The Day of the Pelican (10 page)

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.

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. Milosević'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? Milosević 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."

Mama rubbed a finger across the piece of what had once been her beloved photo. "My parents," she said. "This was all I had left of them. Why should anyone destroy it?"

"Hate makes no sense," Baba said.

"When are we going home?" Isuf asked the question they were all dying to ask. "I want to go home today. Right now."

"Right now!" echoed Adil.

"Me, too," said Vlora. "Right now."

Baba shook his head sadly. "We have to talk first," he said. Meli sighed, but to her amazement and Mehmet's chagrin Baba told Mehmet to "help watch the little ones" while he and Uncle Fadil asked Mama, Auntie Burbuqe, and Nexima to come with them to Baba's tent.

"What do they have to talk about, Mehmet?" Meli asked. "What is so complicated? If the store and the apartment are there, why can't we just go home?"

"You know Baba. He'll always find something to worry about."

"But the war is over."

Mehmet shrugged. "I think he fears what will happen next."

"What? What can happen now?"

"Don't we need to revenge the evil those pigs have done? Don't we?"

Meli found herself shivering in the summer sun.

***

After what seemed like hours, Uncle Fadil and the women returned.
Where's Baba?
That was the question that no one quite dared ask. Something was up, and from the grim expressions on the faces of the three adults, it was not something they were happy about. Uncle Fadil had somehow gotten some cigarettes, and he sat down and began to smoke. Auntie Burbuqe, Nexima, and Mama pretended there was something inside the tent that needed doing for the twins. Meli looked to Mehmet for some explanation, but he just shrugged. For once he knew as little as she did.

The smaller children had begun a game of tag, racing around several tents. Elez shrieked with pleasure when he was caught, so Isuf made sure that he got caught often, which pleased Vlora and Adil, who never wanted to be "it." It made Meli long to be able to forget everything and play like that. But at thirteen one had to have dignity.
Oh, Baba, where have you gone? What are you doing?

At last Baba appeared, his face flushed, his eyes bright. He poked his head into the tent. Nexima came out, holding a twin by each hand. They could walk alone now, but it was as though she were escorting them to a solemn meeting. The older women followed her out, and Mama called the children from their play. Baba had everyone sit down in the space in front of Uncle Fadil's tent. The adults sat there, their expressions grim but resolute. Now they were going to hear what had been decided. Meli quickly realized that there would be no arguing, not even from Mehmet, with whatever decision their elders had agreed on. She waited for Baba to speak, never dreaming of the words she would hear.

"As we all know, at present Uncle Fadil and his family have no home to return to. The farm is destroyed, and until things are more settled, it is not wise to try to rebuild. They will go to town, to the apartment, and try to get the store running again. They can take care of Granny and the little children more easily there."

"But what about us?" Isuf asked. "What about our family?"

Baba forced a smile. "Our family? Why, we're headed for a great adventure."

"Adventure?" asked Adil.

"Yes, son, a great adventure. The papers I filled out last month are still in order. We're in line to go to America."

A
MERICA
?
HOW COULD MELI EVEN IMAGINE IT? OH, SHE HAD
seen pictures of Washington and New York on television. But they seemed like cities in science-fiction fantasies to her. She'd never even been to Prishtina, though Nexima and her family had lived there. In her mind America was thin, glamorous women and handsome men, many, many cars, and huge trucks. Maybe there weren't soldiers on the streets or cruel police, but there were lots of criminals, people with guns everywhere, even in the schools. It was a strangely beautiful, dangerous land, and this is where Baba was determined to take them all—to keep them safe! But how could Baba be sure that they would be safe in America? Safer than in Kosovo? She supposed he reckoned that America was far from the threat of those Mehmet had learned so well how to hate. Hatred and the ancient thirst for revenge: that was what Baba feared most.
I'll never tell him how I feel,
she determined.
He mustn't know how much I've come to hate the Serbs.