11
Tire tracks zigzag up a ridge of hills to a series of dusty walls rising one above the other. Although it resembles a Middle Eastern crusader castle, the place might be no more than a couple hundred years old. It’s a city of unknown age, either ancient as the landscape or recently constructed but already eroding in the wind and the extreme temperatures. The houses and walls are in a perpetual state of deterioration, so they are constantly being rebuilt, shifting endlessly like the desert wind.
The stacked walls appear to be their destination. A truck coughs by on the road; from a kilometer away, they could hear it and see the dust cloud it kicks up. The dust mixes with the smell of gasoline as it passes them in a black cloud of smoke. Like the nomads, the Danes use their patus to cover their mouths. As the truck passes, they can see the vehicle’s tailgate painted with a lion roaring at them and snow-covered mountains with wooded sides. In the middle is a portrait of a young man with a mustache and severe eyebrows.
Nearing the city, they start to smell woodsmoke and charcoal; they recognize it from their patrols through the villages. They know it comes from hearths, a sign of that most peaceful of all activities, making food. Still, they associate the smell with danger, as if every indication of human presence is a threat and they can only feel safe in a deserted land.
What are they doing here?
Simon has bandaged Hannah’s broken nose. “I don’t know how to set a broken nose,” he says, “so I can’t guarantee the outcome.” Right now, Hannah looks terrible, although the patu hanging over her forehead hides most of it. The bandage covers part of her face, while her eyes are encircled in dark-blue hematomas.
She let the nomad women remove her shalwar kameez. She’s dressed as one of them now, in layers of loose floor-length robes that warm better than the kirtle yet provide the same freedom of movement. They’ve combed her hair and washed it in camel urine, so it sits close to her head and hangs heavy down her neck. There’s comfort in their welcoming hands constantly fiddling with her and their incessant laughter, which she doesn’t understand. She’s taller than all of them, yet they treat her as if she were their newly acquired doll.
They replace the bloody rag between her legs with a sanitary towel and hand her a pair of white cotton panties that look new. Surprised, she sits there holding them in her hands. Staring at her and laughing, they hitch up her robes as if they’re going to teach her how to use panties. She holds up her hands to stop them. She can do it herself. Then she realizes something. These aren’t just nomads—they’re also smugglers bringing goods across borders. The heavily loaded camels hold the answer to many of life’s necessities. She has gone from the men’s world to the women’s—to those who understand her body’s needs.
Schrøder still sees to it that his prisoners stay separated. He hasn’t made any attempt at speaking to her. At night she sleeps surrounded by women.
They aren’t alone on the road. They’ve seen other caravans, many people on foot, and a few cars honking their way through the throngs. Behind the walls, they discover throngs of people already packed into the all-too-narrow streets.
Many are armed, although they can’t tell whether they’re fighters or if a Kalashnikov hanging from the shoulder is just part of daily attire here. It’s not like this in Girishk, where you’ll find tons of weapons but they aren’t paraded around on the streets. One thing is certain. They won’t be meeting any NATO soldiers here. That doesn’t mean it’s necessarily Taliban territory they’re in now. A local warlord might have created his own fiefdom—and the government wisely stays away. This is enemy country. Large crowds are always unpredictable. Anything can happen.
A black-and-white Photostat hangs on a crumbling clay wall that, as they approach, looks as if it must be one of the city gates. The poster depicts the same face they saw painted on the tailgate of that passing truck: a clean-shaven man with a mustache, eye shadow, and heavy eyebrows. It looks like a family photo touched up to soften the face and make the skin lighter. Despite the mustache, meant to impart the weight of authority, he’s young. He could even be a student. He’s definitely not Taliban, or he’d be wearing a turban and his jaw would be hidden behind an unruly black beard.
As they walk through the gate, the road continues to climb up the mountain ridge. They meander from one square to the next; some are unpopulated, while others are marketplaces filled with wooden stalls shaded beneath dirty canvases and surrounded by a swarm of merchants. Still, the city seems like part of the landscape because the walls and houses look like freestanding cliffs.
The same poster of the young man hangs on most of the walls. Is it some kind of death notice? Is he a martyr? What’s his story? They’ve reached far up the mountainside, and the vast desert landscape they’ve just crossed lies spread out beneath them.
The square in front of them is filled with people, some standing and others camped out on the ground. Scattered stalls line the square’s perimeter. There are no animals here. Noise is muffled. A solemnity in the air dampens voices.
In the middle of the square, where it’s packed with people, sits a large black tent with two openings. A line of people moves through one opening and then exits the other in scattered succession, most with their hands raised in triumph or ecstasy. Each time a waiting crowd breaks out into jubilant cries and hugs them; afterward, they all leave together. Those standing around speak excitedly, as if something important has just happened.
Next to the tent there’s a wooden platform with a microphone stand surrounded by loudspeakers. Somewhere nearby is a generator.
Although no one looks in their direction, Hannah has no doubts. Everyone knows they’re there, and it won’t be long before something happens. They’re actors about to step onto a stage, except no one has told them what parts they’re playing. Are they the only ones who don’t know what’s going to happen? A mass execution up against a wall?
Two armed men open a green metal gate in one of the massive mud-built walls on the square’s border, and they’re ordered to walk through it. The gate slams shut behind them, and they find themselves standing in a packed-earth courtyard.
12
“Surely you noticed the picture hanging all over the place,” says Schrøder, who greets them in the middle of the courtyard. “It’s a policeman from this city. He killed two American soldiers and got away. They finally found him and left him shot to pieces, with traces of dog bites. He’s become a saint who has performed miracles following his death. They’ve raised an altar to him inside the tent we just walked by. The sick, the lame, the blind, and the deaf go in one end—and when they come out the other, they’re healed. You saw the cheering crowd yourselves. Now it’s your turn.”
He smiles inscrutably.
“Now I know you’re asking yourselves why you need to be healed. Infidel. Nonbeliever. Isn’t that what it says on your favorite T-shirts? We’re the infidels, we kick ass? This is where our saint can help. You can enter the tent as the infidels you are and come out again as believers.”
“Maybe it’s just like one of these Al-Qaeda videos on the net?” Viktor sneers at Schrøder. “First we praise Allah and then we have our throats cut on camera?”
“Not if you say the kalima first—then you’ll become one of them. Otherwise it won’t be much fun for you. I don’t think they’ll slit your throats. They’d rather stone you. That’s more the local style here. Come on! It’s nothing. Just a few words.”
“Stop! Just stop!” Steffensen raises a hand. “I’ve seen tons of cell phones around here. The moment we hit the net, the whole world will know about it. They’re already looking for us. You prove that we’re still living and make some kind of bargain. Otherwise I can’t see what the point is. What’s this all about?”
“You think you’ll be found—you won’t. You’re in a different Afghanistan now, one you just don’t understand. That’s why I’m suggesting you convert. Everything will be a lot easier.”
Viktor goes on the offensive again. �
��Convert? What the hell is wrong with you? Are you some kind of fucking convert or what?”
Schrøder laughs. “I’m as much of a Muslim as you are a Christian. Or as little. It’s so simple. It doesn’t cost anything to say the kalima. Just exchange one declaration of faith for another. All I’m asking you to do is say a few words you don’t understand anyway—words that didn’t mean anything before you said them and that you’ll forget the moment after you’ve said them. You just want to live so one day you can slit my throat, or whatever it is you want to do to me. Now I’m giving you that chance. That’s all. It’s that simple.”
“I won’t do it,” says Møller, his face pale and anxious. “You can do what you want—shoot me, stone me, behead me. I won’t do it.”
Schrøder looks at him calmly. “Just one thing. If one of you doesn’t do it, that means none of you do it. Then you’re all lost.”
He points a finger at them, one at a time. “Bang! Bang! Think about it. Did you come out here to die for some crazy idea about God? Or did you come because you wanted to test yourselves a little before you went home again to go on with whatever it was you were doing?”
They stare at the chaplain, almost as if they’ve formed a collective front against him. None of them doubts that Schrøder means what he says.
“Come on, Chaplain,” says Simon.
A discussion ensues between them and the chaplain. Now he’s the one holding their lives in his hands.
“But don’t you understand what it is he wants you to do? Betray everything you stand for? How will you ever be able to live with yourselves? Life isn’t a game. It’s serious.”
“We’re not Christians, at least not in that way.” Simon stares urgently at Møller. “I’m sorry, Chaplain. We appreciate everything you’ve done for us—but die for the church? You can’t possibly expect that.”
The others mumble in agreement. Dennis smiles. He knows how inappropriate it must all look, but he can’t help rejoicing in Møller’s humiliation.
“This isn’t about the church. It’s about what’s deep inside you. I know you—every single one of you. Don’t tell me you don’t believe in anything. Why else have you put your lives on the line out here? Religion or no religion, this is a war in which good is fighting against evil. You have to choose sides.”
“We have great respect for you, Chaplain—you know that—but you can’t insist that we die for a conviction that isn’t ours.”
Steffensen makes his voice sound as earnest as possible. It’s his negotiating voice. He pictures sitting at home in Rønne’s city council with his thermos and club soda in front of him. He can almost taste the lukewarm coffee from the cafeteria.
“How will you be able to look yourselves in the mirror? What will your loved ones think?”
“They’ll be happy just to see us again. I believe the defense minister will be totally on our side. Your superior, the bishop, too. Guaranteed. Isn’t that what they taught us in all our survival courses? Be cooperative. Do what they ask you to do. Convert if you have to!”
Steffensen fills his voice with authority. He’s not their commander issuing an order. He knows that won’t work. He’s trying to represent the voice of reason—and what’s more reasonable than surviving? He can feel the chaplain starting to crack. With the politician’s instinct, he tries to widen the crack. “Do you have the right to take responsibility for all of us being killed? Do you know us better than we know ourselves?”
The chaplain’s shoulders collapse as if the pressure is too much and he can no longer bear it. “No,” he says. “No, I can’t take that responsibility. I can only speak for myself.”
“But that’s exactly what you can’t do.” Steffensen knows when his opponent is weakening. “Our lives depend on you. You’re responsible for us.”
“You’re not Jesus, Møller. You can’t save the world. Just us,” says Viktor. Steffensen nods in agreement.
Schrøder has been following the discussion carefully, clearly enjoying himself. That’s why he let them talk so long. Steffensen feels like he should thank him. You’d almost think he’s on their side.
Møller looks down. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles. “I’m sorry . . . I don’t know what came over me.”
Viktor puts an arm around his shoulder. “It’s okay, man.”
“We’re all under a lot of pressure,” says Steffensen. He turns to Schrøder. “Let’s get this nonsense over with.”
“First you have to learn the words.” Schrøder recites the declaration of faith, which is short. The pronunciation poses the biggest challenge. “Ash-hadu ala ilâha illal-Lahu wahdahu, la Sharîka lahu, wa-ash-hadu anna Muhammadan abduhu wa rasûluhu.”
“What does it mean?” asks Steffensen. “Shouldn’t we know?”
“What do you think it means? I believe blah-blah-blah. Figure it out for yourself. It’s irrelevant.”
“Do we have to say it one at a time?” asks Steffensen.
“Yes, one at a time. Our audience wants proof of the miracle.” He glances at the chaplain. “If you all say it at once, some of you might try to cheat.”
Schrøder gives an order to one of the guards. The Afghan turns toward them and starts, slowly and clearly, to recite the declaration of faith. He looks at them with anticipation. They stumble over the words. The Afghan patiently repeats the string of words. The other guards have gathered around them. Their faces are serious as they listen to the ferengi’s fumbling attempt to reach the inner core of their teachings.
“Take your time,” says Schrøder, crossing his arms and watching them with a smile. “Don’t worry about the pronunciation. Just as long as it’s somewhat understandable. It’s the intent that counts.”
After the practice session has gone on for some time, he clearly becomes bored. “One more thing,” he says. “You have to recite the declaration of faith in uniform.”
“You can’t be serious,” exclaims Viktor.
“Dead serious.”
Schrøder signals to a guard, who disappears into the closest house. A moment later four boys show up carrying uniforms folded and stacked in piles. They recognize the camouflage pattern and the Danish flag. Even from a distance, they can see that the uniforms have been washed and recently pressed.
13
Dressed in their Danish army uniforms, they walk as one back to the square. Their heads are bare. Hannah isn’t with them; she’s a woman, so her conversion is irrelevant. She’s back in the qalat with Zuy.
Anticipation permeates the square as they step out into it. All conversations stop abruptly, and there’s no line at the tent’s entrance. Everything has been prepared for their arrival.
The strong smell of burning herbs fills the tent. Sitting behind a table covered in a dark-green velvet cloth with gold-embroidered Arabic characters, a group of bearded men in turbans stare intently at them. Armed guards stand in each corner of the tent. The touched-up photograph of the dead man sits on the green tablecloth. Maybe some of those attending are his relatives.
The Danes bow their heads in devotion, although most of them would like to spit on the framed picture of the deceased. They exit back into the light again, one by one, in single file. All eyes are on them as they move toward the stage. A loudspeaker screeches with feedback, and they can hear the nerve-wracking noise of a generator somewhere nearby. A crowd has already gathered onstage. A group of older men are standing around the microphone.
Many of those sitting in the square are holding up their cell phones. A solemn silence descends on the crowd of about five hundred people. The eyes staring at them are serious; this isn’t some traveling circus or freak show.
They step onto the stage. Before they move to the microphone, one of the elders says something. With a little good will, they can tell that it’s a mangled pronunciation of their names. This is not an anonymous mass conversion—Schrøder must have given the Afghans a list.
One by one, the Danish soldiers recite the kalima. Mumbling breaks out throughout the crowd
every time a declaration of faith, accompanied by the loudspeaker’s feedback, rings out across the square. Now the soldiers belong to the same fellowship as their audience. Fuck, man, it’s creepy—but fuck, man, it’s also easy! Just a bunch of words, and then it’s in the bag. Okay, it’s pretty hard getting all the words right, and there’s this nervous moment in front of the microphone. Will I remember this shit correctly? Not forever, they’re sure of that. But Schrøder was right: their audience can see the good will.
The chaplain is the last to step up onto the stage. As his name is announced, he thinks he hears a word that sounds like “imam.” He’s really going to have to suffer through this. The Afghans in front of the stage now know that he’s the platoon’s chaplain.
The soldiers stare at him. Everything could go wrong now. The chaplain is clearly struggling. He looks as if he’s having trouble breathing. All of them try to catch his eye. Pull it together, man! This has to do with us—not you and the Lord.
But that’s exactly what it is about: Lukas Møller and his god. He mumbles a stifled prayer of forgiveness, but anger starts to build inside him with all the irresistible force of a riptide. Is he failing God—or is God failing him? His faith is being tested, and untested faith might just prove worthless.
But isn’t the Savior’s message one of forgiveness? Isn’t that why he came—to take away our sins? Isn’t that what separates him from his merciless father? The Lord is a god of vengeance and retribution, an eye-for-an-eye god, basically a god of war. Doesn’t his son rebel against all that? Isn’t his rebellion one of kindness, forgiveness, and turn the other cheek? But Judas hangs himself. There’s no forgiveness there. And what about Gestas, the thief on the cross to the left of Jesus in the altarpiece in Bregninge Church, hanging with his head down and squirming? The evil thief, they call him, because he’s an ignorant, primitive person who doesn’t understand the drama he’s witnessing, and so in his stupidity he mocks the Savior. Is ignorance the same as evil?
The First Stone Page 38