The Day of the Pelican (2 page)

Before Meli could think who this Adem person might be, Isuf pushed the door open, and both boys ran into the parlor and flung themselves against their father. Vlora was right behind; even at four she knew to be frightened. She ran for the safety of her mother's lap and buried her face in Mama's apron. Mama picked her up and held her close. The other adults sat in stunned silence. Baba began to rub the little boys' backs with his big hands.

"Seventy people." It was Mehmet who broke the silence. "Adem Jashari and his family. Those Serb butchers just went in and slaughtered them all."

Uncle Fadil's head was down, and Meli could hardly hear him. "It is said that one child escaped—one of the little girls."

"They said he was part of the KLA—that he was threatening violence," said Mehmet. "How dare they accuse
us
of violence?"

"Meli," Mama said softly, "the mineral water? And it smells as though the coffee is ready."

Meli put the coffee cups on the tray with the glasses. Her hands shook as she poured out the strong, sweet liquid.
They aren't just killing a few men here and there. They're slaughtering whole families. What does it mean?
She tried to steady herself, but the cups rattled in their saucers as she brought the tray in and passed the mineral water and coffee to her aunt and uncle and the coffee to her parents. "Fix a cup for Mehmet," Mama said as she took her cup, "and one for yourself, too. You will have to be grown-ups now."

"Me, too," said Isuf. "I'm almost nine."

"You may have a sip of mine," Baba said. "And you, too, Adil."

"Does it have lots of sugar?"

"Yes, of course," Baba said, rubbing Adil's hair. "Meli made it just right."

Meli poured coffee for Mehmet and herself in the everyday cups and then sat down on the low stool in front of the TV set. They sat in silence for a long time. Even the youngest were quiet. What would her grandparents think of this, she wondered. But they just stared out grimly from their silver frame, saying nothing.

Uncle Fadil took a noisy slurp, smoothed his mustache, and cleared his throat. "We came," he said, "we came because we want you to come home. No place is safe, but if things go—go badly, at least we will have each other."

But the house in the country isn't home. This apartment is my home. How can 1 leave here? Leave school and Zana?
Meli couldn't bear the thought. Besides, she reasoned, if no place was safe, why not stay right where they were?
It's true that the Serb family next door no longer shops in Baba's store, and they never speak if you see them on the street. But they have been our neighbors for my whole life. Why, just four years ago, when Vlora was born, Mrs. Jokic brought over a huge cake. Surely they would never harm us. The police are annoying, but we know better than to provoke them, and they've never seriously threatened us.
Still, this Adem Jashari person and all of his large extended family were dead.
What does that mean for us? For any Albanian in Kosovo? But to leave our home...?

Everyone was looking at Baba. It was he who must decide. He took a long sip of his coffee and gave a taste to each of the little boys before he looked directly at his younger brother and answered. "Thank you, brother. You are always kind, but how can I leave my apartment and my store? My children have never known another home, and every Albanian in the neighborhood depends on me, on our store, for food. What would we do in the country? I don't even know what kind of school there is in the village." He shook his head. "On the farm we would only be a burden. Here we are among friends. Here we are needed."

"I am not being kind," Uncle Fadil said, his voice rising. "The farm is your home, brother. It is your
home
I'm talking about. It belongs to you as much as to me. You know that!"

Auntie Burbuqe half rose to her feet. "Come on! I swear to God. Are we family or not?"

Meli was startled. She d never seen Auntie so agitated.

"You are right, Burbuqe," said Baba. "We are family, and family is more important than anything. But"—he gave a little laugh—"I grew up in that house. I know how small it is. And look at us. After those long years of waiting, Sevdie and I now find ourselves blessed with all these children. Besides, you must think of your own Nexima. With Hamza's people dead, they have no family home to go to except ours. Suppose they decide to come back from Prishtina. They have three children. That little house would burst like an overripe pumpkin."

Uncle Fadil shook his head. For a moment Meli thought he might argue, but he just stood up. "We must get back. Mother is alone. And the milking..." He looked about for a place to set down his empty cup and saucer, so Meli quickly fetched the tray for him. "If you change your mind, my brother, there is always room for you."

"Yes," said Auntie Burbuqe. "Please know we want you with us. All of you."

As soon as the car pulled away from in front of the store, Meli ran down to the garden to finish bringing in the clean wash. Maybe if she did something ordinary, the day would untwist itself and life would seem normal again.

***

The cherry trees put out their pale pink blossoms against the brilliant blue of the spring sky. House martins built a new nest under the eaves. The storks made their long journey home. School went on much as usual, though everyone seemed to have a touch of spring fever. Meli was sure her father had been right to stay. Oh, in town there had been some anti-Serb graffiti sprayed on the front of the town hall ("a schoolboy prank," Baba had said), and some hand grenades had exploded in a nearby village, but on the whole everything was quiet. Too quiet, perhaps. They all began to believe that the worst was over. After all, what could be worse than the massacre of the seventy members of the Jashari family?

The warmth of spring turned too early into the heat of summer. The ubiquitous crows were squawking over territory and bits of food like old women squabbling in the marketplace. Even with all the windows open, the classroom on that last day of May was stifling. All Meli wanted was to be outdoors—not crowded with fifty other upper-grade children into a room of the house the Albanians used for a school. All the regular schools now belonged to the Serbs.

It was so hot that Meli found herself nodding as Mr. Uka droned on and on. To keep awake, she began to study the teacher's nose. It was so big. It occurred to her that Mr. Uka reminded her of a pelican. He was so patriotic that he should have looked like a proper Kosovar stork, but his nose was bulbous, not long and patrician. Alas, much closer kin to the pelicans she d seen in books than to a stork. In her boredom, she drew a picture of a pelican that looked surprisingly like Mr. Uka. Zana, who shared her desk, peered over Meli's arm. She began to giggle. It was contagious. Meli couldn't help herself.

"Zana, Meli, come to the front," Mr. Uka ordered.

Meli tried to slip the picture into her pocket, but it was too late. Mr. Uka held out his hand. He studied the picture for a minute.
Don't let him see the resemblance.
"Very clever," he said. "But what do pelicans have to do with the history of Kosovo?"

"Nothing, sir," Meli mumbled. Even with her back to Mehmet, she could feel his disapproval. She didn't dare look. She knew how angry her brother must be.

"Then we will keep the pelican for science class," the teacher said. "And I would like the two of you to stay after school to catch up on history."

When Mr. Uka finally dismissed the girls, Mehmet was nowhere to be seen.
He ran home to tattle on me,
Meli thought. It wasn't fair. Baba would want an explanation as to why Mehmet hadn't waited—why he was letting the girls walk home alone. Baba had told him months ago that he was to look out for them. Their father would be angry with them both.

As always, the girls had to pass the police station on their way. A Serb policeman was loitering outside. "Where are you girls headed?" he asked. He spoke, of course, in Serbian, and Meli had sense enough to answer in the same language. "Just home," she said. The man shrugged. Out of sight of the station the girls walked faster, and once she had left Zana at her house, Meli broke into a run. She was very late.

Yes, there was Baba waiting outside the store. "Meli," he said. "Praise God, you re home. But where is Mehmet?"

B
ABA'S QUESTION HIT MELI LIKE A BLOW TO HER CHEST.
What on earth did he mean?

"Where's Mehmet?" he asked again. "He isn't with you?"

She shook her head, and when she opened her mouth, her voice shook as well. "Mr. Uka made me and Zana stay after dismissal. I—I thought Mehmet would be here already."

Baba didn't ask her why she d had to stay after school. He would have known it was for punishment, but he seemed not to care. "I told Mehmet to come straight home. I had work for him at the store." He began to pace up and down the street, but when he got to the corner, he stopped himself and came back to where Meli stood. "Come inside. It won't do for us to talk in the street."

There were no customers in the store. Still, Baba led Meli to the back corner. She found herself looking over her shoulder to see if anyone was coming to the door while her father talked. She had never seen him look fearful before, and it frightened her. "What did he say to you?" he asked. "Was he running off to play soccer again?"

"He didn't speak to me after school, Baba. I—I think he was angry because I misbehaved and had to stay late. I thought he was coming right home."

"Tell your mama to come down here."

"Baba. You don't think anything has happened to Mehmet?" Sometimes Albanian men disappeared, but Mehmet was only thirteen. Surely...

"Just get your mother. You stay and watch the little ones. And don't frighten them."

She climbed the inside stairs to the apartment. The boys were playing in the garden as usual. Mama was in the kitchen preparing supper, and Vlora was sitting on a high stool pretending to help. Mama looked up when Meli came into the room. "Meli. You children are very late today."

"Baba needs you downstairs for a minute, Mama. Vlora and I will finish making supper, won't we, Vlora?"

Vlora smiled. "I'm making stew," she said.

It was many minutes before Mama came back up the stairs. She was breathing heavily. "Baba's going around to Neshim's," she said. "Those two boys probably got into a soccer game and forgot the time." She came close to Meli standing at the stove. "Try not to worry," she whispered, pushing a strand of hair from Meli's forehead.

How could Meli not worry? Her family lived in a country where people were known to disappear without a trace. Men, mostly—men who were suspected of Kosovo Liberation Army connections. But for all his posturing, Mehmet was only a boy. He wasn't part of the KLA. Surely not even a Serb policeman would think ... But who knew what those people thought?

Mama fed the youngsters early. When Isuf asked where Baba and Mehmet were, Mama just said, "Oh, Baba and Mehmet had some errands to run. They'll eat when they get home."

Meli couldn't believe how calm her mother sounded. Her own stomach was churning like an eggbeater.

Bedtime came for the young ones, and still no Baba or Mehmet. Meli tried to do her homework, though none of the math problems made sense and she soon gave up. She couldn't make her head work properly. Everything jumped about inside. She flipped on the television, but all the blare of Serbian propaganda just made her more nervous, and she switched it off and went to the front window to watch for them. Finally, she saw a figure emerge from the shadows. Surely it was Baba, although the man walking up the dark street was bent over like a ninety-year-old. She must go meet him. She had to hear his news, however terrible it was. She started toward the door, but Mama caught her arm. "Wait, Meli. It is better if we talk inside," she said.

Baba came through the side gate and up the stairs so slowly that Meli thought she might cry out before he actually reached the landing. In the light from the kitchen his face looked gray.

"No word?" Mama asked as she opened the door. It was more of a statement than a question.

Baba shook his head, sighing deeply as he took off his shoes at the door. He stumbled through into the living room and fell into a chair. "Neshim said he spoke to Mehmet after school." He went on, careful not to look at Meli. "He was angry, Neshim said, and not sure what he should do. He knew he was supposed to walk home with the girls, but he had promised to help me, so finally he just said he had to go and ran ahead." Baba sighed again. "That was the last Neshim saw of him—running up the street."

"What of his other friends?" Mama asked. "The other boys he plays soccer with. Surely someone saw him after that."

"I went from house to house. None of the boys know anything." The look that passed between her parents sent ice through Meli's whole body.

"I'm sure he's all right," Meli said. "He has to be." The words were hardly out of her mouth before she knew how foolish and desperate she sounded.

"
Inshallah,
" murmured Mama.

Inshallah.
God willing.
Yes, please, God,
Meli prayed.
Let him be safe.

"You must eat some supper, Hashim," Mama said. "It's very late."

Her father shook his head. "How can I eat when my firstborn is missing and I don't know where he is to be found?" He lurched to his feet. "We will both be home soon.
Inshallah.
"

"Hashim. Where are you going?"

"To the police," Baba said.

"No, not the police."

"They are the only ones who know where my son is. You know that is true, Sevdie." He walked out the door, leaving it open behind him.

"Go with him, Meli," Mama said. "Perhaps they won't arrest him if he has his daughter with him."

Her father soon realized that Meli was following him up the street. "Go home, child," he said. "Stay with your mother. She's already anxious about your brother. I don't want her to have to worry about you as well."

Meli just shook her head. As scared as she was, she was determined to do as Mama had asked. The police had seen her walk past every day with Mehmet. They might remember that the two of them were only schoolchildren, not terrorists to be jailed ... or tortured ... or ... killed. She closed her eyes to shut out such thoughts.