When the Grey Beetles Took Over Baghdad

by Mona Yahia

  Curry receives us with such nagging meows in the backyard, you would think he has not touched food for days. I pick up his bowl, carry it to the kitchen. While pouring the milk, I think of some trick I could play on him, rush upstairs to put on my disguise. The material feels pleasantly cool, surprisingly light, qualities which I had overlooked in the store. Slowly, I falter down the stairs, raising the black gown in order not to stumble over its hemline. In the kitchen, I veil my face up to the nose with the hood, then, the milk bowl in my hand, unlock the door to our backyard. Curry, who has been wailing, ready for the first opening crack, hushes in mid-meow. Instantly he recoils, swells to double his size. I must have scared him out of his wits! Sniggering, I uncover my face. Curry, who has never thought much of my sense of humour, stands his ground. I squat down to reassure him of my intentions. Too late. The cat has bent his back, ready for the fight. Curry! I call out, hoping he recognises my voice or his name. He hisses back, baring his teeth. I spill some milk on the floor to remind him of his hunger. Curry does not take his eyes off me. His irises, reduced to thin vertical lines in the sun, like the tubes of bar heaters, glare hostility, if not hatred. His blown-up tail continues to snake, thudding the ground. He is less than five feet from me. If I get up, he might well pounce on me. Carefully, I shift my hold from the edge of the bowl to its base, train it on Curry, then, throw the milk into his muzzle. Curry takes to his heels, scampering in terror. I call him back, convulsing with laughter. But the cat has skittered up the fence, fled to the neighbours.

  I refill the bowl with milk, enrich it with cream cheese for the sake of reconciliation. Poor Curry. He does not suspect our plans. He thinks we will stay here forever, just to feed him. How betrayed he will feel on that morning. He will meow for hours without reply! The least we can do is compensate him with some farewell meal when our big day comes. That is, if Sabah’s father keeps us in mind, remembers his word, before he too takes flight.

  For no Jew’s presence can be taken for granted nowadays.

  The first of such undertakings began earlier this summer. No sooner had the peace-treaty with the Kurds been declared, than Sasson travelled to the north, people said. He wandered through the Kurdish provinces, frequented local restaurants, studied faces, struck up trivial conversations before he voiced his unspeakable request only to hear the inevitable replies, with which he returned, heavy-hearted, to Baghdad. But Sass would not be daunted. Despite the thirty-mile restriction, the police checkpoints, the military patrols on the highway, he refused to relinquish his “suicidal plan”. Two of his friends had been executed, his cousin had been tortured to death, should he sit there waiting for his turn to be hanged? – he was said to have told his wife in one of their disputes. So he drove back to the north, who knows how many times, miraculously escaped discovery by the hordes of security men who roamed in the Kurdish regions, until he found the Kurd who was ready to smuggle the family out of the country. The man demanded four hundred dinars per person – to be paid beforehand – even though he could not guarantee the safety of their passage. Sasson could not guarantee the honesty of the Kurd either, but he took the chance.

  The news of his safe crossing to Iran shook up our community. No Saturday service had been so restless, they said. Wrapped in their prayer shawls, the men whispered the news, recited it during the Sabbath blessings. When ustad Heskel was called up to read from the Torah, he could not refrain from exhilaration, in godly recognition.

  Our Sass had made it! He had been escorted by Kurdish cavalry, people said. His exploit had been supported by Mulla Mustafa el-Barazani, the great leader. He had surmounted the perils of the mountains. He had escaped the merciless hands of the security men. He had worked miracles. He had provided the script for our vision.

  But whether this was in fact the turning-point in our lives would be determined only by the reaction of the government. What if Sasson’s brother had to pay with his head for the brave deed? What if the entire Jewish community were punished? Would the smuggler be trailed, sentenced, executed? Would the event have detrimental effects on the peace-treaty with the Kurds?

  One week passed. Two. Then three. None of our fears materialized.

  In the meantime, one more Jewish family fled the country. They were friends of Sasson, he must have taken them into his confidence, people said. They had left the lights on, the hose trickling in the garden, the washing hanging on the roof, the mezuzot nailed on the doorposts. The radio too was on, not too loud, just to simulate human presence. What they forgot however was to cancel the visit of the plumber who, days later, rang their bell with persistence. Too stubborn to give up, he called the neighbour, insisting he had heard voices inside. The neighbour, in his turn, called the landlord. The landlord called his lawyer. The lawyer called the police.

  The police called two lorries to load up the contents of the house.

  Shortly thereafter, several families escaped, within one or two days of each other. Through Haj Umran, through Halabja – easier routes, people said. The prices too were reduced: three hundred dinars per person. It was obvious that new smugglers were involved. More experienced, better organised. They picked up their clients from home, drove them straight to the border. The only thing one had to do was to get out of the car then walk over some planks, towards freedom.

  By midsummer, word spread that the thirty-mile restriction was no longer in force. Our people were perplexed. Elated. Suspicious. Unable to see through the schemes of the government. For the repealing of the restriction could not have suited their purpose better. If they were stopped on the way, Jews could pretend from now on to be going on holiday to Salah el-Din or Shaqlawa, popular summer resorts in the Kurdish provinces – places they would have to pass on their way to the border.

  Since then, four to five families had been disappearing weekly. Within the month, the police would burst into their houses. Through the local newspaper they would be notified that unless they reported to the residents’ registration office by this or that date, they would forfeit their Iraqi citizenship. Each crossing reassured us that the escape route was still in operation. With each escape the nervousness of those left behind intensified. Nobody could predict how long the government would maintain its closed-eye policy. Time was running out, faster every day. The race for information bordered on hysteria. People were evasive, uptight, reluctant to reveal their sources. Silence prolonged the life-span of the source. Silence was the mother of safety. Secrets lurked in every Jewish house, yet hardly leaked out. The secret of the one was the rumour of the second, the pursuit of the third, the trade of the fourth. Only hours before one’s own departure would one pass the name of the connection to one’s relatives or best friends.

  Like summer sales, cheaper bargains have turned up recently. One hundred dinars per person, provided you made it to the north on your own. The train was highly recommended – especially for single travellers. The luggage should be minimal – one suitcase per person. One hundred dinars with one suitcase, it has never been so cheap! But how can one strike such deals? Where is it possible to meet the Kurdish smuggler? Who is the Jewish intermediary? How safe were these enterprises? People gossiped no end, but once concrete information was requested, silence fell, closing down the legendary travel bureaux.

  The closest we have reached so far is Sabah’s father, my father’s former colleague. It was rumoured that he was organising such journeys for ninety dinars per person. Sabah’s father was quite indignant when my father brought up the matter directly to his face. May his hand be cut off if he had ever taken money from other Jews, he roared. He did not deny, however, that he himself was “enrolled” in some long list, initiated by someone whose name he could by no means reveal. Softened by father’s pleas for help, he eventually consented to have us join his family when their turn came, inshallah. In the meantime, we had better pack our suitcases, buy plenty of food cans, medicine, black robes for the women “just in case…”, plus other necessary items for the road – for we might be given v
ery short notice.

  —But it’s common knowledge, Lina! Escape routes are being sold like hot rolls in the casinos along Abu Nuwas’. The meeting place changes constantly, Dudi tells me, stroking the long thick sideburns he has finally succeeded in growing.

  —You’ve seen too many thrillers! Who would bring up such delicate subjects in coffee houses?

  —It’s less risky than hosting smugglers in your own house. I’m on my way to the river bank to see what I can smell…

  —Dudi, come to your senses! If it was so easy, we would have been on the other side of the border by now.

  —It’s just a stroll along Abu Nuwas. You either return with some clue, or you return empty-handed. We’ve got nothing to lose. Want to join me, or do you have a better way to waste your afternoon?

  Dudi waits in our garden, eager to set out, while I go inside to tell mother of our stroll, without revealing our real intentions. Mother gives me some change for the bus fare.

  —Remember, no word to Dudi about the abayas we bought this morning! Don’t let him pull anything from under your tongue.

  I close the front door, carrying two secrets, whose burden bears no relation to the little substance they contain. We stride up to the Masbah bookshop, from where we take the bus to the river bank. I fidget in my seat during the whole ride, unable to stop Dudi – by hint or gesture – from going over the names of runaway Jewish families. True, he is not explicitly saying they have escaped, but I know him too well to trust his discretion.

  However, it is only when we get down that Dudi unfolds his plan,

  —We’ll check every casino between Firdos and Semiramis. Just pop in as though we’re looking out for friends and see if there are any Jews sharing their table with Kurds. You can distinguish Kurds from Arabs, can’t you? They’re tall, stout people, often light-skinned and brown-haired. Survey the corners in particular ’cause they won’t be sitting in the middle of the lawn where everybody could listen to their conversation, right? We should also keep our eyes open for smugglers sitting alone. How to recognise them? Well, I guess most smugglers are chain-smokers and heavy drinkers. Now, if you have a hunch that something’s going on, pinch my arm. That’ll be our signal!

  Outside the Firdos, the waiter is hosing the pavement to cool the entrance to the casino. Neither the neon sign overhead nor the colourful bulbs on either side of the gate have been switched on yet. We climb down the steep stairs. One large family of over twenty people has taken up half the lawn. The only table in the shade, beside the myrtle hedge, is occupied by three greying men. To the best of my knowledge, none of them is Jewish. Their wine glasses stand empty, their cigarette-tray is filled with stubs. They seem engaged in some serious talk. The man who is sitting with his back to us is having his shoes shined. The young shoeblack is wiping his hands on his trousers – baggy, unmistakably Kurdish.

  —Well-built and light-skinned, all three. The hairy man in the middle has red-brown hair. With some luck, they could be Kurds! Yours or mine? Dudi whispers, sounding like some senior detective.

  —I’ll take care of them.

  I pad leisurely in their direction, my head lowered to the grass. My ear-ring is lost, I tell myself to enhance my make-believe. Crouching, groping under the table next to them, I manage to catch fragments of their conversation. Landlords, foremen, construction permits, lands in Medinet el-Dhubbat, Officers’ City. Satisfied, I get up, pretending to have found some tiny object. The man who is having his shoes shined is eyeing me from head to foot. I bet his hair smells of lotion, his feet of shoe polish. Some dandy. I wave Dudi to the stairs.

  —Contractors. Let’s go!

  The sun is half way down, heading west, towards the other bank of the river. In the Corniche, the coffee house beside the Firdos, they seem to be making preparations for some private party. The next one, the Tarboush, is exclusively for men. Dudi prefers to skip it rather than inspect it on his own. The Golden Nest is closed for repairs.

  Disillusioned, we drift down the promenade, looking over the chain of deserted green lawns.

  —We’re too early perhaps. Customers start coming after sunset. It’s still useful though to …

  —Sshh …, I interrupt him, cocking my head to the side, pointing out the voices behind us.

  We proceed quietly, our ears picking up some unfamiliar, incomprehensible speech. Unlike our harsh guttural tongue, this one is melodic, rich with soft round syllables which I immediately link with fleshy lips. I turn to see five foreign men walking behind us, perspiring in shabby, old-fashioned suits. Their complexion is pallid, nearly green. None of them has fleshy lips. In spite of their blond hair, they lack that replete, secure look, that carefree gait, so characteristic of the foreigners from England or the USA.

  —My name isn’t Dudi if these aren’t the microphone experts!

  —You mean Russians? Shiyu’eyyeen! Communists! I exclaim, my heart beating fast, my feet ready to run.

  —Yes, the very assholes who teach our government to plant ears in the walls!

  Before I have realised what is happening, Dudi turns round, greets them so to speak, in our language.

  —Say, awlad al-haram, bastards, are you planting ears in the river today? Feeding bugs to the fish, or how do you do it?

  The Russians stop walking, gape in surprise, exchange puzzled remarks.

  —Dudi, for your father’s sake, shut up!

  —We need your help, you see. We’re looking for smugglers, perhaps you’ve heard in which casino they’re meeting?

  —Dudi, have you gone out of your mind?

  —Come on, comrades, don’t tell me it’s your day off. Give us a hint. Don’t be such misers, he says, closing his fist to indicate stinginess.

  Surprise shifts to impatience, confusion to irritation – or that is what I read in their faces. Perhaps they have sensed the derisive note in Dudi’s voice. The tall bald man in the brown suit, distinctly older than the rest, says something which sets the others in motion.

  Dudi walks backwards, persistent in his teasing. I move closer to the river side of the street, wanting no part in his dubious game.

  —They say you fellows are chronically constipated, guess why? ’Cause once it’s out, you’ve got to share it with the other comrades, ha ha ha …

  The bald man in the brown suit seems to have lost patience. He quickens his pace towards Dudi, on the point of grabbing him by the shoulders, or pushing past him. The man, whose double chin sags to his collar-bone, holds back his friend with some short comment while indicating Dudi’s belly. The language sounds neither soft nor melodic this time. The entire group bursts into laughter. The short plump man speaks to Dudi, pats his shoulder, shakes his hand. Is it their polite way of dismissal? But then he grins – exposing two gold front teeth – makes some gag, I suppose, because it is received with renewed joviality. Dudi does not seem in the least bothered being the object of their ridicule. He emulates their horse laugh long enough to prove his invincibility, before he launches into his own joke.

  —When Karl Marx died, he was naturally sent to hell. He found two arrows at the entrance: one pointing right and reading “capitalist”, one pointing left and reading “communist”. What’s the difference? he asked. The ugly little devil guarding the gate replied: in the capitalist hell they’ve got fire, hot iron, pillories, racks, etc … In the communist hell, it’s basically the same equipment. Only on some days, they’re short of fire, on others they’ve run out of hot iron, or the racks are broken, or the torturers are on sick leave, ha ha ha …

  The bald man in the brown suit must have caught the name Marx, because he has been scowling since the beginning of the narration. The grimace made by the man with the gold teeth tells me he too has taken offence. Nevertheless, the entire group claps, with feigned ceremony, when Dudi has finished his story. Then the man with the double chin starts the next joke. I catch the word “sultan” within his flow of speech. Flushed crimson, the Russians start rolling, holding their bellies or stomping the groun
d. I wonder if their mockery, like Dudi’s, is bordering on insult. Passers-by stare curiously. I yank on Dudi’s sleeve, whisper we should leave, but to no effect. I remind him of the urgent matters we have to settle, but Dudi is too busy preparing himself for the next joke. I walk onwards, determined to dissociate myself from the boisterous group. Let them laugh each other down until the incomprehensible foreign words begin to hurt. Dudi’s loud voice follows me, roaring nonsense in the Moslem dialect. The idiot! Will he never grow up? He is yelling out my name. I quicken my pace. In no time, he catches up with me, still tittering, wiping his tears.

  —What a spoilsport you are, Lina! Why did you leave so abruptly? I can’t let you walk alone, I’m responsible for you!

  —You? Responsible for me? You’re talking dhrat, farts, nonsense! You could have got us both into trouble.

  —But why? They didn’t understand a single word! When it comes to Arabic, all foreigners are alike. They never learn it, even if they live here for twenty years.

  —What of the other passers-by? Were they Russians too?

  Dudi lets out one of his silly giggles which spurn the very notion of reason.

  —You can have fun with them till tomorrow morning, Dudi, who’s stopping you? I’m going home.

  Looking for the gap in the traffic through which I could cross to the other side, I notice the police van – closing in from the opposite direction. The policeman in the driver’s cab is giving us dirty looks. Or so I imagine. The van draws up some yards from us. By coincidence, inshallah. No, the driver is gesturing to us to halt. Have the Russians informed on us, or have we been tailed from the very start? We stand still, waiting for the two policemen to get out of the van, shoot us.