STORY SO FAR: The Lleshi family has settled down at Uncle Fadil’s farm. Meanwhile, the Albanians and the Serbs continue to fight. Then, one night, Meli hears an unexpected knock at the door.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Packing Up, Again

“Who is it?” Uncle Fadil whispered through the crack between the door and the doorjamb.

“It’s me, Hamza.” Hamza was Nexima’s husband, the one whose name was never mentioned.

Uncle Fadil slipped out, closing the door silently behind him.

I crept over and put my own ear to the crack.

“You must leave here at once,” Hamza was saying. “They’ve already destroyed the farms and villages just to the north. They’ll be here soon.”

“How can we leave?” Uncle Fadil said. “We have a houseful of women and children. And you know Granny How could she travel?”

“They have no mercy,” Hamza said. “For my children’s sakemy wife’s sake. I beg you.”

“I must talk to Hashim,” Uncle Fadil said.

“There’s not much time, I tell you.” Hamza was clearly upset.

“Thank you for coming, my son. Shall I tell Nexima you’re here?”

“No. I have to go. No one can know I came. Knowledge can kill.”

By the time Uncle Fadil had slipped back into the house, I was in my blankets, pretending to be asleep. But my heart was pounding and my head racing. There were so many of us. How could we crowd fourteen people as well as clothing, bedding, and food into Uncle Fadil’s little vegetable truck? Even if we took nothing with us for the journey . . . And how long a journey would it be, and to where?

The next day I went through all the motions of living. I fetched the water and helped peel potatoes for soup. I tried to eat Aunt Burbuqe’s good bread and soup, but was far more interested in trying to see if Uncle Fadil and Papa were talking together, deciding our family’s fate. Hamza had said we must go at once, so why were there no signs of hurry?

At about three in the afternoon, Papa came to where Mehmet and I were holding school. Mehmet was in the middle of his daily lecture on Kosovo history and how the Serbs had no right to our land, when Papa appeared. “Mehmet,” he said quietly, “come into the house, please.” This was it, I knew. “Care for the little ones, Meli,” he said.

I nodded, too numb even to resent being left out of the grown-up discussion.

Before long all of us were gathered in the parlor. Uncle Fadil cleared his throat. “Hashim and I have decided that we must all leave the farm as soon as possible.”

“Why are we leaving?” Adil said. “I like the farm.”

“We all love the farm, Adil,” Papa said. “But there is a war, as you know, and the farm may not be safe much longer.”

“Then where are we going?” Isuf asked the very question I was longing to ask.

“We have cousins in Macedonia,” Papa said. “They will take us in.”

Macedonia? That was a whole other country. There might be cousins there, but they were strangers to me.

“How will we get to Mace-Mace? How will we get there?” Adil asked.

“We’ll go in Uncle Fadil’s truck, of course,” Papa said. “You remember how it took us to the mountains? Well, now it’s going to take us all the way to Macedonia.”

I look at the map now, and it seems such a short way between the center of Kosovo to the border of Macedonia. And, indeed, when you look at a map of the United States, it is hardly a Sunday afternoon drive in the country. But that day Macedonia seemed like another planet.

Since the truck had to carry us all, we were limited in what we could take along. Each child and each adult could take a blanket and wear two sets of clothing. The twins had to have morethey needed diapers, after all. The women would take enough food and water to last us all for a couple of days. If everything went well, the trip wouldn’t take but a few hours. But since we didn’t know what would meet us on the other side of the border, it was best to be on the safe side.

I dressed in my two sets of clothes, which was all I had anyhow since we’d left home last summer. They were beginning to get tight, but at least my only sweater was a baggy one, and my coat still fit.

The men and Mehmet spread the blankets on the bed of the truck and loaded the food and water. Mama and Aunt Burbuqe insisted on taking a soup pot and some mugs and spoons for everyone. I saw Mama look longingly at her wedding plate and then carefully put it back into Aunt Burbuqe’s china cabinet.

“Surely there’s room for your plate, Mama,” I said.

She shook her head and smiled. “It’s all right, Meli,” she said.

At last we were ready. “Go lie down, everyone. Try to rest,” said Uncle Fadil. “After dark we’ll be on our way.”

There was no way I could sleep, but I lay down obediently on the floor. I must have dozed off, because the next thing I heard was Mehmet shouting from outside the door.

“The truck! It’s gone! Someone’s stolen the truck!”

(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)

Lleshi (L?y-sh?)

Fadil (F?-d?ll)

Mehmet (Mm-m?t)

Adil (?- d?ll)

Isuf (?-soof)

Burbuqe (Br-boo-ch)

Hashim (H?-sh?am)

Nexima (N-gee-m?)

Hamza (H?mm-z?)

Macedonia (Mas-?-d?-n?-?)

Kosovo (KOH-so-vohSerbian pronunciation; Koh-SOH-vahAlbanian pronunciation)

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