Authors: Ayse Kulin
Sonya wordlessly indicated to her friend that she had something important to say and wanted to talk alone. Nimeta took a sip of the linden tea and looked her mother directly in the eye.
“Can I get you anything?” Raziyanım asked.
“Mother, Sonya and I need to talk about work. Don’t trouble yourself here if you have something else to d
o . . .
”
Raziyanım straightened the blanket on Nimeta’s knees and left the room.
“You said you were tired the night you got back from Tuzla, but I didn’t realize just how exhausted you were,” Sonya said. “It turns out you were coming down with something. Stefan wonders when he can visit you. What should I tell him?”
“Stefan?” Nimeta nearly choked on her tea. “Hasn’t he left yet?”
“No.”
“Didn’t he say he was going home the next day? The day after I got back from Tuzla?”
“Some work kept him here,” Sonya said. “Can he come and see you this week?”
“No,” Nimeta said. “I’ll be back at work in a few days. I’ll call him.”
“He said he needs to see you now. He’s worried.”
“I don’t want to cause any trouble with my mother,” Nimeta said slowly.
“Why would a visit from Stefan cause trouble?”
Nimeta was at a loss for words for only a moment. “Mother’s not very fond of Croatians these days. She says they stabbed us in the back during the war. She’s getting on in years, and I hate to think what she might say to Stefan in an unguarded moment.”
“Stefan wouldn’t take it personally. He’d understand.”
Nimeta guessed that Stefan was feeling guilty for having kept her out all through the chilly night wandering around through parks. He was probably waiting for her to get better before he went home.
“I’ll write a note and ask you to give it to him, Sonya,” she said. “It’s very kind of him to take such an interest in my health, but he needn’t bother coming all the way to my door.”
She felt terribly weak, and the coughing persisted. The last thing she wanted was to have to defend her personal life to her mother and get entangled in needless bickering over a relationship that had long since ended. Were Stefan to let it slip that they’d been out in the city parks until dawn, she’d never hear the end of it.
Sonya left her a couple of documents from work and got up to go, saying Ivan would be pleased she’d checked in on the patient, as promised. But when Nimeta placed the documents on her lap and tried to read them, the characters swam before her eyes.
“Is your friend gone?” Raziyanım asked. “If you’ve lifted the embargo, I’d like to come in.”
She stood in the doorway bearing a tray. Nimeta looked up at her mother. The poor woman looked drawn and thin, as though she’d been the one convalescing. Her face had a sickly, yellowish cast, and there were dark circles under her eyes. Nimeta was filled with a rush of pity for her mother.
All their lives, Nimeta and Raif had been annoyed by everything their mother did and said. They’d felt suffocated by her fiercely protective love, bristled at her insistence on keeping track of their every move, and sneered at the importance she gave to preparing their favorite dishes. No matter what she did, Raziyanım was unable to please her children, but that didn’t stop her from continuing to try. Unappreciated though she was, she’d always put family first. Even now at her advanced age, she brought drinking water home from the brewery miles away, risked death waiting in line at the market, and trundled logs home in a wheelbarrow to use as fuel. Not only that, but her beloved grandson Fiko and her darling boy, Raif, had gone off, leaving her behind with a witch of a daughter who begrudged her mother so much as a simple thanks.
“What are you talking about, Mother?” Nimeta said. “I wish you’d stayed if that’s what you wanted. I just thought you’d find it a bit dul
l . . .
” She was racked by coughs before she could finish.
“That friend of yours wore you out,” Raziyanım said. “She should realize that it’s best to keep visits to patients short. See, you’ve started coughing again.” She came over to put the tray and its contents on Nimeta’s knees. The surge of affection Nimeta had felt for her mother dissipated.
“Mother, please don’t criticize my friends,” she said wearily.
“Have some soup,” Raziyanım said. “I made it with real broth, but don’t ask how I got the two hundred grams of meat just to get you healthy again. Don’t waste a single drop of it.”
“Thank you, Mother,” Nimeta said. “I’m sure it’s delicious and well worth all the effort you put into it. Put some aside for Hana, would you?”
She moved the documents off her lap to make room for the tray, hoping to finish the soup before she had another coughing fit.
It’s funny
, she thought to herself:
as much as he loved her, Stefan caused her more harm than anyone else.
This was the second time she’d fallen ill because of him. The doctor had told her that she could end up with pleurisy if she didn’t take care of herself. And pleurisy could of course lead to death. Nimeta shuddered. Imagine coming down with pleurisy or pneumonia in the middle of a war, when her mother and Hana depended upon her for survival. And Burhan was off fighting because of Stefan, and so was Fiko. Their love was lethal! Cursed!
She sipped a spoonful of soup and felt warmed immediately. Then she felt guilty for blaming others for her problems and wondered if her character hadn’t taken a turn for the worse. She was the one who’d wanted to wander through the city parks until dawn, and she was the one who’d fallen in love with Stefan.
Nimeta still had a prolonged convalescence ahead of her. Contrary to her expectations, it took more than a couple of days for her to start getting her energy back. After a full week of her mother’s nourishing meals, Nimeta finally felt strong enough to resume her normal life. By Sunday evening, having received Dr. Selcuković’s blessing, she began preparing for work the following day.
Life was certainly strange. Her entire family had always grumbled about her career—as had she. But now, after a short break, everyone was thrilled she was going back, as though it had always been a source of joy. Even Hana got involved, insisting on helping her mother pick out something to wear the next day.
“I’m so pale these days, Hana. Don’t make me wear my beige suit,” Nimeta said.
“Wear whatever you like. Just make sure it’s heavy, or you’ll catch your death of cold again,” Raziyanım said.
Hana laid out a maroon turtleneck sweater and a navy-blue skirt on the bed. She’d been taking a keen interest in clothes lately. Unfortunately, her newfound fascination with fashion had developed at a time when it was impossible to go shopping.
“That sweater’s too thick,” Nimeta said. “It’ll make me sweat.”
“But you look so good in red, Mother,” Hana said. “I think you should wear it.”
Nimeta held the sweater up to her chest and studied herself in the mirror. The rich color made her look even pastier. She’d lost weight, and her face was wan and drawn. Still, she was in no mood for a drawn-out debate on her attire.
She smiled to herself and said, “All right, I’ll wear it just for you. Now go to bed. It’s getting late.”
She took a copy of the day’s newspaper to bed with her, without bothering to put the sweater and skirt back in the closet. Tomorrow was a new day. She’d go to work—and probably see Stefan. She’d try to stop by the market on the way home to do the shopping. Her mother had been running herself ragged. She’d also agree to let Hana have her friend Zlata come over. In the name of economy, they hadn’t been letting Hana have visitors, but Nimeta decided that they needed to do more to allow the poor girl to have a normal life. She fell asleep reading the paper.
First, she heard the knocking on the door in her dream, ran to open it and was met by her father. She rushed into his arms and said, “Dad, I’ve missed you so much. Where have you been?” Her father looked young and handsome, like he had in his forties, not the age he was when he died. When she woke with a start, she could hear that someone really was knocking on the door. She tried to switch on the bedside lamp, but it wouldn’t turn on. She was too groggy to remember that there was a power cut.
“Who could it be at this hour? My God,” she said aloud.
She raced out of her room barefoot. In the darkness, the banging seemed deafening. Cursing, she walked toward the front door and fumbled for the candle and matches they always left in the hall.
“Who is it?” she called out.
The light of the candle illuminated her face from below, revealing her eyes wide with fright and her tousled hair. Raziyanım and Hana had gathered in the front hall, their drowsy faces visibly pale, even in the faint flicker of the candle.
“Is Nimeta Hanım there?”
“Who is it?” Nimeta asked. She’d heard tales of Serbian militiamen breaking into houses and raping whole families. Mirsada’s death was still fresh in her mind, and her knees started trembling. “Who are you? What do you want?”
“We have news from Commander Burhan.”
Forgetting for a moment that she was dressed only in a thin nightgown, Nimeta opened the door and found two men in black standing before her.
“Don’t be scared. Burhan sent us.”
“Go put on some clothes,” Raziyanım said.
When she saw that Nimeta was too dazed to respond, she rushed off herself to get her daughter a bathrobe. Hana stood just behind Nimeta, clutching her mother’s arm.
“What is it? Has something happened to Burhan?”
“Your son is wounded,” one of the men said.
When Raziyanım came back with the robe, she found her daughter collapsed on the floor. She draped the robe over Nimeta’s back. The two men each took an arm, pulled Nimeta to her feet, and sat her on the nearest chair.
“Burhan sent us to tell you that he’s coming down from the mountain early tomorrow with your son. He wants you to arrange a hospital bed.”
“What happened to my son? Was he shot? Was it a bomb? Is he conscious? Is it serious?”
“Don’t worry,” the younger of the two men said. “He’s been hurt in the leg. But we can’t treat the wound up in the mountains. He needs a fully equipped hospital.”
“When are they coming?”
“I don’t know the exact time. They were going to leave at dawn. They should reach the city in the morning. If there’s a change of plan, we’ll let you know.”
The men saluted and were gone.
Nimeta, Raziyanım, and Hana stood motionless and dumbstruck for a moment, until Raziyanım broke the silence.
“We must send word to Selcuković straightaway,” she managed to say.
At the sound of her mother’s voice, Nimeta came to her senses and raced to her bedroom, candle in hand. She threw on the clothes Hana had picked out for her, forgetting to put on stockings in her haste, slipped a coat over her shoulders, and was out the door, the voice of Raziyanım echoing behind her: “Wait. For God’s sake, where are you going all alone in the black of night? Wait for me!”
As Nimeta sprang down the steps two and three at a time, she could hear her mother’s entreaties and her daughter’s sobs.
At seven in the morning, she was back home, having arranged for Fiko’s care.
“Selcuković—”
“I found him, Mother. He’s taken care of everything. What would I have done without him? The hospitals are overflowing, patients are two and three to a bed. We’re so fortunate to have a doctor as a friend. He’s had a section back behind the office of the head surgeon in Kranjcevica readied for Fiko. After all his years as a professor, he’s able to call in favor
s . . .
” There was more to tell, but she was coughing too hard to go on.
“Ah, you’re not wearing stockings!” Raziyanım cried. “How could you go out like that? I’m at my wit’s end with you.”
Raziyanım bustled off to her room to get a pair of stockings.
Hana had skipped school that day, and Nimeta sat in front of the window, wrapped in a blanket. Just before eleven, electricians arrived to hook up their house to a twenty-watt connection, which was one of the perks of being a journalist. Raziyanım served them some linden tea. When they’d drained their cups, they left.
Nimeta continued to sit in front of the window, waiting. By noon, she’d grown impatient. She didn’t know whom to call or how. She started pacing and finally went to her mother’s room. Raziyanım was reading the Koran aloud in a low voice.
“Take care not to anger Allah by reaching for your Koran only when you want something, Mother,” she said.
“It’s those who won’t let a body pray in peace that anger Allah, Nimeta,” Raziyanım said. “Allah asks us to turn to him in times of need. Now leave me alone and shut the door on your way out.”
Feeling a bit miffed at her mother’s tart response, Nimeta shut the door and returned to her post in the living room. She roughly shoved the cat off her armchair. The cat did a midturn tumble, landed on all fours, and stared at her in puzzlement. Meanwhile, Hana was trying to find a station amid the crackling static of the transistor radio.
“Turn that thing off,” Nimeta shouted, “and go to school.”
“It’s afternoon, Mom,” Hana said. “School’s out.”
“Then go visit Zlata or Mlata or whoever!”
“I’m not going anywhere!” Hana said, and traipsed off to her room in a huff.
Stay calm
, Nimeta told herself.
Stay calm and be brave. And may God help me.
There was a knock on the door at about one. Nimeta sprang up out of her chair, nearly falling over when the blanket got tangled around her legs. She ran to the door, but Raziyanım and Hana beat her to it. Standing in the doorway was a sunburned man in a parka. Nimeta had seen him enter the apartment building but assumed he had nothing to do with Burhan.
“Any news of my son?” Nimeta asked before he had a chance to speak.
“Yes.”
“What’s taking them so long?”
“The Serbs have put up barricades in two different places. We can’t get through the barricades in an ambulance. I managed to get here on foot by taking a detour through the forest. But we can’t carry your son through the forest on a stretcher.”
“What’s going to happen now?” Nimeta asked in a panic.