Timothy Kenny – Sniper Alley, fate and other vagaries

Sniper Alley, fate and other vagaries
by Timothy Kenny

           There is no such thing as accident; it is fate misnamed. — Napoleon Bonaparte

I know this much: Wandering into war is ill advised.

For those who do, let me say this: Sometimes fate’s your daddy.

I mention this because every reporter I met in Sarajevo or Kabul or some other unsavory spot eventually knuckled under to fate. Few professed godly belief; most reporters I know aren’t especially religious. Besides, fate’s the one you want when people are serious about causing harm. Fate is war’s handmaiden, its memory, its scribe. Fate flips the coin, sings the last song you might hear, whispers in your ear. Fate is the safe one, the unimpeachable one, the one that carries you home if all goes well.

Or not, if it doesn’t.

I say this because while I had briefly covered stories in semi-dangerous places during the first Intifada and Belfast in August 1989, when I ended up in Sarajevo for five days in July 1992, my knowledge of war reporting came from what I had read and who I had talked to, not what I had done. Twenty-three years later I purposely found myself in Kabul for three weeks in May, happy to have made fate’s acquaintance decades before.

* * *

I lay flat on my back in an open truck that was idling too long at a roadblock along the edge of Sarajevo Aerodrom. The sun was shining and I was comfortably warm lying on the truck’s metal bed, watching a bright blue sky spout clouds. We had been warned that snipers still surrounded the airport. The ceasefire, just two days old, was supposed to mean that planes could land and unload cargo without interference from the Serbian fighters, who had been firing on the airport from the surrounding hills. The city’s 380,000 residents had been cut off from the larger world since May. It was July 2, 1992. Sarajevo was running short of food, gasoline, medicine and electricity, among other things.

There were thirteen of us in the back of the truck, waiting to drive into the city. I figured the sniper could have hit our parked, two-and-a-half-ton vehicle anytime he wanted, but I remained unafraid for some reason, even after hearing the sizzle of that first shot, followed an instant later by the sharp crack of rifle fire.

I had flown from Washington, D.C., to New York to Amsterdam to Sarajevo with other journalists from the U.S. and Europe, the last leg cradled in a canvas hammock-seat that rocked with the motion of the C-130 carrying us gently, if loudly, inside the open, metal belly of the plane. I expected two days of reporting that might edge toward the dangerous, but not turn into real trouble. I’d follow around the American doctors who came to distribute medicine and help out at Kosova Hospital. It was a great assignment, a chance to produce a page one story for USA Today that could explain the newest conflict in an Eastern European country with a bifurcated name that most Americans knew little about.

Our AmeriCares flight, carrying doctors and sixteen tons of medicine into Sarajevo, marked the first time a relief flight had arrived since fighting began in April. Bosnia’s capital was trapped in the tightening grip of what would become a forty-six month siege, the longest in modern European history. It did not occur to me to bring a helmet or flak jacket and I asked few questions of the flight’s organizers. I was more worried that the ceasefire would end before I got to Sarajevo than I was about getting shot. I was lured once more by adventure lust, caught up in a chance to revisit the Balkans, where I had lived for months teaching journalism at the University of Bucharest.

At home in Virginia, my unsteady life was unraveling, my marriage failing. I was deeply depressed, faced with increasing emotional isolation at home and uncertain about how to fix things. Leaving was often my fail-safe choice, always easier than staying. I convinced my boss I should cover the medicine-delivery story, packed one small bag and flew out the next day. I filed several stories about the violence and misery inflicted on the trapped citizens of Sarajevo. I was interviewed on National Public Radio and found more danger than I anticipated. I was never able to file the story about the doctors that my newspaper expected.

* * *

When that first shot buzzed overhead, I dropped from a standing position to lying prone, bewildered, startled, mentally off kilter. It felt like someone had snuck up from behind and punched me in the head. I was perplexed, unable to process the unfolding facts, even though I knew what a rifle shot sounded like and I had heard one clearly, just as I heard two more before we drove back to an empty airport hanger where I spent the night sleeping on the concrete floor. I learned that it’s difficult to process the world when your mind is slowed by jetlag and the speed of life suddenly moves faster than it’s supposed to. I also discovered it’s hard to be afraid when you’re confused. That would change.

* * *

When I could not find coffee the next morning I nursed a splitting headache for hours. After much wheedling I hitched a ride from the airport to the downtown Holiday Inn with a veteran British photographer whose name I believe was Sebastian. He had been working in Sarajevo for months and drove a beat-up, black Audi. He was calm and warned me in a steady voice to get ready as we approached a troublesome section of Sniper Alley, the broad, once stately boulevard littered with dead cars, buses and industrial trash dumpsters. I crouched low in the car’s passenger side, now traveling at roughly 150 kilometers per hour. We heard one shot. I waited for more, for the rifle fire to hit its mark, for Sebastian to suddenly lose control of the Audi and veer into a building or strike one of the bullet-riddled vehicles marooned at the side of the road. We heard more shots.

But none of that happened. Nothing happened, except this:

Fate – bold, stout-hearted, unforeseen – slipped into our car somewhere along the way to un-kink the adrenaline knot in my chest and ease my fear, born of the certain knowledge that this car ride would entertain no teenage joy at the wondrous speed we traveled. However fast we were going, it wasn’t fast enough.

Sniper Alley was always dangerous in its worst places. Intersections slowed by debris were to be negotiated quickly; slower driving meant better shooting. Apparently, it’s not that easy for a sniper to gauge a vehicle’s speed and shoot accurately between buildings; still, plenty of people got hurt or killed along this road.

We arrived at the Holiday Inn, just across from the badly damaged Parliament building, shaken but unscathed. We got shot at again driving into the hotel’s underground parking garage, but then, everyone did. Fate, apparently distracted and aimless, wandered off after we parked the car.

Sarajevo was a complicated, worrisome city in the first week of July 1992, two months after Bosnia’s bloody civil conflict had exploded into life. That first night at the Holiday Inn I watched tracer bullets light up the sky outside my window, probably a half mile away. I was sitting cross-legged on the floor of my darkened hotel room, several stories in the air, watching a violent laser show. The city was otherwise black. Two days before I had been in Washington, D.C., working in a newspaper office, going to meetings and sitting at a desk.

The unreality of the moment tripped a switch I didn’t know existed: Either nothing terrible is going to happen or several terrible things are going to happen, but – and this is the epiphany part – there is little I can do about any of it.

* * *

A word of caution: Never rely on fate. Giving yourself over to fate should be avoided whenever possible. There are discernable differences between caution and worry, between irrational fear and true danger. Learning to keep an eye out for trouble is crucial. Fate’s appearances are rare, at least in my case. I’ve occasionally found myself in situations that were not dangerous but had the potential to be. But that’s not when fate arrives. For better or worse, fate typically shows up after options have narrowed sharply.

* * *

Moscow’s Sheremetyevo Airport in 1990 was dark, chaotic, unruly. Tough-looking men wearing black leather coats that hung just below their butts waited outside the doors to the international arrivals area. Russians hoping to pickup passengers stood behind a special, roped-off section set aside for the men wearing leather coats. They walked up to foreign-looking people one or two at a time and asked in accented English, Tocksee? Tocksee? It sounded more like a stickup than a request.

I knew these guys. I had seen them at airports across Eastern Europe. They sold taxi rides to the unknowing. Mafia guys look the same everywhere: hard-faced men used to getting their own way. In Moscow, no one else drove taxis. The money was too good. Driving a taxi in Moscow in 1990 was a license to steal from the unwary. The city was full of foreigners, who often paid double the fare upon arrival. Sometimes people got robbed and beat up, left in a heap alongside some unlit highway en route from the airport.

I had arranged for a usually reliable guy to pick me up but he failed to show. On the sidewalk outside the terminal, taxi drivers of lesser stature leaned against the fenders of black Ladas and reiterated their refrain, Tocksee meester? Tocksee? I shook my head at each invitation, muttered nyet, lit a cigarette and hoped I looked like I was savvy, someone who knew the ropes just waiting for a ride. I had walked past anyone who drove a taxi and was now uncertain how I would get to the Ukraina Hotel.

Cell phones did not exist, of course. Even if I could find an airport pay phone that worked I had no idea how to use it. In my experience, telephones in Eastern European countries usually had local quirks that require a tutorial. My Russian was limited, then as now, to approximately six words.

A slight, unshaven man in colorless clothes, which is to say an ordinary-looking Muscovite, bumped into me as I stood on the sidewalk. I checked for my wallet. I found it. He wasn’t after my wallet.

Follow me, meester, he said quietly. He gestured; he was furtive. Regular tocksee. He seemed to speak English.

He walked to the end of the building and looked back, motioning me again to follow, down to where a puddle of light cut vaguely into the dark. He seemed to be alone. I walked to where he stood. He pointed to an oil-spewing Trabant parked not far away. We set a price, got in, drove off. It was December and the car had no heat. Gasoline fumes filtered inside from the undercarriage. The car rattled constantly and everyone else on the road seemed to pass us, but we arrived at the Ukraina without incident.

Stuff like this happened frequently when I reported for USA Today from Central and Eastern Europe after the fall of the Berlin Wall, and when I lived in Romania and years later in Kosovo, and later still when I traveled to Central Asia, Afghanistan, and elsewhere. Negotiating with airport taxi drivers was a travel inconvenience, not a danger, a skill to be learned.

It was also important to understand that the simple act of traveling alone could bring troubling complications. If the wrong choice was made, say if I accepted a taxi ride from a stranger in a black leather jacket that hung just below his butt, the end result might be the annoyance of paying double at the end of the ride. Or it might mean getting held up at gunpoint and left alongside a bleak Russian highway. It might mean something worse. Another distinct possibility is that I’d arrive at my destination without incident and nothing would happen. But learning to know the likelihood of uncomfortable possibilities is important.

It’s like Clint says in “Dirty Harry,” You’ve gotta ask yourself one question: ‘Do I feel lucky?’ Well, do ya, punk?

* * *

I felt fortunate that I could go to Kabul and just as fortunate to return unharmed.

Afghanistan’s capital had been quiet for weeks in May 2010 when I arrived, indicative of nothing really. Violence comes and goes in unknowable cycles in Kabul. I had always wanted to visit Afghanistan. I wanted to see it as my friend Michael had in the 1970s, alone, adrift, fancy of foot, walking Kabul’s dust-choked streets and thumbing rides into the high mountain valleys of the Wakhan Corridor, that skinny strip of eastern Afghan property that sticks out into China.

It was too late for that now. My chance to see Afghanistan arrived when I was 64 years old, married for seven years to a younger second wife, the unexpected father of a four-year-old daughter. I taught college journalism and lived a middle-class life of yard work and car loans and mortgage payments. When a journalism non-profit offered me three weeks of consulting work in Kabul I jumped at the chance, just as I had when offered a trip to Sarajevo decades before. I had occasional misgivings about the dangers that surely squatted on every Kabul street corner every day. Still, I went.

During that trip I found myself in a car driving up and down Darulaman Road, trying to find the unmarked entrance to the American University of Afghanistan. We had driven once before past Parliament, located on the same street. On the second pass, my driver stopped in front of the gates leading to Parliament to ask directions of Afghan soldiers on guard duty, an ill-advised move that brought leveled rifles up to our car windows. Afghan soldiers are not known for discipline and all three had fingers on triggers. Eventually, we were sent on our way, but not before my driver was scolded and pushed roughly against the car by the sergeant in charge.

On the morning of the following day, May 18, 2010, a 1,600-pound bomb killed eighteen people in roughly the same spot, spraying body parts along a wide swath of Darulaman. Six soldiers died in the blast along with twelve Afghan civilians. It was Kabul’s worst attack in months.

En route across the city on another occasion, our car was trapped in a convoy of military vehicles, a dangerous position that threw my worried driver into a controlled but efficient effort to get away. He had been caught in such a convoy the year before when a bomb exploded. His injuries healed; his fear of being trapped near military vehicles had not.

Not long afterwards I talked with an Afghan colleague named Hashimi about fate, without mentioning the word. I told him that I tried to pay close attention when I was on the streets in Kabul, but that I did not think I would die when I went out each day. I stayed in Kabul just three weeks. Hashimi grew up in the city and lived there, a place where everyday life is grueling and dangerous, especially for ordinary Afghans.

For me, every day when I go out I think I will die and not come home, Hashimi told me. I think it is the same for all Afghans.

* * *

I taught journalism for several years at the University of Connecticut. Sometimes students died in car accidents or some other unexpected way. A grieving student came to see me after one such incident, stunned that someone her age, someone she knew, was gone just-like-that. She wanted to know why such things happen, though she did not ask that question. I offered lame explanations about the conjunction of time and fate and how the two often failed to work as we expected. I mentioned how murky the future is.

We don’t have control over these things, I said. I knew my platitudes probably weren’t helpful. As we talked it became clear that this young woman had realized, likely for the first time, that she too could die young. Perhaps she wanted reassurance that an early death would not happen to her.

I wanted to tell her about my five days in Sarajevo, my three weeks in Kabul, and that avoiding bad luck is often better than having good luck, and that it’s easy to assume that places like college carry no danger, and that dangerous places like Kabul can be utterly ordinary at times, and that we all lapse into the mistaken belief that we have as much time as we need.

I wanted to tell her, Look, sometimes fate’s your daddy. But I didn’t. I was pretty sure she wouldn’t understand.

Frank Light – Rotterdam for Amateurs

Rotterdam for Amateurs
by Frank Light

Friday, April 30, 2004. No more March madness. That was Amsterdam. This is April going into May. But it’s still the Netherlands, still daughter Julia’s sports, and with my wife at work, I’m back to traveling on my own. The late-afternoon light, diffused by clouds, darkens the spring foliage and paints the canal-laced area around Schiphol tropical, West Africa or Southeast Asia, as we descend. Inside is of course climate-controlled like any modern airport any time of the year. The mantra is mind your step from the recorded female voice you hear at the end of horizontal escalators in airports throughout Europe. Not that the Lights ever accept those free rides. Leery of slippery slopes, we walk.

The outdoor air feels the way it looked coming in – steamy. The steam has condensed to rain by the time the train reaches Leiden, where I stayed for last year’s basketball tournament. Two more stops: The Hague, host for that tournament, and Rotterdam. At least everything is on time this trip. The flight for the Amsterdam tournament was delayed by fog and the train to Leiden by some lost soul who jumped onto the tracks.

I’m in the upper deck of a second-class car packed with youths in a boisterous mood. Several of them wear tall, foam crowns like the cabin crew sported on the flight in. To honor the Queen’s birthday, they say. Many have on orange T-shirts. A striking exception sits opposite me – a young, black-skinned woman clad entirely in hot pink – shoes, slacks, blouse, earrings, cap. Even her hair is pink.

We’ve pushed ahead of the rain, so I leave my parka packed for the hike from Rotterdam station. I set a brisk pace, as the clouds are catching up. Not so many bikes here as Amsterdam or Leiden. Not much reason to loiter. An ambulance hurries past with siren bleating. Work crews sweep trash and broken glass. The police are out in force. What is it, I ask as two of them step down from a paddy wagon, a demonstration? The people on the street are mostly young. They seem excited, tired, pleased – ravers who got their money’s worth.

Queen’s birthday, the policeman answers. Some celebrate too hard.

My hotel should be around here. But I’m not seeing it. I ask the policeman.

He points behind the paddy wagon. A banner says Hotel. It just doesn’t say which one. Neon in the window advertises a Japanese restaurant.

At check-in I ask how much for the room. 110 euros, the receptionist says. The woman I spoke to on the phone told me 86. She gave that rate when I complained about 110. On leave without pay, I’m free to travel but obliged to watch my budget. Breakfast is included, the woman said. An Internet site touted rooms for 86 euros, without breakfast. None are available, however. Okay, she said, 86. Send me an email, I asked. She didn’t, and now the receptionist wants documentation. I ask if the woman I spoke to is on duty. She’s their point of contact for the tournament. No, she has the weekend off. She’ll be back when the tournament’s over. The receptionist asks for my handwritten notes. I suggest making a copy. The machine’s broken. Okay, she concedes. 86. No breakfast.

They make you work for it.

As I start to unpack I realize I don’t know where or when the games will be played. The school letter gave a web site, but I neglected to check it before departure. Every trip I forget something. I call the girls’ hotel and ask for the coach. They haven’t arrived yet. Strange, their flight was scheduled to depart ahead of mine, and mine got in a half hour late. I ask the receptionist there about the venue. She asks around. The coach of another team tells her and she tells me. But she doesn’t sound sure. Downstairs, I ask the receptionist. This is, after all, the “parents hotel.” Not a clue, and there are no other parents to check with. Last month when I emailed the team photos from Amsterdam to the basketball coach and thanked him for his efforts, he said my wife and I were the first parents ever to travel to the tournament. Well, she’s our only child, a 9th grader, and we are American. We’re also older than the other parents.

I ask if there’s an Internet café nearby. The receptionist mentions a place several blocks away. I ask if it’ll be open this late. 24/7, she assures me.

By then the rain is with us. By the time I cover a block it’s pouring. Lightning flashes directly overhead. I look for a restaurant before everything closes. A McDonald’s already has. I’ll surf the Net later. Drenched but grateful not to have been struck by a bolt from above, I enter a Netless, nearly empty café and order a vegetarian dish washed down with one “whistler” and then another: it’s draft beer in small glasses, like champagne. On leaving I ask the whereabouts of the Internet place. Not a hundred meters. I must have walked past it.

It’s closed.

Rain continues to fall but without the drama – the lightning moved to the suburbs. The phone rings as I enter my room. It’s Sally, wife and love of my life, at home in Denmark. Given her position at the embassy, she’d be my boss if I were working, a nepotistic no-no. That turns me into a dependent spouse, a stay-at-home dad. Usually.

I remove my soggy clothes while we talk. After we finish, I try again for the coach. He answers. They were late checking in because they ate at the airport. Their first game tomorrow is at 10:15. He doesn’t know where. He just gets on the bus.

The room is too warm to sleep. I find dials that will crank up the heat but nothing to cool things down. Thinking it’s me, can’t see for looking, I call the receptionist. She says there is no air conditioning. I guess it doesn’t get hot enough often enough to deal with. As in Denmark, the natives put the unpleasantness out of mind. The same discipline spares them the trouble and expense of window screens. That would imply bugs.

I prop open the minibar door. Every little bit helps. A sign says turn off the lights before opening the window, or mosquitos will get in. At least the Dutch acknowledge their presence, although I didn’t notice them in the storm nor did I see, hear, or feel any in the room. In the morning I do – on the ceiling, which prompts me to stand on a chair flapping and snapping a towel. If nothing else, the action clears my sinuses, a condition I attribute to the humidity and a pillow that didn’t sufficiently raise my head.

May Day, the storm long gone, the sky a glorious blue. I hit the streets in search of a bargain breakfast. Nothing opens before nine. Chastened, I return to the hotel. The 16-euro charge is a rip-off but better than the 24 I would have paid had breakfast been included with the room. The buffet is typical north European, with cheeses, cold cuts, and jams. Nothing Japanese about it. Maybe that kicks in at dinner.

The receptionists explore the web for me in search of venue. Seems to be off the map. The most they can do is jot down an address. I call the team’s hotel. The receptionist there doesn’t know either. The teams already left for the games. The only thing for it is a taxi. Not many around on a Saturday morning. Finally I wave one down near the central station. The driver doesn’t recognize the address. He drives to the station for directions.

The girls play three games today. Their whole season in one weekend. The international schools of northwest Europe are too far apart to do otherwise. Copenhagen wins their first. In the second game one of Julia’s teammates breaks her leg below the knee. In great pain, she goes into shock. While she lies under a space blanket where she fell, an ambulance coming, her teammates finish the contest on a waterlogged practice field. Meanwhile a girl who attended only one practice all season because of back problems reinjures her back. She cannot go on. Supposedly her parents let her come on the condition she not play. The Hungarian twins didn’t come, either. The reason they gave – tired of losing. I think the real stopper was money – it’s not cheap to fly here. Fifteen years ago they lived under communism. Now some compatriots are getting rich but not those who work honestly for their government. Anyway, the team loses by a goal, and they’re down to 12 players for their last match of the day.

Nothing-nothing going into the last few minutes, Julia and an opponent rush to the ball in front of our net. The opponent stumbles. The referee awards a penalty kick to the stumbler’s team. The ball goes into the nested hands of our goalie and through them into the goal. Final score 1-0. Julia feels terrible. The ref decided the game on a very questionable call. Julia was in that position because her teammates lagged behind and because her coach doesn’t use a sweeper. He likes Julia to keep the other three defenders in a line. She does that, but then it’s usually she who has to chase down the ball every time it breaks through. She did that over and over, played her heart out. She trudges off without stopping for the fries she left with me at halftime. After she collects herself, we talk. Her cheeks are red. I ask if she knows who’s the best passer on her team. She is. But her mind is elsewhere, and that’s fine; not only is her father biased, soccer was never his game.

Her teammates call her over, and the coach addresses them out of my hearing. Life’s unfair, I was going to say. Results don’t always correlate to effort. But you know. Inside, you know. I finish the fries, take a tram to the hotel, make instant coffee in the room, start this journal, open the window, turn off the lights, order an extra pillow, and revisit the neighborhood café. Different crew tonight. The waitress bring me soup, salad, and bread. A couple of whistlers to wash it all down. Ice cream to top it off. Living large. The girls are supposed to be making their own pancakes on a canal boat. Hope it’s fun. They’re good at forgetting.

Sally calls late. She went to the school fair in Hellerup, a suburban town between our house and Copenhagen. Everybody on the board, save me, was there. My membership is almost ex officio in light of availability and relation to the embassy.

The woman who started me on these journals laughs when I describe my own evening. Boring, I admit. The old man is snoring.

But you’re in Rotterdam, she exclaims. It’s not Paris, or London. Or even Amsterdam.

It’s better. It’s now.

Sunday, May 2. Skipping breakfast, I check out early, catch the tram, and take my travel bag to the games. A snack bar sells coffee and pastries that hit the spot. And for way less than at the hotel. At 8:30 the girls play Siegtuna, which has won the tournament seven years running. The only school here from Sweden, Seigtuna played two games yesterday, winning both by a score of 6 – 0. Copenhagen loses 3 – 0, all the goals occurring in the first half. In their final game, for 7th place, the girls continue their stellar defensive play, holding their opponent scoreless through both halves and two five-minute overtimes. Unfortunately they also fail to score. “Penalty” kicks decide the game. Julia looks shocked when the coach selects her as one of the five kickers. She’s never had a strong kick, yet he’s also had her taking the free kicks from the back line. Although the team has no captain, she is the one who meets the referee at the beginning of each game and before the kickoff. She is one of two Copenhagen girls to score in the kickoff. The other team gets three. Still, Copenhagen played well, with just one substitute available. Wonderfully, the girl who broke her leg is up and about on crutches and painkillers.

Siegtuna loses the championship in a kickoff.

Concerned about making my flight, I take a taxi to the station. Sally’s remark gets me thinking about Rotterdam. The largest port in Europe, she teased. I can sense its reach even if I can’t see it. Rotterdam is function to Amsterdam’s form. When I first visited the continent, 1968 on a Eurailpass bought with money saved in Vietnam, the trains must have passed through Rotterdam, but neither I nor any other tourist got off. Amsterdam was – and is – the destination. I mention that to the cabbie, who was born and raised here. Amsterdam’s old, he says, like Europe. I point out the red light we’re running. Sunday, he explains, meaning nobody but us chickens. Rotterdam’s built like America, he adds. It’s newer. It has tall buildings. To me it’s closer in spirit to Amsterdam than America. For starters, the climate’s the same. Same queen, language, shade of orange. But of course the two cities are different. Every place is. Anywhere you go, anything you do, is a tradeoff. Opportunity cost, economists call it. That summer, for example, I’ll leave for three months in Uruzgan, the province where the Dutch would later concentrate their efforts in Afghanistan, though nobody knows that then.

With the airline’s strong encouragement, I try my first self-check-in. It’s the future. I might as well embrace it.

The scanner does not recognize my passport.

No problem, the airline cheerleader chirps. Go to any counter from 9 to 12.

When I get to the front of counter 10, the clerk says go to counter 14. When I get to the front of 14, the clerk says they’re redoing the seating. She seems puzzled. She can’t process me. She asks me to stand to the side. After she handles a few more customers, I go back to her. They are now open for check-in. Just two seats left, she says, letting me know just how lucky I am. You’d never guess I made a reservation and arrived two hours before the flight.

Then on boarding we’re held back from the ramp after our tickets are taken. Finally they let us go. Airline employees push an empty wheelchair in the opposite direction. I feel a twinge of remorse for my earlier frustration. The twinge grows when I see who sits in front of me. It’s Julia’s injured teammate, one seat for her body and two for her leg. Her team’s flight – on another airline – could not spare the extra seats. An ambulance waiting on the tarmac in Copenhagen will take her to the hospital for more X-rays.

On the train into town I phone Sally, who says Julia called from the airport and should have been home by now but isn’t. Before leaving Copenhagen, I arranged for the mother of a teammate to take her. I had earlier asked another teammate’s father, a teammate who stayed home because her mother succumbed to cancer last Thursday. Now there’s unfairness. And perspective. It comes at you in waves. You absorb it in dribs and drabs. The funeral is Tuesday.

At Hellerup station I corral the one taxi driver out of a nearby grille. Julia gets home in due course, unpacks, and repacks for school activity week in north Jutland. At 7 the next morning I drive her to the rendezvous point in Hellerup. We have the briefest of goodbyes, as classmates might be watching. It’s the same for all of them.

I get back in time to see Sally off to work. Last night I forgot to tell her the plane flew over our house. Once home to a famous Danish actor, SS residence during the occupation, it now belongs to the US government. Reportedly we acquired it after the war for a boatload of cloth Danish women were anxious to get their hands on. So big and white you can’t miss it, the back windows looking across the Sound clear to Sweden when the sun shines as it does today. But she has to run. Not me. That’s how journals get written—by people with time, past, present, and future.