"The Sarajevo Game" by Sofia Lucas
When there were no more dolls to play with, we began playing with shrapnel instead.
It was kind of like a game—one point for regular-sized pieces, two points if they were bigger than your fist, and five points for bullets (double if they weren’t flattened). When there were shellings, everyone in my apartment would gather in the basement, and all the kids would compare their collections. Ante always got the most points—he was the most daring of us all (and had a missing thumb to prove it). Maja had an eye for small bits lying half-buried in the snow. And then there was Emir, who always brought things that weren’t technically in the game; he brought humanitarian aid labels from Italy, and once an entire brick from the ruins of the stadium that had hosted the 1984 Olympics. I usually added to my collection while out with my best friend Daša when my mother sent me to get water—being small meant we were small targets.
I liked going to the basement to play with my friends—at home I only had a baby brother and a mother who never smiled. I vaguely remembered a time when she was happy, when there was enough food for her to make a king’s feast and there were cartoons on a television that worked and the fourth chair at our table was filled. It was only a blurred memory, almost like a dream, so much so that I wasn’t sure if it was entirely real. In my seven years of life, the four-year siege was all I knew.
That’s why I was so surprised when one day my mother announced a game of her own.
“Okay, Ajla, here’s the game,” she said. “Here’s how you play. The first step is to wear as many clothes as you can. Do it now.”
I did as she said, layering two pairs of pants, a shirt, a sweater, and two coats.
“Good.” I watched her layer clothes on my little brother as well, sling a large sack over her shoulder, then turn back to me.
“Okay, here are the rules: Don’t say anything. Don’t make a sound. When we go outside, don’t let go of my hand. Got it?”
“What about Ibro?” I asked, eyeing his layers. I almost laughed at how puffed out he looked—it was funny how they could make a plump baby out of one that was little more than a wire frame of bone. “Will he play too?”
“He’ll be on my team; don’t worry about him. Do you understand the rules?”
I nodded.
“Good.” She squeezed my hand until it hurt. “Let’s go. Remember all the rules.” She paused for a moment. “Or you’ll lose points.”
When we left the house I stumbled, my movement constricted by the layers. But I got used to it as we made our way through the dark streets, careful to avoid potholes in the long roads cratered by grenades. We passed a wall with graffiti. “Pazi snajper!” Look out for snipers! Our feet crunched lightly in the snow, but soon the steady rhythm of our steps was complicated by another pair of feet ploughing heavily nearby.
“New rule,” my mother whispered. “Fall into the snow and don’t move.”
“You can’t just make up rules as you go along,” I told her.
“Do it or you’ll lose points,” she hissed, pulling me into the snow with her.
Though my ears swelled with snow, I could make out more footsteps, getting closer. Ibro beginning to sputter. My mother whispering a prayer next to me. Men shouting to each other and then footsteps fading. Just when the numbness in my fingers and toes was beginning to spread, my mother pulled me up.
I took a deep breath, but the respite didn’t last as my mother continued walking, this time fast enough that it was almost like she was dragging me. Ibro’s sputtering turned into short wails that seemed as loud as the air raid sirens in the tranquil night.
“Shhh, shhh,” she whispered, keeping her eyes ahead but bringing Ibro up to her face. “You have to be quiet now, okay? We’re almost there, we’re so close…”
We came to a house in a part of the city I’d never seen before, farther away from our apartment than I’d ever been. My mother knocked on the door and we were quickly let in. There were a few dozen people in the room; no one spoke to us. We were led down into the cellar and began our trek.
We walked through the tunnel for two long hours. Some places were so low that the adults had to crouch, so narrow that we could only walk two at a time. Everyone was silent, scared to breathe almost. Some people had kids, but I didn’t recognize any of them. A young couple held hands. Many were on their own.
When we emerged from the other side of the tunnel, outside of the city, tears streamed down my mother’s face and glistened in the moonlight even though it was clouded by smoke.
“What’s wrong?” I asked her. “Did we lose the game?” I thought back on all the time we’d played, wondering where we could’ve possibly gone wrong.
She just shook her head and cried, offering no answer.
She didn’t mention the game at all after that, so I had no way of knowing whether we’d won or lost or if it was still going. I waited for her to announce the end of the game and for us to go back home.
Eventually I realized that there was no game, that there had never been a game, and that we wouldn’t be going home—maybe it was after the tenth hour on the bus, or maybe when I saw the sign marking the Austrian border up ahead, just as the sun was poking up from the horizon, painting the sky a hazy pink.
But even though there had been no game, we still won.
Sofia Lucas is 17 years old. She lives in Atherton, California, and attends the Woodside Priory School. Sofia was born in England, where she lived before moving to California. She loves history and languages. This story is fiction. “I picked up a memoir about the Bosnian War on a whim. Since we don’t really cover the topic in school, that was my first time ever hearing about it. Reading that book inspired me to learn everything I could about Bosnia, and I've grown to absolutely love the country for its beautiful, fascinating culture and unique history. So, part of my motivation for writing ‘The Sarajevo Game’ was to bring some awareness to the Bosnian War and maybe inspire people to learn more. My story takes place during the Siege of Sarajevo, which was the longest siege of a capital in modern history, yet few people know about it. I believe that it is imperative to learn about and remember the mistakes and tragedies of the past, so that we can prevent them from repeating. This is especially important now, given the war in Ukraine, when millions of Ukrainian kids are living experiences similar to those of the protagonist of my story.”