Chapter 4: The Watchful Kitchen
The warm, soapy water turned to ice on her skin the moment Hamëz spoke. Vanja kept scrubbing the same plate, her shoulders tightening. A checkpoint on the main road. A sweep. The words were clinical, but she could map the violence they implied—the kicked-in doors, the shouted orders, the families pulled into the street in their nightclothes. She had a catalog of such images, filed away from a life she hadn’t lived yet.
“Thank you for telling me,” she said, placing the clean plate on the rack. Her voice was steady. She turned, drying her hands on a towel. Hamëz was watching her, his expression not unkind, but assessive. He saw a young woman, scared but trying not to show it. He didn’t see the library of tragedies she was comparing this moment against.
“It is for your safety,” Hamëz said, taking a sip of water. “This house, these people… you are under our protection now. Even if…” He trailed off, but the meaning hung in the steam from the stove. Even if you are Serb. Even if your presence is a complication.
“I understand,” Vanja said. “I won’t cause trouble.”
It was then she felt the shift in the room’s atmosphere, a new current of cold air and focused attention. Bahri stood in the doorway to the hall, his frame filling it. He wasn’t looking at Hamëz. He was looking at her, his grey eyes flat and unreadable. Behind him, Burim’s face was a mask of careful neutrality, but his gaze was locked on Bahri, studying him like a puzzling text.
The silence thickened, broken only by the bubbling pot on the stove.
“You talked to her?” Bahri asked Hamëz. His voice was low, devoid of its usual abrasive edge.
“I informed our guest of the situation,” Hamëz replied, his tone mild but firm. “She will stay close.”
Bahri’s jaw worked. He finally dragged his gaze from Vanja to his uncle. “Good.” The word sounded like it cost him something. He shifted, and for a second, Vanja thought he was going to leave. Instead, he walked into the kitchen, moving past her to the stove. He lifted the lid of the pot, peered inside, and put it back down with a clatter. It was a pointless, agitated gesture.
“The truck from Gllarevë is here,” Burim said from the doorway, his voice a deliberate neutral filler. “The axle is holding. For now.”
“Then we unload it,” Bahri said, still not looking at anyone.
“I’ll help,” Vanja heard herself say.
Three pairs of male eyes fixed on her. Feride, who had been quietly peeling apples at the table, stopped, her knife hovering.
“It’s heavy work,” Burim said slowly.
“I’m strong. And I’m sitting here counting cracks in the plaster.” She met Bahri’s stare. “You said I was under protection. Not under house arrest. Let me earn my keep.”
A faint, almost imperceptible spark flickered in Bahri’s eyes. Challenge, or maybe grim amusement. Hamëz sighed, a soft, weary sound. “Five minutes. Then you come back inside. It is too cold for long.”
The yard was a shock of biting air. The promised truck, a dented blue thing, was parked near the barn, its engine ticking as it cooled. Two other young men, Agim and one she didn’t know, were already pulling back the canvas cover. The cargo was anonymous sacks of flour, sugar, but also sturdy wooden crates that clinked with a distinctive, heavy sound.
Bahri shouldered past her, taking a crate from Agim. “Take a sack. The flour. It’s lighter.”
She didn’t argue. The fifty-kilo sack was a dead weight that made her back muscles scream in protest, but she hoisted it, staggering slightly under the bulk. She followed Bahri into the barn’s deeper shadows, away from the others.
He dropped his crate onto a growing stack with a thud and turned, swiftly closing the distance between them. He didn’t take the sack from her, just stood close, his voice a bare murmur. “Why did you do that?”
“Do what?”
“Volunteer. Draw attention.” His breath clouded in the space between their faces.
“You changed the entire plan,” she whispered back, straining under the sack’s weight. “You moved the explosives. Because of what I said. That draws more attention than me carrying flour.”
He flinched, as if her words were a physical touch. “It was a tactical reassessment.”
“It was a mercy.” She adjusted her grip, the burlap rough against her cheek. “And now Hamëz and Burim are wondering why. They were watching you watch me in the kitchen.”
“Let them wonder.” He finally reached out, not to help her, but to adjust the sack’s position on her shoulder, his hands brief and impersonal. The contact sent a jolt through her. “Just stay inside. The checkpoint isn’t a rumor. It’s a fact. And if they are doing a sweep in Dragobilj, they are looking for excuses. A Serbian girl wandering near a strategic location is a very good excuse.”
“I saved the icons,” she said, her own voice dropping to match his. “The church is empty.”
“It doesn’t matter.” For the first time, he sounded frayed. “Don’t you understand? It’s not about the things anymore. It’s about the story. A Serbian at a historic site before a police action? The story writes itself. They will say you were signaling, scouting, contaminating the place. They will use you to justify whatever they do next.” He stepped back, his face hardening back into its familiar lines. “So, for once, be the spoiled Swiss girl. Stay put. Drink tea. Look at the cracks in the plaster.”
He walked away, back toward the light and the voices at the truck.
She carried the flour to the storeroom, her mind racing. He was protecting her. Not just the house, not just the agreement, but her. And in doing so, he was risking his own standing, sowing doubt in his uncle and his cousin. The weight of his covert defiance was heavier than any sack.
That evening, the kitchen was tense. Hamëz spoke quietly of reinforced patrols. Burim cleaned his rifle again, the rhythmic sound of the cloth on metal a grim metronome. Bahri was silent, picking at his food. Vanja helped Feride clear, their hands brushing in the wash basin.
Later, in the hall as she headed for the stairs, a hand caught her elbow. She turned. It was Burim.
“He is walking a thin line,” Burim said softly, his eyes searching hers. There was no malice in his face, only a deep, frustrated concern. “For you. This line, it has drops on both sides. You see?”
She nodded, her throat tight.
“Be worth it,” he murmured, and released her arm.
In her room, she leaned her forehead against the cold windowpane. Below, in the orchard, a small orange light glowed once, twice, then was extinguished. No sentinel stood there. It was just a signal. A brief, burning acknowledgment in the dark.
She didn’t know how to be worth it. She only knew how to remember what came next. And in the memory of the future, hamez and most men were fallen, bahri survived but at what cost, his proud face frozen in a photograph. The man downstairs, rearranging armies for a handful of painted icons and a warning, didn’t exist in that history. She had already changed something. The terror of that realization was more profound than any checkpoint.
The wind picked up, whistling through the eaves. Somewhere, not far enough away, a dog barked relentlessly. The world was tightening around them, a slow, inexorable contraction. And in the center of it all, the unspoken thing between her and the enemy in the house below grew heavier, and more quiet, with every passing hour.
And in the center of it all, the unspoken thing between her and the enemy in the house below grew heavier, and more quiet, with every passing hour. She found him in the kitchen just before dawn, sitting at the table with a single lamp on, a book open but unread beside his hands. The house slept. The world outside was a deep, frozen blue.
“Can’t sleep either?” Her voice was rough from silence.
He didn’t look up. “Sleep is a luxury for people with clear consciences.” He finally lifted his gaze. The lamp light hollowed his cheeks. “Or for those who can’t see what’s coming. You don’t seem to qualify on either count.”
She pulled out a chair, its legs scraping loud on the tile. She sat, folding her arms against the chill. “I wanted to see that new movie. The one with the submarine and the faulty torpedo. It looked stupid and suspenseful. Perfect for forgetting the world for two hours.” The admission felt strangely intimate.
A beat of silence. He looked baffled. “A movie?”
“Yes. From the real world. Where people worry about fake torpedoes and not real ones.” She nodded at his book. “What are you reading?”
He slid it across the table. The Palace of Dreams by Kadare. The spine was cracked. “It’s about a ministry that collects and interprets dreams to control the populace. My father sent it from Germany. He thinks it’s allegory. I think it’s an instruction manual.”
“Light reading,” she said, a faint smile touching her lips.
He almost smiled back. It was just a flicker. “It’s better than thinking.” He studied her. “You miss it. Switzerland.”
“I miss my cats. Pavel and Mishka. Two spoiled monsters who sleep on my dissertation notes.” She looked down at her hands. “I miss the quiet. The kind that isn’t just waiting for a sound.”
“I had a dog,” he said, the words pulled from him. “A mutt. Named Shpresa. Hope.” He cleared his throat. “She died last autumn. Old age. A peaceful death here is a rare thing. I was glad for her.”
The simple confession hung between them, a bridge across the minefield. The kettle began a low whistle on the stove. He got up to tend to it, his movements less rigid than usual.
“What do you miss?” she asked his back. “Besides your dog.”
He poured water into two cups, dunking tea bags. “The taste of things that don’t taste of dust and worry.” He brought the cups to the table. “Filije. My mother’s. The way she makes the pastry layers so thin you can see through them, with all that cheese and butter. It sits in your stomach like a warm stone. A good weight.”
Vanja felt a sudden, fierce pang. “Tulumbe,” she said. “Those ridiculous fried dough tubes, soaked in syrup. Sticky, messy, too sweet. They make no sense. They’re pure joy.”
He pushed a cup toward her. “You have a sweet tooth.”
“I have a need for things that make no sense,” she corrected softly. They drank their tea. For a few minutes, there was no war, no history, no foreknowledge. There was just a man and a woman, tired and talkative in the thin morning light.
“You rearranged everything,” she said finally, not looking at him. “The crates. Because of what I said in the barn.”
“I did.”
“Burim thinks you’re walking a thin line for me.”
“Burim thinks too much.”
“Is he wrong?”
Bahri put his cup down with deliberate care. “I don’t know what you are. A spy would not save saints. A fool would not speak about the future as if reading from a book she’s already finished. You are… an unresolved equation.” He leaned forward. “What happens in Dragobilj? You spoke of it as a fact.”
The room got cold again. The temporary bridge swayed. Vanja saw the flash of primary colors against grey stone, a small shoe in the gutter. She swallowed. “Don’t make me say it. Please. Just know it’s worse than you imagine.”
He stared at her, and she watched him believe her. Not the details, but the core terror of it. It aged him. He sat back, running a hand through his hair. “Then we prepare for worse.”
A floorboard creaked upstairs. The spell was broken. The world rushed back in, demanding its roles. He stood, suddenly the commander again, his face closing off. “The truck goes to Prekaz today. They will need every hand. You will stay here.”
She nodded, accepting the order, the distance.
He walked to the doorway, then paused. Without turning, he said, “Tulumbe are ridiculous.” A pause. “My sister makes them sometimes. I will see if she has any syrup left.”
Then he was gone, leaving her with the cooling tea and the first fragile thread of something that felt, terribly, like a shared future.
Then he was gone, leaving her with the cooling tea and the first fragile thread of something that felt, terribly, like a shared future. She traced the rim of her cup, the ceramic warm where his fingers had been. The silence after his footsteps faded was different now, filled with the ghost of his confession about the dog, Shpresa, and the promised, ridiculous sweetness of tulumbe.
The morning unfolded with a strange, suspended normality. Feride taught her how to roll filo dough for byrek, their hands dusty with flour. “You have a gentle touch,” Feride observed, her eyes missing nothing. “This is good for the pastry. But is it good for here?” Vanja just shrugged, focusing on the translucent sheet of dough threatening to tear. There was no safe answer.
Around noon, the distant sound of a vehicle backfiring made them both freeze. It was just an old tractor on the road. They laughed, a thin, nervous sound. “We are jumping at shadows,” Feride sighed, wiping her forehead. “The shadows are learning to jump back,” Vanja replied quietly, and Feride’s smile vanished.
Bahri and the others returned from Prekaz just after dusk. The energy they brought in was sharp, metallic. Agim was talking fast, his hands cutting the air. “Jashari says the police are bringing in armored vehicles. Not just for checkpoints. For assaults.”
“Did you see them?” Burim asked, taking a crate from Bahri.
“We heard. From a friend in the ministry.” Agim’s eyes flicked to Vanja, then away. Bahri hadn’t looked at her once. He unloaded supplies with a grim, focused efficiency, his movements tight with suppressed rage.
Later, she was in the barn fetching eggs, the brittle hay scratching her ankles. The door shut softly behind her. She turned. Bahri was there, leaning against the wall, watching a spider dangle from a rafter. “The sweep in Dragobilj happened today,” he said, his voice empty. “Two houses burned. A teacher was taken. No one knows where.”
The egg basket grew heavy in her hand. She had known, but knowing was a theoretical horror. Hearing it was a physical blow. “The teacher’s name is Arsim,” she whispered, the memory surfacing like a bruise. “He has a daughter with red hair. She will wait by the road for three days.”
Bahri pushed off the wall. In two strides he was before her. “How?” The word was a demand, torn from him. “How can you know that?”
“I told you.” Her voice broke. “I remember.”
He grabbed her shoulders, not to hurt her, but to steady himself, or her, or the spinning world. His grip was fierce. “Stop remembering. Start telling me. Everything.”
“It doesn’t work like that!” she hissed, tears of frustration hot in her eyes. “It’s flashes. Feelings. Names. I know the taste of fear in that village now. I knew it this morning when we heard the tractor. It’s not a map. It’s a ghost limb that aches.”
He was so close she could see the flecks of darker grey in his eyes, the faint scar through his eyebrow, the exhaustion etched into a face too young for it. His anger seemed to drain, replaced by a profound, bewildered helplessness. They were breathing the same air, hay dust and cold and the sharp scent of his sweat.
His gaze dropped to her mouth. The space between them crackled, all arguments and history and future collapsing into this silent, charged point.
He kisses her.
It is not gentle. It is a collision, a desperate act of defiance against everything pulling them apart. His mouth is hot and demanding, hers responds with equal hunger, a release of weeks of coiled tension and unspoken words. The egg basket falls, a dull thud on the hay-strewn floor. Her hands find the rough wool of his jacket, clutching at his back. He tastes of salt and smoke and unresolved want. It is a kiss that feels like stealing something—from the war, from their families, from the future she remembers. It is all heat and confusion and a terrifying, perfect clarity.
He pulls back first, breathing ragged, his forehead resting against hers. His eyes are wide, shocked at himself, at her, at what they’ve just done. A voice called from the yard—Burim, asking for him.
He didn’t move.
“Bahri,” she whispered, her lips still burning.
He straightened, releasing her as if she’d scalded him. He looked at her once more, a chaotic, unreadable storm in his expression, then turned and left, the barn door swinging shut behind him. Vanja stood trembling, one hand pressed to her mouth, the taste of him real and impossible, a new memory searing over all the others.