The Atlas

ARE YOU ALRIGHT?

Whenever I could find a phone that was working, I tried to call the woman who had said that things were too difficult to explain, but I never got through. Finally I reached her on the night before I was going to leave Sarajevo.

Are you all right? she said. That was how everyone seemed to greet each other.

A little shrapnel in my hand, but I wasn't hurt. And you?

A grenade came into our neighbor's house, she said quietly. It was dreadful.

But you, you're all right?

Yes.

We didn't say anything to each other for a moment, and then I said: I'm probably leaving tomorrow. The BBC said I could ride along in their armored car. I guess it depends on whether the road to Kisjeliak is safe.

I don't think there was a silence after I had said that, but my guilt about being free to leave has built a silence over time that drowned whatever she actually said. Every day I'd have liked to call her and ask: Are you still alive? Are you all right? But of course no one could call Sarajevo.