Lost Boys

by Darcey Rosenblatt

  “Hello, son. You and Ebi have been wasting time, I assume. I’m glad you’re home. I made Khoresht-e Fesenjan.”

  I loved chicken in pomegranate sauce. Mother hadn’t made it in a long time—not since my birthday two years ago.

  She’d heard I’d signed up. Her anger was gone. She’d been replaced by the mother I hadn’t seen in years. I didn’t know whether to run or to stay for as long as it lasted.

  I stood and stared.

  “What?” she asked. “Why do you stand there like a stone?”

  “How did you hear?”

  “Ours is a small community, Reza, and news travels quickly. We will talk about it over dinner. Your aunt will be here soon.”

  As I washed my hands, I listened to her setting the table. I was leaving to fight a war and she was happy. I’d half hoped, when it came down to it, that she’d react like Ebi’s mother and beg me to stay.

  Aunt Azar opened the door and called, “Reza, Sameera, I’m here.”

  When we sat, Mother wasted no time on small talk. “I understand you leave on Friday morning. Do you know where they are sending you?”

  “The man who signed me up said something about going south to the assault on Basra, but we won’t know till we’re on our way.”

  “Wouldn’t that be nice,” said Aunt Azar. Her smile looked as if it were taped on her face. “It is beautiful there.”

  “He is not going on holiday, Azar,” said Mother. “He is going to serve his God.”

  “Yes, of course,” said Aunt Azar. “We are all proud, Reza.” She poured tea. “I know it’s not my place to say.” She looked at Mother and quickly looked away again. “But, Reza, are you sure you want to go?” Once she’d said it, her words poured out like ants from a smashed hill. “Everyone says they are going to make boys your age sign up soon enough, but you don’t have to go yet. Maybe the struggle will be over before you have to go.” She took one of my hands in hers. “So many young boys have gone and not come back. Are you afraid?”

  “Afraid?” Mother’s moment of kindness was gone. Her eyes shone with their old fierceness. “No son of mine is afraid. He’ll fight bravely and come home a hero or die a martyr in this holy war.”

  “Sister,” said Aunt Azar, “before the revolution, we were taught the Prophet’s message was about peace, not violence.”

  “Our Prophet had many teachings of peace, but going to battle in self-defense is holy.”

  I tapped my fork on the edge of the plate. “Uncle said this stopped being about self-defense when we invaded Iraq. If this isn’t a holy war and I die, maybe I won’t go to heaven; maybe I’ll end up in hell.”

  Aunt Azar gasped. Mother stood over me and said in a loud voice, “Enough of what your uncle said. The holy men teach us to believe the power of God over all things. We, in our limited knowledge, cannot truly know what is right or wrong. The holy men bring us God’s word. They would not ask for our sacrifice if it were not necessary.”

  It was like she had a script and she’d been reading it so long, she had no words of her own. What I wanted most in that moment was to be small enough to fit under the crook of her arm in a way I could barely remember, to have her read to me when I still fit on her lap. I ran my hand over my face.

  “Mother, the Iraqis honor Muhammad just like us.” I pulled the plastic key from my pocket and waved it in the air. “Are the boys in Baghdad given keys, too? Will we all get to heaven and share the mansions and the riches?”

  Mother’s jaw twitched, the only movement in her tight face. “Go to your room. Not another word. I pray God will forgive you.”

  She stared at me and I stared back. Finally, I went over to Aunt Azar, who sat openmouthed.

  “Good-bye, Auntie. Thank you for coming.” She hugged me tight, then wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.

  I sat in my room, listening to Auntie and Mother talking in low voices. The smells of other dinners, in other homes, wafted through my open window. After a while, because I always had, I did my homework. Then, even though it was still early, I went to bed and lay awake, staring at the dark ceiling.

  If God paid attention the way Mother believed, did Uncle’s death qualify him for heaven? He died fighting for a cause he believed in, but was it for the right side? If I died, maybe Uncle would be there, too, standing at the door of our own mansion. And if it really was heaven, there would be music, and we could sing and play with Mr. Monk and Mr. Parker.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Friday morning, when I woke, Mother was gone. On the table were a few rial coins and a note: Reza, may God watch over you.

  I held the note in my hand. My eyes landed on a framed picture on the wall. Mother and I smiling on my first day of school, her hand resting on my shoulder. I crumpled the note, dropped it at my feet, and left the money untouched. I wondered if she’d look at that picture when she was all alone.

  I put a few books, a toothbrush, and Uncle’s hat into a bag. His wallet and the last tape went into my pants pocket.

  Outside the recruiting office the street was full of families clustered around boys. The sun shone down on the mosque, sending reflected colors across the square. Kids were laughing and mothers were trying to hide tears.

  Ebi’s family was at the edge of the crowd. His little brothers ran circles around his red-eyed mother, raising a ring of ochre dust. Ebi waved.

  “Hey, Maggot, over here.”

  “Hello, Reza,” said Ebi’s father. “Is your mother on her way?”

  “No, sir, she couldn’t make it this morning.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry.” He glanced at his wife.

  “We’ve enough family here for the both of you,” said Ebi’s mother, motioning to the crowd of cousins, all hugging Ebi and slapping him on the back.

  For twenty minutes we listened to advice from old grandpas. We joked with the boys and avoided sad looks from the women. One of Ebi’s aunts had sangak already spread with tomato and feta. She’d gone to market especially early for Ebi’s last day. The warm bread was soft and chewy at the same time. We ate and licked our fingers clean.

  A soldier came out of the office, standing in front of the door until the crowd was quiet.

  “Welcome, young soldiers. Welcome, families. These boys are embarking on the most honored mission of their lives, a mission to keep us all safe.”

  Cheers rose from the crowd, but I heard sobbing, too. This time I held my fist high above my head like the others. I was on my way—ready to be anywhere but here.

  We waited for uniforms and equipment. The line moved quickly. “Next time I see you, you’ll look the part, pal,” said Ebi as we were ushered to different rooms.

  Eight of us milled around in a large room with benches along the walls. Every few feet was a box. On top of each box was a rifle.

  “Whoa—look at these,” said the boy next to me, holding his new gun. “It’s a Kalashnikov. I’ve never seen one this close.”

  “Yeah, I wonder when they’ll give us bullets,” said another. We all laughed. For a minute, laughing loosened the fist that was squeezing my chest.

  In the box was a neatly folded green uniform. Clean, but faded, not new. I didn’t want to think who else had worn it and why it wasn’t his anymore.

  I carefully slipped Uncle’s wallet and tape into my new pants pocket. I yanked on the heavy boots and became a soldier.

  Outside, the sun had moved higher in the sky. Sweat trickled down my neck under the heavy green helmet, so I took it off and worked my way over to Ebi and his family again.

  Seeing my old friend in his new outfit was like looking in a mirror—we looked years older in our worn canvas jackets. Dressed in green from helmet to boot, Ebi’s only splash of color was a brand-new shemagh. One of his uncles was adjusting the red-and-white-checked head covering and the thick black rope of fabric that held the scarf in place. Someone else strapped a rusty canteen over one of his shoulders. Ebi held his rifle, while another uncle taped a picture of Ayatollah Khomeini to the stock.


  “Reza, looking sharp.” Ebi grabbed my helmet and put it back on my head.

  “You, too. The shemagh is nice.”

  “A gift from my aunt,” Ebi said as he swept his arm around the oldest woman in the crowd and kissed her cheek noisily. The family’s laughter was drowned out by the sound of two huge trucks rounding the corner.

  “This is it,” yelled the recruiter. “Say your good-byes and line up. These trucks are leaving in five minutes.”

  Immediately, Ebi was lost in a sea of family—a tumult of kisses, hugs, and tears. I stood on the outskirts of the throng. I got a few encouraging handshakes and a hug from Ebi’s little sister, but then I had to step away. I watched his father and too many uncles who weren’t mine. I watched until Ebi came and dragged me toward the line.

  “Come on, buddy. One more minute and my mother will take me home.”

  We climbed into the back of the open truck. Hard metal benches lined the inside of the bed. Twelve boys to a side, we stood against metal rails, facing out to the shouting crowd. Some women held handkerchiefs, and as everyone boarded, the cheering got louder and louder. We waved our arms in the air like rock stars.

  Just before we pulled away, Ebi grabbed my sleeve and pointed. There, at the end of the block, away from the crowd, Mother stood, her arms at her sides. Our eyes met; she raised her hand just to her shoulder. She may have nodded, but I turned away before I was sure. I had a thousand images of our life together, but the picture of her standing there was all I saw until we’d left the city far behind.

  * * *

  We traveled south for hours, stopping once for water and once for a lunch of cheese and yogurt that we ate in the truck. During lunch they collected our rifles, putting them all in a jeep that headed back the way we’d come. Someone guessed they were just part of the send-off show. The warm wind and the rumble of the truck made it too noisy for much talk, but sometimes someone would yell loud enough for the rest of us to hear.

  A few hours in, Ebi caught my eye, pointed to the long horizon, and yelled, “See, I knew this would be good. We’re real warriors now, my friend. Just like on TV.”

  I considered pointing out that if I’d been watching TV, my butt wouldn’t be so sore from bouncing up and down, but instead I nodded and watched our progress through the desert. I pushed away the image of Mother alone in the dusty street.

  As the sun headed to the horizon, the light cast a golden glow on our faces. I caught a whiff of sea air, even though the water was still probably an hour away. Just then, I guess Ebi realized no one could hear us in this open country. He looked around, his eyes sparkling with mischief.

  “Guys, we could sing any song we want out here! I don’t think even the driver can hear us.”

  He half stood, swinging his hips back and forth, and sang, “Well, you can tell by the way I use my walk I’m a woman’s man; no time to talk.” We laughed, then one by one the rest of us joined in until the chorus of the popular disco song “Stayin’ Alive” reached a crescendo.

  Our voices boomed in harmony with the sound of the truck as we went through all the songs that we’d not been able to sing for years, each boy yelling out his favorite. Ebi beat the rhythm with his hands on the metal bench. Sitting across from him, I drummed, too, as we saw tents materialize in the distance.

  Ebi was singing in his loudest voice, almost screaming, when he stopped, like the last note had gotten stuck in his throat. The color drained from his face, and his eyes fixed on something over my shoulder. The boys on either side of him followed his gaze. On my side we all stopped singing and swung around.

  There, stacked in piles of three or four, were bodies, face up or face down, the green canvas of their uniforms covered in desert sand. Green canvas uniforms just like ours. Three buzzards circled above them. Legs and arms shot out at odd angles, stiff like steel. I’d never seen a dead body before. Not even my grandparents’. I knew Ebi hadn’t, either. Some were missing limbs. And there was blood. So much blood.

  I started to shake, shivering like I had a fever. We saw stacks every ten meters for the next few minutes. Why were they here? Were they waiting to be buried? As we watched, a huge buzzard—this one bigger than the others—circled and landed, gazing at us as we rattled by.

  No one looked away. As we passed the last pile, I noticed a man’s face. He had a short black beard that looked just like my father’s.

  Without thinking I leaped up on the bench, ready to jump out of the truck. Ebi grabbed the waistband of my pants.

  “Reza, what are you doing?”

  “I … that looked like…” I didn’t finish, realizing Ebi, and everyone else on the truck, would think I was crazy if I said it looked like my father, who’d been dead for over a year.

  We spent the rest of the trip in silence.

  CHAPTER NINE

  I’d stopped shaking but still felt sick by the time we stopped. We all staggered out of the truck. A soldier, clipboard in hand, read off tent assignments. I stayed close to Ebi, crossing my fingers behind my back like a little kid, hoping we’d get the same tent. Until that moment it hadn’t occurred to me we might be separated here. I wouldn’t be able to stand that. I held my breath as boys in front of us peeled off in different directions. I almost kissed the man when he said number ten after both our names. He pointed down a long row of squat tents. We shouldered our bags and headed in the direction of our temporary home.

  “Thanks for keeping me from jumping out of the truck.” I rubbed one hand over my eyes. “For a few weird seconds, I thought I saw my dad lying there on one of those piles.” I shuddered again, thinking about what we’d seen.

  I wanted Ebi to say something funny—something to make me laugh. But he only shook his head and said, “I don’t think it’s that weird. I mean, what’s normal when you see your first dead body?” He let out a long breath. “And it wasn’t just a dead body, Rez. That was … I don’t know what that was, but…” He didn’t finish, just shook his head.

  We stood together at the wide tent flap. Once this tent had been white, but the desert wind had turned it a burnt nutty color. The air was bone-dry, and in the time it had taken us to walk from the truck, it made my teeth feel like sandpaper against my tongue.

  As I scanned the light brown of the distant dunes, I was hit by a memory of the turquoise and maroon bazaar stalls, the deep greens and soft pinks of the almond trees in spring. I heard the call to prayer, the way the notes sounded from my bedroom window. All the colors and sounds of home flashed in my mind and then were buried by the sandy beige at my feet.

  The tent had twelve rickety canvas cots standing a few inches off the dusty ground, each with a rough brown blanket folded at the bottom.

  “Hope none of you snore,” said a boy already arranging his bag at the head of the nearest cot. “’Cause if you do, you’re sleeping out in the sand.”

  It was something Ebi would have said. I looked to see if he was laughing, but his shoulders were slumped and his eyes had a vacant look I’d never seen before. We lay down on bunks next to each other without talking. I wanted to close my eyes, but when I did, all I saw were bodies stacked up like lumber.

  An hour later we were called to a huge open-sided canopy for supper. Ebi and I shuffled past the rough wooden tables and benches, choosing a spot at the far end.

  “This tastes like dirt,” said Ebi, spitting out his first bite.

  “It’s just the sand that’s already stuck between your teeth,” I said. I looked around. You could tell who’d just come in today by their clean shirts and the faces they made as they tasted the food.

  A stocky soldier, probably fifteen or sixteen, sat down. With a crooked smile he reached over me and took a potato off Ebi’s plate.

  “First day here?” We nodded. He raised his voice to be heard over a group of guys streaming in and grabbing plates from a central table. “You get used to the gravelly desert taste. When I go home, I’m asking my mom to add sand to all my favorite dishes.”

  He’
d obviously used the line before, but I didn’t mind. It brought a smile to Ebi’s face.

  “I’m Kamran.” He grabbed my hand, pumping it like he was filling a water bucket. He took Ebi’s and did the same. His short dark hair stood straight up in places. I wondered if he’d cut it himself without a mirror. “Where are you guys from?”

  “Shiraz,” I answered for both of us. “You?”

  “Outside of Tehran, near the mountains.”

  Ebi looked up from his untouched plate. “How long have you been here?”

  Kamran scratched his chin. “I’ve been based at this camp for two months—longer than most.”

  “Where do guys go from here?” Ebi asked.

  Kamran hesitated for a second. “You’ll hear about that later.” He looked at our plates. “You better eat up. It all tastes this bad. Get used to it.”

  We picked at our food while Kamran talked. He told a funny story about a general who sang in his sleep, and he talked about Tehran. A guy walked by and rubbed Kamran’s head, saying, “I’m shipping out tomorrow, Kam.”

  Kamran smiled. “Good luck.”

  “What’ll we do here all day?” I asked.

  “You’ll work hard at doing nothing.” Kamran laughed at his own joke. “Sometimes they pretend to train you to use those huge rifles they carry, but mostly we get good at sitting and waiting.”

  A kid sauntered up to the table. He looked younger than us, but I didn’t ask. As I looked around, I realized nobody looked older than twenty. The kid nodded at us and then, as the last guy had, he rubbed Kamran’s head, saying, “Kamran, bring me home.”

  I raised my eyebrows and shot Ebi a quizzical look. “What’s going on?”

  Kamran’s cheeks reddened. “Some guys are superstitious, is all.” He stood up and brushed a nonexistent crumb from his pant leg. “I better get back to my tent. Good to meet you guys.”

  I caught his sleeve. “What do you mean, superstitious?”

  Kamran shifted from one foot to the other. “Well—it’s kinda wild, but I guess I’ve been to the front and back more than any other guy in camp. Someone came up with the idea that if they rubbed my head, it’d bring them luck.”