A Spare Life by Lidija Dimkovska Page B

rituals: a young boy perched on a horse cart decorated with red ribbons, scarves, and gold chains, seated on blankets of the most picturesque colors, and two horses slowly pulling the cart as young girls and boys sang, played, and danced around it in colorful clothing and jangly earrings, necklaces, and belts. The music drowned out the car horns; the father of the brave boy who had been circumcised walked alongside the cart with a bottle of beer, and every few seconds passed it to the child to drink. The boy was already woozy from the alcohol and surely from the pain between his legs as well, but everyone distracted him, entertained him, slapped him on the shoulder, on the ear, and he didn’t pass out while the procession wound its long way through the streets. After a while, we’d go home, embarrassed and horrified by the thought that his weenie had been cut, but too ashamed to ask anyone why it was done or how. And that was the sum total of our relationship with “The Gypsies,” unless we counted Auntie Verka’s Riki, with whom we never spoke, or the young Rom girls who adopted the unmarried twins in the building next door as their mothers but with whom we never played, even though they dressed twice as nicely as we did and were twice as clean, certainly bathing more regularly than our once-a-week Sunday bath.
    At the beginning of April 1985, Greece was mentioned often on television. Mom said, “Well, they’re saying Aegean Macedonians will be able to enter Greece. It seems Papandreou will open the border, and they won’t require visas. Just imagine how many people are going to go. Every living Aegean Macedonian will go, from as far away as Australia and America.” “Roza’s going too,” said Srebra, “with her grandma and grandpa.” “Oh, that’s right, they’re Aegean, so they will come from Germany and then head down to Greece. They probably still have a house there; maybe some land. People left all sorts of things behind when they fled.” Neither Srebra nor I were clear on who fled, why, or from whom. At school our history teacher never explained it clearly. We only knew it was very significant, and the evening news didn’t open with the war between Iraq and Iran but with the agreement signed by Greece and Yugoslavia to open the border for one day so that people who had been child-refugees could visit their homes. What’s more, they wouldn’t need visas, which they had purportedly been unable to get precisely because they had been child-refugees. We weren’t sure how they could be child-refugees: Roza’s grandparents were old. They were going to come from Germany and continue on to Greece with Roza and her sister. It’s all Roza talked about. The afternoon her grandparents arrived in Skopje, Roza came to the front of our building and stopped resolutely in front of us. “Zlata,” she said, “can I ask you to do something for me?” “Yes,” I said, surprised by her tone. “Will you lend me your chain to wear in Greece? Just for a day. We’re leaving tomorrow at five in the morning. In the evening, when we get back, I’ll give it back to you.” I looked at her, surprised. Srebra yawned. “This isn’t like going on vacation. We’re traveling with our grandparents, who haven’t been there for almost forty years. I want to have something with us, something Macedonian,” she added. I wasn’t certain the chain the priest had given to me was Macedonian and not bought from the Bulgarian sellers of halvah, rose perfume, and pendants. Still, carried away by Roza’s enthusiasm, I took it off and handed it to her, “Just until tomorrow,” I told her, feeling its absence from around my neck. “Yes,” said Roza, and turning, shouted, “Ciao!” and went inside.
    The next day, before lunch, Srebra and I were working on our math homework at our table in