breeze I catch the smell of pine trees and apple and lilac blossoms, or maybe I imagine it. I love this time of the year because the days get warm, spring flowers bloom, summer is just a month away. But I also hate it sometimes. All the rain, the heavy mists and fogs, the low, angry sky. Baka says that during her war, weather was very important. It could be a fierce enemy or a powerful collaborator. Spring was unpredictable in the mountains, friendly one moment, deadly the next.
I look up at the hills. Death is coming from up there, and everyone has stopped looking at them like they’re a nice pieceof scenery. The pine forests still stand, like before, but what is lurking in them? And the sweet chestnut trees. They’re still there, and the rivers still flow, fed by cold springs and mountain snow. We went fishing once for brown trout and soft-lipped trout. Papa wanted to try it for an article he was writing. He wanted to see how it felt, hurting a little creature for fun.
I sit down at the piano and begin my scales. It feels good to let the notes come out, to watch my fingers moving fast. I race through scales and exercises, fudging the bits that are hard, since Mama isn’t here to yell at me. I really want to learn the piece that I’m practising now, the Chopin Fantaisie-Impromptu, because it runs out of your hands all by itself, like water rushing down a hill toward a lake.
My friends are at the door. They crowd in, making faces.
“I’m going out,” I yell over my shoulder.
Mama’s hand pinches the back of my neck. She moves fast as an athlete sometimes. “You’re not going out,” she says. “It’s too dangerous.”
Everyone looks innocent, eyes big. “But Mrs. Andric, we’re all going out. Our parents say it’s okay.”
“My papa heard on the radio that it will be okay today. Our neighbourhood.” Nezira looks sad when she lies.
“Please, Mama.” Mama’s hand is touching me, in public, holding me in place. They will all laugh later. They’ll copy me. Please, Mama, please, Mama.
Mama hesitates. I duck away and am out the door.
“Be careful,” she shouts after me. She’d like to keep me home forever, where she still thinks it’s safe.
We move like one lumpy breathless animal down the dark hallway. In the yard, we kick a ball around. Cena and Nezira share a cigarette they stole from Cena’s mother. They hold itawkwardly, but they’re cool anyway. They look identical, but they’re not even sisters. They even wear the same clothes. Adidas, Puma, Levi’s. Both their mothers like to shop, in Zagreb and Vienna. The boys always crowd around them, listening to what they have to say but pretending not to.
“Let’s get a game going,” says Mahmud.
“Yes, yes,” I say.
But no one else can be bothered. We sit in a group beside the swings in the playground insulting each other, laughing, throwing pebbles at the see-saw. Cena and Nezira turn the skipping rope, chanting a high singsongy weird poem they know off by heart, while Raza skips. She’s good at it, she could keep going for a thousand years, her feet hardly touching the ground. Mahmud takes a plastic pistol out of his pocket. He aims it first at Cena, then at Nezira, then at Pero. Right at his temple.
Pow. Pow. Pow, pow
, he shouts. Pero turns and punches Mahmud in the arm.
“You’re a fucking idiot, Mahmud,” he hisses and walks off. He’s actually angry. We stare at his back until he disappears around the corner of the building.
‡ ‡ ‡
T HE PHONE RINGS AND MAMA ANSWERS. “OH no,” she says. “Oh no. Oh no. Oh no.”
I go into my room and close the door, then sit on the floor against my bed. There is nothing to do. I feel like I have asthma or something. I can’t breathe.
Emira was killed, Papa tells me when I come out again. Emira Subic. I remember her, a lady with fuzzy hair who alwayssmelled of cigarettes and laundry detergent. She came to dinner sometimes, and they talked about writing articles, which magazines
I look up at the hills. Death is coming from up there, and everyone has stopped looking at them like they’re a nice pieceof scenery. The pine forests still stand, like before, but what is lurking in them? And the sweet chestnut trees. They’re still there, and the rivers still flow, fed by cold springs and mountain snow. We went fishing once for brown trout and soft-lipped trout. Papa wanted to try it for an article he was writing. He wanted to see how it felt, hurting a little creature for fun.
I sit down at the piano and begin my scales. It feels good to let the notes come out, to watch my fingers moving fast. I race through scales and exercises, fudging the bits that are hard, since Mama isn’t here to yell at me. I really want to learn the piece that I’m practising now, the Chopin Fantaisie-Impromptu, because it runs out of your hands all by itself, like water rushing down a hill toward a lake.
My friends are at the door. They crowd in, making faces.
“I’m going out,” I yell over my shoulder.
Mama’s hand pinches the back of my neck. She moves fast as an athlete sometimes. “You’re not going out,” she says. “It’s too dangerous.”
Everyone looks innocent, eyes big. “But Mrs. Andric, we’re all going out. Our parents say it’s okay.”
“My papa heard on the radio that it will be okay today. Our neighbourhood.” Nezira looks sad when she lies.
“Please, Mama.” Mama’s hand is touching me, in public, holding me in place. They will all laugh later. They’ll copy me. Please, Mama, please, Mama.
Mama hesitates. I duck away and am out the door.
“Be careful,” she shouts after me. She’d like to keep me home forever, where she still thinks it’s safe.
We move like one lumpy breathless animal down the dark hallway. In the yard, we kick a ball around. Cena and Nezira share a cigarette they stole from Cena’s mother. They hold itawkwardly, but they’re cool anyway. They look identical, but they’re not even sisters. They even wear the same clothes. Adidas, Puma, Levi’s. Both their mothers like to shop, in Zagreb and Vienna. The boys always crowd around them, listening to what they have to say but pretending not to.
“Let’s get a game going,” says Mahmud.
“Yes, yes,” I say.
But no one else can be bothered. We sit in a group beside the swings in the playground insulting each other, laughing, throwing pebbles at the see-saw. Cena and Nezira turn the skipping rope, chanting a high singsongy weird poem they know off by heart, while Raza skips. She’s good at it, she could keep going for a thousand years, her feet hardly touching the ground. Mahmud takes a plastic pistol out of his pocket. He aims it first at Cena, then at Nezira, then at Pero. Right at his temple.
Pow. Pow. Pow, pow
, he shouts. Pero turns and punches Mahmud in the arm.
“You’re a fucking idiot, Mahmud,” he hisses and walks off. He’s actually angry. We stare at his back until he disappears around the corner of the building.
‡ ‡ ‡
T HE PHONE RINGS AND MAMA ANSWERS. “OH no,” she says. “Oh no. Oh no. Oh no.”
I go into my room and close the door, then sit on the floor against my bed. There is nothing to do. I feel like I have asthma or something. I can’t breathe.
Emira was killed, Papa tells me when I come out again. Emira Subic. I remember her, a lady with fuzzy hair who alwayssmelled of cigarettes and laundry detergent. She came to dinner sometimes, and they talked about writing articles, which magazines
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