The judges look at each other. They’re about to pass judgment. They stand up, and the man in the middle opens his mouth. Obviously they don’t need to discuss it. Judgment has already been decided. My father has vanished from view; he’s probably standing somewhere behind me, but I can’t turn around. The guard behind me lays a heavy hand on my shoulder as if to steady me for what’s to come.
“We have weighed for and against,” says the judge. Although he’s looking right at me, I can’t read his expression. Something greater is speaking through him now. Surely that’s the way he sees it—isn’t that the way young men with weapons always see it?
“This man has done good things, but his intentions have been evil, although he was unable to carry them out. How much does one count and how much does the other? We realize it would insult the Afghan people’s feelings if he were sentenced to death, but it would also insult our sense of justice if he were to leave this court without punishment. He must leave here with a visible sign of the crime he harbors in his heart, a daily reminder that it is never too late to return to the proper path.”
Pausing, he looks at me. I realize I’ve been holding my breath and exhale slowly. I was expecting a death sentence. I don’t have time to compose myself before he resumes his speech.
“Therefore, we have decided to cut off your right hand.”
57
My first thought is foolish—or is it merely hopeful? Now I know why a doctor came with us: so I won’t bleed to death when they cut off my hand.
I look at Hannah. For some reason, she’s the one I tell. “They’re going to cut off my hand,” I say.
I refuse to use the word “amputate”; this isn’t some medical intervention. And life afterward? I can’t picture it, but I’m going to have to. These bastards will turn me into an invalid, and even worse is the mark they’ll leave on my heart. The only thing I can do to survive is never think about my father again. Pent-up fury only turns into powerlessness and bitterness.
I know some soldiers lose more than a hand in this war. Some lose both arms and legs, in some cases even their dicks. But at least they’re not told beforehand that they’re going to lose a couple limbs, so they can sit there counting down the seconds. I have no idea how the assholes will do it. Did they bring an axe? A saw? A fucking medieval sword?
“Then do it now!” I yell.
The young judge stares at me. “I’m happy to hear you accept your punishment,” he says, “but there’s still another trial. Your sentence will be carried out afterward.”
What is he thinking? That this is some kind of waiting room at the doctor’s? Wait your turn! I try to pull myself together, but I can’t deal with a long, drawn-out farewell to my hand.
“Let’s get this done,” I say, trying to sound calm. “I’ve already said goodbye to it. If you let me keep it any longer, I may start doing stupid things with it.” It’s an empty threat. My hands are tied behind my back.
I can see the uncertainty on the judges’ faces. Their youthfulness is suddenly painfully clear. The ruthlessness on their faces isn’t just a mask they’re hiding behind; they’re hardened. What else could they be? Right now, though, there’s a crack in their armor. Something other than ruthlessness resides in there—but I can’t appeal to it, whatever it is. It’s too late. Is it enough just to know it’s there?
Everyone stands up, including the Danes. I can see from Hannah’s face that something violent is about to happen. She’ll never go along with this. “Stop,” I hiss in Danish. “Sit down. It’s your only chance to get home!”
Can my father hear me? I still can’t see him. I’m so full of hatred toward him that I can’t bear the thought that he might be doing all this to help us—that my hand is the price we have to pay so that we can all go home alive. I have to be punished as a traitor so the others can leave here unscathed. I want to scream at him: You really are my father! But he’s something else, too. An Afghan tactician.
I implore Hannah. “We have to stick together. If you’re really my friends, you’ll sit down now.” I hold my breath, but then they sit back down.
Four men grab my arms and shoulders. The judges have decided to show mercy; I don’t have to wait. Did my father nod? I try to be relaxed and cooperative, but everything within me screams: Run! My muscles tighten. They force me to my knees and then loosen the rope around my wrists. The doctor takes a small wooden stool out of his backpack and places my right hand on top of it. Then he takes out some shiny steel instruments, which he lays on a plastic cover he has spread out on the ground next to the stool. I look down at them. One is a small saw with two handles, one on each end, connected by a steel strand with tiny razor-thin teeth. A blade, I suppose. There are several scalpels, too. I was expecting a cleaver or something reminiscent of a butcher shop. This looks more like a child’s toy—a sick, sadistic child’s toy. The instruments are wrapped in clear plastic bags. Maybe they’ve actually been sterilized. I’m in the conscientious hands of a doctor, a fucking sadist who’s about to cut off my hand.
He ties a tourniquet as tightly as he can around my wrist.
“Are there special medical studies just for the Taliban where you learn how to cut off hands?” I try to make my voice sound as sarcastic as possible, mostly just to stop it from shaking. This might not be the best moment to rile him up, but I don’t give a fuck. I’m going to lose my hand anyway.
“I’ll try to make the cut as clean as possible,” he says in a businesslike tone. He sounds like a family doctor. “It depends on your willingness to cooperate.” He looks at me as if he’s waiting for my consent. The four men are basically right on top of me now, holding all of my limbs to ensure my consent.
I don’t respond.
“Otherwise it can get quite messy. I’ll be cutting into what’s called the joint line. That way we’re not sawing through any bones. The cut will go right between the carpal bones and the two bones of the forearm. It will be easy to work with, so you won’t have a stump that stops at some random spot below the elbow. This way you can get a prosthetic for the hand you’ll lose. I hope you appreciate my thoughtfulness.”
“To make it easier for me to cooperate, can you give me something to help me relax?” I know it’s a sign of weakness to ask, but I have to brace myself.
“Unfortunately I can’t,” he says, smiling apologetically. “I hope you understand. If I gave you a sedative, it would be an operation, not a punishment.”
“Okay,” I say. The emptiest word of all. I really don’t know what else to say. If I ever get my hands on him . . . but I won’t. It ends here. I just have to get through it. I decide I won’t look away when he cuts off my hand. And what will happen then? I’m worried about my eyes. Will I ever be able to close them again, or will the sight of my bloody stump be burned into my retinas forever? What will become of me? Will I become crazy, tough, callous, hypersensitive, a fucking freak?
I’ve read somewhere that there are twenty-seven bones in your hand. Twenty-seven bones enabling us to do incredibly varied things: punch, caress, text, give somebody the finger. Without thinking, I start to move my fingers.
“What are you doing?” asks the doctor.
“Noticing my hand.”
“That’s completely normal.” He speaks in a soothing tone, as if I need assurance that nothing’s wrong with me in the middle of this insane situation.
“What do you mean?”
“They always do that. I mean, right before an amputation.”
I’d rather not respond. I concentrate instead on my hand and its wonderful, gracious movements.
The doctor disinfects his hands with some gel and then takes a pair of surgical gloves out of a sealed plastic bag and pulls them on. The hairs on the back of his hands are visible through them. He puts on a green lab coat, so he won’t get blood on his shalwar kameez and its embroidered facing. I notice that his beard is trimmed; his well-groomed appearance delineates him from the warriors around him.
“First,” he say
s pedagogically, “we have to make sure that you don’t bleed to death. I’ll locate your arteries and slice them. Then I’ll cauterize and clamp them.” He shows me a small, beaklike object. “Afterward, I’ll stitch it up with a suture.”
“A suture?” I ask. There’s something calming about the clinical way he’s describing the assault I’m about to experience.
“Very simple,” he replies. “It just means that I’ll sew the veins together.”
“What’s your name?” I ask. “So I know who to call in case I need to get my other hand amputated. You sound like you have significant experience in these matters.”
He doesn’t smile. “I can’t tell you my name, unfortunately.”
“But don’t you wear a name tag at Bolan Hospital in Quetta—where you work every day?” I know the name of the hospital from earlier visits with my father. It’s government run, corrupt, and lacks the most basic equipment.
He flinches. Maybe I’ve hit a nerve: an underpaid doctor who supplements his income by cutting off a hand every month or so.
“I’ll give you something for the pain afterward.” He smiles professionally, to indicate that he’s unfazed by my attempt at intimidation.
He glances down and evaluates the plastic cover where he’s laid out his instruments.
“This will hurt,” he says.
Leaning on me with all their weight, the four men tighten their grip.
I concentrate on keeping my eyes open.
The doctor grabs the saw with both hands.
58
I don’t want to talk about the pain.
I’m on my knees in front of the stool. The four men are having trouble holding me down.
My eyes are still open. All my willpower is directed toward my eyelids. I’m staring . . . staring. What does it mean to lose a hand?
The doctor is skillful. The saw cuts clean through. My sutured arteries protrude from the sliced flesh and the small steel clamps. I can see the white curves of the bones on my forearm. They’re unharmed, so the tourniquet has done its job. No blood spurting all over the place. The stool’s white surface is splattered, but that can be easily dried off.
Can you think and scream at the same time? I hear someone screaming, so it must be me, although it sounds as if it’s coming from a loudspeaker nearby. I’m not screaming. A scream is being transmitted.
It’s just lying there. A dead, hairy spider. A crab washed ashore. Some might have wondered if one of the forearm’s major nerves would react with one last jerk of the thumb or twitch of a fingertip. But I don’t. And it doesn’t. The hand just lies there. An immovable object that’s lost all purpose. It could just as well be stuffed, as long as you don’t notice the blood on the cutting board. At one time it possessed great motor skills. With this hand, I’ve . . . I stop myself. No need for any eulogy for a hand. It has nothing more to do with me.
With one nonchalant motion, the doctor sweeps the amputated hand off the stool. He’s totally calm. Surgeons don’t get worked up in the operating room.
I’m standing in a hall of mirrors, staring at endless reflections of myself. Maybe it’s a way to ease the pain. I distribute it equally among all these different versions of myself and hope it helps.
It doesn’t.
My eyes are still open, as are the others’, although I’m not sure about those standing behind me. Or about the four men so effectively preventing me from moving. The judges’ eyes are open. They’re watching me to ensure that the sentence has been properly executed. Steffensen, Møller, and Hannah. I’m so engulfed by myself and my screaming that I can’t read the expressions on their faces.
How long will it take to digest the fact that my right hand is missing? My entire life? We don’t have that kind of time. We need to move on. The doctor’s experienced hands apply a bandage that looks nice and hygienic. No blood seeping through anywhere.
Am I still screaming?
He’s left the tourniquet on. I just hope he remembers to give me the injection he promised.
I’m lying on my back and staring up at the sky. I don’t see anything special: only blue. People born in low-lying countries like Denmark always think the sky is more beautiful in the mountains. Deeper, maybe. I don’t care. I don’t think anything.
I don’t want to talk about the pain.
I hear voices. Someone is speaking. I turn my head. I’m already tired of the sky. I need to look at something else. I look at Schrøder. He stands up. Because I’m lying down, he seems ridiculously tall. I pull myself up on my elbows and then stand up. I raise my right arm in the air, and the stump, now wrapped in bandages the blood is about to seep through, hovers overhead like a lighthouse in flames.
Two men grab me from behind and force me back down. The judge is still speaking, and Schrøder, flanked by two men, stands facing him. I’m having trouble concentrating. I know I’m missing some of the list of his transgressions, which is certainly longer than I can imagine. My head is light, and my body feels like it’s about to start levitating. The doctor must have given me that blessed injection. Before I was fighting the pain; now I’m fighting the euphoric weightlessness that has replaced it.
I have to follow what’s happening. I have to be aware. With or without my hand, on morphine or not, I’m on the fucking job. I fall into myself, crawl up out of the hole, and then fall back down again.
The judges’ faces have changed. The sternness that’s so striking on a young face because it seems unnatural is still there, but there’s something else. Curiosity, sympathy—I’d almost call it a yearning for debate. A judge can’t debate, however; he has to render a judgment that’s indisputable.
Now they’re talking about treason. They think Schrøder is a particularly bad example of it. He laughs, oh, how he laughs. Doesn’t he get what’s happening? I know he’s used to getting by on his eloquence, but does he really think he can talk his way out of this one?
“It’s nonsense to be talking about treason,” Schrøder says. “The proper word is ‘tactics.’ History has taught you to think tactically. You invite your enemies to a banquet and then slash their throats. That’s how you’ve managed to survive.”
“You betray everyone,” says the judge in the middle.
“You have to keep a lot of balls in the air.” Schrøder shrugs apologetically. “Otherwise it won’t work.”
“The problem with you is that you want to replace God with people.” The judge speaks as if he’s doling out a friendly rebuke.
“That’s not right.” Now Schrøder sounds patronizing. “God has his workshop and we have ours. And what is God’s workshop?” He would extend his arms demonstratively if they weren’t tied behind his back. Instead, he tries to make his words sound expansive. “The mountains here, the trees all around us, spring, autumn—this is God’s workshop. The miracle of life, the origin of the universe—this is God’s workshop. The rest is ours.”
“Justice comes from God.”
“Justice? Who cares about justice?”
“We do. That’s why you’re standing in front of us with your hands tied behind your back. Justice comes from God.”
“I don’t want to contradict you. But you need me. Let’s make a deal. You want the drones out of your lives, right? I can help you get rid of the drones.”
“You can,” says the young judge in the middle. “You’ve shown us that. But you only do so when it suits you. You don’t do it to help us. And in the end, our enemies benefit more from you than we do. So our paths must part now.”
“You’re mistaken. I’m not on their side. I admit I’m not on your side, either. See—I’m being honest with you. I’m not on anyone’s side. I’m only interested in what happens when you pull the plug.”
“And what will happen when you pull the plug?”
“You’re up against a powerful enemy. Chaos is your best ally. I don’t have to support you. Actually, I don’t give a fuck about you. Still, I’m the best friend you’ll ever have.”
“You can
make a drone crash, but only with the help of a computer screen. You think the whole world is just a screen.”
“I know the whole world is just a screen. A lot of people know that, though only a few ever act on it—and most of them are like me. The power mongers believe that battles are won and lost on the ground, in the mountains, or at sea, won with artillery, missiles, troops, and air strikes. Don’t repeat their mistake. The coming wars will be won or lost where there’s no solid ground beneath your feet.”
“We know what chaos is. We experienced it during the civil war in the nineties. And you brought chaos with you when you invaded.”
“Remember in the Koran when Allah holds a dress rehearsal for Judgment Day and shuts off all the light in the universe just to show he can?”
“Don’t bring Allah into this.”
“I’m not. Allah has nothing to do with it. It’s something we humans do on our own. Turn the switch off and on. The switch is inside the computer, on the screen, on the internet. A major city is hit by a blackout. Flights crash into each other when a control tower malfunctions. State secrets are made public. Enormous stores of knowledge are lost in a microsecond. You can run around with your noisy Kalashnikovs, trying to stop the progress you hate so much, but progress falls apart all on its own. And that’s where your greatest possibilities lie.”
“You’re a blasphemer.”
“My blasphemy is directed only at people.”
Schrøder glances at me. “You got that one,” he says. “That one” is me. I can hear the contempt in his voice.
Now Schrøder turns toward his three countrymen. “But them,” he says, nodding in their direction, “you’re not charging them with anything. Even though they’ve made bigger fools of you than that one.” Again that contemptuous “that one.” Is this my status in life now? Is that what it will say on my insurance card? On my passport? “That one.”
The First Stone Page 59