Escape from Aleppo

by N. H. Senzai

  “In the morning,” said Tarek, patting him on the shoulder. “For now, we should just get some rest.”

  “We’ll go look for blankets,” said Nadia as they each took a lit candle from Tarek. “Why don’t you keep an eye on Ammo?”

  Trying to ignore the ache gnawing at her insides, Nadia led Basel back to the front door, where a set of stairs led to the second floor. The final step opened out onto an airy sitting room. She headed toward the first door. A double bed sat against the wall, covered with a frilly pink duvet, a jumble of toys littering the floor. A desk sat below the shuttered window, piled with art supplies.

  Basel hurried over to examine a pad of fine white paper and an expensive set of colored pencils. “This is so nice,” he whispered.

  Nadia spotted a CD player and small set of speakers sitting on the bookshelf. It was similar to a set Jad had often let her use. She flipped it on eagerly. It works, she thought happily. The batteries are charged. She’d have to find some CDs. She inched along a wide bookshelf, holding her candle. Books . . . She thought fondly of the hours she’d spent reading to Basel, appreciating Scheherazade’s ability to take them on a journey through words. A familiar title caught her eye, one her brother and cousins had fought over when they first got it. They’d tried to get her to read it too, but the idea of plodding through such a thick book about a boy wizard hadn’t interested her much. She pulled it out and flipped through the pages, a paragraph catching her eye.

  He had never seen so many things he liked to eat on one table: roast beef, roast chicken, pork chops and lamb chops, sausages, bacon and steak, boiled potatoes, roast potatoes, fries, Yorkshire pudding, peas, carrots, gravy, ketchup, and, for some strange reason, peppermint humbugs.

  Nadia stared at the words, saliva pooling in her mouth. Before she realized what she was doing, she crumpled the page, ready to stuff it in her mouth. She stopped herself in time and smoothed the paper with a shaking hand.

  “This is a warm one,” said Basel, lugging the duvet, along with the art supplies.

  Nadia tucked the book under her arm, grabbed the CD player, and headed to the room across the hall. An unmade bed sat along a wall lined with posters of sports cars. Basel tiptoed past clothes strewn across the floor to check out a huge stereo sitting next to a broken computer monitor. Definitely a boy’s room, she thought. A teenage boy. She instructed Basel to grab some dry clothes for himself and Tarek, and headed to the other room across the hall. The door swung open but stopped short, thudding against something solid. The flashlight revealed a fancy master bedroom, filled with ornate furniture and heavy silk drapes. About to step inside, she sniffed something . . . something rotten. She knew from experience that it wasn’t the stink of a dead body, and even though her instincts told her to leave it alone, she inched forward and peered behind the door. It was a canvas bag, left by someone in a hurry. Curiosity got the best of her and she held her nose and yanked open the zipper. Inside lay a plastic bag, dripping with soggy tomatoes and cucumbers, reduced to green slime. Beneath it sat another bag, with maggots crawling over a chunk of meat. She jerked away, kicking the canvas in disgust. But as her foot hit the bag, she heard a distinctive clang.

  • • •

  Nadia awoke with a start, Mishmish curled up beside her head, cold nose in her ear. She lay there, wondering if it had all been a dream. But it wasn’t, she thought. They’d feasted on canned grape leaves stuffed with rice and pine nuts, sweet corn, corned beef, stewed okra, and sardines. And cookies, though a bit stale, and hot tea liberally sweetened with honey. As they’d sat in front of the fire in dry clothes, Nadia had taught the boys card games she’d played with her cousins, and for the first time in months, she’d been rolling on the floor, laughing at Basel’s antics and Tarek’s dry jokes. Even Ammo Mazen had perked up and given Basel advice on how to play his hand. But when Nadia helped fix a plate of food for the old man, she’d been struck by how feeble he’d become, eyes dull, thin cheeks sunken. The exertion of the last few days had taken their toll. Deeply troubled, she’d handed him two pills from his bottle, and after swallowing them, he’d lain down.

  Now, snuggled beneath a fluffy pink bedspread, she watched the embers from the fire, thinking that despite all that had happened so far, they were still alive. Insha’Allah, they’d be in Turkey soon, with her family. She slipped out from beneath her covers. Ammo Mazen and Tarek still slept, but Basel sat hunched over a coffee table, his fingers flying across the crisp white paper, pencils in hand. Creeping up from behind, Nadia peered over his shoulder. She was amazed by what she saw. A pigeon, its feathers glinting, took flight across one page. Beside it was an intricate silver astrolabe, like they’d seen at Professor Laila’s secret hideout. But it was the picture he was currently drawing that caught her breath. In black, gray, and red, a little boy stood huddled next to an old woman, a basket of lemons in her hand. A helicopter flew above, spraying bullets over a collapsed apartment building. Bodies lay on the grass, blood seeping into the dirt. Her heart constricted. All this time, he hadn’t said a word about what he’d been through, but here it was, in picture form.

  Alef Layla, she thought. I should read him a story . . . to get his mind off things. She hurried out of the house and greeted Jamila with a gentle scratch under her chin before going to the cart. The air was crisp and clean, the sky a bright shade of blue. As she reached for the tarp, she noticed that the cart looked banged up, damaged from its wild ride through the souq. Ammo Mazen’s hidden compartment was wide open, the lock broken. Worried that his important possessions had tumbled out, she reached inside. Her fingers encountered cold metal . . . the gun. She nudged it aside, reached further inside, and encountered the velvet bag, bulging with gold bars and banknotes. Trapped behind it lay a plastic bag. Relief flowed over her, and something else. Curiosity. Before she realized what she was doing, she tugged it forward. In her rush, the flimsy plastic caught on a bent nail, sending the contents flying to the ground: over a dozen badges and identification cards. Confused, she bent to pick them up.

  They all had pictures of Ammo Mazen at various ages. But the names . . . they’re different, she thought. She picked up an old, faded card. A smiling teenager stared back at her, familiar eyes sparkling with amber flecks. The name on the card was Ahmed Mazen Makhlouf. Ahmed. That’s what Sulaiman called him. Her eyes fell on the qayd, his father or grandfather’s village or neighborhood of origin. Qardaha. Ya Allah, she thought, eyes fixed in disbelief. It was the ancestral village of the Assad family, where Hafez and his eldest son were buried. But Ammo Mazen said he was from Aleppo. . . . Her memory sorted through their conversations over the past few days. He said he was from a mountain village . . . but there are no mountains in Aleppo. He had been lying. With shaking fingers, she lifted up an official-looking badge with a middle-aged Ahmed Mazen Makhlouf, face stern, hair dark and wavy. Over a white collared shirt, he wore a black leather jacket. His job, listed on the badge, was that of a commander of the mukhabarat.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  October 12, 2013 4:21 p.m.

  It was late afternoon by the time they reluctantly left the idyllic courtyard house that had given them protection and sustenance. Tarek had stumbled onto a map of the country in an office in the back of the house. They’d pored over it, Ammo Mazen pointing out the best route with a shaky hand while Nadia traced it with a red pencil. Rested and fed, with no more errands to distract them, they efficiently trudged north through the last bit of the city, avoiding the main roads and circumventing rebel checkpoints. Thankfully, there weren’t many. What would have taken them less than half an hour by car was taking them four hours on foot.

  At least it isn’t raining, thought Nadia with a shiver, glancing up at the darkening sky. She tightened her coat against the bitter wind, her thoughts deeply troubled as she glanced back at Tarek, who followed behind the cart. I should have told him what I found.

  After quickly returning the identification cards to the secret compartment and sealing it as best she c
ould, she’d gone back to the sitting room with Alef Layla tucked under her arm. She felt dizzy with the agony of betrayal, anger, and fear swirling inside her. She’d wanted to jerk Tarek awake and tell him what she’d learned, then confront Ammo Mazen. Instead, she’d paused at the door, watching them sleep in the only precious stretch of peace they’d had in days. She had added wood to the fire and read the tale of Nur al-Din and Miriam the Sash-Maker to Basel, hoping to talk to Tarek as soon as he woke up.

  But Ammo Mazen had woken first, shivering, lungs struggling to pull in raspy breaths. Alarmed, Nadia piled on blankets and gave him two pills, just as Tarek hurried over. He’d been at the old man’s side since then, whispering desperate prayers for health, while Basel gave him sips of hot tea. Nadia’s anger deflated like a punctured balloon, though a needle of betrayal remained. From the moment she’d met the old man, he’d surprised her at every turn. He could have left her at the pharmacy or the dental office, but he’d promised to help her and then the boys too. Perhaps they did provide some kind of cover from pursuers, but he’d kept his word, as he had with so many others: Alaa, Professor Laila, the bishop, and even her beloved Haleb, by saving its historical artifacts with his secretive ways. Over the past few days, she’d been softened by his kindness, and in turn had grown to love him in an odd way. But her affection for him warred with the truth that he had lied about who he was.

  Does it matter? whispered a voice at the edge of her mind. Yes, he was a mukhabarat commander, but he definitely didn’t act like one now. Frustrated, she kicked a rock from the road, savoring the pain as it connected with her toe. It also jolted her back to reality: They’d reached the northern edge of the city.

  “Stop,” whispered Nadia, bringing Jamila to a halt beside a silent office building that rose along a wide, two-lane road. On the other side they could see hulking, shadowy structures; it was the sprawling industrial complex, home to factories, machine shops, and warehouses. Her grandfather had once owned a phosphate processing plant here; they’d sold it many years back to invest in a larger factory. The main highway north lay just beyond the plant, slightly to the west.

  “It’s really quiet,” said Basel in a hushed voice.

  Nadia nodded, taking a deep breath. She glanced back at Tarek.

  “Ammo is asleep,” he whispered.

  “We need to keep moving,” said Nadia, gently nudging Jamila across the road. As they made their way through the deserted jungle of factories, many stripped of machinery and equipment, she relaxed, and dug around in her backpack to pull out a CD she’d found in the boy’s room. She slipped it into the CD player, hoping to push away the warring emotions in her head. She yelped in pain as a harsh screeching pummeled her eardrums, forcing her to yank out the earbuds. “Ow,” she grumbled, turning it off. The stupid thing was supposed to be ballads by Amr Diab; instead it was some awful techno, give-yourself-a-headache-type stuff. Not wanting to waste the batteries, she slipped it back into her pack, next to the speakers and other odds and ends she’d scavenged from the house thinking they might be needed at the refugee camp.

  Nadia’s thoughts turned north to Turkey, imagining what it would be like. Life would not be easy there, she knew. After her family had made the decision to go, she’d sought out pictures and news clips of the refugee camps, and the images had scared her: rows and rows of overcrowded tents, little or no access to jobs for adults or schools for kids, inhabitants jostling for food, water, and medicine. But it was better than here, and she’d be with her family, which was the most important thing. What came after was in Allah’s hands. She sighed, glancing at Mishmish, who sat at his favorite spot near Jamila’s tail. He was licking himself, trying to get rid of the dust and grime on his matted fur. As she grinned at his fastidiousness, he paused, ears cocked, nose twitching.

  “There’s a fire burning somewhere,” said Basel, sniffing as he stared at the sky, studded with a shimmer of stars, a backdrop for a nearly full moon.

  The acrid smell of burning rubber grew stronger as they plodded northwest along the dark and narrow roads that wound through the complex. Nadia led them past a series of desolate processing plants, factories, and abandoned warehouses. Along the way they saw a few small restaurants that had once served the thousands of workers who’d labored here. Nadia was tempted to search a small café for supplies; a cup of hot sweet tea was so very tempting. But there’s no time, she thought with a sigh. She eyed a warehouse on the other side of the road and caught a familiar scent bobbing in the wind. Phosphate, she thought, the metallic tinge tickling her nose.

  “Something is not right,” muttered Basel, tugging at her coat sleeve and pointing to a plume of smoke rising from the other side of a brand-new building on the left, its construction halted because of the war.

  Nadia nodded, cautiously pulling in Jamila, who balked at being slowed. The smell of smoke was stronger as they passed bulldozers stalled on the side of the road and an idle crane leaning against the building’s rooftop. Nadia was about to call out to Tarek that they should stop, but Jamila got it into her head to pick up her pace. She trotted around a bulldozer and along the length of the building, waking Ammo Mazen. As the kids ran to keep up, Ammo Mazen sat up, gripping the sides of the cart. It wasn’t until they stumbled onto a sprawling parking lot that Jamila slowed. They glimpsed flames, partially obscured by a line of broken-down cars.

  “Children, turn back,” whispered Ammo Mazen. “This doesn’t look safe.” Nadia pulled on Jamila’s reins, but it was too late.

  Half a dozen shadowy figures stood around the fire, which blazed in a metal drum. “Stop!” shouted an imposing young man, as he and the others—teenagers, really—circled around them like a pack of wolves. Scruffy, bloodied, wearing mismatched military fatigues, they carried an odd assortment of guns and knives. Nadia and the boys huddled around the cart, Mishmish hissing. Before she knew what she was doing, Nadia unhooked his leash, and a blur of orange disappeared into the darkness.

  The one who’d told them to stop stepped forward. “What have we here?” he drawled with a wolfish grin.

  “We are merely passing through,” said Ammo Mazen, holding up his hands.

  “I’ll be the one to determine that,” said the leader. “Got any money? Food?”

  “I’m afraid we don’t have any money, but you are welcome to our food,” said Ammo Mazen, voice calm, wincing as he tried to move. Tarek and Basel reached out to help. He’d barely descended from the cart when the leader yanked off the tarp and began to paw through the tools and utensils. Nadia eyed the secret compartment. She glanced up and spotted a smooth-cheeked boy, no older than seventeen, standing across from them. Catching Nadia’s gaze, he lowered his gaze, ashamed. But he did nothing to stop the others from rifling through Ammo Mazen’s things.

  The leader took the cans of food they’d saved and tossed it to his friends. “This will barely feed three of us,” he growled, eyeing Jamila. “We’ll eat this nag. It’ll be tasty, grilled.”

  Shaking, fists clenched, Tarek stepped forward. “You can’t eat her,” he croaked.

  “Of course we can,” said the leader.

  “It’s . . . it’s haram, religiously not allowed, to eat a donkey,” Tarek tried to reason. “Horses and mules are okay as food, but not a donkey.”

  “Haram?” snickered the leader. “Who are you to give me a religious lecture?”

  “You will be judged for your misdeeds,” blurted Tarek. “And punished!”

  Shut up . . . , thought Nadia, tugging on Tarek’s shirt.

  “Punished?” growled the leader. “Are you going to punish me, little man?”

  Blood drained from Tarek’s face, leaving it ghostly white.

  Ammo Mazen stood shivering, his face pale, eyes distressed. “Young man, I understand your desperation, but this donkey—” He stopped short as the leader lunged forward and slammed the butt of his rifle into his forehead.

  A scream rose up from Nadia’s throat as she stared at the old man, knocked unconscious.
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  “Shut up!” yelled the leader, grabbing Jamila’s reins. “Get lost.”

  Nadia stared bleakly at the poor animal as they pulled her toward the fire, beating her with a stick when she resisted.

  “We have to go,” urged Basel, trembling as he eyed the retreating figures.

  “Yes,” croaked Nadia. “Before they think to come back for us.”

  Together, they lifted Ammo Mazen’s frail body and hurried back the way they’d come. Nadia held the old man’s head, amazed how light he was. When they turned the corner she caught a final glimpse of Jamila as the men tied her to a light pole at the edge of the lot before passing out the cans. At least they’re eating that first, she thought.

  “This way,” said Tarek, leading them to the warehouse on the other side of the road. Past the rusted metal door, they found themselves in a dilapidated space littered with burlap bags. They gently placed the old man on the ground so he could lean against a lumpy bag.

  “What kind of animals attack an old man?” growled Nadia as she and Tarek knelt to inspect Ammo’s forehead.

  “That is an insult to animals,” muttered Tarek, gently probing the bruise. “Animals only attack if they’re looking for food or scared.”

  “Thankfully, his skull is fine,” said Nadia with relief.

  “What are we going to do?” whispered Basel, voice full of tears.

  Nadia closed her eyes, panic looming as she gripped her bright silver pin. But instead of wanting to hide in a dark corner like she usually did, she felt a strange sense of calm settle over her. What had Ms. Darwish said? Unlimited possibilities, that’s what the pin represented. Her eyes flickered open and she stared at each boy in turn. “We have to get Jamila back,” she said. “Without her and the cart, there’s no way we’re getting Ammo Mazen to Turkey.”

  “How are we going to do that?” asked Tarek, face tight with exhaustion and worry.

  “Yeah, how?” wailed Basel, pacing.