“Yes.” The man’s eyes traveled from my disheveled hair to my shoes. “It’s two blocks up and one to the right.” He glanced at his watch. “I think they close at five thirty. That’s ten minutes.”
“Thanks.” I crossed the street before either man could ask any questions. The next block was packed with people. I moved as fast as I could without actually running, dodging a young woman with a baby carriage and barely missing an old woman, her arms full of packages.
Finally I ran the last two blocks until I saw the familiar symbol hanging above a wooden door. I slowed down to catch my breath. The office had a large window in the front, and I could see several people inside. At last I was here, but what was I going to say? I hadn’t figured it out and there wasn’t time to now.
As I watched, I saw someone inside walk toward the door. I realized they might be coming to lock up. I needed to act quickly. When I opened the door, a short man with a mustache came toward me holding a ring full of keys. Behind the man were two other men packing briefcases at cluttered desks.
The man with the keys said something to me in Arabic. I caught the word “tomorrow.”
“But I just wanted to ask a few…”
The man shook his head and switched to Farsi. “No, you must come back tomorrow. It is almost time for the call to prayer.”
One of the other men walked up. My heart leaped as I realized it was Miles’s friend Masood.
“Hey…” I started toward him in recognition, but Masood stopped me with a subtle shake of his head.
Masood spoke to the mustached man in Arabic, but I think he said, “I can take care of this if you want to go.”
Looking at me, the older man said in Farsi, “I told the boy the office is closed, and I meant that the office is closed.”
Masood looked at me and shrugged. He glanced around the office, then back at me with an apologetic smile. Before Masood turned away, he raised his eyebrows and mouthed the word “Tomorrow?” I tried to catch Masood’s eye again, but the other man herded me out of the office.
I stood with my back to the office door. I heard the familiar notes of prayer float over the building tops. Men hurried by, anxious to get to prayer. I wanted to plead with Masood, but when I looked back inside the office, it was dark. My eyes stung with anger. I wanted to hit someone. I slumped against the building instead. Miles might still be in town, and I had no way of knowing.
Suddenly I heard a hiss to my right. It was Masood, motioning me over. “Sorry about my boss in there. Sometimes I think he forgets we work for an aid organization. Do I know you? Are you one of Miles’s boys?”
I hesitated, worried for the first time that someone at the Red Crescent might turn me in and take me back. “I’m … my name … I’m Reza. I was—”
“You’re that kid Miles was talking about. From Camp Six. We saw you there when we visited.”
“That’s me,” I said. I tried to hide the rush I felt.
“What are you doing here, kid? Did you escape?”
I nodded.
Masood let out a whoosh of air. “Okay, that presents some challenges. You know Miles is gone.” He glanced at his watch. “Or will be soon. I don’t understand. How did you get here?”
“Once Miles left, one of the guards beat me up, started talking about killing me. I snuck out. I wanted…” I hesitated again, afraid to reveal my plan. But if I didn’t do it now, it would be too late, so I let it come out in one breath. “I wanted to see Miles before he left.”
Masood rocked back on his heels. “I don’t know, kid. That’d be quite a risk for Miles, you being an escapee.” Then Masood laughed, shaking his head. “What am I saying? Miles is all about risk.”
Masood looked up and down the street. He shook his head and muttered something to himself.
I caught his eye. “Excuse me, sir. Did you say something?”
He laughed, reaching down to ruffle my hair. “I said I’m acting like a loon and my friend Miles is a sentimental sod. I should stay far away from his mayhem. But I rarely take my own advice.” He reached in his pocket and pulled out a few wrinkled bills. “The government doesn’t take too kindly to us helping escapees. Not good for you or me if I’m seen with you, but the airport is about fifteen minutes from here. The plane leaves in about an hour. It usually goes when the pilot’s finished with dinner and he feels like going. Sometimes he goes early and leaves folks running down the tarmac.
“If you can find a cab, you might just get there in time to catch Miles. You can’t miss the big white plane with the Red Crescent on the tail. Watch yourself. I bet that idiot will be happy to see you, but it won’t be true of everyone. Come back tomorrow, and we’ll try to help you.”
I smiled and nodded.
“Head down to that corner.” Masood pointed to the left. “Then turn right. You’ll come to a busy street where there’s a taxi stand. Better move along. At this point you won’t be able to get a taxi until prayers are over, but you’ll want to be first in line if you can.” Just then the side door of the building began to open.
“Go. If my boss sees you, we’ll both be done for. Good luck. Tell Miles I expect to hear from him.”
I waved over my shoulder as I ran to the corner. Once there I slowed down. I didn’t want to call attention to myself. Running past a large group of men in prayer was not subtle.
I saw the taxi stand ten yards away. Two people were already waiting. As soon as prayers were done, the first man in line got into the waiting car. The man in front of me looked up and down the street for more taxis. I did, too. I tried to calculate how much time had passed since Masood and I had talked. How much time did I have before Miles’s plane took off?
A second taxi came, and the man in front of me left. I shifted my weight from one foot to the other. At least five minutes passed. I silently chanted, Come on, come on, come on.
Finally an old taxi chugged up. I opened the squeaky back door and scrambled into the backseat, searching my brain for the right Arabic words. “Sir, do you speak Farsi?”
“A little,” the driver mumbled.
“I need to get to the airport as soon as possible.” I almost said “and step on it.” It was a line from one of Ebi’s favorite movies. Ebi would have loved the chance to say that. We would have laughed together, but now I could only muster a sad smile.
“Catching a plane?” grunted the driver.
“Uh … me?” I hadn’t prepared a lie. “Uh … no. Someone from the Red Crescent office forgot his tar.” I lifted the case. “They sent me to catch up with him if I can.”
The driver shrugged and nodded.
The taxi sped through the city. The setting sun gave everything an amber clarity. I leaned against the backseat and closed my eyes.
As we went around a long curve in the road, the driver swore. I opened my eyes and saw a huge line of cars in front of us.
“Accident,” said the driver as he slammed his hand on the steering wheel.
“Nooo.” The word came from me like a howl.
“Nothing I can do.”
“How far from here?” I asked.
“Three minutes.”
It was almost completely dark. I wondered if I’d be able to tell if I saw Miles’s plane take off overhead. The thought tightened my throat, making it hard to swallow.
Reaching into my pocket, I pulled out the wrinkled bills and handed them to the driver. I picked up the tar and opened the taxi door.
“You crazy? It’s dark. Traffic. You’ll break your neck.”
I ran. And I kept running. My head went down to watch my feet and back up to see where I was going. I ran as fast as I’d ever run. The tar case banged against my leg. My lungs felt like I was breathing sand. But my focus was on running, on finding the white plane.
After minutes that seemed like hours, I saw the airport ahead. Seconds later I let out a yell. There, sitting on the tarmac, all its doors open, was a white plane. A red crescent was painted on the tail.
I ran to the chain-
link fence and sank to my knees. I gulped huge mouthfuls of air. When my panting stopped, I realized that I needed a plan.
The plane wasn’t far from the fence. It was low to the ground with a short flight of stairs in the front and in the back. It was different from the planes I’d seen in movies. It wasn’t fancy. Through the windows I could see some seats, but it was mostly taken up with cargo: machinery, boxes, and luggage. Up front, I saw a few people moving around, stowing luggage. Did I see a flash of fiery hair? Near the back of the plane, at the bottom of the stairs, were a few large boxes waiting to be loaded.
Where I knelt, I was just out of the lighted zone on the tarmac. Ten meters away was an open gate in the fence. But a man with a clipboard stood near the gate, supervising the loading. Another man in a dark uniform approached the gate, asking a question.
Clipboard man held up five fingers.
What did that mean? Five more boxes? Five minutes? I groaned to myself. What could I do? Then my eye caught the glint of something lying nearby—a broken bottle. I suddenly had a plan. It was a risky plan, maybe too risky. Maybe I should turn around and try to find my way in Baghdad.
Out of nowhere, I heard Uncle’s voice … I hope that sometime, somewhere, there’ll be a place where you can grow your gift. I felt his hand on my shoulder. Taking this risk might mean I could find that place Uncle believed in. This could be my chance to become the kind of man who could live in that place.
I waited until the guy loading boxes had hefted a huge package and entered the plane. I grabbed the shiny broken bottle at my feet. I lobbed it over the fence, right over the head of clipboard man. It skidded and shattered near the front of the plane. The minute the man looked toward the broken bottle, I ran through the gate and moved fast as a lizard to the opposite side of the plane. I crouched behind the large wheel.
The guy loading boxes came out of the plane. I couldn’t understand what was said, but it was clear he’d heard the sound of breaking glass.
I couldn’t believe my luck. Both men walked toward the broken glass. This left me a clear path into the back of the plane. I scrambled up the ramp into a large, dark compartment and ducked behind a stack of luggage, pulling the tar behind me. Thirty seconds later, the guy came in with the final load.
I was on the plane! I peeked from my hiding place. The front of the plane, where people sat in rows of four, two on either side of the aisle, was well lit. It was dark where I crouched, wedged between a huge box and a stack of suitcases. I sat with my knees drawn up almost to my chin. It would be impossible to stay this way for hours, but maybe I could move once the plane was off the ground.
From between two suitcases I saw a man in a jacket with a Red Crescent logo walk in and check the straps around the stack closest to where I sat.
I concentrated on staying completely still.
The man stuck his head out the door and said, “Okay, time to go.” His Arabic was almost as bad as mine. Then he said it again in flawless Farsi, adding, “I want to get this bird in the sky.” So this man was the pilot.
The man with the clipboard came in speaking Arabic, but switched to Farsi when he saw confusion on the pilot’s face.
“Sir, did you see anyone on the tarmac as you got on board? Someone threw a bottle and there shouldn’t have been anyone near the plane.”
“You sure it wasn’t some drunk slumped against the building there?”
“We couldn’t find anyone.”
The pilot cursed and said, “All right, search the plane but be quick. I have breakfast plans in London.”
The two men started jostling boxes and suitcases. It felt like my heart stopped beating. If I was caught there wasn’t anything anyone could do. I’d be sent back to the camp or worse before I knew what hit me. I peered out on either side of me. To my right, the boxes were strapped securely to the bulkhead. To my left the stack of suitcases were strapped in, too, but maybe if I pushed I could hide myself.
With all my strength I shimmied between a stack of suitcases and the cold metal. Bolts from the bulkhead scraped my back. The tar case pinned my arm at a sharp angle. Even though my arm was healed, when it was stuck in this position, the pain made me want to scream. But I knew I couldn’t make a sound. The two men were now standing right in front of me. The toe of my shoe was sticking out. If either of them looked down I was cooked.
My blood ran cold when I heard the words “behind” and “here.” Then the pilot’s voice said, “Come on, come on. There is nobody back here. Get off my plane and go search your other planes.”
I didn’t take a full breath until several minutes later when the big door slammed shut. With the slam, a terrible thought occurred to me. What if I’d gone through all this, gotten on this flight, and Miles wasn’t here? Or what if Miles was on the plane and didn’t want me?
These worries left my head a few minutes later when the plane started down the runway. I’d always imagined I’d look out the window during the first flight of my life, but here I was stuck behind luggage. The pilot’s voice came over the loudspeaker, reminding the passengers in three languages to put on their seatbelts. I braced myself against the cold metal wall.
The plane moved faster than I expected, and then the nose of the big machine lifted into the air. Even tied down, the boxes and suitcases slid toward the back of the plane. It took all my strength to stay in place.
To keep my mind from spinning into what might go wrong, I silently sang “A Hundred Rubies,” my favorite nursery rhyme when I was little. After a while the plane leveled off. I wriggled back to the space where I’d been sitting before. It felt odd. I knew we were moving fast, but now it hardly felt like we were moving at all. Once the blood was flowing in my limbs again, I risked a better look at the passengers.
And there was Miles’s unmistakable red head. When I saw him a few rows from the back, I took my first deep breath in ages. Even better, the seat next to him was empty.
My feet were ready to leap the distance between the boxes and Miles, but something stopped me. Maybe it was the fear that Miles wouldn’t want me here. Maybe it was that I wanted to feel more distance from the camp. I waited, but when my legs started to fall asleep, I decided it was time.
Slowly I stood up, reminding myself to act as if I belonged. I walked up to the empty seat. Miles’s face looked drawn and paler than usual. His arms were folded over his chest. He stared into the black of the tiny window. I cleared my throat. “Excuse me, anyone sitting here?” Miles sighed, barely turning his head. “No, no, it’s empty. Make yourself—”
Miles stopped as his eyes connected with the tar. His gaze trailed up until our eyes locked. A smile took root and spread across his face. I felt a matching grin stretch from ear to ear.
“Rez.” It looked like he wanted to say more, but I was going to make him wait.
“You told me to get on a plane and visit. Is this too soon?”
Miles pulled me down into the seat. We looked at each other for a long time.
“Lord Almighty. It’s going to take some fancy work to figure out what to do with you, Reza. If I weren’t so happy to see you, I’d hit you over the head.” His grin got even wider. “But I am very, very happy to see you.”
My hand rested on the tar case. Miles covered my hand with his. For a while we just smiled. Then we both looked out the window. We watched the plane’s wing, its light flashing through the black night. I didn’t know exactly where this trip would end, but I knew it would be a place where songs would be sung.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
This is a work of fiction. While historical and political events are depicted as close to reality as possible, all the characters are entirely of my imagination. It is important to note that, unlike Reza, most of the boys who landed in POW camps in Iraq in the 1980s spent the majority of their teenage years there.
National Public Radio’s Fresh Air host Terry Gross planted the seeds of this book in a 2005 interview with the author P. W. Singer about his book Children at War. His discussion o
f what happened to a generation of Iranian boys took only a few minutes of the interview, but I couldn’t stop thinking about it. My first thought was, Someone needs to tell this story from the boys’ perspective. My second thought was, That someone is not me.
I am not a thirteen-year-old boy. I am not Muslim. I’ve never been to Iran or Iraq. Yet the story wouldn’t let me go. I found myself researching what happened to these young boys. I read the wonderful graphic novel Persepolis by Marjane Satrapi, which portrays this period from a young girl’s perspective, but a boy’s story had not been told. I was certain that it should be.
As preoccupied as I was, I had misgivings about telling a story so outside my personal experience. Two sources gave me the confidence to start writing, and for them I am eternally grateful. Children at War referenced a book called Khomeini’s Forgotten Sons: The Story of Iran’s Boy Soldiers, written by Ian Brown, an aid worker who taught in the Iraqi POW camps in the 1980s. Mr. Brown graciously allowed me to use his extensive nonfiction accounts to bring my characters alive. Eventually he critiqued my manuscript and offered invaluable feedback. My character, Miles, is not Ian, but if they met on some planet where fictional characters exist, I hope they would be friends.
My second source was a neighbor, Masood Moghaddam. I discovered that Masood came to the United States at thirteen so that he, unlike my character Reza, could avoid being sent to war. Masood’s memories of growing up in Iran and how his life changed after the revolution enriched this story immeasurably.
I did all I could to learn about this turbulent period. Detailed information is limited, and given the nature of the subject and the volatility of the times, the facts are not always clear. In several cases even firsthand accounts differed. I searched and sifted—doing my best to get to the heart of the story. I am extremely grateful to a number of Iranian readers, in particular Banafsheh Keynoush, who carefully read and commented on my work. To a person other experts were helpful and supportive; due to historic and current connections, however, they have asked to remain anonymous.
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