Girl at War(60)

“The foster family said they’d be willing to take you, too, provided we can make arrangements to get you there.”

“Take me?”

“Adopt you, Ana. You could go and live with them and Rahela. In America.”

I felt a rage brewing in my chest. I wanted to hit something and kicked at the bottom bar of my chair. Why were they trying to get rid of me? Dump me with some strangers on another continent?

“Why can’t we just stay here with you? Don’t you want us?”

Petar shook his head. “Do you really think that’s a good idea? To move Rahela, sick, from America back into a f*cking war zone?”

“Petar!” said Marina.

I shook my head. I hadn’t thought of it like that. Marina motioned me over, and I went and sat on her lap. She stroked my hair and glared at Petar.

“I think it’s what’s best,” she said. “For Rahela, and for you.”

“I’m sorry for yelling,” Petar said, gentler now. “But I know you’re smart enough to understand. You understand, right?”

I nodded.

“It’ll take some work to get you out of here. But I think I can do it.”

—

Petar contacted MediMission, who offered a terse response that family reunification cases were not within the scope of their work, but that he could reapply on my behalf if I ever fell ill. Then he considered refugee status, but there wasn’t an American embassy in Croatia yet. The consulate in Belgrade was running a looping voice mail that apologized for the wait time and said, due to the high volume of inquiries, they were working through a backlog of applications at this time.

“Never mind that,” said Petar. “I know someone.”

The next morning Petar and I rang the buzzer of a basement apartment beneath a butcher shop in a southern part of the city where I’d never been. We waited, listening as a series of chains and dead bolts clinked on the other side of the door. It opened a sliver, enough to reveal one pale eye, then closed to allow for more unlocking.

“Security,” the man said. “You know how it is.” Finally the door opened a passable amount and Petar and I slipped inside. The flat was dank and smelled moldy. It was hard to make out at first, but as my eyes adjusted it was clear the single-room efficiency was home to more than just an overweight bachelor; the entirety of the counter space was lined with equipment ranging from typewriters and printing presses to what was, by my best guess, a blowtorch.

“What happened to you?” the man said, gesturing to Petar’s arm.

“Shattered humerus. Shrapnel still in there.” I felt bad that I’d never asked, but it had always seemed like he didn’t want to talk about it, and that I could understand.

The man changed the subject. “And what can I do for you today?” He squatted down when he spoke to me. “You want a driver’s license?”

“Ha ha,” said Petar, and the two men executed a combination handshake-hug. The man kissed Petar three times, the Orthodox way, and I winced. “Ana,” Petar said, “this is Srdjan.” An indisputably Serbian name. My heartbeat quickened. “An old friend from high school. Srdjan knew your parents.”

Srdjan was holding out his hand. “Yes,” he said. “I’m sorry to hear.”

“Go on then. Shake his hand.”

“I can help you,” Srdjan said. I put my hand in his. “I hear you need an American visa.”

I looked up at Petar, who nodded. I nodded, too.

“Well, luckily, I happen to produce absolutely foolproof visas,” Srdjan said, with a sweeping gesture at his workshop. “I even have the very same paper that the United States of America uses.” He rummaged through paper-filled cabinets. “How are you going to fly?”

“Probably through Germany,” Petar said. “I’m still working out the finer points.”

“Germany,” he said. “As long as you stay in the international terminal you’ll be fine.”

He flipped some levers on the printing equipment, and the machines hummed. “With this paper I can produce exact American replicas! I got it from an intern at the embassy—”

“She doesn’t need to know where you got it,” Petar said, predicting the course of the story.

“Tits”—Srdjan held his hands far out from his chest—“as big as honeydew melons, I shit you not.”

Petar chuckled uneasily, and Srdjan looked surprised to find worry in his friend’s face.

“What’s wrong with tits? She’s a girl. She’s going to have tits.”

“All right! Enough with the tits.”

“Fine,” Srdjan said. He looked down at me. “Didn’t know he was so sensitive.”

“What about a passport?”

“What do you mean? We’ll just staple it in her regular passport.”

“It got…lost,” Petar said.

“Well, you could apply for a new one.”

“Not enough time. Can’t you just make her one? Make her a German one!”

“Yeah, I’ll make a fake German passport and we’ll send a kid who doesn’t speak any German to Germany with it!” Srdjan raised the heel of his hand and smacked Petar in the forehead, then shot me a wink. “Look out—we’ve got a real genius on our hands!”