The Day of the Pelican (11 page)

To her surprise, Mehmet was not opposed to the idea of America. "I'm going to go to America and get rich. Then I'll come back and fight for independence. Maybe I'll see Bill Clinton. Thank him for the bombs."

They knew that the legendary American president and his wife had come to Macedonia and visited the camp at Stenkovic. Mehmet felt cheated that he had missed seeing his current hero. "He should have come to our camp to see us," he said.

"But you weren't even here. You were home when he was at Stenkovic," Meli said.

"I'll see him someday."

Someday.
All of them, even Meli, frightened as she was by the whole idea of America, were anxious for that "someday" when the word would come and their names would appear on the list of those to leave the camp. The papers had all been filled out. Now they must wait, Baba said, for a sponsor in America: someone who would help them settle into their new country.
But even in a country as rich as America, who would want responsibility for a family with five children,
Meli wondered,
a family in which no one can speak English?

A few days later Mehmet said that one of the American volunteers had offered to teach English to those who had applied to go to America. Baba was pleased. He insisted that Mehmet and Meli attend. "You should go, too, Baba," Meli said.

Mama agreed. "It is a good example," she said quietly, pointing her chin toward Mehmet. So Baba went with them, but it was a trial for him, Meli saw. Mehmet was so much quicker than their father.
He shouldn't act so smug—just because he's more clever than we are.
She did her best to pretend that she was having just as hard a time as Baba was, though in truth she was catching on much faster than her father.

"Can you tell me the way to the supermarket?" the young volunteer teacher said, and the little class of refugees young and old echoed the alien sounds, all but Baba.

"What does it mean, 'soopera mekit'?" he whispered loudly enough to make several people turn around and stare at him.

"Hush," Mehmet said. "Just repeat."

Baba's sun-browned face couldn't hide the red flush in his cheeks.
When had his mustache turned white? When had so much gray appeared on his head of thick black hair?
Meli bit her lip and fixed her eyes on the instructor.

Meantime, Baba and Uncle Fadil had located a distant relative in Skopje. The Macedonian cousin came to the camp, bringing a gift of money and the loan of an ancient Mercedes. The family that had clung together for so long was about to be torn apart—maybe forever.

"It's time for us to leave," Uncle Fadil said. "Granny is strong enough to travel, and we have the use of this car. I'll stop by and see you when I come back to return it."

Meli held each twin so close they wriggled out of her arms. She hugged Granny and Nexima and dear Auntie Burbuqe, who was sobbing right out loud. They all, except Mehmet—who seemed to think himself too manly to cry—were wiping their eyes when the final good-byes were said. Uncle Fadil shook hands gravely all around. When he got to Mehmet he put his left hand on his nephew's shoulder. "Be a man," he said.

"I'm a man and a half," Mehmet said, and grinned to soften the boast. Uncle Fadil smiled and got in behind the wheel. He looked about, as though he needed to make sure all his passengers were safely in place before starting the engine.

"May your life be lengthened, brother," Baba said, sticking his head in the window of the Mercedes.

Uncle Fadil reached out and touched his older brother's face. "May we see one another well," he replied, his voice cracking before he finished the sentence. Then he revved up the motor of the big car, and they were off. Elez kept his nose to the back window, waving at his cousins, and they all waved back until the car was a dot on the dust of the road. Then, hardly looking at each other, they went back through the camp gate.

"Nobody left but just us chickens," Mehmet said under his breath.

***

Those still in the shrunken camp were all waiting, all wishing to be somewhere else, all checking the list every day to see if their names had magically appeared for transport to a new life. The children had outgrown their clothes, so they went to the designated tent and tried on new ones. Not really new, of course; they were used clothes sent to the camp from people in Western Europe or America. It was silly to hope that the two dresses she chose were stylish, Meli knew. No one would throw away a perfectly good dress if it were up-to-date. Mehmet was thrilled to find a pair of jeans that fit him—well, almost fit. The waist was a little large, but he kept them up with a length of cord. "Jeans," he said proudly. "Just like a Hollywood star."

Fortunately, although July was hot, it was mostly clear. Then, when it did begin to rain, there was no way to keep things dry. The tent smelled of mildew, and the paths were muddy troughs. The family began going barefoot to spare their single pairs of new hand-me-down shoes. They tried to keep clean, but a weekly cold shower did nothing but take off the current layer of mud. As soon as they left the shower tent, they were dirty again. Meli tried not to remember the big enamel tub in the apartment or the luxury of hot water, big bars of soap and bleached white towels, clean underwear, and clothes that fit her body.

By the end of July Baba had stopped going to the classes with them. At first he made excuses about having to check the lists or talk to some camp official about papers, but eventually he didn't bother with excuses. He just didn't go back to class. Meli was secretly relieved. How could she learn anything with Baba at her elbow feeling lost and hopeless and humiliated by his own children? Still, how were they to get along in America if their father couldn't even speak to people? It would be as though Mehmet had become head of the family, and Mehmet wasn't wise and caring like Baba. What would happen to them in that strange new land without him in charge? Why couldn't they just go home? Yes, the apartment would be crowded, though no more crowded than the farmhouse had been last winter. But Baba was adamant: They would wait for the papers and the promise of sponsorship that would let them emigrate to America.

Letters from home, when they came, did not bring good news. Hamza was dead; they were sure of it now. The KLA had confirmed it. Granny stayed in bed all the time. Thank God there was a bed for her to lie in, Uncle Fadil said, for the barbarians had destroyed so much else. Relief teams had brought food, and the NATO troops were trying to keep order, but when the Jokics, their Serb neighbors, fled north, the KLA came and burned their house.

"I asked them," Uncle Fadil wrote, "'Why do you burn a perfectly good house? My cousin and his family could live there when they come back.' But they wouldn't listen to me."

"You see," Baba said when he read them the letter, "hate makes no sense."
Yes, it does, Baba, to everyone but you.
But the thought of the next-door neighbors turning into refugees did not satisfy any need for revenge. The Jokics had done no harm to the Lleshis, or to anyone else that she knew of. And Baba was right: burning a perfectly good house made no sense at all.

Unlike many in the camp, they stayed well. "You see," Mehmet said, "the KLA camp made us strong. If it weren't for them, we'd be sniffling and croaking like these weaklings around here."

"Hush," said Mama. "Thank God for your health, not the KLA."

***

At last came the news they had almost given up hoping for. They were cleared to go to America. They had a sponsor: a church in Vermont.

"Where's Vermont?" Mehmet asked. "Is it near New York?"

Baba wasn't sure, but he didn't think so. America was a very big country.

But a church?
"Our sponsors are Christians?" Meli asked.

"Yes," said Baba. "There are many Christians in America."

"Is it safe?" Isuf asked. "All those Christians? Maybe they just want to get us there and kill us."

"And burn down our house!" Adil added.

Meli tried to smile. It was a childish fear, but still...

Baba squatted so as to be closer to Isuf's level. "Isuf," he said, "at one time all of us were Christians."

"I was not!"

"Me neither!" said Adil.

"Until the Turks came, we Albanians were all Christians. Skanderbeg was a Christian."

The thought of the great hero whose picture hung in their schoolroom being a Christian was almost too much for the little brothers, who started to protest, but Baba continued. "And there are still Albanian Christians. You remember Mark," he said, mentioning one of their playmates at home. "His mama and baba are Christians."

"They don't go to the Serbian church," Isuf maintained stubbornly. He wasn't about to identify his friend with their enemies.

"No," Baba said, "they go to the Catholic church. There are different kinds of Christians, just as there are different kinds of Muslims. The church that is sponsoring us is still another kind of Christian."

"Not Serbian?"

"No," Baba assured him. "Something else they call Protestant."

"Oh. That's silly," said Isuf.

"Maybe so," said Baba, "but you don't have to be afraid. They want to help us, to be our friends, so you must be very polite to them. All right?"

Isuf nodded. "All right, Baba," he said. "And I'll make Adil and Vlora behave, too."

***

Every day they checked to see if their names were on the list, the list that would tell the time they must be at the gate on the following day for transportation to the airport.

As glad as she would be to leave the discomforts of camp, now that it was almost time to go Meli dreaded the thought of actually leaving. That would mean giving up any hope of going back to her old life. All at once she knew that what she wanted more than anything in the world was the life she had left behind: the homey apartment over Baba's store, her little brothers wrestling in the backyard, Mama making wonderful smells in the kitchen, Mehmet laughing as he teased her. Being best friends with Zana again. And yet, now that permission had actually come for them to emigrate, she found herself growing impatient. If they must go, then they should do so at once. She was weary of the waiting, tired of being a jailed chicken. If she could not go home, she wanted to be free of her chicken-wire prison.

A few more days of hurrying to get ready, only to be told once again to be patient—there were still details to be worked out—and then one chilly September day, their names appeared on the magic list. The van for the Skopje airport was scheduled for eight a.m. the following morning. They had no watches, so the Lleshis were at the gate at dawn, with the extra clothes they had been given packed into three small plastic suitcases. Baba kept patting his pocket nervously, making sure the precious papers were safe.

"We should have had breakfast," Mama said as they waited. Meli was sure she would have been too nervous to eat, though by the time the van finally appeared, her stomach felt hollow. Baba had been given a little money, and in the airport he bought two sausages and had the woman selling them cut them into pieces so that everyone could have a taste.

"They told me at the camp that there would be food on the airplane," he said. "So just a few bites for now, all right?" The sausage, which was greasy and too highly spiced, lay heavily on Meli's stomach, but she said nothing. Baba was trying so hard to take care of them. If only she had a book, something to read, anything to pass the time. At last the plane was announced. They jumped to their feet and got into the long line of passengers. Another wait, and then they were aboard, three near the window and four in the middle of the huge belly of the plane. The woman in charge showed everyone how to fasten the belts around their waists and what to do if they needed oxygen, and by the time she began to demonstrate how to put on their life preservers if they crashed into the ocean, Meli was in a sweat from anxiety. Finally, though, they were roaring down the field and lifting into the sky, snatched from a world that, however temporary and hard to bear, had felt safe compared to the alien world they were rushing to meet.

"Meli, make Isuf let me sit by the window. It's my turn now." Adil was yanking at the sleeve of her new jacket, which made her realize how hot she felt. She leaned over both boys. There was nothing to see but blue, blue sky and whiteness below. Clouds. Her stomach gave a lurch. They were above the clouds.

"Don't fight, boys," she said, slumping back against the seat.

A uniformed woman—the flight attendant, of course—was leaning over her, saying something in another language. Could it be German? It didn't sound like Macedonian, and it certainly wasn't Albanian or Serbian. Meli shook her head. The attendant tried something else that might have been English. Then why couldn't Meli understand?
Could you tell me the way to the supermarket?
No, of course, that wouldn't do. "Yes," she said. That should be safe.

The woman said something else, maybe in English, indicating the boys. "Yes, yes," Meli said.

The attendant leaned across and put down little shelves from the backs of the seats in front of them. Then on each shelf—or table—she put a napkin and a little package, and she poured each of them a drink. The boys immediately left off fighting and put their noses into the fizz. Yes, it was cola, a rare treat back in the days when they had such a thing as a treat. Meli helped them tear open their strange little packages of mixed salty things and then leaned back once more against the back of the seat.

"Drink it, Meli. It's good," Adil urged.

She obeyed. The boys were loving the airplane. She mustn't spoil it for them. When the real food came, even though her stomach seemed to have been doing flip-flops, she ate everything. Who knew when the next meal might be? And, although she couldn't have believed she'd be able to sleep, once the attendant showed her how to lower the back of her seat, she dropped off.

Baba was shaking her. "We have to get off," he said.

"Is it New York?"

"No, Vienna. We change to another plane here. Wake up the boys."

They clung to Baba like baby monkeys. They weren't going to lose each other in Vienna. They'd never find each other again in that huge, crowded airport where no one spoke any language that any of them knew. Mehmet showed off his English, and he proudly herded them to the transfer gate that said
NEW YORK JFK.
Again the wait, the line, the moving down the narrow aisle into the broad belly of the plane to find their seats. Like a veteran of air travel, Meli helped her little brothers fasten their seat belts and then fastened her own and sat back.
This is it. In a few more hours, we will be in New York, USA.