"You look like my mother," Mama had often said to Meli. "She was such a beautiful woman. See, in the photo? You can tell how beautiful she was." And Meli would obediently look at the photo and agree, though her grandmother seemed stiff and plain to her, and she secretly hoped she would be much prettier than that when she grew up.
Now Meli strained for a last sight of home in the fading light. It was a lovely place, her town, on the banks of the Drin River, nestled between the hills that divided Kosovo right down the middle and the snowcapped Cursed Mountains, which barred the way to Albania, from where in the mists of the long-ago past her ancestors had made their way to this fertile plain.
But the beauty of the sights she was leaving behind was soon crowded out by a riot of fears. She was afraid that they would be stopped by a police patrol, or worse, by Serb paramilitaries, who had begun to act as though they were more powerful than the police. If the Lleshis were stopped, they would be searched. Not that the family owned any guns—Baba didn't believe in guns—but who knew what the Serbs might find suspicious? Suppose they just took Baba or Mehmet or Uncle Fadil away for no reason at all? Mehmet had disappeared once already, probably just because a boy running down the street past the police station had aroused their suspicion. Maybe, now that he had been jailed and beaten and had lived with the guerrillas, he was on some secret list of KLA sympathizers. That must be it—that was why he had insisted that they leave town. She shuddered.
"Mehmet." She was whispering so as not to wake up the little boys, who had fallen asleep. Those in front wouldn't be able to hear her over the racket of the engine. "Mehmet, if we re stopped, you have to hide."
Mehmet gave a snort. "Where? Among the sausages?"
Yes, it would be foolish to try to hide. She fought to keep alert, to keep her eyes open for the first signs of danger. But she was tired. The next thing she knew, the car had rattled to a stop. She straightened up quickly. Where were they? To her relief she made out in the darkness the outline of the family farmhouse. Mehmet was still sitting as stiff as a board against the back of the front seat, his eyes wide open. He hadn't fallen asleep—she was sure of it.
The adults got out of the car, Baba carrying the sleeping Vlora. Mehmet clambered over the front seat and out the door. Meli tried to stretch out her numb legs in the small space he had left and was about to wake her little brothers when Auntie Burbuqe came hurrying out of the house, carrying a bag.
Even in the pale light from the doorway Meli could see how agitated she was. She said something to Uncle Fadil, who in turn spoke softly to his brother. Baba shook his head. Then Mehmet went over and talked with Baba. Now Auntie Burbuqe was handing the large bag to Mama. No, she shouldn't t wake Isuf and Adil—not yet. Isuf had fallen against her, so Meli sat still, but she craned her neck, trying desperately to figure out what was happening. Finally, Mehmet climbed back over the seat into the space she made for him by gently prodding Isuf to a sitting position. "What is it?" Meli asked. "What's the matter?"
Mehmet didn't answer. He waited until Uncle Fadil took his place behind the wheel again, and Mama, carrying the bag Auntie had given her, and Baba, with Vlora still in his arms, struggled back into the front seat. "It's not safe here," he said. "We have to go."
"What did Auntie Burbuqe say?"
Mehmet pushed Isuf gently to give himself a bit more room. Isuf mumbled something in his sleep. Adil stirred and nestled closer to Meli's shoulder.
"Shh," Mehmet said. "Don't wake them up. We have miles to go. The longer they sleep, the better."
"But why can't we stay here?"
"It's not safe."
It was all he would say. Sometimes Mehmet could be so maddening. "Why not?" Meli demanded.
"Shh. There are paramilitaries all around. They ve been threatening everyone—telling them to leave the country."
"Leave?" How could those thugs order them to leave their own land? "But what about Auntie Burbuqe and Granny?"
"I don't know," he whispered. "Maybe Uncle Fadil will come back for them later. Or—or maybe They'll be safe if I'm not around." He said the last bitterly.
"You don't know that!"
"Quiet, Meli," he said, putting his hand over her mouth. "I know because Auntie Burbuqe as much as said so. I think they know someone who knows someone—you know how it goes."
She didn't know. She shook away his hand. "What are you talking about, Mehmet?"
"Shh. Forget it. Information is dangerous. People get killed for it."
She shut up then. But who had gotten word to Auntie Burbuqe? How did she know things they didn't? She tried not to think about it. She tried to be glad simply that she was with her family, that Mehmet was there beside her. Whatever the danger, it felt safer for them to be all together.
It was too dark to see where the car was going; they were traveling without headlights for the first part of the trip. Even so, Meli knew the bumpy road was winding up and up. "Where are we going, Mehmet?"
"Into the hills," he answered. In the strange night, even his voice sounded dark.
"To our grazing lands?" Years ago the family used to take sheep and goats to their ancestral lands in the hills for the summer. But they hadn't done that for years. "I hope that old shack is still standing."
"We're not going to our place."
"Then where?"
"Somewhere else. Farther south."
"But there's no one up there we know."
"There's the KLA."
A chill went through her. "But we don't belong to the KLA."
"They'll protect us."
She was shivering all over now. How could Mehmet be sure? A little band of KLA had saved his life—she knew that—but did that mean all of them were kind? The KLA might be patriots and heroes, but they were fighters, desperate ones, and safe only in children's war play, not in the dark hills they hid among. She had heard it whispered that if the KLA suspected that you were a spy or even a government sympathizer, they would kill you as fast as the Serbs would.
"Don't be afraid, Meli. It's all right." Mehmet was reading her mind. "Besides, we don't have much choice, do we?"
The car spiraled higher and higher into the darkness. She could smell the chill mountain air. Uncle Fadil had put on the dim parking lights, but Meli was riding backward in the over-packed car, and nothing was really visible. She was afraid she might vomit, either from car sickness, the car's strange mixture of smells, or fear, she couldn't be sure. I can't throw up, she told herself. I have to be strong. Besides, there was no way to move herself over to the half-open window to throw up—she would wake the little boys, and she couldn't do that. They were sleeping so peacefully.
"Mehmet," she whispered. "When will we get there?"
She sensed rather than saw Mehmet shrug.
Her face was hot and feverish, but her arms, sticking out of her light summer dress, were covered with goose bumps. It had gotten much cooler as they climbed. Her winter jacket was stuffed somewhere near the rear hatch. She wished she could jerk out one of the blankets they were sitting on to put around her shoulders, but even if it were possible, she wouldn't dare. Questions tumbled over in her mind like laundry in their old washing machine. Where will we sleep tonight? On the ground? How will we cook or bathe or go to the toilet? The only houses in the hills were the summer shacks of goat and sheep herders, flimsy structures perched on ancestral grazing lands. Her whole body ached for her own comfortable bed and her cozy home. Stop it! She rubbed her arms to warm them.
Once more Mehmet seemed to read her mind. "There are camps up there. It won't be like home, but there ll be shelter. I promise."
How could Mehmet promise anything? How would he know how the KLA lived? She didn't dare ask. She didn't want information that could be dangerous—especially not from her brother.
The Lada stopped so suddenly that the four of them were thrown hard against the seat. Adil gave a startled cry.
"Hush," Mehmet said. There was a mumble of voices. He was trying to listen, to find out what w
as happening. "I think we re almost there," he whispered.
Just then the beams of two powerful flashlights lit the darkness. Both little boys were awake now. "What's the matter? What happened?" Isuf asked.
"Hush," Meli said.
The dark figure of a man went around the hood of the car to the driver's window, and another went to the rear side window and peered in at the children and then to the back and opened the hatch. The beam of the flashlight raked their faces and the contents of the car. The four of them sat there, as though frozen in place.
"It's only food and children back here. Let them pass," he called to his companion, and slammed shut the hatch. For once Mehmet didn't protest at being called a child.
Uncle Fadil ground the gears and gunned the engine. Climbing across Isuf, Mehmet shoved aside a sack of flour and a can of cheese to roll down the window. He poked his head out, staring ahead as the car wound farther up into the hills, now with its headlights illuminating the way. "I can see campfires," he said excitedly. "We're almost there."
FOUR Camping
THE LADA JERKED TO A STOP. AS SOON AS THE FRONT OF the car emptied, Mehmet clambered over the seat and jumped out. The little boys had fallen asleep again. Meli shook them gently. "Wake up, Isuf, Adil; we're there," she said, having no idea where "there" might be.
Both boys shifted as if to shake off her hands, but they didn't open their eyes. It must be wonderful to sleep like that. She envied them. They had missed all the anxiety. At six and eight, they didn't seem to realize how dangerous their world had become.
Baba was calling to her.
"They won't wake up," Meli said.
"Well, let them sleep while we unload," Baba said. "I ll open the back. Can you push things toward us, or do you want Mehmet to help?"
"I can do it," she said. She wanted Baba to know that she was going to be one of the grown-ups, one of the strong ones. She shifted to her knees, and when Mehmet and the men had unloaded what they could easily reach, she began to push a heavy sack of flour toward the hatch. It wasn't as easy as she thought. Mehmet quickly became impatient and climbed in to help. With the four of them working, it didn't take long to unload, maybe ten minutes or so. She crawled back to the boys and shook them hard enough this time to wake them up.
"Are we at Uncle Fadil's house already?" Adil asked sleepily, blinking his eyes.
"No," she said. "Baba changed his mind. We're not staying with Uncle Fadil after all. We re ... we re camping out."
"Oh, good!" said Isuf, wide awake now. "Like a real army. Just like the KLA!"
"Yes," she said. "Just like that."
There was, as Mehmet had promised, a tent, but it was hardly big enough for three people, much less seven with their belongings.
Uncle Fadil was closing the hatch, obviously anxious to get moving while it was still dark. They gathered around him to say good-bye. "When will you bring Burbuqe and Granny?" Mama asked.
Uncle Fadil shook his head. "Mother is so old," he said. "Maybe it's better we stay and take our chances. At least she has a bed to sleep in."
How could they argue? Meli hugged her uncle. Mehmet and Baba shook his hand. "Thank you, brother," Baba said. "We'll see you soon, inshallah."
"Inshallah," Uncle Fadil echoed. "May we see one another well," he added as he climbed into the car.
"May your life be lengthened," Baba said. The formal words of parting hung in the night air like black clouds before a storm. They stood without another word, listening to the fading noise of the beloved old Lada and watching its dim rear lights until they disappeared beyond the first curve.
***
In the morning they could see their camping place. Another tent stood not far from their own. The plain where the two tents were pitched was partly surrounded by chestnut trees, and a stream flowed from above the camp and ran past it. Down the hill a bit, a dilapidated shack straddled the stream. No one needed to tell Meli that the old shack would be their toilet while they lived here. In the days when they had gone to the family's grazing lands, they had often used just such an outhouse.
Mama found a bag with a loaf of bread brought from home and gave each child a piece topped by a bit of cheese while Baba and Mehmet chose a spot in front of the tent where Mama could make a fire. As they worked, a gray-haired man emerged from the woods carrying an armload of firewood.
"Please," he said, when he saw them. "Use this for your fire today."
"I worship your honor," Baba said gratefully.
"May you be with honor," their new neighbor replied.
He was a sad-faced man, Meli thought, but very kind. Perhaps a few days here wouldn't be too awful. She turned to see that Mama had dug out her old mixing bowl and a spoon.
Mama smiled at her. "Last night Auntie Burbuqe gave us all the right ingredients, so I think today is a good day to make flija," she said.
"Flija!" Isuf yelled, and he and Adil and Vlora crowded so close to their mother that she could hardly beat the thin batter.
As soon as the coals were ready, Mama poured a layer of batter into the big round metal pan, put the lid on, and covered the lid with coals.
"When can we eat it?" Vlora asked.
"It takes hours," Isuf said with big-brother importance. "You have to be very patient."
"But I'm hungry now," his little sister protested.
"Everybody wants flija now," said their father, "but it doesn't hurry for anybody. Now go help Mehmet find more firewood while you wait."
When the first layer was cooked, Mama took a forked stick and carefully lifted the lid of the pan, added another layer of batter, replaced the lid and the coals, and then sat back to wait until this layer was done. Each time the lid was taken off, one of the children rushed up to see if it was time to eat, but it never was—not until the middle of the day, when the many-layered flija was finally fat and brown. Mama cut two pieces and put them on a plate with a bit of the precious jam. "Take these to our new neighbors, Meli, to thank them."
***
With cheese and Mama's flija topped with honey, that first full meal at the hillside camp felt a bit like a celebration, but as the days wore on, there was very little to celebrate. So much they had always taken for granted was missing—electricity, a proper stove, a washing machine, running water, an indoor toilet. The fresh eggs and butter and milk that Auntie Burbuqe had given them were quickly gone. Each morning, while Meli and Mama went out to fetch water from the stream, Mehmet and Baba gathered sticks for the next day's fire. Their new neighbor had advised this: They should never let themselves run out of firewood, he had said. "And don't let the children wander too far up that way," he had added, waving toward the top of the hill. "That's where the military camp is. It's off-limits." So that's where the KLA hide themselves. It was a thought that both thrilled Meli and frightened her.
"Do you have children?" Baba had asked the man that first morning. It was simply politeness speaking, but the man stiffened. "I had two sons. The elder, Visar, was slaughtered before my eyes, and the younger..." He paused. "Someday he will come home again. Inshallah. "
Baba had touched his chest in the traditional gesture of sympathy. "May the Lord leave you healthy," he had said.
"May you be healthy," the grieved father had answered, and sighed deeply. "God wrote it in his book before any of us were born. What can we do? We must reconcile ourselves to it."
Reconcile yourself to your son's murder? How was that possible? If Mehmet had died, would any of them ever have been able to reconcile themselves, Meli wondered. As for the neighbor's second son, was he in these hills—or some other hills—plotting vengeance for his brother's death? No one asked that question.
Each morning when they came out of their tent, they could see that other families had come to join the makeshift camp. There were no more proper tents, so the new arrivals had to make do with plastic sheets hung over chestnut tree branches and propped up with sticks. It made the Lleshis crowded tent seem almost luxurious. Every day Meli hoped that a car
coming up the steep, curving road would bring Zana, or someone she knew from her old school, but they were all strangers.
"How do you stand it up here?" a new girl asked her one day. Looking at her clothes, Meli realized that the newcomer was used to a much more comfortable life than even the Lleshis had known. She felt a pang of pity for the girl, her clothes not yet stained and torn, her face untanned.
"I try to pretend I'm on vacation," Meli said. "If the family is on a camping trip, everyone thinks it's fun to fetch water and cook over an open fire, don't you think?"
The girl sneered. "I'm not on vacation," she said. "And it's not fun. Though maybe for you villagers..."
Meli didn't reply, but she wished she could tell Zana: That girl didn't even have a tent to sleep in, but she thought she was better than me because her father wasn't born on a farm.
There were advantages to never having been rich, Meli decided. Though, at that moment, having a bed and a roof and warm water to bathe in seemed like the height of luxury.
***
The KLA soldiers who appeared through the woods almost daily to inspect the family camp didn't look like much of an army to Meli. They wore ragged clothes with a makeshift double-eagle insignia sewn on the back, and they carried ancient guns, which Mehmet identified as cast-off Chinese or Russian weapons, some of them dating back to the fifties. "It was better at my other camp," he said. "They had weapons smuggled in from America." Meli found that hard to believe, but she didn't try to argue. Like everyone else in the hill camp, the soldiers had trouble keeping clean. Baba's once handsome mustache was now just the top of a scraggly beard. All of the men grew beards, because that was easier than trying to shave. Mehmet couldn't have grown a beard to save his life, but, like the older boys who could, he hung around with the soldiers as much as possible.