The bus was already at the stop, idling, puffs of exhaust stark against the icy air. Drenka handed me the bag and led me up the steps. Inside it smelled like rancid meat, and I suppressed a gag. The exterior had looked like a regular tour bus, the same kind that ran the summertime route from Zagreb to the coast, but now I noticed the camouflage rucksacks overflowing from the first three rows of seats, the driver in partial police uniform, the assault rifle prominently affixed to the dashboard.
“She’s going to Zagreb,” Drenka said, handing him the first stack of dinar. “Make sure she gets the right transfer.” She gave him the other stack and ran a few fingers over my cheek before she jumped back to the ground. I sat down next to a man in Croatian police uniform. The engine turned, the bus lurched forward, and Drenka stood and watched me leave, holding her shawl across her face against the swirling fumes.
As the village melted into the horizon behind me, I pressed my head to the window, feeling the vibrations of the motor that buzzed through the glass and up into my skull. I never learned the name of the place that had taken me in and tried to look in the dark for a road sign. I wondered whether, if I wanted, I could find it again, if I would recognize it by sight or some deeper feeling in my stomach.
“There are bodies in the back, you know.”
“What?” I looked up at the soldier next to me. He was young, a redhead, with pimples in a line along his jaw.
“Bodies. In the backseats. Dead ones.”
“Now why would you tell her that?” said the soldier across the aisle.
“It’s true!”
“But she’s just a little kid. A girl.”
“She’s in fatigues,” he said, gesturing to Damir’s clothes. “You’re a Safe Houser, aren’t you? I’ve heard about you guys.”
“She’s like eight!”
“Well?” said the first soldier.
“Forward grip, gas chamber, cleaning rod, bolt, frame, magazine. Function check,” I said.
The soldiers’ eyes widened, but the one next to me played it off. “See? Anyway”—he turned to me again—“those seats in the back are all dead guys. Hopefully we make it up north before the smell gets any worse.”
“Would you stop?” said the other soldier.
“She ain’t no little kid.” He put his head back, feigning sleep, and ignored both of us for the rest of the night.
—
I woke the next morning in Zagreb with no memory of changing buses. It was an unseasonably warm day, the winter sun close and exacting. I pulled my sweatshirt off and stuffed it in Drenka’s bag, stood squinting and bewildered in the bus terminal’s dirty parking lot. I took the chain-link exit for authorized personnel only to avoid the crowds in the station and emerged through an alley out onto Dr?i?a Avenue.
Zagreb appeared relatively unharmed, and I was overwhelmed by its size and bustle, felt out of sync with the constant motion of the city. I noticed families walking together clad in khakis and patent leather and realized they were probably leaving church, that it was Sunday. The concept of time organized into seven-day units seemed almost foreign now, as if I’d never abided by the calendar. I wondered how long I’d been gone, whether I’d missed Christmas. I thought of school and was dismayed that everyone I knew had undoubtedly continued going there every day without me.
The city I had called my own, one I’d considered a war zone when I left it, now felt like neither. It was as if the whole of Zagreb had been repainted—Technicolor—the hues more vivid, the glass within each windowpane more burnished.
I stared at a family as they crossed the street, let my eyes linger too long, and their mother glared at my dirty T-shirt with the condescension reserved for gypsy beggars. For a second I wished I still had my rifle—just my holding it would have stopped her from looking at me like that—but immediately I felt ashamed of the thought. I needed to keep moving. I went to Luka’s house.
When I rang the doorbell, Luka answered, his face lighting up with one of his rare unbridled smiles. He cleared his front steps in one jump, chattering out a flurry of where-have-you-beens and what-took-you-so-longs, and I felt my throat shrivel and close. I was afraid my voice would give me away or abandon me altogether, as it had before.
Luka continued prattling as he climbed back toward his door, but I found my feet reluctant to take orders. He spun around to hurry me along, and I saw his face change in what must have been the moment he finally looked at me. I watched the seriousness return to his eyes as he scanned the stains on my shirt.
“Ana,” he said. “Where are your parents?”
“At home,” I lied in my shaky voice, but he gave me a look so piercing that I burst into tears. I felt my knees soften, and he pulled my arm over his shoulders and led me up the stairs to his room, where he sat me on the edge of the bed.
“Take it off,” he said, nodding at my shirt.
“No.”
“Take it off!”
I yanked the shirt over my head, and, eyes averted, he held out his hand. I gave it to him, and he dropped it to the floor, then dug through his own bureau until he found a satisfactory replacement.