Time to LeaveFast
For a while we just stood around and stared at the empty spot where Uncle Fadil’s truck was always parked. What could we do? We had to take Granny and Nexima’s babies. Even the three-year-old and Vlora would soon get tired of walking, and it was more than a stroll in the park to the Macedonian border. I could hear Mehmet cursing the Serbs under his breath, but of course, there was no way of really knowing who had stolen the truck.
“Well,” said Papa, breaking the silence, “we won’t bring it back by wishing. Come in. We’ll find something to eat and decide what to do next.”
I went to fetch water, as all that I’d drawn earlier was gone with the truck. Then, all at once, there was a noise over the creak of the pumpthe sound of a motor. I stopped pumping. The sound wasn’t the familiar noisy knocking of Uncle Fadil’s old truck, but a car. I was sure of it. Grabbing the half-filled bucket, I ran indoors.
“Someone’s coming!” I said.
Everyone stopped what they were doing and listened. Car doors slammedone, two, three, fourand then, without warning, the front door burst open. Five men in ski masks rushed into the room.
“Get out! Get out!” They were yelling in Serbian. “Out,’ we said. This house belongs to the Serbian people. Get out!” One of the masked figures approached Granny, who was hobbling on her cane from the kitchen. He prodded her with the end of his long rifle.
“Show some respect,” Papa said. “She’s an old woman.”
The gunman turned his barrel toward Papa. “Shut up and get out before I lose my patience.”
“I don’t want to go,” said Granny. She looked more confused than the three-year-
old.
“Come on, Mama,” Papa said gently, taking her arm. “We have to go.”
One of the twins began to cry. “Get that brat out of here or I will shut it up!” the gunman said.
We hurried out, jostling one another in the narrow doorway. But once in the yard, we stopped. Where could we go?
“Get the wheelbarrow, Mehmet,” Papa said quietly. “And fast.” There was no need to add “fast.” Mehmet was gone and back before Papa had finished the sentence.
Papa picked Granny up and put her carefully into the wheelbarrow, her legs dangled over the edge. She looked terribly uncomfortable to me, but she was smiling at Papa as though she were a little child being given a ride for a treat.
“Come on,” Papa said, lifting the handles. “Everyone. As quickly as we can.”
We half ran the first few yards and then slowed down. How could we run? Aunt Burbuqe and Nexima each carried a twin, Uncle Fadil was carrying the three-year-old, and Mama was holding Vlora’s hand, trying to urge her along. I didn’t dare look back at first for fear the masked men might be chasing us. Then, when I did, I gasped. Flames were leaping up to the dark sky.
“Look!” I cried.
“My farm! They’re burning my farm!” Uncle Fadil turned all the way around and began running back toward the flames.
Papa caught his arm and held tight. “You can’t go back,” he said. “They’ll kill you.”
Uncle Fadil began to cry softly. I had never heard a man cry before, and it was a terrible sound. Papa hadn’t cried even when Mehmet disappeared.
“Come on, Fadil,” said Papa. “There’s nothing to be done back there. We must get the women and children to safety.”
Uncle Fadil nodded. I could see he was ashamed to be crying before us, for not only was he an adult, he was the elder brother, after all. He handed the three-year-old to Papa, took the handles of the wheelbarrow, and began to push. I saw Granny twist around and stroke his arm, as though Uncle Fadil were still her little boy who needed comforting after some hurt.
There was no question of stopping to rest, not for the first hour or so, anyhow. All of us who were able took turns carrying the smaller ones. Isuf and Adil, about to drop in their tracks, shook their heads manfully whenever Mehmet offered to give them a piggyback.
It was already dawn when Adil said what all of us wanted to say: “How much farther, Papa?”
“Not much farther, son,” Papa said. “We must all be very brave and strong.”
How could I complain that I was tired? Little Adil wasn’t even whining.
There were at last streaks of light to the east. One of the babies woke up and began to cry.
“We have to stop, Father,” Nexima said. “I must feed the babies.”
“We all have to rest,” Mama said.
The grass was wet with dew, but we all sat down anyway. There was no use thinking about food for anyone but the babies. I reminded myself that we had had a good meal just the night beforethick soup, bread, cheese, even a huge glass of goat’s milk . . . . I stopped myself. My mouth was parched; we didn’t have water to drink, not even a pot to draw water in. I thought of all the pots and buckets I had filled with cool well water at Uncle Fadil’s.
But we just sat there. I knew that we should move on, that we had to hurry. Suppose some Serb militants found us there? They’d kill us all.
(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
As per your contract, please suppress content from electronic conversion of any kind.
Pronunciation of Albanian proper nouns:
Meli (Ml-lee)
Fadil (F?-d?ll)
Vlora (Va-lra)
Mehmet (Mm-m?t)
Burbuqe (Br-boo-ch)
Adil (?- d?ll)
Isuf (?-soof)
Nexima (N-gee-m?)
Macedonia (Mas-?-d?-n?-?)
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