By the time the bus finally pulled to a stop, it was clear that Granny was burning with fever. They all got off the bus as ordered and stood together in line, waiting to be told what to do. Baba and Uncle Fadil took turns holding Granny in their arms. They didn't want to put her down on the cold ground.
As the family neared the front of the line, Meli heard words spoken in some foreign tongue and then another voice speaking in Albanian. She peered around Uncle Fadil to see who was talking to Baba. The first speaker was a light-haired foreigner, one of several sitting at a long table; beside her was someone who seemed to be an Albanian man, interpreting for her. First the woman spoke and then the man said, "Take your mother to the hospital tent. Wilfried, that man over there, will show you the way." Baba, with only a quick glimpse back at the family, followed the young man. He had to go, of course—he had to get Granny help—but still ... They watched him until he was out of sight.
"Your family will be in tent 147 B." The interpreter hesitated, looking at the remaining twelve Lleshis gathered before her, still standing close together and holding on to one another. She said something to the man. "Is this just one family?" he asked.
"Yes," said Uncle Fadil. "One family."
"Two," said Mama. They all looked at her in amazement.
"I mean," said Mama, reddening under the family's gaze, "there are too many for one small tent."
When this was translated, the woman seemed to agree, checking a list. "She says she can't put you side by side. The only other available large tent is in A—172 A." She looked at Mama and said something else. "She says, 'Do you have any blankets?'"
Mama looked at Uncle Fadil. She'd said too much already.
"No," he said.
"Not even a stove for cooking?"
He shook his head. "Everything was stolen."
There was another exchange.
"She says, 'As soon as you get something to eat...' "
"Eat?" Adil came suddenly to life.
The woman smiled at him just as though she understood, and the man said, "After you eat, go to the supply tent. They will give you blankets."
"Where do we go for food?" Uncle Fadil asked. "The children have had almost nothing for two days."
The man stood up and pointed. "You see that big tent over there? That's the meal tent. They'll begin serving"—he looked at his watch—"in about an hour. In the meantime, you can wash up—at that table over there you can get your water ration—and get settled in your tents."
Mama hesitated. "My husband," she began, looking out at the ocean of tents, "how will he find us if we leave this place?"
The interpreter spoke to the woman who beckoned with her right hand to a spot behind the long table. "She says to wait here until he gets back."
"Meli," Mehmet said, "let's go find the tents. Then we can take everyone straight there as soon as Baba gets back." She liked Mehmet wanting her to help him. It didn't usually happen unless Mama or Baba suggested it. Mama was glad, too. She smiled and nodded, and they were off to the rows of small, drab tents, searching for the numbers they'd been given. Children were running about everywhere, but most of the adults were just sitting on the ground in front of their tents as though waiting for something.
Mehmet went inside 147 B. "Well," he said when he came out, "it's no palace, but it's larger than the one on the mountain. Anyhow, we won't be here long. Milosevic and his dirty Serbs can't beat Bill Clinton and NATO."
At the sound of the Serbian president's name, Meli could feel that ripped lid scraping open again. She put her hand to her chest to quiet it.
"Yes," Mehmet was saying, "trust me, we'll be home before summer."
He sounded so sure, but how could he know what would happen? The only sure thing they'd known for a long time was turmoil.
TEN Refugees
LIVING IN THE REFUGEE CAMP WAS, AS MEHMET PUT IT, LIKE being chickens sentenced to jail. Meli tried to laugh at the idea, but they were indeed living behind a tall chicken-wire fence topped by barbed wire. There were armed guards at the single gate to keep people from coming in, and, of course, from going out. Though where would we go? And were they being protected from the Macedonians or were the Macedonians being protected from them? Still, life in camp was a welcome relief from the days of terror and exhaustion that they'd gone through. There was water: it came in a large plastic bag with a spigot at the bottom, and they hung it on a pole outside the tent. She heard someone say that it had too much chlorine in it, but it was clean and, if they were careful, enough for the day's needs. The food was plain, but they never went hungry. There were cold showers at least once a week and privies that smelled but hardly ever overflowed. Perhaps it was harder for Uncle Fadil's family, who had never camped out in the hills, but no one complained. They felt safe in this tent city. They were together.
Meli sensed a deep sadness in her
cousin Nexima, but Hamza's name was never mentioned among them. It was as though he were still alive in the mountains with the KLA. And maybe he was. Maybe the shot they heard had not taken Hamza's life. She hoped so, even though there was little basis for hope.
The young international volunteers were cheerful and tried to make life bearable. To Mehmet's regret there was no space for a soccer field in their area of the huge camp, but one of the volunteers strung up a net and provided a ball, so the men and boys played endless games of volleyball. Anything, Mehmet said, was better than the boredom of just sitting around doing nothing.
The girls and women had no such diversion. Sometimes Meli watched the games. No, not the games themselves, but the players. The men and older boys attacked the ball with fury, as though with every hit they were taking revenge on all the losses they had endured. Even men who were quiet by nature, like Baba and Uncle Fadil, now yelled with every point scored and shouted encouragement to their teammates whenever a point was lost.