When the Moon Is Low

by Nadia Hashimi

  Please, God, let me rest here.

  He was broken and did not know how much more he could take.

  CHAPTER 38

  Saleem

  FOR TWO DAYS, SALEEM MOSTLY SLEPT. HE’D LOST TRACK OF DAY and night. Every time he started to wake, his mind coaxed him back, unable to muster the strength to face a new day and ignoring his hunger.

  On the third day, his stomach argued for food, unsatisfied by the half bottle of juice he’d dug out of his backpack. He touched his lip and knew the swelling had improved. He could move about, not as sore as he had been. He changed his clothes and stood. His head spun.

  He’d miscalculated. He didn’t know enough about trucks or their bodies and his ignorance had set him back. He felt like a failure.

  Saleem wandered outside, shielding his eyes from the bright sun. He walked down into the market and bought a twist of bread and a bottle of milk from one of the corner shops. The owner watched with a raised eyebrow, but Saleem kept his head down and paid quietly for his purchase, eager to get out of sight.

  His stomach cramped as he ate, but Saleem could feel himself recovering, his head clearing. As the sun sank into the horizon, he made his way back to the construction sites, purchased some more food along the way, and found a dusty, familiar shelter.

  There were no options. Saleem would either persist or rot in this country, away from his family. His bruises would heal. He needed to learn from his mistakes.

  He went back to watching the docks from enough distance that he was out of sight from the truckers. He stared at the ferries and tried to find an opening. There were blue-and-white-uniformed crew members guiding passengers onto the ship. There was no getting past them and onto the main deck.

  He could try the trucks again. Maybe go around the back this time, though he remembered one of the boys in Attiki telling him about a friend who had died from inhaling the exhaust fumes for too long.

  He turned his attention back to the containers, but they were daunting. Saleem’s hopes dwindled. He was beginning to think that he would have to seek out a smuggler, though he had no idea where to find one. Tomorrow, he promised himself, he would stroll through the town and look for refugees. Someone had to know of a smuggler. Saleem returned to the docks to make one more scouting expedition before nightfall.

  The last ferry for Athens was scheduled to leave in fifteen minutes. As he neared the ships, Saleem saw a driver step out of his truck and make his way to the loading area where two young women in blue-and-white uniforms stood chatting.

  When he was sure no one was looking, he went around the back of the truck and crouched down to get a look at the undercarriage. He saw nothing he could latch onto without repeating last week’s mistake. He stood again and stared at the padlock on the bottom of the truck’s back door. There was no way in. Saleem studied the bottom of the door and realized something else.

  There was a platform. And more than that—there was a small latch on the side of the door.

  He stepped up onto the platform and grabbed onto the side of the truck. He managed to perch himself and get his right foot onto the small latch. He dug his fingers onto the edge of the truck, his breaths quick and nervous. He pushed himself up against the latch, his foot nearly slipping from the small hold. He reached as far as he could to grab onto the truck’s roof but couldn’t get his fingers onto the ledge. Voices neared. The drivers were coming back. Down or up, he needed to go somewhere.

  With one last determined effort, Saleem leveraged all his weight on his right foot and swung his left leg upward. The metal ledges dug into his hands. His left foot landed on the lip of the roof with a thud. Saleem strained to pull the rest of his body up.

  His biceps burned from the effort but he’d made it. He lay flat and still on his belly with his head turned to the side, hoping his backpack was not visible from the ground. The voices were within a few feet but by their easy tone, he knew they’d not seen him in the twilight.

  Moments later, the truck jerked with the start of the engine. He was moving in the direction of the ship. There was another bump as the truck backed onto the ramp. Saleem’s cheek slapped against the cold metal.

  The driver maneuvered the truck into a spot alongside several other trucks. More came in after them and the air became warm and thick with fumes. Saleem pulled his shirt over his mouth and nose. He heard a door slam and heard footsteps walking away. Within the space the trucks were parked, voices echoed and it was difficult to tell which direction they were coming from. He raised his head just slightly and saw two figures walking off the ramp, exiting the ship. There was the second ramp. Saleem could make out the line of travelers climbing the steps and boarding the boat, their luggage in tow. Not too long ago, he and his family had boarded a ferry in the same civilized manner.

  He could hardly believe how far he’d come.

  Within minutes, the horn sounded, ramps were raised, and doors were closed. Saleem clung to the roof of the truck in the ship’s underbelly, afraid to celebrate this small success. When he was certain no one was walking about in the space, he slowly sat up and tried to look around. It was dark and he couldn’t make out much, but that gave him peace that he, too, would be hidden from view.

  The next stop would be Chios and from what Saleem remembered, this was a short leg of the journey, an hour at most. From Chios they would travel to Athens, a much longer journey. Maybe nine hours? The question was how Saleem would get off the ship once it docked in Athens. He’d watched them unload incoming ships in Izmir again and again. All he could hope for was to stay on the truck unnoticed until a time when he could slide back down and make a run for it.

  When he heard a shift in the ship’s machinery, he guessed they were nearing Chios. He slid back onto his belly and stared at his watch.

  I’ve gotten this far, Padar-jan.

  Minutes later, the baritone horn sounded again and they were back on the seas. By now it was late into the night and the passengers were probably nodding off in their padded seats. Saleem opened his backpack, grateful he’d bought a bag of chips and a bottle of juice earlier in the day. He would need the energy in Piraeus.

  His mind drifted to his family and where they might be. On a train. In a detention center. Sleeping in a park. Their documents were well made and would get them through, Saleem told himself.

  Saleem felt for the wad of bills in his pocket. Ekin. He remembered the way she stirred feelings in him—feelings of shame and curiosity at the same time. Maybe he should have let it go on . . . just to know. He had not understood her or what was happening.

  And Roksana. He would find her when he got to Athens. She would know what had happened to his mother and siblings. Saleem closed his eyes and pictured her face. He missed her. He missed having someone to talk to. He floated into a light sleep, his mind twisting the real into the surreal. It was Roksana, not Ekin, nuzzled against his cheek. His hands were on her waist and slipped around to the small of her back. Their lips met, an electrifying sensation that made Saleem wake with a strange tingle.

  The ship was silent except for the hum of the engine. His dream lingered. He tried to close his mind around that feeling, the closeness he’d felt to Roksana. He tried to keep it from evaporating into his awakeness as pleasant dreams did too often.

  Saleem had lost all sense of time in the dark. He had no idea how much longer till they reached Piraeus. He closed his eyes again and tried to sleep.

  SALEEM’S EYES SNAPPED OPEN TO THE SOUND OF VOICES IN THE cargo area. He immediately flipped onto his stomach and flattened himself. The voices were close.

  Piraeus. The drivers were returning to their trucks and preparing to disembark. Passengers were starting to make their way to the door where they would pick up their stored luggage. Saleem’s head ached from the traces of black fumes that had settled into the air he had breathed. He ignored the throbbing and tried to stay focused.

  The ship dropped anchor and dragged to a stop at the port. Trucks were parked facing the ramp. When t
he gates had lowered fully and the hopeful light of a crescent moon crept in, Saleem heard the cab door open and close. Engines rumbled to life. Saleem felt the gears shift beneath him as the truck disembarked.

  It was just before daybreak. The truck rolled onto the dock and pulled to a stop.

  Saleem lifted his head a few inches. Bleary-eyed passengers walked about, making their way to the main road or the taxi stand a few meters away. He stayed alert for anyone in a uniform, anyone who would try to spot him. It was too close to the piers he decided, and he lowered his head again, hoping the truck would stop somewhere before heading down any major road.

  A QUARTER MILE DOWN THE ROAD, THE TRUCK PAUSED. IT WAS A red light and Saleem’s best chance. He grabbed his backpack, slipped it over his shoulders quickly, and slid down the back of the truck, his foot feeling for the latch to help him step down. He found it just as the truck started to move again.

  His left foot hit the platform. His hands skated down the sides of the truck, metal grating against his skin. Headlights glared on his back, horns honked. He leaped to the ground, his ankles screaming. The truck driver, oblivious to the chaos behind him, headed down the road as Saleem darted into an alley before anyone could chase him down.

  The sun was up before he stopped moving. He passed by familiar places, the first hotel they had stayed in, the café where they had purchased some food on the day they arrived, and the metro stop that Saleem had taken to venture into Athens.

  ROKSANA. HE NEEDED TO FIND HER. SHE WAS THE ONLY PERSON who could tell him where his family might be and what may have happened to his passport. But he didn’t want to face her looking the way he did. He hadn’t had a proper bath in a week. His hair was matted to his head and his clothes were dusty and tattered. The construction sites and the docks had not been easy on him. Saleem used the morning to find a public restroom. He washed as best he could and changed into a fresh pair of clothes.

  He took the metro into Athens. It was a weekday and there was a chance that Roksana would drop by Attiki after school. Saleem had no other way of contacting her.

  Back at Attiki Square, he told Jamal and Abdullah about being sent back to Turkey and being separated from his family. They shook their heads in disappointment, but not surprise. When he was last here, he’d felt different from these men. He’d felt above them. All that was gone. Alone, he was one of them now. He saw himself in their faces now, in their ragged clothes and in the plastic bags that held all their worldly possessions.

  He slept in Attiki that night, but remembering that he would be within yards of the infamous Saboor, he stuffed his cash into his underwear and wound the strap of his backpack around his wrist. After the many lonely days and nights in Izmir, it felt good to be around people he knew and to hear the boys teasing and joking with one another.

  IT WAS HIS SECOND DAY BACK. SALEEM WANTED TO SEARCH FOR food but was afraid he would miss Roksana. He sat with his back against a tree and listened to Abdullah tell stories of his childhood—spitting watermelon seeds into the stream behind his home, scaring his younger cousins with stories of djinns. Abdullah painted a picture of an Afghanistan no one would ever leave. He was only reliving the good but Saleem knew better. They all did.

  And then she came. Saleem leaped to his feet at the sight of the familiar purple shirts. Abdullah burst out laughing and slapped his calves.

  “Ah, the real reason you’ve come back! You think she’ll take you in and give you asylum, eh?”

  “Abdullah, don’t say that. It’s nothing like that.”

  Saleem was nervous. Four figures approached and Saleem held his breath. He spied Roksana, carrying a large box. Saleem walked over, when he wanted to run. He did not want to bring any more attention to Roksana for both their sakes.

  He called her name softly.

  Roksana’s eyes widened in surprise.

  “Saleem?”

  She put the box down on a bench and put a hand on his arm.

  “Saleem, where have you been? What happened to you?” She looked him over. He had lost weight in the last week alone. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes, I’m fine,” Saleem said, conscious of her touch. His body tensed and she pulled back. Roksana’s edge had softened. He resisted the urge to wrap his arms around her.

  “Tell me,” Roksana said as she sat on a cement step. She looked up at Saleem and he took a seat beside her. His questions came first.

  “Roksana—my mother. Where did she go? Did they take the train?”

  They’d left the day after Saleem had spoken with his mother. Roksana had gone to the train station and recognized them, though she’d never seen them and though Saleem was not there. She’d guessed, she’d said, by the look on their faces. They looked like they were missing something . . . someone. She didn’t tell him much about his mother, hiding how Madar-jan had really looked behind simple words. Roksana had helped them get onto the train to Patras, though she didn’t know anything about their journey after that. They’d left over a month ago.

  “You have not heard from them?” Roksana asked.

  “No. I hope they’re in England with my aunt.” He sighed.

  “Can you call your aunt?”

  Saleem did not have her phone number. There hadn’t been enough time or levelheaded thinking in their brief conversation for Saleem to ask his mother for the number. He had no way of contacting them, nor did he have a way of finding his family once he got to London.

  Roksana wanted to know everything that had happened. Madar-jan had told her something about the police, but she hadn’t shared much more beyond that.

  Saleem recounted the whole story for her while she listened intently. She bit her lip and shook her head as he described the way the police had kicked him around before letting him loose in Turkey. It felt good to finally be able to talk about it with someone like her, someone who listened and didn’t think he’d had it coming.

  “Saleem, this is bad. You have to do something. You can’t get stuck here like all these other guys,” Roksana warned, her eyes on the rest of the Afghans shifting aimlessly through the park. “You need to find a better way. I wish you at least had that passport I mailed to you. I’m sure it was stolen. You can’t even trust a damn envelope to get from here to there without someone going through it.”

  “It’s gone. I must go to Italy with no passport. It will not be easy.”

  “No, and it’s very dangerous.” Roksana thought it over. “Maybe you can get another passport. But . . . it’s a little risky.”

  “A passport? From where?” Saleem looked at her curiously.

  “They are costly, I think. For a European passport—maybe hundreds of euros,” she said, though she sounded unsure. “I don’t really know but some of the guys here might.”

  Saleem had money and told Roksana as much.

  “Keep your money hidden away, Saleem. Maybe it’s better if you don’t say anything to the boys here,” she warned, nodding in the direction of the others. “Fake papers don’t always work anyway.”

  It struck Saleem that a girl like Roksana should have nothing to do with Attiki Square, a jungle of cement and weeds, framed by buildings and deceptively serene trees. Men lazed on sheets of cardboard. It looked more like a corner of war-ravaged Afghanistan than a peaceful European nation. Roksana should have run in the opposite direction but she didn’t. It was a curious thing.

  “Why do you do this, Roksana?” he asked pensively. She said nothing, letting his question melt into the silence between them.

  Saleem looked up at her. What did she see? Did she see his clothes or his stringy hair? Did she see a friend or a refugee case? Saleem hadn’t known what to expect from Europe, but it surely wasn’t this. He hadn’t expected to be tossed about and under threat every step of the way. If Roksana was trying to undo what had been done to him and his family thus far, there was a long way to go.

  Before she could answer his question, one of the other volunteers waved her over. They needed her help.

&nbs
p; “Where are you going to stay tonight?” The edge in her tone returned. She was back to business. “Do you want to go back to the hotel?”

  Saleem shook his head. Maybe Roksana was here because he was that person who could make her feel selfless and giving. Maybe it had nothing to do with him and everything to do with her. Something bitter took root within him though he didn’t know why and he wasn’t proud of it.

  “No, I will stay here.”

  Roksana nodded, then stood up and brushed her backside with her hands. Saleem had no way of knowing how many times she’d asked herself the same question. Why bother to come here? Why bother doing anything for one refugee when a thousand more were on their way in?

  She could have walked away from him for good. She could have lumped him in with the others. But she didn’t see him the way she saw the others.

  Roksana regretted that she couldn’t tell him more about his family’s whereabouts. She’d watched the train pull out of the station, but beyond that moment, anything could have happened to Fereiba and the two younger children. Anything.

  CHAPTER 39

  Fereiba

  I’VE DRAGGED MY TWO CHILDREN ALONG WITH ME FROM RAIL to rail, from country to country. At each checkpoint, each customs control, I wait for the moment when we will be found out. My worst fear is the same as my biggest hope—separation from my children. I wonder if I’ll be apart from Saleem forever or if he’ll be the only one of us to make it through. Samira is a young girl, a dangerous time to be alone. Aziz is frail, a flower that will quickly wilt if plucked from the bush. I pray at some checkpoints that my children be granted asylum even if I am sent back. At other checkpoints, I pray we are sent back together. Cornered mothers pray for strange things.

  When the bombardments back home were at their worst, a teacher I considered a friend made crazed decisions each night. One night, she made the children sleep with her and her husband, all in the same room. Another night, she put each child alone in a different room. Every night was a gamble. They could all endure or perish together. Or they could gamble that perhaps one or two of them would survive. Each night, without fail, she prayed most fervently that God not spare her if her children were taken. These were pleas she could only make to God in her quiet thoughts because to speak them aloud would have blackened her tongue.