Light of the Desert

by Lucette Walters

  “CUT…” Jaqui’s voice came from a loudspeaker, echoing through her brain.

  My God! What have I done? She tried to breathe deeply, and turned away from the food. They’re making a movie out of a horrible time, reliving it … It’s insane. These children.

  Noora had adapted that terrible scene from Ahna’s manuscript. But then she had crossed it out, saying it was “too much.” As Ahna had explained earlier in her writing, the Germans liked order above all, and would not usually beat people unless they caused “trouble.” Their strategy was to use deception to get cooperation. Through cunning, they were able to lure their victims naked into gas chambers voluntarily, making them believe they were going in to take a shower. But as Ahna described it in her journal, young Ghizella, about sixteen years old then, had caused tumult, screaming that she had seen the ghost of her grandfather at the entrance to the showers, warning that it was a trap! Children were crying and screaming … Ahna never finished describing that horrible moment. She mentioned an empty cornfield and a train station not far from that area. Because of the confusion, some of the children had been able to slip out during the transfer to the gas chambers. The German officers went after dozens of victims who were trying to escape. There were gunshots, she said. Years later, Ahna had learned that some—although very few—of the escaping prisoners actually had survived.

  It wasn’t worth putting the children through such a scene, just to make a movie. Holding the steaming hot cup close to her face, Noora made her way back toward the camera, where Jaqui was now conferring with Setchka Kahn, who had been awarded the lead role. Even though the actress was much younger than Jaqui, there seemed to be a strong connection between the two of them. Noora suddenly didn’t feel right about disturbing their meeting. She would have to wait until later, she thought, breathing in the steam of her chamomile tea.

  Working with Jaqui day after day on rewrites, she saw his determination to keep the script as close as possible to Ahna’s original manuscript. Jaqui was a perfectionist, probing with so many questions about Ahna Morgenbesser herself—especially during the time Noora lived with her in Paris. He wanted to make every scene accurate, every moment as true-to-life as possible. He’d gone too far! This frightening set and violent scene would make the audience feel as if they were literally right there, in the prison camp!

  But wasn’t that what a movie was supposed to be? Realistic? How could she complain? Jaqui’s perfectionism and eye for detail would make for an honest, high-quality film.

  So what was the problem?

  The long morning hours passed. The same scene was shot, re-shot, and shot again. Finally, the director of photography conferred with Jaqui on the following setup for another scene, while the crew and cast members drifted toward the long tables the caterers had prepared.

  After the terrible scene in the concentration camp, Noora was relieved to see the German “officers” and costumed “prison guards” laughing with the children. They were teasing each other good-naturedly. It was obvious that genuine camaraderie had developed, once they were not acting in front of the camera.

  The children gravitated eagerly toward the tables loaded with large platters of cooked chicken and other meat, cheeses, fruit, breads, and pastries. A number of the children appeared to have some physical deformity. Their eyes wide, it looked as if they were not used to seeing so much food; but they all kept their arms down at their sides, as if trained to wait, until they were each handed their own food tray.

  “Hello!” she heard Jaqui say behind her.

  She turned. “How’s everything going?”

  “Very well,” he said, beaming. “These kids are amazing, aren’t they?”

  “Yes … But that’s what I wanted to ask …”

  Jaqui interrupted her to announce something in Polish.

  “Pardon me?”

  “Lunchtime!”

  “Yes, lunchtime,” Noora murmured, grateful for the break from filming. She looked past his shoulder. Outside one of the vans, Setchka was being shown a few prison garments by one of the costume ladies.

  Noora and Jaqui walked toward the last empty table and sat down with their lunch trays. “Where did you find these children?” she had to ask.

  “The orphanage. It’s only two hours from here,” he said, gulping down his turkey salad sandwich.

  “You … used real orphans?”

  “Yes. It’s sad to see how many of them were maltreated,” Jaqui said, his mouth full.

  “What?”

  “Most of the children you see here have been abused by their own parents. Many were abandoned … or just dumped at the orphanage door.”

  Quietly, they both sat and ate. Jaqui looked up and pointed to a young boy about eight. “See that one over there?” The boy’s right eyelid drooped conspicuously. “His father used to burn him with cigarettes. How a father can do that to his own child is beyond me. I couldn’t even imagine …”

  Noora had to look away. Her father’s words resonated in her brain: “I denounce you!” Numbly, she picked up her fork and poked it around in her salad.

  Jaqui went on eating. If he expected a response from her, he wasn’t pressing her for it.

  Noora took a deep breath and glanced at the nearby tables where the dozens of children were eating hungrily. “I’m glad you thought of using an orphanage,” she said at last. “Perhaps I could visit … help in some way.”

  “More than you already have?”

  Noora looked up, surprised.

  “Mr. Cohen told me you gave a big chunk of your fee to the orphanage. That was wonderful of you … I know it’s confidential, but I was involved in the budget.”

  She managed to fork a piece of lettuce into her mouth. She had not returned from France to profit from Ahna’s story! Ian’s company had paid a million-dollar fee for the manuscript, which she divided with Annette (who put it in a trust fund for Annou). Noora did not feel it was right to accept another fee for the adaptation, especially when Ian Cohen was virtually supporting her. She had a lovely room in his Bel Air mansion, rent-free, and as the associate producer, she was being paid a good salary, with insurance benefits, plus her per diem while she was on location. Ian had claimed that if she didn’t accept the fee for the screenplay adaptation, he would have to donate it to “a good cause.” It was a business matter to him, but not to her. She wished Jaqui had not been told.

  “… And he matched it,” she heard Jaqui say.

  “Beg your pardon?”

  “He matched it. So now finally they’ll have not only a new kitchen and new beds, thanks to you, they’ll practically have a new facility.”

  “Oh … good … Yes …” was all she could say.

  “I thought you knew …” he said, glancing into her eyes, realizing her surprise.

  “Mr. Cohen must have been so busy with other things … How many kids in that orphanage?”

  “So far, about two hundred or more.”

  Noora nodded and stared at her salad.

  Jaqui finished off his lunch. “Excuse me,” he said, picking up his tray. “Another scene coming up.”

  Noora sat on a high folding chair, far from the set. Would he ever finish with these violent scenes? she wondered, trying to proofread the latest rewrites approved and faxed by Ian Cohen’s office. It was already late afternoon, but Jaqui kept on shooting the “day” scene. The dark gray clouds, although still visible, had moved toward one part of the horizon, and the sun, still shining right above the land, painted the sky a dominant orange hue.

  The children’s cries became more intolerable, even though she knew they were acting, and the screaming segued into sickening waves of sound until she felt as if she were drowning. “I denounce you!” His words echoed in her heart. She put her hands over her ears and closed her eyes. “I DENOUNCE YOU!” She heard her father’s voice again. The screams from the movie set became her own. She opened her eyes. Had she screamed aloud? She looked around. It didn’t appear that anyone heard her. The productio
n people were all engrossed behind the camera, watching the intense scene unfold. Dumping her script and pen in her canvas bag, she slipped out of her chair and walked away, toward the row of trucks and cars, where drivers sat reading newspapers and playing cards. A couple of security guards stood several yards away from the grip truck and the “honey wagon” that housed the bathrooms. She thought perhaps she could hide in one of the bathroom stalls.

  “Miss Karlton,” a large, husky man said as he approached her, “are you all right?”

  “Is there someone who could drive me back to the hotel?”

  Dizzy and ready to vomit, Noora didn’t think she could make it down the endless corridor to her hotel room.

  Later, when she stumbled out of the bathroom, her stomach at war with her mind, she crawled into bed. How could Ahna have managed to survive such horror?

  “To be alive again, one must learn to forgive …” Ahna Morgenbesser had written in her manuscript. But how could Ahna forgive those who had so horribly persecuted her people and killed their children? Ahna had told her, on one of their afternoon walks in Paris, “We must be strong enough to learn to forgive the past … Not to condone or forget. But forgive.”

  But he’s my FATHER! He had kicked her in the face. He had tried to kill his own daughter.

  She stumbled to the bathroom and again vomited, barely hitting the toilet bowl.

  She made it back to the room and searched frantically for the bottle of Roger & Gallet she had packed somewhere in her carry-on. It was Ahna’s. There was still more than half of the cologne left in her toilette table when she passed away, and Annette told her she should keep it. Ironically, the lemony fragrance had always reminded Noora of the Chabrawishi cologne of Egypt. Finally, she found it tucked in a back pocket, and splashed the cool eau de cologne over her forehead, her cheeks, and her nose. It stung her eyes a bit as she did, but it helped her breathe in deeply and feel a little relief.

  She had left the bathroom light on, and the door open a crack, in case she needed to make another fast dash.

  She lay on the king size hotel bed, staring at the dark ceiling, her body like a clump of cement. She remembered lying in Um Faheema’s sand-filled bed, when she was badly injured and in horrible pain—afraid she had been buried alive. She began to experience that terror again. Calm down, Noora. Calm down, she whispered to herself. It’s over.

  She recalled Ahna’s words: “When you are ready, you will be able to feel your pain… Without fear.”

  When I am ready? “I’m still fearful, Ahna,” she said, staring toward the dagger of light that crossed from the bathroom door to the foot of her bed.

  Ahna had also told her, “You must learn not to be afraid of your own feelings.”

  “Ahna, you taught me so much,” she whispered. “You and Um Faheema …” Yet she had nearly forgotten those words of wisdom, and realized she had never tried to face her greatest fear: that horrific experience at the pool.

  I must face my terror! She cried, tears now cascading like water. Every time she thought about what happened that day, every time she came close to her feelings, she pushed her fear away. She worried that if she faced the fear, it would make her insane! She would want to die! She sobbed into her pillow.

  Noora woke up with a start. Somehow, she must have fallen asleep, exhausted from her emotional ordeal. Her stomach felt raw. She knew she couldn’t throw up any more. There was nothing left. She turned to the window. The sun had set awhile ago, apparently. She turned to the alarm clock next to her bed. It was nearly nine in the evening.

  “Forgiveness is not easy,” Ahna had written, “but it is something we must practice every day of our life, if we are to live again.”

  God had given Noora the chance to live again. And again …

  Ahna had written: “You can only reach forgiveness through gratitude … Gratitude for your life … And compassion for those who have done evil. And from that comes the strength to never let it happen again.” Although Noora had carefully edited this passage in Ahna’s manuscript, she had not understood the powerful meaning of those words. She had never taken the whole of that message into her heart.

  More tears streamed down her face. She pulled herself up and sat at the edge of the bed, then grabbed a tissue and took a deep breath.

  But it was not about German soldiers, Nazis, and murderers filled with hatred for other religions and races, she thought, staring up at the oversized gilded mirror on the wall. It was about one man—her father … She grabbed the box of tissues and tossed it against the mirror with full force. “MY OWN FATHER!” she shouted at the mirror that had tilted from its hanging position. She grabbed her head with both hands and paced. Staring down in the dark at the carpet, she sobbed.

  Yes, YES! It was true, she must have committed an immoral crime … For that, she must accept responsibility. She remembered the disco … the loud music … drinking champagne like water. How many glasses? Had she kissed a man? There was another young man she thought was Michel … He was kissing her! Why did she allow it? Nageeb had said there were pictures. Of her? What could the pictures have shown to affect her father in such a way that he became enraged enough to want to murder his own daughter?

  There were several men that day in their living room—in gray suits, surrounding her father … One of them was that man with the mustache! She gasped. He was at the pool! And she remembered him at the disco. Holding a camera. Staring at her! And he held it up to one eye … Oh my God! It was him!

  Those men had deceived her father, plotted to destroy him through … her!

  She stumbled, weaving her way from wall to wall, to the bathroom. She threw up some acid from her stomach. I must calm down. She made it back to the room, and with trembling hands, pulled a bottle of soda water from the little refrigerator. Twisting off the cap, she drank slowly and tried to control her pounding heart.

  She realized the shame her father must have felt, how it pained him. How it made him suffer enough to turn his humiliation into such anger, causing him to commit an act he would never have committed otherwise: murder—followed by further bad consequences … Nageeb’s death. And the punishment their entire family endured.

  A family that had once been filled with nothing but love.

  She began to weep. It was not her father who was to blame for what he had done. Those men in gray suits … and that other, older man—the sheik. His eyes, filled with such intense hatred … and anger.

  They probably hated the fact that her father was not like them. He was wealthy, famous, and powerful, admired and respected by everyone, including Westerners. They tried to destroy him by taking away his most precious possession: his family!

  The fundamentalists wanted to control the people and were against freedom, especially women’s. She had noticed the changes around their homeland. Slow but sure. They were there, those changes, small at first, creeping in like cancer cells. It had been happening, right in front of her, but she had been too naïve to see, to understand what it meant. And now it was too late. And so she wept.

  She wept for her father, she cried for her mother, for Nageeb … and for Zaffeera, for Kettayef, and for sweet little Shamsah. And for Abdo too. She wanted to cry until she would finally fall asleep. Because there was nothing she could do to change the past. It hurt so much to realize that there could be such evil. The only thing she could do now was learn to bear it, and begin to forgive.

  It was the same evil that killed the children in concentration camps, the same evil that was killing children all over the world.

  When she opened her eyes, Noora found herself stretched out in bed beneath the comforter, a pillow sham on top of her head, and perspiring profusely. Her face felt warm, and she knew her eyes were swollen from crying. She turned to the window and tried to focus. A crescent moon began to shine brightly, then disappeared behind a cloud. Slowly, it reappeared. Clouds were moving rapidly, as twinkling stars played around the dark post-midnight sky.

  Noora removed her clothes
and slipped under the sheets. Lying calmly in the dark, she let her thoughts drift.

  The next time she glanced at the clock by the bed, it was 2:28 AM. The moon, shining brightly now, had moved to the far left of the window. Resting her head on two propped-up pillows, Noora began to feel something in her mind breaking and releasing. There was a sudden sense of calm, a sense of peace. The burden she had felt for so long, one she had so desperately tried to avoid, was gone. Noora realized, in fact, that she had forgiven her father.

  As she stared at the moon, studied its silver crescent shape, she wondered about Michel.

  CHAPTER 68

  THE MAN WHO KNEW AHNA

  “When you watch stars long enough, they become a part of you … and you are never alone …”

  Sitting by the airplane window in business class, Noora thought of Dweezoul’s words. She gazed at a universe dotted with thousands of stars … perhaps millions, like diamonds, on black velvet, similar to the magnificent desert sky above Um Faheema’s Bedouin village. To her surprise, Noora realized one of the larger stars she had been watching was actually pulsating to the rhythm of her own heartbeat, reminding her of what Dweezoul had said: “We are a part of them …”

  She wondered what he was doing. Stretching above the highest dune, on his magic carpet—stargazing? No, Dweezoul did not gaze at stars. He spoke to them, as if indeed there was a connection. What else did he tell her? At times, in the middle of the night, when she fell asleep on his soft blanket, sandwiched between Dweezoul and Saloush the goat, and with the desert sand still warm from the day’s heat, he recited words like poetry—melodious, enchanting words, lulling her to sleep. She wished she could remember his poetry.

  She had experienced episodes of many lifetimes since she left the Bedouin village. Meeting Annette … Ian Cohen … Ahna Morgenbesser. Then Ian Cohen, again—a new man. He no longer screamed —at least not around her.