World in Between

by Kenan Trebincevic

  Senad, the radio newscaster, seems like a courageous friend we can trust. He’s caught in the crossfire too, he tells us. He announces that our city is officially occupied by the Serb army and we’re under curfew.

  “What does it mean, they’re ‘occupying us’?” I ask.

  Eldin’s face is grim. “It means our enemies are in control of everything and we’re being held hostage.”

  I wish I could be a hero like Uncle Ahmet, or like Bruce Willis in Die Hard, flipping cars over and charging through the fire. But even Bruce couldn’t save all those poor hostages.

  We wake up to gunfire at four in the morning, our apartment rumbling from bombs. It gives me a headache. I peek through the blinds to see masked men with assault rifles driving up and down our street in jeeps.

  “What do they want?” I ask my brother.

  “Us,” Eldin answers.

  But we’re all Yugoslavians, I think. How could our own people be hunting us down like animals?

  Mom moves us into the living room so we can all sleep on the floor together. In my nightmare, I’m in a truck that turns over, and I wake up with my ears throbbing.

  I try to act as calm as Dad and Eldin, but I’m twisting into knots.

  * * *

  The sanitation department has stopped coming to take away the trash. It piles up outside our building. Soon the air smells like rotting garbage, even through the windows. With the shades drawn and no sunlight, Mom’s plants are wilting. We’re all wilting.

  My mother portions out the well water carefully. We’re each allowed to drink half a cup a day. After we wash our hands, we use that water to flush the toilet.

  We’re lucky she went food shopping last week, when we had money. She makes us salami sandwiches and gives Eldin and me three gingersnaps each for dessert.

  By the end of the first week, we’ve eaten everything left in the warm fridge: the chicken, turkey, salad, vegetables, and fruit. Next we eat the canned fish, tuna, soup, dried fruit, and baked goods from the pantry. Some of the meat in our freezer goes rotten and we have to throw it out. The days and nights crash into each other as we all sit on the couch, hearing our city getting destroyed.

  Keeping all the windows closed makes it muggy inside, too. I’m antsy and sweating. I hum “I believe in the power of love,” from the Madonna song Mom likes, swaying and spinning around. Mom ignores me. Then I sit on the rug, playing cops and robbers with my toy tank, army truck, and police van.

  “Crash! Bang!” I smash my miniature cars into each other.

  “Don’t act like a baby. Keep quiet, somebody will hear you,” Mom scolds in a wobbly voice.

  At least I got her attention for a minute. “Who?” I ask, putting the toys away and taking out my playing cards. “The building’s half empty.”

  I shuffle my deck and beg Eldin to play poker. He’s the one who taught me five-card draw. But he says no, so I switch to solitaire. Then I get out my notebook and colored markers and draw pictures of Lena in the pink shirt she was wearing the day I scored the winning goal at school.

  When nobody’s watching, I peek outside through the slits in the blinds. I hear footsteps outside and sneak to the front door to figure out who’s walking in the hallway. My brother keeps trying to find the latest news on the radio. Luckily we have extra batteries. We ration the box of beige candles. We ration everything. I’m thirsty. My feet are fidgety. I miss the sun, running on the field, stretching my legs outside.

  “Get away from the windows in case of stray bullets,” Mom warns. “Keep the radio low. Be still.”

  I go to my rocking chair in the bedroom and rock back and forth as fast as I can until I get really sweaty. The chair is on a thick rug, so it doesn’t make the floor squeak. I don’t know what else to do.

  * * *

  I crave Majka’s lemon cake, a juice box, warm toast, eggs, and jam. But I get used to having cereal without milk. Mom and Dad are hardly eating. I don’t know if they’ve lost their appetites or if they’re saving everything for my brother and me. I feel guilty with each bite and make Mom eat a spoonful of my cereal, though she pretends she’s not hungry. What will we do when all our food runs out?

  Eldin spends hours listening to his radio for news from Senad. I know my brother can tell how caged up I feel when he asks, “Game of marbles?” I can’t believe it. We haven’t played since our big fight when I kicked him in the crotch.

  He’s my only friend now, though I’m pretty sure he doesn’t even like me. We’re just stuck with each other.

  Sitting on the floor in our room, I fire my blue marble into the hole, a circle on the carpet.

  “Good shot!” Eldin says. If he’s being this nice to me, I know: he thinks we’re goners.

  “What’s gonna happen to us?” I ask.

  “Some people are predicting the war will end in a few more weeks,” he tells me.

  “What do you think?”

  “I dunno,” he says. “Senad’s saying the fighting is spreading all over the country.”

  “I heard Obren say the covered trucks driving around our neighborhood are packed with dead Muslims,” I tell him in a hushed tone. “Think it’s true?”

  My brother shrugs, returning to his radio like a robot who only has one trick, trying to get a signal. I feel like I’m going to puke.

  We eat smaller meals, with more hours in between. I’m more thirsty than I am hungry, so I sip my water slowly and swallow my spit. The water in the jug is getting lower.

  By day six, all we have left are some stale crackers and canned sardines. But worse than my hollow stomach is living every moment in fear that my father and brother will get taken away.

  We’re surprised when there’s a knock on the door the next morning. It’s Obren. Is he turning us in? But he just slips us butter cookies, jam, and coffee grounds.

  “That’s so kind of you,” Mom whispers. She hands the food to Eldin and me.

  I put jam on a cookie and eat it quickly. Obren’s a Serb. I bet he’s helping us because Dad stood up for him at that meeting.

  Mom asks if he’s heard what’s going on in my Aunt Bisera’s village a half hour away, or in Majka Emina’s town ten minutes in the other direction. All the phone lines are down, and it’s been weeks since we’ve talked to them. Obren shakes his head and sneaks back down the hall before anyone sees he’s helping Muslims.

  Eldin and I tear through the cookies and jam in one day.

  “We’re almost out of everything,” Mom tells Dad.

  “I’ll go to the grocery to get some bread,” Eldin offers. “I think it’s still open.”

  “No,” snaps Mom. “If you or Dad go outside, they’ll throw you into the army or a camp. Or just kill you like a dog.” Her lips are quivering. “I’ll do it,” she says, going for her purse.

  Dad stops her. “I won’t let you. A woman can’t be alone on the street with all the enemy soldiers.”

  “Let me,” I break in, acting braver than I feel. “I used to get snacks and juice there on my way home from school.”

  “No,” my father says.

  “Please,” I beg.

  “It’s too dangerous,” Mom tells me. She bites her nail and looks to Dad for help.

  It’s been a week since I’ve been outside, smelled fresh air, or felt the sun on my face. “It’s just two blocks. I’ve done it a hundred times.”

  “I’m not sure,” Dad tells Mom. “I mean, he’s small and looks young. Maybe he’ll be the safest. Who would hurt a little boy?”

  “I don’t want to find out!” Mom says.

  “Come on. I’m fast. I’ll be fine,” I promise, trying to convince her and myself. “I want to go.”

  I don’t know what it’s like on the street, but this is my chance to see what’s going on. And to help Mom, Dad, and Eldin. It feels kind of good to be needed.

  Mom hands me a few dinars from her pocket. “Do not stop or talk to anyone,” she says. I can tell how nervous she is. “Go fast and be careful. And come right home. Quic
kly.”

  I lace up my sneakers and dart out the door. I’m on fire with an important mission.

  The ground is covered with broken glass and churned-up asphalt from the blasts. Zigzagging around the sharp edges, I hear my heartbeat thumping in my ears. I see a Serb soldier carrying the espresso machine out of the pizza place on the corner. Another guy in uniform is holding bags of blankets and toys looted from the kids’ clothing store. Funny how I got into so much trouble for stealing supplies from the army, but weeks later they’re all ripping off anything they want. I thought my parents would be angry forever that I stole. Now it’s like they don’t even remember it.

  A couple in normal clothes walk by, not looking scared. They must be Serbs. Then there are loud explosions and smoke up ahead, and they duck inside a building. I crouch behind some overturned trash bins. Green military trucks speed by. Army men on top of turrets hold machine guns in ready positions. I shrink down and hold my breath until they pass.

  Finally I make it to the small supermarket. I’m so dizzy from fear and hunger, I forget what I’m supposed to get. I look for cookies or chocolate. The shelves are almost empty. I spot two loaves of bread and remember. I take one to the counter. I know the cashier from stopping in here so often. “Hello,” I say, trying to smile at her like it’s just another day.

  She shakes her head and mutters, “You Turks.”

  Turks has become another slur for Muslims. The Turkish people first brought Islam to our country in the fifteenth century, Eldin, always an ace at history, had explained to me.

  Being called mean names doesn’t faze me anymore. I’m just relieved she’s letting me buy the bread.

  I head straight home, as Mom told me to do, clutching the loaf. On the way back, it’s quiet. No cars anywhere, only military jeeps. I run across the street beneath broken traffic lights, shards of glass crunching under my sneakers.

  I’m halfway home when a swarm of soldiers and men in plainclothes rush around behind me.

  Bang! Bang! Bang!

  I see two of the plain-clothed guys fall to the ground. Are they Muslims trying to escape? Keep it together, Trebinčević, I tell myself. Keep moving.

  I break into a sprint. Voices call out. More shots fire.

  Then a bomb detonates a few yards ahead of me. An angry flash of orange lights up the sky. The street explodes, debris stinging my face. I hurl myself toward the sidewalk and keep running. My armpits are drenched. My throat clogs up with smoke. Mortars are whizzing back and forth in front of me, blasting the pavement when they land. I see someone on top of a building shooting at a soldier on the ground. He fires back. Suddenly my forehead burns. Oh my god, a bullet has nicked me!

  I press myself against the side of a building and touch the wound just above my left eyebrow, then look at my finger. No blood. Maybe if I stay here, they won’t shoot again. I can’t think. I can’t move.

  Until I spot Mr. Miran on the sidewalk. He’s walking with another guy. They’re both in green uniforms.

  “Hey, Teacher!” I yell. I’m so overjoyed to see him, I could cry. I rush over, hoping to hide behind him. He’s holding an AK-47 assault rifle, like the one Stallone carried in Rambo. It’s good he’s armed. He can protect me.

  “Teacher, Teacher! When I was getting bread, a bullet almost hit me!” I tell him as he turns my way.

  “Your kind doesn’t need bread,” he snorts. His eyes are wild. He swats the bag out of my hand, and it falls to the ground. I freeze, realizing his uniform is the kind the Serb fighters now wear.

  Mr. Miran holds his gun to my head. I try to stop my legs from quaking. My body is drenched in sweat. The metal barrel feels cold against my skin. My teacher is going to shoot me right here, in the street. Nobody will stop him. I thought he liked me, that I was his best student. How could he hurt me?

  I watch his finger on the trigger. Everything is spinning upside down. His weapon clicks.

  “It’s jammed,” he mutters to his comrade standing behind him.

  I snatch up my bread and race home across the railroad tracks, sprinting faster than I ever have on the recess field. The air is dark and smoky. It’s like I’m underwater, trying not to drown, my ears clogged. Everything is vibrating, moving in slow motion around me.

  I can’t believe my favorite teacher since first grade is my enemy. Nobody can be trusted anymore, only my family. I feel filthy and drained, clutching the bread under my arm. I brush my hair over my brow so my parents won’t know the bullet nicked me, a secret I’ll have to keep. If they find out, they’ll never let me outside again.

  Before I turn onto my block, I look back one more time at Mr. Miran. I want to think he faked his gun jam to save face in front of that other soldier, but he catches my eye and holds up three fingers. It’s a creepy salute I’ve never seen before: a peace sign ruined by the added thumb. I don’t know what it means, but from his smirk, I know he wants me dead.

  * * *

  “You’re okay?” Mom stares at me.

  “I’m okay.” I hand her the loaf, trying not to shake.

  I keep questioning what just happened. Has Mr. Miran hated Muslims all along? I’m sure he liked me. He must be getting brainwashed by the politicians my father calls “power-hungry egomaniacs.”

  I decide never to tell Mom or Dad what happened. If they confront him, he’ll probably accuse me of lying and throw me out of school forever. I don’t want to get into more trouble. Though we’re all in deep trouble now.

  A week later, there’s banging on the door of our apartment and a voice says, “It’s Miran.”

  Mom, who knows him from parent-teacher conferences, looks at Dad and says, “Stand back. I’ll get it.”

  I can tell she thinks he’ll be nicer to her.

  “Good day, Mr. Miran,” she greets him. I can see from where I’m hiding in the corner of the dining room that he’s holding that same AK-47.

  “If you don’t leave your apartment within twenty-four hours, we’ll kill you!” Mr. Miran yells, as if he doesn’t even know us.

  Mom can’t understand why my teacher is armed and threatening our family. I feel bad I never told her he pointed his gun at me, but I’m relieved my parents will now know the truth about him. My mother is so sure it’s all a mistake, though, she walks out into the hallway to try to reason with him. When she comes back, her eyes are filled with fear.

  “We have to pack—this second,” she says, rushing to the hall closet. She takes off the sandals she’s wearing so she can move faster, handing me and my brother a striped duffle bag each. She pulls out the heavy valise for Dad. He doesn’t say a word, just follows her orders. She’s in charge now.

  Eldin and I run to our room. He grabs pants and shirts from his drawers. I look at my clothes and toys, trying to decide what I’ll need most, but I don’t know where we’re going or for how long. I go to the chest under my bed, my eighth birthday present that Mom said was “a magical vault that once held valuable loot stolen from pirates.” I grab my stack of special fudbal trading cards, marbles, my G.I. Joe, and my favorite miniature cars.

  “What are you doing?” Mom asks when she comes in and sees my bag.

  “Packing my stuff.”

  “You can’t take all this!” She removes the trading cards and G.I. Joe.

  But if I leave my cars and marbles, my old gang could break in and steal everything. With no friends or toys, how will I play? I’m about to argue with Mom when she says, “K-K-Kenan, you won’t be needing any tttt-oys.”

  She never stutters. Her hair is frizzy from sweat. She’s more afraid than I am.

  I put everything back in my chest and cover it carefully with a blanket, shoving it against the wall beneath the bed so any thieves ravaging through our home will miss my treasures and steal something else.

  “Kenan, come on.” She opens my drawers and takes out underwear, socks, a sweatshirt, jeans, and sneakers, which I stuff into my bag. “Here, take this too.” She hands me a thick red family album. “We can get new toys and c
lothes, but pictures can’t be replaced.”

  I don’t want to leave my marbles and cars. But I do, making room for her dumb album, her treasure. It’s not fair.

  When she leaves, I open the album to the first page, to my baby picture. The last time I saw Majka Emina, she’d pulled it out. “You only weighed four pounds when you were born, much smaller than your brother,” she’d said, telling her favorite story of my birth. “The doctor said you were so small, you might not survive. Your mama said, ‘You’re wrong. I’m taking my boy home to make him fatter. You’ll see.’ Three months later Kenji was eight pounds with big fat cheeks.” Majka had smiled, kissing my forehead as Eldin and my cousins laughed.

  Now I feel guilty that I didn’t visit her after my fudbal win. I don’t even know if she’s still alive.

  * * *

  Mom wakes us the next morning at six a.m. Our bags are overstuffed, so she says to dress in layers so we can bring more clothes. I put on a T-shirt, a button-down shirt, a sweater, and a jacket over it, feeling like a marshmallow. When we walk outside, it’s really warm. I’m too hot. I’m glad nobody else is around. If my old friends saw me like this, they’d make fun of me.

  “I forgot my retainer,” I whisper to my mother.

  “Your teeth are the least of our problems,” she says.

  “But my friends call me Bugs Bunny,” I admit quietly.

  “They’re not your friends anymore,” Eldin snaps. “You won’t be playing with them again.”

  Who else will I play with?

  “We don’t even know if the papers we have will work,” Mom mumbles.

  What papers?

  Along with our passports and Mom’s and Dad’s driver’s licenses, Eldin tells me we have a new permission document stating “You are allowed to leave the country in exchange for all your property and belongings and promise never to return,” signed by the local Serbian police chief, a man Dad knows. Hopefully it will be enough to get us out of here until everything blows over. After we win the war and come back, it won’t matter.