The Day of the Pelican (7 page)

***

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.

"I won't say anything," he said. "But they re making a big mistake."

"What do you mean?" She hadn't told anyone, even Mehmet, that she'd heard Hamza's warning. "Don't we have to leave?"

"Oh, we have to leave all right. It's this crazy plan to go to Macedonia. Just because we have some cousin there. We should go to Albania."

That's what Hamza said. And yet...
"Doesn't Baba know what's best for us?" she asked.

"Not always," he said, and walked away.

Since the car had to carry them all, there wasn't much they could take along. Each child and each adult would carry a blanket and wear two sets of clothing. The twins had to have more—babies needed diapers, after all. The women would take enough bread, cheese, and water to last a couple of days. And maybe a coil of sausage or two to share with the relatives. That should be more than enough, since they would reach Macedonia in a few hours. The extra day of provisions was in case ... well, just in case. The children watched sadly as Uncle Fadil opened the gates to the paddocks so the animals could go free. But the animals didn't leave. They just seemed confused, especially the cow, with her great brown eyes.
Why must I suffer because of human evil?
she seemed to be saying.

Meli dressed in her two sets of clothes. It was all she had owned since the family had left home the year before. The clothes were beginning to get tight, but her only sweater was a baggy one, and, fortunately, her jacket still fit.

The men spread most of the blankets in the back of the car and put in the food and water. Mama and Auntie Burbuqe took the cheese and bread, a soup pot, and some mugs and spoons for everyone. When Uncle Fadil hesitated, Auntie insisted. "They'll fit right in the pot, and I'll carry it on my lap. We can't expect the relatives to have enough for all of us." Meli saw Mama take out her beloved photograph, sigh, and then carefully put it back into Auntie Burbuqe's china cabinet.

"There's room for that, Mama," Meli said. "I'll take care of it."

Mama shook her head and smiled. "It's all right, Meli. We'll get it when we return."

At last they were ready. "Go lie down, everyone. Try to rest," Uncle Fadil said. "As soon as it is dark, we'll be on our way."

Meli was sure that she wouldn't be able to sleep. She lay down on the cushioned floor and tried to quiet her noisy mind, but old television images of the devastation in Bosnia crowded in. Was Kosovo just another Bosnia, then? Were they all helpless against Milosević and his armies? Would they just be fleeing the tyrant all their lives, never, ever going home?

Somehow, despite all, she must have dozed off, because the next thing she heard was Mehmet shouting from outside the door.

"It's gone! The car! Someone's stolen the car!"

F
OR A LONG WHILE THEY ALL JUST GAPED AT THE EMPTY
space where the Lada should have been. How could they believe that it was gone? It was like a sudden death in the family, totally incomprehensible.

"I didn't hear it start," said Uncle Fadil. "There was no noise."

"It was a very noisy car," said Isuf.

"It was the noisiest old car in the whole world," said Adil.

"They must have pushed it down the road before they tried to start it," Baba said.

"A long way," said Isuf.

Adil was nodding his head solemnly. "A really long way."

Another time they would have all laughed, but not tonight. Meli could hear Mehmet cursing the Serbs under his breath, but of course there was no way of knowing who had stolen the Lada.

"To come in the night and steal our car and everything in it!" Auntie Burbuqe wailed.

"The wolf loves the fog," Mama said sadly.

"I should never have bought a car. I should have gotten a bigger tractor," Uncle Fadil said, burying his face in his hands. "I should have listened to you, Hashim. They wouldn't have stolen a tractor."

"Ah, they would have stolen anything." Baba put his hand on his brother's shoulder. "Don't blame yourself." Then, wiping his face with his big white handkerchief, he said almost to himself, "Well, wishing won't bring it back." He put the handkerchief into his pocket, took another long look at the empty parking spot, and turned toward the house. "We'll hitch the tractor to the wagon and go in that. Sevdie, Burbuqe, surely there's plenty more food in the kitchen."

"Nexima," Uncle Fadil said, "you'd better get Granny dressed. We need to be ready..."

For anything,
thought Meli. But how did you prepare for that?

As the men set to work hitching up the wagon and loading more bread and cheese and sausage, the women began silently to clean an already spotless kitchen. They could hear the men talking as they worked. What were the men saying? What plan could save them now?

"We should just stay here," Auntie Burbuqe declared, breaking the silence. "Take our chances here. That tractor Isn't very powerful, and the wagon is much too small for all of us."

Mama shook her head. "I don't know," she said. "I just don't know. Let's wait and hear what they think. They must have some ideas."
She's remembering that woman,
thought Meli,
the one with the terrible story.
Occasionally, they could hear Mehmet's voice, raised in argument.
It's already past dawn. How much longer are they going to keep talking and arguing out there?

At last they came in. "We should eat something before we start," Baba said. "It is a long way, and we'll have to take turns walking."

Auntie Burbuqe and Mama dished out some leftover soup. They didn't want to take the time to make a fire, so they ate it cold, along with a bit of bread and sausage. No one had much appetite.

"Fetch some more water for the trip, Meli," said Mama. "What you drew earlier..."

Meli got a bucket from the kitchen and ran out to the well, grateful for something to do. Then, over the creak of the pump, she heard a sound—the sound of a motor. Her hand stopped in midair. She squeezed her eyes closed and willed it to be the well-known noisy clunking of Uncle Fadil's old Lada, coming home like a lost dog to its owner. But it was no use pretending. What she was listening to was the unfamiliar sound of a newer, smoother-running car. Grabbing the half-filled pail, Meli ran for the kitchen door.

"Someone's coming!"

At first everyone was frozen in place, listening. As the sound grew louder, they began to gravitate toward the living room, as if drawn there by some outside force. No one spoke. Louder and louder the motor sounded; then they heard the squeal of brakes. Meli held her breath, counting as car doors slammed—one, two, three, four—and then, without warning, the front door flew open. Five men in ski masks burst into the room. Four of the men held rifles at the ready; the fifth was waving a huge pistol. These were new weapons, not the old castoffs carried by the KLA. One of the intruders went into Uncle Fadil's bedroom and came back carrying a pillowcase. The man with the pistol pointed at Mama and Auntie Burbuqe and Nexima. "Take off all that gold," he ordered. "Rings, necklace, bracelets—everything."

As the women struggled to pull their rings off fingers that had grown thicker with the years, he got more and more impatient. "Faster, or I'll have to cut them off."

Another of the men made Baba and Uncle Fadil empty their pockets—money, licenses, ID cards of any sort. "So we won't be able to prove we live here," Mehmet muttered.

"Quiet!" one of the men ordered.

When all the valuables had been put into the pillowcase, the pistol wielder yelled, "Get out now! All of you—out! This house belongs to the Serbian people. Why are you standing there like fools? I said get out!"

Just then Granny appeared at the kitchen door. She was dressed, as usual, in her baggy
dhimmi
trousers, a large overshirt, and an old stretched sweater, with her headscarf tied over what was left of her thin white hair. She was hugging the shawl that hung around her shoulders. For a few seconds she stared at the intruders, squinting her watery eyes. "Who are these people?" she asked querulously.

One of the masked men stepped forward and poked her with the end of his long rifle. "Give me your gold!"

Granny just stared at him.

"She's a widow. She has no gold," Baba said.

"Then get out, old woman!" the man shouted, poking her again with his gun.

"Show some respect," Baba said quietly. "She doesn't—"

The gunman turned his barrel toward Baba. "Shut up and get out before we lose patience with the lot of you."

"I don't want to go out," said Granny, holding her shawl tightly to her waist. "Why do I have to go out?" She looked more confused than Nexima's three-year-old.

"Come, Mama," Baba said gently, taking her arm. "It's time to leave."

One of the babies began to cry. "Get that brat out of here, or I will shut it up." The one with the pistol took aim at the baby's head.

They hurried out then, grabbing up shoes, jostling one another through the narrow doorway, but once in the yard they hesitated. Where were they to go?

"And leave that tractor and wagon right where they are. They belong to us!" one of the men shouted from the open door.

"We'll need it to take our livestock!" another taunted.

"And anything worth the bother," said a third.

"Get the wheelbarrow, Mehmet," Baba said under his breath. "And fast." There was no need to add "fast." Mehmet was gone and back almost before Baba had finished the sentence.

Baba picked Granny up and put her carefully into the wheelbarrow. Her legs dangled over the edge, and her
dhimmi
were hiked up halfway to her knees. Baba tried to pull the trouser legs down, but he couldn't tug them as far as her ankles. She was still clutching at her waist.
She must be so embarrassed.
Meli found herself blushing for the old woman. Granny had always been so traditional, wearing a headscarf and
dhimmi.
But as immodest and as uncomfortable as she looked, Meli saw that Granny was smiling at Baba as though she were Vlora being given a ride for a treat.

"Let's go," Baba said, lifting the handles. "Everyone. As quickly as you can."

They half ran the first few yards but soon slowed to a walk. How could they run? Auntie and Nexima each carried a twin, Uncle Fadil was carrying the three-year-old Elez, and Mama was holding Vlora's hand, trying to urge her along. Meli didn't dare look over her shoulder. Suppose the masked men were chasing them? The horror that they might all be shot in the back made her turn, and when she did, she gasped aloud. Flames were leaping up to the early morning sky.

"Look!" she cried.

"The farm! They're burning our farm!" Uncle Fadil put his grandson on the ground and started to run toward the fire.

"Fadil!" Baba lowered the wheelbarrow and chased him down. He held tightly to his brother's arm. "You can't, brother. They'll kill you."

Uncle Fadil drooped like a dying plant. The brothers took one more look, then turned and came back to where the family was waiting. Huge tears were rolling down Uncle Fadil's sun-reddened face and catching in his mustache. The children stared at him. They couldn't help it; they had never seen a grown man cry before. Meli wanted to weep for him.
Baba didn't even cry when Mehmet was missing.

"So." Uncle Fadil sniffed and wiped his face with the back of his big hand. "So. There's nothing to be done, is there? We must reconcile ourselves to it."

Meli could see that he was ashamed to be caught crying in front of them all. He picked up Elez and handed him to Baba, took the handles of the wheelbarrow, and began to push. Meli saw Granny twist around and kiss his arm, as though Uncle Fadil were still her little boy who needed comforting for a skinned knee.

***

Heading east, they were making their way against a tide of refugees heading west toward Albania.
Maybe Mehmet was right. Maybe we are going in the wrong direction.
But they went grimly on. Meli wiped her forehead with her sleeve. It was miserable walking in her layers of clothing, her wool sweater and her jacket. For the first several hours, the only stops they made were hasty ones to exchange burdens. As they passed neighboring farms, they could see other cars like the one that had come to the farm, and other masked men loading them up with the contents of the houses. Some of the houses they passed had apparently been emptied and now were burning.