The voice of the priest died down, and then a priest on the other side sang. The words piled on my heart like stones and I thought how much I wanted to be like the river, which had no memory, and how little like the earth, which could never forget.
•
Mother quit the factory and locked herself home. She said her hands burned with her daughter’s blood. Father began to frequent the cooperative distillery at the end of the village. At first he claimed that assisting people with loading their plums, peaches, grapes into the cauldrons kept his mind blank; then that he was simply sampling the first rakia which trickled out the spout, so he could advise the folk how to boil better drink.
He lost both his jobs soon, and so it was up to me to feed the family. I started working in the coal mine, because the money was good, and because I wanted, with my pick, to gut the land we walked on.
The control across the borders tightened. Both countries put nets along the banks and blocked buffer zones at the narrow waist of the river where the villagers used to call to one another. The sbors were canceled. Vera and I no longer met, though we found two small hills we could sort of see each other from, like dots in the distance. But these hills were too far away and we did not go there often.
Almost every night, I dreamed of Elitsa.
“I saw her just before she left,” I would tell my mother. “I could have stopped her.”
“Then why didn’t you?” Mother would ask.
Sometimes I went to the river and threw stones over the fence, into the water, and imagined those two silver earrings, settling into the silty bottom.
“Give back the earrings,” I’d scream, “you spineless, muddy thief!”
•
I worked double shifts in the mine and was able to put something aside. I took care of Mother, who never left her bed, and occasionally brought bread and cheese to Father at the distillers. “Mother is sick,” I’d tell him, but he pretended not to hear. “More heat,” he’d call, and kneel by the trickle to sample some parvak.
Vera and I wrote letters for a while, but after each letter there was a longer period of silence before the new one arrived. One day, in the summer of 1990, I received a brief note:
Dear Nose. I’m getting married. I want you at my wedding. I live in Beograd now. I’m sending you money. Please come.
There was, of course, no money in the envelope. Someone had stolen it on the way.
Each day I reread the letter, and thought of the way Vera had written those words, in her elegant, thin writing, and I thought of this man she had fallen in love with, and I wondered if she loved him as much as she had loved me, by the cross, in the river. I made plans to get a passport.
•
Two weeks before the wedding, Mother died. The doctor couldn’t tell us of what. Of grief, the wailers said, and threw their black kerchiefs over their heads like ash. Father brought his drinking guiltily to the empty house. One day he poured me a glass of rakia and made me gulp it down. We killed the bottle. Then he looked me in the eye and grabbed my hand. Poor soul, he thought he was squeezing it hard.
“My son,” he said, “I want to see the fields.”
We staggered out of the village, finishing a second bottle. When we reached the fields, we sat down and watched in silence. After the fall of communism, organized agriculture had died in many areas, and now everything was overgrown with thornbush and nettles.
“What happened, Nose?” Father said. “I thought we held him good, this bastard, in both hands. Remember what I taught you? Hold tight, choke the bastard and things will be all right? Well, shit, Nose. I was wrong.”
And he spat against the wind, in his own face.
•
Three years passed before Vera wrote again. Nose, I have a son. I’m sending you a picture. His name is Vladislav. Guess who we named him after? Come and visit us. We have money now, so don’t worry. Goran just got back from a mission in Kosovo. Can you come?
My father wanted to see the picture. He stared at it for a long time, and his eyes watered.
“My God, Nose,” he said. “I can’t see anything. I think I’ve finally gone blind.”
“You want me to call the doctor?”
“Yes,” he said, “but for yourself. Quit the mine, or that cough will take you.”
“And what do we do for money?”
“You’ll find some for my funeral. Then you’ll go away.”
I sat by his side and lay a hand on his forehead. “You’re burning. I’ll call the doctor.”
“Nose,” he said, “I’ve finally figured it out. Here is my paternal advice: Go away. You can’t have a life here. You must forget about your sister, about your mother, about me. Go west. Get a job in Spain, or in Germany, or anywhere; start from scratch. Break each chain. This land is a bitch and you can’t expect anything good from a bitch.”
He took my hand and he kissed it.
“Go get the priest,” he said.
•
I worked the mine until, in the spring of 1995, my boss, who’d come from some big, important city to the east, asked me, three times in a row, to repeat my request for an extra shift. Three times I repeated before he threw his arms up in despair. “I can’t understand your dialect, mayna,” he said. “Too Serbian for me.” So I beat him up and was fired.
After that, I spent my days in the village tavern, every now and then lifting my hand before my eyes to check if I hadn’t finally gone blind. It’s a tough lot to be last in your bloodline. I thought of my father’s advice, which seemed foolish, of my sister making plans to go west and of how I had done nothing to stop her from swimming to her death.
Almost every night I had the same dream. I was diving at the drowned church, looking through its window, at walls no longer covered with the murals of saints and martyrs. Instead, I could see my sister and my mother, my father, Grandpa, Grandma, Vera, people from our village and from the village across the border, painted motionless on the walls, with their eyes on my face. And every time, as I tried to push up to the surface, I discovered that my hands were locked together on the other side of the bars.
I would wake up with a yell, the voice of my sister echoing in the room.
I have some doubts, she would say, some suspicions, that these earrings aren’t really silver.
•
In the spring of 1999 the United States attacked Serbia. Kosovo, the field where the Serb had once, many centuries ago, surrendered to the Turk, had once again become the ground of battle. Three or four times I saw American planes swoop over our village with a boom. Serbia, it seemed, was a land not large enough for their maneuvers at ultrasonic speed. They cut corners from our sky and went back to drop their bombs on our neighbors. The news that Vera’s husband had been killed came as no surprise. Her letter ended like this: Nose, I have my son and you. Please come. There is no one else.
The day I received the letter, I swam to the drowned church without taking my shoes or my clothes off. I held the cross and shivered for a long time, and finally I dove down and down to the rocky bottom. I gripped the bars on the church gates tightly and listened to the screaming of my lungs while they squeezed out every molecule of oxygen. I wish I could say that I saw my life unwinding thread by thread before my eyes: happy moments alternating with sad, or that my sister, bathed in glorious light, came out of the church to take my drowning hand. But there was only darkness, the booming of water, of blood.