Chapter 8
With her efforts to find any of the boy’s relations, even distant ones, frustrated by the chaos of the war, Pia began to focus on securing a visa for Amir to a host country where he could receive the kind of professional help he would need. But the UN volunteer quickly found herself running into one roadblock after another. There were few allocations for foreign placements: the involved international governments, with the exception of Germany, all accepted only token numbers of Bosnian refugees.
Pia knew that if the boy were to stay in his homeland, the best that could be hoped for was placement in an orphanage, which, with the ongoing war, would have few resources to deal with his physical and emotional impairments. Eventual adoption was highly unlikely. Foreign adoptions were rarely permitted by the Bosnian government, and to make matters more difficult, the large number of war orphans resulting from the ongoing conflict made domestic adoption an extremely remote possibility as well. As elsewhere, most couples wishing to adopt preferred younger children and ones who didn’t bring along with them the extra burden of being both hearing and speech impaired. Amir was likely to end up a ward of a state under siege—a country unable to even offer its people a stable food supply, no less provide a future for a boy like him.
Disheartened, Pia approached her supervisor, Madelaine Ellis, an American woman who had many years of experience and deep connections within the vast UN bureaucracy. Despite initial reservations, Pia’s boss was won over by the volunteer’s heartfelt effort on behalf of the boy. After several meetings with Pia and Amir, Madelaine became personally involved, calling in favors and creating a new debt or two of her own. Pia was delighted when the woman called her several weeks later to relay the news that she had found a religious charity in the US willing to sponsor the boy. Yet, as happy as she was to see Amir relocated away from the war zone, the day of his departure came all too soon.
“I’ve brought you a piece of luggage for your clothes,” Pia said, mouthing her words slowly and carefully lifting up a small suitcase for Amir’s viewing. She had, on several occasions, prepared him for his departure as best she could, having communicated by both written word and photographs the information that he would be moving to a new home in the United States. Amir had nodded his understanding, but at best the news had registered only as an intellectual concept having little to do with his present-day reality.
“I’ve brought you a few new things as well.” Pia smiled, laying the suitcase on his bed, opening it to show him the underwear, socks, and shirts she had procured for his trip.
Amir was beginning to look uncomfortable. He looked at Pia as though he didn’t understand.
“These new clothes are all yours,” Pia indicated with a sweep of her hand. “We’ll just pack your other clothing in with them, and then you’ll be all ready to go.”
The UN volunteer bent down and pulled a small box from under his bed. It contained the things the staff had given him when he first arrived at camp: a few items of clothing, a toothbrush, a pair of shoes.
Amir felt a growing alarm rise inside him. The idea that his clothes would be removed from their “home” made him anxious. He wanted Pia to put his things back in the box, under the bed, where they belonged.
“It’s alright, Amir. It’s alright,” Pia spoke in a soothing tone. “You’re going to a place where there is no fighting. You’ll have a new home there.”
He couldn’t make out what her mouth was saying, though he somehow understood the basic point: he was to leave. But he didn’t want to go anywhere. He wanted his box back in its place under the bed with all of its contents. He wanted to stay where he was.
“No, please put my things back,” Amir indicated by a shake of his head, his hand pushing the box back under the bed.
“Oh, Amir,” Pia sighed. “It’s going to be OK. You’re going to the United States. It’s very nice there. You’ll like it. See? Look at these photos I’ve brought you.”
Having suspected that Amir would be disturbed by the change, Pia had asked her supervisor for photos of the woman’s homeland to show to the boy.
“I want to stay here,” Amir said with the stare of his eyes, his hands staying at his side, not rising to accept the proffered photographs.
“You’ll get to ride on an airplane,” Pia smiled, the flat of her hand gliding upward like an airplane’s ascent from the tarmac. Bending down, she pulled the box of clothing back out from under the bed and began placing the items one by one into the suitcase she’d brought. She wanted to tell Amir that she would miss him but refrained from indulging her own emotions in front of the child, who was struggling with ones far more complex than hers.
“OK, that’s done. I wish I could pack so easily,” Pia laughed, trying to lighten the moment. Closing the suitcase lid, she took its handle and stood. With her other arm she reached out to take Amir’s hand. When he didn’t respond, she paused for a moment, transferred the suitcase to his hand, put her arm around his shoulder, and very gently ushered him forward.
For Pia Struch it was a bittersweet parting. On one hand, she felt as if she had succeeded in finding the boy a good home far away from the violence of war, in a place where he could receive proper care. On the other, she would miss him. For Pia, the slight, silent child was a creation of beauty amid a world of ugliness. Sad though Amir’s situation was, she found hope in him, as though somehow the boy’s overcoming of his suffering could make both him and the world a stronger, better place, validating the ultimate goodness of humanity…a belief she was struggling to maintain under the weight of what she had experienced and witnessed since arriving in Bosnia.
There was none of the excitement typical for a child boarding an airplane for the first time: for peering out the window to look out upon the world so far below; for seeing the clouds at eye level and wondering what it might be like to walk upon them; for awaiting the food served from carts that roll down the aisle and placed by smiling, stylishly uniformed people on trays that fell from the seat right in front of you.
Amir experienced the event as though it were not he flying but someone else. The first of the two airplanes they sent him on had been a military transport whose flight seemed to end almost as soon as it began. The second plane was like those he’d seen pictured in magazines and movies, full of people on their way to far off places sitting in comfortable seats whose backrests reclined so you could sleep if you wanted. He knew he should be excited to ride in one of the silver planes that he had only ever seen from afar streaking across the sky. He had always wondered what it would be like to ride in a thing that moved so fast, so high above the earth. He could see that the faces of the others in the small group of refugees with whom he traveled showed some emotion—hope, fear, relief—but he could find no feelings of his own.
Even when he felt his stomach rise up toward his chest as he looked out the window as the plane began its descent into Boston’s Logan International Airport—seemingly as if it might touch down upon the sea instead of land—he felt nothing but the physical sensation of gravity’s pull. Amir disembarked from the plane with the other Bosnians and was accompanied through immigration by an official who had been waiting for them at the end of the gangway connecting the plane to the terminal. There was a newness to everything he saw and a movement all about him like the buzzing of flies. Still, he could not find it in him to be awed by the momentous change that had come to his life.
The agency responsible for Amir’s care had given special consideration to his case. Normally an unaccompanied refugee minor would, if possible, be placed with a family of his own ethnic and cultural background. However, the needs required in dealing with Amir’s speech and hearing impairments took precedence over all other criteria. The resettlement agency placed Amir in a group home located in an outlying town west of Boston. The situation was temporary, until they could complete a thorough medical examination and find him a permanent placement. The foster parents at the group home, a couple in their early fifties, were both certifi
ed in taking care of children with special needs, and the wife, a registered nurse, was fluent in sign language.
Amir was driven to the group home by his caseworker, who soon grew accustomed to the child’s withdrawn and silent presence and spent the drive listening to the radio and giving the boy an occasional smile. Arriving at the house, the caseworker stepped from her car, pausing momentarily to admire the setting. The 150-year-old, white-clapboarded New England farmhouse spread out along an east–west axis, overlooking fields to the north and south. Three small additions telescoped outward from the main building and tied into an old post-and-beam barn painted deep red. Sitting on about five acres of open land, the one-time farm was surrounded by a small, wooded nature preserve. As the caseworker stood surveying the scene, the door to the home opened and the foster parents, Howard and Joy Thorenson, walked to the car to greet her and their newest foster child.
“Hello, Howard. Joy. Shall I introduce you to Amir?” the caseworker asked. Opening the passenger door, she took the silent boy by the hand and led him to meet the couple.
“Well, hello, son. How are you?” the foster father asked with kindness as he bent down and extended his hand to the boy.
Amir looked at the man and then glanced at the wife, observing her face as he had the husband’s, with a quick blink of his eyes, like a camera shutter opening and as quickly snapping shut. Amir let the man take his hand and give it a few shakes.
“Hello, Amir,” the foster mother smiled. “Come on in, and I’ll show you your new home.” She repeated her words in sign, and though the boy had no instruction in American Sign Language, he seemed to understand and followed her in.
Inside the house, Amir viewed its layout the way he might have scanned a forest floor, searching for signs of its life—the clues to the patterns of movement that might tell its story. Coming from the refugee camp, and even the comfort of his own family’s house—which had been furnished well, but with simple, practical furniture—Amir perceived the interior of the new home to be that of a wealthy family. The living area was filled with large, stuffed chairs and sofas, desks and tables with lamps, and numerous small items—baskets, plants, flowers, photos, little carvings, and ceramic bowls. There was a room just for the television. It, too, was filled with soft, cushioned chairs and had a large, L-shaped couch. And the television was bigger than any he’d ever seen.
Everything in the place was neat and ordered, unlike the farm where he had lived with Josif. There, things had been gathered together in piles, pushed into corners, or stuffed into closets…a sense of angry denial and resentful reproach lying behind a superficial orderliness. The kindness in the woman’s eyes here was not begrudging as had been Sonja’s, and he could see no meanness in the man’s face as had been carved in Zoran’s.
After his tour of the main living area, Amir was led up to the second floor, where he was shown his room. It was small but bright, painted a comforting pale yellow, and it had a window looking out to the fields and woods. There was a small, single bed, a simple wood wardrobe and bureau for his clothes, and a small desk with a lamp on it. After being shown his room, Amir was introduced to the other foster children living in the house—three older boys of high school age. Two of them, like him, were from Bosnia, and the third was from Latin America. They greeted Amir cordially, their eyes meeting his as though all were wearing bifocals, the focus of one lens a common greeting taking in the image of a new acquaintance, the other a seeing of silent knowing, a recognition of damage done, hurt and pain hidden beneath the surface of what was readily visible.
For Amir, the transition into yet another living place, while no less stressful, had become easier to navigate with each succeeding experience. A numbness of both emotion and body had been with Amir since the death of his family. It came in varying degrees of intensity. At times it registered as but an almost indistinct tingling of his body’s extremities, at its worst as a narcosis of spirit that left his body feeling like an uninhabited shell. Now, in this place so far from home, his emotional self retreated to a detached, passive place of emptiness where it found shelter in an inner harbor so still there there seemed not a ripple of emotion to be detected anywhere on its waters.
Amir was an easy child to care for. He moved about noiselessly, asked no questions, made no complaints, and did his share of the work and more. Even when he was present it was easy to overlook him. There was something in the way he held himself that made you forget he was there. He rarely inserted himself into any family event or communication but rather sat looking on, as a spectator might watch a show. Yet the boy rapidly learned the patterns of the household, going about on his own, knowing what time to come to the dinner table, what chores to do. The boy was always there when he was expected; he was “out of sight and out of mind” much of the rest of the time.
Amir’s foster mother worked diligently to teach him how to sign, an effort complicated by his ignorance of English. Having the two older Bosnian boys to help with written translation made it easier. Her newest ward seemed hesitant to communicate through the written word, however, even though the older boys from his homeland were encouraging and patient. That the boy didn’t have any ability in ASL, American Sign Language, didn’t surprise the foster mother. But that he had no knowledge of any formal sign language whatsoever, did. She knew it would be a complex and challenging task to teach the boy American Sign Language. Even if he had spoken English, it would have still been akin to learning a foreign language. The ASL grammar and syntax were completely different and its meaning was expressed through the use of hand shapes and facial expressions.
Raising her eyebrows and tilting her head slightly forward, Joy Thorenson signed the word for swimming, her facial expression serving as a question. “Go swimming?” she asked, bringing her hands up in front of her and then spreading them as if in a simple swimming motion.
Amir first responded with a question in his eyes, but when his foster mother repeated the sign again, he remembered it from one of their lessons. With a hesitant expression he nodded his head and signed the letters o and k.
“Good,” his foster mother’s hand spoke in reply and then signed that they would be leaving in fifteen minutes. She was pleased with the boy’s progress in the basic signs. His mind was sharp, and he seemed to have an instinctual ability to observe physical movement and record its form, playing it back in accurate imitation.
Nodding his head, Amir turned and went upstairs to change his clothes. His body movement showed his ambivalence. It was clear that he would rather stay close to home and wander about outside the house, but he knew the invitation to go swimming had not been a request so much as it had been a polite way for his foster mother to say she wanted him to get out and do something with his foster brothers. While sensitive to his withdrawn behavior, the Thorensons made frequent attempts to involve him in activities with the older boys under their care. Although Amir always acquiesced to their efforts, his participation was often lackluster, and his social interaction with the others was passive. The Thorensons were patient, believing their youngest foster child would eventually feel secure enough to begin emerging from his shell.
Amir appeared happiest when alone doing chores, feeding the chickens, or out in the pasture with the Thorensons’ two horses. From his first days at the foster home, the deaf-mute child had been drawn to the woods that bordered the fields surrounding the house and barn. He often gravitated toward the area of the yard east of the barn that lay closest to the woods, where several grand, old sugar maples formed a natural portico leading into the forest. The foster parents would frequently find the young Bosnian boy stationed in that part of the yard looking into the woods, as though waiting in expectation of something.
Trying to find and encourage anything of interest, Mr. Thorenson showed Amir the paths that led through the woods to the adjoining properties and were sometimes used as a shortcut to the town center by the older boys. After walking only a few feet into the trees, the man could see Amir’s coun
tenance change from neutral and passive to something brighter and more colorful. After several more excursions into the woods, when the Thorensons were sure he knew the lay of the land, Amir was allowed to venture alone among the trees to wander and play.
“Stay close home,” his foster mother had instructed him. “Trees OK. But see house. Understand?”
Amir signed back his agreement, the small flash of happiness coming from his eyes rewarding his guardian’s decision to broaden the boy’s freedom.
Though he was unable to hear any of the forest’s sounds, there was such a familiar comfort to its environment that the absence was filled by the intensity with which Amir’s other senses drank in its visual and tactile riches. The cool, gentle breeze that wove its way through the trees washed his skin in rich, humid air, awakening the memory of the sound of rustling leaves. His steps upon the soft, deep mat of the forest’s slowly decaying subsurface recalled the timbre of quiet feet walking on the woodland paths behind his family’s home. The sight of birds, squirrels, and insects unlocked a discordant, beautiful harmony inside his head; there came a remembrance of song…of warble, caw, and trill…of chatter, buzz, and percussive pulse. It was a world he knew and loved. The only one that for him, now, made any sense.
For the Bosnian war orphan, anxiety always lingered just below the surface of his consciousness; it felt like a deep, lingering doubt, the images of his family’s faces shimmering beneath the surface of the feeling of total emptiness. If such people could be so easily extinguished in a moment’s passing, how could a boy like him survive? And why would he want to? Did he? But these were questions too complicated for him to articulate in any rational form; there was only the sensation of their hovering presence—the child left to wait either for their dissipation or distant answer in some far off future time. Until then, he was a passive witness, and he lived in the custody of others. He saw what was required and did it, knowing that he would then be left alone. It had been this way at the other farm, where he had met Josif. In his mind, it would be the same in this place as well.
The Solace of Trees Page 8