Chapter One

 

The very first memory I have is of me at barely three years old, standing next to my grandfather. My grandfather, a tall man with salt and pepper colored hair, smoked a pipe. His face was calm and peaceful, with a hint of contentment in his expression as he stared at the horizon ahead. He was a quiet man with a big heart and a clever mind. He moved through life like a whisper, his presence felt but never imposing. As we stood next to each other, I watched him clear out his pipe and place it into the front pocket of his shirt. He slowly placed his hands behind his back, holding his left in his right hand. I immediately did the same thing with my hands, wanting to be just like him. He didn’t acknowledge me, but I noticed him smile as his short mustache, which was the same color as his hair, spread into a grimace and I felt a little encouraged. He quickly concealed the look of amusement on his face, replacing it with a look of a serious ponderer.

I didn’t realize it then, but we were witnessing a beautiful sunset. We stood in a vast field on his land, and we just stared at the distance. I was so preoccupied trying to act like him that I hadn’t realized we were just taking a moment to enjoy the sunset. As the sun began its descent towards the horizon, casting long shadows across the sprawling meadow, we stood side by side, watching in awe as the sky transformed into a canvas of vibrant colors.

The rolling hills that surrounded us were alive with the sound of nature, as birds chirped, and insects hummed in the warm evening air. The gentle breeze carried the scent of wildflowers, adding to the sensory experience of the moment, but it was the sunset that held our attention, as we watched the golden orb of the sun sink lower and lower, casting long shadows across the grass. As the sky transitioned from bright oranges and yellows to deep purples and blues, we stood in silence, lost in the beauty of the moment.

The memory of the sunset, and the sense of connection that I felt with my grandfather, would stay with me for years to come, a reminder of the beauty and wonder of the natural world, and the power of human connection in the face of its majesty.

In the tapestry of my life, my grandfather held the most cherished place. His departure from this earthly realm shattered my heart, leaving me adrift in a sea of anguish. During the hours when my parents toiled, it was he who stood as my guardian, a steadfast presence in my formative years. Though soft-spoken, he possessed a captivating gift—the art of storytelling. In my eyes, he epitomized wisdom, a beacon of intellect that illuminated my path. His existence spanned vast horizons, brimming with adventures and triumphs, a life that overflowed with richness and resolute purpose.

Amidst the ravages of World War II, he valiantly battled against the forces of the Nazis, an era preceding my very existence. Now, his soul brimmed with a treasury of narratives, waiting to be unfurled. With a generous spirit, he regaled me with tales, provided I understood the sanctity of his solitary moments, where he sought solace in observing the news or immersing himself in political documentaries on the television. In countless dimensions, he embodied the essence of heroism, a beacon that illuminated my path, surpassing the boundaries of enumeration.

Despite the idyllic nature of my childhood, an enigmatic void persisted, a gnawing sense that I belonged elsewhere. Somewhere, there existed an anticipation, an expectant yearning for my presence. The impulse to depart tugged at my core, yet the destination remained elusive, veiled in mystery. How could I articulate this yearning to others? The notion seemed beyond comprehension, destined to be locked within my own depths. In the solitude of my anguish, I suffered in silent resignation.

Intermittently, fragments of memories would emerge, unbidden, stirring my consciousness. Their origins eluded me, leaving me to question their authenticity. Were they truly recollections of my own experiences, or did they arise from the depths of my fertile imagination? The weight they carried, however, bespoke their veracity. For instance, during a seemingly ordinary day at school, my attention fixed on the lesson before me, I absentmindedly swept a lock of hair behind my left ear. In that instant, an enchanting recollection surged forth—a tender touch, another’s hand gently tucking away that same strand. Overwhelmed by a surge of profound affection, my eyes welled with tears. The intensity of that emotion was immeasurable, consuming my being.

I, Sarah, was not in love at that time; yet, within the depths of my being, another version of myself, the essence of authenticity, reveled in an all-encompassing passion for the one who tenderly tucked away her locks. The blueness of his eyes lingered in my recollections, though his visage remained obscured, a veil concealing his identity. The memory, fleeting and ephemeral, descended upon me abruptly, its brilliance waning as swiftly as it appeared. The weight of that loss bore down upon me with insurmountable intensity. Oh, the ache of yearning, the profound longing for that person, that place, that…me.

As the years passed, I found myself haunted by memories and flashbacks that grew increasingly frequent. Sometimes, it felt as if I was losing my grip on reality. I struggled to make sense of what was happening and found myself feeling increasingly homesick. The urge to return to the place I called “home” was eating away at me.

Most nights, I would sit by my window, staring out into the darkness, searching for a glimmer of hope. I would gaze up at the sky, scanning the stars in desperation. I longed to be reunited with the familiar sights and sounds I thought I once knew. My mind was consumed by an intense longing to be somewhere else. It was a peculiar feeling, one that I couldn’t quite comprehend. After all, I had a wonderful life. My parents were caring and supportive, my cousins and friends were always eager to play, and my teachers and neighbors adored me. There wasn’t a single aspect of my life that I wished to alter.

We were constantly traveling all over Europe, meeting new people, and creating unforgettable memories. Yet, despite all of this, I couldn’t shake off the constant ache of loneliness and longing for home. It was as if something within me was slowly draining life out of me.

As I struggled to understand my emotions, I couldn’t help but wonder if my yearning was simply a symptom of my restlessness. Perhaps I needed a change of scenery, a new adventure to embark on. Or maybe, just maybe, there was something missing in my life that I had yet to discover. Whatever the reason, I knew one thing for certain: I couldn’t continue living like this. I needed to find a way to overcome this homesickness and gain the joy and excitement that filled the hearts of my peers.

There was another strange thing that happened to me during this time. Whenever I developed a crush on someone, I would feel guilty, as though I were cheating on somebody else. The strange thing was, I had no idea who this mysterious someone else was. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that it had something to do with those piercing blue eyes that I saw every time I closed my own. It was as if they were calling out to me, urging me to come home.

 One warm summer afternoon, I was sitting on the porch swing at my grandfather’s house, enjoying the breeze that rustled through the trees. I must have been about ten or eleven years old then. My grandfather, a wise old man with a lifetime of experience, joined me on the swing and we began to talk. I was bursting with curiosity and really needed someone else’s opinion on those unanswered questions that always lurked in the back of my mind.

“Grandpa, can I ask you something?” I said, looking up at him.

“Of course, my dear. What’s on your mind?” my grandfather replied, his kind eyes sparkling with warmth.

“I feel like I don’t really belong anywhere,” I said, my voice quiet. “I don’t fit in at school, and I don’t feel like I fit in with my friends either. I just feel like I’m floating around, not really connected to anything.”

My grandfather nodded thoughtfully. “I know that feeling,” he said. “When I was your age, I felt the same way. But let me tell you something, Sarah. The sense of belonging doesn’t come from fitting in with others. It comes from knowing who you are and being true to yourself.”

I looked at him, puzzled. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that you don’t have to change who you are to fit in with others,” my grandfather said. “You are unique, with your own talents and interests. Embrace those things, and don’t be afraid to stand out. When you do that, you’ll find people who appreciate you for who you are, and that’s where your sense of belonging will come from.”

I thought about this for a moment. “But what if I don’t know who I am?” I asked.

My grandfather smiled at me. “That’s okay,” he said. “That’s part of the journey of life. You’ll figure it out as you go along. Just remember to always be true to yourself, and everything else will fall into place.”

I leaned my head against my grandfather’s shoulder, feeling comforted by his words. “Thanks, Grandpa,” I said. “You always know just what to say.”

My grandfather chuckled. “I’ve had a lot of practice,” he said. “And don’t forget, Sarah. You always have a place to belong with your family, no matter what.”

I smiled, feeling a sense of warmth and love. I realized that I didn’t have to search for belonging, because I already had it with my family. And with my grandfather’s wise words ringing in my ears, I knew that I would find my place in the world, too, one day.

 

***

 

THE BALKANS

SUMMER 1992

 

Groggy and disoriented, I awoke to a disquieting scene—a hazy cloud of dust and debris enveloped me, stifling my breath. Gradually, my eyes adjusted to the muted light, and I pieced together the fragments of reality. I found myself within the sanctuary of my grandfather’s abode, seeking refuge from the turmoil of war. The chaos had erupted, compelling my parents and me to ensure his well-being. As the sun receded, casting shadows of uncertainty, we resolved to spend the night, defying the nocturnal restrictions imposed by the conflict.

A searing pain coursed through my side, jolting me into the grim present—I lay amidst the ruins of what was once our cherished home. The clamor of explosions reverberated in my ears, intermingled with the distant symphony of gunfire. A flicker of light in the distance served as a haunting reminder—a relentless battle waged on. The acrid scent of smoke and smoldering timber permeated my nostrils, while the crackling of flames echoed ominously nearby.

Summoning every ounce of strength, I attempted to shift my position, only to be met with a torrent of anguish—a testament to the wounds inflicted during the assault. Gazing downward, I beheld the crimson stain adorning my shirt, its origin a source of the piercing ache in my side.

As my vision cleared, a desolate tableau of devastation emerged. The once-secure walls and sheltering roof had crumbled, replaced by heaps of debris and twisted metal. Our treasured possessions lay strewn and shattered, interred beneath the weight of destruction.

I called out for help, but my voice was weak and hoarse. I tried to push myself up, but my injuries prevented me from moving. I began to panic, scanning the room for my family.

“Grandpa?” I cried, fearing the worst. “Mom, dad?” Nothing. No signs of life, “Grandpa!” I squealed again, but my voice was just a whisper. There was no reply, and I felt a deep-seated fear that I was left alone in the world.

Just then, I heard the sound of footsteps approaching. I saw a figure emerge from the smoke and dust, moving towards me with urgency. I recognized the face of a neighbor, who had come to check on us and offer help.

“Come on,” He said, “we have to hurry. We must hide before they come for us.”

“What? No!” I screamed, “we can’t go. We have to find my family. They’re here somewhere, probably injured and need our help.”

“We can’t wait,” the neighbor said putting his arms around me and lifting me up.

“No,” I screamed, “put me down, we can’t leave them!”

But he kept running. Not paying any attention to me. I looked around frantically trying to locate them.

“Grandpa,” I cried, “put me down, please. I see my grandpa. He’s stuck under that rubble over there. Please. We have to help him.”

“It’s too late,” the guy said, “He’s gone. I’m sorry. I saw him before I found you. I checked but…” he shook his head, “I’m sorry.”

Tears streamed down my face as he carried me through the smoke and disorder. The devastating reality struck me hard: my entire family was gone. They vanished in a blink of an eye, leaving me alone and helpless. The remains of my grandfather’s house, along with everything inside, had crumbled into debris that buried them.

After several hours of walking, we finally reached what I thought was a small forest, which later proved to be a corn field.

“There’s a lower chance of them finding us if we stay away from others,” my savior said. “We should stay here. Hopefully, they won’t come here looking for us. They’ll go to the Kurevo woods up on the hill. They know that’s where the rest of the town had fled. We’ll figure something else out in the morning. We just have to survive the night.”

I was too distraught to even think about my own safety. I just wanted to lie down and die. I was angry at him for saving me. I thought I should have stayed at my grandfather’s house with the rest of them and awaited my destiny there. I knew that those soldiers looking for us had no mercy, though. They wouldn’t think twice before killing me or, worse, raping or taking me to a concentration camp. This was the 1992 Yugoslavia; the beginning of an end.”

“Let me see,” the guy said, “your injury… let me take a look.”

I winced when I tried to move so he could assess my injuries. It was hard to see anything because we couldn’t use any flashlights for fear of being discovered. Even the moonlight was non-existent that night.

“It’s okay,” I said, “I’m fine. Don’t worry. It’s not so bad.” 

“Here,” he whispered, wrapping me up in a thin blanket he pulled out of his backpack. “Maybe try to get some sleep. We have a long day ahead of us tomorrow. I need you to be well rested. We’ll try to find a way out of this town, and, unfortunately, we’ll have to walk.”

Sleeping was impossible, not just because of the unbearable pain on my side from injuries, but also because of the rumbling sounds of grenades flying over us and exploding in the nearby woods. I was cold and scared to death of being discovered. I had heard horrible stories of rape-camps and did not want to end up in any one of them. I’d rather be dead, I thought and started contemplating on how to end my life before they could take me captive if they did discover us. Maybe I’d provoke one of them by reaching for his gun, so he would react and end it swiftly without thinking, I thought.

Despite being wrapped up in the neighbor’s blanket like a small child, I couldn’t stop shivering uncontrollably from the intense cold. My teeth chattered loudly, and I was concerned that my wound might get infected, but I didn’t want to burden him with my worries. After all, there was nothing he could do to help me now, so we simply had to wait until morning.

The shelling finally stopped some time close to dawn and as the first light broke through, we decided to move. We were going back to town to see if we could find some supplies; the essentials to bring with us. We examined my wound and realized I would need stiches. He was also worried about an infection.

“Maybe we’ll find some antibiotics back in town,” he said, “but we must move fast. You know they’ll be coming in tanks soon.”

I nodded. That was their emo. They would shell the town and destroy as much property as possible first and then they would move in with tanks, guns, knives to kill and take prisoners; to “cleanse” the area.  I shivered at the thought.

As we inched closer to town, I could see the destruction.  Smoke billowed from what were once buildings and homes.

As we drew closer, the scene before us was even more devastating. The streets were littered with rubble, twisted metal and charred debris. What had once been bustling storefronts and homes were now piles of twisted metal and shattered glass. It was obvious that many bombs had gone off and decimated everything in their path.

The silence was eerie, punctuated only by the occasional sound of debris shifting in the wind. There were no signs of life, no people wandering the streets or trying to salvage what was left of their homes.

As we walked through the ruins of the town, I felt a sense of overwhelming sadness and despair. How could such destruction and devastation be inflicted upon innocent people? It was a sobering reminder of the horrors of war and the toll it takes on innocent civilians caught in the crossfire.

I ran inside my grandfather’s destroyed home, hoping and praying that by some miracle they were still alive. But I was devastated when I discovered their bodies one by one. They were unrecognizable. Pain in my heart was all I could think about. The unbearable horrible pain of losing them and realizing I wouldn’t be able to bury them; to give them a proper funeral, to put them to rest like normal human beings who were loved. I had to flee in a hurry without saying my final goodbye.

Twenty years later I found out that they were moved to a mass grave, then, they were moved from that mass grave to another one to hide the crimes committed against them. Thanks to the DNA testing, tens of thousands of persons buried in those mass graves were identified, but due to the use of heavy machinery to move their remains from one mass grave to another, finding anyone’s body as a whole was impossible, so I ended up burying two leg bones that belonged to my mother, a skull of my father and a femur; a thigh bone that once belonged to my grandfather. The pain of losing them, and then not being able to find them for decades, and when finally I did find them, their remains were torn apart and scattered, burying what little I had of them in some memorial graveyard was painful also. It was indescribable, a searing ache that consumed me from within. My heart was shattered into a million pieces. That pain stayed with me throughout my life, an ever-present reminder of what I had lost. It never left me, not for a second, and I learned to live with it. It became a part of who I was, shaping my outlook on life.

Now back to my tale:

As I looked back at my grandfather’s house, my heart was heavy with sadness and fear. I knew the soldiers would come soon and they would be ruthless in their pursuit of anyone they deemed a threat. We had to flee, leaving behind everything we knew and loved. I was glad I didn’t have to go through it alone, though. My grandfather’s neighbor, an elderly man with a kind heart and a strong will acted like a guardian angel. He took me under his wing and guided me through the treacherous journey that lay ahead.

For days, we walked through rugged terrain, our feet sore and blistered, our stomachs empty and rumbling. But through it all, my grandfather’s neighbor never lost hope. He regaled me with stories of his own youth, when he had traveled the world as a sailor, and his tales of adventure and danger helped to distract me from my own perilous situation.

I listened in awe while trying not to interrupt by asking questions.

“Have you ever been to America,” I finally asked. I had always dreamed of seeing America and the stories I had heard about the land of opportunity had always fascinated me.

“Oh, yes,” he said, “it was one of the best experiences of my life. I was about twenty-three, twenty-four years old at the time.”

“Will you tell me about it?” I asked breathlessly.

“Sure,” he said, “come, lets rest for a minute and I’ll tell you all about it.”

We slowly moved toward an old barn that looked abandoned. Surrounded by tall grass, it was obvious that no one had been there for a while. It was dirty and empty. We felt relieved there were no people in sight.

“Come, let’s take a look at that wound again,” he said gently. I waited patiently for him to begin his tale of America. The land I had always dreamed of.

“One day,” he started, “I was assigned to a ship that was headed to New York City. As the ship approached the harbor, I stood on the deck and watched in awe as the city grew larger and larger. The tall skyscrapers seemed to touch the sky and the lights of the city sparkled like diamonds in the distance.

“When the ship finally docked, I was eager to explore the city. I had heard so much about America and was excited to see it for myself. My buddies and I made our way to Manhattan and as we walked through the streets, I was struck by the hustle and bustle of the city.

“I was amazed by the size of everything in America. The buildings were taller, the streets were wider, and the cars were bigger than anything I had ever seen before. I marveled at the incredible engineering feats that had made all of this possible. As we walked through Times Square, I felt like I was in a dream, or better yet, in a movie,” he chuckled and continued, “the bright lights, the towering billboards, and the crowds of people all around me were overwhelming. I had never seen anything like it before.

“Over the next few days, we explored as much of the city as we could. We visited the Empire State Building, the Statue of Liberty, and the Brooklyn Bridge. We ate hot dogs and pizza and drank coffee from street vendors. We even went to a baseball game and cheered on the New York Yankees!

“But despite all the excitement,” he sighed, “I couldn’t wait to get back to my ship. I had missed the sea and the familiar routine of life on board. As the ship sailed away from the harbor, I watched the city disappear into the distance, grateful for the chance to have seen the United States of America but also relieved to be back on the water.”

We stayed quiet for a while. He even fell asleep, while I pondered over his story. I thought that if I ever had a chance to visit America, I’d never want to leave. I felt like “it” was calling me. Perhaps this was “home” I always longed to get to.

 A little while later we got back on the road. For the most part, he practically carried me for the pain in my side was getting worse. It never completely stopped bleeding either, so we had to stop often to assess and dress it again and again. We did find some antibiotics back in town, but they were now making me feel even more tired and fatigued.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, we arrived at the border of a neighboring country. We could see the border guards in the distance, and our hearts leapt with joy and relief. But our journey was not over yet. The guards were suspicious of us, and we had to convince them that we were not a threat.

It was a tense and nerve-wracking moment, but my grandfather’s neighbor remained calm and composed. He spoke with the guards gently, and after some negotiation and persuasion, we were allowed to cross the border.

On the other side, we were greeted by aid workers who took us in and provided us with the basic necessities of life. We were given food to eat, a roof over our heads, and medical attention for our injuries. It was a moment of overwhelming gratitude, and tears streamed down my face as I realized that we had made it to safety, and it was all thanks to this kind old man who had risked his own life to help me flee our war-tore country.

This was a goodbye, however, because he was moving on to another country where his daughter and her family waited for him.

I turned to him, standing a few steps away, and saw tears welling up in his own eyes. His wrinkled face broke into a small smile, and he reached out to hug me. I wrapped my arms around him tightly, knowing that this could very well be the last time I ever saw him.

“Thank you,” I whispered into his ear, my voice shaking with emotion.

The old man pulled back and placed his hands on my shoulders. “You don’t have to thank me, my child. It was the least I could do.”

I looked at him, studying his face. He was a kind soul, and I knew that he had risked his own safety to help me escape the horrors of war. He had provided me with a safe place to hide, helped me dress my wound, and arranged a safe passage to this new place. Without him, I was sure I would have been captured by those soldiers and taken to one of those horrifying camps I’d heard about and possibly would have even gotten killed.

I felt a lump form in my throat as I tried to find the right words to say. “I don’t know how to repay you,” I finally managed to say.

The old man chuckled softly. “You don’t owe me anything, my child. Just promise me that you’ll be safe and happy here.”

I nodded, unable to speak as tears continued to roll down my face. I knew that this moment would stay with me for the rest of my life, and I felt an overwhelming sense of gratitude towards this kind stranger who had become a lifeline for me.

As I turned to leave, he placed his hand on my arm. “Wait,” he said softly, pulling out a small piece of paper from his pocket. “Take this. It’s my daughter’s address. If you ever need anything, don’t hesitate to contact me.”

I took the paper, holding it tightly in my hand. “Thank you,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper.

The old man smiled at me one last time before turning and walking away. I watched him go, feeling a deep sense of sadness wash over me. But I knew that I had been given a second chance at life, and I was determined to make the most of it, to honor the sacrifices that this kind old man had made for me.

***

I thought I’d be happy and safe here, but I was wrong. The only good thing about my situation now was going back to school. I got enrolled in high school and was happy to go, but since I didn’t have any family in that city to sponsor me, I had to live in a refugee camp. The conditions in the camp were terrible. We were crammed into small tents, with little food or water. Disease was rampant, and many people were sick or dying.

As a teenage girl, I felt vulnerable and exposed. I was constantly harassed by men in the camp, who saw me as an easy target. I knew that I had to stay strong, but it was hard. I missed my home, my friends, my life before everything fell apart.

Days turned into weeks, and weeks turned into months. I lived in the refugee camp, waiting for something to change. But nothing did. I was stuck there, with no way out.

It was a horrible situation, and I often wondered if I would ever be able to escape. I clung to the belief that one day, things would get better. That one day, I would be able to leave the refugee camp and start a new life. I still gazed at the stars every night yearning to go “home” to those blue eyes that were searching and calling out to me.

 

 

 

 

 

© Sanela Ramic Jurich. All rights reserved.