1.
The one memory from my childhood that stands out, unimpaired, is a forewarning of what would later happen.
Our life was simple, ending where the village ended, framed by the woods, the road leading into town, and the orchards climbing up the mountain. Beyond those boundaries, there was no other world where we could imagine living.
Mirko and I were six; we played where we pleased and were inseparable, two peas in a pod. One day, while sitting outside my house, Mirko said, “The war is coming and we’ll have to leave.”
We didn’t know what war was. Just a word murmured in hushed tones that had the power to make the grown-ups jittery and mean.
I stood up and shouted at him, “The war is not coming, and we are not leaving.”
Mirko stood up too. “It is coming. Either we leave or we get killed!”
He couldn’t hit me, so he bundled all that frustration into his balled-up fists and ran off. Then he threw himself on the hens pecking nearby, causing them to flee in all directions, like frightened spiders scampering out of a hole.
At home, I asked my mother if it was true that the war was coming. “No,” she said, it will never come to this village.”
I believed her.
2.
“Stay awake.”
The heat from the stove had filled the whole room, and I’d dozed off.
“Don’t fall asleep.” And this time, my mother shook my shoulders.
“I can’t stay awake.”
“Keep your eyes on the door. They could arrive any minute.” In the dark, I searched for the light filtering through the doorway.
We all slept in one room, on mats on the floor. My father was building a larger house, only for us, but it wasn’t finished yet, so we were living with my grandparents. Aunt Mejra and my cousin Samir, two years younger than I was, were staying there, too.
Whenever my milk was boiling on the stove, Samir would plead with our granddad for some, until he got half. Not that Granddad didn’t love me, but Samir was a boy, and in our village a male child was worth more. My mother grew angry, so Grandma secretly added water to my portion. Once, I ended up in the hospital with diarrhea. My mother took Grandma aside and said, “Don’t ever do that again.” Then she steeled herself and spoke to Granddad. “The milk is for my little girl.” It was brave of her; she was younger than I am now, with fewer opinions and desires, and had always felt like a guest in her own life. I came to appreciate this much later, after years of anger, after horror had swept away any meaning and left us exhausted creatures on the ground.
I heard my mother rummaging through our things, trying to pack whatever she could. Grandma was helping her, and when at times she cried, they would hug.
“Where are you going to go? You’ve got everything here; the freezer is full of meat and vegetables. You’re better off staying.”
“Your son told me to go. If in a week things have calmed down, I’ll be happy to return, but now I’ve got to leave.”
My father was working abroad. Whenever he came home, he’d bring new dolls, so beautiful they looked real. There were none like them in the village, so I immediately buried them in the garden, in a secret place. They were my hidden treasures, and no one was allowed to touch them, not Samir, not Mirko, not any of the other children in the village.
Babo had told Mamma on the phone, “Go to the registry and get the deed to the house and the land. Your documents and the child’s. And the photos. Leave everything else.”
He would be waiting for us on the other side. He couldn’t pick us up, because soon the borders would close, so we had to make the journey alone. My mother was pregnant.
Grandma brought me a cup of coffee.
“Have a sip, kuća moja mila.” She called me “my dear little house,” the phrase for “my little love” in our country. She only said this when we were alone, it was our special thing. I took a sip of the coffee; it was so bitter I wanted to spit it out, but didn’t know where and gulped it down.
Then the door burst open.
The sound made me freeze. I stood motionless, staring at the dark silhouette framed by the light.
“We’ve got to go. Now.”
It was Granddad’s voice. And our hearts started to beat again.
“I still need to get a couple things for the child.”
Granddad looked at my mother. “There’s no time, Fatima, they’re coming.”
3.
We left at night, the frosty grass crackling under our feet. April can still be very cold in our country. My mother turned to look at the house, then put her hand on my shoulder. “Say goodbye to your grandma.” I have no memories of that moment, no memories of the warmth of Grandma’s cheek against mine, her clear pale eyes, or the musty smell of hay on her clothes.
In no time, we were in the dense brush of the woods, Granddad in front with my cousin on his shoulders, holding my aunt by the hand, Mamma and me behind them. We made our way through the undergrowth, the fallen tree trunks, the animals scurrying to and fro, their sleep disturbed. It was cold and dark, and I was scared.
“Mamma, where are we going?”
“To meet Babo.”
“Where is he?”
“Across the border.”
I was out of breath and didn’t ask any more questions. The woods had always been off limits to us kids; we looked at them from afar, enchanted and intimidated. And now my mother was suddenly dragging me through the tangle of branches. My feet sank into the soft moss, clods of dirt stuck to my shoes, and each step became more difficult.
Her hand yanked me forward and then pulled me back, as if we had to run but didn’t know where to go. We stopped. She looked around. Granddad had disappeared; we could no longer see his figure leading the way.
A rustling grew louder than any other sound. We instantly crouched down, and she covered my mouth with her hand, wrapping herself around me. I could feel my heart pounding throughout my body.
The silence returned; whatever had come for us was gone. The only noise in that stillness was the pee streaming down my leg and dripping onto the wet bark. I was melting, turning into water that could flow to my grandma, and she’d send me to sleep with the story of the old fat sheep that escaped death disguised as a wolf. I curled up, wrapped in a cocoon of anger, and prayed Allah would punish my mother for dragging me out of bed.
“Fatima.”
For a second time, Granddad’s voice saved us.
“If you lag so far behind, you and the child will be the first ones they catch.”
I wanted to tell him that he had scared the life out of us, that he was carrying only my cousin on his shoulders and Mamma was pregnant and lugging a heavy backpack, that I had little legs and we’d been left behind because he had forgotten us. If we’d been caught, it would have been his fault. But Granddad was already ahead of us, and if we didn’t follow, the woods would swallow him up again.
While I was walking, the cold, damp fabric of my pants rubbed against my legs. Who knows if Mamma had noticed that I’d wet myself. Since leaving home, she’d never even given me a hug.
We climbed up and down the hills, and I hoped every crest would be the last. I tried to keep up with everyone, my eyes on the ground, saying nothing, asking nothing. I’d never seen them so scared. I didn’t know it then, but time was the only thing left to us. Granddad was carrying Samir in his arms and constantly checking to see if we were following.
Suddenly, we were out in the open; there was a road lined with houses below, a parking lot crowded with people and three waiting buses.
Granddad turned and looked at us as though we were a mirage, but we were there in flesh and blood, exhausted. He put my cousin on the ground and drew closer, staring at us with a dazed look in his eyes, like he only then realized that we’d walked eight miles in the dark.
He kissed my mother’s hands and pressed them against his cheek. “Forgive me, Fatima, forgive me.” Then he grabbed hold of me to put me on his shoulders.
“No, we’re here now.” Mamma kept walking toward the parking lot, dragging me along. She wasn’t angry, just desperate and in a hurry.
Granddad shoved ahead and shouted to make himself heard. He pulled a wad of banknotes from his pocket to buy our tickets. Finally, we climbed onboard, the two of us in front, my aunt and cousin behind. But without him. He would return to the village.
We didn’t even hug goodbye. Everyone kept saying that it wouldn’t be for long, two weeks at most and then we’d go home.
The bus pulled away slowly; Granddad watched us from below, placing his left hand on his heart, his palm open wide in our country’s ancient sign of farewell. He closed his eyes, and when he reopened them, looked only at my mother.
4.
Everyone was talking loudly, the men smoking. My mother pulled me closer, and I snuggled under her arm, resting a hand on her belly. Grandma had told me that’s where I’d come from, too. I wondered if Granddad was already home with her.
When we reached the town, it was still dark and yet throngs of people were everywhere, dragging enormous bags, crowding around the departing buses and shouting.
Mamma was holding a piece of paper with the address of one of Granddad’s cousins.
“Hurry up, Mejra, and keep your son next to you.”
My aunt looked stunned, like a child thrown into an amusement park. My mother grabbed her arm and pulled her along with a strength I didn’t know she had.
Our cousin’s house was small and tidy, with a telephone near the entrance and a tv that was much bigger than ours. As soon as we arrived, my mother took off my clothes and gave me a bath, like she’d done when I was little. I felt a sense of relief I can still remember.
She washed me with a foamy soap, and shiny clusters of bubbles slid onto my thighs, arms, and stomach. Some were big, others very small, and all twinkling like tiny, faraway lights. It was my first time in a bathtub, with hot water. In the village, the women collected water from the well and it was always ice-cold, like freshly melted snow. I liked going with them; they would fill their jugs and buckets and then sit on the stone walls. They took off their šalče, the scarves they wore to cover their heads, and talked of their husbands and children, of when they were girls. Some snuck a cigarette. They laughed, and I couldn’t wait to join in the world depicted by their words. Even now, I think the little girl leaning over that well is some other child, my double, stuck in a life far-removed, on the other side of the woods.
_____
We stayed in hiding for days. Our cousin’s husband was sick and she had to look after him, so we only saw her when she checked whether we had enough to eat and were warm during the night.
Samir and I always stayed inside while my mother and aunt went out to search for a way to leave. My mother said that everyone wanted to flee, my aunt that she was tired and wanted to return to the village. In the evening, they would put us to bed and then watch the news on tv. I stayed awake to listen in secret and often recognized a man’s voice threatening, “I warn you, you are condemning your people to hell. You are not prepared for war. You are facing extinction.”
I’d only heard that word once before, in a documentary about dinosaurs. After the extinction, nothing was left of them, not even their babies. I started to tremble under the blankets.
Someone turned off the tv. We could just make out the hum of the refrigerator until my aunt spoke up, “Those things are happening in the capital, not at home.”
“Mejra, Tarik is waiting for you at the border.”
“Why didn’t he come pick me up?” she whined.
“Don’t be silly, don’t you know what they’re doing to the men? They’re taking them away. Do you want that to happen to your husband?”
I heard my aunt whimpering. My mother snapped at her, “Do as you like. I’ll do what my husband told me to do.”
“Fatima, I’m scared, I want to go back to the village.”
“Did you hear what Granddad said on the phone? The day we ran away, they blocked the streets. No one can go in or out anymore.”
“They came, and they will leave.”
“They’re the Chetniks, not the federal troops. And they are everywhere.”
A long silence, and then the door to our room opened. I closed my eyes. My mother lifted the blankets; the cold chilled my skin, but faded away when she lay down beside me. She always slept in her clothes, the backpack next to the door, ready.
5.
She came running into the house, without even taking off her shoes or her šalče. My aunt was preparing dinner. Samir and I were watching The Simpsons, lying on the floor like two puppies.
“I’ve got the tickets.”
She looked at us, excited and out of breath, while she showed us four small pieces of crumpled paper. Homer was rescuing Springfield from a nuclear disaster by randomly pushing buttons on his keyboard.
“Where’s your aunt?”
I pointed to the kitchen without taking my eyes off the screen. “Mejra, we’ve got the tickets, we can leave.”
“When?”
“Now.”
My aunt kept peeling the potatoes, staring at her hands. “Did you hear me?” Mamma yanked her arm.
“Let go of me,” she said through clenched teeth.
“You have a son, it’s not just about you.”
“Those buses are dangerous! There are checkpoints everywhere. They’re pulling people off and taking them away.”
“If you don’t want to come with us, fine. But you and the child have got to stay here. For a while.” My mother’s voice was calm again, distant, as if my aunt and Samir were no longer her responsibility.
“I’m not like you, I’m not . . .”
I couldn’t figure out whether she wanted to cry or hoped that my mother would take pity on her.
“Promise me you’ll stay here.”
My aunt sniffled and nodded.
We gathered our things, stuffed them in the backpack, and in no time were at the door, quickly hugging without looking at one another. We were frightened, and fear devoured all other feelings. I held my cousin tightly, nipped the solid flesh of his chubby cheek, then bit him harder. He squealed, pushing me away, and burst out laughing.
On the lane outside the house, I turned around. Aunt Mejra was holding Samir in her arms; they were watching us. I blew them a kiss with all my breath and heard my cousin call out, “Aida!”
We were already on the road, walking away quickly. Before new memories lodged in my heart, I asked, “Mamma, am I going to see Samir again?”
“Of course.”
“When?”
“I don’t know.”
“Where?”
She paused. “Somewhere.”
6.
My mother was quarrelling with the driver. He didn’t want to let us get on, saying there was no more room. People crowded around the door and I felt like I was suffocating.
We were squeezed onboard by those pushing from behind. The driver closed the doors. The ones outside kept trying to pry them open, but he started the engine and pulled away. People were clinging to the window or the rearview mirrors; some were walking on the roof. Their bodies were hurled into the air; we left them and their screams behind. The bus sped up, and finally the last few dropped off, one by one. I watched as they collapsed on the ground with dull thuds or cracking sounds that made me shudder.
“Mamma, did they get hurt?”
She didn’t reply; she was trying to figure out where we could sit. Whole families were crammed into one seat or stretched out on the overhead racks or lying on the floor. We could do nothing but stay where we were, on the steps. My mother had one hand on her stomach and the other around my shoulder. I thought of Samir in his warm bed with Aunt Mejra and wanted to cry, but felt ashamed in front of all those people.
“Why didn’t we stay in town?” I asked, holding back waves of sadness.
“Because your father told us to leave.” She was staring at her shoes.
Crushed together, cheek by jowl, we tried to fall asleep and dispel our fears. Once out of town and off the main road, the bus carried on slowly, following the back roads that passed through the villages. We stopped, drank water from the wells, ate whatever was at hand, whatever the farmers would give us. We came to a river on the border. The bridge had been blown up, so we got off the bus, boarded a boat and then another bus.
My mother was shaking. “I don’t have our papers.” She was rummaging nervously through her handbag, looking for something that wasn’t there.
Things were so chaotic that no one asked any questions. The guards let everyone pass quickly, in big groups, without even looking at us. My mother was still shaking, and I thought of the baby in her belly. Who knows if I would love that baby the way I loved Samir, if I could love anyone the way I loved him.
On the second bus we found a free seat. Next to us, an old man kept repeating, “Soon they’ll close everything. Put up barbed wire and checkpoints to make sure no one leaves.”
I couldn’t take my eyes off him.
“Mamma,” I whispered in her ear, “how will Samir and Aunt Mejra get to us, and Grandma and Granddad, if they put up barbed wire?”
“Go to sleep, now.” I knew she wouldn’t say another word.
7.
Beyond the window, the landscape had changed: an empty plain devoid of trees and a dull sun that made us sweat. A strange gaiety had been spreading through the bus. My mother told me it wouldn’t be long—at dawn we’d reach the final border.
“And then we’ll be safe.”
That’s what she said, safe. The old man had dozed off with his head against my back. I was trying to move as little as possible, to avoid waking him. It was our last night on the bus.
I’d fallen asleep, and when I opened my eyes, I saw my mother staring into the darkness. The air was filled with a stale, heavy smell. I couldn’t breathe.
“I need to go to the toilet.” I tapped her hand. She didn’t move. “I’ve got to go.”
“We can’t stop. You need to wait.” I kept quiet and looked out the window, like she was doing. “Can you hold it?”
Before I could reply, the bus jerked, abruptly lurched forward, and came to a halt. Shafts of light blinded me. I grabbed my mother’s cold, still body. A woman screamed, a dull thump silenced her, everyone held their breath. Then, a man’s voice.
“Get off, one at a time, in single file. And keep quiet.”
Beams from the flashlights struck us. The orders, the sound of boots and weapons, were coming from all directions, turning the darkness into solid matter charged with danger. We crashed blindly into one another and crowded together to shield ourselves from danger, like the newborn mice Granddad kept in a box.
“Nothing will happen if you do as we say.” It was the same voice, young and shrill. “We’re not here to hurt you.”
I could see them, in their dark clothes, carrying rifles, pistols, clubs. They were just kids. The one in charge spoke calmly. “Women on this side and men in a line over there. Don’t rush, and keep quiet.”
We separated, unclasping our hands, caressing each other’s cheeks, women refusing to leave their sons. A man with a weapon grabbed the wrist of a child in its mother’s arms; she shouted and struggled, but the soldier wouldn’t let go. The woman bit his hand, as if wanting to rip his flesh from the bones. A wild scream from the man’s mouth, a punch to the woman’s face, and the thud of her felled body.
I closed my eyes and pressed my face against my mother’s legs. While I was counting and hoping that someone would come to help us, the man in charge curtly fired off an order three times in a row, “Only boys over twelve!”
He looked around furiously, to make sure it was carried out.
“No rough stuff,” he growled.
I looked at my mother; her eyes were glassy. She wasn’t speaking, it didn’t even seem that she was breathing, and if she wasn’t, neither was the baby. I took a deep breath, as if the air could flow all the way to them.
We walked in orderly lines as directed, to a point not far from the bus. My mother wouldn’t stop squeezing my hand, her grip like an iron clamp. The woman next to us whispered, “At twelve, they still have smooth cheeks, skinny legs. Twelve is nothing.”
The men, about thirty feet away, were watching us. We stood waiting until some headlights appeared at the end of the road. Once the women understood what was happening, they flung themselves at their sons and fathers and husbands, but were pushed back by rifles and clubs.
My mother wrapped her arms around me. “Close your eyes and pray.” Her embrace was so strong that nothing could hurt me. I was protected by her voice and the soothing litany of the Koran.
The soldiers forced the men onto trucks, pushing and shoving them, threatening them. The women’s despair roused all the animals on the plain, but to no avail. Eventually, the soldiers climbed aboard the last truck and cleared out. Only the driver was left, his head hanging over the steering wheel as he sobbed in the darkness.
The women got up, a single mass of sorrow moving through the night with their šalče and long skirts. Their weeping grew into a chant that accompanied them onto the bus. We had to continue our journey; there were children like me, young and old women, and though no one dared say it, the war had found us.
A lady in an elegant jacket with a sparkling brooch said to my mother, “They’ll take them to work in the fields, and when it’s all over, they’ll come home.”
“They will,” Mamma replied.
“They will,” the woman repeated.
Before climbing on the bus, I tugged at my mother’s skirt. “I need to go to the toilet.”
“Can’t you hold it?”
I shook my head.
She grabbed my arm and pulled me along the road, to a spot where the vegetation was low and dense. “Hurry up.”
I ventured a few steps forward, just behind a bush, and looked up: two dark eyes were staring at me, a machine gun glistened in the moonlight. I screamed. A young soldier, his face painted black, jumped out of the twisted mass of branches, shouting angrily and pointing the gun at my face. I raised my head and as the stars started to spin, fell to the ground. My mother stifled a cry and threw herself on me. The scene unfolded slowly, in silence. Only the sensation of the grass embracing me, her warm body on top of mine, and the damp earth below. Plunging, gliding toward a radiant point floating in the darkness. Back in my bed, with Samir sleeping, breathing, dreaming next to me. The smell of his milky skin everywhere. I was dead, and death was pleasant and soothing.
“Oh my love, my sweet little girl.”
I opened my eyes, the stars were motionless, fixed in the dark sky. I remembered the black hole of the gun barrel and started to shake. My mother was cradling me in her arms.
“I’m here, I’m holding you.”
We stood up. The soldier had vanished into the plain.
8.
We sat in the front of the half-emptied bus, near the driver. He glanced in the rearview mirror, started the engine, and returned to the road, driving as if in a funeral procession. Not a sound emerged from the back, but the women were awake, even the elderly ones. Their eyes frantic, their jaws clenched, some crying in silence.
My father must be alive and waiting for us at the border. My mother had fallen asleep. When I’d thought I was dead, all that was most dear to me—our village, my bed, Samir—appeared before my eyes and now I longed to be dead again. While praying to Allah to let me die, I fell asleep too.
It was nearly daybreak when I woke up, and the landscape had changed again: hills, woods, small villages along the road. Maybe time had traveled backward and erased the past few days. My chest swelled with joy, and I stood on the seat to look for the tip of the minaret, the giant beech guarding the road that climbs to the village, my granddad’s fruit trees. My eyes scanned the countryside; the view was similar, and yet not the familiar things of my childhood.
Suddenly, a woman in the back screamed, pointing to a spot on the escarpment below us. I leaned forward and saw an overturned bus, full of people. A child was trying to climb out from a broken window, his head drenched in blood.
My mother covered my eyes and took me in her arms. “Stay here and don’t move.”
The child, its blood, the screams rising from the escarpment had no effect on me. Deep inside, my life had dried up.
A young woman lunged toward the driver. “Stop!”
He stepped on the gas.
Then other voices shouted, “There are people in that bus!”
The young woman drew closer, but the driver kept his eyes on the road. “Ladies, they’re gonna close the borders. Don’t know about you, but I wanna save my ass.”
They fell silent and went back to their seats. We were in a race against time, with room only for desperation and, often, cruelty.
When we reached Ljubljana, the sun was high above us. As the bus drove through the city, someone complained because they wanted to get off. The driver said, “Cities aren’t safe, we’re headin’ straight for the border.”
There was some grumbling and then nothing.
“Aida, do you need to go to the toilet?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
My mother was staring at me. “You know, girls who don’t poop can die.”
“That’s not true.” I no longer believed her.
I turned to the window. We were passing over a wide, placid river. I had no idea there were bridges that could link two banks, so far apart. There were tall buildings everywhere, casting shadows on us. The war couldn’t come here, these beautiful things couldn’t be destroyed. We would return to our village; my most precious toys were buried there. Believing this, I had no need to hold onto anything or say goodbye.
When we got past Ljubljana, we’d been traveling for three nights and four days.
We’d soon reach the border.
The women busied themselves, looking for a change of clothes, documents, money. My mother raised her sweater and took out a plastic bag hidden under her top; inside were her identity card from Tito’s Yugoslavia, a wad of bills, and a handwritten note from my father. Only a few lines, capital letters and some numbers.
She held the note in her hand, stroking it, drew it to her chest, then turned to ask the young woman sitting behind us to lean forward. “What does it say?”
The woman reached for the note, but my mother wouldn’t let go, so she was forced to bend closer to get a better look. “It’s an address.”
“What’s the address?”
“Prešeren Square.” She hesitated. “It’s the main square in Ljubljana.”
My mother looked at her. “That’s not possible,” she whispered, her lips growing pale. “Read it again.” She stood up and stuck the note under the girl’s nose.
“Why didn’t you get off in Ljubljana if that’s the address written on the note?”
Because Mamma couldn’t read. “Where are we going?” she asked.
“To Sežana, that’s where the border is.”
My mother slumped into her seat, like a rag doll. “How will I let him know that I’m in Sežana? How will he find us?”
She was crying softly. A vice gripped my throat. The only thing in my world that was keeping me afloat, the only thing that had yet to disappear over the horizon, was now sinking to the bottom of the sea.
“Don’t cry,” I said and rested my head on her tummy. She laid her hand on my hair, and her caresses calmed us both. “We’ll be fine, Aida.”
She sang me a sevdah, a folk song that tells of Drina, our wide swollen river that divides the world into two. A boy on one bank and a girl on the opposite; they are in love but cannot touch, only gaze at one another from afar. Finally, after much suffering, they discover a secret ford.
“We’ll find a secret passage too, and meet Babo again,” I said.
“Kuća moja mila.” With my mother’s words, Grandma’s face, the sound of her voice, filled my whole body.