In the courtyard outside his apartment, Ekrem Kaljanac removed the wreckage of a garage that was blown up last summer. The space now will be the communal garden for the apartment house at 42 Logavina.
To use an analogy popular among the locals, Sarajevo, despite the current cease-fire, remains a concentration camp. Granted, the conditions are greatly improved; the guards no longer lob shells at the inmates. But the city is still very much encircled, its residents held hostage.
The food supply is perhaps worse than ever. There is little electricity, insufficient water and gas. There is no way to make a telephone call outside the city, no way to mail a letter.
For all but the luckiest, there is no way out.
The last five weeks, a period that began with the Feb. 5 shelling of the city's open-air market, has been a time of remarkable emotional upheaval. During that time, Logavina Street has been a microcosm of the city, caught up in a curious mix of euphoria and despair.
This week, one store put a pineapple on display in the window. Pedestrians stopped to gawk, as though a spaceship had suddenly landed in their midst.
But there is a darker side too. As Sarajevans emerge from their homes and bomb shelters, they see the extent of the devastation wrought upon their city.
Suad Hajric, 55, ventured up to his weekend house, only two miles up the hill from Logavina but perched at the edge of the front lines.
The house is in shambles. Thirty shells struck it over the course of the war. Hajric walked onto a balcony that overlooks a mountain where the cable car used to lift tourists for a panoramic view of Sarajevo.
"Over there, there was this pine forest. All cut down for fuel," he said.
For the first time in nearly two years, 19-year-old Delila Lacevic walked recently along the once-scenic Miljacka River that cuts through the center of town. She passed a cafe, now closed, where she and her friends used to hang out, and the scarred building where she went to high school.
"Look, that was our biology lab," she exclaimed, pointing to a hole as large as a swimming pool.
On Logavina Street itself, every single house has been hit, and hardly a family has not had someone killed or injured. One out of every four residents is a refugee from some other part of Bosnia where life for Muslims is even bleaker.
Sarajevans despair at the prospect that their city will be the next Berlin, partitioned into sectors. Already, there are posters depicting the Berlin Wall, with the name "Berlin" crossed off and replaced by "Sarajevo."
"I don't want to live in the next Berlin. I don't want to live in a divided city," said Esad Taljanovic, a dentist.
Many Sarajevans suspect that their home town lies under a curse dating to the assassination of the Austro-Hungarian heir in 1914, the event that touched off World War I.
"Every generation here has to live in war. I think there is no future for my son. I'm afraid he'll have another life like mine," Milandin Markovic, a 32-year-old Bosnian soldier, said.
Markovic thinks about moving with his wife - now living as a refugee in Germany - to Australia.
"Why Australia? Because it's so far from this place," he said sadly.
Almost all of the Logavina residents younger than 40 are thinking about going someplace else. Taljanovic wants to go to the United States. Minka Kaljanac has a contact with a French relief organization that might evacuate her and her two sons, 10 and 7. Her downstairs neighbor, Kira Prgovski, said she'd go to Germany, even if it meant giving up her nursing career.
There is a fear that when real peace finally arrives in Sarajevo, it will spell the death of the city. As long as the roads remain blocked, the airport open only to the few well-connected Sarajevans with United Nations jobs or press credentials, then the young and restless are trapped inside.
Inside the only operating discotheque in Sarajevo - a place that feels remarkably like a U.S. disco, except that it closes at 9:45 p.m., 15 minutes before the curfew - teenagers dance to American rock music and plot their escapes.
"Will you marry me? Please. I've got to get out of here," said a 22-year- old bouncer, not entirely in jest, to an American woman.
Zijo and Jela Dzino sit around a green plastic table in their yard, sipping Turkish coffee with friends. It is a delightful morning, with soft, misty sunlight reflecting off the white minaret of the mosque just behind their back yard.
The conversation is less radiant, as they tally their losses. The most painful is the separation from their daughter, Alma, who lives in Johannesburg.
"Alma shares my fate. As a child, I was a refugee in Africa during World War II. It is history repeating itself, destiny," Jela says.
More so than almost anyone else on Logavina, the Dzinos have fought to preserve the hospitality that once characterized Sarajevo. Zijo, 59, whose family hid Jews in their basement during World War II, helps an elderly Serbian couple across the street with their electricity.
Even though Muslim neighbors scold her for doing so, Jela, 54, helps a 70- year-old Serbian neighbor read letters from her sons, both soldiers in the Bosnian Serb army.
From the apartment of Milutin and Cuijeta Djurdjevac wafts an aroma that is uncannily like a sizzling steak.
It is a cruel illusion. Actually, the elderly couple have been roasting lentils. This is a war recipe for coffee: Toss lentils into a hot frying pan until they're black, then grind them up and brew them just like coffee. If you have sugar, it helps.
"We haven't had real coffee in four months," Cuijeta says.
Milutin, 70, used to be a director of a military engineering firm at a salary of $3,600 monthly. When war broke out, all his savings were in a bank that closed. Except for some extra rations from the Jewish Community Center - a reward for Milutin's service fighting the Nazis during World War II - the couple subsist on a pension of barely $1.
The situation in Sarajevo is steadily deteriorating for Milutin and Cuijeta, both ethnic Serbs.
Several days ago, Cuijeta, 66, walked downtown to look for bread. She found a restaurant that had some, but she was chased away.
"I know who you are. Get the hell out of here," a young man told her.
Cuijeta was so frightened that she fell down the stairs running away. She pulls down her sock to show a large green bruise on her shin.
"That is the first time anything like that has happened," says Milutin, his hands and head shaking as he speaks.
Milutin and Cuijeta have lived in their Logavina Street apartment for 40 years. They worry that they'll be forced to move to the Serbian side if Sarajevo is permanently divided, and to give their apartment over to Muslim refugees evicted from the other side.
"We've lived with Muslims all our lives," Milutin says. "It is tough here, no food, no electricity. But that would be the worst thing, having to leave."
Leila Causevic, who is 5, has just heard that her neighbor, Delila Lacevic, is to be evacuated to the United States any day now.
The child is irrepressible.
"I want to go to America too. All the Muslims are getting killed here, even Mujo," announces Leila, speaking of a neighbor shot in the legs last year. "Why can't I go to America with Delila?"
Her mother, Suada Causevic, has a pained expression. Suada is more than six months pregnant, but appears haggard, as though she is getting thinner every day.
"I don't have anything to give to my daughter but beans and rice. I feel like screaming," Suada cried. " . . . I saw a pizza advertised on Belgrade television. Can you believe it? A pizza?"
Over the weekend, she and the child walked downtown because they heard an Egyptian battalion of the United Nations was distributing kiwi fruit to children. After waiting for an hour, Leila got only a tiny brown apple.
They tried to sneak back in line, but a policeman spotted the uneaten apple in the child's hand and shooed them away.
Sead Vranic is in an unusually good mood, his face as radiant as the imposing pink mansion where he lives. Sead just returned from a walk downtown and saw the offices of a Slovenian travel agency getting ready to reopen. This, he thinks, is an auspicious omen for his future. He is hoping, if the latest peace agreement with the Bosnian Croats holds, he might get back his prewar job with a Croatian trading company.
The worst of the war is over, Sead believes. He has gotten through it without burning any of his 10,000 sports magazines, as his wife had urged. He has not sold one item from the family's collection of antique tables, Persian rugs, clocks and ivory carvings.
Unlike his neighbors, Sead refused to dig up his rose garden.
"I've been working on these roses for 40 years. We Bosnians are famous for our rose gardens, and so it will always be."
Lana Lacevic is celebrating her 20th birthday by candlelight.
There is no electricity for the stereo, so a friend has brought a guitar. A dozen young people are enthusiastically belting out Bosnian folk songs, but talking of the places they'd rather be.
Lana is rattling on about kangaroos and koala bears. Delila, her cousin, is talking about her imminent departure for Kansas.
"There is no future here," says a 17-year-old friend of Lana's. Goran Stojkanovic has a Serbian father and a Muslim mother. "My Serb friends, my former friends that is, won't play basketball with me because they say I'm not a pure Serb. The Muslims here, when they hear my name, they look at me funny."
The mood lightens up when Lana's mother, Sacira Kapic Lacevic, walks in with the birthday cake. The teenagers all burst into laughter. The chocolate cake is cobbled together out of ground-up Vietnam War-era biscuits. There is only one candle, the kind donated by the United Nations.
"Make sure you give that back. We need it," says Sacira.
Lana makes her wish and blows out the candle.
For a moment, until Sacira grabs the candle and relights it, the room is completely dark.