every night when I get into bed, I shut my eyes and hope someone is taking care of Eldin and Dad. I try not to imagine that they’re being tortured or lying in a meat truck, which is where we hear those who die in the camp are stored before getting dumped. I picture my father and brother here when I wake up in the morning, my own kind of prayer.
One night, as explosions echo down the river for miles, Mom is extra antsy, tossing, getting up, and pacing. I follow and find her mopping the kitchen floor. I help move the plants and garbage bin out of her way.
“We should escape on a rainy night by swimming across the river,” I tell her.
“You’re too young.” She bends and wipes the tiles with a napkin, sweat dripping from her forehead.
“I took swimming lessons last summer.”
“You never went into the deep end without Dad,” she reminds me.
I also wore inflatable water wings, which we had to leave behind. Mom and I look out the window at the river’s currents. Along the banks, armed soldiers hide in the bushes.
“We’ll think of something,” she says.
* * *
One day, two Serb policemen we’ve never seen show up at the house, one fat and one skinny. Spying from the kitchen, I see the cops looking around, like they want something to steal. I overhear Mom begging for information about my brother and Dad. She assumes all the local Serbs know everything going on around here—and she’s right.
“I think they were in the group of men that were released from Luka,” the fat cop tells her.
“What? They’re alive, then? They’re okay? But where would they go?” she asks. “We’re from Brčko, not far from the port.”
“If you really want, I can get you back to Brčko,” the thin cop offers.
“Yes. Please,” she begs. “I hardly have any money left, but . . .”
“Jewelry?” asks his partner.
Mom hands him her gold wedding band, and he nods. But what will Dad say? I wonder if she’s mad at him for not getting us out of Bosnia in time. Does this mean she doesn’t think he’ll return?
As she runs to get our belongings, I just stand there, helpless.
“What’s happening?” Aunt Bisera asks, stopping her in the hall.
“We’re going to look for Keka and Eldin,” Mom whispers. “I bribed those pigs with my wedding ring to help us.”
I’m relieved she’s angry at the cops, not Dad. Now I understand: material things don’t mean anything anymore. All she cares about is getting my father and brother back.
Within minutes we’re standing at the door, Aunt Bisera hugging us goodbye. The chubby cop winks at my aunt. Then we’re climbing into the back of the Serb police car.
This feels insane. But even my mother isn’t crazy enough to barge into a concentration camp, so I don’t know where she’s taking us. She gives the cops our Brčko address. She still has the keys.
We live on the main street in town, so they know it. As they speed there, I relax a little. These cops don’t seem dangerous, just happy with their bribe. I’m more afraid we’ll run into the nasty soldier who threw us off the bus. But since we’re driving in a Serbian police car, we’re waved right through the checkpoints.
“Think your pretty sister will go out with me?” asks the fat cop as he drives.
Mom doesn’t answer. Yuck. Is that why he’s helping us?
He drives so fast, it takes only twenty minutes to get back to our apartment. When we pull up in front of our building, we get out quickly.
“Thank you,” Mom says. I’m relieved when the cops speed off.
Everything looks the same, except for the bags of garbage piling up near the side of the building. It’s quieter too, with nobody outside, though it’s around noon. I wonder where Vik, Marko, and Ivan are.
We rush to climb the stairs before anyone sees us, and Mom takes out her key—but the door is unlocked. We creep inside slowly, scared soldiers are living here and could shoot us on sight. Silently we inch forward and peek into the living room.
I can’t believe what I see—Eldin and Dad! T
hey’re sitting on the couch, in shorts and T-shirts.
“Oh my God, you’re here. You’re safe!” my mother cries. “You’re alive!” We all run into each other’s arms.
“They let us out of Luka after two weeks, but we didn’t know how to get back to you.” My father grips Mom tightly, not letting her go. “So we walked back here, since it’s so close.”
They’re both much thinner than they were just three weeks ago. Eldin is wearing his big yellow-framed glasses, and his cheekbones are sticking out. Dad’s hair is grayer, his face is pale. I’ve never seen him look so small and confused. It’s like he’s lost all his power.
“We heard buses full of women and kids from Bisera’s village were blown up. So was the bridge near Majka’s,” Eldin explains. “We thought you were dead, or given to the Serbs for prisoner exchange. We wanted to go look for you but couldn’t chance any more checkpoints and get sent back to Luka. Or worse.” He picks me up high, hugs me, and messes up my hair, all our old fights forgiven.
“Didn’t they feed you there?” I ask.
“Bread and water,” Dad says. “They murdered so many men . . .”
“It was a miracle we got out,” Eldin adds. “They intentionally released some of us, right before the Red Cross came. They didn’t want the world to find out what they’re doing.”
“The Red Cross?” I repeat.
“It’s an international charity, trying to help us,” he says.
Oh yeah. I remember their TV ads showing workers feeding starving kids in Africa. I’m glad the rest of the world knows what the Serbs are doing. Maybe more good guys will come here to save us soon.
“Why don’t you go change your clothes?” Mom tells me.
In my room, I rush to the treasure chest, afraid my old friends might have snuck in to steal my toys. I inspect my trading cards, marbles, action figures, G.I. Joe, miniature car collection, notebook, and colored markers, happy to see they are all there, untouched. My clothes are still in my closet and drawers too, exactly the same as when I left.
It’s so weird to think that while I was lying awake at Aunt Bisera’s, scared about my brother and Dad, they were safely sleeping here, in their own beds. I change into clean underwear, shorts, and T-shirt. It feels so nice to be in clothes that aren’t stiff from being dried in the sun. But then I go to wash up and remember we have no water. There’s no soap or deodorant either.
At least my old retainer is here in its green case. But when I put it in my mouth, it’s too tight. I’m supposed to get it refitted every six weeks.
I come down the hall to show Mom. “Feels too small,” I tell her.
“That’s the least of our problems.” She takes it from me and throws it out.
“Here,” she says, handing me some baking soda from the kitchen. “Use this for deodorant.” I remember the day last year when I came in sweaty from playing fudbal and Mom told me that I was turning into a teenager and had to prevent my armpits from smelling. “We’ll use it for toothpaste too.”
“We’re staying here?” I ask.
“For now,” my brother says. “Where else can we go?”
Mom sits on the couch between Dad and Eldin, asking about everything that happened in the weeks we’ve been apart. I sit on the floor, so glad we’re all alive and reunited.
“Anto was in Luka with us,” Dad says. “We slept on the same cardboard.”
I love Anto, Dad’s Catholic buddy who was the best man at my parents’ wedding. He’s a butcher, and whenever we visited his apartment, he and his wife, Ruža, would serve us steak, salami, beef sausage, and lamb. The thought makes my mouth water.
“So they took Croats to Luka too?” Mom asks. “Even though Anto’s married to a Serb?”
“Ruža came to get him out,” Dad says. “Rumor was a guard attacked her first.”
Mom gasps, then puts her hands over my ears, though I already heard. I know, from some of the movies I’ve seen, what they’re talking about.
“Anto’s hiding at home now too. He said if we can get there, they will have food for us.”
“I’ll go,” I offer. Their apartment is only a fifteen-minute walk from our place.
“We’ll talk about it later.” Mom turns to Eldin. “We had bread at Bisera’s this morning. Did you eat today?”
“We stopped at Aunt Fatima’s place on the way here. We’ve been eating the cereal, Spam, sardines, and canned chicken pâté she gave us,” Eldin says. “She’s okay. So is Majka Emina, but we didn’t get to see her.”
Aunt Fatima, my Majka Emina’s sister, lives a few blocks from us. I’m so happy she’s all right and we won’t starve. “Mr. Miran was the one who took us to Luka,” Eldin adds. “He walked by and sneered at us every day. Wouldn’t help us get out or bring us any food, because we didn’t have enough money to pay him off.”
This time I’m not surprised.
“I hope he gets killed and his flesh rots in his grave,” my father mumbles.
I’ve never heard my father wish someone a bad death before; in my culture, it’s our worst curse.
I know now that Mr. Miran is a bad man, and I’m still hurt by the way Vik, Marko, and Ivan treated me. But I’m not wishing anyone dead.
Ten
July 1992
On Monday afternoon, as Mom and I open the door to take trash bags to the dumpster, our next-door neighbor Petra, Obren’s wife, slinks out of her apartment like a snake. She’s wearing a beige nightgown and has on too much makeup and stinky perfume. She leans against the wall to light a cigarette. When Mom sees her, she shrinks back.
“You have to keep your door unlocked now, otherwise it’ll be kicked in by looting soldiers,” Petra warns, exhaling smoke. “And it’s mandatory to put your last name on the door, in Cyrillic.”
Petra hands my mother a piece of paper and watches her scrawl Trebinčević in the script the Serbs use. Mom is so nervous she forgets a few letters, which Petra immediately corrects. In school, we learned the Cyrillic alphabet—along with the Bosnian alphabet. They’re very similar and share a lot of the same letters. Now the Serbs are even trying to erase the way we write.
Mom tapes the paper to our door.
“A paramilitary commander was living in your place, but he disappeared,” Petra adds.
So that explains why Eldin and Dad found everything a mess when they returned home. They said our door was unlocked, and there was a sign on it that read PROPERTY OF THE POLICE. Mom’s black and white rug was wrecked by combat boot prints, and a bath towel with caked-on dirt was draped over the couch. The dining room chairs had been dragged into the living room. The toilets were unflushed. In both bedrooms, the beds were unmade. Dad and Eldin had straightened up and taken out some of the garbage the strangers left behind, but our once-spotless house still reeks.
“Petra’s wearing the nightgown my sister gave me—that thief,” Mom says when we’re back in the apartment, her neck turning red. “She snuck in and helped herself to my closet when we were gone.”
I hate to see Mom so upset. It’s gross to picture Petra in her bedroom. It creeps me out to think that someone could have been under my covers, touching my things. The TV and all of Dad’s jazz records are also gone. Is that Petra’s handiwork too?
“Wait. So she can just come in without permission, take anything she wants, and not get in trouble?” I ask.
“Her husband’s a Serb guard. They control the town,” says Eldin.
“Lucky their tiny studio apartment couldn’t fit all our furniture.” Mom tries to joke.
“Serbs don’t have to follow the laws anymore.” Eldin sounds resigned. “They won’t get arrested for stealing from us. We can’t call the police on her or try to do anything about it or she’ll call Obren or one of his Serb soldier friends to have us taken away again.”
“I wish those evil monsters would drop dead already,” says Dad. It’s less shocking to hear him say it this time.
But Mom shakes her head. “Stop wishing people dead, Keka.”
/> “So we have to give Petra whatever she wants, whenever she comes over?” I ask.
“For now, but it won’t last,” Mom says. “God’s watching. His hand will take their power away.”
I wonder what God’s waiting for. I envision him as an invisible man, looking down on the earth, who has to be addressed respectfully. Once, when I was with Majka Emina, I broke a toy and muttered, “Goddamnit,” and she yelled, “Don’t use God’s name in vain. He’s always listening and watching you.” But if that’s true, why is he letting so much bad stuff happen to us?
Mom sinks to her knees and scrubs at the footprints on the floor. I feel like saying, We could be shot any second and you’re worried about your rug? I’m hungry and angry we’re not allowed to leave, forced into hiding in our own apartment, surrounded by enemies. But I keep my mouth shut and stomp into my room instead.
“Walk softly, so the new tenants below don’t hear us,” Mom orders.
We don’t know which of our Muslim neighbors escaped, who is detained or dead. Serb military men and their families are now living in the empty apartments in our building, since it’s the newest complex in town. Some have houses in the suburbs, with second homes here. At least the soldiers won’t bomb or burn down our building, Eldin figures.
The street fighting has died down, and the canned food from Aunt Fatima won’t last much longer. “Want me to check if the store has any food left?” I ask Mom.
She looks at Dad, who nods. She hands me a few dinars from the little cash we have left.
I’m glad I kept the gun incident with Mr. Miran to myself, so they’ll let me outside. The grocery is open, and luckily a girl I don’t know is working the cash register. There’s no candy or cookies, but I find a can of beans, a tin of sardines, and a bag of lentils on the half-empty shelves. Mom’s Serbian friend Ankica walks in, and I freeze, afraid she’ll be mean. But she puts her arm around me.
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