The drive was long, jostling. It was a relief to be herded off the vehicles and into another grim-appearing building. Here they were led into a large room, and each immigrant tried to find a square of cement floor to claim as his own.
Saleem filed in with the others and slid up against a cinder-block wall. He touched his ankle, hoping no one was watching him. The wad of bills was still there, right where he had left it. He prayed he would not be searched. If they confiscated his money, he would have absolutely nothing.
Hours passed. A latrine in the corner collected their waste. The air burned with the sharp smell of ammonia. Two men sobbed, not bothering to hide their faces. Dignity had been lost long ago.
Saleem closed his eyes. One or two at a time, the refugees were taken out of the holding room and led into an interview room. Some people came back and others did not. Saleem was not sure which to hope for. When a guard pointed at Saleem, he stood and followed him down the hall. He was instructed to take a seat at a small table. The police officer in front of him looked from Saleem to the document on the table.
Keep your answers the same. Remember what you told them in Greece.
The questions started. Saleem was now familiar with the process.
Where did you come from? Why did you leave Turkey? What were you doing in Greece? Who was traveling with you? How old are you? The truth—what is your age?
I am from Afghanistan. I do not want to be refugee in Turkey or Greece. I am alone. I am fifteen.
For the most part he was able to respond to their questions in Turkish, the rest he filled in with English. This seemed to entertain the officer.
Fifteen? Hmph. The same suspicious sneer. Why did you leave your country?
Saleem decided to be forthright with them, selectively.
I want to go to England. My country, there are Taliban. They are dangerous. We had no money, no school, no work. They are killing people.
Were they thinking of sending him back? He could not go back. He would not survive there on his own.
Are you a soldier?
Soldier? No! I was a student. My father was engineer. They took my father and . . . they kill him.
Saleem’s heart broke to say the words. They looked dubious. He’d been herded and poked at like livestock and still they wanted more.
You do not want to be in Turkey?
Saleem shook his head.
But you speak some Turkish.
Saleem nodded, unsure if this would help or hurt him.
Do you know anyone here in Turkey? Did you live here?
These questions were trickier. Saleem told the officer he had met some boys, but he did not know where they were. He had lived in a small town and worked on a farm but he did not remember where that town was. He did not want to go back there, he assured the police.
The officer left and then returned with another man. They stood outside the door to the room and spoke quietly. Saleem could not hear what they were saying nor could he read the enigmatic expressions on their faces. Had he made a mistake in his answers? Did they think he was lying? What were they deliberating?
His head ached. The combination of human odors, hunger, and cigarette smoke had brought on a throbbing headache. He was tired and felt the chair pushing against his bones.
They entered together.
You must leave Turkey.
Saleem nodded.
You must not return to Turkey. And if you are arrested somewhere else, you must tell them you have never been to Turkey. Do not speak Turkish. You speak some English. That is enough for you.
Saleem was uncertain what their warnings meant. It almost sounded as if they were going to blindfold him, spin him around a few times, and push him off into the unknown. Were they sending him back to Greece? Iran? The officer was not pleased with Saleem’s reticence. He may have mistaken it for something else.
He took one broad step in and slapped Saleem against his temple.
Saleem suddenly became very afraid.
If you are found again in Turkey, it will be a very unpleasant experience for you.
Slap. Saleem’s ear throbbed. He kept his head bent.
Do you understand what I am telling you? You speak Turkish, no? Why do you not want to speak now?
I understand, Saleem managed to get out.
An officer grabbed him again by the elbow and led him quickly and brusquely through the hallways and out a door. Saleem stumbled, staggering to keep his footing.
The sunlight burned his eyes. His hand went up reflexively.
He felt one firm blow to his backside and he was on the ground. Another boot hit his left rib cage and dirt flew into his open mouth.
Maybe you really are fifteen years old. You fall like a boy, not a man.
One officer laughed.
You must not be found again in Turkey. Find a way out and don’t come back.
Saleem stood up cautiously and nodded. He’d been freed. The officer slammed the door shut. Saleem was outside. He paused, unsure if this was some kind of trap or test. A moment passed and the door did not reopen. No one came around the corner.
Saleem took a few small steps away from the building. Still nothing happened. With a rush of adrenaline, he broke into a run. He could escape. Saleem ran down the quiet streets and ducked behind some buildings. He did not know where he was or where he was going, but he knew he wanted to get away from the police station before they changed their minds.
Saleem panted heavily with his hands on his knees. His mouth was dry and gritty as he tried to spit out the dust that coated his tongue. His stomach reeled and he spewed bile against the wall. A pain shot through his left side. He breathed deeply and waited for it to pass.
There were no footsteps behind him, no sound of running officers in pursuit. They were not looking for him, but they’d been clear that they should not find him. Saleem needed to leave this town as soon as possible. He had some money. Could he get back to Greece without a passport or any travel documents?
What should I do? Madar-jan, please tell me what I should do!
He tried to calm himself. He could feel his thoughts spinning wider and wider away from him.
Focus. Think. You can do this.
Saleem quieted his own thoughts. As the chaos in his mind relented, he heard his mother’s voice.
Find a safe place. Find food. Get back to Greece.
Saleem looked around him. There were no shops or stands. No people to approach. He was like one of the boys in Attiki now. He had stepped out of his story and into theirs, away from the privilege of a passport and family. He had no jewelry to sell and only the bills he’d kept hidden to help him get through. The journeys he’d heard of in Attiki, the survivors he’d met, haunted him.
His head began to uncloud. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
I must look like hell.
Saleem wound his way through the streets, looking for a busier area and the things he would need: food, shelter, and a way to get back to Intikal.
Intikal was the only place he could think to go. In Intikal, he could turn to Hakan and Hayal for help finding his mother. The thought of being in their home again brought him comfort.
Food was easy enough to find since he was desperate and tired enough to pay for it. He would need strength to continue. The shop owner frowned in disgust but accepted the sweaty euros he had pulled from his sock.
Toasted sesame bread, the cheapest food he could find, calmed his angry stomach. It was afternoon. Saleem could feel eyes boring into him and imagined fingers pointing his way. A thousand tiny drums in his head begged him to sleep.
Saleem found a public restroom and did his best to wash the filth off his face. He rinsed his body with water he cupped in both hands. He moved his left arm slowly, his side aching.
The boys in Attiki had talked about their journey into Greece. Some had taken small boats run by smugglers. Other had snuck onto trucks that were loaded onto ferries. Both ways were dangerous. Everyone had stories of
people perishing in the waters or dying in the undercarriages of freight trucks. Saleem did not know where he would even find a smuggler now. It was best to make the long trip back to Intikal, regroup, and come up with a solid plan.
It was a painful choice but Saleem walked out of the restroom with halfhearted resolve. He asked around and found his way to the bus station. In six hours, a bus would leave for Intikal. He bought a ticket and waited.
SALEEM FELL ASLEEP TO THE LOW RUMBLE OF THE BUS’S ENGINE. AT least between here and Intikal there would be no more checkpoints, no police officers. And at least in this country Saleem could hold an intelligible conversation. His head bobbed against the stiff headrest with every dip in the road. He dreamed he was on the bus but with Madar-jan, Samira, and Aziz in the next seats. They were going to Intikal together, a bag of jewelry and personal belongings stored under their seats.
THE TRIP WAS LONGER THAN HE RECALLED, BUT INTIKAL LOOKED unchanged and welcoming. Saleem saw the mosque where he had approached Hakan on that first day. It was a good feeling.
He passed the shop where he and Kamal had pilfered cigarettes and candies for sport. The shop owner’s back was to the window as he stocked his shelves with boxes of cookies. Saleem stuffed his hands deep in his pockets and kept walking.
It was early evening. From a distance, Saleem could see a light on at Hakan and Hayal’s house. He could have run to their door and collapsed on their front porch, but he was wary of alarming them. He took slow deliberate steps, thinking of what he was going to say. His breathing quickened. His fingers trembled as he knocked on the door.
Hakan answered. His eyes bulged to see a boy he barely recognized.
“Saleem!”
“Mr. Yilmaz . . .” Saleem began. “I have nowhere else to go . . .”
“Come in, come in!” Hakan craned his neck into the street. “What about . . . ?”
“They are not with me,” Saleem said plainly.
Hakan pursed his lips and led Saleem into the kitchen. He called out for Hayal, who looked even more startled to see Saleem. She threw her arms around him. Saleem’s eyes closed. It felt good to be in their warmth but he felt so filthy, he nearly pulled away for her sake. She set off to make some hot tea and warm up some food. Hakan and Saleem sat at the kitchen table.
“Where is your dear mother? And your siblings? Are they all right?”
“I don’t know. I think they are okay, but I do not know. Maybe they take the train or maybe they wait for me in Greece, but I don’t know how to get back there.”
His responses were choppy and puzzling. Saleem sounded as frayed as he felt. Hakan and Hayal exchanged looks of concern.
“Eat something, dear boy. You look like nothing has passed your lips in days!” Hayal mothered him while Hakan tried to understand what had happened after the family left Intikal.
“You took the ferry to Athens—all of you? Where did you stay?”
Saleem was too exhausted to filter how much he shared with them. He told them about the first hotel and then the Afghans he had met in Attiki Square. He told them about their decision to leave the hotel and save their euros for their travels and the brisk nights they’d spent in the playground.
Hayal cringed to hear him talk about Fereiba and the younger children sleeping in the cold rain. Saleem went on. He talked about the Yellow Hotel and the train tickets they had purchased. Then he got to the pawnshop and the police. His voice began to choke. Hayal put a hand over his. The police station in Greece. The police station in Turkey and then the only place he could think to come to, the Yilmaz home in Intikal. Odd how in this moment, Hakan and Hayal felt more like family than any of his aunts or uncles. If Madar-jan knew he was with them, it would bring her so much comfort.
Hakan leaned back in his chair. As parents, they’d had the same thought. The only possibility was to reach the Yellow Hotel, but Saleem did not have the phone number.
“Maybe we can find the number but we will need a computer,” Hakan said.
“A computer? Kamal’s family! They have a computer!”
“Saleem, Kamal’s family moved away after that wedding. They are gone. But I have another friend nearby who may be able to help. I’ll go to his house and see if he can help find something. But first, tell me everything you remember about this hotel.”
Saleem wrote out the hotel’s name and the cross streets as best as he could remember. While Hakan left to search out the number, Hayal prepared a much needed bath for Saleem.
Warm water relaxed his neck but not his mind. He could not stay here forever. He had to get back to Greece.
He put on the clothes Hayal had laid out for him, a pair of pants and a shirt her sons had outgrown and left behind. Hakan returned with good news. He’d been able to track down the phone number of the hotel on the Internet. Saleem, who’d been nodding off on their sofa, was suddenly awake and ecstatic.
“I must call! I must call now! Maybe they are there!”
“I know,” Hakan smiled, but he seemed hesitant. “I have a calling card. We can try the number now but . . . but Saleem, you must remember it is possible that they have taken the train. They may not be there and that does not mean something bad.”
Saleem nodded. He was glad he was not making this call by himself. Whether or not he was able to reach them, he would need someone to turn to when he hung up the phone.
Hakan read the instructions on the back of the card and dialed the string of numbers until they were finally connected. He handed the phone to Saleem, whose knuckles blanched as he listened to the trill of the phone ringing on the other end.
A click, a throat cleared, and some mumbling.
Saleem recognized the old man’s voice.
“Please! I need to speak to my mother. Is my mother there?” His words were a jumble of English, Turkish, and Farsi, an emotional short circuit between his thoughts and his tongue.
“Who is this?” The voice on the line was confused, suspicious. Hakan put a hand on Saleem’s elbow. Slow down, he motioned. Saleem took a deep breath and focused his English.
“Please, my name is Saleem. I was staying at the hotel with my mother. I need to speak to my mother. She is there with my brother and sister!”
“Ah, the boy! Your mother looks for you. She is in room. Maybe you call back later. Now I am busy.”
“No, I cannot call later. Please, my mother. I must speak to her now!” The old man detected the desperation in his voice.
“Okay, okay.” He muttered something in Greek that Saleem did not understand.
The silence was interminable. Hakan and Hayal watched Saleem’s face anxiously.
Fereiba’s voice crackled through the receiver. Saleem leaped to his feet and, like a tethered animal, paced as far as the coiled line would allow.
“Saleem? Saleem, bachem? Is it you?” Her voice trembled.
“Yes, Madar-jan,” he said. “It is me.”
“Bachem, where are you? Oh, thank God! I’ve been so worried!”
“I’m in Intikal, Madar-jan, with Kaka Hakan and Khala-jan. The police caught me and sent me back to Turkey.”
“The police? Oh God, you are in Turkey!” Madar-jan’s mind was racing as she processed the implications of this news. “Are you all right? Were you hurt?”
“I’m all right, Madar-jan. I’ll find a way back to Greece, but I don’t know how long it will take.”
It was not so much that they needed to make a painful decision but rather that a painful decision had been made for them. Saleem spoke first.
“Madar-jan, you have the passports and the train tickets. Take Samira and Aziz and get yourselves to England as soon as possible. I have to find a way to get back and it may not be soon enough since I don’t have my papers. But if you wait for me, Aziz might get worse.”
“I can mail the passport to you. I can send it to Hayal-jan’s house.” Madar-jan’s voice was laden with guilt. “But, Saleem-jan, what about money? Did the police take everything from you?”
“No, I ha
ve the money from the pawnshop. If you can send me the passport, then I can take the same route and before you know it, I’ll meet you in England.” Part of him wanted Madar-jan to say no, to tell him that she would wait for him in Greece and that they would all go together to England. Surely, she wished for the same but their plan had to take Aziz’s broken heart into consideration.
“Oh, my son. God keep you safe from harm. Saleem-jan, give me their address. I’ll mail the passport. Your friend, Rokshaana, she came to the train station. She saw us. She knew who we were. She’s so kind and she said she’ll come again here later today. She can help me mail this passport to you.”
Madar-jan had met Roksana? Saleem slipped back into the chair and rested his forehead on his hand. His head hanging, he closed his eyes and let gratitude wash over him.
Thank you, Roksana. Thank you.
Hakan tapped on his watch. The calling card would soon run out of time.
“Madar-jan, I don’t have much time left on this card.” He turned to Hakan and asked for their address. He relayed it to Madar-jan as quickly as Hakan could scribble it on a scrap of paper.
“Saleem-jan, bachem, I’ll mail you the train ticket and the passport. Forgive me, we will take the train, maybe tomorrow. Aziz needs to see a doctor. But be very careful, please! Say a prayer with every step and keep your eyes open. Sweetheart, believe me, I wish I didn’t have to—”
The line went dead. Saleem cradled the receiver. As his mother’s voice vanished, Saleem’s journey changed. He was on his own now. Tonight would be the last night that the Waziri family could sleep in relative peace, aware of each other’s whereabouts and well-being. Saleem’s family had met Roksana and she would guide them through the next few steps. Fereiba was comforted knowing Saleem was with Hakan and Hayal. Tonight, if they could just keep their minds off tomorrow, they would all get some rest.
Saleem crawled onto the familiar mattress and fell asleep in seconds.
HE WOKE IN THE MORNING, HIS EYES OPENING TO THE SAME cracking plaster he’d watched for months. He returned to the fault lines, the places where the paint had chipped away and the ceiling peeked through, exposed for what it really was. Saleem ran his fingers through his hair and down his arms. He touched his side and winced when he reached his flank. He expected to feel the same fault lines on his own body, places where the weight of the load had started to break him open and expose him for what he was.
When the Moon Is Low Page 22