by N. H. Senzai
She inched back and caught sight of a group of men in military fatigues, lounging behind a row of barrels blocking the road. Metal glinted from holsters hanging from their shoulders. Rifles. Nadia gulped, remembering her father talking about the hundreds of checkpoints that had sprung up around the city, each manned by a different group, either affiliated with the Syrian army or one of the hundreds of rebel groups. One thing they all had in common was that they held you up, checked for identification cards, and interrogated you. If they didn’t like your answers, you could be beaten . . . or worse. Fear crept along the edges of her mind, weighing down her limbs. She eyed an empty juice stall, broken blenders littering the counter. I could just rest there for a bit. . . .
No you don’t, reprimanded a voice inside her head. Keep moving.
Teeth gritted, she scurried back along the alley and merged onto a side street. Shadowy faces stared down at her from apartment buildings that lined both sides of the street, remarkably untouched by the bullets and bomb blasts. As she neared the end of the street, she heard a plaintive meow and stopped, filled with hope. But it was a blue-eyed Siamese yowling from atop a fence.
Disappointed, she rounded the corner, then froze. In front of her was a familiar shopwindow. Through dirty, cracked glass she saw a room painted powder pink. Memories flooded back: her first haircut while sitting primly on a purple leather chair; manicures with her cousins and aunts; Razan’s image reflected in the glittering mirror, a white veil over a fancy hairdo for her wedding. But now, Caramel Salon stood abandoned, its stylish owner, Christine, long gone, along with the bottles of coconut-scented shampoo, henna conditioners, hair sprays, pomades, and latest colors of nail polish—Vermillion, Amethyst, and Mink Pink.
A distinct image flared in her mind, of being eight, sitting in a corner as her mother got her hair cut. She’d wandered over to the manicure station to admire the collection of nail polish, each a brilliant shade of fabulous. When she thought no one was looking, she’d slipped a bottle into her pocket. As they’d prepared to leave, Christine had given her a wink and whispered in her ear, “I hope your nails look pretty—Tangerine Dreams is one of my favorites.” Embarrassed, and terrified her mother would find out, she’d tried to give it back, but Christine had told her to keep it. Nadia pulled off one of her mittens and glanced down at her cold hand, soft from Pond’s cream, nails painted Dusty Rose.
Her eyes shifted, catching her reflection in the mirror. A stranger stared back at her: face covered in dust, hollowed cheeks marked with pale white scars. A cut, caked with dry blood, from where her head had hit the Jeep. Her hair, once thick and wavy, had been hacked off because of lice. Spiky and short, it now lay stuffed under an ugly olive-green woolen cap that had belonged to her father. It matched the bulky green coat he’d always worn but had forgotten the last time he was home.
Her friend Rima’s voice came tauntingly back—You look just like Carmen! The singer with the strikingly beautiful features, who’d won Arab Idol. “Beautiful” is not an adjective anyone would use for me now, she thought bitterly. Only the eyes were the same, a deep, velvety aquamarine.
Chapter Five
October 9, 2013 5:19 p.m.
Nadia fled. The blocks passed in a blur until her lungs felt like they’d burst. Wheezing, she stopped along the road, doubling over to catch her breath.
“Are you okay, child?” asked an old woman, her lined face burdened by a sadness that so many in the city wore. Nadia nodded, watching the woman and her grandchildren scavenge through the remains of what had been a grocery store. A tiny girl in a ragged dress squealed, holding up a can of ful, stewed beans.
Nadia’s stomach growled. She couldn’t remember when she’d last eaten. She was about to thank the woman for her concern but saw that she was already retreating into the shadows. Nadia looked over her shoulder and spotted a black Mercedes. Inside, men in black leather jackets and sunglasses blew smoke out the rolled-down windows. Mukhabarat. Nadia’s instinct was to hide, but there was nowhere to go. Bent low, she darted up the street, past rubbish heaps, trying to be as inconspicuous as a mouse.
Her footsteps slowed as she ended up in a cul-de-sac, surrounded by sagging apartments, faint echoes of laughter ricocheting against the walls. Strange, she thought. She moved toward a gate between two buildings. The warm glow of bright yellow monkey bars came into view, along with a swing set rigged together with rope, a teeter-totter rusty with age, and a towering pile of sand. It was a sprawling park where a dozen rowdy kids roamed with joyful abandon. Nadia stood perplexed, wondering how they could be out playing in the middle of a war zone. A boy about Yusuf’s age, in dirty jeans and a sweater too large for his scrawny frame, walked by, lugging a sloshing plastic bucket.
Water, thought Nadia, licking her parched lips. “Hey,” she croaked, hoping to get a cool mouthful. The boy, not hearing her, dragged the bucket over to a series of mounds that bordered the playground. Nadia followed. “Can I get a drink?” she blurted.
The boy paused. “Make it quick, and not too much.” He handed her a plastic cup.
Quickly she slurped a full cup of the cool water, and took another to rinse her hands and face before he could complain. As soon as she’d finished, he lugged the bucket over to a mound covered with shards of white stone, and carefully poured water over it. “What are you doing?” she asked.
“I’m watering Mommy,” he replied.
Nadia frowned. “Watering your mother?”
He looked at her like that was the kind of idiotic question only outsiders asked. “If I water her, then something will grow for sure, to give her shade.”
His mother’s grave. “I—I’m sorry,” she stammered, eyeing the rows of mounds hugging the playground on all sides.
The boy shrugged. “It was her heart. We wanted to take her to the hospital but it was gone. Destroyed by bombs. We couldn’t find anyone to help her in time.”
“Hey,” cried out a girl in long pigtails, pointing to a fresh mound. “Splash some on the martyrs too.”
The boy nodded and poured water on the other graves.
“Martyrs?” Nadia asked.
“They are the men of our neighborhood,” he said. “Fighting that dirty kalb, Assad.”
Nadia couldn’t help but look over her shoulder when the boy called President Assad a dog. It was against the law to criticize the government.
“All these people are martyrs?” Nadia asked.
For the second time, the boy looked at her like she was an idiot. “No. They are fathers, cousins, aunts, and sisters.”
“Hey, don’t water those!” shouted the pigtailed girl, her dirty face red. The boy had neared a section cordoned off with blue rope.
“Who are they?” asked Nadia.
“Shabiha,” said the boy.
Nadia’s skin crawled. Shabiha . . . ghosts. Known for their brutal, unmerciful efficiency, they were armed thugs, loyal only to Assad, carrying out his dirty work. Dressed in black, wearing white trainers, they came in like apparitions and left death in their wake. “Why are they here?” she whispered, not wanting to be near them even if they were dead.
“They got blown up over there,” he said, pointing to the opposite side of the blue rope, a wide section that stretched the length of the playground. “There were three, or maybe four. We couldn’t tell since there were so many body parts. But they had to be buried, so the grown-ups dumped sand on them.”
“Don’t cross that line,” said the girl, waving her spatula with authority as she played with dented pots and pans in the sand pit. “That’s where they’re fighting.”
It dawned on Nadia how these kids could play here so openly: The playground lay in a no-man’s land. Two blocks beyond the blue line lay government soldiers and snipers. Assad’s tanks and helicopters would not bomb here, or they would risk hitting their own men. Rebel forces lay in the other direction. Nadia stared at the graves, feeling sick. Enemies fighting in life were now lying together in death. And interspersed between them were th
e civilians whose lives they’d turned into ash.
“Jamal!” cried a boy with missing front teeth who was hanging from the monkey bars. He waved at the boy with the bucket. “Let’s play Assad’s army and rebels.”
“I’m a rebel this time!” shouted Jamal, dropping his bucket. He pulled a gun from his pocket, assembled from sticks, twine, and bits of plastic, and struck a pose that again reminded her of her brother, Yusuf.
Her brother . . . “I have to go,” she blurted out.
Jamal was about to say something, when a muffled boom rang out in the distance, past the row of apartment buildings. The children froze.
“Mortar,” called the girl with the pigtails, and the others nodded.
“Yeah,” said the boy with missing teeth. “Definitely not tank rounds.”
“Higher pitch,” added Jamal.
Like Nadia, these kids recognized the sounds that accompanied death. Keep moving. It’s going to be dark soon. She stepped out onto the scraggly grass. “Bye,” she called out.
A chorus of good-byes sang out behind her as Nadia sprinted in the opposite direction from the blue line, going north. At the edge of the battleground, she clung to a line of sheets that had been hung as a protection against snipers. Before the war, these same sheets had served a very different purpose, providing privacy and protection against the sun. She turned and waved to the kids and slipped into a side street as another mortar rumbled behind her, followed by the warning call from a woman on a balcony, yelling at the kids to come inside.
Chapter Six
October 9, 2013 6:26 p.m.
Dusk licked the edges of the leaden sky, unfurling tendrils of pink and orange along the horizon, sending a shiver of worry through Nadia. Night was quickly approaching, and although the cover of darkness would aid in shrouding her from prying eyes, it would also make it harder for her to see where she was going. She’d left the playground over half an hour ago, all the while searching for familiar landmarks that would help direct her to the mosque. But entire city blocks had been reduced to rubble, and buildings she remembered were scarred and unrecognizable.
Nadia paused to catch her breath at the next intersection, where a makeshift market stood, filled with people selling personal belongings or items they’d somehow procured from outside the city. A woman displayed used clothing and beside her a man hawked a television, stereo, and refrigerator. But in a city without electricity, they were useless. Ignoring the boy trying desperately to sell his bicycle, most congregated around a man presiding over plump vegetables, all at exorbitant sums that few could afford. Nadia stared longingly at a bright red tomato and hurried on.
Finally, she spotted something she knew: the sign for Palmyra Boulangerie. It hung over a desolate shop, its exquisite desserts long gone. Windows shattered, door broken in, its shelves were bare. Once they’d carried the cookies she adored—armouch, crunchy cinnamon meringue studded with walnuts. Next door lay the remains of the little stationery shop Razan had loved. Saddened but relieved that she had an idea where she was, Nadia pushed on. Hopefully, she’d soon spot another site that would help guide her.
But twenty minutes later, having passed the car dealership where her uncle had purchased the Jeep that had saved her life, panic bloomed in her heart. Bilal Mosque shouldn’t be this far, she thought as a terrible certainty set in. Lost. I’m lost. She stumbled to a stop in front of an appliance store, its roof caved in, the innards of refrigerators and stoves oozing from all sides. Somewhere, she’d taken a wrong turn. But where? Maybe I should have taken a right, not a left, after the car dealership, she thought, her mental map fuzzy. Bilal Mosque was supposed to be around eight blocks up from the dealership, and the dental clinic not far from that. She trudged back to the car dealership, her leg aching, and took a right at the corner this time. But no mosque materialized on the eighth, ninth, or tenth street.
The last time she’d seen the mosque’s elegant green dome was when she’d been on the back of her brother Jad’s motorcycle, and it was instantly recognizable. Her steps faltered as the old memory came to life, of riding with her good-natured brother as he wove through traffic, going faster at her urging. Heat flared across her cheeks. I lied to him. Told him that Mama said it was okay for him to take me to the audition. Nadia had known the moment Rima had shown her the advertisement on the television station’s website requesting models her age that her mother would never let her go. So she’d tricked Jad into taking her. She’d then beaten out over a hundred other girls to win the part. Back at home, she’d defiantly told her parents the news, and in the end, her father’s good humor had overcome her mother’s disapproval. She’d been reprimanded, but they’d let her appear in the television commercial.
The memory sent a thrill through her heart, but the golden spark quickly turned to ash. What use is it now? To have been chosen to smile in front of a camera, holding a big box of powdered milk? She’d been recognized on the streets for a few months after the commercial had run, and become a celebrity at school, with girls vying to sit next to her at lunch. But the fame had faded, like the fleeting blossoms of the apricot trees that bloomed in the garden of her grandparents’ country house. And now? Now it doesn’t matter at all. Shoving aside the bittersweet thoughts, Nadia realized she had to retrace her steps, and fast. She bit her lip, staring up at the full moon glowing behind the clouds. Her mother and aunts had probably met up with the men, and she prayed they hadn’t left.
Start back at the car dealership, she thought, turning back around. Maybe I have to go another direction this time. She ran, passing a tire and part of a carburetor crumbled on the street. She jogged on while lecturing herself that she should have paid more attention when her mother drove her to the dentist. I am the harebrained hamster that Razan always accuses me of being, she thought, jaw clenched. But after nearly an hour of searching, there was no mosque anywhere. A sob caught in her throat, threatening to suffocate her. If she couldn’t find the mosque, there was no way to figure out how to reach Dr. Asbahi’s clinic.
The heady mixture of anger and adrenaline that had driven her this far evaporated. She spotted a man scurrying up the street across from her. Throat parched, she called out to him, to ask how to find her way, but he hurried on, ignoring her. Exhausted, she hobbled toward the tattered awning of what used to be a restaurant and leaned against the front wall. The remaining building had been reduced to rubble, a crushed mess of tables and chairs, utensils, pans, broken plates, and hints of spilled flour and smashed spice bottles. Along the window fluttered faded pictures from the menu; creamy hummus with pita bread; lemony fattoush salad; kabobs cooked with sour cherries; lahm bi ajeen, a pizza with lamb; and one of her favorites, juicy links of sujuk, spicy sausages, and garlicky potatoes. A violent rumble protested from her stomach. Her last meal had been a thin rice porridge she’d helped Nana prepare the night before. It had been the last of the rice, a few bouillon cubes, and spices. All the other scraps of food had been packed away for their trip before they left.
She rested her head against the surprisingly intact window, letting the tears run down her face. Left. They all left me, even Mishmish. How could they?
As she wallowed in self-pity, a voice echoed from her memory, from when they’d been fleeing early that morning: I don’t believe it—she is alive. . . . Find her!
Nana. Her grandmother hadn’t believed she was dead. She’d wanted to stay and look for her. Nadia’s heart rate quickened. Nana. Always her confidant, the one who loved watching old movies and soaps as much as she did, and the one who’d always told her she should reach for the stars and be who she wanted to be . . . but with a bit more decorum and manners. Nadia smiled. Nana would be at the clinic, forcing them to at least wait through the night for her.
Hope burned through the haze of hunger and exhaustion. She stared out over the street and was startled to see that the wind had picked up, dragging a trail of tattered newspaper and clanking soda cans. Then, all of a sudden, she could smell it—a familiar sweet
, pungent scent. Rain. A memory came tumbling back, of standing with her father on the balcony, laughing as a rainstorm sprinkled their upturned faces. She’d asked him about the smell that mysteriously appeared when it was about to rain, and he’d been more than happy to talk about his favorite subject: chemistry. The unique odor came from a type of oxygen—ozone, he’d called it, from the Greek word meaning “smelling.”
You need to find shelter, warned a voice inside her head as she pushed away the memory. You’re already lost—it’s dark . . . dangerous. . . . Once the rain stops, find someone to give you directions to the clinic.
A crack of lightning illuminated the sky, followed seconds later by the crash of thunder. Nadia scurried from under the awning, her bag heavy against her back. Without sparing her even a minute to find cover, the first daggers of icy rain lashed against her face.
Blindly she ran down the street, scanning desperately for a place to hide. The street was deserted. She skipped the first storefront, which was blocked by a rolling metal gate, and collapsed against the door to a butcher shop. But the handle wouldn’t budge. Locked. She scurried to the next, a tailor. Also locked. The windows were broken, but she couldn’t crawl through without getting cut. As rain soaked through her coat, she crashed against the next door, desperately twisting the handle. Locked. With a cry of fury, she shoved hard with her shoulder. And to her surprise, it swung inward.
Nadia careened inside, toppling to the dusty floor. She lay there a second, teeth chattering from the cold, listening. But besides the drum of rain, it was silent. She opened her bag and rooted around for her flashlight and then stood. Everyone in her family had packed a flashlight; they had hoarded batteries for the past few months. Deep gashes in the wooden frame hinted that the door had been pried open. It hung loose, the lock useless. With trembling, mittened fingers she pushed it closed, hoping to find something to wedge it shut. Her flashlight revealed counters running along both sides of the long, rectangular room. Beyond them rose narrow shelves, mostly bare. A few bottles and packets lay scattered. The arc of light moved to the back wall, pinned with advertisements for blood pressure medicine, lipsticks, eye drops, and pills to stop flatulence.