by Carrie Arcos
Nadja’s mom grabbed her arm with an iron grip, ripping her feet from the earth. Nadja stumbled as if she had forgotten how to walk. Back into the house her mother dragged her, on limp legs. Nadja fell in a heap near the door. She watched her mom lock it behind them and close all of the curtains on the windows. In the darkness, her mom looked around frantically for something, throwing everything her hands touched to the ground, but she couldn’t find it. That was when she started screaming. She screamed like Nadja had never heard and waved her arms all around until she hugged them to her body, as if she were trying to keep herself from exploding.
Nadja crawled to the couch, afraid for probably the first time in her life. Her limbs were tingly with pins and needles, the terror making its way down her spine as she watched her mother sit and stare off somewhere in the distance.
Nadja heated water. She made tea for the two of them and had to hold the cup for her mother to drink it. After a couple of sips, she came back to herself and looked at Nadja as if she’d just realized that Nadja was there.
“It will be all right. It will be all right,” her mom kept saying as she rocked back and forth.
Nadja prayed to God to protect them, to keep her father and brother safe. She held on to her mother, something she hadn’t really done since she was little.
Nadja’s mother got up from the couch and began to clean. She started with the kitchen. She took out a broom and began sweeping everything broken into a corner. Nadja helped her without having to be asked. She picked up an overturned chair. She put the drawers of cupboards back together, restacked papers. Everything the Serbs had destroyed, they righted.
Nadja could not get her mind around what was happening. Even though they’d had to flee and return a couple of weeks ago and she’d heard reports about killings and war in Croatia and seen news coverage, she had never truly believed they were in real danger. Things were happening in some other place, some other time, to some other people. The absence in the house—the absence of her dad and brother—was just from some nightmare; she thought maybe she simply needed to lie down, go to sleep and wake up, and they would be there again.
But the silence in the house. It haunted her.
Nadja peeked through the curtains when her mother wasn’t looking. There was no one outside. No one walking. It was as if everyone were asleep or dead.
That night she slept with her mother in her parents’ bed. The two of them cried out at different parts of the night. Nadja kept seeing her brother’s scared face. The body in the street. All the men being taken away.
Her neighbor Mr. Imamović had a wonderful flower garden that he would let Nadja pick from. He was in his sixties, married. He was a grandfather. What threat could he have been? She hadn’t known well the woman they shot, only by sight. How could they just kill people? How was that legal? They were not soldiers. Where was the JNA? What had her father and brother done? What had they done?
* * *
∙ ∙ ∙ ∙ ∙
Some time later, Nadja woke to the sound of deep thunder. At first she thought there was a storm coming. She peeked out the window and saw a clear sky. The neighborhood was still empty. No one was out walking. The homes all had the curtains closed like theirs. Since they lived up in the hills, most of the homes had a view of the town’s beloved bridge. From her angle, Nadja could see the bridge below had trucks on it and soldiers. The river glowed emerald where the sunlight hit. The gunfire came next. It wasn’t consistent. Sometimes it happened all at once, lasting a minute or two. Sometimes it was one lone shot.
Her mother woke next to her.
Each time they heard the gunfire, Nadja and her mother would huddle together and wait, listen for what was to come after. The not knowing what was going on was almost worse than the knowing. Nadja’s mind went to all kinds of dark places. She already imagined her father and brother dead in the street like the old woman, shot between the eyes.
They ate some bread, cheese and the last of the hard-boiled eggs in the dark. The radio said nothing about what was happening. The phone line crackled, dead.
Nadja watched her mother wash her face and neck with a cloth, put on her best makeup. She zipped up her A-line navy blue skirt and tucked in her pretty white blouse with blue and green flowers.
“I am going to get information,” she said, bending to put on navy heels. “Stay here. Do not go outside. Do not let anyone in.”
“Can’t I come with you?” Nadja asked. She felt a cold tingling at the base of her spine at the thought of being left alone.
“No. If they can just come and take our men and children away . . .” She grabbed Nadja’s shoulders and stared into her face. “You must stay and hide. Listen to me. Do not go out. Do not open the door. No matter what. I will bring your brother and father home.”
Nadja smelled lavender on her mother’s neck as they hugged. Then her mother stuck her head out the side of the door and looked both ways before she snuck away.
* * *
∙ ∙ ∙ ∙ ∙
Time passed so slowly, as if it were unconcerned with what was happening. Minutes became hours that became days. Nadja lost herself in it. Couldn’t be sure how time moved. Or maybe this was how time always behaved?
Nadja busied herself by looking out different windows of the house, peering through a tiny sliver drawn from a curtain. Cars slept. The town was deserted. Occasionally she heard the gunshots. But again, they seemed far away, like in a dream.
The rapid knock at the door startled Nadja from her place at the kitchen window. It was the one spot that gave her the greatest access to the street. She crept on hands and knees across the wooden floor to the base of the door. She put her ear up against it. The knock came again.
“Nadja?” A woman’s voice, strained. “Nadja?”
Her mother had said not to open the door, but she was going crazy. And something in the way this woman said her name sounded familiar.
Nadja unlocked the latch, and Mrs. Hrženjak, a friend of her mother’s, shoved herself inside. Nadja shut the door after her.
“I saw your mother,” Mrs. Hrženjak panted.
“Where?”
“She . . . the soldiers have her. They are not letting her go. She went to Vuk Karadžić, the school where they’ve taken the men. She was brought inside. There are screams coming from there. Oh, there are screams.” She put her hands over her ears.
Nadja grabbed ahold of Mrs. Hrženjak and shook her. “What do you mean she’s at the school? What do you mean?”
But Mrs. Hrženjak cried, and Nadja’s blood froze.
“Liar! Why do you say such things?”
“Nadja. Listen. Here.” She took some pastries and cans and an apple out of her pocket. “This is what I could grab in the short time.” She placed the food in Nadja’s hands. “Take it.”
Nadja backed away from her. The food dropped to the floor. The apple rolled, revealing a brown spot.
“You have to leave. It is . . . The world has gone mad.” Her eyes darted around the room. “Do you have any money? Anything valuable to trade?”
Nadja watched the woman look through drawers. Watched another’s hands on her mother’s jewelry—jewelry that the soldiers had missed. She held up a silver necklace, the one with the heart and the petals inside.
“This would work.”
“Put that down.”
“Child, I’m trying to help you,” Mrs. Hrženjak said.
“Not the necklace.”
Nadja held out her hand for it. Mrs. Hrženjak dropped it into her palm. Nadja placed the necklace around her own neck.
“Collect what you can. Anything. Stay hidden,” Mrs. Hrženjak said. “I’ll come and check on you in a couple of days. I wish I could do more, but they are—they are moving so fast. I fear even coming here . . . but Maja was my friend. You know this, Nadja.” Her eyes were wide and pleading. “You know that I
would never want anything to happen to her. You know that I don’t support this. You know that . . .” She started crying again.
Suddenly Nadja hated her.
“Get out of here.” Nadja opened the door.
“Listen to me, Nadja—the mountains. Flee to the mountains!”
Nadja pushed her out and locked the door again. Why were they bringing men to the primary school? What did she mean, there was screaming? Nadja steeled herself against tears. This was not a time for crying. Or running. Her mother had said to stay, but what if Mrs. Hrženjak was right? What if they had Nadja’s whole family? What were they going to do to them?
Nadja went to the kitchen and put the goods from Mrs. Hrženjak on the counter. She made a quick assessment of her food situation. The cupboard contained dozens of cans of vegetables and beans and tomatoes. A couple jugs of water that her father had stocked up recently were on the floor next to the refrigerator. There was a small pile of wood still. If she rationed, she had enough to wait it out for a week, maybe even more.
A week was an eternity. Nadja couldn’t imagine this lasting more than a week. In a couple of days, everything would be sorted out. Her parents and brother would be returned. Apologies would be made.
Thunder and rumbles sounded in the distance.
Pop. Pop. Pop. Pop.
* * *
∙ ∙ ∙ ∙ ∙
All day Nadja went from room to room and looked out the window. She was careful not to be seen by anyone. At one point some soldiers stopped their truck on the street. She heard the brakes squeal and the tires. They kicked a man out of the vehicle and drove off. He lay in a heap. Soon a woman ran out of her house and helped him to his feet. The side of his face bled from a wound. His clothes were ripped. He held his side with one of his arms.
The situation sickened Nadja.
The waiting, the not knowing, all rose to a crescendo. A symphony of terror and fear played on repeat in the darkness of her house and mind. How would she not go mad?
Nadja slept in her parents’ bed again that night. She tried to ignore the sounds that came. The yelling. The doors. The crashing.
Tap. Tap.
She heard the sound and traced it to her bedroom window.
Again. Tap. Tap.
Marko?
Nadja crawled to her window and peered down to see him. He brought a finger to his lips. She opened the window, and he climbed inside. He crashed into her and held her so tightly she couldn’t breathe.
“Are you hurt?” he said, pulling away from her. His eyes scanned her face, her neck, her body, looking for any and all injuries.
“No,” she said. “But my family.” She choked on a sob. “They came and took my father and brother away.”
“When?”
“Two days ago. My mother went to find out where they had been taken, but she has not come back. She told me not to leave the house. A neighbor told me they have taken her too. They are at the school.”
“Come away from the window.”
They lay down in her bed and faced each other. He kissed her and told her that he was scared.
“Everyone is crazy. Paramilitaries are driving all Muslims out. My father says we must fight for our people and rid the land of Muslims because this is Serb land. This group, the Avengers, they are . . . They beat and torture the men. But they aren’t even asking them anything.” He stopped. “They are just killing people,” he whispered.
Nadja saw the man’s head open like a melon on the street. She saw her father and brother forced into the truck. She gave in to her fear and began to cry.
“Do you think they are torturing my family?”
“No,” Marko said, but he wouldn’t look her in the eyes. “No, your family will be safe. Your dad is respected. A teacher. Why would they harm him?”
Marko rolled onto his back. Nadja lay her head on his shoulder and crossed her arm over his chest.
“I have heard a plan. You will not believe it. I did not, but they will do it. I have seen . . .” His voice cracked. “They will round up the women. Young ones. Pretty. Put them in the spa.”
Nadja had been to the spa before. It was a tranquil place to have beauty and massage treatments just outside of town. But the way Marko talked about it now, she knew it was no longer a place for beauty. Nadja did not ask Marko why they would want the women.
“I will not let them take you,” he said. “You understand.”
“Yes,” she whispered.
“I will get you out of here. I will find a way.”
* * *
∙ ∙ ∙ ∙ ∙
Nadja pulled her hair back into a ponytail, and with the large blue-handled scissors first, she cut off the length in one lob. She then grabbed hold of sections and cut them one by one. Even with her hair the shortest she had ever had it, above her ears, she still looked too much like a girl. Too pretty to be a boy.
She found her dad’s razor in the bathroom. She set it on number two and buzzed the sides and front. Marko helped her with the back.
He stood next to Nadja as she stared at her reflection.
“Good,” he said. “You look like a boy.”
Nadja looked nothing like herself.
She looked like death.
July 17
AS I READ the last lines, my heart breaks. I sit in stunned silence, the light slowly fading from my room. I get up and turn on a lamp and note how the darkness cannot occupy the same space as the light.
I’ve always known my mother survived a war, but her words give me a glimpse into her heart and the suffering she’s had to endure. I see now that because of what she went through, she is broken and scarred in ways that I am not. But I also know that I carry my own scars, my own brokenness. And if we continue to live and act from this place of hurt, there will never be healing.
I read her words again. Absorb all their pain and longing.
How would I feel if I’d been through what she has? Would I be able to come back from such things?
I need to see her. To tell her that I get it. That she might not be able to love me the way that I want, that she may never be able to let me in. But that I can choose to love her anyway, even if I get nothing in return.
* * *
∙ ∙ ∙ ∙ ∙
It’s late when I leave for the hospital. I write Dad a note telling him where I’m going and that I’ll be back soon. I take Mom’s car.
“Mom,” I whisper.
She opens her eyes.
My eyes well with tears.
“Zara,” she says, alarmed.
“I’m okay,” I say, wiping my eyes. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you. Just glad you’re doing better.”
“Still in bolnica.” She shifts in the hospital bed.
We are alone in the room. I notice she’s holding the prayer beads.
“Can I do your hair today? And maybe some makeup?”
She starts to wave the idea away, but I grab her hand.
“Please, Mom. Let me do this for you.”
I brush Mom’s hair as gently as I can, working around the staples and the part where they shaved. She closes her eyes as I apply some blush and draw her brows in her usual medium brown. I add mascara. For the first time since Mom’s been in the hospital, she looks more like herself.
“Done,” I say. I hold up my phone to her like a mirror.
Her eyes linger on where they operated. And now it is her turn to have tears.
“It’s okay, Mom,” I say. “The hair will come back. No one will see. Look, I had to be stitched up too.”
I turn around and lift up my shirt to show her my back. I feel her fingers touch the wound.
“See how it’s healing.” I pull down my shirt and face her. “My cheek too.”
“Zao mi je, Zara,” she says. “Didn’t protect you.”
“Mom
. There’s no way you could have. It was an attack.”
She stares at me and then through me to some place in the past.
“Like before. All over again.” Her fingers squeeze the beads.
I wait for her to say more, but she doesn’t.
I take a pile of photos out of my bag. “Hey, I brought some pictures for you.”
It’s difficult for her to hold all of them, so I sit next to her on the bed and pass them to her one at a time. Many are of Benny and me as kids. She has trouble remembering who people are and what we were doing. I walk her through each picture, helping to restore the memory, the story of us.
I give her my favorite picture, the one where she’s at the beach with Dad. The one where she’s smiling with her head thrown back, mid-laugh.
“Bio je to dobar dan,” she says. “Was a good day.”
“Yeah? Why?”
Her eyes well up, and she says, “You move for first time.”
I stare down at the picture. So many times I’ve looked at her in the photograph. I’ve tried to guess at what made her so happy. I never guessed that it was me. That she was already pregnant with me.
I wipe my eyes again. When did I become such a crier? When I look over at Mom, she is crying again too.
“Mom, your prayer beads . . .”
She looks down at her hands, and something in her face changes. Like she’s just now realized what it means that she has them, that I left them for her. She looks back up at me, then turns away for a moment, and I brace myself for her anger or indifference. But she doesn’t say anything.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry. It was right after the bombing, and I was looking for . . . I don’t know. Something of you I could hold on to, I guess. It seems like a really special box.”
She lies there, still quiet, looking down and touching each bead, one by one.
I take another risk. “Maybe I can bring it to you?”