“Tell that father of yours to send me money,” she shouted and plumped down on the sofa. “I live here all alone. Winter is coming. I’ll need to heat this place. Coal is expensive.”

She turned her attention back to the soap opera. Grandma Marija seemed to have forgotten all about me, and I felt strange standing there. I waited for her to acknowledge me again. She didn’t. I thought about touching her shoulder to remind her I was still in the room. I wondered if I was required to hug her before I left. She looked so dirty. Her body emitted a faint smell of decay. She seemed so engrossed in her soap opera that I felt bad disturbing her again. I slipped out without saying goodbye. Out on the street I took the chocolate out of my pocket and tossed it across the gate.

I tried not to think about Grandma Marija and her strange behavior. I did not bother to ask myself why she was there or where she was going.

A week later I packed my bags and walked to the bus station. The leaves were turning yellow and crunching underfoot. The sun was giving way to the rains and that fickle weather in late summer when a rainfall could easily surprise you when you’d already left home without an umbrella. I walked through the streets lined with ruined houses that were slowly disappearing into the green shrubbery. At the station I boarded the bus and looked at my teary relatives waving to me. My head was full of worry if I’d ever see them again. I fought back my tears. Only after I’d settled into my seat did I notice Grandma Marija. She was the last person to board. After a brief argument with the driver about the bus fare, she rushed past me and sat down in the back. Grandma Marija must have seen me because she glanced my way as she passed by. But she did not say anything. I wondered if I should go to her. Wasn’t it unnatural that we were on the same bus but so far apart, like strangers? The bus took off and she still did not acknowledge me. I didn’t go to her either. My seat felt so comfortable. Getting up to go to her seemed like such an ordeal. I determined to talk to her at the next rest stop. I still don’t understand why I acted that way. Maybe I was just avoiding another unnerving interaction with Grandma Marija. But I sometimes wonder if things might have turned out differently for Grandma Marija if I’d stood by her.

We continued on the road along that tricky and unpredictable river Vrbas. The road out of our town is hilly and filled with dangerous curves. The bus driver navigated them expertly and maintained a speed that, for someone unfamiliar with the road, could easily have proven deadly. I tried not to think about Grandma Marija and her strange behavior. I did not bother to ask myself why she was there or where she was going. The day was clear, and I watched the sunrays glittering on fir trees outside. I fell asleep soon after we took off. When I woke up, the bus was stopping at a Serb barricade. I looked through the window. A few idle soldiers were milling around and smoking on the roadside. Rifles hung loosely on their shoulders. Two soldiers walked into the bus and looked at our identification cards.

“What kind of a name is Karolina? Is that a Serb or a Croat name,” the soldier asked as he examined my papers.

I did not reply. I strained my brain for a good answer. I was neither Serb nor Croat. I was a little bit of each. What kind of response would keep me out of trouble? I looked around for help. The other passengers turned their heads away, even though I could feel all their attention glued to my seat. Wasn’t anyone going to intervene? My silence stretched out. The bus driver came up to us. He put his hand on the soldier’s shoulder. “She’s just a teenager. Let her go. She’s fine,” he said. The man tilted his head and looked me up and down. It was the same look my grandpa had in the marketplace when he examined pigs to slaughter for the holiday feast. I slid further back into my seat. I wanted to become invisible. The soldier handed me back my papers and moved on.