Girl at War(57)

“It’s true!”

“But she’s just a little kid. A girl.”

“She’s in fatigues,” he said, gesturing to Damir’s clothes. “You’re a Safe Houser, aren’t you? I’ve heard about you guys.”

“She’s like eight!”

“Well?” said the first soldier.

“Forward grip, gas chamber, cleaning rod, bolt, frame, magazine. Function check,” I said.

The soldiers’ eyes widened, but the one next to me played it off. “See? Anyway”—he turned to me again—“those seats in the back are all dead guys. Hopefully we make it up north before the smell gets any worse.”

“Would you stop?” said the other soldier.

“She ain’t no little kid.” He put his head back, feigning sleep, and ignored both of us for the rest of the night.

—

I woke the next morning in Zagreb with no memory of changing buses. It was an unseasonably warm day, the winter sun close and exacting. I pulled my sweatshirt off and stuffed it in Drenka’s bag, stood squinting and bewildered in the bus terminal’s dirty parking lot. I took the chain-link exit for authorized personnel only to avoid the crowds in the station and emerged through an alley out onto Dr?i?a Avenue.

Zagreb appeared relatively unharmed, and I was overwhelmed by its size and bustle, felt out of sync with the constant motion of the city. I noticed families walking together clad in khakis and patent leather and realized they were probably leaving church, that it was Sunday. The concept of time organized into seven-day units seemed almost foreign now, as if I’d never abided by the calendar. I wondered how long I’d been gone, whether I’d missed Christmas. I thought of school and was dismayed that everyone I knew had undoubtedly continued going there every day without me.

The city I had called my own, one I’d considered a war zone when I left it, now felt like neither. It was as if the whole of Zagreb had been repainted—Technicolor—the hues more vivid, the glass within each windowpane more burnished.

I stared at a family as they crossed the street, let my eyes linger too long, and their mother glared at my dirty T-shirt with the condescension reserved for gypsy beggars. For a second I wished I still had my rifle—just my holding it would have stopped her from looking at me like that—but immediately I felt ashamed of the thought. I needed to keep moving. I went to Luka’s house.

When I rang the doorbell, Luka answered, his face lighting up with one of his rare unbridled smiles. He cleared his front steps in one jump, chattering out a flurry of where-have-you-beens and what-took-you-so-longs, and I felt my throat shrivel and close. I was afraid my voice would give me away or abandon me altogether, as it had before.

Luka continued prattling as he climbed back toward his door, but I found my feet reluctant to take orders. He spun around to hurry me along, and I saw his face change in what must have been the moment he finally looked at me. I watched the seriousness return to his eyes as he scanned the stains on my shirt.

“Ana,” he said. “Where are your parents?”

“At home,” I lied in my shaky voice, but he gave me a look so piercing that I burst into tears. I felt my knees soften, and he pulled my arm over his shoulders and led me up the stairs to his room, where he sat me on the edge of the bed.

“Take it off,” he said, nodding at my shirt.

“No.”

“Take it off!”

I yanked the shirt over my head, and, eyes averted, he held out his hand. I gave it to him, and he dropped it to the floor, then dug through his own bureau until he found a satisfactory replacement.

“Stay here,” he said, and I heard him calling for his mother.

Luka returned with his mother behind him, and he took my bloody shirt from the floor and handed it to her. I hadn’t cried at all in the village, but, now that I’d started, stopping proved difficult. I cried myself a nosebleed, and Luka and his mother sat beside me as I sprawled facedown on the carpet, twisting my fingers tightly through its fibers until my hands tingled. Each time someone tried to touch me I shrugged them away, but eventually I grew tired, and when Luka’s mother reached out I didn’t recoil. The weight of her palm steadied the small of my back, and when I ran out of tears I fell asleep.

—

I woke on the floor and stared at the morning through the skylight in Luka’s ceiling. Luka’s mother was asleep in a rocking chair, and Luka was in his bed against the opposite wall. My eyes and throat were swollen and slow to react. I stood, and Luka’s mother stirred, then snapped awake when her forehead scraped against the wall. She looked at me, confused, not unfamiliarly, but unable to recall why I was standing blood-streaked and puffy in her house at six in the morning. She rubbed her temples. I followed her downstairs to the kitchen.

I sat on a stool at the counter and watched her flit between the refrigerator and the stove.

“You don’t need to tell me any details.” She spoke with caution. “But I’ll need to know some things, so I can help. We can just try yes or no questions first?”

I nodded.

“Okay. You were going to Sarajevo?”

I nodded again.

“Did you get there?”

Nod.

“Is Rahela okay?”

I nodded and hoped it was true.

“So, on the way back?” she ventured.