“Which way?”
I'm the only one who has not moved since the lights went out. I hear one of the guards take a few steps right into the wall. “Uuuuff! Dammit!”
About three minutes after the lights go out, there is a loud bang, like a sonic boom. Sound waves from the blast finally making it to earth. I could tell them, but I don't. The whole building shakes, and one of the guards cries out. I can't see them, but I can feel the terror in their bodies, their voices pitched high.
“I'm getting out of here!”
“Karga! Don't be stupid! Get back here! What a coward.”
“Hell, I'm not getting buried down here.” Two other guards follow Karga, more slowly, running their batons against the wall to guide them.
The fourth guard is left with me. “We can't leave a prisoner!” he whines. “The emergency lights will be on in a minute.” Their footsteps echo down the hallway. “Fucking earthquakes.” I hear him trying to flick on a lighter, and see a few red sparks. He tosses it on the ground.
“Please don't leave me,” I plead, trying to sound small and helpless. “At least unlock my hands so I don't fall on my face.”
“Okay.”
I hear jangling keys. Then he drops them, and curses again. He feels the floor, cries out in panic. “You find them!” he says, and rushes down the hallway.
Suddenly it is so quiet. I hear the scuffle of rats, the clanking of metal doors and men's voices far away.
I am alone in absolute blackness, frightened, but not terrified. I talk myself down. Nothing has changed. It's only the absence of light. The floor is still there, the walls are still there.
I'm surprised by the vertigo. I squat, my heart beating a mile a minute. I know my feet are pointed in the opposite direction I want to go. I take a Quran out of my pocket and line it against my shoe. I turn around, and line my foot up against the book, pointed, I hope in the opposite direction. I feel around for the keys, my fingers touching dampness and dirt, and something furry and gooey—a desiccated rodent, perhaps—which is probably what frightened the guard. The keys are different sizes, and I feel each one as I go around the ring. The smallest must be for the handcuffs. I scrape and poke a bit until I find the hole. Finally I'm free.
I feel around and find the lighter the guard discarded. I flick it a dozen times, no flame, but enough spark to light the thin pages of the Quran. Allah forgive me.
Now, how to get out of here?
Holding the burning Quran away from my body, I walk quickly down the hallway, retracing my steps to the makeshift courtroom. I hear voices, banging doors, shadows down the hallway of people running frantically, a few small lights darting like fireflies—I guess some of the flashlights work.
I drop the Quran where it will harmlessly burn out—I don't want to start a fire with people still locked up.
I hear women's voices, and feel my way back to my cell. The guards are gone. Jamming one key after another, I finally find the right one, turn the latch, and shove open the heavy door. A tiny amount of moonlight shines from the two windows high above. The faint glow of the propane stoves that never go out.
“Gül,” I shout. “It's Abeela. I'm at the door.”
I hear someone moving through the room, stumbling into bodies. “Vous êtes la fille néerlandaise, oui?” You're that Dutch girl, aren't you.
“Hey, the door is open. Where are the guards?” asks another woman.
I reach for Gül's arm and quickly tell her what's happening, that the guards have fled. “It is time. Round up the women and get them out. Tell them to stay out of the cities.”
I barely see a wooden spoon sticking out of a pot of something over the fire. I grab it and a handful of forks.
No time for farewells. No time to hunt down Belma and Filiz and Zaide and all the other women, without whom I never would've made it. “Tesh a kur!” I shout as loud as I can. Thank you. Then turn and run.
I drag the wooden spoon down the walls of the hallway, feeling my way out. Winding my way back up the maze of hallways, I don't find a single guard. Some of the doors are locked. I search for the right key, open them, bend the forks and wedge them beneath to keep the doors open. Some of the women who had little to pack, push past me into the dark.
Six doors, that's what I remember, the last leading past the administrative offices. I fumble through the keys to the last door, the women anxiously talking behind me. My hands are sweaty, and the keys slip through my fingers like bait fish. I finally slip the right one in, and push open the door, my shoulders jostled as the women scramble past.
As I jamb a fork to keep it open, wedging it in further with my foot, I see scuffling in the offices, dark shapes grabbing things, running, someone yelling in Turkish, frustrated, demanding the guards keep to their posts. A pistol shoots the ceiling. Plaster rains down.
I take a step and turn—right into the chest of a man, who reels backward. Thrown off balance, I slam heavily into the door jamb, numbing my shoulder.
Balance recovered, he shines a flashlight in my face. “You going some place, Salima?”
Shirzad's voice. He shoves me against the wall with his right forearm, a warm gun in his right hand. He must've shot the ceiling, trying to control the guards. He ignores the other women charging past.
“We'll add attempting to aid dangerous prisoners in escaping to your crimes. A simple beheading is too good for you.” His voice has a touch of amusement. “You really think a little blackout is all you need to liberate a prison?”
“You're alone, Shirzad,” I say hotly. “The guards have fled. It's not just any little blackout. Your radios won't work, your cars won't work, your telephones won't work.”
He snorts in disgust at my confidence, his eyes narrow. A small muscle pulses on the side of his neck. “Well, at least I have you. I'll take pleasure in finding what else you know.”
He pockets the gun and grabs my throat, but can only use one hand without dropping the flashlight. The harsh circle of light shines up at his coarse features, making him ghoulish. “I always had my suspicions about you, but Bora always defended you. Fucking converts! The greatest mistake Muhammad made was allowing heathens to convert. They should all be slaughtered.”
I jamb my knee in his groin, and fling myself to one side. Getting hold of a stapler, I slam it across his face. He staggers, kicking over a chair. I lunge around, trying to grab his gun. But he is faster, and slugs me with his flashlight. He thrusts his leg between my thighs, shoving me against a desk.
I scream, more out of fury than fear. I expect another visit from his flashlight, but he seems to enjoy it.
“Scream all you want. It's just you and me, Salima. We've had this date for a long time.”
I kick and squirm, but he jerks my arm up my back, until I cry out in pain.
“You are going to tell me everything you know. All your aliases, all your friends, and your precious husband. Yes, I know about him.”
I look him straight in the eye and hiss, “Go fuck yourself!” with articulate ineptitude.
“We'll see who gets fucked—” he spins me around “—and with what.” He crushes my neck in an arm lock, squeezing my windpipe. He drags me down the corridor, back down toward the interrogation room. Thrashing and twisting, I make it as hard as I can for him without choking myself. I can't imagine what toys he has waiting for me.
I curse my stupidity for not grabbing some kind of weapon in the office. I feel for the forks in my pocket, soft and bendable. But maybe together. I knock his flashlight with one hand, and thrust the forks into his neck with the other with all the force I can muster. The forks catch him just under the chin. His hands fly halfway to his throat, twisting away, staggering back against the wall, gurgling.
He slides down in slow motion.
I watch him until I catch my breath, amazed, a heavy coldness seeping into my bones. No time for this. Head down, breathe deep. You will not faint. You have killed men before.
I force my numbed mind to command my feet. I s
tep over Shirzad's body, grab the flashlight, and run.
When I push out the front entrance, I am amazed to see the front gate slid open. Like bats bursting out of a cave, women race on either side of me, disappearing into the night.
I hear the sibilant drone of planes overhead. Heading toward the Turkish border. That's really what scared the guards off. Their cars sit abandoned in the yard.
I look out over the silent city. Flickering candles and kerosene lamps dart like fireflies over the valley. No traffic, no buzzing electrical wires, no car horns, no sirens, no anti-air rocket launchers.
The sky is alive with stars. They look good enough to eat.
About a half mile away, the Sea of Marmara glistens in the moonlight.
I point the flashlight in front of me, and run.
Twenty-Five, March 2022
Otranto
“Vorresti più caffè, tesoro? Della frutta? Del latte?” Signora Alberona is always pressing me to eat breakfast, but I've never been a big breakfast eater. Her scowls only make me laugh. It feels good to laugh.
“No grazie. I'm fine. I think I'll go for a walk.”
“Volete che prenda il bambino?” Signora Alberona tugs at Beppe's tiny toes, then leans down and nibbles on them. He giggles and laughs.
“No, I'll take him. He likes the sound of the ocean. It puts him to sleep.” Beppe responds to the word sleep by kicking his hands and feet. Already a little rebel.
“Fate attenzione sui gradini,” she warns. She looks at me as if she doesn't quite trust me.
“I'll be careful. Really. We'll be fine.”
She hands me a ball of buffalo mozzarella, wrapped in a fig leaf. “In caso avete fame.” In case I get hungry.
Every morning I walk through Otranto's crooked cobbled streets, and climb down four flights of ancient limestone steps to the sand. Gentle breezes, blowing off the Adriatic, caress my face as I scan the aquamarine water.
Watching for sails.
On clear days, I can see the mountains of Albania. I pretend it is Turkey I see. I want to imagine that just a small body of water separates Kazan and me.
I call myself Caterina Catanzaro, using my grandmother's maiden name. My adorable baby boy is four months old now. I cradle him in a sling Signora Alberona gave me, used, she says, by her own children. She hovers over us, spoiling the baby. Spoiling me. Not that I mind. I can use a little coddling.
When I first got off the boat from Izmir, I was frightened and close to despair. Signora Alberona, Ana Luzzatti's contact, took me in at her cliff-hugging dazzling-white house, with its cobalt blue doors and shutters. For days I sat on her trellis-shaded veranda, gazing out at the sea until I gained my strength. Smelling orange blossoms and wild herbs.
All the plants here are so fragrant, helping the bees find them among the craggy rocks. Calling out to be fertilized. When Beppe was born, I swear the room smelled of gardenias and wild roses. As if this austere mystical land were laying claim to him.
Mail service is still unreliable, but I've gotten word through the Resistenza Italiana that Jana and Uncle Sander are safe in Cophenhagen, continuing the work to resettle refugees in Norway and Sweden. Months after they died, I learn that Draak and Margo were killed during a sabotage operation. Rikhart was shot during a raid. Kaart and Femke died in prison, tortured to death. A stray bomb from the Coalition Forces fell in a canal next to Frederika Maria. Hansen escaped, but Gerda was killed.
I feel guilty. I should've been there with them. I can't help feel that if I had been there, they wouldn't have died. More likely, I would've been killed, too.
The bulk of the team are still active in Amsterdam, working to restore democracy.
And Pim? Pim has taken Gerda's position as head of the Watergeuzen. He will be good at the job.
I miss him tremendously. I miss them all.
Kazan is in Turkey, setting up a provisional government. I understand why he doesn't want to walk away from a job half done, but I will not go back to Turkey. Not with our baby. Kazan understands. He is getting pressured to run for a permanent position in the Turkish government—part of his father's master plan—but he wants no part of it.
Beppe is adorable, thick black hair like Kazan, eyes cerulean like the sun-scorched sky over the Adriatic. My father's eyes. His chubby cheeks are irresistible. Ana Luzzatti would call him a perfect putto, one of those mischievous winged toddlers made famous by Raphael. The entire town dotes on him, calling him Il Piccolo Principe. The little prince.
Ana Luzzatti came to visit Beppe and me shortly after his birth. I do not quite understand her and Kazan's connection, but she loves little Beppe as if he were her grandson. Angels don't need to be understood.
It seems odd to be in the region where my mother's family came from. When I asked Signora Alberona if she knew any Catanzari in the area, she shook her head no. I can understand why they have fled the harsh beauty of their homeland. It feels like the very edge of the world. Not a place for mortals to thrive.
I walk along the beach and nibble the cheese. I taste the flowers from the field where the cow grazed. I taste the honey made from those flowers. I taste the mushrooms growing from the earth. Food here is a language. It fills your mind, and all your senses. It heals your soul.
A white sail glows in the blinding morning light, its mast flashing mirror signals over the still silver water. The air is always playing tricks on me, and I don't trust my eyes. But no, those are sails, luffing as they round the white ramparts into the harbor.
I would recognize the Allegro anywhere.
I see two men aboard. A tall dark-haired man with his hand to his brow, and a shorter man, who seems to be doing all the work. Kazan and Jean-Luc.
I walk into the surf, the water sucking the sand between my toes, waving a white handkerchief madly over my head.
Bouncing up and down on the deck like meerkats on Namibian desert sand, their whoops echo across the bay,
“Do you think you'd like to learn to sail, tesoro?” I whisper to Beppe as he wakens.
He reaches for my breast, gurgling bubbles of saliva.
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