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A few days later Mehmet said that one of the American volunteers had offered to teach English to those who had applied to go to America. Baba was pleased. He insisted that Mehmet and Meli attend. "You should go, too, Baba," Meli said.
Mama agreed. "It is a good example," she said quietly, pointing her chin toward Mehmet. So Baba went with them, but it was a trial for him, Meli saw. Mehmet was so much quicker than their father. He shouldn't act so smug—just because he's more clever than we are. She did her best to pretend that she was having just as hard a time as Baba was, though in truth she was catching on much faster than her father.
"Can you tell me the way to the supermarket?" the young volunteer teacher said, and the little class of refugees young and old echoed the alien sounds, all but Baba.
"What does it mean, 'soopera mekit'?" he whispered loudly enough to make several people turn around and stare at him.
"Hush," Mehmet said. "Just repeat."
Baba's sun-browned face couldn't hide the red flush in his cheeks. When had his mustache turned white? When had so much gray appeared on his head of thick black hair? Meli bit her lip and fixed her eyes on the instructor.
Meantime, Baba and Uncle Fadil had located a distant relative in Skopje. The Macedonian cousin came to the camp, bringing a gift of money and the loan of an ancient Mercedes. The family that had clung together for so long was about to be torn apart—maybe forever.
"It's time for us to leave," Uncle Fadil said. "Granny is strong enough to travel, and we have the use of this car. I'll stop by and see you when I come back to return it."
Meli held each twin so close they wriggled out of her arms. She hugged Granny and Nexima and dear Auntie Burbuqe, who was sobbing right out loud. They all, except Mehmet—who seemed to think himself too manly to cry—were wiping their eyes when the final good-byes were said. Uncle Fadil shook hands gravely all around. When he got to Mehmet he put his left hand on his nephew's shoulder. "Be a man," he said.
"I'm a man and a half," Mehmet said, and grinned to soften the boast. Uncle Fadil smiled and got in behind the wheel. He looked about, as though he needed to make sure all his passengers were safely in place before starting the engine.
"May your life be lengthened, brother," Baba said, sticking his head in the window of the Mercedes.
Uncle Fadil reached out and touched his older brother's face. "May we see one another well," he replied, his voice cracking before he finished the sentence. Then he revved up the motor of the big car, and they were off. Elez kept his nose to the back window, waving at his cousins, and they all waved back until the car was a dot on the dust of the road. Then, hardly looking at each other, they went back through the camp gate.
"Nobody left but just us chickens," Mehmet said under his breath.
***
Those still in the shrunken camp were all waiting, all wishing to be somewhere else, all checking the list every day to see if their names had magically appeared for transport to a new life. The children had outgrown their clothes, so they went to the designated tent and tried on new ones. Not really new, of course; they were used clothes sent to the camp from people in Western Europe or America. It was silly to hope that the two dresses she chose were stylish, Meli knew. No one would throw away a perfectly good dress if it were up-to-date. Mehmet was thrilled to find a pair of jeans that fit him—well, almost fit. The waist was a little large, but he kept them up with a length of cord. "Jeans," he said proudly. "Just like a Hollywood star."
Fortunately, although July was hot, it was mostly clear. Then, when it did begin to rain, there was no way to keep things dry. The tent smelled of mildew, and the paths were muddy troughs. Th
e family began going barefoot to spare their single pairs of new hand-me-down shoes. They tried to keep clean, but a weekly cold shower did nothing but take off the current layer of mud. As soon as they left the shower tent, they were dirty again. Meli tried not to remember the big enamel tub in the apartment or the luxury of hot water, big bars of soap and bleached white towels, clean underwear, and clothes that fit her body.
By the end of July Baba had stopped going to the classes with them. At first he made excuses about having to check the lists or talk to some camp official about papers, but eventually he didn't bother with excuses. He just didn't go back to class. Meli was secretly relieved. How could she learn anything with Baba at her elbow feeling lost and hopeless and humiliated by his own children? Still, how were they to get along in America if their father couldn't even speak to people? It would be as though Mehmet had become head of the family, and Mehmet wasn't wise and caring like Baba. What would happen to them in that strange new land without him in charge? Why couldn't they just go home? Yes, the apartment would be crowded, though no more crowded than the farmhouse had been last winter. But Baba was adamant: They would wait for the papers and the promise of sponsorship that would let them emigrate to America.
Letters from home, when they came, did not bring good news. Hamza was dead; they were sure of it now. The KLA had confirmed it. Granny stayed in bed all the time. Thank God there was a bed for her to lie in, Uncle Fadil said, for the barbarians had destroyed so much else. Relief teams had brought food, and the NATO troops were trying to keep order, but when the Jokics, their Serb neighbors, fled north, the KLA came and burned their house.
"I asked them," Uncle Fadil wrote, "'Why do you burn a perfectly good house? My cousin and his family could live there when they come back.' But they wouldn't listen to me."
"You see," Baba said when he read them the letter, "hate makes no sense." Yes, it does, Baba, to everyone but you. But the thought of the next-door neighbors turning into refugees did not satisfy any need for revenge. The Jokics had done no harm to the Lleshis, or to anyone else that she knew of. And Baba was right: burning a perfectly good house made no sense at all.
Unlike many in the camp, they stayed well. "You see," Mehmet said, "the KLA camp made us strong. If it weren't for them, we'd be sniffling and croaking like these weaklings around here."
"Hush," said Mama. "Thank God for your health, not the KLA."
***
At last came the news they had almost given up hoping for. They were cleared to go to America. They had a sponsor: a church in Vermont.
"Where's Vermont?" Mehmet asked. "Is it near New York?"
Baba wasn't sure, but he didn't think so. America was a very big country.
But a church? "Our sponsors are Christians?" Meli asked.
"Yes," said Baba. "There are many Christians in America."
"Is it safe?" Isuf asked. "All those Christians? Maybe they just want to get us there and kill us."
