Zlata's Diary (17 page)

 

There, that's part of Nedo's letter, which I keep on my desk. I keep rereading it. I'm going to learn it by heart like all the others. And so Nedo's letter will join my “war archive.”

Paul (the journalist) came to say goodbye today. He's leaving for London. I was at school and so I couldn't say goodbye to him. But he said he'd be back at the end of September. We'll see each other again. I'm glad, because Paul has become another dear friend. Ciao Paul, until we meet again! Zlata

Dear Mimmy,

Today is Mommy's birthday. I gave her a biiiig kiss and a “Happy Birthday, Mommy.” That's all I have.

This is Mommy's second birthday in wartime. My birthday is coming up too. December is near. Will it be another wartime birthday? Again????

Your Zlata

Dear Mimmy, Back to the old story. There was gunfire yesterday and we all immediately got nervous. We remembered the cellar and were afraid of going through it all over again. I sincerely hope we won't have to. But hoping doesn't mean a thing here.

I'm going to UNPROFOR at the Skenderija building tomorrow—to the dentist's. All the children in the neighborhood have been, and now it's my turn.

School! I'm disappointed. There are lots of children who missed a school year last year. I don't feel like a real seventh-grader either. I feel as if I'm still in fifth grade, the way I was that April, not so long ago in 1992. Time seems to have stopped since then.

The books aren't mine and they're not new. Some are Bojana‘s, some Martina's, some Diana's, and some Mirna gave me. The pencils are old, the notebooks half full, from last year. The war has ruined even school and school life.

I'm now in the sixth year of music school. The teacher told me to practice every day, and knuckle down. It's the final year. It has to be taken seriously.

Lots of journalists, reporters and TV crews from France are coming tomorrow. Maybe Alexandra and Christian will come. I already miss them. Your Zlata

Dear Mimmy,

The “kids” are negotiating something, signing something. Again giving us hope that this madness will end. There's supposed to be a cease-fire tomorrow and on September 21 at Sarajevo airport everybody is supposed to sign FOR PEACE. Will the war stop on the day that marks the change from one season to another???

With all the disappointments I've had with previous truces and signatures, I can't believe it.

I can't believe it because another horrible shell fell today, ending the life of a three-year-old little boy, wounding his sister and mother.

All I know is that the result of their little games is 15,000 dead in Sarajevo, 3,000 of them children, 50,000 permanent invalids, whom I already see in the streets on crutches, in wheelchairs, armless and legless. And I know that there's no room left in the cemeteries and parks to bury the latest victims.

Maybe that's why this madness should stop. Your Zlata

Dear Mimmy,

I keep thinking about Sarajevo, and the more I think about it, the more it seems to me that Sarajevo is slowly ceasing to be what it was. So many dead and wounded. Historical monuments destroyed. Treasure troves of books and paintings gone. Century-old trees felled. So many people have left Sarajevo forever. No birds, just the occasional chirping sparrow. A dead city. And the warlords are still negotiating over something, drawing, crossing out, I just don't know for how long. Until September 29? I don't believe it!

Your Zlata

Dear Mimmy,

All eyes and ears are on tomorrow's game of War or Peace. Everybody is waiting for that historic meeting at Sarajevo airport. Suddenly, unexpected news. The Serbian, Croatian and Muslim warlords have met on a warship in the Adriatic. For another shipwreck ? We'll find out!

Your Zlata

Dear Mimmy,

The historic game of WAR OR PEACE has been postponed. Does that mean PEACE is losing again? I'm really fed up with politics!

Your Zlata

Dear Mimmy,

Although I told you that I didn't think anything good would happen on September 21, 1993, I still had a flicker of hope that it would. But it was no use.

Another D-Day has come and gone. How many have we had? A hundred? A million? How many more will there be?

Politics is making my life miserable!!

Your Zlata

Dear Mimmy,

The electricity is back, but it's being rationed. And the rationing, like the life we're living, is stupid. We get four hours of electricity every fifty-six hours.

You should see, Mimmy, what a madhouse this is when the electricity comes on! Piles of unwashed laundry waiting to go into the washing machine. Even bigger piles of laundry waiting for the iron. Dust waiting to be vacuumed. Cooking to be done, bread to be baked, and we'd all like to watch a bit of television. There's hair to be washed and dried with a hair dryer. It's incredible. You wouldn't believe it.

Every time Mommy says: “If we're not going to have electricity, then let's not have any at all. That way I don't worry. This is unbearable.” Yes, but then again, Mommy ...

We have water more often now.

There's a problem with bread again, even though the electricity is back. We get 300 grams per person every three days. Ridiculous!

I had to laugh at lunch today when Daddy said: “This ‘German' lunch is good.” You must be wondering, Mimmy, why we would be eating a “German lunch.” The potato salad was made of potatoes and onions bought for Deutsche Marks at our “rich” market. With it we had German fish from the humanitarian aid package. So that's “German,” isn't it?

Your Zlata

We waited for September 27 and 28. The 27th was the Assembly of Bosnian Intellectuals, and the 28th was the session of the B-H Parliament. And the result is “conditional acceptance of the Geneva agreement.” CONDITIONAL. What does that mean? To me, it means non-acceptance of the agreement, because there's no peace. To me it means the continuation of the war and everything that goes with it.

Once more the circle closes. The circle is closing, Mimmy, and it's strangling us.

Sometimes I wish I had wings so I could fly away from this hell.

Like Icarus.

There's no other way.

But to do that I'd need wings for Mommy, wings for Daddy, for Grandma and Granddad and ... for you, Mimmy.

And that's impossible, because humans are not birds.

That's why I have to try to get through all this, with your support, Mimmy, and to hope that it will pass and that I will not suffer the fate of Anne Frank. That I will be a child again, living my childhood in peace. Love,

Zlata

Monday, October 4, 1993

Dear Mimmy,

Life in a closed circle continues. You wonder what that life is like, Mimmy. It's a life of waiting, of fear, a life where you want the circle to open and the sun of peace to shine down on you again.

Today, while I was playing the piano, Mommy came into the room and told me I had visitors. I went into the sitting room and there I found ALEXANDRA. She came from Paris this morning. Rested, beautiful, content. I was glad to see her. And I must say I missed her, because she really is wonderful. She's here in Sarajevo again now, so we'll spend some time together.

Zlata

Dear Mimmy,

Things are the way they used to be, lately. There's no shooting (thank God), I go to school, read, play the piano ...

Winter is approaching, but we have nothing to heat with.

I look at the calendar and it seems as though this year of 1993 will again be marked by war. God, we've lost two years listening to gunfire, bat-tling with electricity, water, food, and waiting for peace.

I look at Mommy and Daddy. In two years they've aged ten. And me? I haven't aged, but I've grown, although I honestly don't know how. I don't eat fruit or vegetables, I don't drink juices, I don't eat meat ... I am a child of rice, peas and spaghetti. There I am talking about food again. I often catch myself dreaming about chicken, a good cutlet, pizza, lasagna ... Oh, enough of that.

Zlata

Dear Mimmy,

I don't remember whether I told you that last summer I sent a letter through school to a pen-pal in America. It was a letter for an American girl or boy.

Today I got an answer. A boy wrote to me. His name is Brandon, he's twelve like me, and lives in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania. It really made me happy.

I don't know who invented the mail and letters, but thank you whoever you are. I now have a friend in America, and Brandon has a friend in Sarajevo. This is my first letter from across the Atlantic. And in it is a reply envelope, and a lovely pencil.

A Canadian TV crew and journalist from The Sunday Times (Janine) came to our gym class today. They brought me two chocolate bars. What a treat. It's been a long time since I've had sweets.

Love,
Zlata

Dear Mimmy,

Today we received a letter from Oga and Jaca in Italy. They sent us photos. Oga has grown into a young girl, and you can see from the letter that she's more serious and mature now. I could barely recognize her. When Mommy saw the picture she began to cry. The letter really made us happy. It was sent in August, and took a long, long time to reach us.

They also read you, Mimmy (I sent them a copy in a letter), and say that they cried and laughed as they read.

Here's what Oga writes:

 

I tried to imagine those abandoned houses overgrown with grass. And I have to tell you, Mimmy, that I got a lump in my throat. War has destroyed Jahorina as well, and all the lovely times we spent there.

They've invited me to come and be with them in Italy, because I don't deserve to be here. I'd love to go, but it's impossible. Nobody can leave this cursed town.

The shooting has died down, there's hardly any gunfire at all right now, and Mommy and Daddy keep thinking about the future. They say there is none in this town. That's what many people think. But it's impossible to leave this town.

Love,
Zlata

Dear Mimmy,

Those lunatics up in the hills must have read what I wrote about the shooting yesterday. They want to show me that they're still around. They went SHOOTING today. Shells fell around the marketplace, and we don't know how Grandma and Granddad are. Poor things. These lunatics haven't just stolen from us our childhood, they've stolen from my grandparents and other old people a peaceful old age. They're not letting them live out the rest of their lives in peace. They had to ruin that too.

I didn't have classes or music school today. They sent us home, so I'll spend the whole day at home reading, playing the piano, spending some time with Nejra and Haris. I was supposed to go to Mirna's today, but they spoiled that for me.

I didn't tell you, Mimmy, that you're about to go out into the world. You're going to be published abroad. I allowed it, so you could tell the world what I wrote to you. I wrote to you about the war, about myself and Sarajevo in the war, and the world wants to know about it. I wrote what I felt, saw and heard, and now people outside of Sarajevo are going to know it. Have a good journey into the world. Your Zlata

Dear Mimmy,

Yesterday our friends in the hills reminded us of their presence and that they are now in control and can kill, wound, destroy ... yesterday was a truly horrible day.

Five hundred and ninety shells. From 4:30 in the morning on, throughout the day. Six dead and fifty-six wounded. That is yesterday's toll. Souk-bunar fared the worst. I don't know how Melica is. They say that half the houses up there are gone.

We went down into the cellar. Into the cold, dark, stupid cellar which I hate. We were there for hours and hours. They kept pounding away. All the neighbors were with us.

AGAIN! Again and again they keep sinking all our boats, taking and burning all our hopes. People said that they wouldn't do it anymore. That there would soon be an end to it, that everything would resolve itself. THAT THIS STUPID WAR WOULD END!

Oh God, why do they spoil everything? Sometimes I think it would be better if they kept shooting, so that we wouldn't find it so hard when it starts up again. This way, just as you relax, it starts up AGAIN. I am convinced now that it will never end.

Because some people don't want it to, some evil people who hate children and ordinary folk.

I keep thinking that we're alone in this hell, that nobody is thinking of us, nobody is offering us a helping hand. But there are people who are thinking and worrying about us.