Girl at War by Sara Nović

Author:Sara Nović
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: Adult, Young Adult, War, Historical, Contemporary
ISBN: 9780812996340
Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
Published: 2015-05-11T23:00:00+00:00

5

It wasn’t until three weeks later, as the plane was cutting through the clouds over the Balkan Peninsula, that the trip seemed like a very bad idea. Luka hadn’t written back, hadn’t called or emailed. I had to find out what had happened to him, but the closer I got the more I worried about what I would discover. Black Lamb and Grey Falcon, which I’d effectively stolen from the library, felt leaden in my lap. I’d packed stupidly, I thought, with the type of retrospective clarity I’d been experiencing in bursts throughout the night of fitful plane sleep. In the end Laura had mailed me my American passport, but not my Yugoslavian one, which I’d need if I wanted to get a new one. When the flight attendant handed out customs cards with checkboxes labeled “Citizen” or “Tourist,” it struck me that Croatia was a country to which, technically, I’d never been.

I shouldered my backpack, descended the stairs, and crossed the tarmac toward the graying building of Zagreb International. The mass of concrete tapered out into two skinny terminal arms. Three other propeller planes were parked opposite the one I’d just disembarked, and from the looks of it the airfield was at full capacity.

Despite a concerted effort to keep myself calm—the war had been over for years now; we were practically a member of NATO goddammit—I spent my first minutes on the ground waiting for something to blow up. Inside the terminal, the yellow Information signs cast a sallow light through the hall. My sneakers clung to the dirty tiles, sticky with humidity and spilled soft drinks. All these years later and the place had yet to shake its Eastern Bloc aura—the posturing with size and cement, a woman with a brash smear of cherry lipstick she can’t quite pull off. I made my way past a cluster of confused tourists to the front of the immigration line. I liked the power that came with pushing through a crowd, the kind of shoving that would be unacceptable in America. I didn’t say excuse me.

“HelloDobarDan,” said the customs agent when I reached the window. He put a hand out in request for my documents. Upon receipt of my American passport he mumbled something in broken English and reached for a stack of immigration forms.

“Dobar dan,” I tried. The words were rough in my throat. “Kako ste vi danas?” I’d conjugated the phrase formally but correctly, and stroking his mustache, he looked me over as if I’d presented him with false papers. I met his gaze. He returned the blank forms to the top of the pile.

“Welcome back,” he said in Croatian and waved me through.

Outside families were coming together. A set of toddler twins in matching sunglasses flung themselves at an elderly man. A young man in a Dinamo jersey flagged down his weary fiancée and lifted her off the floor in their embrace; the color crawled back into her cheeks when they kissed. A man in a dark suit met another in like clothing.

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