The Bosnia List: A Memoir of War, Exile, and Return by Kenan Trebincevic & Susan Shapiro

Author:Kenan Trebincevic & Susan Shapiro
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: Penguin Group US
Published: 2014-02-24T22:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER SEVEN

* * *

My Grandpa Murat’s Karma

Brcko, Bosnia

September 1992

“Those are not for Muslims,” yelled a Serb woman at the makeshift Brcko market, grabbing the red peppers from my hand. But I needed to buy us something to eat. If I returned empty-handed, my father would blame himself for not protecting me. Mom would feel awful she couldn’t feed me. We just had soybeans in the cabinet and hardly any more money. Our neighbors hoped we’d die so they could loot what was left of our apartment. Although I was only eleven, letting my family down made me feel like a failure.

Walking home with my head down, hungry and dejected, I looked up to see Pero on the street corner. He wore a blue uniform and held a rifle, and was flirting with a pretty girl who had dark curly hair. I hadn’t seen my coach in four months, since his armed police unit invaded our home. I stopped in front of him. I felt no respect or awe anymore; I was hurt and let down. I wanted to ask how he could let his men threaten us by gunpoint. If he was so powerful, why wouldn’t he help us escape? He saw me and started laughing. As I walked away, I caught him pointing his finger and cracking up, humiliating me in front of his girl.

“I hope you die,” I muttered. It was the last time I’d see him alive.

• • •

That night, I was sitting in the rocking chair in our living room, swaying back and forth by candlelight, when the knock on our door made me jerk. I stopped swaying and turned toward the door, scared that Pero had returned to get us. Or it could be Daca, here to steal more.

“Can I come in?” a lady asked. She introduced herself as Zorica and said she was a Bosnian Serb who’d been living in Croatia. Behind her was a shy six-year-old boy, holding her hand. She said they’d moved right below us, into my good pal Huso’s two-bedroom apartment. Huso’s family had fled the country for safety, in the middle of the night, without saying good-bye. Dad said they had to go fast; they were on a blacklist to be killed. I didn’t like that Huso was gone and this woman had taken his home.

I stared at Zorica, who had short, puffy brown hair and wore jeans, a T-shirt, and sandals. No lipstick or makeup. She looked Mom’s age. She took her shoes off at the door and instructed her son to take his sneakers off too. Mom let her inside, and she shook hands with my brother and Dad. She wasn’t armed or eyeing our belongings. She already had Huso’s place. So what did she want from us?

“I’d offer coffee, but we don’t have propane left,” Mom said, looking ashamed.

“Your father and my uncle were friends from World War II,” Zorica told her.

“Kenan, why don’t you go show her son your miniature cars?” Mom prompted. I played with the boy nearby so I could eavesdrop.

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