STORY SO FAR: Unable to find Mehmet, his father finally decides to go to the police, even though they are Serbs. Meli’s mother instructs Meli to go along, figuring they will be easier on her husband if a child is with him.

CHAPTER FOUR

Searching for Mehmet



“Go home, Meli,” Papa said when he realized I was following him into the street. “Stay with your mother. She’s already anxious about your brother. I don’t want her to have to worry about you as well.”

I just shook my head. As scared as I was, I was determined to do as Mama had said and go with Papa to the police station. The police had seen me walk by every day with Mehmet. They might remember that we were only schoolchildren, not terrorists to be jailed . . . or tortured . . . or killed.

The station door was locked. Papa knocked, and when nobody came, he beat on the door with his fist.

“Shh, Papa,” I said. “You’ll make them angry.”

He ignored me and kept right on beating until the door opened slightly. A pistol stuck out of the crack. “What do you want?”

“I need your help,” Papa said meekly, as though he really thought a Serbian policeman would help an Albanian. “My son never came home from school today.”

“So? Can I help it if your boy has run away?”

Papa pushed the door open wider, ignoring the pistol in the policeman’s hand. “I thought there might be some mistake. He’s only a schoolboy. He knows nothing of politics.” It was a lie. Mehmet knew plenty about politics; but of course, Papa meant that Mehmet was not KLA.

“Who are you?” the policeman demanded.

“My name is Hashim Lleshi. I own a small grocery store on the north side of town. This is my daughter, Meli. My son, Mehmet, who is missing, is only thirteen. Heis he here? Do you have him in custody? By mistake? Perhaps you have confused him with someone else?”

“Come back in the morning if you have a question.”

“But to make a child spend the night in jailhedo you have children?” Papa’s voice was low and pleading. It hurt to hear him humiliate himself, but I knew he was willing to do whatever it took to get Mehmet safely home.

“Come back in the morning, I said.” The policeman poked Papa with his pistol. “And be glad I didn’t arrest you.”

“Come on, Papa,” I whispered.

Reluctantly, Papa backed out of the station. Once again he became the old man I had seen coming up our stairs. “Pray for your brother, Meli,” he said. They were the only words he spoke to me during that long walk home.

We went back to the station the next morning, but the result was the same. The Serbs would not even say if Mehmet was in the jail or not.

For the next few weeks, we went through the motions of getting up in the morning, eating, working, and lying down to sleepless nights. I couldn’t make myself go to school. Suppose something should happen while I was gone? It makes no sense now, nor did it then, but I thought that since I had been the cause of his disappearance, I had to be there to make him come home safely. Whenever I wasn’t working in the store or helping Mama with housework, I stood at the front window and tried to see Mehmet turning the corner, walking down our street, climbing the stairs to the apartment, or walking into the front door of the store. I did this day after day, time after time. One time Mama came over and put her arm around my shoulders.

“It will not bring him home sooner,” she said gently.

But it might, I thought. If only I stare long enough and hard enough, I can will him home. In a part of my mind I knew it was foolishness, but I couldn’t help myself. It was guilt, I suppose. If only I had behaved that day in school, Mehmet would be here now, teasing me, lording it over me.

Summer came, and still no word. And then one day when I wasn’t even looking, Mehmet appeared. At first I couldn’t believe it was he. He was so thin. Besides, he knocked on the kitchen door. When had Mehmet ever knocked on the door?

“Mehmet?” I said when I opened it.

The gaunt figure nodded. “Not a pelican,” he said.

I pulled him across the threshold. “Mama! Papa! It’s Mehmet. He’s come home.”

Mama came running from the bedroom, nearly knocking me down as she threw her arms around him. “My Mehmet,” she said. “Oh, Mehmet.” She led him to a chair and sat him down. “I have soup,” she said. “You must be hungry. Get your papa, Meli.”

The little boys were at school, but the rest of us just stood and watched while Mehmet ate the soup that Mama had brought him. Tears were rolling down our faces. There were so many questions, but none of us knew where to begin.

It was, as always, Mehmet who spoke first. “Uncle Fadil was right,” he said. “We cannot stay here. We have to leave as soon as possible.”

(To be continued.)

Newspaper shall publish the following credit line in each installment of the work:

Text copyright 2005 by Katherine Paterson

Illustrations copyright 2005 by Emily Arnold McCully

Reprinted by permission of Breakfast Serials, Inc.

www.breakfastserials.com

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Pronunciation of Albanian proper nouns:

Meli (Ml-lee)

Mehmet (Mm-m?t)

Hashim (H?-sh?am)

Lleshi (L?y-sh?)

Fadil (F?-d?ll)