It had been almost a year since they had left their comfortable life behind—two days since they'd left Uncle Fadil's happy, crowded farmhouse that was no more. They might never see Hamza again, but the rest of the family was still together. Mehmet had not disappeared into the KLA—or worse. Baba and Uncle Fadil were still in charge. Granny had survived the terrible journey, and even though her mind was more like a child's than Vlora's was, it was she who had smuggled bread right past those hoodlums. Remembering it, Meli almost smiled.
The surging crowd stopped so suddenly that she fell against the woman in front of her. What was happening? As usual, it was Mehmet who seemed to know. "The Macedonian border guards won't let anyone cross. There are too many of us."
Meli's heart sank. They couldn't go backward; they would be shot. And now they couldn't go forward.
NINE The Bus
"HOLD ON TO EACH OTHER," BABA SAID, JUST AS HE'D BEEN saying for hours. "Follow me." Somehow they all edged themselves out of the center of the crowd that had just been forced off the train, and they made their way toward a patch of brown grass. Meli felt close to collapse, but there was no hope of rest. The Serbs behind them were screaming at them to go forward. Where were they to go?
"No man's land," muttered Mehmet. "They've dumped us into no man's land."
"Come on," said Baba, looking up at the sun to get his bearings. "We have to go south."
Everyone seemed to know the direction at the same time, and again they were being jostled and pushed by the crowd. Meli had thought they couldn't stand on their feet another minute, but how could she complain? Baba and Uncle Fadil were taking turns carrying Granny, and the women were carrying Elez and the twins. She stumbled forward, holding Adil's and Isuf's hands, while Mehmet carried Vlora piggyback. She glanced over her shoulder. The Serbian soldiers were making no attempt to follow. They seemed to be checking that the train was empty and pushing those who lagged behind in the direction of those who were walking. She thought she heard more shots, but she tried to block out the sounds. They'd been on their feet all night, nearly suffocating in the crowded boxcar. She was too tired for terror and too filthy to think of much else. Still, when they had walked until they could see in the distance another line of soldiers, she could feel the sudden racing of her heart.
"What is that?" she asked Mehmet.
"Macedonians," he answered. "They don't want us, either."
Once again Baba maneuvered the family to the edge of the mass of refugees. He set Granny gently on the ground. "Sit down," he said. "We all have to rest. You, too, Mehmet." Mehmet was standing, grim-faced, his arms tightly crossed. Baba touched his son's shoulder lightly. "It's all right," he said.
"Unless these bastards decide to kill us," Mehmet muttered as he sat down beside Meli. She had tho
ught she was past feeling anything, but it still hurt to hear Mehmet sound so disrespectful to Baba. He mustn't lose faith in their father. Where would they be without him? Baba was their rock.
As exhausted as she was, she couldn't close her eyes. She listened to the cries of the crowd as they tried to push their way through the border crossing into Macedonia, and to the shouts of the soldiers determined to keep them out. She also heard through all that pandemonium the whimpering of hungry children and, quite near, just behind her, in fact, Granny coughing until she was almost choking. She could not bear to turn around and look.
What will become of us? Meli was too tired to cry, although the unspent tears pressed down like a giant weight on her heart.
***
It seemed like days, but it must have been only three or four hours—the sun was still high in the south—when she heard the sound of a large vehicle, then several. Buses were coming through the border gate.
"Quickly now," Baba said, jumping to his feet. "We must all get on the same bus. Hold on to each other. Don't get separated."
Mehmet had already picked up Adil. Meli grabbed Isuf's hand. Mama carried Vlora, and Baba had Granny. Uncle Fadil, Auntie Burbuqe, and Nexima each carried a child. The crowd had parted to let the buses through, and, miraculously, when the buses stopped, the family was almost next to an open door. They climbed in and fell into seats near the front. Baba craned his head around and counted to make sure everyone was there.
"Where are we going?" Isuf asked.
"I don't know," Meli answered, and for once she hardly cared. They were going. They were leaving the horror behind. She could hear sobbing from a seat a few rows back. Meli turned and saw an old woman. She was being held by a younger woman, who was trying to soothe her.
"My husband. Oh, my husband," the old woman was crying. "Why do they shoot him? He do nothing. Nothing."
Meli couldn't make herself look across at Nexima. She couldn't bear to. She could only hope her cousin hadn't heard.
When the bus was full, with people cramming the narrow aisle, the driver slammed the door shut, backed up, and jerked forward.
"Where are you taking us?" someone asked.
"Don't take us back!" another voice yelled.
Someone started up the aisle. "They'll kill us all. You must not—"
"Sit down and shut up," the driver said. "You're going to a camp like the rest of them."
A camp. First the boxcar, now a camp. Through bleary eyes Meli stared at her family. They were hungry, filthy, exhausted—and homeless. No home to go back to and none to look forward to. And what was Nexima thinking now? Oh, my husband! Why do they shoot him? There in that crowded bus she saw not only those she loved but strangers—people she had never met—who were now one with them in loss and suffering and death. Something was tearing at the numbness inside her. It was ripping the lid off a feeling she had tried for months not to acknowledge. And what was that? Nothing less than the one evil of the human heart that Baba had always feared and abhorred. She knew now that hatred lurked there, just below the surface, and that if it escaped, it might consume her.
***