mother.
—
Inside, on television, I saw what it meant for a city to fall. The footage was foreign. Any Croats in Vukovar were either fighting or being captured, so the Croatian news network had intercepted a German broadcast, their correspondent narrating in a mix of unfamiliar consonants. The feed was live and the voice-over untranslated, but the refugee, my parents, and I stared at the screen, as if looking at it hardenough would somehow advance our German skills. The cement façades of homes were disfigured, scarred by bullets and mortars. JNA tanks barreled down the city’s main street, followed by convoys of white UN Peacekeeping trucks. Alongside the road, in a place that had probably once been grass but was now trampled and muddy, lines of people were lying facedown, their noses pressed into the dirt and their hands behind their heads. A bearded soldier with an AK-47 walked between the rows. He fired. Somewhere, someone was screaming. The camera jerked up and away, capturing instead a collapsing church steeple. The dull roar of a distant explosion rumbled through the TV speakers. In the background more bearded men with black skull flags marched down the empty street, singing,
“Bit će mesa! Bit će mesa! Klaćemo Hrvate!”
There will be meat; there will be meat. We’ll slaughter all Croatians.
“Please turn that off,” the man said.
“One minute,” mumbled my father.
Just then Luka burst into our flat, the doorknob coming to rest in the same dent I’d made.
“Ana!
Vukovar je pao!
”
“I know,” I said. I gestured to the television and the hunched man at the table with his back to the screen, who was devouring the soup that was supposed to have been my father’s lunch in quick, greedy swallows. Luka reddened and greeted my parents. He thrust his hands in the pockets ofhis jeans and the four of us stood around the TV, surveying each other’s reactions to the on-screen carnage.
“Does your mother know you’re out?” my mother said.
“Yes,” Luka said, a little too fast. He grabbed my arm and pulled me toward the door.
“Maybe you should both stay here. I’ll make you a snack.”
“Mama.” I slumped my shoulders in protest. I knew Luka had come because he’d deemed the desecration of Vukovar a good reason to skip class, but our chances of leaving were better if we acted as if nothing had changed. “We have to go to school,” I said. “We’re gonna be late.” But my mother, who refused to negotiate with whining, ignored me and began mixing Rahela’s formula. Luka and I skulked into the living room.
Having downed the soup and eager to escape the television, the refugee followed us and sat on the far end of the couch. His face was coated in stubble and mud, dirt smeared across his shirt and lodged beneath his overgrown fingernails. He made me nervous, and I wished my parents would be more attentive to their guest, but they were busy trying to get Rahela to eat something—an effort that had essentially become force-feeding—and neither of them noticed.
“He took my wife,” the refugee said. “I heard her screaming through the wall.”
Luka and I just stared, afraid to move.
“He had a necklace strung with ears. Ears off people’sheads.” The man cupped his head in his hands, pressing his fingers to his ears as if to check whether they were still attached. I yearned to go to school. After what seemed like much too long, my father poked his head around the corner.
“You’ll be back straight after class is through?” He raised his eyebrows.
“Yes,” I said, unaccustomed to curfews but willing to compromise.
“Go on then.”
We sprang from the couch under cover of clattering pans and collapsing building footage, and my father winked at us as we slipped out the door.
—
When I got home from school the refugee was gone. My parents didn’t say anything about where he went, and I didn’t ask. At sunset my father and I walked to Zrinjevac to look at the weather
—
Inside, on television, I saw what it meant for a city to fall. The footage was foreign. Any Croats in Vukovar were either fighting or being captured, so the Croatian news network had intercepted a German broadcast, their correspondent narrating in a mix of unfamiliar consonants. The feed was live and the voice-over untranslated, but the refugee, my parents, and I stared at the screen, as if looking at it hardenough would somehow advance our German skills. The cement façades of homes were disfigured, scarred by bullets and mortars. JNA tanks barreled down the city’s main street, followed by convoys of white UN Peacekeeping trucks. Alongside the road, in a place that had probably once been grass but was now trampled and muddy, lines of people were lying facedown, their noses pressed into the dirt and their hands behind their heads. A bearded soldier with an AK-47 walked between the rows. He fired. Somewhere, someone was screaming. The camera jerked up and away, capturing instead a collapsing church steeple. The dull roar of a distant explosion rumbled through the TV speakers. In the background more bearded men with black skull flags marched down the empty street, singing,
“Bit će mesa! Bit će mesa! Klaćemo Hrvate!”
There will be meat; there will be meat. We’ll slaughter all Croatians.
“Please turn that off,” the man said.
“One minute,” mumbled my father.
Just then Luka burst into our flat, the doorknob coming to rest in the same dent I’d made.
“Ana!
Vukovar je pao!
”
“I know,” I said. I gestured to the television and the hunched man at the table with his back to the screen, who was devouring the soup that was supposed to have been my father’s lunch in quick, greedy swallows. Luka reddened and greeted my parents. He thrust his hands in the pockets ofhis jeans and the four of us stood around the TV, surveying each other’s reactions to the on-screen carnage.
“Does your mother know you’re out?” my mother said.
“Yes,” Luka said, a little too fast. He grabbed my arm and pulled me toward the door.
“Maybe you should both stay here. I’ll make you a snack.”
“Mama.” I slumped my shoulders in protest. I knew Luka had come because he’d deemed the desecration of Vukovar a good reason to skip class, but our chances of leaving were better if we acted as if nothing had changed. “We have to go to school,” I said. “We’re gonna be late.” But my mother, who refused to negotiate with whining, ignored me and began mixing Rahela’s formula. Luka and I skulked into the living room.
Having downed the soup and eager to escape the television, the refugee followed us and sat on the far end of the couch. His face was coated in stubble and mud, dirt smeared across his shirt and lodged beneath his overgrown fingernails. He made me nervous, and I wished my parents would be more attentive to their guest, but they were busy trying to get Rahela to eat something—an effort that had essentially become force-feeding—and neither of them noticed.
“He took my wife,” the refugee said. “I heard her screaming through the wall.”
Luka and I just stared, afraid to move.
“He had a necklace strung with ears. Ears off people’sheads.” The man cupped his head in his hands, pressing his fingers to his ears as if to check whether they were still attached. I yearned to go to school. After what seemed like much too long, my father poked his head around the corner.
“You’ll be back straight after class is through?” He raised his eyebrows.
“Yes,” I said, unaccustomed to curfews but willing to compromise.
“Go on then.”
We sprang from the couch under cover of clattering pans and collapsing building footage, and my father winked at us as we slipped out the door.
—
When I got home from school the refugee was gone. My parents didn’t say anything about where he went, and I didn’t ask. At sunset my father and I walked to Zrinjevac to look at the weather
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