me.” So I beat him up and was fired.
After that, I spent my days in the village tavern, every now and then lifting my hand before my eyes to check if I hadn’t finally gone blind. It’s a tough lot to be last in your bloodline. I thought of my father’s advice, which seemed foolish, of my sister making plans to go west and of how I had done nothing to stop her from swimming to her death.
Almost every night I had the same dream. I was diving at the drowned church, looking through its window, at walls no longer covered with the murals of saints and martyrs. Instead, I could see my sister and my mother, my father, Grandpa, Grandma, Vera, people from our village and from the village across the border, painted motionless on the walls, with their eyes on my face. And every time, as I tried to push up to the surface, I discovered that my hands were locked together on the other side of the bars.
I would wake up with a yell, the voice of my sister echoing in the room.
I have some doubts , she would say, some suspicions, that these earrings aren’t really silver .
•
In the spring of 1999 the United States attacked Serbia. Kosovo, the field where the Serb had once, many centuries ago, surrendered to the Turk, had once again become the ground of battle. Three or four times I saw American planes swoop over our village with a boom. Serbia, it seemed, was a land not large enough for their maneuvers at ultrasonic speed. They cut corners from our sky and went back to drop their bombs on our neighbors. The news that Vera’s husband had been killed came as no surprise. Her letter ended like this: Nose, I have my son and you. Please come. There is no one else .
The day I received the letter, I swam to the drowned church without taking my shoes or my clothes off. I held the cross and shivered for a long time, and finally I dove down and down to the rocky bottom. I gripped the bars on the church gates tightly and listened to the screaming of my lungs while they squeezed out every molecule of oxygen. I wish I could say that I saw my life unwinding thread by thread before my eyes: happy moments alternating with sad, or that my sister, bathed in glorious light, came out of the church to take my drowning hand. But there was only darkness, the booming of water, of blood.
Yes, I am a coward. I have an ugly nose, and the heart of a mouse, and the only drowning I can do is in a bottle of rakia . I swam out and lay on the bank. And as I breathed with new thirst, a boom shook the air, and I saw a silver plane storm out of Serbia. The plane thundered over my head and, chasing it, I saw a missile, quickly losing height. Hissing, the missile stabbed the river, the rusty cross, the drowned church underneath. A large, muddy finger shook at the sky.
I wrote Vera right away. When Sister died , I wrote, I thought half of my world ended. With my parents, the other half. I thought these deaths were meant to punish me for something. I was chained to this village, and the pull of all the bones below me was impossible to escape. But now I see that these deaths were meant to set me free, to get me moving. Like links in a chain snapping, one after the other. If the church can sever its brick roots, so can I. I’m free at last, so wait for me. I’m coming as soon as I save up some cash .
•
Not long after, a Greek company opened a chicken factory in the village. My job was to make sure no bad eggs made it in the cartons. I saved some money, tried to drink less. I even cleaned the house. In the basement, in a dusty chestnut box, I found the leather shoes, the old forgotten flowers. I cut off the toe caps and put them on, and felt so good, so quick and light. Unlucky, wretched brothers. No laces, worn-out soles from walking in circles. Where will you take me?
I dug up the two jars of money I had kept hidden in the yard and caught a bus to town. It wasn’t hard to buy American dollars. I returned to the village and lay carnations on the graves and
After that, I spent my days in the village tavern, every now and then lifting my hand before my eyes to check if I hadn’t finally gone blind. It’s a tough lot to be last in your bloodline. I thought of my father’s advice, which seemed foolish, of my sister making plans to go west and of how I had done nothing to stop her from swimming to her death.
Almost every night I had the same dream. I was diving at the drowned church, looking through its window, at walls no longer covered with the murals of saints and martyrs. Instead, I could see my sister and my mother, my father, Grandpa, Grandma, Vera, people from our village and from the village across the border, painted motionless on the walls, with their eyes on my face. And every time, as I tried to push up to the surface, I discovered that my hands were locked together on the other side of the bars.
I would wake up with a yell, the voice of my sister echoing in the room.
I have some doubts , she would say, some suspicions, that these earrings aren’t really silver .
•
In the spring of 1999 the United States attacked Serbia. Kosovo, the field where the Serb had once, many centuries ago, surrendered to the Turk, had once again become the ground of battle. Three or four times I saw American planes swoop over our village with a boom. Serbia, it seemed, was a land not large enough for their maneuvers at ultrasonic speed. They cut corners from our sky and went back to drop their bombs on our neighbors. The news that Vera’s husband had been killed came as no surprise. Her letter ended like this: Nose, I have my son and you. Please come. There is no one else .
The day I received the letter, I swam to the drowned church without taking my shoes or my clothes off. I held the cross and shivered for a long time, and finally I dove down and down to the rocky bottom. I gripped the bars on the church gates tightly and listened to the screaming of my lungs while they squeezed out every molecule of oxygen. I wish I could say that I saw my life unwinding thread by thread before my eyes: happy moments alternating with sad, or that my sister, bathed in glorious light, came out of the church to take my drowning hand. But there was only darkness, the booming of water, of blood.
Yes, I am a coward. I have an ugly nose, and the heart of a mouse, and the only drowning I can do is in a bottle of rakia . I swam out and lay on the bank. And as I breathed with new thirst, a boom shook the air, and I saw a silver plane storm out of Serbia. The plane thundered over my head and, chasing it, I saw a missile, quickly losing height. Hissing, the missile stabbed the river, the rusty cross, the drowned church underneath. A large, muddy finger shook at the sky.
I wrote Vera right away. When Sister died , I wrote, I thought half of my world ended. With my parents, the other half. I thought these deaths were meant to punish me for something. I was chained to this village, and the pull of all the bones below me was impossible to escape. But now I see that these deaths were meant to set me free, to get me moving. Like links in a chain snapping, one after the other. If the church can sever its brick roots, so can I. I’m free at last, so wait for me. I’m coming as soon as I save up some cash .
•
Not long after, a Greek company opened a chicken factory in the village. My job was to make sure no bad eggs made it in the cartons. I saved some money, tried to drink less. I even cleaned the house. In the basement, in a dusty chestnut box, I found the leather shoes, the old forgotten flowers. I cut off the toe caps and put them on, and felt so good, so quick and light. Unlucky, wretched brothers. No laces, worn-out soles from walking in circles. Where will you take me?
I dug up the two jars of money I had kept hidden in the yard and caught a bus to town. It wasn’t hard to buy American dollars. I returned to the village and lay carnations on the graves and
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