Bosnian Marty George

My sisters and I have always called women talented in cooking, sewing and homecrafts Marty Georges in honor of our next-door neighbor growing up who could turn a toothpick and tongue depressor into a Christmas ornament and make a birthday cake that looked like a girl in a hoop skirt.

Fikreta, the woman who keeps the CIN offices clean, is the Bosnian Marty George. I've learned this gradually. When I brought a plant into my office one day she began picking at it and the next day brought me in a spectacular African Violet. When I wore a shawl my mother crocheted for me she admired the design and the next day brought me a beautiful crocheted doily. We all live for the days she brings in the extra loaves of bread or spare pies she makes her family. And she lets me practice my horrible Bosnian on her. This weekend she invited me and Miranda (interpreter definitely needed with my Bosnian) and Dona to her home.

She lives in Vratnik a neighborhood high up the hill from Old Town beyond the old city gate. It's so far up it didn't used to be Sarajevo and she had to come part-way down to lead the way back. We would never have found it through the maze of stone stairs and winding streets. "You walk up and down this every day?" I panted. "Sometimes 5 or 6 times," she laughed, "and I've never fallen once." I trip or fall nearly once a week so this was astouding.

She keeps a beautiful, traditional Bosnian house. She moved into it when she married and has raised her two children in it. She lost her husband in the war. Her mother now lives with them. She says she cannot imagine living anywhere else and it is easy to see why. Her home is warm and colorful and peaceful, filled with silver dishes, plants and doilies. She made us sarma and burek and sis cevap and apple pie and we talked and looked at old photos.

I was very honored. I don't have the same feeling about houses, evident from my Roma-like existence the past months, but I know she shared something special and private.