The Day of the Pelican

by Katherine Paterson

  Letters from home, when they came, did not bring good news. Hamza was dead; they were sure of it now. The KLA had confirmed it. Granny stayed in bed all the time. Thank God there was a bed for her to lie in, Uncle Fadil said, for the barbarians had destroyed so much else. Relief teams had brought food, and the NATO troops were trying to keep order, but when the Jokics, their Serb neighbors, fled north, the KLA came and burned their house.

  "I asked them," Uncle Fadil wrote, "'Why do you burn a perfectly good house? My cousin and his family could live there when they come back.' But they wouldn't listen to me."

  "You see," Baba said when he read them the letter, "hate makes no sense." Yes, it does, Baba, to everyone but you. But the thought of the next-door neighbors turning into refugees did not satisfy any need for revenge. The Jokics had done no harm to the Lleshis, or to anyone else that she knew of. And Baba was right: burning a perfectly good house made no sense at all.

  Unlike many in the camp, they stayed well. "You see," Mehmet said, "the KLA camp made us strong. If it weren't for them, we'd be sniffling and croaking like these weaklings around here."

  "Hush," said Mama. "Thank God for your health, not the KLA."

  ***

  At last came the news they had almost given up hoping for. They were cleared to go to America. They had a sponsor: a church in Vermont.

  "Where's Vermont?" Mehmet asked. "Is it near New York?"

  Baba wasn't sure, but he didn't think so. America was a very big country.

  But a church? "Our sponsors are Christians?" Meli asked.

  "Yes," said Baba. "There are many Christians in America."

  "Is it safe?" Isuf asked. "All those Christians? Maybe they just want to get us there and kill us."

  "And burn down our house!" Adil added.

  Meli tried to smile. It was a childish fear, but still...

  Baba squatted so as to be closer to Isuf's level. "Isuf," he said, "at one time all of us were Christians."

  "I was not!"

  "Me neither!" said Adil.

  "Until the Turks came, we Albanians were all Christians. Skanderbeg was a Christian."

  The thought of the great hero whose picture hung in their schoolroom being a Christian was almost too much for the little brothers, who started to protest, but Baba continued. "And there are still Albanian Christians. You remember Mark," he said, mentioning one of their playmates at home. "His mama and baba are Christians."

  "They don't go to the Serbian church," Isuf maintained stubbornly. He wasn't about to identify his friend with their enemies.

  "No," Baba said, "they go to the Catholic church. There are different kinds of Christians, just as there are different kinds of Muslims. The church that is sponsoring us is still another kind of Christian."

  "Not Serbian?"

  "No," Baba assured him. "Something else they call Protestant."

  "Oh. That's silly," said Isuf.

  "Maybe so," said Baba, "but you don't have to be afraid. They want to help us, to be our friends, so you must be very polite to them. All right?"

  Isuf nodded. "All right, Baba," he said. "And I'll make Adil and Vlora behave, too."

  ***

  Every day they checked to see if their names were on the list, the list that would tell the time they must be at the gate on the following day for transportation to the airport.

  As glad as she would be to leave the discomforts of camp, now that it was almost time to go Meli dreaded the thought of actually leaving. That would mean giving up any hope of going back to her old life. All at once she knew that what she wanted more than anything in the world was the life she had left behind: the homey apartment over Baba's store, her little brothers wrestling in the backyard, Mama making wonderful smells in the kitchen, Mehmet laughing as he teased her. Being best friends with Zana again. And yet, now that permission had actually come for them to emigrate, she found herself growing impatient. If they must go, then they should do so at once. She was weary of the waiting, tired of being a jailed chicken. If she could not go home, she wanted to be free of her chicken-wire prison.

  A few more days of hurrying to get ready, only to be told once again to be patient—there were still details to be worked out—and then one chilly September day, their names appeared on the magic list. The van for the Skopje airport was scheduled for eight a.m. the following morning. They had no watches, so the Lleshis were at the gate at dawn, with the extra clothes they had been given packed into three small plastic suitcases. Baba kept patting his pocket nervously, making sure the precious papers were safe.

  "We should have had breakfast," Mama said as they waited. Meli was sure she would have been too nervous to eat, though by the time the van finally appeared, her stomach felt hollow. Baba had been given a little money, and in the airport he bought two sausages and had the woman selling them cut them into pieces so that everyone could have a taste.

  "They told me at the camp that there would be food on the airplane," he said. "So just a few bites for now, all right?" The sausage, which was greasy and too highly spiced, lay heavily on Meli's stomach, but she said nothing. Baba was trying so hard to take care of them. If only she had a book, something to read, anything to pass the time. At last the plane was announced. They jumped to their feet and got into the long line of passengers. Another wait, and then they were aboard, three near the window and four in the middle of the huge belly of the plane. The woman in charge showed everyone how to fasten the belts around their waists and what to do if they needed oxygen, and by the time she began to demonstrate how to put on their life preservers if they crashed into the ocean, Meli was in a sweat from anxiety. Finally, though, they were roaring down the field and lifting into the sky, snatched from a world that, however temporary and hard to bear, had felt safe compared to the alien world they were rushing to meet.

  "Meli, make Isuf let me sit by the window. It's my turn now." Adil was yanking at the sleeve of her new jacket, which made her realize how hot she felt. She leaned over both boys. There was nothing to see but blue, blue sky and whiteness below. Clouds. Her stomach gave a lurch. They were above the clouds.

  "Don't fight, boys," she said, slumping back against the seat.

  A uniformed woman—the flight attendant, of course—was leaning over her, saying something in another language. Could it be German? It didn't sound like Macedonian, and it certainly wasn't Albanian or Serbian. Meli shook her head. The attendant tried something else that might have been English. Then why couldn't Meli understand? Could you tell me the way to the supermarket? No, of course, that wouldn't do. "Yes," she said. That should be safe.

  The woman said something else, maybe in English, indicating the boys. "Yes, yes," Meli said.

  The attendant leaned across and put down little shelves from the backs of the seats in front of them. Then on each shelf—or table—she put a napkin and a little package, and she poured each of them a drink. The boys immediately left off fighting and put their noses into the fizz. Yes, it was cola, a rare treat back in the days when they had such a thing as a treat. Meli helped them tear open their strange little packages of mixed salty things and then leaned back once more against the back of the seat.

  "Drink it, Meli. It's good," Adil urged.

  She obeyed. The boys were loving the airplane. She mustn't spoil it for them. When the real food came, even though her stomach seemed to have been doing flip-flops, she ate everything. Who knew when the next meal might be? And, although she couldn't have believed she'd be able to sleep, once the attendant showed her how to lower the back of her seat, she dropped off.

  Baba was shaking her. "We have to get off," he said.

  "Is it New York?"

  "No, Vienna. We change to another plane here. Wake up the boys."

  They clung to Baba like baby monkeys. They weren't going to lose each other in Vienna. They'd never find each other again in that huge, crowded airport where no one spoke any language that any of them knew. Mehmet showed off his English, and he proudly herded them to the tra
nsfer gate that said NEW YORK JFK. Again the wait, the line, the moving down the narrow aisle into the broad belly of the plane to find their seats. Like a veteran of air travel, Meli helped her little brothers fasten their seat belts and then fastened her own and sat back. This is it. In a few more hours, we will be in New York, USA.

  TWELVE America

  NEW YORK. WELL, SHE THOUGHT, AS SHE STAGGERED SLEEPILY off the plane, they had nothing anyone would want to steal—that was a plus of sorts. Baba and Mehmet carried the plastic suitcases of hand-me-down clothes they had been given at the camp. They were so small that there had been no need to check them as luggage.

  "Meli, watch out for your brothers," Baba said.

  Mama had Vlora by the hand, and Meli reached out for Isuf and Adil. Isuf started to resist, but one look from Baba and he took Meli's hand. She held on to both boys as the whole family went down the endless corridor to the huge hall, where it looked as though hundreds of people were lined up, all waiting to be let into America. Vlora was so sleepy that she was falling down, so Baba gave the suitcase he was carrying to Mama and picked her up. She nestled against his neck, dead to the world.

  More waiting, until at last they reached the white line painted on the floor and were waved over to a tall booth, behind which sat a grim, uniformed guard. They crowded around Baba as he handed over the papers he had been given at the camp. It took time, because the officer had to send for someone who could talk to Baba in Albanian. It seemed to Meli that it was taking far too much time. Maybe the papers were counterfeit and Baba would be thrown in jail and...

  "Is something wrong, Meli?"

  "No, Isuf," she said, breathing deeply to make herself calm. "These things always take time." Though how did she know? She hoped her brother wouldn't ask.

  It seemed forever, but eventually they were all pointed toward the gigantic customs hall, where they didn't have to wait for luggage, as they had only their three tiny suitcases. They had nothing of worth to declare—Mehmet said that someone at the camp had told him to look for the Nothing to Declare sign. The two guards there were busy talking to each other, but one of them stopped long enough to glance at the family and nod toward the doorway. They were blinking like little moles in sunlight when they exited the hall and found themselves in the reception area, where hundreds of people were pressing against the ropes, all waiting for their family or friends to emerge.

  "They told me at the camp that someone would meet us here," Baba said, worriedly scanning the people at the barrier who were waving and calling to other arrivals.

  "Look!" said Isuf. They all turned and saw a woman standing near the rope with a piece of cardboard that said LLESHI. Still tightly bunched together, they moved down the ramp, around the barrier, and toward the sign. Baba bowed. "We are the Lleshi family," he said, and, miraculously, he was answered in Albanian by the woman holding the sign.

  "I'm glad to see you," she said. "Did you have a good trip?"

  "We had cola!" Adil said.

  "Thank you," said Baba. "A very smooth trip."

  "I'm sure you're tired," the woman said, "but we have to go to another terminal. Your plane for Vermont leaves in just over an hour, and if you miss it, it will be a very long wait for the next flight." She smiled at them. "So, are we ready to go?"

  They were getting on a third plane? This was another endless journey—like fleeing the Serbs—only this time they could do it sitting down with food served on little trays. What is it like in Vermont, Baba? Meli wanted to ask, but she couldn't. They were walking too fast, and she had to be sure she stayed close and held on to Adil and Isuf. And then, of course, how could Baba know what Vermont was like?

  They rode a moving staircase—the little boys loved that!—and took a bus to another building, where they came to a barrier. Their escort said something about Baba's papers to the woman in uniform who was checking tickets and identity cards. "I can't go past security with you," she said, "but wait here a minute. I'll get an airline representative to take you to the right gate."

  "Hmmph," grunted Mehmet. "We can count, can't we? Surely we can find the gate."

  "Hush," said Mama. "She only means to be kind."

  But the airline person did treat them like children, Meli thought, herding them through the metal detector and to their new gate, finding them seats in the waiting area, motioning for them not to move until—she pointed at a person standing behind a high desk and mimed someone talking into a microphone. She raised her eyebrows in a question.

  "Yes," said Mehmet in exaggerated English. "We un-der-stand. We will wait."

  Her eyes widened a bit, but she didn't say anything, just gave a little wave and disappeared.

  "They all think we're idiots," said Mehmet.

  "We should have said 'Sank you,'" Meli said.

  "It's 'Thhhh-anku you,'" Mehmet corrected.

  "Come, come," said Baba. "Time to get on." Meli could see him counting heads, though they were all within inches of each other.

  This was a much smaller plane, and they weren't all sitting in a row together. Meli was with Adil, Mehmet with Isuf, Mama with Vlora, and Baba was all alone way at the back. Meli found herself turning and looking down the aisle to make sure he was still there.

  There was no real food on the trip from New York to Vermont. Adil was delighted to get cola and a little packet of salty bits. He finished his drink in a few gulps. Meli took sips of her cola, feeling both exhausted and jumpy. She was so tired of traveling, every minute taking her farther and farther from home.

  "Can I have the rest?" Adil asked.

  "What?"

  "Your cola. If you don't want it, I do."

  She pushed it over toward him. Her legs were longing for a bed—somewhere she could stretch out fully. Somewhere she could sleep for days.

  Finally, they stumbled off the small plane and followed the crowd down the hall to the security barrier—no passports needed here, it seemed.

  "Will there be welcomers?" Adil asked, gripping her hand so tightly that it hurt.

  "I don't know," she said. "I hope so."

  Outside the barrier there were four people waiting together in a little bunch, one of them holding a sign that read in Albanian WELCOME TO THE LLESHI FAMILY. She thought for one happy moment that the sign meant that Adil's "welcomers" could speak Albanian. Baba did, too, evidently, because he greeted them formally in Albanian and began to introduce the family.

  "No! No!" they said, waving their hands in protest. And that was all the English Meli could understand, even though the welcomer holding the sign went on to say something very slowly and loudly, his mouth painfully cramped around every syllable.

  Before Mehmet could mutter something sarcastic, Meli stepped forward. "Hello," she said in her best English. "I come from Kosovo. My name is Meli Lleshi. What, please, is your name?"

  To her dismay, no one answered. They just kept shaking their heads and smiling. The man holding the sign kept looking toward the doors of the small airport.

  "Ask them about the toilets," Mama whispered.

  Mehmet tried, but the people just kept smiling and nodding.

  "Idiots," said Mehmet. "Don't they understand their own language?"

  Finally, the outside glass doors slid open, and a woman came running up to the group. She seemed to be apologizing to them. Then she turned to the family. "I'm sorry I'm late," she said in perfect Albanian. "I will translate for you."

  "Where are the toilets?" Mama asked.

  The translator guided Mama, Meli, and Vlora to the women's toilet. The man with the sign took Baba and the boys to the men's.

  "No wonder I couldn't see them," Mehmet muttered to Meli when she rejoined the men. "They call them 'rest rooms,' as if you took a nap in there."

  Two of the welcomers had disappeared. "They've gone to get the cars," said the translator, whose name was Adona. "I guess you have no other luggage."

  Mehmet opened his mouth, but Baba grabbed his arm, so he shut it again. "We have a new life now," Baba sa
id. "Everything will be new."

  "Yes," said Adona. She may have sighed. Meli couldn't be sure.

  The smiling, nodding Americans put Mama, Vlora, and Meli into the backseat of one large, silver car, and Baba, Mehmet, and the little boys into a green van. Adona climbed into the van as well. The welcomers split up, a man and a woman in each vehicle, and then they took off, pausing only to pay someone at the exit of the airport. There didn't seem to be any police on guard. There wasn't a soldier or a gun in sight.

  Meli tried not to panic. She told herself it wasn't Kosovo—people didn't just disappear in America—but she kept turning to look out the back window to keep the van in sight, just in case.

  Thankfully, the man and woman in the front seat didn't try to talk to them. Occasionally, they would say something quietly to each other. Once in a while the woman in the passenger seat would turn and smile at them. Mama and Meli would try to smile back.

  Vlora, now wide awake, was staring out the window. "Look!" she cried. Meli looked and saw, to her astonishment, mountains. She felt a great wave of homesickness for her own Cursed Mountains and the Sharr range with its high pastures where horses ran free. Was the family free now? She looked at the backs of the welcomers' heads and wondered.

  The car ride was nearly as long as the last plane ride had been. They left the broad highway and took a more winding road down a hill into a town. They turned off the street lined with shops onto another lined with large trees. The leaves were beginning to change color like the—no, not like the chestnuts in the hills.

  At last the car—and then, thankfully, the van—pulled up in front of a huge house. As they got out of the car, Adona came over to explain that they would have an apartment in the house, not the whole house. Mama smiled and nodded. They walked up one flight of stairs behind the welcomers. Someone produced a key, opened the door, and then handed the key to Baba.

  "Welcome home," he said, or at least that's what Meli thought he said. Adona didn't bother to translate it. The Lleshis took off their shoes and walked across the threshold. Adona said something to the welcomers, so they took off their shoes as well, looking a bit embarrassed as they stood there in their stocking feet.