Notes on a War-Torn Childhood

Sara Nović:

I'm ten the night my house explodes. The sound isn't a sound, just a vibration so strong it rattles my chest. I come-to face down on the floor, impossibly unharmed, and pull myself on my elbows across the carpet and into the hallway. A section of the house--the part where my parents' bedroom is supposed to be--is missing. I run. In the street, the pavement is warped from the treads of tanks that have plowed through the neighborhood. I spot a trench, jump down, and follow its rutted path toward the city center.

Deep underground in the public shelter I bypass the cluster of my classmates who are vying for their turn on the stationary bicycle that lights this airless cement box--surrogate playtime, a welcome distraction from boredom and fear. They let me cut the line, and I pedal fast until the lights glow full-strength and my joints stiffen with shock. It's only when I stop that I notice the blood trickling from my ears and down my neck in thin red escape routes. Other people's mothers ask me if I'm okay. I don't like to talk about it.

People in the city are disappearing. People have been forced to walk east; people have become hemic vapor amidst the midnight explosions. We are fortunate they've blown up the TV tower, that we cannot turn on the news and see the images the rest of Europe is now viewing and ignoring: pictures of our neighbors, bald and emaciated in camps that the Serbian government is claiming, in the same broadcast, do not exist.
In the morning I run to my best friend Davor's house. When I get there I double back, thinking I've missed it, the landscape rendered unrecognizable by shellings. I don't find it, but eventually I find Davor. I ask him what happened to his family and he says nothing for the rest of the day.

Everyone left uniforms up into various shades of olive. Even we've been issued the smallest soldier-like attire obtainable--camouflage t-shirts and caps smuggled in from Hungary in vans with curtained windows. Davor and I line up with the rest of the town in front of the police barracks, where the sergeant is issuing weapons to people much stronger than us. I tuck my hair under my hat and hope the dirt on my face covers any traces of girlhood.

Posted by Jim Zellmer at November 28, 2013 3:41 AM
Subscribe to this site via RSS/Atom: Newsletter signup | Send us your ideas