No Ballet Shoes In Syria

by Catherine Bruton

  Aya looked up at her dance teacher, but what she saw was a young girl, like herself, coming to England – only without any family. How lonely that must have been.

  “I worked harder than I ever would have done for myself, because I worked for her. Always, I danced for Elsa – and sometimes that hurt a great deal. It broke my heart to think of her.”

  “How did you survive when your heart was breaking like that?”

  “I danced through it,” said Miss Helena. “I danced with it. And if I could turn that heartbreak into dance, it felt as if I could honour it – honour her – and make something beautiful out of the ugliness that had destroyed my Elsa.”

  “I see,” said Aya. The cup of tea was still in her hand and she stared down at it, trying to make sense of all Miss Helena had told her. “But I promised my father I would look after them … if anything happened. I promised.”

  “I did not know your father,” said Miss Helena. “And I will not presume to speak for him, or to tell you what to do. But I do believe that there is a way to look forward while also honouring the sacrifices others have made for us.”

  Aya continued to watch the steam rise off the brown liquid.

  “There is – I believe – a way to live without breaking faith with those who have gone. Or those who continue to suffer. And there are more ways to keep a promise than might at first appear.”

  Aya looked up again at the old woman who was also, somehow, the young Helena – the frightened little girl who had arrived in England all alone and who had made something beautiful out of the life that had been saved for her, as well as the tragedy that surrounded her.

  “Can I try again?” she asked. “Will they let me?”

  “Of course,” said Miss Helena. “Now, drink your tea – and eat that biscuit before I eat it for you!”

  Chapter 41

  For the second time that day, Aya lay on the floor in her opening position. The teachers had quietly allowed her to lay out her objects again, and this time she did it slowly, carefully, looking at each one as she laid it down. And now as the music began to play she allowed it to lift her. It was going to hurt – she knew that now – but she also knew she could survive it. Because she wasn’t doing it for herself now.

  She danced for Moosa first of all – recalling his first faltering steps, his cries in the night, the way he held her fingers so tight and muttered her name in his sleep, the way he needed her, and how much that frightened her, how she resented it sometimes.

  Then she turned to the piece of rock that was all she had left of home, and she danced for all her friends from Aleppo – for Samia, Kimi and Ifima, for Nadiya and Nooda, who might never get this chance that she had. For the boys on the street they had played football with, for the teachers at school – even the horrid maths teacher with the big belly. And she danced for the city itself – the sights and the sounds and the smells that she had loved so much. Yes, the bombs had rained down and there had been so much fear and death, but there had been laughter too and community and a childhood full of memories that all the shelling could never destroy.

  The ballet shoe was easy. It made her think of Madam Belova, but also of the dance studio in Manchester – the feeling it gave her of coming home, of new friends and the blessed beautiful release of music. She danced for Miss Helena and Miss Sylvie who had let her in and helped her come back to life – for her new friends who had treated her like one of them – for Dotty and Blue and Lilli-Ella, Grace – even for Ciara.

  She danced for Mumma – for the woman who had laughed in the kitchen and said, “Dance for us, habibti.” For the happiness she had lost along the way and the colour that was slowly returning to her cheeks. For the bravery she had shown and the pain she had been unable to conceal. For the people at the centre who had lifted her up – Mr Abdul, the Massouds, the food-bank ladies, Sally … the kindness of strangers.

  The handkerchief and the shell were last. She felt a chill ripple through her as she turned to them. This part of the dance was for Dad. But the final bit of the memory had been locked away so tight she felt as if she had lost the key to it. But as she took the first step the key slipped into the lock and the memories fell out upon the waves of music. And it wasn’t as bad as she had feared.

  “Dad! Dad!”

  She screamed out to him across the waves. The boat was upturned and he was nowhere to be seen on the black heaving ocean.

  “Aya! My Aya!”

  And then there he was, calling her name too, then reaching her and pulling her towards the upturned hull of the boat, telling her to hold on to the rope and not let go. Mumma too. And Moosa. He was there. He was OK!

  Somehow they survived a whole night on the water after the boat had capsized. She barely had any recollection of those long hours. She remembered only the coldness and the huge vast blackness of ocean and sky. She had felt sometimes as if she had disappeared, obliterated by the night, lost in it. And yet the thing that had kept her awake, kept her holding on to the capsized shell of the boat had been Dad. He had been there all night, holding her, talking to her, telling them all to hang on, that it would be OK. She remembered him telling her the story of the dancing princess who had never stopped dancing all night and all day, through fiery monsters and dragons and battlefields. Dancing over hot coals and ice and stormy seas … dancing, always dancing. And Dad’s soft voice saying over and over, “Don’t give up, don’t let go – keep holding on to the rope, holding on to your dreams, habibti! Never let go.”

  She recalled the dawn rising over the water. When she could no longer feel her own body but she could feel Dad’s arms still round her as they caught sight of the little fishing vessel sliding across the waves. Aya was too cold, half frozen, unable to take in what was happening.

  There was not enough space for everyone. Women and children only. Then Dad was letting go and she felt strong arms round her, pulling her out of the water, away from Dad.

  She had called his name. Desperate. “Dad! No!”

  “Go to England,” he said. “Take Moosa and Mumma. I will follow. I promise!”

  At least, that’s what she thought he had said. The memory was blurry, watermarked. But as she danced that day in the big old studio, she saw Dad’s face again – clearly, not in fragments – and he was telling her to go – telling her he would follow, telling her to live, telling her never to let go of her dreams. And on the ocean that was the wooden studio floor, Aya reached out to him again, and just for a fleeting moment it was as if Dad was there with her in the studio, holding her hand, his almond eyes fixed on hers, saying, “Dance, habibti! Dance. And never stop dancing.”

  And so she pulled away, turned from him with one last anguished glance, willed her body into a pirouette and turned, turned, turned towards the future.

  Chapter 42

  She and Dotty were both silent for most of the car journey home. Aya stared out of the window as they passed green hedgerows and fields, bright with golden harvest, rippling towards unbroken blue English skies. Dotty wound down the window and stuck her head out, and Aya could smell the rich rasp of the earth, the green sap of the trees. It was so different from the smell of Aleppo in the summer but today, for some reason, it smelled like home. The thought of leaving it tore at her like claws in her belly but she drank it in – allowed herself to feel it, the joy and the pain both.

  Aya hadn’t told Dotty of the phone conversation that she had overheard. She wanted to enjoy this last time with her friend. There was no sign of Mumma when they got back to the house, so the girls went out to the garden and sat under the giant beech tree, staring up at the canopy of leaves dancing, in patterns that were almost like water.

  “My dance went OK, I think,” said Dotty. “I actually kind of enjoyed it – I think cos it’s not exactly ballet. I mean, it was, but I felt as if I was able to have fun with it, so I forgot to be stressed, which probably means my technique was all over the place, but at least I didn’t burst into tears like I thought I would.”

/>   “I cannot imagine you crying,” said Aya, glancing at Dotty, who was picking daisies off the lawn and stripping them of their petals.

  “They love us – they love us not,” said Dotty, plucking off the white petals one at a time and tossing them aside. Dotty glanced at her then and Aya held her eye. “What will you do if…”

  Dotty didn’t finish the sentence. She didn’t need to. Both of them knew what she meant.

  Aya didn’t get a chance to answer, because then came the sound of a car drawing up, and voices on the drive, and then there was Mumma, crossing the lawn with Moosa in her arms and a smile on her face. She was talking fast in Arabic, so fast Aya could not take in what she was saying. It didn’t make sense.

  “We can really stay?” Aya repeated, barely able to take in the momentous news. “But I thought… Miss Helena was saying…”

  “There was some confusion at first,” Mr Buchanan explained. “It seemed your case was going to be turned down on the grounds that you had already applied for asylum in Greece.”

  Aya recalled Miss Helena’s words. “At least this way she has a chance to audition before they are deported.”

  “But I had asked a friend at the Home Office to help,” Mr Buchanan said. “He got to the bottom of things – said it was a fairly simple case in the end. Frustrating, really. I suspect there are hundreds of families in the same situation. Legally entitled to remain but unable to navigate the complex immigration system. It makes me angry.”

  “So we can stay? We can really stay?”

  “Yes, we can stay,” said Mumma, and she said it in English, the four words thick and unfamiliar on her tongue.

  Aya laughed. “When are you learning English, Mumma?”

  “Bronte – she teach,” said Mumma, in English again, tripping over the thick clotted sounds and breaking into a smile as she looked at Dotty’s mother, who was more elegant than usual today, in a navy shift dress with a string of what looked like real pearls.

  “Mum, you are a teacher now!” laughed Dotty.

  “No need to sound so surprised, darling!”

  Dotty was dancing around excitedly. “So will you stay here? Forever?”

  “I hope so,” said Miss Helena. “This house is far too big for two old ladies. We are rattling around in it!”

  “She’s right,” said Miss Sylvie. “This is a garden that needs children to climb trees and a house with corners for hide-and-seek.”

  Aya translated all this for her mother with tears in her eyes. “You are sure?” she said. “It seems … too much…”

  Miss Helena put a hand out and touched her flushed cheek. It had been such a confusing and complicated day. “My dear, this house became my home when my own was lost to me,” she said. “Let it be the same for you now. A way of honouring the tradition. After all, there should have been two girls here – two young dancers, but only one made it.”

  Aya understood and smiled. Perhaps if history was always repeating itself – wars and families fleeing their homes, persecution, refugees – then other stories recurred too: stories of kindness, sacrifice, generosity. What had Miss Helena called it? The kindness of strangers. Decade after decade. Generation after generation. Making the world a better place.

  Chapter 43

  They had been told it would be at least a week before there was any news about the audition but luckily the next few days were filled with preparations for the concert. Everyone was involved in helping – baking cakes, organising a raffle, collecting donations for the food bank, making costumes, rehearsing, getting the stage ready.

  In any case, Aya was in no hurry to hear. “I wasn’t even trying in the audition class,” she said, as she and Dotty were painting signs to go up outside the hall on the day of the concert. “And I can’t really remember what I did in my dance.”

  “I can,” said Dotty. “And the memories aren’t all good, I can tell you! Madam Olenska said my dance was ‘unconventional’ and the Bougeard man actually laughed out loud at one point. That can’t be a great sign!”

  “There’s always next year!” said Aya. Next year, or the year after, or the year after. Now there was no longer the threat of deportation, she could let her dreams spread out into a long distant future. And yet … Oh, if only she could go there now!

  “Not for me,” said Dotty, who had managed to get paint in her hair and all over her clothes. “I told Mum last night that if I don’t get in then I don’t want to be a dancer.”

  “Really? What did she say?”

  “Nothing! She burst into tears and she hasn’t spoken to me since,” said Dotty, adopting a tragic expression that Aya suspected was closer to the truth than she intended. “My dad was passing messages between us at breakfast. It’s basically like a war zone in my house… Oh!” Her expression changed suddenly. “I am so sorry. I didn’t mean…”

  Aya glanced at her friend. Dotty had not experienced war, or bombing. She had not lived in a war zone. But she was frightened of losing her mother too. And Aya knew how that felt.

  “Maybe it will all work out,” said Aya.

  “Maybe,” said Dotty. “But I don’t even know if I want to get in or not! Mum will probably disown me if I don’t but if I do … then I have to go!”

  The two girls looked at each other and both sighed at the same time. “Well, we will find out soon enough,” said Aya.

  “And till then, we have a show to get on the road!” said Dotty, adopting a ringmaster pose and raising an imaginary top hat. “So let’s get this party started, baby!”

  The show was, in fact, coming together very well. Mr Abdul had designed posters that the girls had stuck up in local shops and businesses, many of whom also donated raffle prizes. Bronte Buchanan may not have been speaking to her daughter, but she had agreed to do a star turn, which meant that the local newspapers and radio stations were all running stories on the event. One magazine even wanted to do a story on Aya herself, the refugee ballerina who was the inspiration behind the concert.

  “It might help with trying to trace your dad,” Mr Buchanan had explained when Aya looked nervous. “All publicity is good publicity!”

  “Is there any news?” Aya asked. She had a spot of purple paint on her cheek from painting the posters earlier and Mr Buchanan thought that she seemed to have so much more colour than the pallid little girl who had stood terrified by the pool, though she still had the wary look in her eyes that he wondered if she would ever really lose.

  “We are doing all we can,” he said.

  His friend in the Home Office had managed to trace Mr and Mrs Massoud’s son, Jimi, who was being held in jail in Damascus as a political prisoner. Mrs Massoud had cried when they told her. “I always knew he was alive and yet I also did not believe it till this moment,” she said.

  “There is no prospect of his release any time soon,” Mr Buchanan explained. “Things are very complicated.”

  “But he is alive, and while there is life there is hope,” said Mrs Massoud. And her husband – who rarely said anything; who let his wife speak for him – buried his head in his hands and burst into tears. A father’s tears flow forever too, Aya thought to herself.

  Souda Refugee Camp, Chios Island, Greece

  They were in the camp on Chios for over three months. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting for Dad. Waiting to be assigned a relocation country. Waiting to be moved on. The waiting ate into your soul after a while, thought Aya. Made you feel as if you were not really alive, barely breathing, invisible.

  And there was nowhere to dance there. And no music in Aya’s soul even if there had been. She wondered, sitting on the beach every day, watching for Dad, if she would ever want to dance again.

  Eventually they were assigned papers by the UNHCR to fly to England. There were medical tests and an orientation session and then they were moved into a hotel room for a night before the flight. The next morning there were more tests and interviews to check they were fit to travel. Then they were accompanied to the airport and put on a special fli
ght with a group of other women and children who looked as disorientated as they were.

  Nobody spoke the whole way there.

  Moosa cried in Aya’s arms as the plane took off and Mumma sat in silence next to them. Aya looked out of the window, at the clouds and the sea below. All she could think of was Dad. What if today was the day he came? What if he came and she wasn’t there? Wasn’t waiting for him?

  What if he never found them? What if she never saw him again?

  Chapter 44

  Aya was surprised at how nervous she was before the concert. They had spent most of the day decorating the hall, transforming it from a tattered community centre into a venue for a ballet recital: putting out the rows of chairs, setting up tables for the cake stall and the raffle and the tombola. Mr Massoud had mended the curtains so they now opened and closed when you pulled the ropes, and Mrs Massoud had made bunting from old scraps of material found backstage. Lilli-Ella and Grace had baked mountains of flapjacks and brownies; Blue had made large jugs of home-made lemonade; and each of the little girls had donated gifts for the raffle. One of the parents had donated a giant teddy bear – twice the size of Aya – which was the first prize.

  The girls were using the dance studio upstairs as a dressing room and it was absolute chaos, with small dancers dressed up as cats chasing each other’s tails while Dotty and Aya and the older ones tried to make them sit down for make-up whiskers.

  The older girls were starting with a piece from The Nutcracker that Madam Helena had taught them – a medley of dances from the full-length ballet. But there was no sign of Ciara, who had agreed – reluctantly – to dance the Sugar Plum Fairy.

  “Do you think she’s just ditched the whole thing?” asked Dotty.