by Jean Sasson
Samara shrugged and nudged Mayada’s arm, then gestured with her head toward Muna, who was softly crying. “I pray they took the baby to Muna’s husband, or to her mother. The guards refuse to tell Muna anything.”
Mayada met Samara’s eye. “And Safana? She is always weeping, as well.”
“The reason that poor Safana weeps all the time is because no one knows the condition of her mother. When she told the guards that someone had to check on her mother, she got slapped in the face. Safana now assumes her poor mother has been forgotten in her bed and has starved to death.
“Think of that: Two helpless creatures in diapers—one old, one young—and no one to take care of them.”
Mayada was horrified. She closed her eyes and began to pray, because she knew of nothing else to do.
A rolling groan spread through cell 52 when the door flew open once again and yet another shadow woman’s name was called. “Sara! Show yourself!”
Mayada looked up as Sara slowly walked past. Sara was one of the youngest women, only twenty-one years old, a student of pharmacology who was in prison for no good reason, as far as anyone knew. Now she was going from the safety of cell 52 into the hands of a guard eager to take her to torture. Her eyes glittered with sheer terror. At the door, she turned to the women. “Samara, remember what I told you,” she said. “If I die, someone must contact my mother. I am her last living child.”
Samara reassured her, “You will not die, little Sara. Be strong. We will be here praying for you.”
The guard cursed, and Sara turned and walked away. The door slammed behind her.
Samara raised herself from the floor and issued explicit instructions. “Soon we will have two women who will need us. Let’s get Mayada to her bunk and arrange two beds for Safana and Sara.”
With Dr. Sabah by her side, Mayada walked in silence to her bunk. After settling in, she closed her eyes. She shivered, as though she had a fever. She willed herself to regain her strength. She wanted to be strong enough to assist Samara with Safana and Sara when they returned.
Lying quietly, she thought of her old life, the life she had once believed to be nothing but work and worry, a life she had been forced to give up in a single day. But now that old life of work and worry seemed so wonderful that the thought of leaving it was terrifying.
She heard Samara’s quiet voice giving instructions to the other women. What would they do in this cell without Samara? She was like a mother to every one of them.
She remembered Samara’s words, that the shadow women must survive for their children. And survive she would, for Fay and Ali.
8
Dr. Fadil and Mayada’s Family
Mayada thought about her two children, trying to imagine what they were doing at this moment. Were they eating? Sleeping? Where were they living? Were they still in Baghdad? If so, were they with their father’s father, the only grandfather they had ever known? Or had they fled to Jordan, where they were now under the protective wing of her mother, Salwa?
Stung by the idea that she didn’t even know where her children were, Mayada’s eyes seeped large tears, which rolled down her face and soaked a widening circle on her blanket. Mayada trembled at her helplessness, but recalled Samara’s advice upon her arrival at Baladiyat: build a mental fence around her children and keep them safe inside, or else she would be unable to manage her grief. Samara was right, of course. Knowing she would go mad if she concentrated on Fay and Ali, Mayada instead sketched an imaginary line to separate herself from her two children, and forced her thoughts elsewhere. Her mind threw a second image onto the prison wall, the face of a man once among the most powerful in all of Iraq: Dr. Fadil Al-Barrak. Dr. Fadil was a physically attractive man—tall and dark, with brown hair and dark eyes. He had a lovely voice, and usually spoke with a dancingly happy tone. While Mayada now understood that he had a double personality, she had rarely seen his dark side.
She knew only one thing for certain: If Dr. Fadil was still alive, her world would still be normal, and she would be at home with her two children.
Mayada’s thoughts drifted back to 1979, to the first time they had met. Just as she closed her eyes to slip away to the past, however, one of the shadow women quietly approached and laid a small white hand on Mayada’s face.
Mayada rolled over in alarm.
“It is me,” Samara said gently, as her familiar green eyes gazed intently at Mayada.
Mayada’s ache for her children was so great that she felt as though her heart had been scooped out of her chest. “You know something, Samara, I know I am going to die in this cell,” Mayada said obstinately.
“Stop it!” Samara insisted.
Mayada explained, “It seems that we Al-Askaris have always been pursued by the number 52. My father died in room 52 at the Nun’s Hospital, when he was 52 years old. His father, Jafar, was assassinated at age 52. Now here I am in cell 52—the cell that will be my tomb.” Mayada stared up at Samara and said with conviction, “My death will be linked to the number 52. It is written.”
“Don’t be so morbid.” Samara scolded her in a gentle voice. “I say that you will be released—soon. Long before you reach age 52.”
Mayada suffered a new thought. She whispered with certainty, “I am being punished.”
Samara snorted. “Punished for what?”
Excited with her new insight, Mayada pushed herself up on her elbows. She twisted to peer behind Samara, to see if any other women were lingering within earshot. Satisfied, she whispered to Samara, “Dr. Fadil Al-Barrak was our protector—for many years.”
“And?”
“For ten years Dr. Fadil ruled such places as Baladiyat.”
“The name is familiar.”
“Of course you have heard of him, Samara. Dr. Fadil Al-Barrak was so powerful he could order the release of anyone from prison. And he did that, for me, more than once.” A long silence lay between the two women before Mayada continued. “But don’t you see? Without even knowing it, my mother and I were protected for many years—and now I am being punished for that protection.”
Samara pulled back Mayada’s blanket and sat on the edge of her bunk, examining Mayada solemnly. “I see,” said Samara. “Did you help him torture people, Mayada?”
“No! Of course not. I didn’t even know the extent of his duties. At least, not at first.” Mayada paused, then offered, “You know, even now, I find it difficult to believe he was capable of carrying out torture. This was a man who thrived in academia. He was a scholar who talked about books all the time. But to reach the highest position in security, surely he had to have participated in the torture and killings. Saddam would have never appointed him, otherwise.”
“So? I still do not understand why you believe yourself responsible,” Samara insisted.
Mayada lowered her eyes. “My mother and I should have fled this country—and denounced Saddam’s government—the moment my father’s body was lowered into the ground.”
“You are working yourself up, Mayada. Don’t do this. You need to keep up your strength.”
Mayada spoke quietly but firmly. “No. I am being punished for remaining here with my mother. The Al-Husri presence in Iraq lent credibility to Saddam’s government, on Sati’s behalf. I see that now.”
“Well, Mayada, you didn’t know then what you know now. Were you a fortune-teller? How could you have known any of this?”
Mayada considered Samara’s words, and replied with utmost conviction. “I heard once that Dr. Fadil’s nickname was Beria, after the Russian torturer. Why did I let that allusion pass over my head?” She whispered feverishly, “You know, Dr. Fadil was the Iraqi Military Attaché to the Soviet Union before he became Iraq’s Director General of Secret Police. In the Soviet Union he must have learned sophisticated torture methods.”
“No. I know little about the man.”
“Well, he was greatly feared by many people.” Mayada rapidly patted her index finger against her cheek, thinking, then looked at Samara. “A
re you interested in hearing about Dr. Fadil?” she asked.
Samara looked around the room, smiled vaguely and gestured with her hand across the small cell. “Of course I am. What more important tasks are waiting for me?” She settled sideways on Mayada’s bunk.
Mayada strained to whisper. “I heard about Dr. Fadil before I met him,” she said. “It was 1978 and I had just returned from Beirut. The civil war was raging in Lebanon and the fighting there had heated up so much that my ears whistled from the continual shelling. So I left school and returned to Baghdad. I couldn’t find a suitable job, so I decided to continue my studies. I was accepted at the Institute for Archives and Librarian Studies. It was a night school; classes began at five o’clock each afternoon. One afternoon a very shy student, a lovely girl named Fatin Fuad, walked up to me and said, ‘My sister’s fiancé knows your mother, but he has lost her telephone number. Can you please give it to me?’
“A bit wary, I asked her who the man was. She told me, ‘He’s Dr. Fadil Al-Barrak Al-Takriti.’
“The name meant nothing to me. I was uninvolved in the Iraqi government, and I had lived outside the country for a few years. But this Fatin was a sweet-faced young woman who could win your trust with a single look. So I gave her our home phone number. After class, I went home and mentioned the name to my mother, and although a look of surprise crossed her face, she didn’t indicate how powerful a man this Al-Barrak was. I didn’t bother to ask more, since my mother knew everyone who was anyone in Iraq.
“The following morning, the telephone woke me up. I didn’t recognize the caller’s voice. Still half asleep, my conversation with Fatin had slipped my mind. The caller asked to speak to my mother. I replied in a cold tone that Salwa was at work. He asked, ‘Who am I speaking with?’ and I said, ‘Her daughter.’ He asked, ‘Which daughter? ’ ” and I told him, ‘The eldest.’ After a measured pause, he laughed out loud and asked me, ‘How do I get you to say your name?’ I thought the man was flirting with me, so I told him nothing, but instead I instructed him to call back later. Before hanging up, he requested, ‘Tell your mother that Fadil Al-Barrak called. Give her my private number.’ I’ve never forgotten that number.
“Later that day, I saw Fatin at school and asked her about her sister’s fiancé, who I imagined was trying to make a pass at me. Fatin quickly told me, ‘No, I don’t think that is the case. He speaks that way with most people. But he is a very unusual man.’
“Then Fatin pulled me to a corner of the school corridor and confided, ‘Let me tell you an amazing story. My sister’s fiancé should be my fiancé.’
“Noticing my shocked expression, she said, ‘Let me explain. Dr. Al-Barrak is a prominent man, and my father, who is a judge, accepted his offer of marriage for me. My father is old-fashioned, and I had not yet met my fiancé; but I was set to do so on the day of our official engagement. Dr. Al-Barrak came to our home on the appropriate day, and there I was, dressed in my finest clothing, about to become officially engaged. Then my younger sister, Jinan, walked into the room. You should see my sister, Mayada. She is truly the greatest beauty in Baghdad. Anyway, my fiancé, Dr. Al-Barrak, took one look at my sister and was so dazzled by her blinding beauty that he turned to my father and shocked us all by saying loudly, “I want this one.” My father was so astonished that he couldn’t speak. I just stood there, frozen in shame, and Jinan ran out of the room. Well, I had no desire to marry a man who wanted my sister, so I told my father that I didn’t care. Let him marry Jinan if that’s what he wants—and what she wants. Considering the circumstances, my sister was initially reluctant. But I assured her that it would not affect our close relationship, or affect our family. I reminded her that I had only met the man, so I had no feelings attached to the engagement. Further, Dr. Al-Barrak is a powerful man in the security services and my father was wary of angering him. So my sister will soon marry my former fiancé.’ ”
Samara shook her head from side to side.
“Samara, I watched Fatin’s face very carefully while she told that story and I could tell that the poor girl was humiliated, regardless of what she insisted. Fatin was a beauty in her own right. She had green eyes and a round, pretty face. Her hair was long and thick, and a beautiful chestnut color. I doubted her sister could be any lovelier.” Mayada threw a brief look around the cell before returning her gaze to Samara. “Then I saw Jinan. Samara, that girl was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. I understood Dr. Fadil’s reaction. Fatin’s sister was very tall, and blessed with an unforgettable face. She resembled a young Brooke Shields, the American model and actress. She had deep, blue-green eyes and the longest black eyelashes I’ve ever seen. Truly, she was so stunning that every woman around her paled in comparison, even her pretty sister Fatin. She was so beautiful, in fact, that Dr. Fadil soon stopped taking her with him to government functions. One of Saddam’s half-brothers, Barzan Al-Tikriti, lost his mind over Jinan the first time he saw her. Dr. Fadil grew anxious that Barzan would ask Saddam to intervene and force Dr. Fadil to divorce his beautiful young wife.”
Mayada paused and Samara interrupted the story. “How does your family know Dr. Fadil?”
“His contact with my mother was solely for access to Sati’s books and private papers, which Mother kept at our home. The first time I met him in person, I was startled when he took a familiar key from his pocket and twirled it around his finger. We had a very distinctive house key and I wondered, good grief, where did he get our key? He saw my eyes pop in surprise. A mischievous grin passed his face, and he explained that my mother had given him permission to come into our home anytime to study Sati’s papers. I didn’t like that idea very much, but there was nothing I could do. Dr. Fadil sent some men to our home to spray all of Sati’s documents with a special chemical that would prevent them from being destroyed by insects. After that, he began to make frequent visits to our home. I slowly grew accustomed to a man from outside our family visiting alone in our library, although I never grew accustomed to the handgun he always left on our foyer table. Dr. Fadil treated his weapon as casually as I would handle a cup of water.”
Mayada stopped and thought for a moment. “Samara, thinking back, I believe that Dr. Fadil was a man who existed in two worlds. He was a scholar who adored books, and he could speak for hours on the most interesting topics. Yet he ruled Iraq’s prisons. I will forever believe that the dark part of his life bothered him, because he always wore a burdened look on his face. The only times I ever saw him relax was when he held one of his five children in his arms, or when he was in our library, cradling a treasured book.”
Mayada continued, noting the surprised look on Samara’s face. “During this same time, I had gotten a job writing for a children’s publication called Majalaty Wa Al-Mizmar [My Magazine and Al-Clarionet]. One afternoon I received an unexpected call from Lutfi Al-Khayat, a prominent journalist at Al-Jumhuriya. This was the most widely read paper in Iraq, although it was not a party newspaper. Being young and eager to advance, I was thrilled to get the call, although I couldn’t imagine why this man was contacting me. When I arrived at Al-Jumhuriya, Lutfi led me into his big office, where I was nearly faint with excitement. One of my biggest dreams was coming true: I would be taken seriously as a writer. Lutfi told me he had been reading some of the articles I’d written for children, and he wondered if I had a similar ability to write for adults. I was so thrilled that I didn’t want to lose this opportunity. So I confided to him that I was writing a book of short stories for adults. Lutfi hired me. I was even given a weekly column, called “Itlalat” [“Overviews”]. Then soon after I was hired, I was told that Dr. Fadil Al-Barrak had asked for me to come and interview him. The newspaper’s editor-in-chief, Sahib Hussein Al-Samawi, was excited because the Iraqi secret police simply didn’t give interviews. While Sahib was excited, I was momentarily devastated. I knew then that I had not gotten my dream job on my own merits, but that Dr. Fadil had been behind my sudden journalistic advancement. When I went home, I telephoned Dr.
Fadil to ask him if that were true. He laughed and said, ‘Of course.’ He explained that he wanted me to become an excellent writer and asked, ‘What better way than by writing?’ So to prove I was up to the task, I worked harder than anyone else at that newspaper. And I believe I proved it.
“From that time until the day Dr. Fadil was arrested, our lives were filled with ‘little’ miracles. But the best aspect of our acquaintance with Dr. Fadil was that I was in a position to help others—and in some cases, even save lives.”
“See, I told you,” Samara said as she wagged one finger, “you used your association with Dr. Fadil for good. That made the friendship virtuous, Mayada.”
Mayada closed her eyes for a moment, opened them, and closed them once again. “I pray that is true, Samara. I am haunted that I should have done something differently.”
“I would tell you if that was the case. I am an honest woman,” Samara insisted with a light in her eyes. “Tell me about some of the people you were able to help.”
Mayada hesitated.
“Go on, Mayada, I’m waiting,” Samara urged with a small smile.
“All right. Sometime late in 1979 or early 1980, after meeting Dr. Fadil, I was still living with my mother. One morning, I was getting ready to leave for work when the doorbell rang. Um Aziz, our maid, answered the door and came running up the stairs to tell me that Dr. Saib Shawket’s wife, Jalela Al-Haidari, was at our door, dressed in her nightgown. Jalela Al-Haidari was a very distinguished lady, a true aristocrat, so I knew immediately that something was terribly wrong.
“I went to greet her and found her standing at the front door, looking like a woman roused from sleep in the middle of the night. She was in tears. I pulled her inside, trying to calm her, which was difficult because she began to weep in earnest. Finally I convinced her to talk. For a few moments, I thought she was losing her mind, because she first started telling me about the family farm in Al Dora. She elaborated, explaining that the farm was a huge spread with palm trees fifty years old and with beautiful orange groves planted beneath the palms. Then the woman shifted to describe a large water pump. She spoke so glowingly of that pump that I thought for one crazy moment she wanted to sell it to me. She said the pump was purchased from England, and was so huge it could irrigate half the land.