by Sharon McKay
“Wait.” Tamanna held up the book of Rumi’s poems.“There is a pocket in the back. The key!” She held it up triumphantly.
“You are so smart!” Yasmine laughed, while Tamanna blushed.
Yasmine turned the key in the lock and lifted the lid of the box. What she found were colorful rolls of paper as thick as a clenched fist. “Look! These are British pounds, these are American dollars . . . but I don’t recognize the rest.”
“What are these?” Tamanna pulled out three little books.
Two were the same color but the third was a dark red.
“Passports! I need those. But look at this.” She held up a scroll of paper. It had a great gold seal on the bottom. There were others, too, some small with strange lettering. One had a red seal. “Some of these used to be on the walls of our home in England.”
Tamanna leaped up and grabbed a cloth bag. “Go, take them back to the fort and do not return.” The sudden movement made her double over in pain.
“Is it any better, the illness?” Even now Yasmine did not want to use the embarrassing word diarrhea.
“It does not matter. Go.” Tamanna pushed the cloth bag into Yasmine’s hands. “Hurry, before everyone knows that you are here.”
In that instant, both girls understood that they would never see each other again.
“Take this. Baba and Mother would want it so.” Yasmine peeled American paper bills from the roll of money.
Tamanna waved her away. “It is no good to me.”
“But you could buy medicine.” Yasmine tried to force the bills into Tamanna’s hands.
“It will only be found . . . or worse, I will be accused of theft.” Tamanna looked at the ground. The pain of losing her friend was worse than feeling Uncle’s foot as it broke her hip, worse than seeing her mother cry, worse than thinking that soon she would be married to an old man.
“Then you will take this. It will be your dowry.” Yasmine tried to undo the gold chain from her neck, the one Baba had given her when she was ten years old.
“No, it will only be stolen from me by the other . . .” She stopped. She could not bear to say other wives. All she did was shake her head. Yasmine must not know about the life that was in store for her, it would not be fair.
“Then what can I do?” Yasmine asked.
“You can go, now.” Tamanna gathered up the papers and shoved them into the bag. “Your father’s notebooks!” she cried. Tamanna ran to his desk. There were three of them, and together they weighed as much as a good-sized bag of apples. Tamanna put them in the cloth bag and looped its shoulder strap over Yasmine’s neck.
“I will be sure to tell Baba that it was you who remembered the notebooks.” Yasmine kissed her friend’s cheeks one, two, ten times. The kisses tasted salty.
“Tell your parents that I thank them, that in my heart they are my parents, too. I will love them forever.” Tamanna stood tall and strong.
It was Yasmine who began to cry.
The ANA soldier curled his lip as he swung open the huge gate. Yasmine wasn’t afraid, not this time. She turned to the sound of rocks crunching under boots. Michelle swung her arm over Yasmine’s shoulder.
“Yasmine, your parents have been evacuated. We don’t have enough staff to take care of them and our soldiers, and your father is going to need immediate surgery.”
“To KAF?” The words stuck in her throat.
Michelle nodded. “They are being flown to Kandahar Airfield. They should be arriving any minute.”
Yasmine’s legs felt rubbery. The sun, the heat, running, no food—everything conspired to make her feel confused and dizzy.
“Come, sit.” Michelle guided Yasmine to a chair and kneeled in front of her. “Brenda told me everything. Is this it?”
Yasmine handed Michelle the bag.
“Hey, there. The Princess is back!” Dan-Danny slung his gun over his shoulder and grinned. “Anyone call for a car?”
“Yeah, me. We’re sending Yasmine to KAF. Fill that old daypack by the fridge with power bars and water bottles, will you? She can take them with her. And there are some oranges there, too. Just fill the bag.”
“Please, I am going to KAF?” Eyes wide, Yasmine couldn’t believe what she was hearing. She was going to KAF after all?
“Yes, of course. Did you think we’d leave you on your own?” Michelle sounded equally surprised.
Yasmine’s heart began to pound. “But the man who asked that his son be taken in . . . you said that you cannot interfere with local customs. You are not . . .” What was the word Michelle had used? “Childminders.” Yasmine’s voice trailed away. She took a deep breath to ward off tears. She would not be alone.
“Childminders? You mean babysitters?” She smiled. “Honey, your circumstances are totally different—”
“Excuse me.” An ANA soldier came up from behind. “My soldiers need the medicine for the diarrhea,” he said, looking directly at Brenda and ignoring Yasmine entirely.
Yasmine spun around. Diarrhea?
“Medicine, three.” He held up three fingers.
Brenda nodded and handed him three little bottles of pills, the same bottles that Dan-Danny had brought from the hospital. But Dan-Danny had called them candy.
“One bottle per person, one pill a day in the morning with food. ONE!” Brenda held up a finger. “After five days the men must go see the medics.”
The ANA soldier nodded, took the pills, and left.
“Is that not candy?” asked Yasmine.
“Candy? Oh, I get it. They call the pills Kandahar candy because we eat them like candy. It’s really medicine.” Michelle was shifting through the papers.
“What is the medicine for?” asked Yasmine.
Brenda was not listening. She pulled out the parchment. “Jeeze. Dan, look.”
Dan leaned over Michelle’s shoulder and whistled. “Your father has a Ph.D. from Oxford! I can’t even afford the shoes.”
“Excuse me,” whispered Yasmine. “The medicine—what is it for?”
“That’s not all, look at this.” Michelle held up another paper. “Radcliffe. Her mother went to Radcliffe! So how in . . . Look, Brenda was right.” Michelle waved the three passports. “Outstanding!” Dan cheered. “Dan, have the driver bring the car right into the FOB so that no one can see her get in.”
Grinning, Dan spun around. “Yes, ma’am.” He headed off at a steady clip in the direction of the front gate.
Yasmine turned back and this time spoke a little louder. “Pardon, but what does it mean, Kandahar-crappies?”
Brenda held the telephone receiver with one hand while she riffled through Mother’s and Baba’s papers. “Get me the Brits . . . Anyone will do . . . Yeah, well I have one of their citizens . . . No, not a soldier, a girl, a girl with a British passport . . . Yep, I’ll hold.” Michelle turned back to Yasmine and held up one of the passports. “Do you have any family living in Britain?”
Yasmine nodded. “Grandfather.”
“You are getting out of here, sweetheart . . . Yes, I’m still here. I am holding her passport . . . Yeah, it’s current . . . Hold on a sec.” Michelle covered the phone. “You are fourteen, right?”
Yasmine nodded. “But about the crappies and the candies . . . ?”
“Yep, she’s fourteen. Wait . . .” Michelle put down the phone and sifted through the papers before finding a small one with tiny writing on it. “I have her birth certificate. Born in Brighton, that’s by the sea in England, and you are going to love this part, she speaks English with a British accent. Her parents are at KAF in the hospital . . . Yes, yes. We will send her by car . . . Right. Who will meet her? . . . Lieutenant Trish Stenson, got it.” Michelle hung up the phone, looked over at Yasmine, and grinned.
“Please, what are the pills for?”
“We call it the runs or diarrhea. I think you Brits call it the trots—it makes you want to run to the toilet often.” Michelle pointed to a cluster of tall, blue, tin boxes that looked like upright coffins.
“Wait, you’re not sick, are you?”
Yasmine shook her head. “Do those cure the sickness?” She pointed to the pill bottles.
“It depends on what caused the illness in the first place. People have to be tested to find the cause.” Michelle smiled. “Honey, you are not responsible for the soldiers. Now, let’s get moving. The drive to KAF is three to four hours, but with these roads it can take longer.” Michelle pointed to Baba’s notebooks. “What are those?”
“They belong to my father.”
“Hang on, I’ll find you a knapsack . . . or should I say haversack? That’s what you Brits call it, what?” Michelle laughed as she disappeared through a door and returned holding an army backpack in desert camouflage. “It’s all I have that will hold the books besides a dozen Hello Kitty bags, but they’re too small. They were a donation.” Michelle stacked the notebooks and papers then slipped everything into the backpack. “No matter what, do not lose this bag. Put it over your shoulder or strap it on your back. It’s even waterproof. When you get to KAF give it to Lieutenant Stenson. We will pay for the car.”
“I can pay.” Yasmine reached into a pocket and pulled out the roll of money.
“Mother of . . .” Michelle stopped in her tracks. “Child, you are no end of surprises.”
Yasmine handed her the roll.
“There must be a couple of thousand U.S. dollars here, British pounds, these blue banknotes are Afghanis, and I think these are Pakistani bills. See these?” Michelle held up two green American bills with the number fifty on the corner. “These could feed an Afghan family in a city like Kabul for six months. Give me a minute,” said Michelle as she again disappeared through the door.
Now was her chance. Never in her life had Yasmine stolen anything. Perhaps if she just asked, Michelle would give her the pills. But what if she said no? What if she said that it was against policy to give pills to a local person? There was no time to reason it out. Yasmine grabbed a bottle of pills and jammed it deep into a pocket. A long time ago thieves had their right hands cut off. As far as she knew that was something that had happened many centuries ago, and in Taliban times too, but it didn’t happen anymore. Still, Baba would have said that stealing was shameful and would weigh heavily on one’s conscience.
Michelle reemerged holding what looked like a long, skinny piece of cloth. “This is a moneybelt my grandma gave me. Apparently she thought I might get mugged in Afghanistan. I think it’s made of kryptonite. It goes around your waist. See?” Michelle held it against her own waist. “No one will know that you are wearing it. I’ll put the money inside. It has a little zipper. There! Now, lift your shirt.”
Tentatively, Yasmine stepped in close and let Michelle clip the belt around her middle and tuck it under the waistband of her skirt. Michelle was right. It could not be seen.
“The limo has arrived.” Dan-Danny ambled towards them.
“Is the car inside the FOB?” she asked.
“Yep. Except it’s not a car, it’s one of those rickshaw things with one front wheel, room for the driver in the front seat and two skinny people in the back. Kinda looks like a garbage can on wheels. Frankly, I wouldn’t ship a goat in it,” replied Dan-Danny.
“As long as it gets her there in one piece,” muttered Michelle as she gathered up Yasmine’s two bags. “Come on, then, Yasmine. Freedom is just a few hours away.”
As Yasmine fingered the bottle of pills in her pocket, Michelle kissed her on the top of her head. “Be safe,” she whispered.
The rickshaw was very old, likely brought to Afghanistan from Pakistan. Like all the other cars, jingle trucks, millie buses, and rickshaws, it was decorated with toys and bright fabric and painted with brilliant colors—lime, scarlet, gold, sky blue—all mixed in swirls, curls, and rainbows. A small, bearded man wearing traditional clothes, chewing on a stick, stood beside the car. His beard hung down over a gleaming white shalwar.
“Don’t be a stranger now, Princess. We expect to hear how this story ends.” Dan-Danny strolled up to the rickshaw. There were no doors, just material as thick as a rug hanging across the space where a door might have been.
Yasmine felt blood rush to her face. “Mr. Dan-Danny, I am not a member of the royal family.”
“You are to me, Princess.”
The driver raised an eyebrow. He now knows that I speak English, thought Yasmine. He will think I am a spy, or worse, that I am tainted by the outside world.
Michelle came up from behind. “We will get a call from KAF when you arrive. Here are your two bags. There are lots of treats and some extra water bottles in here, but remember, hang on to this one. It’s heavy.” Michelle rattled the bigger haversack holding the passport, papers, and Baba’s notebooks.
Yasmine looked at Michelle and Dan-Danny. “Thank you. And please, tell Brenda thank you.” Yasmine thought of Tamanna. How many times had Tamanna said that she had no way to repay Yasmine’s family for their kindness? Yasmine had simply laughed. Now she understood. These people, these foreigners, had saved her parents, and now they were saving her. Thank you did not seem like enough.
“You can thank us by having a great life, sweetheart. Now go.” Michelle smiled.
“Get in,” the driver snarled.
“Whoa, Nelly. Excuse me, you speak English, there, pal?” Dan-Danny walked up to the driver and peered down at him from his great height. All the men in the foreign army loomed large over the men of Afghanistan.
The driver nodded. “A little bit.”
“What’s your name?” Dan-Danny slung his gun over his shoulder and put his hands on his hips.
“Mahmood,” said the driver, with a note of defiance in his voice.
“Here’s the thing, Mahmood. This girl is a friend of ours. You might say she’s like my little sister.” Dan-Danny bent down until he was nose to nose with the driver. “And I’m thinking that you might want to change that there tone of yours, or maybe we can find another driver.”
“Take it easy, Private.” Michelle’s voice was low—not angry, but almost.
“Yes, ma’am, I’ll do just that in just a sec. I just want to come to an understanding with my new pal Mahmood. I think he needs to comprendo that the Princess here is his boss for the ride to Kandahar Airfield. You do understand that, right, Mahmood?” This time Dan-Danny was almost growling.
Yasmine looked from Dan-Danny to Michelle and back to Dan-Danny. What was he doing? The driver was losing face. Please, Dan-Danny, she thought, an Afghan man who loses face can become very angry.
“Okay, sahib, sir,” said the driver. His mouth smiled but his eyes did not. “I take very good care of the girl. I deliver her to Kandahar Airfield.”
“And you will do what she says,” said Dan-Danny.
“Yes, yes, sahib.” The driver bobbed his head several times, turned, and fanned himself with his hands. He was performing a du’a, a prayer for a safe journey.
“Private, get over here,” said Michelle. Now she sounded annoyed. “Don’t make it any worse for her. These guys can be dangerous,” she muttered under her breath.
Yasmine climbed into the rickshaw and looked back through a plastic window. Dan-Danny was waving, his arm as big as a broom sweeping the sky.
Chapter 12
To Drown in Fire
Except for a few stray dogs, too tired or too hot to bark, and a group of young children playing in the dust, the streets were empty. Yasmine took a deep breath. It was now or never.
“Stop here.” Yasmine spoke in Dari as loudly as she could. Over and over she repeated to herself, I am a British girl. I am a British girl. British girls speak up for themselves. British girls are not afraid. But the truth was, she didn’t feel brave anymore. She didn’t feel British, either, or like an Afghan. She didn’t feel like anything.
The driver ignored her.
“Stop!” she cried. The driver hit the brakes. She jolted forward. “I must go to my house . . . I must . . .” What should she say? “I will not be long.” Yasmine jumped out of th
e rickshaw. She left the bags on the seat. To carry them with her would have attracted attention.
Yasmine dug her hand deep into her pocket and held the pill bottle tight. She would go to Tamanna’s house, pretend to be a wedding guest, and slip into the room with the other women. The pills would be Tamanna’s wedding present. She looked up at the sun. Tamanna would be getting married any minute. Perhaps she would be in time to hold Tamanna’s hand as she agreed to become a wife. Wife? It was still hard for her to believe.
Yasmine stood at the crossroad and tried to visualize the sand map Tamanna had scratched in the dirt many months before. She took a breath, skirted the center of the village, left the road, and followed the twisty trail through long, wavy grass. Tamanna had once said that she and her brother used to play on a burned-out Russian tank. She saw the wheat fields . . . and there! Pointing upward was the rusted muzzle of an old tank. Yasmine stopped outside a walled compound. Was this Tamanna’s house? The walls were uncared for and the gate to the courtyard hung on its hinges. Fear prickled the back of her neck. Why were there no sounds coming from the house? Where was the wedding?
Slowly, tentatively, Yasmine pushed the broken gate open and stood outside the privacy wall. “Asalaam alaikum,” she called out, and listened for a response. Nothing. Where were the wedding guests? The mullah? She called out again. Still nothing. Perhaps this was not the house after all. She looked around—the wheat fields, the tank, and there were no other houses nearby. This had to be it. She stepped around the wall, even knowing that to enter a home without an invitation was a terrible thing to do. “Asalaam alaikum.”
Yasmine stopped. Rounds of naan had been ground into the dust. Shards of glass were strewn among spoiled fruits, peeled vegetables, and candy. Worse, the tandoor oven was smashed and lay in pieces. It was as if an angry animal had been let loose in the courtyard. And then . . . and then! Yasmine clapped a hand over her mouth and muffled a scream. “Tamanna?”
Slumped in the doorway across the courtyard was the figure of a female. Her head lolled back and forth on her shoulders. A hijab, pulled down, hid her face.