Many saw it coming. Ethnically charged graffiti began appearing on buildings around town. The local newspapers published the locations of bomb shelters. A classmate told me not to sleep in my bedroom because it faced military barracks.

But in my 12-year-old mind， our town of Mostar was too beautiful and the people too good to one another for there to be a civil war here. Besides， that spring was promising to be the greatest time of my life： I was happily in love for the first time.

I had noticed Marko at school and was attracted to his mischievous eyes and playful smile. One afternoon， while walking home from a piano lesson， I spotted him coming down the hill on his skateboard. He stopped just short of running into me. I dont remember us saying much. We just stood there and smiled. But thats all it took to seal the deal of our mutual affection， and we became inseparable.

Marko was Croatian and I was Serbian. Soon， our ethnic groups would find themselves on opposing sides of a bloody civil war. But for the moment， none of that mattered. What mattered was how good it felt to be acknowledged by him， to be let in on his secrets and jokes， to take on the same adventures.

The day the war started， Marko and I walked home from school together. He told me that if war broke out， his family would go to Split， Croatia. He asked what my family would do.

I had no idea. Right then my plans extended only to 6 p.m.， when I was supposed to meet him and the rest of our friends. With that agreement， we parted.

Less than a half-hour later， as I was walking upstairs to our apartment， an explosion shook the building. The blast threw me down the stairs， and the building went dark.All I knew then was that I had to find my family. I got up and stumbled outside. People were rushing every which way. Some were crying， some bleeding. I ran to my aunts place， where my mother was.

My plans for the evening were obviously ruined and I suspected it would be a while before I would be free to plan anything else. I had to get in touch with Marko， and tell him I was O.K. That we were O.K.

I snuck out into the hallway to use the telephone. I dialed the number， terrified by having to speak or explain to whom I was calling. Markos father answered. Lightheaded with anxiety， I asked for Marko. I dont know what I hoped to hear from him. Maybe that whatever was happening outside had no bearing on us. No ethnic squabble or civil war could ruin what we had. At the very least， I thought he would ask if I was O.K.

He didnt. In fact， Marko barely said a word. We exchanged a few awkward syllables， and then I hung up.

The next day my childhood home was gone， destroyed in the blast. Two weeks later， my brother， cousins and I were sent to another town.

From our exile， I wrote Marko long， never-to-be-sent letters describing the anger， sadness and displacement I felt. A few weeks later， when it became clear to my parents that what was happening in and around Mostar was not a minor squabble but a full-fledged war， they decided to take what was most important—my brother and me—and leave for good.

We settled in Belgrade， Serbia. For years， I continued to think about my Marko， the memory having become synonymous with lost innocence and never-again-possible perfection. Those brief days of happiness shone brightly through the tragedy that followed. When I started dating， I jokingly told boys that I had this unfinished relationship and couldnt fully commit.

Yet the few times I traveled back to my hometown after the war， I didnt dare look Marko up， though I knew how to get in touch with him.

What if he didnt even remember me？ What if those lost years had obliterated all we shared？ What if my being a Serb and his being a Croat was more of a barrier now than when we were children？ Most of all， though， I feared that nothing would have remained of the bright-eyed boy who followed me home from school on a skateboard and chased me down the spiraling stairwells.

So I filed my Marko memories away. Then one morning， 16 years after fleeing my hometown， I opened my email at home in San Jose， Calif.， to find Markos name in the inbox. His message read， “If you are Nikolina from Mostar then I have been your boyfriend since 5th grade. Please get back to me， so we can figure out what to do.”

Those two lines were all it took to dispel my fears. Marko was still the playful boy I had loved.

We spent the next few weeks emailing feverishly， telling each other everything we remembered of our childhood romance. He also told me some things I didnt know， like how much he had obsessed over wanting to kiss me. He also told me that for years he had beaten himself up for not saying more when I called.

It was a couple of years before I could get back to Mostar. When I did， Marko and I met at the usual spot， at the bottom of the hill where he first approached me on his skateboard.

We would not have recognized each other on the street. Yet we understood something about each other that no one else did or could. Like the first time， we stood for a long while just smiling.

Marko and I talked for hours， recounting our youth， our shared sense of dislocation and the many acts of infidelity we had committed against each other over our nearly two decades apart.

Like the Ottoman bridge， our lives had been shattered and then put back together. We were still gathering pieces， only now we had one fewer piece to look for.

Marko and I touched hands， leaned in and kissed. For that moment， it was as if nothing had been lost.

很多人都目睹了戰争的来临。种族主义的大字涂鸦开始出现在城镇的各处楼房上。本地报纸发布了躲避炸弹的避难所位置。一个同学叫我不要睡在自己的卧室里，因为它面朝军营。

但在12岁的我的观念里，我们的城市莫斯塔尔如此美丽，人民如此友爱，这儿不应该爆发内战。况且，那个春天充满希望，是我一生中最美好的时光：我幸福地陷入了初恋。

我在学校注意到了马尔科，我被他淘气的眼神和顽皮的微笑迷住了。一天下午，在钢琴课后走路回家时，我看到他踏着滑板从山上溜下来。他在几乎撞到我之前停住了。我记得我们没说多少话。我们只是站在那儿相视而笑。但这足以让我们对彼此产生好感，我们变得形影不离。

马尔科是克罗地亚人，而我是西伯利亚人。要不了多久，我们各自的民族同胞就会成为血腥的内战中不共戴天的敌对双方。但当时，这些都不重要。重要的是，能够和他相识，能够分享他的秘密和小笑话，能够和他一起冒险，我感到很快乐。

战争爆发那天，我和马尔科一起从学校走路回家。他告诉我如果战争爆发，他们一家会搬到克罗地亚的斯普利特。他问我的家人会怎么办。

我不知道。当时我的计划顶多安排到了傍晚6点，在6点我会和他还有其他朋友见面。带着这个约定，我们分别了。

我们分开还不到半小时，在我爬楼梯回我住的公寓时，一声爆炸响把楼房都撼动了。爆炸把我甩下了楼梯，楼里变得漆黑一片。当时我只知道我得找到家人。我站起来跌跌撞撞地走出去。人们混乱地四散奔逃。一些人在哭，一些人在流血。我跑到姨母的住处，我母亲在那里。

我那天晚上的计划显然告吹了，而且我怀疑要过好一阵子我才能有自由做任何计划。我得联系马尔科，告诉他我一切安好。告诉他我们的关系一切安好。

我溜到走廊里打电话。我拨了号码，想到万一要向对方解释为什么打这通电话，心里就发怵。接电话的是马尔科的父亲。焦虑让我神志不清，恍惚中我说找马尔科。我不知道自己想听他说些什么。也许希望他说，无论外面发生什么，对我们都没有影响。没有任何种族冲突或内战能摧毁我们的感情。至少，我以为他会问我是否安好。

但是他没问。事实上，他几乎没说话。尴尬地交流了只言片语之后，我就挂断了。

第二天，我儿时的家就没有了，在爆炸中被摧毁了。两周后，我和弟弟、堂兄弟姐妹们被送到了另一个镇。

从我们流亡在外时起，我陆续给马尔科写了很多永远都不会寄出的长信，描述了我的愤怒、悲伤和流离失所之感。几周之后，我父母悉知在莫斯塔尔内外爆发的并不是小冲突而是全面战争，他们就决定带上我和弟弟——这对他们是最重要的，走为上计。

我们在西伯利亚的贝尔格莱德安顿下来。好几年里，我一直在思念马尔科，我的那段记忆成为了遗失的纯真和不可再现的完美的代名词。那段短暂的幸福时光被随之而来的悲剧反衬得熠熠生辉。后来我开始约会时，我开玩笑地告诉男孩子们我还有一段未了的情缘，因而不能完全投入新恋情。

然而战后我好几次回到家乡，我都不敢去拜访马尔科，尽管我知道怎样能联系上他。

万一他甚至都不记得我了呢？万一这些分离的岁月让他忘掉了我们的共同记忆呢？万一我是个西伯利亚人而他是个克罗地亚人这点，比起儿时更是一个障碍呢？尽管我最害怕的是，他不再是踏着滑板跟着我从学校到家、从盘旋的楼梯井追着我跑下来的那个眼睛明亮的男孩。

因此我把关于马尔科的记忆尘封起来。后来，一天早上，在我逃离家乡16年之后，我在加州圣何塞的家里打开电子邮箱时，在收件箱里发现了马尔科的名字。他在邮件里写道：“如果你是来自莫斯塔尔的妮可琳娜，那么我从五年级时起就是你的男友。请回复我，然后让我们来想想怎么办。”

只需这两句话，我的担心就烟消云散了。马尔科仍是我爱过的那个幽默男孩。

接下来的几周里我们热切地互发电子邮件，告诉对方我们记得的所有童年罗曼史。他还告诉我一些我不知道的事，例如他日思夜想地想要亲吻我。他还告诉我，我给他打电话时他没有多说几句话，有好几年他因此后悔得痛打自己。

又过了几年，我才得以回到莫斯塔尔。我回去以后，和马尔科在他第一次踏着滑板接近我的山脚老地方见面。

要是在大街上，我们都认不出对方。然而我们都理解对方身上一些别人不理解或理解不了的东西。像初次相识那样，我们久久地伫立着，仅仅是相视而笑。

马尔科和我聊了几个小时，重拾青春年少的记忆，聊我们共同的背井离乡之感，以及分开的近20年里我们各自做过的许多对彼此不太专一的事。

我们的人生就像奥斯曼时代的古桥，被炮火击碎之后又被砌了回去。我们仍在寻找碎片，眼下还差一块。

马尔科和我携手，依偎，亲吻。那一刻，我们仿佛从未缺失过什么。