paid well, which had nationalist editors, who was giving in to the fascists, that kind of thing. She’s dead? Who would want to kill her? Dušan wants to know exactly how she died. Was it a shell? A sniper? What part of town was she in? Where was she hit? Why didn’t she know to stay off the street?
“Stop it,” Mama says to him. She doesn’t want to talk about the details. “I’ll light a candle for her tonight.” As if that’s going to make things better.
The radio says that a ceasefire agreement has been reached. The EC made it happen. And it’s true, today is quiet. What a relief, Papa says. He has bursts of happiness all day long even though his friend just died. “Wow, that was scary, eh, kids?” he says. He makes us all pancakes in the middle of the afternoon, for a snack. Even Mama has one. We open the windows and let the fresh air in.
I WAKE up from a strange dream about the men in the lobby. They are selling chicken fat in Coca-Cola cans, and they try to force me to buy a dozen, but I don’t have any money. Your family will die without it, they shout at me, it will all be your fault. Baka told me how valuable animal fat was during the war. It was the best part of the meat. You’d eat it by the spoonful if you could get it, that white, congealed fat like creamy honey or paraffin. You’d get as much of it into you as possible. I wonder what it would be like—if I could keep it down or would puke all over the place.
I hear gunfire. I can see by the sunlight that it’s early morning. I get out of bed and walk into the living room. Papa andDušan are standing at the window, looking out. It started again at six fifteen this morning, Papa tells me. He looks suddenly unfamiliar, old and bent and dishevelled. The JNA, our national army, has taken up new positions in the suburbs, the newspaper says. They say they’re creating a buffer between the Serbs and the Bosnian forces, but Papa scoffs at that, bangs the window with his knuckles, lights another cigarette. “The JNA are Serb controlled,” he shouts. But the JNA command says that political leaders have lost control of well-armed paramilitary forces, therefore the army has to step in. And there are a lot of paramilitary forces, a crazy number, something like 150,000. I read this in yesterday’s newspaper. The command says that these forces are terrorizing people, looting and destroying property, and spreading fear, tension, panic among citizens.
“Why can’t we trust the JNA, it’s our army?” I ask Papa, but he doesn’t answer. He’s looking at the city like he’s never seen it before.
It’s now almost impossible to get to Baba and Deda and the uncles in Ilidža across the river. I hear Mama and Papa talking about it. Not that we’ve been trying. I miss them all. The uncles didn’t move into the city like Papa did when he finished high school; they go to college in different towns and still come home to Baba and Deda on the weekends. They go to soccer games together, and Baba makes delicious krofne, palatschinke, and chocolate tortes, and Deda lets me take drags on his pipe and shows me what is coming up in his vegetable garden. Papa must be homesick for his Mama and Papa and his younger brothers, but he doesn’t mention it. He and Mama whisper about the Ilidža house, what to do about it and Baba and Deda. He calls them sometimes, not as much as before, and afterwards he always looks sad or angry, he always shuts his door. Dušansays it’s because Baba and Deda want us to go live with them, because it’s a Serb neighbourhood, because it’s on the outskirts of the city. But Mama and Papa say no, they won’t go, they’re Sarajevans, they won’t join the cowardly exodus.
The day goes by so slowly I want to scream. I feel headachy and a bit ill from doing nothing but sitting inside and playing cards with myself. Aisha and Berina have been fighting, shouting at each other about who gets to draw in the colouring book, who gets to
“Stop it,” Mama says to him. She doesn’t want to talk about the details. “I’ll light a candle for her tonight.” As if that’s going to make things better.
The radio says that a ceasefire agreement has been reached. The EC made it happen. And it’s true, today is quiet. What a relief, Papa says. He has bursts of happiness all day long even though his friend just died. “Wow, that was scary, eh, kids?” he says. He makes us all pancakes in the middle of the afternoon, for a snack. Even Mama has one. We open the windows and let the fresh air in.
I WAKE up from a strange dream about the men in the lobby. They are selling chicken fat in Coca-Cola cans, and they try to force me to buy a dozen, but I don’t have any money. Your family will die without it, they shout at me, it will all be your fault. Baka told me how valuable animal fat was during the war. It was the best part of the meat. You’d eat it by the spoonful if you could get it, that white, congealed fat like creamy honey or paraffin. You’d get as much of it into you as possible. I wonder what it would be like—if I could keep it down or would puke all over the place.
I hear gunfire. I can see by the sunlight that it’s early morning. I get out of bed and walk into the living room. Papa andDušan are standing at the window, looking out. It started again at six fifteen this morning, Papa tells me. He looks suddenly unfamiliar, old and bent and dishevelled. The JNA, our national army, has taken up new positions in the suburbs, the newspaper says. They say they’re creating a buffer between the Serbs and the Bosnian forces, but Papa scoffs at that, bangs the window with his knuckles, lights another cigarette. “The JNA are Serb controlled,” he shouts. But the JNA command says that political leaders have lost control of well-armed paramilitary forces, therefore the army has to step in. And there are a lot of paramilitary forces, a crazy number, something like 150,000. I read this in yesterday’s newspaper. The command says that these forces are terrorizing people, looting and destroying property, and spreading fear, tension, panic among citizens.
“Why can’t we trust the JNA, it’s our army?” I ask Papa, but he doesn’t answer. He’s looking at the city like he’s never seen it before.
It’s now almost impossible to get to Baba and Deda and the uncles in Ilidža across the river. I hear Mama and Papa talking about it. Not that we’ve been trying. I miss them all. The uncles didn’t move into the city like Papa did when he finished high school; they go to college in different towns and still come home to Baba and Deda on the weekends. They go to soccer games together, and Baba makes delicious krofne, palatschinke, and chocolate tortes, and Deda lets me take drags on his pipe and shows me what is coming up in his vegetable garden. Papa must be homesick for his Mama and Papa and his younger brothers, but he doesn’t mention it. He and Mama whisper about the Ilidža house, what to do about it and Baba and Deda. He calls them sometimes, not as much as before, and afterwards he always looks sad or angry, he always shuts his door. Dušansays it’s because Baba and Deda want us to go live with them, because it’s a Serb neighbourhood, because it’s on the outskirts of the city. But Mama and Papa say no, they won’t go, they’re Sarajevans, they won’t join the cowardly exodus.
The day goes by so slowly I want to scream. I feel headachy and a bit ill from doing nothing but sitting inside and playing cards with myself. Aisha and Berina have been fighting, shouting at each other about who gets to draw in the colouring book, who gets to
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