World in Between

by Kenan Trebincevic

  I’m relieved when they take out coral-colored books from pockets behind the seats and start to sing. The lady to our left pulls one out for us and says, “We’re on page thirty-two of the hymnal.” I don’t know what a hymnal is; I assume it’s a Bible. Don didn’t mention that we were Muslim, so I guess she’s just trying to be nice. But none of us take the book. I’m afraid that touching it would be a sin.

  After the service, we gather in another room, where they give out vanilla cookies and a selection of drinks. As I sip apple juice, Ryan, a kid from my class, walks by and says, “Pretty rad, dude.”

  Another guy, Matt, says, “Catch you in school, man.”

  As Jill leaves with her parents, she says, “Nice seeing you.”

  They don’t make fun of me for being homeless—in fact, they seem to think I’m cooler now!

  A younger woman from the choir puts her hand on Mom’s shoulder. “Don and Katie say you’re a wonderful family. We’re sorry for all you’ve been through.”

  “We’re here if you need anything,” an older man tells Dad.

  When another lady says, “Welcome to our congregation,” I’m afraid they’re going to make us come to church again.

  “They’re not converting us, are they?” I whisper to my brother.

  “No,” he says. “It’s not like home, where they try to change your religion. They’re just being nice.”

  A lady named Leah tells Eldin, “I’m Dutch, and I teach English to foreign students. If you want to talk about applying to colleges, call me.” She gives him her card, and he thanks her.

  Laszlo, a short, gray-haired man, shakes my father’s hand. “I escaped to America from Hungary forty years ago. I’m a retired computer engineer. I worked for IBM,” he says in a thick accent. “Once you get your driver’s license, I’ll help you get a car.”

  * * *

  Late that night, after Don and Katie go to bed, the four of us sit in the living room. I pour myself a glass of milk and bring out a plate of Chips Ahoy cookies from the kitchen.

  “Wasn’t that swell, the way Don introduced us to the community and asked them to help us?” Dad says.

  “We’re not beggars. I don’t want everyone feeling sorry for me,” Mom replies.

  “Well, I could use help applying to colleges, and Dad really needs a job,” Eldin reasons.

  I agree. We need to make money if we’re going to afford the plane fare home after the war. We haven’t even paid back the International Organization for Migration for the tickets to fly here.

  * * *

  The next morning, Katie calls, “Kenan, Eldin. Come open your presents.” I go downstairs in the green and yellow pajamas Katie and Don gave me for my birthday. Holiday music’s on the radio, and Cary’s barking. My parents are already there in the living room. Katie and Don pull gifts from beneath the tree and give them to us. They’re wrapped in metallic paper and tied with red and green bows. It’s like in American movies, where kids rush downstairs to open their Christmas presents right after Santa visits.

  Katie and Don watch as I open one box containing an orange basketball and another that holds a red, white, and blue soccer ball. I’ve never seen one in the American colors. I wonder if it’s special made. They also get me a big navy parka and gloves. They give Eldin a bottle of men’s Brut cologne, a green bomber jacket, and an atlas of American maps that Don says he can share with me. Mom smiles shyly as she opens her presents: a sweater, hat, and gloves. Dad gets a jacket, a small radio alarm clock, and an Old Spice men’s aftershave and cologne set. And we each get our own red stocking, filled with chocolate Santas and candy canes!

  I feel bad we have no presents to give in return. All we can offer is ourselves. Mom’s always cleaning up while they’re at work and preparing meals to show our gratitude. Dad and Eldin rake the leaves and shovel snow from the driveway. But that’s everyday stuff, not something special for the holiday. Then I remember that in art class, I drew Don and Katie a Christmas card. It has a picture of their house on it and a Santa Claus sled on the lawn. I run upstairs to get it from my backpack and give it to them proudly.

  “Beautiful work, Kenan. You’re a real artist,” Don says, and he hangs it on the refrigerator with a magnet for everyone to admire.

  * * *

  The last week in December, there’s no school. I wait for snow, but there are only flurries. When I finally wake up to a frosted lawn, Eldin says he’s too cold to make a snowman or throw snowballs with me. There are a lot of hills around the neighborhood, but when I go outside, I don’t see any kids sledding. So I just hang out in the yard for a while in my new parka, feeling alone and out of place.

  On New Year’s Eve, Katie, Don, and my parents all go to bed around ten. My brother and I stay up to watch the ball drop in Times Square on TV, drinking milk and eating candy canes. I love seeing the lights and noise of New York City on the screen. I can’t believe how many different people are gathered just an hour away from us, practically neighbors.

  “When we landed at the airport, they should have taken us to Manhattan,” I tell Eldin. “I bet there are lots of Muslims and refugees like us there.”

  “When we get older, we’ll live anywhere we want,” he tells me. “For now, we’re just lucky to be alive.”

  He’s right. Last New Year’s we were lying on the floor in the dark, listening to guns go off. I picture what we’ll be doing next year: celebrating our war victory at home with Majka Emina, Aunt Bisera, Uncle Ahmet, and my cousins, telling them about Don, Katie, Miguel, and all the other kind friends we’ll miss in the United States.

  Twenty-Five

  January–March 1994

  When Don tells Dad he can get government help called “welfare” until we “get on our feet,” Dad refuses.

  “I’ll never take a handout when I can work. I’ll do anything,” he says.

  “Me too,” Eldin chimes in. “We need to get our own place.”

  “Eldin is nineteen,” Dad continues. “He can work until he figures out how to enroll in some college classes.”

  “I need to save money for tuition and books first,” Eldin agrees.

  “I know I can’t be an athletic trainer without an American certificate,” Dad says. “But I’m tired of sitting at home. I’ll do anything,” he repeats. “I can do manual labor. I’m not ashamed.”

  “Okay.” Don nods. “I’ll make some calls to get you both jobs in town.”

  I wish I could work too. On CNN, my old pals Wolf and Christiane say this second year of the war has been worse than the first, with more Bosnians dead. A million refugees like us have fled for safety. It looks like we’ll be staying in Connecticut for a while.

  * * *

  On Monday, when I get home from school, Dad, Mom, and Eldin are in the kitchen, looking excited.

  “We both have jobs!” Eldin tells me.

  “How did you get hired so quickly?” I ask.

  “First Ellie drove us to Pancho Villa’s, this Mexican restaurant just ten minutes from here,” my brother explains. “She brought our papers and said Reverend Don recommended us, so they hired me as a part-time busboy. Then she took us over to Boston Chicken, where I’ll be taking orders at the front while Dad roasts chickens in the back. Twenty hours a week. Minimum wage.”

  They show me their uniforms proudly. Dad has a white hat and overalls that say BOSTON CHICKEN. Eldin has a matching blue shirt with the same logo.

  “Why isn’t it called Connecticut Chicken?” I ask, and we all laugh.

  The following evening, Dad and Eldin return to the house in their uniforms, bringing macaroni and cheese, a roasted chicken, and delicious, sweet cornbread that I smother with butter, eating two pieces. I’m overjoyed their manager gives them leftovers to take home. Don and Katie have more than enough food, but eating what Dad and Eldin bring home is a triumph. We’re finally fending for ourselves, not just relying on others.

  Four nights a week, they return from work with thrilling American delicacies: baked potatoes wi
th sour cream, string beans, sweet potato casserole, chicken salad, creamed spinach (my new favorite vegetable), and chocolate brownies.

  Don and Katie leave for their jobs each morning, but my father and brother work afternoons, so members of the church make a schedule to help drive them. When Eldin has the late shift at the Mexican restaurant, Don goes to get him at midnight.

  On a day they both have off, Ellie Lowenstein drives us to the Social Security office in Bridgeport and then to the United States Citizenship and Immigration Services center to apply for green cards. “In five years, you can apply for citizenship to be Americans,” Ellie explains.

  Five years? We’ll be long gone by then. Still, it’d be major to have an American passport. Nobody would be able to kick us off buses, planes, or trains. I picture going back to our country and showing off my official U.S. documents to my friends, who’ll be so jealous. Then I’ll come back to visit Don, Katie, and Miguel on vacation someday.

  Ellie also helps Dad and Eldin open bank accounts. They only take home two hundred dollars each every other week, but they’re proud they’re earning paychecks to get us back on our feet. At Bedford, most of the kids’ dads—and some of the moms—are lawyers, doctors, or businesspeople. I feel pride that Dad and Eldin are making American dollars and getting us free dinners too. But I don’t tell my classmates they work at a fast-food joint.

  * * *

  I’m staying over at Miguel’s house on the weekends more and more often, and soon Nancie is picking me up nearly every single Friday. Miguel and I play video games and run around his huge yard. I want him to teach me how to improve at American baseball and football.

  One cold Saturday in February, after we finish a video game in the playroom, which Miguel wins, I take the remote and turn to CNN to see if there’s any breaking news. Christiane says that enemy soldiers have bombed our capital. I get up and stand close to the television, staring at the footage of the destruction.

  Miguel wants me to explain. “What’s going on there?” he asks.

  “Var getting vorse,” I say, my neck turning warm and itchy.

  “Are you okay, Kenan?” Nancie asks as she walks in. “Your face is all red.”

  Miguel points to the screen.

  “Nobody cares my people die. Vee have very few veapons, not allowed to defend ourselves,” I say.

  “It’s so terrible.” Nancie looks concerned. “Maybe you boys should go out to play.”

  Miguel grabs the basketball. “Quick game of one-on-one? I’ll cream you,” he taunts.

  “Vait, I cream you this time,” I threaten, following him outside. We play basketball for a while, then he puts on Rollerblades to show me a new game in his driveway. He hits a tennis ball with his hockey stick and has me try to block the shot with mine. I wish I had Rollerblades so I could fly around like him. He runs upstairs to ask Nancie something and comes rushing back.

  “Come on, we have to go,” he says.

  “Where?”

  “It’s a surprise.” He grins as Nancie comes out of the house with her keys in her hand and tells us to hop into the car.

  She drives us to the sporting goods store. “What size shoe are you?” she asks me as we walk in.

  I’m not sure of American sizes, so I take off my sneaker to show her. She speaks to a salesman, and he brings out several different styles of Rollerblades in size seven and a half. I like the gray ones, but the price tag is $69, way too much for me.

  “Vee don’t have money,” I whisper to Miguel.

  “I know. We’re getting them for you,” he says.

  “That’s okay,” I say. “Vee’ll take turns vearing yours.”

  “Mine are too small for you. You need your own to be my goalie.” He’s determined.

  “Thank you,” I say, hugging the big box, holding my gray blades, feeling embarrassed but so happy I can now skate with him. On the way back to their house, we stop at Toys “R” Us, and Nancie also buys me a Mighty Ducks hockey helmet that Miguel picks out, along with a goalie stick, knee pads, and gloves. I can’t believe how lucky I am to have such a nice best friend who has such a generous mom.

  Back in Miguel’s driveway, he suits me up with the helmet, gloves, kneepads, and a long-sleeved sweatshirt. I’m cold until I start playing. He shows me how to hold the stick to block a shot. He whacks the tennis ball right at me. For an hour, he takes wrist and slap shots at me, over and over, teaching me to control the ball and stop breakaways. The ball hits me everywhere as I move quickly to intercept each shot, but because of the pads, it doesn’t hurt.

  “You have fast reflexes,” Miguel says.

  “I vas good at dodging bullets,” I tell him. He laughs, but I’m not really joking.

  * * *

  On Sunday morning Nancie drives us to an abandoned parking lot on a dead-end street in town, where we meet John, Darren, and Kyle, who I know from school, and a bunch of other guys. They wave to me and say hi as we all put on our Rollerblades. I’m happy to have my own, glad they don’t know Miguel’s mom had to buy them for me.

  We play street hockey for hours. I’m the goalie for Miguel’s team, catching the tennis ball the other team shoots at me with the glove on my left hand or hitting it back with the stick in my right. I feel important, and I want to impress everyone so they’ll let me play again.

  “Isn’t he quick?” Miguel brags to our teammate Pete, a tall, athletic kid with short brown hair. “It’s from dodging bullets and bombs during his war.”

  “Really cool,” Pete says. “He’s wicked insane for someone who never played hockey before.”

  I beam. But Miguel talks so highly of my skills, it’s also a little stressful. I don’t want to let him down.

  “I hope you stay in this country to play high school hockey,” he says. “You’re that good.”

  I feel popular, one of the guys, the way I did with my old buddies. Except now I have a new best friend who compliments me and treats me like I’m a special guest. It’s like I traded up.

  * * *

  At school, my history class is putting on a play about America’s Revolutionary War. Miguel is cast as Paul Revere. The teacher asks me to be a minuteman. I have to walk back and forth across the stage holding a wooden rifle. I like being in the play, but it’s about a war that happened in America a long time ago. In my mind, I’m really practicing how to be a soldier to protect my people when we go back to Bosnia.

  One Friday night, Don comes home and tells my father, “I’ve been talking to my church member, Donald Roth, who has a Polystar bottle cap factory in Norwalk. He wants to meet with you and Eldin.”

  Don drives them to the plant. When they return, Eldin says, “He offered us both full-time jobs on the assembly line. They make tops for fruit cups.”

  “Cool! What will you be doing there?” I ask.

  “Dad is in charge of the plastic lid machine. If it gets jammed, he opens it up to clear it and get it working again,” Eldin explains. “I’ll work in quality control of the lids.”

  “It’s much better pay. Plus we get full benefits with health insurance!” Dad adds.

  They start their new jobs on Monday, getting a ride early in the morning, coming home at six at night. Everyone’s pleased with this step up, so I am too. Though I really miss the different foods they were bringing home.

  Then, in the middle of March, Dad comes home with news.

  “We can’t keep up this long commute to work without a car. And Westport is too expensive for us,” he tells Don and Katie at dinner. “Ellie found us a two-bedroom on Clinton Avenue. A rental near the factory in Norwalk that we can afford. It’s eight hundred and seventy-five a month. We just need to save up enough for the security deposit.”

  “You know what?” Don says. “I think we have a new church fund to help you out with that.”

  “We can’t take any more from you,” Dad tells him.

  “That’s what the money is for,” Don insists. “For a worthy cause, to help those in need. I couldn’t get bac
k what Barbara stole from you. But this fund is my domain, and I insist you take it.”

  “Are you sure?” my father asks.

  Don nods.

  My mother jumps in. “That’s so wonderful. We’ll never be able to repay you.”

  The grownups and Eldin are all smiling now, but I’m worried about what this means. “Wait. We can’t move now! I’ll have to switch schools. I won’t be in Miguel’s class!” I yell. It feels like I’ve swallowed a rock and it’s caught in my throat. “I can’t start all over now! It’s not fair.”

  “Get a grip, bro. It’s only like twelve miles away,” Eldin tells me. “We’re going to have our own place.”

  “We’ll be able to pay rent for the first time in two years,” Dad says. “We can sign a year’s lease.”

  “But what if the war finishes sooner?”

  Eldin shrugs. “Then we’ll just break the agreement and forfeit the security deposit.”

  “I’ll skip my classes and flunk out until they put me back at Bedford,” I mutter, fuming.

  “Who’ll drive you every day?” Eldin asks me. “There’s no school bus that goes from Bedford Middle School to Norwalk. We don’t have a car or a license.”

  My brother always has an easy answer when it’s not his problem. He thinks he knows everything.

  * * *

  The next weekend, while Miguel and I are playing street hockey with the guys, I break the news. “I have to move. Different school. I don’t vant to.” I try not to cry when I tell him.

  “Norwalk’s really close. Just four exits on the highway,” Miguel says, like it’s no big deal.

  “I hope it’s not near the train station,” Pete says. “It’s dangerous over there.”