The Good Sister

by Chris Morgan Jones

  To me they look like Iraqis, but some have wild hair with blonde in it and eyes between blue and green. The youngest girl is maybe four, she’s tiny, and you can tell just by looking at her that she hasn’t been corrupted by the nonsense of her family’s religion. Then there are two who are older who are on the verge of being sucked in. There’s resentment in their faces but they’ve learned it from somewhere. The oldest girl is very beautiful, peering shyly at me from her mother’s arms – or she would be beautiful after a wash, with clean hair, with the wildness combed out. I can see wisdom in her eyes, which seem to run deep into her, and I wonder whether she can see it in me. Here’s something I can work with.

  I try not to blink as I move from face to face, even though I am nervous, I realize. My future is on the line as well.

  The first step is to see who speaks Arabic. According to Umm Karam some of them do, but not many, and no one in this group has admitted to it. It suits them to pretend even greater ignorance than they have.

  ‘I am Umm Azwar,’ I say. ‘I am your teacher. You have a choice. A simple choice. You can convert to our faith. Or your children will be taken from you, and you will die.’

  They all just stare. I try to work out who’s in charge. In every group someone’s in charge. One woman, the oldest, stares at me with her eyelids half shut so that I can’t tell if she’s close to sleep or just can’t stand to look at me. Her face is yellow, wrinkled, unbelieving, a godless face, and her lazy eyes are like a snake’s, watching and waiting. If these people really do worship Satan she might be the high priestess.

  ‘Who speaks Arabic?’

  I look from face to face, getting nothing. They’re like kids in detention, sulking, refusing to engage.

  ‘I know one of you does. Which one of you is it?’

  One of them says something, not to me but to the floor, and the others mutter and make a sort of twittering noise. They’re so primitive, like a troop of monkeys. I half expect them to start picking bugs out of their hair.

  I tell them to be quiet and take my time.

  ‘I know you understand me. Work with us, and this will be easy. You think this is as bad as it gets? It can always get worse. We can learn here together, or I will separate you and you will never see your children again. Talk it through. Don’t dwell on what you’ve lost. Think about what you still have left.’

  As I say it I keep my eyes on the old woman and the two others whose heads are still up, and all I see there is defiance. I almost admire their spirit, but it would be better for everyone if they had less of it.

  I veil myself and walk slowly from the room, closing the door behind me. It’s a steel door, this was some kind of storeroom, but the whole place is badly built and there’s a gap between the wall and the corrugated iron roof and I wait in the corridor outside to listen. The two brothers are squatting down against the wall and take no notice of me. It must be hard for them, not being at the front. Having no noble purpose.

  This place is disgusting, a mess. I don’t know what it was, an old factory or workshop or something. There’s one big long room that takes up almost the whole building, full of workbenches and machines that look like they’ve been stripped for parts or scrap, then a corridor with three smaller rooms off it, and a bathroom, which even with the wind blowing through the place stinks like you wouldn’t believe. Some of the roof has been taken and there are weeds growing through the dirt floor. These women were captured five days ago but others have been held here – the stench is so bad and in the other rooms there are piles of clothes and suitcases and shoes, some women’s, some men’s. In town we have proper prisons for criminals awaiting trial but I guess that out here this is where we keep prisoners of war, the few we let live. They don’t know how lucky they are in there.

  I lean against the wall and listen. It takes them a while to start talking and when they do they’re quiet at first, before the volume rises and they start really arguing. I don’t need to know Yazidi, or whatever they speak, to know what they’re saying. There’s disagreement, and that’s enough. If they hadn’t understood a word I said they wouldn’t have anything to disagree about. I let the talk peak and calm down before going back in.

  The old woman is the only one looking at me now, and she just stares, without any urgency, from under those heavy eyelids.

  I shout for one of the brothers, and just his presence changes the whole situation, there in his fatigues with his gun over his shoulder and that deadly lazy look in his eyes that so many brothers have. The old woman doesn’t move a muscle but there’s a general shrinking back amongst the rest, and the mother pulls her daughter close.

  ‘You have made your choice. Today I will take one of your children, and they will be raised in a good Muslim family in the khilafa.’ I watch them all so carefully as I talk. ‘Tomorrow I will take another, and the next day one more.’

  One woman can’t help it. She’s sitting by a girl with wild unbrushed hair and black eyes, and as I talk the fear grows on her face and she reaches out a hand and places it on the girl’s shoulder. I’ve got her.

  ‘You. What did I just say?’

  Her eyes are full of fear but all she does is tighten her lips into a line and clutch her granddaughter harder.

  ‘Why don’t you explain it to your friends?’

  She’s paralysed. Even her skin looks tight across her bones.

  ‘I’ll take yours last. In five days’ time.’ I turn to the brother. ‘Take the youngest girl.’

  As he takes a step forward the women start to shout, at her and at me, and she hasn’t got the strength for it. It’s such a good feeling to have won.

  ‘Don’t!’

  I hold my hand up and tell the brother to wait.

  ‘Is that the only word you have?’ I ask her, my hand still raised.

  It takes her a moment to find the strength.

  ‘No.’

  ‘You have others?’

  ‘I can speak it.’

  Her voice is quiet, nervous. She’s looking at the floor by my feet, maybe to avoid the stares of her friends. Without turning to them she says something in their tongue, and I let them settle again.

  ‘You’ve explained?’

  She nods, and as she glances up at me I get a glimpse of the hatred and resentment in her eyes. If she only knew the wonders I will open up to her!

  14

  — believe I will come soon sister, no more delay.

  — I have been trying sister but the journey is more difficult than it appears

  if it was easy what would be point in making it? thru struggle we know Him swt.

  — when I am there can I see you?

  if you make it of course

  Khalil is away fighting but I’m busy with work

  i have new job, getting some pagan women ready for conversion

  — seriously?

  yazidis sister, they’re crazy it’s a real challenge

  — that sounds good for you

  it’s going to be hard but an honour, so important for the khilafa

  — you will be good to them I’m sure

  also remember you’ll be in makkar to start with but maybe I can come one evening or just get married quickly! sure you will

  — probably I am there next week I will tell you when I arrive

  inshallah you have a smooth journey sister

  — any last advice?

  bring good moisturiser! I bought mine here it’s really greasy lol

  15

  His first night at the Demirsoys, Abraham had slept like a stone, a rock, a boulder. Now he skittered about on the surface of his unconscious, thoughts bouncing between the police and Sofia, the path to her clear and terrifying. He would soon be on his way, to the city that sat in his thoughts like the black shadow of a recurring dream.

  When the banging woke him he was sitting up and listening in an instant, as if he had been waiting for it. Four hard, certain knocks, almost immediately another four, then footsteps going down the stair
s. In the dark, Abraham got up and heard Mrs Demirsoy muttering to herself before she shot the two bolts back and opened the front door on its chain. She snapped something in Turkish, but the reply came in Arabic.

  ‘Open the door.’

  ‘Of course. Of course I will open the door. You must all come in.’

  The door closed with a bang, and Mrs Demirsoy let them knock for half a minute before she opened it again, still on the chain.

  ‘Stop your noise. And don’t tell me to do stupid things. Then you can explain what you are doing, waking an old woman and the whole street in the middle of the night.’

  Across the landing, Mr Demirsoy had appeared in his pyjamas, and now he gave Abraham a look that was half fearful, half abashed. He should go and help, but his help would make things worse.

  ‘Open the door, or I’ll break it down.’

  ‘For devils you are very stupid. We can talk like this, and then you can go away. Now tell me what you want.’

  There was a pause, and in it Abraham imagined what was about to happen. The time had come. The end had come. He reached for the light and began to dress.

  Mrs Demirsoy’s voice came from downstairs, shrill with impatience.

  ‘There is no one here. You people see phantoms everywhere.’

  ‘He killed one of our men.’

  ‘And you killed one of his no doubt. Everyone kills everyone now.’

  ‘Why would you protect a murderer?’

  Abraham slipped on his shoes and started to tie them.

  ‘Murderer my foot. The only man in the house is my husband, and though he’ll die soon he doesn’t need to now.’

  ‘Old woman, please. I don’t want to hurt you. I don’t even want to hurt your door. If you’re telling the truth just open up and let us look around.’

  Mrs Demirsoy clucked with irritation.

  ‘I’m going back to bed now.’

  ‘He slit his throat. From here to here. You want a man like that in your house?’

  Abraham stepped out onto the landing and walked to the top of the stairs. It took a moment for Mr Demirsoy to notice the movement, and now he stepped forward to stop him, holding an arm out and shaking his head. His eyes were insistent: not yet, wait, give her a chance. Abraham looked down at the tiny figure by the door, and back at her husband, and nodded. Another minute, that was all. These poor people had given enough.

  Mrs Demirsoy was standing so her face couldn’t be seen through the crack, leaning forward, head up and alert as ever.

  ‘Who did he kill?’

  ‘A comrade, a fighter, in Antep. Slit his throat.’

  ‘What does he look like?’

  ‘He’s an Egyptian. That’s all I know. I haven’t seen him.’

  Mrs Demirsoy paused, glancing up at Abraham as if she had known he was there all along.

  ‘That was him.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘What do you think I mean? He was here.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘An Egyptian. Yesterday night. It was dark so I didn’t let him in.’

  ‘What time?’

  ‘Eight. I don’t let anyone in after dark. I asked him where he was from because his Arabic was strange, and he said Egypt. Cairo. And he was a rough creature, dirty, with a look in his eye I didn’t like. I knew I was right. My instincts are always right.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘Some lies, I don’t know. I told him to try the hotel or to pray to God that the mosque might have him. My instincts are always right. The police came for him today and I said to my husband, you see, that’s the kind of person you want to bring into our house. He always wants the money but I tell him what use is money when our throats are slit? A hundred lira and the two of us dead in our beds. That’s what I said, when our throats are slit. And I had no idea. Allah the most glorified must have put the thought in my head. It makes me shiver to think of it.’

  ‘If you’re lying . . .’

  ‘You are a fool. I’m too old to lie. When you’re young you think God doesn’t see your lies but when you’re as old as I am you might as well lie straight to Him. Now let me sleep. Not that I’ll sleep now, not for hours, and I have you to thank for that.’

  ‘If you see him again—’

  ‘If I see him I’ll take him in and when you come again you can break down the door because I won’t be alive to stop you. You people are idiots. Your poor country will need better to set it free.’

  Without waiting for a reply, she slammed the door shut, slid the bolts into place and stood for a moment with her head up and her eyes closed. Then with a sort of shudder she came to, muttered something to herself in Turkish and marched up the stairs, looking Abraham up and down as she passed him.

  ‘Where are you going? Don’t be ridiculous. Goodnight. Omer will wake you at dawn.’

  16

  At daybreak, a sleepy and silent Mr Demirsoy drove Abraham through the town and out onto the plains towards the rising sun. He had checked the surrounding streets and if anyone was about they were too well hidden for him to see.

  Akçakale looked peaceful to Abraham for the first time; they were the only people about and it was easy enough to imagine life here before the trouble, as Mrs Demirsoy called it. The light was soft, the air still and fresh, the place full of promise. The trees held their slowly browning leaves. On their way out of town they drove past the camp, the endless tents like bubble wrap, and after ten minutes turned north onto a stony track that slowly rose to what in this level landscape constituted a hill. By a thick line of cedar trees Mr Demirsoy stopped the car.

  ‘Land,’ he said, with a possessive sweep of his arm.

  Abraham took his bags from the back seat and looked across at the town. From this point it was all so clear. North of the border, Akçakale, south of it, Tell Abyad, the two separated by a tall chain fence and a few hundred yards of no man’s land on either side. Clustered on the Syrian side were cars, trucks, cattle and people, waiting for the gate to open.

  Mr Demirsoy tapped Abraham on the shoulder and led him past the wall of trees, which leaned and rustled in the steady wind. On the other side and bounded to the north and west by the cedars was a huge kitchen garden, laid out in well-tended rows. An immense area for one old man to tend. Most of it had been harvested but Abraham saw cabbages, potatoes, leeks, beans growing up cane frames. Some of the rows had been freshly ploughed for sowing, their soil darker and softer than the rest.

  Mr Demirsoy had taken a key from his pocket and was standing by the door of a shed that somehow Abraham knew he had built himself. The walls were made of planks of dark wood laid not end to end but on their side, so that the whole building felt solid; to call it a shed didn’t seem quite right. The door was five lengths of greying pine that had split and warped over the decades it must have stood here, and above it sat a gabled roof that sagged a little at the sides but was otherwise intact. A single window, unglazed, was covered with iron bars that looked as if they too had been bent into place by this one man.

  Inside, the air was cool and smelled of earth and compost and the musty boxes of chemicals that sat on one of the countless shelves. Such organization; Abraham marvelled at it. Tools hanging in their place from nails set into the walls, brooms to the left, then spades and shovels, hoes, forks, trowels, secateurs, saws, all aged and shaped by long use. Seeds in their packets lined up and labelled. Neatly rolled lengths of plastic and netting against the far wall. Thick paper bags full of potatoes and onions on the floor.

  ‘Wait,’ said Mr Demirsoy, and left. When he came back he had bags in each hand and a bedroll under one arm.

  ‘Here,’ he said, and handed it all to Abraham. ‘Home.’

  Sheets and blankets in one bag, neatly folded, and in the other parcels of food and paper bags full of fruit.

  ‘Teşekkür ederim.’

  Abraham nodded gravely as he said it. He wasn’t sure he’d ever been as grateful to anyone for anything, certainly not a stranger, and tears rose a
t the unimaginable kindness of it – but he checked them, more for Mr Demirsoy’s sake than his own.

  Mr Demirsoy took a knife from the wall, cut off a length of plastic sheeting, laid it out carefully on the floor and waited for Abraham to lay his mattress on it. Then together they made the bed, tucking in the sheets and the blankets down each side.

  ‘Is no . . .’ Mr Demirsoy pressed his palms together and tilted his head onto his hands.

  ‘Pillow.’ Abraham smiled. ‘I’ll be fine.’

  Mr Demirsoy looked around the shed, nodded with satisfaction and beamed at Abraham.

  ‘Good here. Come.’

  Between the shed and the cedars was a water trough and a tap on a standpipe. He turned it on and after a second or two a trickle of water came out.

  ‘Good for this.’ He splashed it on his face. ‘But no drink.’

  ‘What can I do for you? While I am here. What work needs to be done?’

  When Mr Demirsoy understood, he held a finger up and led him round the edge of the field to its far corner, where a barn stood, thin planks attached to a wooden frame, a less finished construction than the shed. Behind its double doors was a wheelbarrow, a cart, some sort of seed-sowing machine and a rusted metal contraption that he began to pull outside. It looked like one half of a scrapped bicycle: two long bars in a V, a spoked wheel where they met, and behind that a crude curving blade like the prow of some ancient ship. A hand plough, so well worn it might have been medieval. Mr Demirsoy left it on the ground outside the barn, took Abraham up one side of the field and with great care explained that those rows had been ploughed, and those harvested, but these in the middle all needed to be turned over.

  Of course, said Abraham, already too indebted to ask how the thing worked.

  By ten, left alone with the land and the sun, Abraham had found a sort of rhythm. The soil was heavy and full of stones and the blade too blunt and rough to glide right through it; with a horse or a motor he might have left the bit in the ground and watched the thing go but he hadn’t the strength for that, so he devised a dipping action, driving in, pulling back a little, driving in again. Sixteen rows, and the first took him a full hour. The sun pressed down on his back and tried to find its way through the sun hat he’d fashioned from a pair of boxer shorts and the cap he’d found in the shed. Sweat dripped from him. Push in, pull back, go on. Sofia should do this. We should all do this. Maybe this was what she had gone to find. Honest work uncorrupted by the world.