Unsafe Haven, An

by Awar Jarrar, Nada

  But Hannah thinks of little else now that the initial shock begins to attach itself to her everyday routine. As she somehow moves and breathes, she asks herself again and again what Brigitte and the children, who had been eagerly anticipating their father’s visit, will now do without him. How will they ever survive this?

  These are thoughts that break her heart anew every morning when she wakes up to the memory of what has happened and must will herself out of bed and get on with the day; thoughts which, again, as she gets into bed at night and tries to fall asleep nestled in Peter’s embrace, chip leisurely at her soul.

  When Hannah and Peter telephoned Berlin and asked to speak to Brigitte, her mother had explained in halting English that her daughter could not talk to anyone at the moment, that she needed time.

  —Just tell her that we love her and are thinking of her and the children, Hannah said. Tell her also that she must let us know if there is anything at all we can do to help. Please make sure you tell her that, she pleaded.

  Hannah had felt surprise at feeling somehow let down, even resentful afterwards, as though in speaking with Brigitte, in trying to comfort her, she might have had the chance to alleviate her own sorrow. An opportunity had been missed.

  Peter comes out to join her, sitting in the chair opposite hers.

  —Are you coming to bed? he asks.

  —I’m not ready yet.

  —You haven’t slept well for days now, Hannah. You need to look after yourself better.

  —Don’t fuss, Peter, she protests. All the medical tests you made me have were fine.

  —All I’m saying, he continues, frustration in his voice, is that you need to relax more.

  Then, more gently: I’m concerned about you, sweetheart. I really think you should be taking something for the panic attacks.

  She shakes her head.

  —I’m not willing to take sedatives, Peter.

  —Sometimes medications are the only answer.

  —I’ll try to relax, she says. I promise I will.

  Then, just as he begins to get up, she remembers.

  —I meant to tell you earlier, Hannah says. I got a call this afternoon from Philippe, the owner of the gallery hosting Anas’s exhibition. He thinks having the opening on the scheduled date is a good idea. He seems to feel there’s no sense in delaying or cancelling.

  She takes a deep breath.

  —Anyway, I told him we’d get in touch with Brigitte and let him know what she wants to do.

  —Anas’s work will be even more desirable now, I suppose, says Peter.

  Hannah is surprised at this.

  —As tragic as Anas’s death is for those of us who loved him, he continues, his family will need the income from sales of his work. This is an opportune moment for that.

  —But so soon after his death, Hannah protests. It seems indecent somehow.

  Peter looks at her with great tenderness.

  —Hannah, he says, maybe it’s time you let go of your anger and frustration over a situation you can’t control. Are you sure you’re not taking this war too personally? Anas happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time and all we can do, as close friends, is try to help his family.

  —That’s exactly what I want to do, she says, but somehow I can’t get myself out of this dark hole.

  —I lost a close friend too, he says. I’m trying to get beyond the sorrow just like you are.

  She is unsettled by the disappointment in his voice and feels a familiar panic spread into her chest. This is a moment I will remember years from now, she tells herself, as the fear beats against her ribs and, finding no release there, rises further until her neck and head burn with it. There has been something niggling at her about Peter recently, something about him that is different but which she is unable to pinpoint. It is as though he is waiting for some kind of a response from her. But a response to what?

  When Hannah is able to speak again, her voice is hesitant.

  —I’ve been so wrapped up in myself that I haven’t considered what you’ve been going through, habibi. I’m so sorry.

  —It’s OK, Peter says, his voice softening.

  —You loved him as much as I did, and I haven’t once asked you how you’re feeling. Will you forgive me?

  But this does not seem to placate him.

  —Hannah, there’s no question of my being willing to forgive you or not, he says vehemently. We always forgive each other no matter what, don’t we?

  He looks so earnest, so anxious as he asks this question that she is suddenly aware of how important her answer to it will be to both of them. In that moment, as each appeals to the other for a reply that will eliminate all doubt from their minds, she knows what she must say.

  —Of course we do, ya hayati. Always and forever, no matter the circumstance.

  She wants to say more, something to comfort him further, something grown-up like: ‘We have both done things we regret, my love, but nothing will ever change the way I feel about you, the way we are together,’ but she knows there is no longer a need for it.

  Peter breathes long and hard.

  —Getting back to what we were talking about, he says, I really believe we should be encouraging Brigitte to allow the exhibition to go ahead – for her own sake, and the children’s.

  —Maybe you’re right.

  —Besides, what better tribute is there to Anas’s life and work than an exhibition that celebrates both?

  He puts out his hand and, as she takes it with hers, pulls her up and holds her close to him.

  —We’ll get through this, Hannah, you’ll see, he says.

  She lifts her head and kisses him gently on the lips.

  —I don’t want to ever have to do without you, Peter, she says. Promise me we’ll always be together?

  In the interval before he replies, Hannah nestles her head more closely into his shoulder and holds her breath.

  —Always, Peter says.

  Chapter 24

  Peter nearly stumbles over Fatima sitting on the steps that lead up to the building’s entrance. Beside her is Wassim and a large plastic bag filled with what seem to be clothes. When she stands up, pulling the little boy up with her, Peter notices a bundle in her arm. He looks more closely at the tiny face peeking through the tightly wrapped blanket.

  —Marhaba, Peter greets them in Arabic.

  —I’ve come for news, Fatima says with a nervous smile. Your wife and Anas told me they would let me know about my parents.

  —Yes, yes, of course.

  Peter reaches over to ruffle the little boy’s hair.

  —Kifak, Wassim?

  He waits for Fatima to mention the sleeping baby she is carrying in her arms.

  —Why don’t you come up? he finally asks.

  He notices the look of hesitation on her face and is immediately aware of the reason behind her reluctance. She will not come upstairs to the flat with him if he is alone.

  —Hannah fil beit, he reassures her. Hannah is home. Please come up and speak to her yourself.

  —I couldn’t remember what apartment you lived in, she says. I … the porter told me to wait here so I did.

  Since his spoken Arabic is not good enough to explain further, Peter picks up the plastic bag and motions for the young woman to follow him into the building.

  —Hannah, he calls out once they’re upstairs.

  —I’m in the kitchen, Peter.

  They step into the kitchen and he sees the surprised look on Hannah’s face.

  —I’ve brought visitors with me.

  —Fatima! Hannah rushes to embrace the woman, and then leans down to give Wassim a kiss. How are you, habibi, she asks. And who is this? she continues, looking at the baby in Fatima’s arms.

  —You said you’d have news for me, Fatima says, ignoring Hannah’s question. You promised you’d let me know about my family.

  Peter pulls out a chair from around the kitchen table and motions for Fatima to sit down.

  —Yes, and we
have good news for you. Hannah sits down beside her. Your family is in a camp on the Turkish border, Fatima, and they have been told that you and Wassim are here. I wanted to go and see you and let you know, but … She looks up at Peter. Anyway, our friend at the Red Cross, Maysoun, she’s in touch with the authorities at the refugee camp. She’s trying to see if she can get permission for you to go there and join them. We’re not sure how it’s going to be possible, though.

  Fatima hangs her head and begins to cry and Hannah wraps an arm around her shoulders.

  Peter watches as Wassim inches his way closer to his mother’s chair, as though afraid of anyone noticing his presence. He has remained silent throughout the interchange between the two women. The scene – Hannah and Fatima bending over each other in a gentle arc, the little boy leaning into them like an afterthought – moves him in a way he does not quite understand.

  He hands Hannah a box of tissues, fetches a glass of water for the young woman and then pours a cup of orange juice for Wassim.

  —Here you are. Peter bends down to give it to him but the little boy shrinks away and shakes his head. Peter places the cup on the table and moves away.

  Fatima finally looks up.

  —Even if you can’t go there to be with them, Hannah tells her gently, at least you know your family’s safe, that they all survived.

  —Where’s the other one? Fatima asks. The one who came with us to the camp? Anas? I thought he lived here with you.

  Hannah looks anxiously at Peter. He shakes his head.

  —He’s gone back to Syria, Hannah says with obvious difficulty. But we’re here for you, Fatima. Don’t worry. We’ll take care of you. Are you going to tell us who this is? Hannah looks down at the infant but Fatima shakes her head.

  —Please, you must take me to see this woman you’re talking about, she pleads. I’ll explain why I need to be with my own family. She’ll understand, I know she will. You have to help me. I can’t cope on my own any longer.

  —Is it the baby, Fatima? Hannah persists. Is it yours?

  Wassim, now clearly overwhelmed by what is going on, begins to sob.

  —Hannah, Peter says in English, I don’t think we should keep asking her questions like this, at least not in front of the little boy. Can I talk to you alone in the living room for a moment?

  Hannah takes the baby from Fatima and pushes Wassim gently towards his mother.

  —He needs you to comfort him, she tells her.

  In the living room, Hannah looks intently at the baby.

  —Do you think it’s hers? she asks.

  —I don’t know, habibti, but I don’t think Fatima’s prepared to talk about it right now.

  —Maybe if Anas were here …

  —Why do you say that? Peter asks.

  —It’s just that when we brought her home last time, she was much more willing to talk to him. I had a feeling that she told him a lot more about herself than she did me.

  —Yes, I do remember but it’s not going to help the situation if we let her know what’s happened to him.

  —The baby’s awake, Peter, Hannah says softly. Look.

  She loosens the blanket from around the infant so that the contours of its face and its tiny hands show through. Its eyes are wide open and seem to be looking directly at him. It blinks and Peter feels his heart flutter.

  —She’s beautiful, isn’t she?

  —You’ve decided it’s a girl?

  —Looks like a girl. Her features are delicate. Just look at that little upturned nose, and those big eyes.

  —I wonder what Fatima has to say about this baby. I mean, if she brought it here to see us she must have known we’d ask questions. After all, it wasn’t with her the first time we saw her and I didn’t see any sign of an infant when Anas and I took her back to the camp.

  —I thought you said there were lots of children there anyway.

  —Yes, there were, but surely if this were her baby, she would have asked about it right away, Hannah replies. Her husband’s uncle and his wife certainly didn’t mention it.

  —She seems alarmingly indifferent to it, Peter says.

  —I wonder why that is. Peter, you have more experience with babies than I do, can you tell how old it is?

  —Well, it’s clear this is not a newborn. I’d have to examine it more closely, of course, but I’d say this baby is around two or three months old. Anyway, he continues, trying to sound matter-of-fact, I’ll bet it’s going to start screaming for food any minute now. We’d better give it back to its mother.

  —We don’t know she is the mother, Hannah protests.

  —No, you’re right, we don’t, but she is clearly responsible for this baby one way or another.

  Fatima and Wassim come into the living room looking forlorn.

  —Does the baby need to be fed? Hannah asks the young woman.

  Fatima looks at her as though surprised.

  —Oh, she had her bottle a couple of hours ago but I’ve run out of milk. She puts her hand inside the pocket of her skirt and brings out a baby bottle. Here, she says, handing it to Hannah. You have milk here, don’t you?

  She sounds almost flippant, Peter thinks, or is it anxiety that she is feeling?

  —Tell her that regular milk won’t do for the baby, he says, turning to Hannah, and ask her what formula she’s been using.

  Hannah lays a hand on Peter’s arm and speaks directly to Fatima.

  —It’s OK, she says. Don’t worry about the milk, Fatima. We’ll get her some, and some nappies as well. I’m sure she needs those. Why don’t you sit down and rest for a bit? I’ll telephone the pharmacy up the street and ask them to deliver a few things.

  She tries to hand the baby back to Fatima.

  —In the meantime, Hannah adds, I’ll go wash this bottle in the kitchen.

  —No!

  Both Hannah and Peter are startled by the hostility in Fatima’s voice.

  —I don’t have time for that now, I tell you. Just take me to this woman, please.

  The baby begins to whimper and Hannah responds by rocking it in her arms.

  Chapter 25

  She walks everywhere, across the city, from end to end of the former divisions of East and West and up and down the avenues where the grand hotels are located. She slows down to browse through weekend street markets, though she does not stop to buy, eventually making her way past swarms of people until she finds herself standing beneath the magnificent arch of the Brandenburg Gate looking upward or in Potsdamer Platz where remnants of the wall remain, covered in graffiti, a photo opportunity for the hundreds of thousands of tourists who visit every year. In the Tiergarten where, at this time of year, the trees are losing their leaves and appear stark and particularly beautiful, she takes a deep breath of clean, cool air and pauses only long enough to fix a shoelace that has come undone, to wipe perspiration off her face with the cotton handkerchief she pulls out of her jeans pocket, or to coax her flyaway hair back into a neat bun at the nape of her neck.

  The trick, she knows, is to keep moving so that the conversation that is going on in her head has nowhere to go but forward, no opportunity to stop until complete exhaustion has been achieved.

  These are some of the stories she tells herself: Anas is at the airport preparing to check in when a voice over the loudspeaker announces an indefinite delay of his flight; he is on a plane in mid-air when the captain informs the passengers that a fault has been detected in one of the engines and the flight will have to turn back; or although he succeeds in making his way to Berlin, they somehow miss each other at the arrivals lounge and he ends up wandering around the city for days in search of his family.

  The possibility that Anas will never come back, that she will never again have the opportunity to gain his forgiveness, is too much to endure, though there is something in her that knows she will soon have to concede to grief, that she cannot avoid facing the truth of this great loss, if only for the sake of the children. For the moment, she is content to lose hers
elf in what she is beginning to see as pilgrimages to her favourite areas of Berlin, tributes to the city in which she was born and brought up and which, once she was grown, had given her Anas.

  When they first met and fell in love, these were exactly the expeditions they set out on together, hand in hand and with Brigitte acting as guide. In English – Anas has only ever spoken rudimentary German – she recounted to him the city’s history revealed as much through its landmarks as in its many scars. Then one day, as Anas described to her his admiration for the people of Berlin because, he said, they are not afraid to face the truth about their past and move on from it, something that we Arabs have never had the courage to do, she had felt such love for him that she stopped mid-step on a busy pavement to wrap her arms around him while passersby looked on with what she suspected was a mixture of amusement and annoyance.

  This, Brigitte tells herself by way of consolation, is me coming full circle – although she is confused as to how she will manage to step out of the loop and where she will go from there.

  The night they received the news, her mother gave her a sedative and told her to try and go to sleep.

  —There’s no need to wake the children and tell them about it now, Elena said. Time enough for that tomorrow.

  But the tablet had only made Brigitte feel even more agitated and, unable to sleep, she had walked aimlessly around the flat in her bare feet until first light when she dressed, put on her shoes and went out for a long walk, the telephone conversation she had had with Anas’s sister repeating itself again and again in her thoughts.

  When she finally got back home, she had gone into Marwan’s room and lain beside him for a while, and when he woke up had told him about his father’s death, though this had been a much gentler version of the truth. She had held him close, and somehow managed to tell him that everything would be all right, that sadness was a natural consequence of loss and that he should allow himself to grieve.

  When Rana eventually found out what had happened, she had insisted on sleeping next to Brigitte every night. She still does so, clinging tightly to her and whimpering herself to sleep, while Marwan, who clearly feels the need to blame someone for the tragedy and has decided to settle the guilt squarely on his mother’s shoulders, speaks to her only when absolutely necessary and even then does so in a voice filled with disdain.