"Lie down," her uncle commanded. "Go back to sleep."
She lay down obediently, but how could she help but hear Uncle Fadil whisper through a crack in the door, "What is it? Why are you here? It's too dangerous—"
/> "I had to tell you—you must leave. At once."
Uncle Fadil slipped out the door and closed it silently behind him. Meli knew she was disobeying, but she couldn't help herself. She crept to the door and put her ear against it.
"How can I leave?" Uncle Fadil was saying. "This is the land of my father's fathers..."
"For God's sake," the voice was pleading, "they have no mercy. They've already destroyed the farms just north of here. I beg you. For the lives of my wife and children..."
So it was Hamza out there.
"Where would we go? How could we—with the bombing?"
"Go to Albania. Right away. There's not much time, I tell you."
"I must talk to Hashim. And there's Granny. How could she bear—"
"Please, please. Just go. Just leave here. At once ... I have to go now. Leave at once, I beg you."
"I ll tell Nexima you were here."
"No, no, you can't. No one must know I came."
"God go with you, my son. May your life be lengthened."
There was a whispered response. "May your life be lengthened."
By the time Uncle Fadil slipped back into the house, Meli was wrapped in her blanket, pretending sleep, but her heart was pounding and her head reeling. There were too many of them—fourteen people, not counting clothing, bedding, and food. How could they all crowd into Uncle Fadil's Lada? Even if they took nothing with them for the journey ... and how long a journey would it be and to where?
***
The next day she went through the motions of living. She fetched the water and helped peel potatoes. She tried to eat the good food the women prepared, but she strained always to see if Uncle Fadil and Baba had talked and, if they had, what they had decided. Hamza had said they must leave at once, but she couldn't detect any signs of packing, any indication that this was anything more than an ordinary day.
It was midafternoon when Baba came out to where Mehmet and Meli were holding school. Mehmet was in the midst of his daily lecture on Kosovo's history—explaining once again why the Serbs had no right to "our land"—when Baba appeared. "Mehmet," he said, "come to the men's chamber, please." Meli's mouth went dry. Now it would happen—whatever it was. The men, with Mehmet, would go into the men's chamber and decide their fate. "Care for the children, Meli," Baba added. She nodded, too numb even to resent Mehmet's inclusion in a decision that might change their lives forever.
Not long afterward they were all called into the parlor. Baba cleared his throat. "We have decided that we must leave the farm as soon as possible."
There was a murmur among the women.
"Why do we have to leave?" Adil asked. "I like it here."
"We all love the farm, Adil," Baba said. "But, you know, with all the bombing and ... and other things, it may not be safe for us to stay."
"Where are we going?" Isuf asked the question they were all longing to ask.
"We're going to Macedonia ... for now,"Uncle Fadil said. "Until it's safe to come home," he added.
"Yes," said Baba, "until then."
Macedonia! But Macedonia is a whole other country. I've never even been to Prishtina. Meli kept these thoughts to herself.
"How do we get to Macedonia?" Adil asked. For him the neighboring country must have seemed a world away. It almost did to Meli.
"We'll go in Uncle Fadil's car, of course," Baba said. "You remember how it took us to the mountains? Well, now it's going to take us all the way to Macedonia. It will be a new adventure for us all."
"Hmmph." It was hardly more than a grunt, but Meli gave Mehmet a jab with her elbow. As hard as it was to imagine all of them jamming into the Lada, he mustn't scare the little ones. Later she told him so.