Before reading

Chapter One

Skopje, Vilayet of Kosovo, Ottoman Empire: 1896

Intrusive sunlight pierced the corner of my eye, poised in that strange liminal space between blinding and divine. I’d grown used to this particular light as my wake-up call, almost as if each new day arrived to chisel itself into my consciousness. In Kumanovo, back when I was a boy, it had been the chickens that woke me—scratching, clucking sentinels perched on our windowsill at dawn. They heralded the start of every monotonous, wonderful day in that small farming village.

But here in Skopje, or Üsküb as the Ottomans insisted, the light carried with it an unyielding sharpness that the chickens in Kumanovo did not—something engineered, perhaps, by the same minds that built the mosques dominating the skyline. There are no mosques—nothing engineered—in Kumanovo.

I shifted to my right, my bed groaning at the minor movement. Tato had crafted my bed in Kumanovo, shaping stout Balkan oak with his own hands into something that felt indestructible beneath me. Here, in this cramped Skopje apartment, my bed was as tenuous as the city’s goodwill, squeaking like a complaint each time I so much as breathed too deeply. I used to joke with Majka that all of Skopje might collapse if a Serb in one of these rickety buildings coughed too loudly. She never laughed at that, or at much else.

With a sigh, I rubbed my eyes and sat up. The first thing I saw, as always, was the bright red Macedonian cross Majka had insisted on hanging above my desk. It glowed even in the morning’s pallid light, an imperfection of color on the dull gray (Majka insists they’re dark cream) walls. I sometimes wondered, often while I prayed, if my Tato’s soul lingered near that cross—if he watched me rise to meet each day without him. Or if, like so many Slavs in Skopje, he had simply become another nameless ghost in the empire’s long and oppressive history.

I swung my feet to the floor, wincing at the chill that seeped through my thin wool socks. The city’s climate was more humid than Kumanovo’s, largely due to the Vardar River winding like a life-giving serpent through Skopje’s heart. Even in the late spring, I could feel that dampness creeping in through the mortar, warning me of the muggy summer ahead. Everything about this place warned me of some imminent danger. But, most often, Skopje just reminded me that it wasn’t my home. My name was etched in Kumanovo’s soil, where my father was buried, not in these narrow streets overshadowed by domes and minarets.

For a moment, I closed my eyes and pictured the old farm. Mornings there meant birds, orchard breezes, and the faint clang of Tato’s tools in the smithy he ran before he went off to fight. Before the bullets took him—two in the chest, one in the face—during the war that changed everything. I could still remember the low rumble of his voice, the heat of the smithy forge, the sizzle when a fresh horseshoe met a bucket of water. Then, as though turning a page too quickly, that memory ended, and I was left here in a city that was growing too quickly for its own good.

I forced myself to stand, crossing the room in a few strides. The walls were almost bare save for that splash of crimson in the shape of a cross and a small icon of the Theotokos that Tato once carried in his pack. Cracked plaster revealed hints of old stone beneath, as if the apartment itself had endured too much change and too many lifetimes. I heard Majka bustling in the kitchen and remembered she must have been up for hours, like always.

The next room was hardly larger than a pantry: a single rickety table, two mismatched wooden chairs, and a clay kiln that had traveled with us from Kumanovo. Majka crouched by the kiln, prodding the breathing embers inside. She was a strong woman, with hazy olive skin—darker than mine—and hands shaped by a lifetime of sowing seeds and kneading dough. She wore a simple floral dress, colors once bright but now dulled by time and work spent alone. The glow of the kiln set her in silhouette, and for a second, she seemed carved from the same warm clay.

“Dobro utro, Majka,” I said softly.

She jerked her head up as though startled. How could she be surprised at my morning greeting when our routine was so unvaried and tiresome? “Gjorgji,” she replied, her tone guarded after the shock. “It’s late.”

“The sun just barely rose, Majka,” I teased, but she didn’t smile. She only thrust a piece of hard bread into my hand. The dryness of it scratched my throat before I even took a bite.

“We’ve lived here six years,” she said, returning her attention to the kiln, “but you still sleep as if you’re a child on a farm. Cities start early. Ottomans start early. Something you would’ve learned if your Tatko ever took you outside of that puny village.”

“You loved that village,” I whispered to no reaction. I started a little louder, trying to muster a breathy laugh, “Ottomans might start early but they only do that so they can finish everything for themselves, leaving scraps for the rest of us.”

She glanced at me, her eyes dark and shining in the kiln’s terracotta light. There was a pity there that made me bristle. “Don’t start,” she whispered. “Not today. Eat, and then work.”

I took my seat at the small table, slowly nibbling on the crust of bread that tasted more of woodsmoke than wheat. I didn’t mind the smoky taste, honestly. I’ve lived and breathed in smoke since my birth. However, it represented another reminder that I once inhabited a colorful world, a world where even bread breathed life into me. Apricots, Tato’s hefty laugh, Majka’s singing as she kneaded dough with the other village women. But color drained from our days like wine from a cracked cup, never to be repaired, after Tato died.

———————————————————————————————————————————

Just as Majka warned, the early-start streets of Skopje confronted me the moment I left the building—people and animals cramming narrow lanes that seemed too intimate for such a sprawling city. A labyrinth of vendors and pedestrians, donkey carts and nervous horses, all jostling for space in a new metropolis that felt on the cusp of transformation. The mosques soared in the distance with their pointed minarets, a constant reminder of who ruled over us. Beyond them, in the new southern quarter of the city, the Ottoman administration’s offices loomed in white stone, watching over everything like a suspicious warden.

I pulled my threadbare coat tighter around my chest, as if I was hiding something. The air smelled of spices, dust, and un-swept street manure—all mingled with the tang of the Vardar River. Two Albanian men cross my path, speaking in rapid, rolling phrases that I half-recognized from the ironworks. A group of Macedonian Slav women trudged toward the market, their patterned dresses bright against the drab walls. Overhead, a flock of pigeons wheeled in the sky, gray but free.

I used to—perhaps, still do—resent this city for its diversity. Each foreign accent I heard felt like another wedge splitting me from my homeland. But with time, I’ve realized that resentment was a luxury I couldn’t fully maintain if I was to live here. After all, I worked for Turkish wages, ate Albanian bread, paid taxes to Jewish collectors, and lived in a quarter where Bulgarian Slav refugees sought shelter. Each day in Skopje, filling more and more with new foreign accents, was a lesson in uneasy coexistence.

I paused at a corner where a new mosque was under construction. Ottoman workers chiseled stones in perfect arcs, guided by a foreman who barked commands in Turkish. My stomach twisted. Their meticulous craftsmanship—their attention to detail and luxury—felt like an insult to the rubble left in other corners of Macedonia. Our old church in Kumanovo stood half-finished for decades because nobody had the money to repair it. Meanwhile, these mosques rose with alarming speed, like fists punching at the Christian God.

A call silenced my thoughts, “Zdravo, Gjorgji!” and I turned to see Liljana approaching. She wore her same cream-colored dress patterned with tiny red flowers. Her face was open and warm, and even on my worst days since I met her five years ago, I found her presence strangely comforting. She was, probably, one of only two people in the world I would call a friend. Foolishly, people would often dismiss her as naïve because she was quick to smile and slow to complain. But I had seen the way men looked at her, the way shopkeepers fussed over her, the way she sometimes smiled vaguely to avoid dealing with their wandering eyes. There was more steel under her sweetness than anyone gave her credit for.

“Dobro utro, Liljana,” I said, stepping aside to invite her beside me. With a quick jaunt forward, she fell seamlessly into step with me. I felt a warmth in noticing that.

“Did you hear about the new restrictions?” she asked, her voice a flutter of concern. “They’re saying the vali is demanding all signs to be in Turkish, and only Turkish, now. Even in the Macedonian quarters.”

I clenched my jaw. “Of course he is. They brought Hafiz Mehmed back just so he could stamp out every Albanian and Slav identity in the vilayet.”

“It’s much worse in the Albanian quarters,” she added with a somewhat hopeful tone. “Mehmed is not thrilled about the latest uprisings in Gjakova.” I sighed with unsurprise. Albanian revolutionaries, just before Hafiz Mehmed Pasha returned for his second governorship of the vilayet, had clashed with Ottoman forces after their refusal to pay taxes or comply with Ottoman conscription. The act of revolution had sparked many whispers in Albanian throughout Skopje. If the Slavs don’t overthrow the Turks quick, the Albanians will beat us to it.

“I think this century is going to end in a bang,” I said, lowering my voice as pedestrians continued past us. “They can’t hold all this together forever.”

Liljana’s eyes darted away nervously, and she exhaled sharply, clearly indicating the end to this discussion. “Yes…,” she trailed off. “But at least the city is vibrant, no? So many people, so much music…” She trailed off, perhaps realizing neither of us were in the mood for optimistic chatter.

We walked a few steps in silence. Then she spoke again, even quieter than before, somehow. “My mama’s had trouble selling the lace she makes… Most of her old customers were Slavs from Bulgaria or southern Macedonia. Now, everything’s changed. The shops keep raising taxes on local goods—but only the shops near the Stone Bridge.”

She said it as if it were a secretive, minor inconvenience, but I could hear the worry lacing her words. The vendors near the Stone Bridge were mostly Slavs, making the pinpointed taxation even more evidence of the vali’s tightening fist. “Are you all alright?” I asked, glancing at her profile. Her green eyes, bright as spring leaves, were fixed on a passing carriage of bulk goods. Liljana lived with her mother and younger brother south of the Vardar, near the new development. The absence of both our fathers—although, she never adequately explained what happened to hers—fueled the first embers of our friendship.

She forced a chuckle that sounded hollow. “Of course. We’re fine, truly,” she said, her pupils darting back and forth. She leaned her head down. “I’m saying this… because of what we just were talking about. The way things have been going…” She trailed off again.

I was growing a little tired of our roundabout whispering. “Let’s talk later. Perhaps, the café?”

“Can’t,” she snapped. “I’ve got to help mama with the shop—I must lure in some customers for her.” She paused as we reached the stone archway that marked our daily morning farewell. “Let’s talk soon, though. I will see you tomorrow morning, Gjorgji.”

I nodded. She headed for the stone archway that led to the Ottoman quarter, I toward the ironworks that scowled by the river, leaving a menacing smoke path that guided you ever more north along the Vardar.

———————————————————————————————————————————

Inside the factory gates, the roar of flames and the shriek of metal greeted me like an old enemy. Smoke billowed from multiple furnaces, thick and stinging, as workers churned out rods, bars, and plowshares for a city that was ferociously building, trying to prove something. I looked around for Pavli, half-expecting his teasing grin, but a foreman shouted my name before I could spot him.

“Gjorgji. Here, now!” The Turkish foreman shouted in the simplest Ottoman Turkish, his eyes scanning the lines of workers. “You’re late.”

I bit back a retort. By local standards, I wasn’t late at all—but by Ottoman standards, I was always behind. “I’ll get started immediately,” I managed in broken Turkish, struggling to keep my eyes down.

He snorted. “See that you do.”

The cacophony of languages in the ironworks never caused a problem, really. The ironworks had its own language of heat and clangor. Men hammered at glowing metal, shaping it into the city’s growing arteries—rails, nails, beams. Sparks danced in the shadows of the ironworks—we had no practical need for candle or oil lamp light. The place made me feel alive and dead at once: alive because there was something powerful and reminiscent about taming molten ore; dead because it was the same routine day after day, endlessly pounding metal that builds up an empire which shot my Tato—twice in the chest, once in the face. The pounding echoed in my head long after I left.

Pavli finally found me during a lull, his lean frame blotched with soot like brush strokes. “Heard you were a bit late, friend,” he teased, passing me a water flask. He was an Albanian, body sculpted by the Byzantines, gifted by God to speak Macedonian perfectly, and with a sly grin and a voice that carried a faint musical lilt. “I swear you do it on purpose, Gjorgji,” he laughed, taking a swig of water. “Anything to prove you’re not an Ottoman like them.”

“It’s just that Osman was always in a temper,” I muttered, gulping the tepid water. “He’s always in a temper. He’d flog us if he could.”

“Let him try,” Pavli said, eyes flashing as I met them. “Then again, I’ve no interest in giving him the pleasure.”

A clang near the entrance signaled a fresh batch of iron rods. Pavli and I hauled them to the cooling trough, the weight forcing us to match each other’s steps. I tried not to notice the way his muscles strained under his shirt or the casual ease with which he seemed to do this backbreaking labor. Sweat dripped into my eyes, stinging, but I blinked it away. I needed to notice, though I hated that I did.

“All for a few coins,” Pavli murmured as we set the rods down. “And the Ottomans wonder why we have no love for them. It’s that—” He pointed at the iron.

I returned a small laugh, but inside, I was roiling. Tato had died for the idea of a free Slavic Macedonia, and here I was, hauling—hell, forging—the empire that had killed him. Necessity, I told myself. I must live, eat, help Majka. Thoughts never stopped the guilt from gnawing at me like a rat.

———————————————————————————————————————————

By dusk, I’d washed the remaining soot from my hands and face, but still it lingered under my fingernails. Washing with determination, I didn’t even notice that most workers were already gone. Finally clearing the soot from my nails, I dried my hands and turned to leave. At the opposite pump, on the other side of the factory, I spotted the new Bulgarian, Andon. He’d just recently started at the ironworks. He was only briefly introduced on his first day, but I hadn’t forgotten his name. How could I forget the name of a man like that?

He looked up from the pump just as my eyes finished scanning him. Wincing at my detection, I offered a quick nod of acknowledgment. He smiled lightly, his dark hair dripping with sweat-soaked soot, and nodded.

I gasped for air as I finally walked outside. Stop staring, I commanded my conscious. You stare too much.

The city exhaled the day’s heat in shimmering waves, making the walls and rooftops appear to waver from afar. I stepped back into the labyrinth of streets leading back to our cramped apartment, but something tugged at me again—an urge to keep walking, to see the Stone Bridge, the river, the city in its transition to night.

I found myself at the edge of the Vardar before I realized where my feet were taking me. The Stone Bridge arched above and across the water like a sentinel, weathered by centuries of footsteps. In the distance, mosques and churches jousted for space in the skyline, silhouettes against a bleeding sunset. From under the bridge, it was all you could make out.

“Gjorgji?” a soft voice called.

I spun around. Standing a few paces away was Andon. He wore a dark vest over a simple linen shirt, sleeves rolled up to reveal strong, battered forearms. Despite the grime of the forge, he held himself with the composure of someone quite at ease in his body—and in this world.

“You’re the Bulgar from the factory,” I said, recovering from my surprise. “How did you know my name?”

He laughed as he strode up to my side. “Pavli, the Albanian. He said you two know each other.” His eyebrows raised in anticipation.

“Pavli?” I sputtered. The surprise morphed into frustration. Pavli shouldn’t be sharing my name carelessly. There are Ottoman moles everywhere in this city, even Slavs couldn’t be trusted immediately. “Yes, we’re good friends.” Pavli was only second to Liljana, and held the coveted second spot in my two-person friendship list. “But, why did you ask him? About me?” I clarified.

“You were staring at me,” he answered, grinning.

Shit. Again. My mouth moved involuntarily, desperate to save myself. “That might be true,” I admitted. “But, I only wanted to make sure you weren’t in danger. New migrants come to the factory and within a week or two, they’re hospitalized, institutionalized, or dead.”

“Ah…” he grinned. “I see.”

I couldn’t read him—I had no clue whether he bought that. “I saw you washing up at the factory. Why didn’t you go home, or to the café?”

He shrugged. “Felt like a walk. I love this river.”

A breeze from the Vardar stirred the air between us. He stepped forward, resting his hand on the ancient stones of the bridge. In the fading light, I could make out the faint tension in his expression—like he was testing how much he could reveal.

“What are you doing here?” he challenged. The faint tension had morphed back into a grin.

I told the truth. “I like to see the city at dusk.”

Andon nodded, silence stretching comfortably. I found myself aware of the closeness of our arms, the faint brush of cotton against linen, when a gust of wind swirled around us. My heart pounded in my chest, a reminder of the things I’d rather ignore—no, kill. Suddenly self-conscious, I shifted my gaze back to the water.

“The Vardar’s never calm,” I blurted. “It’s always carrying something away. Seems fitting it should be our bridge that straddles it—all the rubble and bodies that flow up it belong to us.”

Andon’s eyes flicked to mine, and for a moment, I felt exposed, as if he saw too much. But then he smiled, and the tension eased.

“It’s getting late,” I said finally, though I made no move to leave.

He exhaled, a quiet laugh escaping him. “Is it?” He looked at the sky, streaked now with deep fiery oranges and muted purples. “I suppose you’re right.”

We stood side by side another few seconds. I wanted to speak, to say something that would break the spell or deepen it. I wasn’t sure which. But nothing came. A donkey brayed above us as it trudged along the bridge; a pair of Albanian were carrying a crate of olives on the opposite side of the Vardar. Life swirled around us, oblivious.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Gjorgji,” Andon said finally. His voice was so nearly a whisper.

“Tomorrow,” I echoed back, the word clinging to my tongue as he turned and walked away.