9.

IRENA TOOK THE letter that her mother had written over to the central synagogue early the next morning. There was little light in the dark interior, but Irena could see three large corkboards wheeled over in front of a wall, each stippled with sheets and envelopes. She was looking for a place to put the letter for Nermina’s family when an envelope caught her eye.

THE FAMILY OF DALILA, MILAN, AND IRENA ZARIC
PRETTY BIRD TOO!
LAST KNOWN ADDRESS: LENIN STREET IN GRBAVICA

It was Tomaslav’s hand, and Irena opened the envelope in the dim room, her hands quavering. The note was written on white stationery.

20–5

Dearest Mother, Father, Irena,

And dear, dear Pretty Bird!

I have sent you so many letters. I have no idea if any have reached you. I don’t know where you are. I pray you are alive. The news says the central synagogue near Grandma’s apartment is keeping mail for the whole city. So I went to the central synagogue here. The rabbi said he would find out how to post this letter there, where I hope you see it.

I AM FINE!!! Azra is fine. Please tell her parents, if you know where they are. We are in London, but we are no longer together. No problem—one of those things, not worth talking about now. We left Vienna a month ago, when our visas ran out and the rooming house said we had to leave. We heard that the Bosnia office in London was granting emergency visas due to war. So on the last days of our visas, we came here.

Azra and I are working as waiters in a restaurant that is near many theaters. We dress like monks. We serve mussels and fried potatoes. I wear a brown monk’s hood all day, and feel very pious. Azra wears the same hood with very tight, short pants. Many customers say they want to convert to her church. The owner is an Indian Briton who says he likes Yugoslavs because they work hard and don’t steal. I tell him that he doesn’t know Yugoslavs. He lets us work two shifts a day, which gives me two meals. I sometimes stay late to have a beer—they have about a hundred different kinds, not even Irena would know them all—and the bartender usually sneaks us some bread and salad. So we eat well. My English is getting good. Watch this:

Can I tell you about our specials? Marinière means with garlic, white wine, and parsley. Can I get you another Leffe?

I AM FINE. PLEASE DO NOT WORRY. I don’t know how much money I am earning, because I don’t know how to figure out pounds. It is enough to pay a weekly wage to sleep on a sofa in an apartment in Blackheath, at the end of a train line. My visa is good for another eight months. I have met a man in the restaurant from Banja Luka who is trying to organize a group of us to get to Chicago, where we can get in with a group to join a Bosnian army. Why did we start a country and forget to have an army? What a supreme miscalculation! Anyway, I am saving money to make that trip.

I am not inclined to be a soldier. You raised us in a Yellow Submarine. But we see the news here each night—villages burned, Muslim men, thin as skeletons, herded into camps, our beautiful Sarajevo being brought down brick by brick and bone by bone. I cannot be happy staying away.

If you get this letter, please write to me in care of Rabbi Siegel at the Central Synagogue on Great Portland St., London W1. I love you all and miss you all. I ache to know that you are safe. I tell people from all over the world about my beautiful mother, my wise father, my talented sister, and our brilliant and amusing bird.

Love,
Tomaslav

Chirrrrp! to Pretty Bird!

         

IRENA SAT ON the edge of a table. By the close, she could feel wobbliness in her knees and see it in the last few lines of Tomaslav’s letter. She thought he must have been exhausted from writing so many letters without knowing whether they would be read; she could see the exhaustion in the last lines of his handwriting.

A man was setting out folding chairs as more people arrived, and she asked him for paper and an envelope.

He made a face. “We’re not a stationery store,” he said.

“We were chased out of Grbavica,” Irena had learned to explain. “My mother has just had to write old friends”—here she brandished the note about Nermina—“on some packing slips to tell them that their daughter is dead. Now I’ve just read a letter from my brother, and we have to write him back. He’s in danger.”

“Danger? Outside? The danger is here,” said the man.

“That’s what I mean,” said Irena. She added quickly, “Please. I’m not sure I can explain. It’s important.” The man went back into an office and returned with two plain sheets of paper and a synagogue envelope.

“Write the address in simple block letters,” he instructed. “Overseas, they cannot always read it. Don’t waste space. No jokes or funny titles, just name and address, or else the Blue Helmets will throw it out and shut us down. All of the mail will get picked up this week, sent to Israel, and sent out from there. Do you have money for postage?”

Irena was caught. “Maybe at home,” she said. “Maybe later.”

“Okay,” said the man. “Let’s make the first one free. I assume you don’t have a pen?” This made Irena laugh.

“Actually, I do.” She fished an International Playboy pen from her jeans pocket.

“I know that place,” the man said. “On Vase Miskina.” He began to smile. “I always wanted one of those pens.”

“In just a moment, then.” She arranged the sheets on the green linoleum floor, settled onto her knees, and began to write.

Dearest Tomaslav:

I am sure that Mother and Dad will write you back, but I wanted this just between us. WE ARE FINE. WE ARE ALIVE. We had to leave Grbavica quickly in the first days of April. It was nasty, but it is also a story that is not worth talking about now. We left so quickly, we could not get any of your things. Buy many clothes along Savile Row, although I would like to see you in the monk’s hood. I am sorry to hear that you and Azra are no longer together. Perhaps you will get back together. Perhaps Princess Diana will see you in a crowd and demand that you become her footman and love slave!

Grandma is dead. She was shot the first night of the war, just caught out on her staircase. So were several of her neighbors. Nermina Suljevic is dead, too. But mostly we don’t know who is dead and who is alive. Someone new dies each day.

Irena flipped the first page over.

There is NO NEED for you to go to Chicago to join a Bosnian army. PLEASE DON’T. PROMISE!!! Some men came to our apartment to take Daddy into the army, then brought him right back. Sometimes he is called out to dig trenches. He is doing his part for all of us. Better, if you want to join an army, you should join the French Foreign Legion. They know what they are doing. Maybe they will send you here, but you get to train in Marseilles, which is warm and beautiful. Anyway, I am sure—we all hope—that the war will be over LONG before you need to go into anyone’s army.

With all the urgent letters, this took up rather more space than Irena had expected. She went on to the second sheet.

2)

In any case, I am convinced that it was God’s plan for you to be caught outside of Sarajevo when this insanity began. Your life is much more important to everyone out there. We are safe and will survive. PROMISE, PLEASE. Write me back directly, I seem to be in charge of picking up the envelopes here.

Pretty Bird says, “Chirrrp! Whirrrr! Chugga-chugga! Tomaslav!”

Love,
Irena

She drew an arrow pointing to the back of the second sheet, and wrote:

ONLY GO TO CHICAGO TO SEE
TONI KUKOC PLAY!
TELL HIM THAT YOUR SISTER IRENA
IS THE ONLY GIRL FOR HIM!

Her bold letters reminded her of the names she had seen slashed on some of the buildings around town.