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。……