"Someone's coming!"
At first everyone was frozen in place, listening. As the sound grew louder, they began to gravitate toward the living room, as if drawn there by some outside force. No one spoke. Louder and louder the motor sounded; then they heard the squeal of brakes. Meli held her breath, counting as car doors slammed—one, two, three, four—and then, without warning, the front door flew open. Five men in ski masks burst into the room. Four of the men held rifles at the ready; the fifth was waving a huge pistol. These were new weapons, not the old castoffs carried by the KLA. One of the intruders went into Uncle Fadil's bedroom and came back carrying a pillowcase. The man with the pistol pointed at Mama and Auntie Burbuqe and Nexima. "Take off all that gold," he ordered. "Rings, necklace, bracelets—everything."
As the women struggled to pull their rings off fingers that had grown thicker with the years, he got more and more impatient. "Faster, or I'll have to cut them off."
Another of the men made Baba and Uncle Fadil empty their pockets—money, licenses, ID cards of any sort. "So we won't be able to prove we live here," Mehmet muttered.
"Quiet!" one of the men ordered.
When all the valuables had been put into the pillowcase, the pistol wielder yelled, "Get out now! All of you—out! This house belongs to the Serbian people. Why are you standing there like fools? I said get out!"
Just then Granny appeared at the kitchen door. She was dressed, as usual, in her baggy dhimmi trousers, a large overshirt, and an old stretched sweater, with her headscarf tied over what was left of her thin white hair. She was hugging the shawl that hung around her shoulders. For a few seconds she stared at the intruders, squinting her watery eyes. "Who are these people?" she asked querulously.
One of the masked men stepped forward and poked her with the end of his long rifle. "Give me your gold!"
Granny just stared at him.
"She's a widow. She has no gold," Baba said.
"Then get out, old woman!" the man shouted, poking her again with his gun.
"Show some respect," Baba said quietly. "She doesn't—"
The gunman turned his barrel toward Baba. "Shut up and get out before we lose patience with the lot of you."
"I don't want to go out," said Granny, holding her shawl tightly to her waist. "Why do I have to go out?" She looked more confused than Nexima's three-year-old.
"Come, Mama," Baba said gently, taking her arm. "It's time to leave."
One of the babies began to cry. "Get that brat out of here, or I will shut it up." The one with the pistol took aim at the baby's head.
They hurried out then, grabbing up shoes, jostling one another through the narrow doorway, but once in the yard they hesitated. Where were they to go?
"And leave that tractor and wagon right where they are. They belong to us!" one of the men shouted from the open door.
"We'll need it to take our livestock!" another taunted.
"And anything worth the bother," said a third.
"Get the wheelbarrow, Mehmet," Baba said under his breath. "And fast." There was no need to add "fast." Mehmet was gone and back almost before Baba had finished the sentence.
Baba picked Granny up and put her carefully into the wheelbarrow. Her legs dangled over the edge, and her dhimmi were hiked up halfway to her knees. Baba tried to pull the trouser legs down, but he couldn't tug them as far as her ankles. She was still clutching at her waist. She must be so embarrassed. Meli found herself blushing for the old woman. Granny had always been so traditional, wearing a headscarf and dhimmi. But as immodest and as uncomfortable as she looked, Meli saw that Granny was smiling at Baba as though she were Vlora being given a ride for a treat.
"Let's go," Baba said, lifting the handles. "Everyone. As quickly as you can."
They half ran the first few yards but soon slowed to a walk. How could they run? Auntie and Nexima each carried a twin, Uncle Fadil was carrying the three-year-old Elez, and Mama was holding Vlora's hand, trying to urge her along. Meli didn't dare look over her shoulder. Suppose the masked men were chasing them? The horror that they might all be shot in the back made her turn, and when she did, she gasped aloud. Flames were leaping up to the early morning sky.
"Look!" she cried.
"The farm! They're burning our farm!" Uncle Fadil put his grandson on the ground and started to run toward the fire.
"Fadil!" Baba lowered the wheelbarrow and chased him down. He held tightly to his brother's arm. "You can't, brother. They'll kill you."
Uncle Fadil drooped like a dying plant. The brothers took one more look, then turned and came back to where the family was waiting. Huge tears were rolling down Uncle Fadil's sun-reddened face and catching in his mustache. The children stared at him. They couldn't help it; they had never seen a grown man cry before. Meli wanted to weep for him. Baba didn't even cry when Mehmet was missing.
"So." Uncle Fadil sniffed and wiped his face with the back of his big hand. "So. There's nothing to be done, is there? We must reconcile ourselves to it."
Meli could see that he was ashamed to be caught crying in front of them all. He picked up Elez and handed him to Baba, took the handles of the wheelbarrow, and began to push. Meli saw Granny twist around and kiss his arm, as though Uncle Fadil were still her little boy who needed comforting for a skinned knee.
***
Heading east, they were making their way against a tide of refugees heading west toward Albania. Maybe Mehmet was right. Maybe we are going in the wrong direction. But they went grimly on. Meli wiped her forehead with her sleeve. It was miserable walking in her layers of clothing, her wool sweater and her jacket. For the first several hours, the only stops they made were hasty ones to exchange burdens. As they passed neighboring farms, they could see other cars like the one that had come to the farm, and other masked men loading them up with the contents of the houses. Some of the houses they passed had apparently been emptied and now were burning.
"So there'll be no place to come home to when this is over," muttered Mehmet.
Once they spied an outhouse with no one nearby, and they hastily took advantage of it. The road was growing more and more crowded with Albanian Kosovars fleeing their homeland, but the Lleshis seemed to be the only people going toward the center of the country rather than away from it.
Everyone who was able took turns carrying the four small ones and pushing the wheelbarrow. Isuf and Adil, who seemed about to drop in their tracks, shook their heads manfully whenever Meli or Mehmet offered a piggyback ride. They stopped once for Nexima to feed the twins, but they were all too anxious to lie down, because the night sky was filled with the roar of planes overhead. Every time they heard the crash of bombs and saw the brilliant light of explosions, Mehmet gave a little cheer. "Hurray for Bill Clinton," he would say, not quite loudly enough for Baba to hear. Meli, standing beside him, was shaking at the sight of orange flames licking the dark sky. How could he be happy? People were losing their homes, perhaps dying in those flames.
It was nearly dawn when Isuf asked: "How much longer, Baba?"
"Not much longer, son. We must all be very brave and strong."
How, then, could Meli complain that she was tired? Little Adil wasn't even whining.
With the first streaks of light to the east, one of the babies began to cry. "We have to stop, Baba," Nexima said. "I must feed the babies again."
"We all need to rest," Auntie Burbuqe said.
The grass was wet with dew, but everyone sat down anyway. There was no use thinking about food for anyone but the babies. Meli tried to remind herself that she had had a good meal just the evening before—sausage, bread, cheese, yogurt—and there had been that sort of breakfast earlier in the day of cold soup ... She stopped herself. Her mouth was parched. There wasn't even any water to drink, not even a pot to draw water in. She thought of all the pots and pails she had filled with cool well water at Uncle Fadil's house.
Nexima finished nursing the twins. They should move on. They had to hurry. Suppose some Serb mili
tants find us here, just sitting on the grass? They'll kill us all, Meli thought, but she was too tired to stand up.
"There's a farm a bit farther down this road," Uncle Fadil was saying, "where I know the farmer. He's a good man. He'll let us have some water. He might even offer us something to eat. Besides, he owes me a favor. I loaned him my billy goat last year."
"If he still has a farm, he must be Serb," Mehmet said.
"Yes, but—"
"He won't remember he owes you anything," Mehmet said. "He's a good man, I say."
"A good Serb," Mehmet said sarcastically. Baba gave Mehmet his be quiet look.
Uncle Fadil stood up. They watched him as he walked ahead to the old stone farmhouse, barely visible now in the distance. Reluctantly, the rest of the family got up and began to walk in the same direction. Meli held her breath as Uncle Fadil knocked on the door. In a minute or two the door opened a crack, then closed again.
"I told you," Mehmet muttered.
But Uncle Fadil didn't move. A few more minutes passed, and the door opened again. This time a little wider, and they could see a hand, holding out a pot. Uncle Fadil took the pot, nodded, and said something they couldn't hear. The door closed once more.
"Meli," Uncle Fadil called out as he came quickly back to them, "take this to the well in back." As tired as she was, she ran to obey. The pot was old and battered, but it held water. She pumped until it was filled to the brim. It was so heavy the narrow metal handle cut into her palm, but she carried it carefully, unwilling to lose a precious drop, and walked back to where the family waited.
"She said we could keep the pot," Uncle Fadil said, proud as a child who's won a school prize.
Not even Mehmet complained aloud that no food had been offered, or that the pot was so dented and stained Mama would have thrown it out long ago. It held water. That was what mattered. It would even boil soup, if they ever got the makings of soup and the means to start a fire.
When everyone had taken a good long drink, Meli returned to the well and filled the pot once more before they began to walk again. The water helped a bit to fill their empty stomachs, and it was not until they stopped to rest a couple of hours later that Meli was conscious of her stomach growling and churning. She had been far more aware of the metal pot handle cutting into her palm.
Nexima nursed the twins and then called her three-year-old and fed him as well.
Adil sidled over to where Meli was sitting. He put his thin little arm around her neck. "I'm hungry," he whispered in her ear.
"I know," she said. "We all are. When we come to a place where we can buy food, Baba will get us something." She remembered midsentence that their father's money was now in that pillowcase.
"When?"
She rubbed her brother's bony back. "Soon," she said. "Soon, I'm sure. We have to be very patient and very brave."
But even if there had been money, there were no shops selling bread in the villages they walked through. There were houses being looted as their owners fled, and every business seemed to have been burned or vandalized beyond repair. The road was filled with people just as hungry and desperate as they were. By midmorning they were too tired and hungry to walk another step. They knew they must keep walking, but as much as their minds told them to go on, their bodies simply refused to move.
"Hashim, Fadil," Mama said after they had passed through yet another burned village, "why don't we sleep now, while the grass is dry and the sun is warm? We can walk in the evening when it is too cool to sleep." The older children didn't wait for permission. They plopped down on the grass. Baba and Uncle Fadil put Vlora and Elez beside their mothers and then helped Granny out of the wheelbarrow. She groaned a bit when they set her on her feet. Poor Granny, thought Meli. How stiff she must be, riding all those hours in that funny position over this bumpy road.
The old woman straightened as much as her old back would let her and then looked around at all of them sprawled on the grass. "Are we having a picnic?" she asked. Mehmet gave a short laugh and got a look from Baba.
"No, Mother—" Uncle Fadil began, but stopped when they saw Granny reaching about under her shawl and overshirt and into the waist of her trousers. Auntie Burbuqe jumped up to keep her mother-in-law from pulling her clothes apart in front of them all. "Granny," she said, "what are you doing? Let me help you."
Just then Granny succeeded in pulling two loaves of bread out from under her voluminous overshirt.
"I was going to take them to the chickens," she said. "Then those bad men came. I didn't have time, so I..." She made a motion of sticking the bread into her waistband. She looked apologetic. "It's not so much for all these people."
"It's a feast!" Baba said. "You clever woman!"
Adil was on his feet, clapping his hands. "Clever Granny. You fooled the bad men!"
Granny smiled shyly as Uncle Fadil broke off pieces of the loaves and gave some to everyone. Even the babies had a piece to suck on. Only someone who has ever really been hungry would understand how delicious this dry bread tastes, thought Meli. They each ate their share, had a long drink of water, and, almost satisfied, lay down to sleep on the grass. Baba and Uncle Fadil agreed to take turns being on watch. When Meli woke up she saw that Mehmet was still sitting up, as wide-awake as he had been when she fell asleep.
***
They began walking again that afternoon, and just as the night before, they were walking toward an endless procession of their countrymen heading westward. Though they weren't just walking now; they were climbing. Meli knew from all Mr. Uka's geography lessons that they must cross the hills into eastern Kosovo before they could reach Macedonia. Baba and Uncle Fadil were right, no matter what Mehmet thought. Surely the passes through the Cursed Mountains to the west and the Sharr range to the southwest would have been too much of a barrier for a family like theirs.
But although the distance seemed relatively short if you looked at a map, and the hills far gentler than the mountains, the walk from the Plain of Dukagjin to the eastern plain was a hard trek for the Lleshis. Cars and tractors pulling wagons loaded with people and household goods rolled slowly past them. Meli tried not to envy the riders or worry that she and her family were indeed heading in the wrong direction. She kept telling herself that they were all together. That was the important thing. They had one another. And a pot. A pot that held water. She guarded that old pot as carefully as if it had been Mama's treasured photo.
Once across the hills, they found that they were no longer walking against the flow of refugees. "Where are all these people coming from?" Meli asked Mehmet.
"Prishtina," he said.
It should have been easier, walking with the crowd instead of against it, but if they stumbled in their weariness, they found themselves pushed and jostled from behind. Once Meli caught Baba counting heads, making sure everyone was still there, still together in the crowd. Around them there was a constant clamor of conversation, of children crying and adults trying to comfort or cajole. On and on they walked. Then, without warning, the clamor turned to shrieks.
"Get off the road!" someone screamed, and as soon as they did, three cars came racing into their midst. Almost before the vehicles came to a stop, Serb policemen were jumping out of the doors, shouting at the crowd, "This way! This way!"
"Hold on to the boys, Meli," Baba ordered. "Don't let them separate us."
In her haste, she dropped the precious pot. It rolled away, clanging on rocks. Should she try to get it? No, she must hold on to her brothers. The pot was gone. She grabbed Isuf's and Adil's hands and pressed as close to Baba and Granny's wheelbarrow as she could.
"This way! This way!" the policemen kept yelling, herding the Albanians as though they were balky sheep, pushing them across railroad tracks and down toward a tiny rail station. One of the policemen grabbed the handles of Granny's wheelbarrow. He started to tip it up as though he was going to dump her out. Mehmet jumped forward to catch her.
"Get her out of my way!" the man ordered.
 
; Carefully, Mehmet helped Granny to her feet. She swayed and clutched at Mehmet.
The policeman waved his pistol in the air. "Hurry!"
"My grandmother has trouble walking," Mehmet said, glowering at the policeman.
"Not another word," Baba muttered. He lifted Granny in his arms and began to walk, all the family close behind.
EIGHT Terror and Tragedy
TO MELI IT FELT AS THOUGH THEY WERE WAITING FOR A train that was never coming. Eventually, people began to sit down on the platform. She tried not to think about the stories she'd read in school about trains that took people to concentration camps and death. She tried not to watch the policemen, who were patrolling the edges of the crowd, waving their guns in the air, threatening to shoot troublemakers. There was to be no food, no water, even. And, more immediately, she was desperate to relieve herself. She whispered this to Mama.
Finally, Baba got up and went over to speak to one of the policemen. The man nodded angrily. Baba came back and spoke softly to Mama. He had gotten permission for them to use the toilets in the station. Meli got up gratefully, taking Vlora by the hand. She hesitated, looking at Baba and Mehmet and her little brothers. She was afraid to let them out of her sight even for a minute, but she really couldn't wait any longer.
Mama was half carrying Granny. Auntie Burbuqe and Nexima each carried a twin, so Meli took little Elez's hand. With a hundred pardons and excuses, they made their way through the crowd to the toilets. Meli was terrified that once others saw where they were headed, the room would be mobbed and they'd never get in, but they got there first, before the crowd realized what was happening. They were wearing so much clothing, it was a struggle to use the toilet. She helped Vlora first, then went herself. By the time they were at the basins, trying to clean up a bit, women and children were pouring into the small room. Meli quickly washed Vlora's and Elez's faces with her hand and splashed cool water on her own filthy face and hands before they had to squeeze out to leave space for others as needy as themselves.