She would watch them, almost trembling in her fear for them, thinking, What if they lose the game?—completely forgetting it was just that, a game in a refugee camp, not the life-and-death struggle of the past year.
Mehmet was the worst. Though he was shorter than most of the men, he made up for it with his wild play, jumping into the air with a scream to smash the ball into the face of an opponent. Even if the others cried out that he should pass the ball, he never did. He always wanted to slam it across with all his might. And yet, as she watched, there was something in her that did understand his ferocious play. How she would have loved to give that ball the name of her enemies and smack it to the earth. She was becoming just like Mehmet, she thought. Although for Baba's sake she didn't express her hatred, she could no longer hide it from herself.
Whenever she became too overwrought watching the endless games, she'd wander back to the tent. Mama busied herself cleaning the tiny enclosure, but it was impossible to keep dust and dirt out of things. She made sure everyone left their shoes outside the tent—after all, it was their home, and no one would wear shoes in their home. They obeyed, just as they had at the camp in the hills, though it seemed a little crazy. There was so little difference between indoors and outdoors in a camp. Often Meli would find that Mama and the younger children had gone to Uncle Fadil's tent. There Vlora and the boys would play made-up games with Elez and the twins. Meli would watch them chasing each other about, screaming with delight, and wish that she weren't too old to join in their silly play. She would be thirteen on June 15. She wasn't interested in the women's chatter, she couldn't join the all-male volleyball, and she was past racing about with the young ones. Some days she thought about the rough KLA camp and missed it. There had been so much to do there—gathering wood, making fires, cooking.
"I think I'll go over to the hospital tent and see Granny," she would say, and Mama and Auntie Burbuqe would nod approvingly.
"Tell her we'll be over soon," they'd say. "And take her out for a little walk. She mustn't lie in bed all day."
The hospital tent was crowded with cots, but it was better for Granny, with her weak old body, than sleeping on the ground.
Meli would sit on the edge of the cot and try to make conversation, but Granny was usually confused. She often thought she was in Uncle Fadil's house and that someone had put her in the wrong bed. Then she would look around, puzzled. "Why are all these people in my house?" she'd ask.
Meli got in the habit of saying as soon as she sat down, "Hello, Granny; it's me, Meli. I've come to take you out into the sunshine. It's a lovely day." She was terrified that if she didn't talk fast, Granny might look at her and ask, "Who are you?"
She wanted Granny to remember her home and her family—the good times. Let her forget the terrible journey to the refugee camp and instead remember the farm, the goats, the cow, the chickens, the neat rows of cabbages smiling at the autumn sun. Let her remember her sons, who loved her, and their wives, who took such kind care of her. Let her remember her grandchildren and great-grandchildren playing at her feet and laughing in her lap. But the strangeness of the camp seemed to interfere with those memories. Sometimes Granny thought she was a little girl again. Once she startled Meli by turning to her and saying, her voice pitched high as Vlora's, "Mama, who are all those people?"
***
Meanwhile, NATO bombers were pounding Kosovo. A radio that worked with a crank instead of electricity had been distributed to each tent. Mehmet hardly let anyone else in the family touch the one they had been given. He wound it up and listened to the news every day, so they knew of terrible accidents: NATO bombers striking a column of refugees mistaken for Serbian soldiers, and destroying a train just like the one they'd been herded onto, a train packed with Albanians headed for the border. Many were killed. Mehmet cursed the carelessness of the NATO forces, but Baba just shook his head. "War is madness," he said. "It is the innocent who always suffer most." Once Meli heard him say, half to Mama and half to himself, "Oh, Sevdie, I want to take our children to a place where there is no war." But where on earth was there such a place? Not in Kosovo, not even in Serbia itself. Meli couldn't tell anyone, Baba least of all, the grim satisfaction she took in hearing about the bombs that fell on Serbia. Milosevic's people should feel something of the pain they had caused, shouldn't they? They had killed many Kosovar children. Surely it was only right that they should lose children of their own. They should have to pay for the evil they had inflicted.
***
Meli was in the tent when she heard the raucous cheering. She got up quickly and ran outside. It was as though the whole camp had gone crazy. "What is it? What's happening?" she asked, but no one seemed to hear her. She ran to the volleyball area. There was no game going. All the men were half dancing about and shouting. Those who were religious were crying out, "Alhamdulila!" Even Baba, who almost never went to a mosque, was joining in the chorus of "God be praised!" with tears running down his cheeks.
She spotted Mehmet and tugged at his sleeve until he turned toward her. "What's happened?" she yelled in his ear.
"You didn't hear? Milosevic has surrendered. NATO's won!" Then he dashed off to be in the very middle of the celebration.
Meli walked back to the tent. She sat down in the semi-darkness, hardly listening to the din beyond the tent flap. Now we can go home. She said it over and over again in her head and then, to make it real, said it aloud. "Now we can go home at last."
***
There was, of course, no men's chamber available, so later that day Uncle Fadil and Baba and Mehmet met in Baba's tent to hold their discussion. They weren't gone long, but by the time they returned to the rest of the family, who were gathered in the space in front of Uncle Fadil's tent, the little ones were jumping up and down in their excitement, and Meli's heart was fluttering like a caged bird. But when Uncle Fadil spoke, his voice was somber. "We are all eager to go back home, but..." He hesitated, and in that space Meli's heart contracted. Uncle Fadil had no home to go back to.
"We don't know what things are like," Baba said. "They say there are land mines and some of the houses left standing may be booby-trapped. Even if it is safe, it will be a hard journey. We'll have to walk, and Granny ... Well, you can see, it would be too hard for her and the little children..."
"Not for me!" Isuf said.
Baba smiled at Isuf, patting his head, as he continued: Considering the hardships and dangers of the trip, only he, Uncle Fadil, and Mehmet would return for now.
Meli saw Mehmet smile. Again he was to be counted among the men.
"We have to see about the store and the apartment. What the situation is, and ... the farm ... what we can salvage there. I promise, we will come back as soon as possible. You'll have to wait a little longer, Isuf," Baba said. "It won't be long."
Despite the pleas for patience from the authorities, the Lleshi men were among the thousands who walked out of the camp that June day. The women and children who were left behind stood at the chicken-wire fence and watched them go. After all their determination to stay together, Baba, Mehmet, and Uncle Fadil were leaving them. Meli kept trying to make out the beloved figures, but the three Lleshis were soon lost in the crowd of Albanians flooding out past the gate into the road. They would probably have to walk all the way. Strong as the three of them were, the journey might take several days, and who knew what they would find at the end? It only made sense for the women to stay behind to take care of Granny and the children, and she, Meli, was counted as a woman now. Tomorrow was her thirteenth birthday, not that anyone but she would remember it, and Baba had promised not to be gone long. Then they could all go home.
***
But, oh, it seemed long to those who had been left behind. To Meli it seemed like an eternity. In reality, it was less than two weeks, but when your stomach knots at the thoughts of land mines and booby traps and your whole body is aching with homesickness, a day can feel like years. But Baba, Uncle Fadil, and Mehmet returned to the refugee camp, as Baba had promised.
Before any of the men would speak, the whole family had to be gathered again in the space in front of Uncle Fadil's tent. Meli thought her heart would burst from her chest before Baba finally cleared his throat and began. "We have no idea what has happened to our cousins. They may have fled or..." He didn't finish the sentence. "But it's not all bad news. The store and the apartment are still there."
Mehmet glowered. "What the Serbs didn't steal they smashed to pieces."
"At least there are four walls and a roof," Uncle Fadil said, making Mehmet blush. It was clear Uncle Fadil had nothing to go home to.
Baba confirmed this sad truth. "The farmhouse and sheds are destroyed," he said. Then he pulled out something from his pocket and handed it to Mama. "I could only find this little scrap. I think the rest was burned."