STORY SO FAR: Meli and her family, along with thousands of other Albanians, are pushed and shoved into freight train boxcars by the Serbian militia. Finally, forced out of Kosovo, they arrive at the Macedonian borderonly to be told that no one can cross.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Holding On

“Hold on to each other,” Papa said, as he’d been saying for hours. “Follow me.” Somehow we edged ourselves out of the mob. “Now sit down,” Papa said. “Get some rest.” I was frightened. Suppose the Serb policemen saw us and decided to shoot?

I looked around to see if we were being watched, but luckily the policemen weren’t coming this close to the border. They were just making sure the train was emptied out and that all the Albanians were driven in the same direction. Every now and then I heard what sounded like a shot, but I tried not to think. I was too tired. We had been standing up all night. So I sat down.

“You too, Mehmet, sit down,” Papa said. “It will be all right, you’ll see.”

Mehmet gave a snort. “Unless they decide to kill us,” he said. It hurt me to hear him. I didn’t want him to be disrespectfulto lose faith in Papa.

As exhausted as I was, I didn’t close my eyes. I watched until the last policemen disappeared into the train and the train began to back up, leaving all of us refugees behind in no-man’s land. That’s what we were now, wasn’t it? Refugees. Just like the Palestinians, or Bosnians, or Sudanese. We were refugeesjust like the ones I used to watch on TVleft to the mercy of strangers.

I heard the cries of the crowd as they tried to push their way across the border into Macedonia and the cries of the border guards, determined to keep them out. I also heard the little ones whimpering with hunger and Granny coughing until she choked.

What would become of us? All I wanted to do was burst into tears.

It seemed like many hours, but it was probably only one or two, before I heard the sound of a large vehicle, then several. Busses. There were busses coming over the border.

“Quickly,” Papa called to us. “We must all get on the same bus. We mustn’t be separated.”

I grabbed up Adil; Mehmet had Isuf. Mama carried Vlora, and Papa carried Granny, while Uncle Fadil, Aunt Burbuqe, and Nexima each carried a child. We ran for the nearest bus; miraculously, the door opened and we all got on board and fell into seats. Papa counted to make sure everyone was there.

“Where are we going?” Adil asked me.

“I don’t know,” I said, and for once, I hardly cared. We were going. We were leaving the horror behind us. An old woman in the seat behind me was sobbing. A younger woman was holding her and trying to soothe her. “My husband! My husband!’ the old woman kept crying. “Why did they shoot him? He did nothing. Nothing.”

I wouldn’t look at Nexima. I couldn’t bear to.

When the bus was full to overflowing, with people crammed into the narrow aisle, the driver shut the door and pulled out into the rough road. “Where are you taking us?” someone yelled to him. “Don’t take us back!” someone else pleaded.

“I have to take you to a camp!” the driver called back. A camp. That meant we were really and truly refugees.

By the time the bus finally stopped and people were ordered off, it was plain that Granny was burning up with fever. Yet we had no choice but to stand in line together, waiting for our turn to be told what to do.

“Take your mother to the hospital tent.” It was a woman’s voice, heavily accented but kind. I peered around Uncle Fadil to see who was talking to Papa. She was a foreigner, one of several sitting at a long table. “Your family will be in tent 147B.” The woman hesitated as she looked at the crowd of us, still standing as close together as we could. “Is this just one family?”

“Yes,” said Uncle Fadil. “One family.”

“Two,” said Mama. All of us looked at her in amazement. After all we’d been through

“I mean,” said Mama, “there are too many for one small tent.”

“Yes,” the woman agreed, checking a list. “I can’t put you side by side. I’m sorry. The other tent will be 172A.” She looked at Mama. “I don’t suppose you have any blankets.”

“No,” said Mama. “I’m sorry. Everything was stolen.”

“Well, then, as soon as you’ve had some breakfast”breakfast!“go to the supply tent. They will be able to give you some.”

“Where do we go for breakfast?” Uncle Fadil asked. “The children have had almost nothing for two days.”

“Right over there in the large tent. They will begin to serve there within the hour. In the meantime, you can get settled in your tents.”

“My husband has taken his mother to the hospital tent,” Mama said. “How will he find us if we go off?”

“Why don’t you wait right over there,” said the woman, motioning to her right, “until he gets back.”

“Meli,” Mehmet said, “let’s you and me go find the tents. Then we can take everyone there when Papa gets back.” I liked Mehmet wanting me to help him. It didn’t happen very often unless Mama or Papa suggested it. Mama was glad, too. She smiled and nodded, and we were off to the rows of small, drab tents, searching for our numbers. There were people all around trying to wash themselves or their children, or just sitting on the ground waiting.

Mehmet went inside 147B, which was to be our new home. “It’s smaller than the one on the mountain,” he said. “But we won’t be here as long. Milosevic won’t be able to beat NATO, and we’ll be home before the summer is over.”

He sounded sure, but I shook my head. The only sure thing in this last year was trouble.

(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:

Mehmet (Mm-m?t)

Meli (Ml-lee)

Fadil (F?-d?ll)

Vlora (Va-lra)

Burbuqe (Br-boo-ch)

Nexima (N-gee-m?)

Adil (?- d?ll)

Isuf (?-soof)

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

Milosevic (Me-LOW-sheh-vih-ch)

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