We don’t know what will happen; we’re winging it. We each hold a suitcase as we say goodbye to our home one more time and head out into the freezing, wet darkness. I don’t know if I’m shaking from the cold, fear, or both.
“Lousy weather’s on our side,” Dad says. “Keeps everyone indoors.”
We arrive at the deserted bus stop, and soon a white cross-country bus with gray stripes comes along, the kind I rode for an hour to visit my Uncle Ahmet last summer.
“Hi, Keka,” the bald driver says as we board. It’s Radivoj, a chubby Serb in his thirties who used to work out at Dad’s gym. We give him money; he hands us blue tickets.
He’s writing down all the passengers’ names. At the checkpoints, a soldier will be looking at the list. For us, Radivoj writes “S. Trebinčević,” then winks at Dad. I wonder if he thinks my father’s first name, Senahid, is more Muslim-sounding than Trebinčević. If our names stand out, our trip ends—and possibly we end, too.
Dad smiles. The driver smiles back. He’s on our side, even before Mom hands him Zorica’s moonshine.
Walking up the aisle of the bus, I count thirty rows of double seats, but not all are filled. A few businessmen travel alone. Three elderly couples with hardly any luggage look like they’re going on short trips. These riders are older than my parents and better dressed than we are, in nice coats, scarves, and leather gloves. They don’t look ratty or hungry. Clearly, they’re all Serbian. Are they our enemies?
A lady with gray hair like Majka’s is laughing at something her husband says. It seems heartless to me that they’re going on holiday in the middle of a war when so many Bosnians are suffering. Eldin says that certain areas, far from the fighting, are hardly affected by the bombing. While thousands of our people are being massacred, Serbs visit Europe every weekend to shop and dine out with friends.
I fear it’s obvious we’re Muslim refugees, clearly terrified, trying to escape. In the middle of the bus, I take the window seat next to my father while my brother sits next to Mom right in front of us. We don’t speak.
Eldin and I share the package of Zorica’s tea cookies. We offer some to my parents, who shake their heads. I stare out the dirty window at the swirling snow. The fattest flakes fall sideways. I feel like I’m one of those snowflakes, being blown around, lost in the fog.
We ride in silence for three hours until we stop at the Bosnian-Serbian border. A soldier with a mustache, wearing a red beret, comes out of a little cabin. I guess he’s about Eldin’s age. I try not to tremble as he climbs the steps.
“Do I have reason to check this bus?” he asks Radivoj, snow dripping off his hat. He sounds bored, like he just wants to get back inside his warm kiosk. My pulse is racing. Will anyone turn us in?
“No, we’re okay,” Radivoj replies. They chat a bit about the storm conditions.
I hold my breath, praying the soldier won’t notice us. He appears to only skim the passenger list. Please God, let us leave this time.
Seconds feel like hours. We wait for someone to give us up, but the other riders keep quiet. I don’t know why. The flakes are falling faster now, and at last the soldier stomps back out and into his dry cabin.
Finally the bus takes off. Hot tears of relief pour out of my eyes. So far, the weather, Radivoj the friendly bus driver, and the silence of strangers are saving us.
At the second checkpoint, we stop on a bridge, where an iron gate lifts. Another soldier in camouflage and a red beret comes aboard. This one is older and taller than Eldin, maybe six foot four, with huge shoulders and a big belly. Strapped across his chest are two guns: an AK-47 and an Uzi, and a handgun hangs in the holster above his pants pocket. His cheeks are ruddy, like he’s excited about shooting someone.
“Identification out,” he bellows, marching down the aisle. I stare at my boots, leaning against Dad. I know Eldin is in more danger than I am, since he’s eighteen. I wince as the red beret heads straight for us like a magnet drawn to our terror.
“Documents,” he demands.
Mom hands him our new passports and Good Miran’s letter. But the red beret is mad. “Get off the bus!” he yells.
Please, no, please, I pray. For someone who isn’t religious, I’m sure praying a lot, though it isn’t the technical kind. More like silently begging God to spare us.
Mom points to the letter again. “Captain Miran signed it,” she says, hoping the soldier will recognize the name and leave us alone.
“Who the hell is he? You’re not going anywhere,” the red beret screams.
“Please, we have the required paperwork,” Mom pleads.
Tears stream from my eyes. I can’t help it, or stop.
“My young son has the flu,” Mom tells him.
Dad stands up stoically but lets Mom speak for us.
“So take him to the doctor! What the hell do you want me to do about it?”
He orders us off the bus, telling Radivoj to continue on without us.
Radivoj salutes and turns on his engine as we lose our only chance to escape.
“But Captain Miran was supposed to call the checkpoint to leave our names with the guards. Can you call him, sir?” my mother begs as we step out into the cold. “Please.”
We’re hours from home, stuck in a no-man’s-land during the worst winter storm in years. I’m trying to stay calm, but I can’t stop crying. We have nowhere to go. Even if it’s possible to catch another bus back, we have no money and hardly any friends there anymore; we’ll be killed. As we walk out into the snowy fog, my whole body quivers, my teeth chattering.
“Come with me,” the soldier yells, leading us to a room inside the bus terminal.
I eye the handgun on his holster and the nightstick hanging off his belt. Inside the office, I spot more pistols and rifles in an open closet. Will he shoot us here? If he tries, I decide I’ll make a grab for one of the weapons, like in an action movie. But are they loaded? Maybe we’d be safer outside? He might not kill us while traffic passes by. As he rummages through a stack of papers on his desk, I’m desperate for an escape plan. We stand there, waiting for him to find whatever he’s looking for. Eventually he grabs a note with several lines and a number scrawled on it in pen.
“What’s your name?” he barks at Dad as I suck in my sobs.
“Trebinčević,” my father answers, not saying his first name in case the driver was right and our last name sounds a little less Muslim.
The soldier picks up the phone and dials. “Is this Captain Miran?” he asks.
Please be there, Captain Miran, I say to myself over and over. Please be there.
“Huh. Yes, sir,” the red beret says into the phone. “Trebinčevićs?”
Is Good Miran on the line? Will we be allowed to leave or forced to stay? Will this Serb kill us right here? Live or die? I’m numb, waiting for the verdict.
The soldier slams the phone back down.
“Get out!” He orders us outside and follows with his two guns still over his shoulder and the handgun in his holster. I don’t know if we’re being freed or led out to be shot.
As we stumble back into the snowstorm, we’re stunned to find that the bus hasn’t left. Radivoj is waiting for us! Miraculously, instead of following the soldier’s order, he turned on his engine, then pulled off to the side of the road, where he’s been sitting for the last ten minutes.
“Are they coming?” Radivoj asks. “I’m late, and it’s freezing out here.”
“Get the hell back on the bus!” the red beret shouts at us.
I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. As we scramble to reboard and return to our seats, I dry my eyes with my sleeve. The bus starts down the road again.
Captain Miran’s connections worked. His letter and a call have saved us. So has Radivoj’s kindness. I can’t believe it. Have my prayers helped? Is it karma?
We did it! I want to yell. But I know that even on a bus with a sympathetic driver, our ordeal isn’t over. We’ll have to pass at least one more border che
ckpoint before we reach Austria, hours away. I’m still terrified someone else could send us back.
I look around and count forty-two other people. Forty-two chances to be turned in. I’m sure some of these Serbs hate us. Now they’ll be more resentful because we’ve kept them waiting. I imagine that a passenger gives us up to the next checkpoint soldier. My stomach twists.
We don’t say a word for hours. I stare out the window, frightened, checking for roadblock ramps or military jeeps. The snow is tapering off to flurries. Every time we slow down, I peek over the seat in front of me to see what’s going on.
Our final hurdle is the Serbian-Hungarian border, where the bus stops at a ramp before another iron gate. The guard who comes aboard is dressed in an olive green uniform with an ivory belt and visor. He speaks in a thick accent that sounds German.
The soldier skims our identification. “Why isn’t your passport stamped?” he barks at Dad.
We all stop breathing. Did the guard at the first checkpoint forget, or did he intentionally cause us trouble?
“I don’t know, sir,” my father responds. “I guess the Serbian border patrolman forgot to stamp it.”
The soldier shakes his head. We wait to see what he’ll do. Finally, he just stamps our passports and walks off the bus.
The iron gate lifts. I’m afraid to react, and keep holding my breath until the bus is on its way again and we cross the border. Then Radivoj lets go of the steering wheel and stares at us in the rearview mirror. I don’t know what’s happening. A wide smile creeps across his face, and he claps his hands. Everyone on the bus is suddenly laughing and nodding their heads, bursting into applause, too.
We’ve made it! My mother lets out a huge sigh. Eldin and I both raise our arms over our heads, cheering and pumping our fists in the air.
“Thank you,” Dad says to Radivoj and the other passengers, his eyes filling with tears.
I can’t believe how wrong I’d been about the others on the bus. Now we know they’ve been secretly rooting for us all along, afraid to show that they’re on our side. But their poker faces in front of the soldiers made our escape possible.
I wonder if my mother is right: if there really is bad and good in all kinds of people. I think of Zorica, Captain Miran, my mom’s friend Ankica, and Radivoj. Yes, some of our friends, neighbors, and teachers turned into monsters, but the last Serbs we see leaving our country are kind.
Nobody says much for the rest of the six-hour ride through Hungary. The snow disappears, and the sun overtakes the fog. As my fear subsides, I remember how hungry I am, and we pull the onion sandwiches from Mom’s purse. Eldin and I eat quickly as the bus speeds through miles of farmland. To calm down, I count cows and roosters in the fields.
In the evening, we reach Austria, Uncle Ahmet’s new country. The streets are filled with so many lamps and traffic signals, I have to squint. It’s been nearly ten months since my eyes were exposed to electric light.
Part Two
Stuck
in
Limbo
Vienna, Austria
Fourteen
January 1993
We pull into the Vienna station amid dozens of other buses parked side by side. Hundreds of passengers spill onto the sidewalk, many looking like us—confused, scared refugees, speaking Bosnian, carrying lots of luggage. Some seem to be searching for family members who escaped earlier. Next to us, a woman wearing a green parka and holding a baby calls out, “Sestro!” and embraces another woman who I guess is her sister, as they both weep hysterically.
I wish Uncle Ahmet were here to pick us up. He knows how to handle everything. But we haven’t spoken to him, so he doesn’t even know we escaped yet. We’ve had no way to reach him for the past nine months.
“Hurry. Let’s get our bags,” Mom says. But as we go to retrieve our luggage from the storage compartment under the coach, the door closes and the bus starts moving down the street. Diesel fumes blow in my face, making me cough.
“Keka, our suitcases!” Mom shouts. “He forgot us!”
Eldin runs alongside the bus, punching it with his fists, trying to get Radivoj’s attention. Mom, Dad, and I join him, sprinting across the busy intersection, which is wider than my school’s fudbal field. The streetlamps light up the darkness. I’ve never seen roads with so many car lanes.
As I chase my brother chasing the bus, I think of what’s in my bag that can’t be replaced, like my plaque for being the best reader in first grade, signed by Mr. Miran—my only school prize, which even his gun to my head can’t erase—and the two stray bullets from my collection that I slipped in when Mom wasn’t looking. Then I picture all the stuff that Mom wouldn’t let me take: my marbles, sport cards, and Transformers. I can’t believe that after our seventeen-hour journey, we’re losing what little we have left. Radivoj is such an awesome driver, how can he take off with our stuff?
“Be careful of cars! Don’t get run over,” Mom yells at Eldin, who gets caught between two oncoming trucks that both screech to a stop. One of the drivers opens the window, screaming in German that sounds just like the guys from The Dirty Dozen. Eldin keeps running and I follow. We’re both panting. It’s the most exercise we’ve had since the war began.
Behind us, Mom is crying, thinking we’ve lost everything. The bus makes a sharp left U-turn, and we cut in front of it, waving our arms. Radivoj pulls over and opens the door.
“Didn’t you hear me say there was no parking on that street?” he asks us. “That’s why I had to move.”
“No. We didn’t hear that,” Eldin says, breathless. “Sorry.”
Dad looks relieved, but Mom is still crying. We retrieve our luggage, shake Radivoj’s hand, and thank him once more. I look around, weary. We’ve been on the road since five a.m.
The dry air is so cold I can see my breath. But at least it’s not snowing here. Though the lights still burn my eyes, all the shining streetlamps and blinking traffic signals make me smile. Trolleys zoom past with bells ringing. Noises and colors swirl around us. It’s dazzling.
Mom fishes out of her purse the scrap of paper with Ahmet’s address and phone number. Together we find a pay phone and stick a schilling in the slot. Mom dials as we wait nervously. What if he’s moved? Or if she wrote down the number wrong? Or nobody picks up? It’s eleven o’clock at night. Where will we go? We could ask the black-uniformed policeman on the corner, but he reminds me of the nasty Serb soldiers at the checkpoints. Could he deport or arrest us?
Mom nods, signaling that someone has answered. “This is Adisa Trebinčević, Ahmet’s sister. Who is this?” she says in Bosnian. “Oh, thank God. Fadil! We’re here in Vienna! Yes, we got out. Yes, we’re safe. At the bus station. Is Ahmet there?” Mom asks. Then she says, “Yes. Okay,” and hangs up.
“Ahmet’s not home, but he’ll meet us there,” Mom says, excited. “Fadil said we should get a taxi.”
We find a man in a gray Mercedes with a taxi sign. Dad shows him Uncle Ahmet’s address. The driver nods, opening his car doors. Dad gets in front, the rest of us in back.
We haven’t seen Uncle Ahmet, Aunt Maksida, or my cousins in so long. “Who is Fadil?” I ask Mom.
“Don’t you remember? He’s married to Raza, Aunt Maksida’s sister.”
I’ve never met them. They lived an hour away from Brčko, in Ahmet’s town, but they’ve spent the last six years in Vienna. They moved here for work long before the war, so they’re already citizens.
“When do I get to see my uncle?” I want to know.
Mom grins. “Soon.”
* * *
Forty minutes later, I’m imagining eating Aunt Maksida’s famous apricot jam when we finally come to a gated area and pull up to a fancy apartment building. We have no idea what the fare should be or how to count schillings. Exhausted and out of it, Dad shows the driver two of the big bills Zorica gave us the night before.
“Yes, two hundred,” the driver says in our language, in what sounds like a Serbian accent that makes the hairs
on my neck stand up. He takes it all. We get out and ring the bell as he speeds off.
“Think he’s a Serb?” I ask Eldin. He nods.
“Remember to take off your shoes, and do not touch anything in their home,” Mom warns.
A couple open the door. “Fadil! Raza!” Mom cries, rushing into their arms.
“You made it,” they say, leading us into the foyer, shaking all our hands warmly, saying “Welcome” in Bosnian. Fadil has slicked-back hair and is wearing a crisp buttoned-up shirt and jacket—spiffy, like Al Pacino in The Godfather. He’s the building superintendent here, we learn. Raza has on a silky dress, and her lipstick is very red against her white teeth. She has stylish braided hair. The only hint that she’s an accountant is the glasses she wears on a chain around her neck.
The narrow foyer has white furniture and floors made of marble. The apartment’s about the same size as our Brčko place, but I’ve never seen such an elegant home. When Mom’s not looking, I kneel to touch the tiles. “Look, it’s heated,” I tell Eldin, sitting down to warm my butt.
“Let’s put your bags here,” Fadil says, storing our luggage in the hall closet.
A younger boy runs in. He’s shorter than I am, wearing fudbal footie pajamas. “This is Enes. He’s eight,” Raza says.
“Willkommen zuhause,” he says. I don’t understand the German words, but they sound friendly.
“I love fudbal too,” I tell him in Bosnian, pointing to his PJs.
“Rapid,” he says his team’s name and asks for mine. I’m about to say Outlaws, since I follow Eldin’s favorite team, but then I remember that Yugoslavia suspended our fudbal league because of the war.
I nod, then say, “My team is no more.”
“Share all your toys with Kenan,” Raza tells her son, leading us to the dimly lit kitchen. “Look, Kenan, honey, you can have anything you want,” she says sweetly, opening the refrigerator.
World in Between Page 11
