wilting. She now understands what the girls were doing. What she does not understand is how it’s possible that she hasn’t noticed the pyre of dry flowers until now. Arrow turns away and walks towards her apartment, knowing she’ll be back tomorrow.
Kenan
I T IS ALL K ENAN CAN DO TO LOOK UP AT WHAT REMAINS of the National Library. Though the stone and brick structure still stands, its insides are completely consumed. The fire has left sooty licks above each window, and the domed glass ceiling that stood proud atop the building for a century has shattered to the floor. The tram once turned a semicircle here, offering a comprehensive view of the iconic building. It was one of his favourite places in the city, though he wasn’t a great reader. It was the most visible manifestation of a society he was proud of. Now the tram tracks serve no purpose and show only what’s been lost.
The men on the hills made the library one of their first targets, and they took to their task with great efficiency. Kenan didn’t know if it was shells that started the fire, or if someone smuggled in a bomb as they did in the post office, but he knew that as it burned they fired incendiary shells at it. He went there when he heard it was burning, without knowing why. He watched, helpless and useless, as this symbol of what the city was and what many still wanted it to be, gave in to the desires of the men on the hills.
Fire trucks arrived, and they became targets, shot at by unseen snipers. Shells were launched at them by an army that had once sworn to protect the city. The firefighters battled the flames for as long as they could, until they were ordered back by some commander who saw the futility of the situation. Kenan saw one fireman, probably in his late twenties, stand by himself and watch the inferno rage. He didn’t move at all until, exhausted, he caved in on himself, fell to his knees. His fellow firemen rushed to him, thinking a sniper had hit him. As they helped him to his feet and led him away, Kenan saw that his cheeks were streaked with sweat or tears, and his lips were moving, silent, in a way that made Kenan think he was praying. For days afterwards, the ash of a million books floated down onto the city like snow.
At the time, Kenan believed the fireman was overcome by the loss of the library, but he now thinks whatbrought him to his knees was his inability to do anything to save it, or even slow its loss. When Kenan’s children ask why this war is happening, why people are being starved and shot at, and he can’t answer them, when he sees them suffering and there is nothing he can do about it, he sees the fireman in himself and he wishes someone would pick him up and carry him away. He cannot collapse, though, because his children look to him to reassure them that everything will be fine, that the war will end, that they will all survive. There are times when he doesn’t know how he manages not to evaporate, how his clothes don’t fall to the floor, emptied of what little substance he was filling them with.
He rounds the corner, and the Šeher Ćehaja Bridge lies ahead. He stops and adjusts his water bottles before taking shelter behind one of the library’s great supporting arches. He scans the hills, not quite sure what he’s looking for, but wanting some sort of reassurance that there’s no one with a gun trained on the bridge. After a few minutes, a man and a woman come around the corner. They look at him, suspicious, but don’t stop. They head towards the bridge, and Kenan considers calling out to them, but there’s nothing he can say that will be of use. Telling them there might be a sniper watching the bridge is a little like saying the sun has come up this morning. So he lets them go. They can be his guinea pigs.
They are almost casual in their approach. They don’t look up at the southern hills, they don’t stop. When they reach the bridge they pick up their pace a bit, more than a fast walk but
Kenan
I T IS ALL K ENAN CAN DO TO LOOK UP AT WHAT REMAINS of the National Library. Though the stone and brick structure still stands, its insides are completely consumed. The fire has left sooty licks above each window, and the domed glass ceiling that stood proud atop the building for a century has shattered to the floor. The tram once turned a semicircle here, offering a comprehensive view of the iconic building. It was one of his favourite places in the city, though he wasn’t a great reader. It was the most visible manifestation of a society he was proud of. Now the tram tracks serve no purpose and show only what’s been lost.
The men on the hills made the library one of their first targets, and they took to their task with great efficiency. Kenan didn’t know if it was shells that started the fire, or if someone smuggled in a bomb as they did in the post office, but he knew that as it burned they fired incendiary shells at it. He went there when he heard it was burning, without knowing why. He watched, helpless and useless, as this symbol of what the city was and what many still wanted it to be, gave in to the desires of the men on the hills.
Fire trucks arrived, and they became targets, shot at by unseen snipers. Shells were launched at them by an army that had once sworn to protect the city. The firefighters battled the flames for as long as they could, until they were ordered back by some commander who saw the futility of the situation. Kenan saw one fireman, probably in his late twenties, stand by himself and watch the inferno rage. He didn’t move at all until, exhausted, he caved in on himself, fell to his knees. His fellow firemen rushed to him, thinking a sniper had hit him. As they helped him to his feet and led him away, Kenan saw that his cheeks were streaked with sweat or tears, and his lips were moving, silent, in a way that made Kenan think he was praying. For days afterwards, the ash of a million books floated down onto the city like snow.
At the time, Kenan believed the fireman was overcome by the loss of the library, but he now thinks whatbrought him to his knees was his inability to do anything to save it, or even slow its loss. When Kenan’s children ask why this war is happening, why people are being starved and shot at, and he can’t answer them, when he sees them suffering and there is nothing he can do about it, he sees the fireman in himself and he wishes someone would pick him up and carry him away. He cannot collapse, though, because his children look to him to reassure them that everything will be fine, that the war will end, that they will all survive. There are times when he doesn’t know how he manages not to evaporate, how his clothes don’t fall to the floor, emptied of what little substance he was filling them with.
He rounds the corner, and the Šeher Ćehaja Bridge lies ahead. He stops and adjusts his water bottles before taking shelter behind one of the library’s great supporting arches. He scans the hills, not quite sure what he’s looking for, but wanting some sort of reassurance that there’s no one with a gun trained on the bridge. After a few minutes, a man and a woman come around the corner. They look at him, suspicious, but don’t stop. They head towards the bridge, and Kenan considers calling out to them, but there’s nothing he can say that will be of use. Telling them there might be a sniper watching the bridge is a little like saying the sun has come up this morning. So he lets them go. They can be his guinea pigs.
They are almost casual in their approach. They don’t look up at the southern hills, they don’t stop. When they reach the bridge they pick up their pace a bit, more than a fast walk but
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