Veiled Freedom

by Jeanette Windle

  Only one person was paying no attention to the commotion inside the compound. A female, tall for an Afghan and slim even under a voluminous winter cloak, stood with her back to Steve in the middle of the street. At a fresh crescendo of animal growls, Steve punched a speed dial on his phone. As he did so, he slid out the contents of the mailer and studied them again.

  Steve waited until that slim female figure raised a hand to her ear to demand with incredulous irony, “Lion King?”

  “White as snow.”

  For all Steve Wilson’s talk of military time, the security contractor was more than a little late. But Amy found her irritation fading as she tilted a face alight with wonder to the softly falling snow. It had been growing steadily thicker since the opening scene of the DVD Jamil was projecting onto a whitewashed wall in the brickmaker’s courtyard. Though Amy’s suggestion they cut the festivities short had been greeted with perplexed opposition.

  “It will be just as cold in their own homes,” Farah had pointed out. “They do not have stoves like we do.”

  Amy couldn’t remember when she’d last been warm, her hands and feet presently so chilled she couldn’t feel them. But the enchantment of this gentle, white cascade had driven the cold from her mind. Since the New Hope team’s arrival, it had accumulated enough to drift across flat roofs and wall tops, transmuting heaped rubble and muddy ruts to sparkling white mounds, settling as well dust and smog so that the delighted breath Amy drew into her lungs tasted clean and fresh.

  Amy had seen snow before—in holiday movies and one childhood winter visit to some Chicago relatives. There’d been sledding then, a snowman. But that snow was packed down and dirty with the churned-up slush of snowplows and car tires. She’d never seen it drifting fresh and new from the sky. Never imagined just how glisteningly clean and pure and very, very white it could be.

  “Though your sins are like scarlet, they shall be white as snow.”

  Amy had never thought of Kabul as anything but ugly and dirty, a place of overwhelming devastation and human suffering. But at this moment under its carpet of white, the adobe hovels and winding dirt alleys climbing barren hillsides were as beautiful as a Christmas card.

  Jesus walked streets that must have looked just like this one. The manger where he was born could have been behind just such humble mud walls.

  Cheers and applause greeting what must be a battle scene by the movie’s Dari-dubbed soundtrack had drowned out any sound of an approaching car engine, so it wasn’t until Steve called that Amy spun around to see the Corolla pulled up behind the two-ton. Slapping her phone shut, Amy picked her way through the snow.

  As Steve rolled down the driver’s window, she bent to peer in, an impish smile belying her indignant demand. “Do you know how hard it is to find a movie around here no one can object to? The princesses don’t have enough clothes or are too independent. Aladdin thinks it’s okay to steal if you’re poor. At least The Lion King is only cute animals and the good guy winning. As you can see, even the parents have all turned out. Fortunately, we cooked extra. And by the way, what happened to military time? You’re late.”

  She’d caught Steve stuffing mail back inside a small envelope, and despite his levity on the phone, something in his expression drove the smile from Amy’s face. Glancing at the mailer in his hand, she asked quietly, “Is something wrong?”

  Steve’s face went blank as a quick toss landed the envelope on the dashboard. “Not at all. Just a last-minute glitch at the office. Sorry I’m late. If you’re ready now . . .”

  Maybe she’d imagined that earlier bleakness. As Steve leaned over to open the passenger door, Amy said hastily, “Sure, just let me find Jamil and tell him I’m leaving. He’s showing the movie and will get everything back to New Hope when it’s done.”

  Snow was certainly less messy on a Christmas card, Amy decided ruefully, trying to hurry and keep cloak and skirts out of the wet at the same time. But she didn’t have to go far, because just as she reached the two-ton, Jamil stepped out around its hood.

  “I’m glad to catch you out here. As you can see, my ride’s arrived. If you can make sure everything gets packed up after the movie and back to New Hope, I’ll be there in a few hours.”

  Jamil made no response to her instructions. He was staring past her toward the car. “It is with the American soldier you are going today? This is what you call a date then?”

  “No, of course not,” Amy answered, then stopped. “Well, I suppose in the strictest definition you could call it that. Today is a holiday in my country, like Eid here, and Steve—Mr. Wilson—has kindly invited me to accompany him to a celebration of it.”

  “To have fun? To get to know each other better?”

  “I can’t talk right now. We’re already late. I’ll see you all later this evening at New Hope.”

  Amy stomped snow from boots and clothes before sliding into the front seat.

  Steve nodded toward the two-ton as he backed up, tires spinning against the snow and mud. “Your driver doesn’t look too happy.”

  Amy turned her head to see that Jamil had still not moved but was watching their departure. Steve was right. Even through the falling snow, there was no mistaking the fury blazing from Jamil’s dark eyes.

  Jamil wasn’t sure which was churning the bile of his stomach to acid. Fury that the American soldier had intruded again into his personal universe. Or Ameera’s smile as she’d bent to the car’s open window. A smile that had been missing when she crossed over to speak to Jamil.

  Jamil withdrew his hostile glare from the retreating vehicle as an impatient vibration brought him back to the reason he’d emerged from the compound. Not Ameera’s own exit but because it was too loud inside for a phone conversation. Pulling his cell phone free from a vest pocket, he strode away from the music and cheers. “Yes, who is this?”

  “Has it been so long you’ve actually forgotten my voice?”

  The light amusement of the question turned acid to ice in Jamil’s stomach. As he listened, the chill of melting snow seeping through thin sandals and wool socks traveled up to squeeze air from his chest. When his caller finished speaking, Jamil turned back to the Eid celebration without so much as a glance toward where the car had vanished into a flurry of white. Time would deal with the American soldier.

  As for Ameera, how had he so easily permitted himself to live in a world where the smile of a woman, the cool challenge in a rival’s eyes, the doings of any other human being could matter enough to breach the careful shell he’d erected against thought and emotion?

  Neither fury nor hate played now across Jamil’s face but an expression as glacial as the packed snow beneath his sandals as he headed back into the compound to begin carrying out the instructions left to him by his employer.

  Both of them.

  Amy let out a sigh as the car fishtailed around a corner, leaving Jamil out of sight. “Sorry about that. Please don’t take it personally. Jamil’s got a thing about soldiers, especially American. I think maybe something happened to his family during the war. And I’m afraid he’s got the wrong idea we’re on some kind of a date, something he probably disapproves on Muslim moral grounds.”

  Steve made no response, perhaps because it was taking all his concentration to keep the vehicle from skidding out of the slippery ruts. Or from his tightened jaw, could he be regretting his invitation?

  At least Amy was warming up, the blast of the car heater thawing her face and hands delightfully. Pushing her head covering back to shake out her damp hair, Amy offered a lighter topic along with a tentative smile. “I’m just glad you reminded me it was Thanksgiving. My sister was supposed to fly in from Peru for Thanksgiving. I’d have hated to miss her. If I Skype this evening, they’ll still be cooking the turkey back home in Miami.”

  Amy squealed as the vehicle skidded across melting slush. The steering wheel spun rapidly in Steve’s hands. Then the road straightened out, and the front tires touched pavement.

  Turning right onto a
congested boulevard, Steve glanced over as though nothing had happened. “Sounds like your family’s scattered pretty far. You out here. A sister south of the equator. And you mentioned a brother in the military.”

  “Marines. Reconnaissance Force, specifically. That’s their Special Ops.” Amy made no effort to tone down the pride in her voice.

  Steve’s lips twitched as he murmured, “Yes, I’m aware of that.”

  “Though he’s been out a couple of years. He’s working for World Vision out of Seattle. I guess we’re kind of scattered, but we do try to be together for the holidays. My younger siblings will have driven down from Florida State last night for our church Thanksgiving dinner. If I can get away for Christmas, we’re hoping it’ll be all of us.”

  The twitch of Steve’s mouth had become a genuine smile.

  Amy looked at him suspiciously as he slowed for a checkpoint, then turned onto a main boulevard. “Did I say something funny?”

  Steve shook his head, a half grin still crooking his mouth. “It just sounds so Leave It to Beaver. Parents still married to each other. Brothers and sisters who get along. College students rushing home for a church Thanksgiving celebration. Let me guess—you were all straight-A students, maybe valedictorian?”

  Amy turned pink. “Actually, only two of us. And believe me, it’s not like we’re some kind of angels. As for church Thanksgiving, Miami-style—well, who wouldn’t rush home for American turkey with Cuban beans and rice, Brazilian samba, and a mariachi band?”

  “Hey, hey!” Steve braked to avoid a motorcycle carrying an entire family that was cutting across their path. “Don’t apologize for having a family that sticks together and loves each other. It’s nice to know there’s a few of those still around.”

  “I think you’d be surprised at how many are still around.” Amy eyed Steve. “And what about you? What’s your family like?”

  A deft turn of the steering wheel jockeyed the Corolla between a horse cart and an ancient bus. Then Steve shrugged. “I can think of few topics less interesting than my family tree.”

  “Oh no, you don’t. You’ve grilled me about my bio and job every time you see me. Now it’s your turn. Or we can just sit here the rest of the trip, because I’m done talking until you tell me something about yourself.”

  Steve’s eyes met Amy’s. “Are you always this pushy?”

  Amy grinned unrepentantly. “I’ve got three brothers. Are you always this evasive?”

  “Probably.” Steve let several blocks go by before he finally spoke up. “Fine. I’m an Army brat both sides, Dad a medic, Mom a survival instructor. Which meant a lot of moving around. Let’s just say I wasn’t a planned career choice. At least they were smart enough to stop at one.”

  Steve shrugged again. “Anyway, that lifestyle’s hard on relationships. My parents were divorced when I was six, which meant bouncing around even more, depending on who had family quarters. I saw Germany, Korea, and Japan before I was nine. That’s when both my parents were mobilized for the first Gulf War. My mom came back, my dad didn’t—a routine evac mission that went wrong. Chopper crashed, no survivors.”

  “That’s terrible. I am so sorry.” Amy was wishing now she hadn’t pushed so hard. No wonder the security contractor avoided his bio.

  “It didn’t turn out so bad. My mom was still deployed, so I ended up with my grandparents. My father’s side. My mom was raised in foster care and has no family I know of. Small-town Indiana may be a culture shock after Army bases, but it’s not a bad place to raise a hyperactive teenager. If I spent more time playing basketball and football than studying, my grandparents managed to keep me out of trouble. At least till Gran died when I was seventeen. By then school seemed pretty pointless, so instead of prom, I joined the Army. Been traveling ever since.”

  His brisk summary didn’t succeed in banishing compassion from Amy’s gaze. “I didn’t mean to bring up painful memories. Or to sound like—well, like I take the privileges I’ve had for granted. I’ve only to hear stories like yours or the women at New Hope or my mom’s own childhood in Cuba to know how lucky I am in my family and home or even things like getting to finish high school.”

  Steve’s eyebrow shot up. “Who says I didn’t finish high school? I joined the Army, not a street gang. I passed my GED before I was out of boot camp. Finished my bachelor’s doing foreign language training for Special Ops. Added a master’s in international relations during my last deployment in Iraq.”

  Amy gritted her teeth. Why was it every time she mustered up kindly thoughts toward this man, he managed to make her feel like an idiot? She was clearly wasting her sympathy. Steve was as tough as he looked, which happened to lie somewhere between steel nails and a bear trap.

  “As to family, my grandfather’s still alive and kicking. And my mom remarried when I was in my teens. Not armed forces, a pediatrician. He’s been good to her, and they’ve got a couple kids of their own, a boy and a girl just hitting their teens. I don’t see much of them—been overseas since they were out of diapers—but they’re decent kids. Blame them I can recognize a Lion King soundtrack when I hear it. Now, you did remember your passport?”

  They had just pulled up to a security checkpoint. A gate beyond marked the entrance to Camp Phoenix. While an Afghan guard used a mirror on the end of a steel pole to check their undercarriage, an expat soldier with a red, white, and blue flag on his lapel emerged from a concrete guard box with a clipboard. Taking Amy’s passport as she dug it from her shoulder bag, Steve passed it out with his own. “Steve Wilson, Condor Security, and party for the Thanksgiving service.”

  The soldier ran a pen down the clipboard, then rifled through the passports. “Your outfit’s on the list. Go on through.”

  Handing back her passport, Steve grinned at Amy as he drove through the gate. “You’re not strictly CS, but I was crossing my fingers an American passport would get you through. Now, are you ready for some toe-tapping holiday fun? Because you can count on that from Garwood and crew.”

  No man with such capacity for aggravation should have access to that irresistible smile. Amy grinned despite herself. Outside, the snow had stopped falling, and she felt warmed through. Whatever had earlier troubled her companion, he’d evidently pushed it aside to enjoy the day, and Amy made up her mind to do the same. “I’m more salsa than toe-tapping, but lead on.”

  On the outskirts of Kabul, Camp Phoenix was as sprawled out as a small town. Dirt alleys between prefabricated huts and shipping containers converted to living quarters were so slick with melting snow that Amy was thankful for her walking boots as well as Steve’s firm grip at her elbow. The holiday service was being held in the recreation center, a huge Quonset hut where sports equipment had been pushed back for folding chairs now filled with winter fatigues. Among the uniforms was a scattering of civilian dress, including Steve’s contractor friend, Phil Myers. Amy’s cheeks grew hot as she intercepted Phil’s knowing glance and the sudden ironic line of her companion’s mouth.

  The uniformed jazz chorus on a makeshift platform was as toe-tapping as promised, and by the time a lively Christmas medley had the audience clapping and stamping along, Amy was enjoying herself. Perhaps one reason she’d pushed Thanksgiving from her mind was the depressing recognition that she’d be with neither family nor friends, the date just another workday. But among these servicemen and women, the snow falling softly in her mind if no longer in sight, it felt like the holidays for the first time.

  Maybe they weren’t family, but they were her countrymen, and Amy was surprised at a fierce surge of patriotic pride as she looked around. Every soldier here was a volunteer, most so young they could be her college-age siblings, all away from home for the holidays to serve their country. And regardless of political wrangling, no one could deny these men and women as a body had served with dignity and honor and decency unmatched.

  “‘I’ll be home for Christmas . . .’”

  As the audience joined in fervently, Amy found herself swallowing hard.
She stole a glance at Steve, whose strong baritone rose without self-consciousness above her soprano. This had once been Steve’s world, and despite civilian dress, he still fit into this group as though he belonged in fatigues.

  Then as a tall, powerfully built African American man in Army chaplain uniform began to speak, Amy straightened up to listen. This must be Steve’s friend. The chaplain might have been anywhere from forty to sixty, his fitness making it hard to estimate age, head and face shaved clean so there was no hint of gray.

  “‘Though your sins are like scarlet, they shall be as white as snow.’ Maybe that doesn’t sound like a Thanksgiving theme to you. Me, I’m a Louisiana boy, and I had no idea what that meant until I flew in over the Hindu Kush a few years back in the dead of winter. We were fighting a little group called al-Qaeda who’d just hit our homeland and killed a few thousand of our people. I was edgy and nervous, a feeling you all know, and I couldn’t help wondering if our Chinook helicopter was in the crosshairs of some Stinger missile as we dropped into the most desolate country I’d ever seen. Then I saw the snow, mountains of it, so sparkling white it didn’t make sense anymore to apply that color to human beings who were tan and beige and pink, but certainly not what I was looking at.”

  A ripple of chuckles.

  “And I understood for the first time that God’s promise meant every bit of ugliness in my life could be scrubbed as clean and white as that snow. Isn’t that what the Christmas season that starts today is all about? In the darkest, deadest winter of human desolation, God stepped into our world in the person of Jesus Christ, blanketing the ugliness of our sin and despair with the pure, clean beauty of God’s love and mercy and redemption. As Isaiah tells us in chapter 1, verse 18, ‘Though your sins are like scarlet, they shall be as white as snow.’ That’s the true promise of Christmas.”