The sound of a horn blasted from the street. I looked out the window.
‘Hurry, let’s go. Your uncle is out the front waiting for us,’ my mother said from the hallway. Her big bag was already at the front door. Klara and I grabbed our suitcases and headed for the car. Mum took Linda by the hand and tried to coax her towards the door, but Linda dragged her feet and refused to follow, struggling and screaming.
Mum stopped. She looked more exhausted than I had ever seen her. She swung open the door and lugged the bags outside, loading them in the back of our uncle’s pick-up truck, which was waiting for us, the engine still running. I gave her a hand while Klara tried to calm Linda down.
‘Let’s go,’ Mum said. Linda let herself be taken by the hand.
‘I’ll be right there,’ I said, ‘I’m going to take one last look at the house.’
It wasn’t true. Instead of just looking at the house, I wanted to remind myself of the precious times before things went so sour for us. I closed my eyes and saw the five of us at the kitchen table; Linda as a tiny toddler running from one room to the other as Klara chased her; Dad coming home from the market with enormous sacks of fruit. I could hear the music playing in the living room – my mother’s favourite ABBA song.
I opened my eyes. The house was filled with a ghostly silence.
I looked around for the last time. I turned the handle and closed the door behind me. I stood there leaning against it for a few seconds, trying to hold back my tears. I took a deep breath and headed to the street.
From the rear window of the pick-up truck, I watched my house get further and further away until it disappeared. I would never see it again. The humid night air carried the fragrance of freshly cut grass through the open side window. The streetlights alongside the road to the airport passed by quickly. Our uncle drove fast the entire trip, not saying a word. He left us at the airport entrance, dropping our luggage on the sidewalk. We entered the large, nearly deserted lobby. I knew every inch of the departure hall with its shiny, rosy marble floor, where I had often been during happier times.
Babička’s house hadn’t changed much, even though it had been more than a year since we’d been there.
I was glad to discover that the little wooden cubby-house that Grandpa had built for us one summer was still in the backyard. Adored by Linda, it had a red roof and two side windows. We had hung some curtains by the windows and written our names on the front of the house. It was slightly stained by weather and rain, but still standing. The yard was familiar and chaotic, littered with forgotten tools and planks of wood. A dirty, malnourished hen scratched about next to the small vegetable garden behind the house.
The dog, Maida, recognised us immediately, greeting us, tail wagging. We settled in our usual room, choosing our beds and dividing the cramped space in the dresser for our clothes. Babička hugged and kissed us; she seemed worried.
That same evening, we all gathered together around the table, where Grandmother asked Mum what her intentions were.
‘I don’t know yet,’ Mum said, shaking her head. ‘Right now I just need to rest a bit. Then I’ll look for work. I’ll see what sort of job I can find.’
Klara threw a quizzical look my way before asking, ‘Do we have to stay here long, Mum?’
‘We’ll see. We just got here. You girls need a little peace and quiet too. We’ll talk about it again in a few days.’ She stood up from her chair, and started clearing the table, signifying the end of the discussion.
Babička took the plates from her hands, saying, ‘Go on, Jana. I’ll take care of it. You need to sleep.’ She must have realised that Mum was truly emotionally exhausted because we had never seen her show such kindness.
My mother spent the first two weeks locked in the bedroom, where the three of us girls normally slept, a shattered shell of her former self. Huddled up under the covers, she stared blankly at the wall, her eyes full of pain. She ate very little. Every morning, when I brought her breakfast, she told me to put the saucer of milk on the nightstand and to leave her alone as she wanted to rest. When I went to bring her lunch I saw her breakfast untouched and she lay frozen on the pillow, her hair dishevelled and her eyes swollen. She had been crying, and I often heard her stifle her sobs at night so my sisters and I in the next room wouldn’t hear the full extent of her pain.
Gradually, Babička’s expression hardened. Mum’s depression was starting to anger her. Klara, Linda and I ate, keeping our eyes averted from her, and tried not to listen to her complaints. We tidied the kitchen after each meal and Babička put away the food in the pantry, locking it with three turns of a key that she kept on a string around her neck.
The summer was coming to an end. This would be our first time experiencing autumn and winter in Czechoslovakia. Dobříč’s summer was only slightly warmer than Baghdad’s coldest months. The winters were bitter and the evenings became colder as dramatic storms swept away the last of the sun’s heat.
When the housework was done and if the weather permitted, my sisters and I spent our free time playing in the courtyard with the animals. I sometimes played cards with Grandpa on the long, grey, rainy afternoons. Although deep down we knew it wasn’t going to happen, we anticipated the phone call from Dad that would bring us back to Baghdad.
Maida started barking. It was the woman who delivered the mail. She’d often come to have coffee and fill our grandmother in on town gossip. Mrs Radka was quite pudgy, and her dark uniform gripped her large hips. An enormous square leather bag, bursting with letters and telegrams, was fixed on the front of her bicycle. She made her daily run to all the town’s houses, distributing mail while collecting news. She had been one of the first to know of our return.
Babička yelled at me to get the mail and to hurry back to do laundry. I ran out to Mrs Radka, shivering. The air at the beginning of September in Dobříč was already chilly. We had left Iraq a month ago and I still hadn’t begun to get used to the Czechoslovakian cold. Mrs Radka handed me some envelopes, told me to say hello to Mum and Grandmother, and took off on her bicycle.
I read my name on one of the letters. The stamp was from Baghdad. While I ripped the paper, I instinctively thought of Dad, but then I saw it was from Bàsil. I was able to read the first few lines before Babička’s shrill cries called me to return to work. I hid the letter in my pocket and found my way back to the laundry room.
Dear Michelle,
The end of the war has changed people. Everyone wants to return to normality, to life. Stores are reopening. The city streets are filling with people again. No money or foreigners are here yet, but you can feel there is a change in the air. I wish you could see this miracle with your own eyes.
Bàsil’s optimism made me feel terribly homesick.
I don’t know what made you leave so unexpectedly, but I eagerly await your return. You won’t be gone long, right? Later. I miss you.
How I wanted to be home at that moment, to sneak into his room. I answered him with a very long letter, explaining that the situation was very complicated. I didn’t have any idea when I would see him again, but it was crucial that we kept writing to each other. Our correspondence continued. Every week, a delicate, white envelope arrived by airmail, bringing me news from Iraq.
By October there was still no sign of Mum recovering. She seemed to have sunk into an even deeper depression. Mum was frightfully weak and emaciated; most of her day was spent sleeping and she never left the bedroom. The meals we brought her remained untouched. I had never seen her in such a state. To look into her eyes was like looking into an abyss. I didn’t know how to help her.
Every once in a while I would sit by her side. I caressed her hair. I told her about Bàsil’s letters, but she seemed saddened by any mention of Baghdad, so I changed the subject. She listened to me absently, keeping her eyes closed – the tiredness had won. At night, I sometimes lay down next to her, alternating with Babička, who would sleep beside Klara and Linda. Mum would let me place my arm around her side; I f
elt her bones under her nightshirt. She lay with her back to me, huddled up like a puppy. We stayed in that position for a moment before I withdrew my hand, disheartened, and fell asleep with the dreadful knowledge that I could never soothe my mother’s sorrow.
Babička locked herself in the bedroom with my mother for short periods, during the day. I often heard her harsh voice telling her to get up, ‘to pull herself together’. Mum didn’t respond. After berating her a bit more, Babička would leave the room defeated and more annoyed than before. She would then take her frustration out on the three of us girls.
As soon as Babička told me we were registered for school in the nearby town of Nučice, I ran to ask Mum for an explanation. I found her, as always, curled up in the bedroom with the curtains drawn.
‘Please, Michelle, don’t make things more difficult for me. You’ll go to school here this year,’ Mum muttered.
‘I don’t want to go to school here. We have to go back to Baghdad,’ I objected.
‘We’re not going back,’ she said, hiding her face beneath the covers.
‘But it’s our home. You said –’
‘This is our home now. We’re not going back to Iraq,’ she replied with resignation. ‘Please, dear. Let me rest now. I’m very tired.’
‘You’re always tired,’ I whispered sadly. ‘It’s not fair. I’m tired too and I want to go home.’
She didn’t answer. Two hot tears ran down my cheeks. I slammed the door behind me as I left, angry with her and the entire world.
I got on my bike and started pedalling with all my might. I passed the brewery surrounded by the brown fields full of barley stubble, already ploughed for planting. The odour of the earth and rotten leaves curled into my nostrils. My eyes blurred with tears as I rode furiously. I arrived at a path that crossed the wild cherry orchards. The trees lifted their dead and bony branches toward the grey sky. The cold air stung my tear-streaked face.
The branches at the back of the orchard were not pruned, and low boughs blocked the path. I stopped, left my bike and continued on foot. For a moment I thought I was lost. But there it was: the little pink lake with its still, mirror-like water, its outer edge tinted a pale cherry red. It had been a long time since I had been to the lake.
I sat on the bank, in a green glade between beds of reeds. A bird took flight, breaking the silence. A great peace came over me as I listened to the croaking frogs and sound of fish breaking the water’s surface. In the village, strange stories were told about this place. The locals believed it was inhabited by witches and wicked spirits. Somebody had mysteriously drowned there. I thought back to my horrible life at Babička’s house and likened my arrival at the lake to an escape from my evil grandmother. I smiled at the irony of the situation. Staring into the placid surface of the water, I suddenly felt lighter. Contrary to local superstition, this place didn’t scare me at all. Instead it restored a feeling of tranquillity, washing my insecurities away, at least momentarily.
As soon as I arrived home, I heard Babička’s voice coming from the kitchen. ‘Linda, sit still. I’m almost done. There, now you can go.’
I moved closer and saw my sister seated in a chair with a towel on her shoulders. Her chestnut curls were lying on the floor. She ran a hand over her remaining tufts of hair. My grandmother had given her a severe bob haircut.
‘It’s too short!’ Linda screamed. ‘I’m a monster!’ She ran to Mum, throwing the towel on the ground. Babička picked it up.
‘You’ll see, by tomorrow you will already be used to it. It doesn’t have to be pretty, it has to be practical. Your hair will dry quicker and you’ll keep it clean. You’ll need to with all the germs that go around school. Come on, Klara, it’s your turn. Sit down,’ Babička commanded, without wasting time.
I looked at Klara. ‘You’re not going to let her cut your hair like that too, are you?’
My grandmother waited impatiently, the scissors in her hand.
Klara sat down then turned to face her, ‘Not too short, Babička. Just below the ears,’ she said timidly.
‘When you’re big,’ said Babička, cutting off my sister’s braid with one snip, ‘you can decide for yourself. Don’t move. It won’t take long.’
My sister frowned and surrendered, lowering her head. My grandmother cut her hair exactly as she had Linda’s, without stopping for breath. As soon as she was finished with Klara, Babička turned towards me and called me over, ‘Come here, Michelle. You’re the last one.’
‘No, I’ll keep my hair long, thank you,’ I responded defiantly, playing with a lock of hair.
‘Don’t make a scene. The sooner we do it the better. Get over here!’
‘I’m fifteen years old. I’m free to –’
‘Quit the tantrums!’ she sharply interjected. Babička grabbed me by the arm and forced me to sit in front of her. ‘Even if you were twenty, as long as you live here, you do as I say.’
Screaming, I tried to wriggle free, but she was stronger than me. She twisted my wrist until I yelped in pain.
‘Quit squirming or I’ll hurt you!’ I felt her gather my long hair into a ponytail on my neck. She held it tightly; her scissors opened at the base of the bunched hair.
‘Let me go! You’re hurting me!’ I shouted, gripping onto the chair. I knew I would have to give in to her in the end, but I couldn’t stop myself going against her will.
It happened instantly; she cut off and threw my beautiful chestnut ponytail on the floor in front of me. She had won. I tried to hold back tears of rage. I clenched my teeth, silently crying inside, until she had finished. As soon as she let me go, I ran to my room to look at myself in the mirror.
The reflection of a young boy with a ridiculous fringe, bloodshot eyes and flushed cheeks stared back at me. With trembling hands, I touched the short tufts of hair around my ears and on the base of my neck. My head felt unexpectedly light, empty. In just a few minutes, Babička’s scissors had erased every trace of femininity.
The grey square building that was Nučice’s only school seemed even more menacing and grim under the leaden October sky. Mum said goodbye to us in front of the entrance. We were all put in classes with kids younger than us.
‘I’m sorry, but your Czech isn’t good enough. Until you have caught up, we can’t put you with children your own age,’ explained the headmistress. She looked at Klara and me with a concerned expression. ‘Come with me, you two. The secondary school classrooms are upstairs.’
Although Klara and I were in different classrooms, they were right next to each other. Walking in, I saw several pale, curious faces turn to stare at me. I went to take a seat at one of the empty desks at the back of the room. Passing by a little blonde boy, I realised he was pointing at my clothes. I was wearing an outfit that I liked a lot – a pair of turquoise leggings with a long, matching sweater that came mid-thigh. It was fashionable to dress this way in Baghdad.
‘What are you wearing? Your pyjamas?’ the boy whispered under his breath. ‘You must have just woken up.’ He laughed as he elbowed his neighbour.
I snapped my head towards him, regarding him disdainfully before I took my seat.
‘She’s a gypsy, can’t you see how dark she is?’ mumbled another boy sitting behind me, to my left.
‘I’m not a gypsy, stupid!’ I yelled back.
‘Did you hear that? She speaks our language!’ the blonde boy hissed again.
Humiliated, I crossed my arms and stared out the window, fantasising about running away, while the teacher started to read a poem about Czechoslovakia.
When it was recess time, we all went out to the courtyard. I immediately searched for my sisters. Klara was standing alone in a corner. As soon as she saw me, she ran to meet me with sad eyes. She had received the same treatment in her class.
‘Where’s Linda?’ she asked.
At that moment, in another corner of the courtyard near a swing, a small group of nine-year-olds started screaming and making a lot of commotion. There was a little g
irl bowing down, almost on her knees, in the middle of their circle. She was shaking her head, squeezing her hands against her ears. We rushed to our sister.
‘Leave her alone! Stop!’ I slapped their hands away and kicked wildly at those nearest. Linda’s tormentors sped off, frightened. Klara and I hugged our sister, attempting to calm her. She was trembling, loud sobs escaping from her body.
‘What did they do to you?’ I asked.
‘They said I’m a gypsy …’
I shouted furiously at her bullies at the other end of the playground, ‘Try that again and I’ll give you all a black eye. Do you understand?’
School continued this way for the first month. We kept on meeting up in the courtyard during break time, where I often came to blows with Linda’s classmates, just like the first day. They picked on her until she broke down. When we found her she would be curled up in a ball in a corner of the yard, her eyes swollen from crying. Klara let herself be insulted without retaliating. I lost so much weight during those weeks that I looked malnourished.
Bàsil’s letters were my only consolation, although at times they also made me sink further into a state of melancholy.
Baghdad, 17 October 1988
Dear Michelle,
It’s nearly winter here too, but it’s nothing compared to the cold that you tell me about. The sky is clear and on a nice day like today, the only thing missing is not being able to hear your voice, to see you. It’s a shame not to be able to at least telephone each other. The phone lines have been restored, but the prices are still very high. They’re still cleaning all of the debris from the streets. Otůr’s house has been demolished and they’re going to start building a new one soon.
Baghdad was so far away from me, it seemed lost forever. Yet Bàsil maintained his contact with me. He was so unchanged in his letters that I almost felt I could touch him; go out the door, cross the street and run into his arms. He wrote again:
The Girl from Baghdad Page 17