"I think I'll go over to the hospital tent and see Granny," she would say, and Mama and Auntie Burbuqe would nod approvingly.
"Tell her we'll be over soon," they'd say. "And take her out for a little walk. She mustn't lie in bed all day."
The hospital tent was crowded with cots, but it was better for Granny, with her weak old body, than sleeping on the ground.
Meli would sit on the edge of the cot and try to make conversation, but Granny was usually confused. She often thought she was in Uncle Fadil's house and that someone had put her in the wrong bed. Then she would look around, puzzled. "Why are all these people in my house?" she'd ask.
Meli got in the habit of saying as soon as she sat down, "Hello, Granny; it's me, Meli. I've come to take you out into the sunshine. It's a lovely day." She was terrified that if she didn't talk fast, Granny might look at her and ask, "Who are you?"
She wanted Granny to remember her home and her family—the good times. Let her forget the terrible journey to the refugee camp and instead remember the farm, the goats, the cow, the chickens, the neat rows of cabbages smiling at the autumn sun. Let her remember her sons, who loved her, and their wives, who took such kind care of her. Let her remember her grandchildren and great-grandchildren playing at her feet and laughing in her lap. But the strangeness of the camp seemed to interfere with those memories. Sometimes Granny thought she was a little girl again. Once she startled Meli by turning to her and saying, her voice pitched high as Vlora's, "Mama, who are all those people?"
***
Meanwhile, NATO bombers were pounding Kosovo. A radio that worked with a crank instead of electricity had been distributed to each tent. Mehmet hardly let anyone else in the family touch the one they had been given. He wound it up and listened to the news every day, so they knew of terrible accidents: NATO bombers striking a column of refugees mistaken for Serbian soldiers, and destroying a train just like the one they'd been herded onto, a train packed with Albanians headed for the border. Many were killed. Mehmet cursed the carelessness of the NATO forces, but Baba just shook his head. "War is madness," he said. "It is the innocent who always suffer most." Once Meli heard him say, half to Mama and half to himself, "Oh, Sevdie, I want to take our children to a place where there is no war." But where on earth was there such a place? Not in Kosovo, not even in Serbia itself. Meli couldn't tell anyone, Baba least of all, the grim satisfaction she took in hearing about the bombs that fell on Serbia. Milosević's people should feel something of the pain they had caused, shouldn't they? They had killed many Kosovar children. Surely it was only right that they should lose children of their own. They should have to pay for the evil they had inflicted.
***
Meli was in the tent when she heard the raucous cheering. She got up quickly and ran outside. It was as though the whole camp had gone crazy. "What is it? What's happening?" she asked, but no one seemed to hear her. She ran to the volleyball area. There was no game going. All the men were half dancing about and shouting. Those who were religious were crying out, "Alhamdulila!" Even Baba, who almost never went to a mosque, was joining in the chorus of "God be praised!" with tears running down his cheeks.
She spotted Mehmet and tugged at his sleeve until he turned toward her. "What's happened?" she yelled in his ear.
"You didn't hear? Milosević has surrendered. NATO's won!" Then he dashed off to be in the very middle of the celebration.
Meli walked back to the tent. She sat down in the semi-darkness, hardly listening to the din beyond the tent flap. Now we can go home. She said it over and over again in her head and then, to make it real, said it aloud. "Now we can go home at last."
***
There was, of course, no men's chamber available, so later that day Uncle Fadil and Baba and Mehmet met in Baba's tent to hold their discussion. They weren't gone long, but by the time they returned to the rest of the family, who were gathered in the space in front of Uncle Fadil's tent, the little ones were jumping up and down in their excitement, and Meli's heart was fluttering like a caged bird. But when Uncle Fadil spoke, his voice was somber. "We are all eager to go back home, but..." He hesitated, and in that space Meli's heart contracted. Uncle Fadil had no home to go back to.
"We don't know what things are like," Baba said. "They say there are land mines and some of the houses left standing may be booby-trapped. Even if it is safe, it will be a hard journey. We'll have to walk, and Granny ... Well, you can see, it would be too hard for her and the little children..."
"Not for me!" Isuf said.
Baba smiled at Isuf, patting his head, as he continued: Considering the hardships and dangers of the trip, only he, Uncle Fadil, and Mehmet would return for now.
Meli saw Mehmet smile. Again he was to be counted among the men.
"We have to see about the store and the apartment. What the situation is, and ... the farm ... what we can salvage there. I promise, we will come back as soon as possible. You'll have to wait a little longer, Isuf," Baba said. "It won't be long."
Despite the pleas for patience from the authorities, the Lleshi men were among the thousands who walked out of the camp that June day. The women and children who were left behind stood at the chicken-wire fence and watched them go. After all their determination to stay together, Baba, Mehmet, and Uncle Fadil were leaving them. Meli kept trying to make out the beloved figures, but the three Lleshis were soon lost in the crowd of Albanians flooding out past the gate into the road. They would probably have to walk all the way. Strong as the three of them were, the journey might take several days, and who knew what they would find at the end? It only made sense for the women to stay behind to take care of Granny and the children, and she, Meli, was counted as a woman now. Tomorrow was her thirteenth birthday, not that anyone but she would remember it, and Baba had promised not to be gone long. Then they could all go home.
***
But, oh, it seemed long to those who had been left behind. To Meli it seemed like an eternity. In reality, it was less than two weeks, but when your stomach knots at the thoughts of land mines and booby traps and your whole body is aching with homesickness, a day can feel like years. But Baba, Uncle Fadil, and Mehmet returned to the refugee camp, as Baba had promised.
Before any of the men would speak, the whole family had to be gathered again in the space in front of Uncle Fadil's tent. Meli thought her heart would burst from her chest before Baba finally cleared his throat and began. "We have no idea what has happened to our cousins. They may have fled or..." He didn't finish the sentence. "But it's not all bad news. The store and the apartment are still there."
Mehmet glowered. "What the Serbs didn't steal they smashed to pieces."
"At least there are four walls and a roof," Uncle Fadil said, making Mehmet blush. It was clear Uncle Fadil had nothing to go home to.
Baba confirmed this sad truth. "The farmhouse and sheds are destroyed," he said. Then he pulled out something from his pocket and handed it to Mama. "I could only find this little scrap. I think the rest was burned."
Mama rubbed a finger across the piece of what had once been her beloved photo. "My parents," she said. "This was all I had left of them. Why should anyone destroy it?"
"Hate makes no sense," Baba said.
"When are we going home?" Isuf asked the question they were all dying to ask. "I want to go home today. Right now."
"Right now!" echoed Adil.
"Me, too," said Vlora. "Right now."
Baba shook his head sadly. "We have to talk first," he said. Meli sighed, but to her amazement and Mehmet's chagrin Baba told Mehmet to "help watch the little ones" while he and Uncle Fadil asked Mama, Auntie Burbuqe, and Nexima to come with them to Baba's tent.
"What do they have to talk about, Mehmet?" Meli asked. "What is so complicated? If the store and the apartment are there, why can't we just go home?"
"You know Baba. He'll always find something to worry about."
"But the war is over."
Mehmet shrugged. "I think he fears w
hat will happen next."
"What? What can happen now?"
"Don't we need to revenge the evil those pigs have done? Don't we?"
Meli found herself shivering in the summer sun.
***
After what seemed like hours, Uncle Fadil and the women returned. Where's Baba? That was the question that no one quite dared ask. Something was up, and from the grim expressions on the faces of the three adults, it was not something they were happy about. Uncle Fadil had somehow gotten some cigarettes, and he sat down and began to smoke. Auntie Burbuqe, Nexima, and Mama pretended there was something inside the tent that needed doing for the twins. Meli looked to Mehmet for some explanation, but he just shrugged. For once he knew as little as she did.
The smaller children had begun a game of tag, racing around several tents. Elez shrieked with pleasure when he was caught, so Isuf made sure that he got caught often, which pleased Vlora and Adil, who never wanted to be "it." It made Meli long to be able to forget everything and play like that. But at thirteen one had to have dignity. Oh, Baba, where have you gone? What are you doing?
At last Baba appeared, his face flushed, his eyes bright. He poked his head into the tent. Nexima came out, holding a twin by each hand. They could walk alone now, but it was as though she were escorting them to a solemn meeting. The older women followed her out, and Mama called the children from their play. Baba had everyone sit down in the space in front of Uncle Fadil's tent. The adults sat there, their expressions grim but resolute. Now they were going to hear what had been decided. Meli quickly realized that there would be no arguing, not even from Mehmet, with whatever decision their elders had agreed on. She waited for Baba to speak, never dreaming of the words she would hear.
"As we all know, at present Uncle Fadil and his family have no home to return to. The farm is destroyed, and until things are more settled, it is not wise to try to rebuild. They will go to town, to the apartment, and try to get the store running again. They can take care of Granny and the little children more easily there."
"But what about us?" Isuf asked. "What about our family?"
Baba forced a smile. "Our family? Why, we're headed for a great adventure."
"Adventure?" asked Adil.
"Yes, son, a great adventure. The papers I filled out last month are still in order. We're in line to go to America."
ELEVEN A Country Far from Home
AMERICA? HOW COULD MELI EVEN IMAGINE IT? OH, SHE HAD seen pictures of Washington and New York on television. But they seemed like cities in science-fiction fantasies to her. She'd never even been to Prishtina, though Nexima and her family had lived there. In her mind America was thin, glamorous women and handsome men, many, many cars, and huge trucks. Maybe there weren't soldiers on the streets or cruel police, but there were lots of criminals, people with guns everywhere, even in the schools. It was a strangely beautiful, dangerous land, and this is where Baba was determined to take them all—to keep them safe! But how could Baba be sure that they would be safe in America? Safer than in Kosovo? She supposed he reckoned that America was far from the threat of those Mehmet had learned so well how to hate. Hatred and the ancient thirst for revenge: that was what Baba feared most. I'll never tell him how I feel, she determined. He mustn't know how much I've come to hate the Serbs.
To her surprise, Mehmet was not opposed to the idea of America. "I'm going to go to America and get rich. Then I'll come back and fight for independence. Maybe I'll see Bill Clinton. Thank him for the bombs."
They knew that the legendary American president and his wife had come to Macedonia and visited the camp at Stenkovic. Mehmet felt cheated that he had missed seeing his current hero. "He should have come to our camp to see us," he said.
"But you weren't even here. You were home when he was at Stenkovic," Meli said.
"I'll see him someday."
Someday. All of them, even Meli, frightened as she was by the whole idea of America, were anxious for that "someday" when the word would come and their names would appear on the list of those to leave the camp. The papers had all been filled out. Now they must wait, Baba said, for a sponsor in America: someone who would help them settle into their new country. But even in a country as rich as America, who would want responsibility for a family with five children, Meli wondered, a family in which no one can speak English?
A few days later Mehmet said that one of the American volunteers had offered to teach English to those who had applied to go to America. Baba was pleased. He insisted that Mehmet and Meli attend. "You should go, too, Baba," Meli said.
Mama agreed. "It is a good example," she said quietly, pointing her chin toward Mehmet. So Baba went with them, but it was a trial for him, Meli saw. Mehmet was so much quicker than their father. He shouldn't act so smug—just because he's more clever than we are. She did her best to pretend that she was having just as hard a time as Baba was, though in truth she was catching on much faster than her father.
"Can you tell me the way to the supermarket?" the young volunteer teacher said, and the little class of refugees young and old echoed the alien sounds, all but Baba.
"What does it mean, 'soopera mekit'?" he whispered loudly enough to make several people turn around and stare at him.
"Hush," Mehmet said. "Just repeat."
Baba's sun-browned face couldn't hide the red flush in his cheeks. When had his mustache turned white? When had so much gray appeared on his head of thick black hair? Meli bit her lip and fixed her eyes on the instructor.
Meantime, Baba and Uncle Fadil had located a distant relative in Skopje. The Macedonian cousin came to the camp, bringing a gift of money and the loan of an ancient Mercedes. The family that had clung together for so long was about to be torn apart—maybe forever.
"It's time for us to leave," Uncle Fadil said. "Granny is strong enough to travel, and we have the use of this car. I'll stop by and see you when I come back to return it."
Meli held each twin so close they wriggled out of her arms. She hugged Granny and Nexima and dear Auntie Burbuqe, who was sobbing right out loud. They all, except Mehmet—who seemed to think himself too manly to cry—were wiping their eyes when the final good-byes were said. Uncle Fadil shook hands gravely all around. When he got to Mehmet he put his left hand on his nephew's shoulder. "Be a man," he said.
"I'm a man and a half," Mehmet said, and grinned to soften the boast. Uncle Fadil smiled and got in behind the wheel. He looked about, as though he needed to make sure all his passengers were safely in place before starting the engine.
"May your life be lengthened, brother," Baba said, sticking his head in the window of the Mercedes.
Uncle Fadil reached out and touched his older brother's face. "May we see one another well," he replied, his voice cracking before he finished the sentence. Then he revved up the motor of the big car, and they were off. Elez kept his nose to the back window, waving at his cousins, and they all waved back until the car was a dot on the dust of the road. Then, hardly looking at each other, they went back through the camp gate.
"Nobody left but just us chickens," Mehmet said under his breath.
***
Those still in the shrunken camp were all waiting, all wishing to be somewhere else, all checking the list every day to see if their names had magically appeared for transport to a new life. The children had outgrown their clothes, so they went to the designated tent and tried on new ones. Not really new, of course; they were used clothes sent to the camp from people in Western Europe or America. It was silly to hope that the two dresses she chose were stylish, Meli knew. No one would throw away a perfectly good dress if it were up-to-date. Mehmet was thrilled to find a pair of jeans that fit him—well, almost fit. The waist was a little large, but he kept them up with a length of cord. "Jeans," he said proudly. "Just like a Hollywood star."
Fortunately, although July was hot, it was mostly clear. Then, when it did begin to rain, there was no way to keep things dry. The tent smelled of mildew, and the paths were muddy troughs. Th
e family began going barefoot to spare their single pairs of new hand-me-down shoes. They tried to keep clean, but a weekly cold shower did nothing but take off the current layer of mud. As soon as they left the shower tent, they were dirty again. Meli tried not to remember the big enamel tub in the apartment or the luxury of hot water, big bars of soap and bleached white towels, clean underwear, and clothes that fit her body.
By the end of July Baba had stopped going to the classes with them. At first he made excuses about having to check the lists or talk to some camp official about papers, but eventually he didn't bother with excuses. He just didn't go back to class. Meli was secretly relieved. How could she learn anything with Baba at her elbow feeling lost and hopeless and humiliated by his own children? Still, how were they to get along in America if their father couldn't even speak to people? It would be as though Mehmet had become head of the family, and Mehmet wasn't wise and caring like Baba. What would happen to them in that strange new land without him in charge? Why couldn't they just go home? Yes, the apartment would be crowded, though no more crowded than the farmhouse had been last winter. But Baba was adamant: They would wait for the papers and the promise of sponsorship that would let them emigrate to America.