A deep voice startled her. She staggered back from the stones and faced the man who spoke. He was no taller than she and very thin. His beard was lighter than his face beneath the turban he wore. He pointed at her, then at the well and said something else. Elsa nodded and pointed at the stones beside her. “Wasser. Bitte,” she said, surprised at how dry and hoarse she sounded.
The man lowered his arm and took a step closer, peering at her. He pointed to her head scarf and asked a question. Elsa pushed the scarf back from her hair and said, “Wasser.”
The man raised his voice and shouted toward the house. Moments later a woman emerged with a clay jar affixed to a rope. She eyed Elsa curiously as she lowered the jar into the well. Elsa kept her eyes on the older man. He watched her as she drank the offered water. She wiped her chin and returned the jar to the waiting woman. “Danke.”’
By now many pairs of eyes were watching her from the doorway of the house. Some were every low to the ground. Elsa counted five children of various ages. Three women. No men. Just the grandfather. She turned back to him. “Danke,” she repeated.
She gave him a tentative smile and took a step toward the dirt track in front of the house. Time to go.
He moved in front of her and his voice suggested he did not want her to leave. He shook his head at her and put an arm out to block her path. He was still being polite. Elsa could not see his face clearly in the dark, but the gesture was not aggressive and his voice was soft. He pointed toward the entry to the house where the lights from oil lamps cast a faint yellow trail into the yard. The children instantly fled the doorway and the light became brighter. The old man insisted.
Elsa thought about the government men in the road some miles behind her. She covered her mouth with her hand. She had spoken German without thinking. Her eyes darted over the little group of houses as she tried to remember whether the locals welcomed their release from Turkish control at the hands of the British and French, or considered the Ottoman defeat as bitterly as the Germans did. She could not possibly know.
It was obvious the appearance of a European woman at their well was unusual. The curious eyes that fled the doorway now appeared at the square openings in the house, little round heads silhouetted in the windows. The old man waved toward the door again and said something, this time very soft and cajoling. Elsa considered arguing with him. The cool of the night was beginning to settle. The light breeze lifted her scarf and the ends of her hair and reminded her that a long walk would be more pleasant at night, than in the heat of the day.
She looked at the road and the miles ahead of her. Her feet ached. Her shoes were not designed for hiking. They were little dress shoes with little practical heels. Already one heel was loose. She tried to smile. She was hungry. And tired.
Perhaps this family had nothing to do with the murder of the government men and the theft of the car. A donkey brayed behind her as if to concur. This was a farmer and his family offering their hospitality to a lost stranger.
She closed her eyes in defeat. There was a greater chance of success staying here than hiking alone up the road for miles at night. Eventually she would become barefoot, and who knows when she would get more water? Roving brigands might be active at night. That settled it for her. This man was no brigand. She bowed in acceptance and entered the house.
The children instantly fled, as did the younger women. The old man’s wife smiled at her and showed her where to sit. Elsa sat carefully on the rug near the wall and tucked her feet under her. Her torn skirt made it difficult to sit without baring a leg. Another cup was given to her. Strong tea this time. She sipped it gratefully as she looked around the small room. It was built from blocks covered with plaster and whitewashed inside. The floor was packed clay covered by various rugs. The only furniture was a low table and one three-legged stool. An empty brass brazier stood in a corner. Newspaper and magazine pages were randomly affixed to the walls. She could not tell if they were there as decoration or if the walls served as a kind of bulletin board. Elsa finished her tea and more was offered from an elegant metal teapot. The farmer’s wife held the handle with a brightly colored cloth to protect her hands from the heat. Elsa nodded her thanks.
The farmer had disappeared immediately after she had entered his house. She guessed he had gone to spread the news of her appearance. There was no helping that. She lowered the teacup as she tried to think of what might happen to her. Until she saw the dead government men in the road she had not considered she was in any danger from the locals.
Sonnenby had not mentioned that they would be hostile to her. But he had not been here for fifteen years. She took another sip. She could appear to be French, German, or English if she needed to be. She looked carefully at the pages on the walls for a European language. There seemed to be as much French as German. Friend or foe? She would know soon enough. She hoped she was worth a ransom.
She sat quietly with her empty tea cup. The farmer’s wife sat near her, running prayer beads through her wrinkled fingers. The doorway filled with men. She counted five. They all stared at her, some curious, some afraid. Two were angry. The face of the old farmer appeared among them, and after he entered, the rest filed in behind him and lined up against the wall opposite her.
There was some noise and dust as they settled on the floor. The farmer’s wife disappeared with her teapot. No one spoke until the wife was joined by the two other women bearing cups.
The farmer raised an arm but did not point directly at her. He said something and she surmised he was giving a rendition of finding her at his well. When he finished he looked at one of the men and nodded.
This man looked at Elsa for a long moment before speaking. He was in his middle years and thin and bearded as they all were. His tunic and sash were of a finer material than the farmer’s, however. He wore two gold rings on his fingers and his teeth were better.
She returned his gaze with an expectant look.
“Fraulein,” he said with a heavy Arabic accent.
Elsa raised an eyebrow. The farmer had recognized her German. “Ja, mein Herr?” she answered.
In fractured German he continued, “You are lost?”
“I am.”
“Where did you come from?”
“A hotel in Damascus. The one with the many colored awnings.”
The man turned and translated this exchange with the others. She saw them nod and relax. They spoke rapidly among themselves and paused only when the women returned to refill their cups.
The first one turned back to her. “We can take you back to that hotel.”
Elsa did not try to hide her relief.
Then he asked her, “Did you come here in the black car?”
Her back stiffened before she could control herself. She kept her face impassive. Carefully she answered, “I was their prisoner.” This was true. In a way.
The man translated and there was another wave of murmurs and commentary. The looks on their faces became suspicious. One of the men said something angrily and waved a hand at her. The others raised their voices and the women quietly left the room. Elsa swallowed hard.
One of the younger men got up and left the house. After he was gone the others became silent and just sat, watching her. The one who spoke German said, after a long pause, “What is your name?”
“My name is Elsa Schluss.”
He stared hard at her but said nothing more. They all waited uncomfortably for what Elsa guessed was at least half an hour. Then the young man returned, this time with another man in different clothing. The stranger did not wear the tunic and sash and loose trousers of the farmers, but a western style collared shirt and buckled pants. His beard was shorter and neatly trimmed and he wore round spectacles. More importantly he was carrying a briefcase. He greeted the farmer and his guests politely without taking his eyes from her.
Elsa waited.
“Do you speak English?” He asked. “You were with the English in the car.”
“I do.”
&
nbsp; “Can you read it as well?”
“I can.”
The man sat down across from her with the others and rested the briefcase on his knees. “My name is Emil Farmadi. I was given this briefcase and two others this evening.” He tapped the case with his index finger and said, “All these documents are in English.” He stared hard at her.
She frowned. She had first assumed the briefcase was hers, recovered from the sedan, but her notes were in German, not English. “May I see?” She asked, holding out a hand.
He did not answer but opened the briefcase and removed several files. “I can speak English,” he said, “But I cannot read it.” He handed her a file and all the men waited expectantly.
It was a document stamped with inter-office marks from the British Ministry. She flipped through the pages. This file concerned a man named Michael Brisby. She looked at the other files. “May I see the others?”
These files were similar, each with a tab identifying a man by first and last name. She lifted each one carefully until she found one marked “Henry Sinclair”. She stopped, trying to keep her face still. Farmadi noticed the pause.
“What are they?” he asked.
“Ministry files. From the consulate.”
“Are they files on the villagers?”
She looked up, pressing her hand hard against the stiff cardstock folders to keep it from trembling. “No. They are files on British citizens.”
He turned his head and translated this to the relief of all the men in the room. They relaxed and two of them smiled. The women brought in more tea and a platter of flatbreads and what looked like honey.
Farmadi nodded. He tilted his head and asked, “Why were you in their car?”
Elsa slipped a finger between the files, separating Lord Sonnenby’s from the others. “I was travelling with a gentleman. We were separated and I was intended for the hotel. We were sidetracked and the car stopped. The men I was with were…”
“I am aware of what happened to them. There was no report of a woman in the automobile.” He was still staring at her and the men chewing the bread and honey paused as if they, too, were waiting for an answer.
One of the men asked something and Farmadi answered him. Elsa fingered her files. Farmadi turned back to her. “We have disturbed Mister Ahmoud and his family enough for the evening. It is time to go.” He put out his hand for the files. Elsa handed most of them back.
Farmadi gave her a pointed look and nodded toward her hand.
“Perhaps I can keep this one,” she said politely with a little smile.
“Which one is that one?”
“This one is for someone I know.”
He blinked at her from behind the spectacles. Finally he asked, “What is his name?”
Elsa considered lying to him. She glanced down at the neatly printed letters on the folder. But a discovered lie would eliminate her credibility and perhaps her use as a translator. Perhaps eliminate her use at all. The British liked to say, “in for a penny, in for a pound.” She took a short breath. “Henry Sinclair.” She looked up from the file at Farmadi to see if he recognized the name. He did.
“Lord Sonnenby,” he said slowly. “Your face has gone pale, fraulein.”
Elsa cleared her voice. “He is the gentleman with whom I was travelling.”
“You are his wife?”
She paused long enough for the negative answer to be obvious. It would be difficult to explain.
Farmadi nodded as if he understood the pause. “You are his moll.”
Elsa did not know that word. “I am his therapist,” she corrected.
Farmadi did not know that word. “Is that the correct English word for it?” He asked. “Therapisht? I will remember.”
She frowned a little, wondering how important her role in Sonnenby’s life might be to the villagers. Everyone had a role and a relationship to others. If you had no place you were an outcast, a criminal. “Yes,” she told him. If one looked at the situation in a certain way, then she belonged to Sonnenby. Like Marshall did, and Davies did.
“Then you should be returned to him,” Farmadi said, “not to the British.”
“Is that possible?” Things were starting to look better. “Do you know where he is?”
Farmadi gave her a surprised look. “Of course I know where he is. Everyone knows where he is.
Chapter Nine
The moon was bright and high in the sky when Farmadi and the other men marched Elsa to the road. They walked along the dirt track towards the main road for almost an hour. Elsa’s shoes gave out. She stumbled along on the broken soles for a few steps before abandoning them. Her stockings shredded soon after and the gravel bruised her soles. She did not say anything.
Farmadi had let her keep Sonnenby’s file and she clutched it tightly as they walked. The other men murmured quietly in their language as Farmadi led them up the gentle hills and down again. Elsa stopped looking at the deep shadows of the landscape and the scattered lighter shapes of the whitewashed houses. She concentrated on her feet and avoiding the larger stones. Her world narrowed to her feet and the file in her hand. The stones in the road sent shooting pain up the back of her legs with every step. As she slowed, the men in front of her had to stop and wait. Only Farmadi seemed concerned. The others expressed their annoyance with clicks of their tongues and impatient gestures with their hands.
“It is not far, Fraulein.”
“That is good to know, Mr. Farmadi.”
“We will soon have a motorcar to take you the rest of the way.”
“That will be welcome.”
He gestured for her to walk in front of him and the other men turned to continue the journey. She was relieved to see the whitewashed shapes of square buildings ahead as they crested another low hill.
“I hope that is where the motorcar is,” she murmured.
“It is.” Farmadi’s voice came from behind her.
“And the owner will allow us to borrow it?”
“He will. He is my father. I often use his machine when I go to Damascus.”
Elsa stood beside the automobile as Farmadi went inside the house to disturb his father. The other men stood near enough to her to imply that she was under escort, but not close enough for eye contact. She put the file folder on the boot and leaned on the car’s rear fender as she turned the underside of her foot to the moonlight.
There were two open wounds on the ball of her foot, and her heel throbbed with bruises. The cuts stung from the sand and dirt that had been ground into them. She winced as she put her foot down. There was nothing she could so about it now. The other one felt as painful, and though it had not been cut by stones and glass, there was a raised bump where some insect had stung her.
The door opened and Farmadi emerged with another man who was carrying something heavy. The strange man opened the boot and put the heavy parcels inside and then returned to the house. Farmadi passed her a bundle of cloth. She was elated to see two small leather shoes in his other hand. They were more like ankle slippers or boots than the formed and soled shoes she was used to. These were made with soft leather that slipped over the foot and tied high around the ankle. She spent some time putting them on before getting into the car because she needed the moonlight to see the laces and the bench seat of the sedan was too dark. Farmadi opened the back door for her and waited.
“Fraulein. We should leave soon.”
“Yes, I am sorry for the delay.”
“No, please finish, but hurry. The only thing that travels faster than this motorcar is news. I would like to be gone before the village learns that you were here.”
Elsa looked up at him. “Am I in danger?”
Farmadi looked uncomfortable. “There is some disagreement as to the proper handling of this situation. Please get in the car.”
Elsa set the file and the bundle on the seat and slid in beside them. Farmadi said something to the other men before getting behind the wheel and starting the engine. He let it warm up for a fe
w minutes before slowly backing it and turning it toward the road. Elsa sat back and tried to relax. She fingered the bundle. It seemed to be some cloth tied around something soft, probably clothing. She didn’t bother to open it.
“I hear you sigh, fraulein.”
“I am tired, Mr. Farmadi.”
“I understand. You may sleep in the car, if you like. I must get some fuel, but afterwards there is a long drive.”
“To Damascus?”
“No. Lord Sonnenby is not there. You did want me to take you to him, did you not?”
She thought about her luggage at the hotel and her missing briefcase.
“Miss Schluss?”
She asked him quietly and in as calm a voice as she could, “Where is Lord Sonnenby?”
Farmadi paused long enough to cause Elsa to feel some considerable doubt. “I will take you to where he will be.”
“And that is not in Damascus.”
“No.”
“My belongings…”
“Is there something there that we cannot replace?” The car took a turn to a well-graded road.
She thought about her notes in the briefcase and her tickets home. She thought about the file on the seat next to her. Her fingers curled around the edges of the cardstock. It was thick. She imagined herself boarding the ship and then sitting on deck with a glass of wine. The fresh Mediterranean breeze lifted her hair and fluttered her blouse. And inside she felt sick. She could not return to Vienna without completing her task.
She smoothed her hand over the file folder. “My luggage is in a hotel in Damascus. I hope it will still be there when I return, but my briefcase was in that car, Mr. Farmadi. It is very important to me and I would very much like to have it back. But to answer your question, everything can be replaced. Already I have new shoes.”
Farmadi chuckled and gave the engine more fuel. The back of the seat pressed into her and she relaxed for the first time in hours. She set the heavy file on her knees.
“Go to sleep Fraulein Schluss, and soon we will be in El Zor.”
She did sleep, but they were not soon in El Zor. A detour caused by recent downpour took them out of their way, and then a delay the next morning while the road was repaired by villagers with shovels and donkeys carrying baskets of gravel extended the journey. There was a point near noon when the engine sputtered and died, and Elsa sat in the car alone for an hour while he tinkered with the engine.
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