World in Between

by Kenan Trebincevic

  The infirmary building is shot up from shells, like Swiss cheese. Inside are a receptionist and another patient waiting. We walk to the dental department, passing a doctor and a few nurses. Another doctor talks to a soldier who’s being treated. From their calmness, I can tell they’re all Serbs.

  We sit in the same room where I once waited to be fitted for my retainer.

  “What’s your name?” the receptionist asks.

  “Adisa Trebinčević,” Mom says. “The entire side of my face hurts.”

  As we wait to be seen, I hear more fighting outside. I slouch against the wall as pebbles from the explosions ricochet off the infirmary’s windows.

  The dentist and a nurse step into the hallway. “Not that one. The other filling. The good stuff’s for our people,” I overhear him say.

  I keep quiet. If I tell Mom, it will only upset her more. And if she complains, they might not fix her tooth at all.

  After she’s called in, she spends forty-five minutes in the office alone as I grow more nervous. I feel like I’m on guard. But when she finally comes out, she seems to feel better.

  “They gave me novocaine before filling the cavity, so my mouth is numb,” she says, rushing us home to Eldin and Dad. She’s afraid they’ll be taken away again if we’re not there.

  On the way home, a Serb soldier who looks like he’s in his late teens tells us, “Don’t hang around here. The mosque will be blown up in two hours. Open your windows.”

  Mom gasps. Does he know which side we’re on? I look at the mosque, with its pointy wooden top, only two hundred yards before us. How can anyone ruin a holy building? We hardly ever prayed there, but Majka’s father was once the imam, so this feels personal.

  Back at our apartment, we tell Dad and Eldin what the soldier said, and we lift all our windows so the glass won’t shatter. Mom unlocks the balcony door too, and I keep my bedroom door open to let the breeze through. We sit in silence, staring at the clock on the table.

  At exactly four, loud explosions roar through the air. Though they are open, our windows still crack, shards flying everywhere. The mosque is more than a mile away from us, but it feels like we’re being blown up too.

  Through the open balcony door I hear cackling and cheering from Vik, Marko, Ivan, and their new best friend, Stevo. They whistle and yell that a parking lot will be built on our most sacred space.

  “Why don’t they fear God’s wrath?” Mom asks. “Don’t they know he’s watching?”

  “What God? He left us a long time ago,” I say. I can feel my heart crying.

  “No. Don’t worry.” She touches my shoulder, sounding like Majka Emina. “He’s still here.”

  Twelve

  September 1992

  I don’t want to trust Miloš or Zorica. But they’re so nice to me, I feel safe at their place. I eat what they offer, bring my toys over, and teach their son games. Then, one September afternoon when we’re sitting on the floor eating crackers, Miloš walks in the door, and Dejan jumps into his arms and asks, “Daddy, did you kill any Muslims today?”

  Miloš has been away on a two-week tour, fighting in the nearby suburbs. He’s in his green uniform, looking grimy and sweaty, his hair matted to his forehead. He removes the AK-47 from his shoulder strap and leans it against the wall as he takes off his muddy boots. My stomach tightens.

  “How many Muslims did you get?” Dejan repeats. Miloš doesn’t answer, just goes into the kitchen.

  Zorica glances at me. “Dejan! Don’t say that!” she scolds, her face red.

  I finish the cracker Zorica has given me. Miloš comes back into the living room, and I stare up at him, my neck tingling. He’s six feet, taller than my dad, with huge shoulders. I’m afraid to speak in case I say something wrong. If he kills Muslims on the battlefield, he could easily shoot me here, then go upstairs to take out Dad and Eldin.

  “Can I wear your jacket and gun?” begs Dejan.

  “Okay,” Miloš says, handing his coat to his son, who puts it on, sleeves reaching the floor. Miloš takes the clip off his assault rifle and gives it to Dejan with the bullets gone. Dejan holds it with both hands.

  For a moment I feel like running home. But if I hang around, I’ll get a piece of bread with chicken pâté and maybe candy or a Fig Newton.

  “Want to hold the rifle?” Dejan pushes it my way.

  I’m curious to see a gun this close and touch it. But now I’m afraid the warm barrel means Miloš has just been shooting Muslims like me. What if he killed my Uncle Ahmet, who’s fighting in the Bosnian army a few hours away? Outside, mortars fire across the street. I picture bombs falling on roofs, turning walls to ashes.

  “Can we play war now?” Dejan asks. His favorite game is taking on a different meaning for me today.

  He gives the clipless AK-47 back to his dad, who puts it on the dining room table. As explosions ring outside, Dejan and I hide at different ends of Huso’s apartment and search for each other. I aim my plastic Luger replica water pistol. Dejan puts his dad’s holster around his waist. We use a pair of rolled-up socks as a grenade. I sneak behind Dejan’s back and toss it in front of him, and we count to three out loud, yell “boom!” then “ksssh.” We cover our ears and throw ourselves onto the floor, the way they do in war movies, so we won’t get hit by a second shock.

  Dejan might be half my age, but I won’t let him win. It’s a thrill to pretend I’m a Bosnian commander conquering Serb bad guys to save my people. Make-believe is my only chance.

  * * *

  I’m still petrified of Miloš, but he never knocks bread out of my hand, points his gun at me, or calls me names. Whenever he sees me around the building, he says, “Hey, Kenan,” and grins, patting my head. One day, when my old friends are taunting me as I walk back from the trash bins, he even tells Vik and Ivan to stop bullying me.

  My dad calls Dejan “a good, well-behaved little boy.” He teaches him chess. They play for three or four hours at a time. We have nothing else to do. Dejan is pretty good for being just six.

  “Mr. Keka, can we play one more game?” he often begs.

  Dejan also plays chess with Eldin, who Miloš calls “the Buddha” for his calmness and poker face.

  Still, we’re enemies, aren’t we?

  One night in October, I’m there when Miloš comes home. He’s smoking a cigarette and has dark lines under his eyes. “We lost a lot of men in Vučilovac,” he tells Zorica, throwing his bag down. “The Bosnian and Croat forces burned the whole damn village. Our T-84 gunner was sliced in half.”

  I try to hide my elation and run upstairs. “Miloš said their army lost a battle and this guy in their tank got cut in half like a watermelon!” I tell Dad and Eldin, who pump their fists.

  “Is Miloš okay?” Mom asks.

  I nod, annoyed. “You should worry about our side. That’s who his army is killing,” I tell her.

  “They’ve been good to us,” she argues. “I don’t want Miloš to die. Do you?”

  “No,” I admit. But the Vučilovac victory gives me hope.

  Most days, Eldin spends hours lying on the floor. His ear is pressed to the radio so our neighbors won’t hear the Bosnian station he listens to and think he’s a collaborator. There’s news of a cease-fire, and Eldin convinces me we have a chance of making it to safe territory, like Majka Emina—and soon Aunt Bisera and Halil, too, we’ve heard. But in the next broadcast, the radio announcer says a compromise can’t be reached, and the battles resume.

  * * *

  One afternoon, as I’m returning from the well with a full jug, I pass Marko in the stairwell. He sticks out his foot to trip me, my water spills, and I fall down the stairs and land on my hands, scraping my palms.

  It’s not the first time one of my former friends has tripped me in the stairwell. But this time, I stand up and punch him. He spits and slaps me in the face. Then Vik sneaks behind me for a cheap kick, the coward.

  From our terrace, Dad screams at my former friends, “What crawled out of your asses into yo
ur heads lately?”

  Vik looks down, ashamed. He runs his sneaker over pebbles on the ground. Marko kicks a ball against the stairs. They’ve never heard Dad swear and sound so angry before.

  “Go screw yourself!” Stevo yells back at him.

  My mouth opens, and my heart falls as the guys chuckle.

  I used to love having the coolest dad. He charmed all my pals, teaching us to play volleyball and swim in the river, talking about his days as a drummer in a jazz band, treating everyone to ice cream in town on summer afternoons. (My favorite is vanilla mint, and Vik likes chocolate with sprinkles.)

  But there’s no ice cream now, no swimming or stories. The war is changing my father. His face is harder, and he uses bad words all the time and wishes people dead.

  Shaking his head, Dad turns and goes inside.

  I’m used to their nastiness toward me. But I can’t believe they’re disrespecting my father.

  * * *

  On a windy morning that fall, a car pulls up in front of our building and two Serbs with red berets get out. Their faces are serious as they stop in front of Stevo, who is sitting on the steps.

  “What’s your name?” one asks.

  Stevo answers.

  The other soldier says, “Where’s your mother?”

  When they take off their caps, I know they’ve come to pay condolences. Stevo’s father must have been killed in battle. Stevo runs up the stairwell crying, and I hear his mom shriek.

  I rush into the living room, where Eldin, Dad, and Mom are sitting, to share the good news: she and Majka are right about people getting what they deserve. The mean man who shot my water jug got shot himself.

  “Hey, I wished Stevo’s dad dead. And now he is!” I announce. Eldin grins.

  “Don’t ever wish death on anyone, Kenan,” Mom snaps, sounding angry. “We let God be the judge.”

  “Let them all rot,” I mutter, like my father. He nods his head.

  “Don’t say that. They aren’t all bad,” Mom says. “There are good people who help us too, like Zorica.”

  “What do you think Miloš does all day?” I ask her. After all the horrors we’ve seen, I don’t know how she still has faith.

  “They’re not all bad,” my mom insists.

  But I no longer believe her.

  Thirteen

  December 1992

  On my twelfth birthday Mom wakes me up with a cheerful “Happy birthday, Kenan!”

  I’m the opposite of happy. I have no friends, cake, party, or gifts. Last year I had two celebrations—one with all my relatives and one with my pals. Dad bought me a remote-controlled Transformer. Majka Emina baked me a special apple cake and knitted me a blue sweater with a panda on it. She gave me money that I used to buy a new sports uniform and some miniature foreign cars. This year, I don’t even know where my Majka is.

  “I’ve saved you special chocolate, just for today,” Mom says.

  “Who cares?” I mumble. “The Muslims they murdered are better off than we are.”

  She stares at me, her eyes filling with tears. I don’t want to make her cry, but I’m sick of pretending we’re going to be okay. All I want for my birthday is to get out of here.

  I go to wash, heating up water in a pot over the propane gas tank. In the cold bathroom tub I use the Red Cross soap Zorica gave us, rough like sandpaper, as I pour a cup of water over my head. I hate feeling hungry and dirty all the time.

  That afternoon, Zorica brings me candles, a Milky Way bar, and a little money, which I immediately give to my parents.

  “No cake, bro, but plenty of candles,” Eldin teases.

  He wants to stick a candle in the Milky Way and light it, but we don’t dare waste a single match. I take out a ruler and measure the candy bar, breaking it evenly and giving Eldin half.

  It’s my worst birthday ever.

  * * *

  Nine months into the war, we’re still stuck in our Bosnian apartment, with no electricity, running water, or heat, spending most of our time in the dark on the living room floor. We whisper and tiptoe, afraid soldiers might come for us at any moment.

  “We need the right papers to get us out of here and go stay with Ahmet,” I hear Dad whisper to Mom on a cold, foggy night before I go to bed. We’ve just learned that my uncle was wounded in the leg during battle and has escaped back to Vienna to reunite with my aunt and cousins and get medical treatment. He’s eligible for resettlement with Aunt Maksida’s sister and her husband, who they’re staying with.

  If only we could get to Uncle Ahmet, six hours away, we would be safe.

  * * *

  “I’m going to see Miran,” Mom announces one day at the end of December.

  “Mr. Miran?” I still haven’t told her he held a gun to my head.

  “No, a different Miran. He’s a good guy who used to lift weights at Dad’s gym,” Eldin explains. “They just made him the new police chief.”

  Every day I see how two Serb women—Zorica and Petra—can behave in completely opposite ways. Still, I’m skeptical that two Serb men with the same name can be that different.

  “Yes. He might be able to help us get out of here,” Dad agrees.

  “Going to the police station is dangerous,” Eldin tells me later. “Women have been attacked there, like Ruža at Luka—and Larisa, from my high school, I heard.”

  My heart screams in my chest. That’s Lena’s sister! I thought her family had made it out of the country. I’m wrecked and angry, fearing they’ve taken Lena too.

  “Wait, is Larisa okay? What about her sister?” I ask.

  “That was months ago,” my brother says. “Who knows where they ended up.”

  Anywhere is better than here.

  Mom takes me to the police station to see if Good Miran, the new police chief, will help us leave the country. She hopes having me with her might get us sympathy, she says.

  On the walk there, our town is unrecognizable. Dead dogs and cats rot in alleyways, swarming with flies. Garbage is piled up on street corners, and black clouds of diesel exhaust blow out of the tanks and other military vehicles that have taken over the roads. Dark smoke swirls from the chimney of the rubber factory on the outskirts of town, where—a family friend told us—piles of Muslim corpses are brought in on meat trucks to be burned.

  At the front door of the station, a guard stops us.

  “What do you want?”

  I’m terrified as Mom calmly says, “We’re here to see Captain Miran.”

  “One second.”

  A minute later, a short, pale man, armed with two guns, bullets on his belt, comes out and shakes her hand. He’s polite and clearly in charge. He brings us into his office.

  “Yes. Let’s get this going. I’ll draw up papers in a hurry. Get me your passports to update. I’ll personally call all the checkpoints in advance,” he tells Mom in a quiet voice.

  “My sons don’t have passports or photos,” she says.

  “They need pictures fast,” he says. “Here.” He writes an address on a piece of paper and hands it to her.

  The next day, Good Miran sends an elderly Serb man to our apartment. He drives Eldin and me five minutes away to a photography studio near our school to have our first passport photos taken.

  When he drops us off back at home, he instructs us to retrieve the papers and documents from a woman who works in the police station. We can leave on January 3, less than a week away.

  It seems straightforward, but I doubt that this Miran will really call all the border checkpoints before our departure to make sure that our names are cleared. Even if he does come through, we have no idea who might turn on us, stop us, send us back, or shoot. I have little hope, but Eldin thinks this time it might work. He keeps saying, “We have a better chance with his help.”

  * * *

  Last New Year’s Eve, my buddies and I played with firecrackers out in the courtyard. This year, the explosions we hear are real weapons. Mortars are being fired from the army base next to school. We hear b
ullets hit the side of our building. My family welcomes the new year lying on our living room floor, face-down.

  On January 2, Dad has to pick up our new papers. He doesn’t want to go alone, so he decides to take me. We wear sweaters, raincoats, and rubber boots as we sneak out in a snowstorm before the sun comes up.

  I feel like a spy on a secret assignment. Nobody has plowed the streets, and the snow is up to my waist. Trudging through it, we hope we won’t run into soldiers who’ll question us. It’s cloudy, with no stars or moon, and we can’t see much. The snow muffles our steps.

  We walk for ten minutes without seeing anyone; then Dad opens the front gate of the house we were directed to. He knocks lightly with his fingertips. The door opens. A Serb woman I don’t recognize slips us an envelope, saying, “Keka, here are the passports and the documents you need to leave the country. Good luck.”

  Zorica knows about our plan to get on a bus and join Uncle Ahmet’s family in Vienna, and she comes to visit at midnight with hundreds of schillings—the money they use in Austria—tea cookies, and a bottle of moonshine “to bribe the bus driver.” We all kiss her goodbye. I hold her tight, feeling guilty I doubted her loyalty.

  None of us sleep well, awaiting our D-Day, the most important mission of our lives. We pray the snowstorms will worsen so soldiers will stay in their guardhouses at the checkpoints and not come onto the bus.

  * * *

  On Sunday, January 3, 1993, Mom gets up before dawn. She prepares the last pathetic food we have left—chopped onions on slices of bread—and sticks the sandwiches in her purse. I dress in layers: my Wrangler jeans, two shirts, and a sweater under my navy parka, and sneakers with two pairs of socks. Eldin wears two button-down shirts under his flight jacket, the kind Tom Cruise wore in Top Gun.