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As the men set to work hitching up the wagon and loading more bread and cheese and sausage, the women began silently to clean an already spotless kitchen. They could hear the men talking as they worked. What were the men saying? What plan could save them now?
"We should just stay here," Auntie Burbuqe declared, breaking the silence. "Take our chances here. That tractor Isn't very powerful, and the wagon is much too small for all of us."
Mama shook her head. "I don't know," she said. "I just don't know. Let's wait and hear what they think. They must have some ideas." She's remembering that woman, thought Meli, the one with the terrible story. Occasionally, they could hear Mehmet's voice, raised in argument. It's already past dawn. How much longer are they going to keep talking and arguing out there?
At last they came in. "We should eat something before we start," Baba said. "It is a long way, and we'll have to take turns walking."
Auntie Burbuqe and Mama dished out some leftover soup. They didn't want to take the time to make a fire, so they ate it cold, along with a bit of bread and sausage. No one had much appetite.
"Fetch some more water for the trip, Meli," said Mama. "What you drew earlier..."
Meli got a bucket from the kitchen and ran out to the well, grateful for something to do. Then, over the creak of the pump, she heard a sound—the sound of a motor. Her hand stopped in midair. She squeezed her eyes closed and willed it to be the well-known noisy clunking of Uncle Fadil's old Lada, coming home like a lost dog to its owner. But it was no use pretending. What she was listening to was the unfamiliar sound of a newer, smoother-running car. Grabbing the half-filled pail, Meli ran for the kitchen door.
"Someone's coming!"
At first everyone was frozen in place, listening. As the sound grew louder, they began to gravitate toward the living room, as if drawn there by some outside force. No one spoke. Louder and louder the motor sounded; then they heard the squeal of brakes. Meli held her breath, counting as car doors slammed—one, two, three, four—and then, without warning, the front door flew open. Five men in ski masks burst into the room. Four of the men held rifles at the ready; the fifth was waving a huge pistol. These were new weapons, not the old castoffs carried by the KLA. One of the intruders went into Uncle Fadil's bedroom and came back carrying a pillowcase. The man with the pistol pointed at Mama and Auntie Burbuqe and Nexima. "Take off all that gold," he ordered. "Rings, necklace, bracelets—everything."
As the women struggled to pull their rings off fingers that had grown thicker with the years, he got more and more impatient. "Faster, or I'll have to cut them off."
Another of the men made Baba and Uncle Fadil empty their pockets—money, licenses, ID cards of any sort. "So we won't be able to prove we live here," Mehmet muttered.
"Quiet!" one of the men ordered.
When all the valuables had been put into the pillowcase, the pistol wielder yelled, "Get out now! All of you—out! This house belongs to the Serbian people. Why are you standing there like fools? I said get out!"
Just then Granny appeared at the kitchen door. She was dressed, as usual, in her baggy dhimmi trousers, a large overshirt, and an old stretched sweater, with her headscarf tied over what was left of her thin white hair. She was hugging the shawl that hung around her shoulders. For a few seconds she stared at the intruders, squinting her watery eyes. "Who are these people?" she asked querulously.
One of the masked men stepped forward and poked her with the end of his long rifle. "Give me your gold!"
Granny just stared at him.
"She's a widow. She has no gold," Baba said.
"Then get out, old woman!" the man shouted, poking her again with his gun.
"Show some respect," Baba said quietly. "She doesn't—"
The gunman turned his barrel toward Baba. "Shut up and get out before we lose patience with the lot of you."
"I don't want to go out," said Granny, holding her shawl tightly to her waist. "Why do I have to go out?" She looked more confused than Nexima's three-year-old.
"Come, Mama," Baba said gently, taking her arm. "It's time to leave."
One of the babies began to cry. "Get that brat out of here, or I will shut it up." The one with the pistol took aim at the baby's head.
They hurried out then, grabbing up shoes, jostling one another through the narrow doorway, but once in the yard they hesitated. Where were they to go?
"And leave that tractor and wagon right where they are. They belong to us!" one of the men shouted from the open door.
"We'll need it to take our livestock!" another taunted.
"And anything worth the bother," said a third.
"Get the wheelbarrow, Mehmet," Baba said under his breath. "And fast." There was no need to add "fast." Mehmet was gone and back almost before Baba had finished the sentence.
Baba picked Granny up and put her carefully into the wheelbarrow. Her legs dangled over the edge, and her dhimmi were hiked up halfway to her knees. Baba tried to pull the trouser legs down, but he couldn't tug them as far as her ankles. She was still clutching at her waist. She must be so embarrassed. Meli found herself blushing for the old woman. Granny had always been so traditional, wearing a headscarf and dhimmi. But as immodest and as uncomfortable as she looked, Meli saw that Granny was smiling at Baba as though she were Vlora being given a ride for a treat.
"Let's go," Baba said, lifting the handles. "Everyone. As quickly as you can."
