“Any more of that wine cooler left?” My wife interrupts my reminiscing with a request.

“A bit. I’ll open the new one for you.”

“Don’t bother. I just want a swallow. Thirsty…”

Maja struggles to rise, and I help hold her up so she can drink. I watch as the last bit of cooler spills out of the corner of her mouth and trickles down her chin.

“You’re tired, aren’t you?” I say after she’s settled again. “I shouldn’t have made you walk up here. I should have carried you.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, with your back?”

“Come on, it’s not like you weigh—” I stop myself, but Maja only smiles up at me knowingly.

“I’m worried about you,” I confess.

“You worry too much.”

“You said that already...”

“You were always too considerate of me, Žarko. Even when we were kids…”

“Well, you were like my sister. My really cute little sister that I had some naughty fantasies about,” I say, knowing it will make her laugh and basking in the sound, though it is weak, merely a shadow of the laughter I remember then…

***

Yugoslavia

1999

“I painted it for you,” Maja said with a shy giggle, presenting her latest watercolor masterpiece. “It’s Baba’s space dragon.”

We were alone in the room she shared with her sisters, with the window open and the sun casting a brilliant rectangle across the colorful rug. A few days had passed, and with the flyovers becoming less frequent, we’d felt safe returning to her family home. Of course at that point, there was still no word from Mama.

Curious, I examined Maja’s artwork.

Sketched in pencil, first, she’d drawn a long, serpentine dragon in a pale blue sky, filling it in with soft rainbow colors, leaving blotches here and there unpainted, where she’d drawn outlines of stars. Really, I thought it looked incredible, but as a ten year old boy whose greatest achievement in life was having beaten a bootlegged version of the Super Mario Bros. game, perhaps I felt a bit inferior, and was thus reluctant to dole out too much praise to a girl younger than myself.

“It’s not bad, for a nine year old,” I said, pretending to be very educated and sophisticated on a subject of which I knew absolutely nothing. “But I knew a girl in Belgrade who could have painted something of this level with her eyes closed.”

“Liar.” She called me out.

“It’s the truth!”

“What’s her name? How old is she? What kind of paints does she use? Where does she study?”

I could foresee this lie of mine getting complicated fast, so I quickly abandoned it.

“It’s not bad, really! I’m just saying you’ll have to practice a lot more than that if you want to illustrate books one day.”

“I realize that…” Maja said, and it made my heart twist in my chest to see tears welling in her eyes. I hadn’t meant to make her cry…

“The best artists need to practice every day, but watercolor paper is expensive,” she said, wiping her eyes quickly in an effort to hide the evidence. “I spent the last sheet I had left from my birthday present to paint you this…”

Guilt. I’m not sure I’d ever felt it quite so keenly as I did in that moment.

She had so little, and she tried so hard. More than anyone else in this house, Maja worked her ass off. In my own childish way, I recognized painting was her greatest solace and joy. And, it was a luxury she could little afford.

Maja’s family were not as poor as some, but they weren’t rich enough to indulge in frivolities, either. Likely, she would not receive another pad of watercolor paper from her parents until her next birthday.

“Give me back my painting,” she said, holding out her hand, refusing to meet my gaze.

“You gave it to me.”

“And you didn’t like it, so give it back.”

“No.”

“Žarko!”

I sprang up from the floor, paper in my fist, and stuck my tongue out at her.

“Žarko!” she cried indignantly, but I only ran from the girls’ room to the boys’, slamming the door behind me.

“No girls allowed!” I yelled, bracing the door against her when she tried to force it open, and her little brother Dragan, who’d been reading a faded Superman comic, jumped up to help me.

“No girls allowed!” he echoed, and we snickered when she screamed in frustration.

“I hate you!”

By bending a paper clip I’d found on the carpet in the corner of the living room, I managed to pin Maya’s space dragon painting on the wall in the boys’ room next to the floor, where I slept on a towel. That afternoon I lay on my side with my arm under my head, just staring at her masterpiece.

I hadn’t been fair to Maja. This was no ordinary painting. Even an idiot like me could see her skills were more than that of the average child, or even the average adult.

To me, her painting was ethereal, pure magic. And the longer I stared at it, the more the space dragon came to life in my mind, till I could almost see its long, serpentine body undulating amidst the starry heavens, while its rainbow scales shimmered with the promise of miracles.

Guilt. I still felt it, buried just beneath the wonder. I’d been cruel to her. Just because I’d felt a little inferior next to her obvious talent, I’d made her cry.

If only there was some way I could make it up to her…

I kept thinking of my right pocket, of the Deutsche marks Mama had pressed into my hand just before she left. And I began to wonder…

How much did watercolor paper really cost?

It had been a rule since I came to live at Branislava’s house: no playing outside without adult supervision. And even then, we were confined to the small back yard, walled in by a tall tin fence. Leaving a grown-up’s sight, going out to play in the street was strictly forbidden, because an air raid might happen at any minute, and for everyone’s safety, it was essential that we stick together.

But this was a small town, not a metropolis like Belgrade, and the people here followed a relaxed schedule, even in wartime. At 2 PM nearly every shop in town closed its doors for the collective community siesta, and they didn’t open again until 5, sometimes 5:30. And the same rule applied in Branislava’s household…

It was around 4:30 in the afternoon, and Baba and all the children were sound asleep. Branislava was in her room with the baby. His bite had been treated, but he had a fever and had to be taken to get injections at the clinic twice a day. Both were exhausted.

Silently, I tip-toed from the boys’ room, through the living room and out the front door, closing it softly behind me. I even tip-toed down the steps, and I didn’t dare stop to breathe a sigh of relief until the front gate was finally shut behind me. Like this, I could get away with it, I decided. No one would miss me until six at least. That was plenty of time for me to make my purchase and hurry back home without anyone being the wiser.

Outside it was like a ghost town. Here in broad daylight on a mild day, with the spring sun blazing down from the sky, there wasn’t a single person on the sidewalk, and all of the buildings were dark. Coming from a big city, I wasn’t used to this kind of atmosphere at all, and the eeriness of it raised all the hairs on the back of my neck.

I spent maybe half an hour wandering the streets until I found the place I was looking for, a stationary store. I tried the door, but it was locked, so I squatted down on the sidewalk and waited for them to open.

After ten minutes or so a skinny girl with braids in her hair, maybe thirteen or fourteen, came to the window of the shop. Looking out to see she had a customer, she rolled her eyes. With a lot of barely muffled cursing she unlocked the door but did not open it for me. As I let myself inside, I thought I heard her murmuring something like, “Tata je budala,” and I guessed she resented having to tend her father’s shop even in the midst of a NATO bombing campaign.

Well, I wouldn’t keep her long. Every minute I was away from Branislava’s house I risked being found out. If one of the boys woke up, realized I was missing and tattled on me, Stanko would give me a beating for sure.

“Do you sell paper?” I asked the girl, and she threw up her hands in disbelief at the question and swore at me.

“F*ck your mother! For what did you come to the stationary store? For ajvar?”

“I mean the kind for painting on. Watercolor paper!”

With her lips pursed, breathing sharply through her narrow nostrils, she stalked over to a shelf and pulled down a pad, thrusting it bodily into my chest. “Anything else?” She glared at me. “Little kurac,” she added because she could.

“How much?”

“Nosi se...” She held her face in disbelief and seemed briefly to be praying for the patience not to murder me where I stood. Recognizing my cue, I checked for a little handwritten price sticker on the pad.

1,200 dinars. That was about forty marks.

My heart sunk. Mama had left me with only fifteen.

I looked at the cover. 24 sheets. With this book, Maja could practice 24 more paintings. She’d run out of watercolors before she ran out of paper…

“Anything else?” The girl demanded.

“No...”

“Pay at the register.”

My heart was thumping wildly in my chest as I followed her, knowing all the while I didn’t have nearly enough money. But I was desperate.

With every step, like a fool, I prayed for a miracle. I thought of the good dragons in space, the blessings they still bestowed upon their favored ones. It’s a selfless endeavor, I pleaded with them. For a good cause!

Behind the register, the girl held her hand out expectantly. Reluctantly, I surrendered the pad. She glanced at the price and punched a few clunky mechanical buttons.

“Twelve hundred dinars.”

I reached in my pocket to clench the bills, still praying for a miracle. Please, God, just like the loaves and the fishes. Make it just a little more...

Slowly, hoping against all hope, I opened my hand to see—fifteen wadded marks.

My heart sank.

“Ah,” she said, spying my currency. “We take marks, too. Hang on while I do the conversion. Where’s that damned calculator?”

Of what use were my good intentions? I thought then. Could they make up for the money I was lacking? Could Maja paint on them, and hang them on her wall? My intentions were useless. I was useless, I decided. Worse, for with my cruel words I’d hurt that girl, who’d spent her last precious piece of paper to paint a space dragon just for me…

Perhaps…perhaps there was another way. There had to be, I determined. I had to get that paper!

While the girl searched for the calculator, carefully, heart racing, I set all the money I had on the edge of the counter. Then, quicker than a gypsy urchin, I snatched up the watercolor pad and started for the door.

“Just a minute,” she said sharply before I could reach it, eying the bills I’d left behind. “You’re at least twenty marks short.”

I swallowed painfully before attempting a most futile bluff.

“It’s the right amount if you exchange it to dinars.”

“You think I was born yesterday, little f*cker?” she demanded, coming around the counter. “Don’t move a muscle.”

Time seemed to slow all around me, and in a moment of absolute lucidity, I understood I had exactly two choices. To stand there and let the pad be confiscated, or make a break for it.

To me, there was only one answer.

I didn’t wait for the girl to reach me, but took off like a bullet through the door, peeling down the street, the watercolor pad clutched under my arm.

“Stop!” she screeched when she burst from the shop. “Little kurac!”

I knew she was running after me, though I didn’t stop to turn around. I just ran. I ran with all my might, clutching my prize, praying the whole while, though I knew I was breaking God’s commandment by stealing.

Please! You know it’s not for me! It’s for Maja—just let me get it for Maja!

It was then, when I least expected it, as I was in the midst of a most heinous act for which I was sure I would never be forgiven, that God or the space dragons—I still don’t know which—answered my prayer.

I heard the girl behind me scream at the same moment the air raid sirens went off. She’d been nervy from the start, stressed as we all were by the constant allied flyovers. Behind me in the empty street, I heard her footsteps falter. She shrieked in frustration as I continued to run with all of my might, but she ceased her pursuit. To her, a few Deutsche marks wasn’t worth risking her life. But to a foolish ten year old boy...

I continued to run as overhead the noisy planes droned. From the forest I heard the sound of machine gun fire as the military tried in vain to take them out from the ground with anti-aircraft guns. Then in the distance, I heard the bombs drop. I saw the dust and smoke rising from the forest. I heard a woman scream.

Someone tried to grab me, a well meaning baba, I think, trying to pull me to safety, but I shook her off and kept running.

More sirens. A firetruck went whizzing past, lights flashing, then an ambulance. I kept running.

Then at last, after I couldn’t say how many breathless minutes, planes went away, and sirens stopped blaring. Silence.

Feeling certain there was no longer any danger of my being apprehended, I slowed my retreat. My chest hurt; my whole body stung and pricked with nerves. I had absolutely no idea where I was.

I felt sure I’d left the shop in the direction of Branislava’s house, but in my terror I’d missed the turn that would have led to her street. Now, with feelings of grave apprehension, I turned, and began to retrace my steps.

It was nearly dark before Stanko found me. By that time my feet were aching, and I was so relieved to see a familiar face that I didn’t even mind his blows.

“Imbecile! Budalo!”

“I’m sorry!” I screeched as he hit me over the head with his big fist. “I won’t do it again!”

Ignoring my protests, Stanko led me home by the ear, howling all the way.

“Don’t coddle him!” he ordered Baba when she came running to greet me. “He goes to bed without supper.”

“Žarko!” Maja came to help me into the house. “What on earth were you thinking, sneaking off like that? When the sirens went off and you weren’t there, we were worried sick!”

Battered and exhausted, squinting through one eye, I flashed her a secret, triumphant grin as I lifted my shirt. There, tucked into the front of my pants, was the pad of watercolor paper. Maja’s mouth fell open, her eyes wide with disbelief.

“What… What did you—”

“I bought it for you,” I said, which was only half a lie. “So you could practice painting.”

“You’re a maniac,” she said, taking the pad from me and stuffing it under her own shirt before the grown-ups could spy the contraband. There were tears in her eyes as she embraced me, and I held her back, briefly, for just then Stanko came through the door, and he smacked my head again.

“Bed!”