“The plane’s going to come down,” she whisper-shouts. “We’ll fall into the ocean!”
“No. It’s just regular procedure,” Dad explains, holding her hand. Eldin holds her other hand. I’m stuck out on the aisle, wishing we would disappear into the sky.
As we take off, my stomach feels like it did on the roller coaster, except we keep going faster and my ears are getting clogged. It’s exciting to be up so high. When the wing tilts, I imagine I’m in a fighter jet like Tom Cruise in Top Gun. But then it gets quiet and we level off. I tilt my seat back and loosen the belt.
“How fast do you think we’re going?” I ask my brother.
“At least five hundred kilometers an hour,” he guesses.
An hour later, a stewardess hands me a pasta lunch on a tray.
“I didn’t order this. I can’t pay,” I tell her, pointing to my empty pocket.
She laughs and says, “It’s free, honey,” in German, which I can finally understand. Though what good is it now that we’re leaving Austria? She gives me delicious apple juice too.
After lunch, my brother and I walk to the bathroom together. I go into the tiny lavatory first. When I flush, it’s so loud, my feet vibrate. I’m afraid I’ll be vacuumed out into the sky. Nervous, I fumble with the latch. I can’t open it, and worry I’ll be stuck here for the rest of the flight.
I bang on the door, yelling, “Eldin, how do I get out of here? Where’s the door handle?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never been in one,” he says. “Didn’t you lock it?”
I don’t remember, so I just keep pushing on the door until it finally opens.
I show Eldin where the latch is. “Don’t get too close when you flush or you might get sucked into outer space,” I warn, and he laughs.
* * *
I don’t sleep for the whole nine-and-a-half-hour flight. I just keep going over plans in my head: how we’ll stay in America a few months, until we win the war. Then we’ll go back to our country and I’ll get to play fudbal and see Lena again.
Will she still like me? I wonder.
I hope I don’t have to repeat sixth grade.
Will Lena’s hair be longer?
If Vik says he’s sorry, should I forgive him?
Part Three
Searching
for Home
United States of America
Nineteen
At 6:20 p.m. on Wednesday, October 20, 1993, Mom, Dad, Eldin, and I get off the plane.
“Welcome to New York,” the flight attendant says as we walk out of the gate.
New York? How awesome, they switched us! As we follow the crowd from our plane toward customs, there seem to be millions of travelers swirling from every direction. I hear lots of different languages, which I try to decipher. Back home, everyone’s white, speaks the same tongue, and looks pretty much alike. Here, there are people who remind me of Cheech and Chong’s great movie Born in East L.A. and of the amazing Harlem Globetrotters (only shorter). I wonder where they’re all coming from and going. I stare at the pizza, taco, and hotdog stands and realize how hungry I am. But Dad says we can’t afford to buy anything.
Then six men in blazers and badges make a beeline for us. They look like the guys in Jackie Chan films. They herd us and the other refugees to the side, putting their hands on our shoulders and pushing us into the corner, forming a human barrier to contain us. “Get over there!” one yells in English. I don’t understand what’s going on, and I feel dizzy, scared that they’re rounding us up to be quarantined or killed.
“Are they foreign soldiers?” I ask my brother, tugging at his shirtsleeve.
“No. Just U.S. airport employees,” he explains. “Look, their tags say they’re security.”
“They look Chinese,” a confused refugee says in Bosnian. “Are they taking us to Beijing?”
I don’t know where Beijing is, but I remember Dad telling me that Jackie Chan is from Hong Kong. Is that farther from Bosnia than New York is?
We don’t even know who’s coming to meet us here or where we’re going. What if they forget—or change their minds? I want to go home, but we don’t have one.
As the security guards lead us through the busy terminal, I hear someone say we’re in Queens. “Hey, like Eddie Murphy in Coming to America!” I tell Eldin. “When he landed in New York, he went to the Queens McDowell’s. But it was really McDonald’s, like Siegfried got for us. We should go.”
But there’s no time for french fries. Another team of men and women from the International Organization for Migration come to get us. I know who they are because their badges match the tote bags we’re all holding.
“That’s what they’re really for,” Eldin mutters. The bags aren’t a nice present after all—they’re to identify us as refugees. Two men hand my parents pieces of paper and point toward a nearby counter.
“Are they arresting us?” I ask, frightened.
“No. Don’t worry. They just need their signatures on the paper,” Eldin explains.
“Why? To make us Americans?”
“To promise we’ll pay back the three-thousand-dollar cost of the airfare,” Dad says.
At customs, we wait in line for eons until the immigration officials stamp our passports. Then I try to find our luggage on the merry-go-round at the baggage claim. My brother snaps to attention, using his long arms to grab all four of our bags, which hold everything we own. When we finally get ushered out into another hallway, I see a tall man holding a sign that says TREBINCEVIC.
“Senahid and Adisa, I’m so glad to meet you,” the man says as Mom and Dad approach him, smiling as he shakes our hands. “Welcome to America, Kenan and Eldin.” He’s pale, and his brown hair is gray on the sides; he looks older than Dad. He wears khakis and a sweater, with a blue blazer over it.
“Thank you, sir,” I say in English, hoping to sound American so he’ll like me.
“I’m Donald Hodges, a Methodist minister. Just call me Don.”
I’ve never met a Methodist before.
“I’m from the Interfaith Council, the group of churches and synagogues sponsoring you. You’re our first refugees, though at my last church, we took in a great Cambodian family.” He speaks slowly, drawing out his words, like John Wayne in Rio Bravo.
“Are you hungry? Thirsty?” he asks, taking Mom’s bag and leading us through the doors to the parking lot.
It’s dark, cold, and raining outside. Mom shakes her head at the weather. “This can’t be good.”
“Hey, Eldin, I have a Matchbox car just like this in Bosnia,” I tell my brother when I see Don’s huge burgundy Ford SUV.
Eldin and I get in back, and Don gives us apple juice cartons (my new favorite drink), turkey sandwiches, and Chips Ahoy cookies that are crunchy and sweet. Then we zoom out onto the giant highway.
I’ve never been in such a fast car! Mom looks scared and buckles her seat belt tight, but I love it. “I had one like that too,” I remind Eldin as we pass a Mack truck. I stare at a splashy billboard of a girl in a green bikini. Taxis whiz by, honking as drivers cut each other off, cursing out their windows. It feels badass, like we’re in a car chase. I look out the window for the skyscrapers, gangsters, and police vans I’ve seen in the movies.
Is Connecticut part of Queens? “Why didn’t they tell us we’d be living in New York?” I ask. Eldin translates my question into English.
“You’re not. We’re going to Westport, Connecticut,” Don says. “Not too far.”
As the ride continues, we fall into silence, exhausted from our trip. Outside, it gets quieter and slower too, with more bridges and trees but less people, especially when we leave the highway. Soon there are no other cars around, just rows of long houses with big windows.
I don’t see a single kid, bike, or toy. There aren’t any sidewalks. Through the rainy darkness I think I see a ghost in the trees and what looks like a skeleton on a porch bench. There are strings of lights on a few houses, but it’s too early for Christmas. When
I spot tombstones on a lawn, I worry we’re going to a graveyard.
After a two-hour drive, Don turns left and stops in front of a beige shingled house surrounded by a big green lawn that’s spotted with thick oaks and pines, like the kind in Aunt Bisera’s backyard. A lady with short, curly, gray-streaked brown hair comes out to greet us.
“I’m Reverend Don Hodges. Nice to meet you,” he tells her, shaking her hand. “This is your host, Barbara Lane,” he says to us, as Eldin translates.
I’m confused that Don’s never met this lady before. Barbara is Mom’s height, around five foot six, but not as thin. She’s wearing a long skirt, a pink blouse, a gold pendant, and bright lipstick, and she’s holding a fluffy, tan-colored cat. There are spiderwebs across her windows. A paper skeleton hangs on her door. On the porch, there’s a round orange blob the size of a basketball, with eyes and a spooky grin carved into it and a burning candle in the center. Inside, another cat, a black one, stares at us from the couch as we all stand around awkwardly. It feels like we just stepped into a haunted summer cottage.
“Who is this? Why do we have to be here?” Mom speaks to Dad in our language. “For how long?”
A limping mutt wobbles over to Dad, sniffing his feet. My father pets the dog, who wags its tail.
“This is my Lynn and Lonnie, and my doggy is Penny,” Barbara says, introducing her pets like they’re one big family.
“It’s like the house of horrors at the amusement park,” Eldin says quietly in Bosnian.
“I’m sleeping with the lights on,” I reply.
We thank Don and I watch him get back into his SUV and drive away. I’m afraid we’ll never see him again, that his job was just to give us a ride from the airport and leave us with this weird lady he doesn’t even know, who lives in the boonies with her scary decorations and girl animals.
Twenty
“Sit down, don’t be shy.” Barbara speaks faster than Don, and her voice is squeakier.
We’d taken off our shoes on the porch, but Barbara told us to bring them inside. Mom never lets us wear our dirty shoes in the house, but Barbara leaves her flats on. Americans must allow footwear indoors.
Even with shoes on, though, her house is very clean, like our Brčko apartment. The living room has wall-to-wall beige carpeting. I’m blown away by the huge television.
“You have CNN?” Eldin asks her in English. “Can we see war updates?”
“Sure,” Barbara says, and turns to the channel. I recognize the anchor, Wolf Blitzer of World News, which we watched regularly at Siegfried’s. With his bearded, scruffy face, he really looks like a wolf, and he sounds mad at the bad guys.
I’m feeling so lonely, like we’re on the other side of the universe, I imagine Wolf is my new buddy. But the report changes to show a guy in a turban and pictures of an earthquake in India.
Meanwhile, Barbara keeps talking to us. “I’m divorced, with two grown-up sons now on their own. So there’s plenty of room here. I don’t have to go back to work until next week, so I can show you around.” Eldin is translating. “Do you want to go upstairs to see your rooms?”
Reluctantly, I leave the giant TV and follow Barbara and my family up the steps. She points out her bedroom on the right. The next room down the hallway is for Mom and Dad.
“There’s the bathroom, which we’ll share. There’s another half bath downstairs. You boys will sleep in the attic,” she says, showing us another staircase. We pass one more room, the door shut. “Don’t ever go in there,” she says firmly. I picture a dead body inside.
“Are you hungry?” she asks, leading us back downstairs. “I’ll make you something.” The word hungry I know, and I give her a thumbs-up.
In the kitchen, a big, airy space that looks out onto her yard, she takes out turkey, lettuce, and tomato from the refrigerator. She makes us each a sandwich with brown bread that’s thick and tasty. I’m thankful she’s feeding us and giving us a place to stay.
“Orange juice, cranberry juice, ginger ale, Pepsi, Coke, milk, water?” she asks.
So many good choices! I’ve never had ginger ale.
“Orange juice, please,” Mom pipes in.
“Barbara pours us each a big glass, calling it Tropicana. It’s sweet, pulpier than the kind we’re used to.
After we eat, my brother and I climb up to the attic. I’m glad he’s with me—I’d be too frightened to sleep here alone. It’s a big room, with a beige carpet that smells like wet leaves and wood. There’s a double mattress on the floor, made up with sheets and blankets, and a dresser with pictures of two teens in baseball uniforms, obviously Barbara’s sons, on top. In the corner is a rugby ball and a baseball filled with autographs. I’ve never held either kind of ball, and I run my fingers over the baseball’s stitches.
“Don’t touch it, you’ll smudge the signatures,” Eldin warns.
Lying on the mattress that night, I hear Mom and Dad arguing in their bedroom below us.
“At least in Europe, we had relatives and friends,” Mom says. “Here, the streets are dark, we’re far from everything, no car or subway. How will we get jobs?”
“Don’t worry. I’m sure someone will come help us with all this tomorrow,” says my father, the optimist.
In Vienna, Mom liked being in the bustling city, taking Siegfried’s boys to the park, window-shopping, and buying groceries with the government stipend. Every weekend she’d visit Edita in the refugee camp. I understand why she doesn’t like it here. But I don’t mind. In fact, I sleep better sharing the big bed with just Eldin, without Dad’s snoring and Mom tossing around.
* * *
Early the next morning, it’s sunny. From the attic window, I can just make out a large body of water only a few blocks away. I want to run out to explore.
“Let’s go to the beach,” I beg Eldin, picturing sand, bikinis, surfing, and ice-cream cones.
“I told you, we’re far from California or Florida. We’re closer to Canada, and it’s cold here in October. That’s the Atlantic Ocean.”
I run downstairs. The news is on the enormous TV, showing the weather is 40 degrees outside. Why is it so scorching hot, like the middle of August? Then I remember that in Bosnia we use Celsius, but in America they use something different.
In the kitchen, all the appliances are silver—the fridge, a microwave, even the electric can opener. Barbara’s not awake yet. Mom hands me toast with butter and jam and a box of cereal called Cheerios. I pour some into a bowl with milk. It tastes like cardboard. I eat fast, then pace around, feeling hyper and cooped up. “Let’s go to the beach,” I tell Mom.
“You’re not going anywhere. The last thing I need is to lose you,” she answers.
“But it’s right down the hill.” I want to get outside and see America already.
“We don’t know what’s happening to our lives, and you want to go swimming?”
I frown and go find the bathroom, where I pee sitting down to avoid sprinkling the toilet rim. I know we’re lucky to be safe, but it’s hard, always feeling like a visitor on my best behavior who can’t even take a normal whiz.
I go outside and play catch with Barbara’s old dog, Penny, in the front yard. It’s cold, so I run back inside to get my jacket. When I come back in a few hours later, I stare at the TV, looking for Wolf. Eldin helps me find him on CNN, then Barbara and my parents watch it with us as we have more turkey sandwiches in the living room. I play with the dog on the carpet while Mom and Dad sit next to each other on the couch, hoping for good news from the Balkans that never comes.
After lunch, we hear cars in the driveway. From the window, Eldin helps me read their makes: Honda Civic, Chevy, Toyota, Jeep Cherokee. Four women get out, carrying overflowing shopping bags—a good sign.
“People from our group are coming by to meet you,” Barbara says.
The church ladies walk in, smiling. They all look like Barbara, with gray hair, beige clothes, and lots of jewelry. They’re really into beige here. One carries a bag filled with linens
and towels, another a vase. Barbara takes the gifts upstairs.
“How do you like America so far?” one lady asks my father, slowly.
“Fine, thank you,” Dad says in English, nodding. I nod too as we stand around awkwardly.
“Do you know how to work a washing machine?” another lady asks Mom.
“She thinks we’re from Mars,” Eldin whispers to me in Bosnian.
“Can’t Dad ask them how to get jobs and our own place?” I whisper back.
“He doesn’t want to seem rude or impatient,” my brother explains.
“What are they saying to each other now?”
“One’s telling Barbara, It’s nice of you to take them in,” he translates. “And Barbara is saying, It’s just for a week until they get settled.”
Eldin and I look at each other. “What happens in a week?” I ask. He shrugs.
“They have no idea what to do with us,” Mom says to Dad in our language as the ladies chat among themselves.
“These Americans saved us. They didn’t fly us across the globe to get rid of us,” he reasons.
“Don’t worry. We won’t get deported or thrown out on the street,” Eldin assures Mom. “It’ll just take time.”
“I bet they want us out of here already,” she mutters.
We don’t tell her that Barbara expects us to stay for only a week. “What’s up with Mom?” I whisper to Eldin when she turns her attention back to Barbara’s friends.
“She can’t sleep,” he tells me. “She’s exhausted, stressed. And her tooth is hurting her again.”
I’m worried about my mother, glad Barbara can’t understand what she’s saying. I know this is hard for her. How long will it take for her and Dad to find jobs and make money? We don’t know if work is outlawed for refugees here, like in Vienna, or if Dad can still be an athletic trainer and Mom an office manager. Do they even have those jobs in Connecticut? Or will they have to garden and babysit again?
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