Amsterdam 2020 (Amsterdam Series Book 2)

by Ruth Francisco

  This will not do.

  Okay, Salima, you are twenty, you've been in scrapes before. This time it's worse. Even more reason to prepare yourself to fight back. You mustn't let these women get into the habit of thinking you're a helpless foreigner, a woman expecting her first child, clueless and frightened. You must be calm. You'll find a way out. You always do.

  #

  During the body count the next morning, the ground gives a sudden jolt; the walls tremble, and the metal security doors clank and rattle, sounding like a hundred metal lockers slamming shut. The guards and soldiers spring to attention, scrambling out of the prison into the courtyard, shouting nervously. They look up anxiously, as if expecting some kind of ambush. A few dive under concrete picnic tables at one end of the courtyard, hands over their heads. The female prisoners laugh at their cowardice, and the warden yells at them to be silent. After a few minutes, with no follow-up shaking, the warden orders the guards to go back to their stations.

  Later Belma explains. “We have earthquakes all the time. Five years ago, several guards were killed by a falling wall in an older part of the prison during an earthquake. That is why it was condemned. The guards are terrified of earthquakes, and scatter like mice whenever we get a little shaker. It amuses us. They aren't so tough after all. I wish we'd get a real shaker and bury the fuckers.”

  “Inshallah,” I say. God willing.

  A Visitor

  “Get up!” Belma jiggles my shoulder, irritatingly insistent. What could be so urgent? “Soldier here. You get visitor.” I hear a rattling of keys behind me, and raise my head. Two guards, a particularly nasty pair, stand grim-faced outside of the open cell. I roll out of bed, and clip on my veil.

  “Abeela Burakgazi. Come with us.”

  My stomach sinks. This can't be good. No . . . please, I don't want to be tortured. I quietly get up and follow them, looking around for any chance to escape. I see none.

  I vaguely remember passing this intersection enclosed by bars when I first came here. Several guards and UNI soldiers hang out, watching television. We turn left down a corridor of small cubicles, where an emaciated man is getting a haircut. Pre-execution grooming? He looks groggy, his head lolling.

  I am led to a small windowless room with a large table and two wooden benches. A woman in full burka sits, elbows on the table. I wonder if Erol has come dressed as a woman. But no, he is far too large to pass for a woman. I sit down in front of her.

  A guard, who does not appear to speak English, stands inside the door, observing us. A plastic ashtray, caked with the brown sap of nicotine and filled with ashes, sits in front of me.

  The woman leans in close and drops her veil. “Gü nyden. Your husband has a friend, whose mother loves Donatello. Do you know who I am?” Her voice is cordial, if officious, with a slight Italian accent.

  “Yes,” I say, recalling Kazan's vivid stories about Laszlo's eccentric mother. I am astonished she is here.

  “Are you all right?” she asks.

  “Yes, I'm fine. The women here are kind. How did you find me?”

  She taps her fingertips impetuously, lowering her voice. “What you did—coming to Turkey—was reckless, but going out alone in Istanbul was totally irresponsible. When Erol realized you'd been arrested, he immediately contacted us.”

  For a moment, I am suspicious. How do I know this woman is who she says she is? Maybe she is a plant, here to wheedle secrets out of me. But I realize the prison staff could have no idea I have any connection to a woman named Ana Luzzatti. “You are Mossad?” I guess.

  She nods slightly. “I would've let you rot in prison, but Erol said you were pregnant with Kazan's child. I promised Kazan I would make sure you were safe.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Still in prison. We are working to get him free. We should be able to get him out with bribes.”

  “Has he been tortured?”

  “No. They think he is a small time smuggler. They are far more interested in political prisoners. You, on the other hand, were caught with a pistol, a grave crime, and it points to you being a Resistant. We may be able to get you out on a prisoner exchange, but it will take time.”

  “Will Kazan be able to visit me when he gets out.”

  “That would be unwise, but I may be able to pass on his letters.”

  My heart sinks. I bury my face in my hands.

  Ana continues. “When you are released, I will put you on a ferry in Izmir to Italy. I will give you a contact name in Otranto, where we have a safe house. You should be fine there.” She leans in closer, her voice a whisper. “Prepare yourself for a shooting star. Do you know what I mean.”

  “I think so. When?”

  “Soon. You know there will be no working phone lines, no way to contact me, or anyone.”

  “Yes.”

  “If it happens before we get you out, you must make it to the coast on your own.”

  “How? I'm in prison!” This cryptic conversation is making me irritable.

  “When the authorities realize it isn't one of their weekly blackouts, and discover their generators and radios don't work, and hear the planes overhead, they will abandon their posts. Resistants will storm the prisons and free the prisoners. You are a half mile from the Sea of Marmara. Find an oyster fisherman named Aydin. He will give you a new ID and take you to the Izmir ferry.”

  “How am I supposed to leave without knowing if Kazan is safe? If he got out of jail? If he's caught in the middle of the invasion? I can't live with that.”

  “Trust me. Word will get to you. Kazan needs to stay as a liaison between Coalition Forces and the Resistance. As soon as Turkey is under Coalition control, he will join you in Italy. The work of the Resistance will be over. Until then, there are few places in the world as beautiful as Otranto.” She pats my hand, which makes me want to slug her. “I left some reading material for you with the prison director. They'll be examined and sent on to you.”

  It suddenly hits me how very hard other people have gone out of their way for me, and I feel deeply ashamed. “I trust you,” I say. “Grazie. You're my angel.”

  Perhaps an odd thing to say, but she knows what I mean. “Prego,” she says, smiling. “Good luck. Keep a low profile. You do not want to get interrogated.”

  “No, I suppose not.”

  “Is there anything else I can bring you?”

  I think of the list of things I had bought for Kazan. “Toiletries. And a Turkish dictionary.” I think for a moment and add, “Vitamins and folic acid. Toilet paper. Plastic dishes and silverware. Everyone has to provide their own. Clogs.”

  “Clogs?”

  “There are puddles everyplace. Oh . . . and a couple of birthday cards.”

  She raises a skeptical eyebrow, but asks no more questions. “I'll make sure you get them. You should write to your husband, Erol.”

  “Erol?”

  “It will look strange if you do not.” She squeezes my hand. “Take heart. It shouldn't be more than a few months.”

  A few months? Here? You've got to be kidding.

  Ana gets up and motions the guard, who leads her away. Another guard takes me back to my sisters in the cell block.

  Imprisonment Drags On

  You think it is the end of the world. But the world doesn't end. It just becomes something else. It is amazing how quickly one can get used to things.

  The following days are much like the first—roll call, waiting to eat, eating, sleeping, watching TV.

  Every week we have cell block searches. Young female soldiers in smart khaki uniforms frisk down the prisoners, pulling apart beds, strewing papers and books. Fights break out among the women, weeping and raging as they witness the hording and petty thefts of others. Violence is routine, and becomes acceptable.

  I am the only European, and therefore a novelty. One by one, women come to talk to me, or communicate however best they can, trying to find a connection. Some tell me their boyfriends are European, or they once had a friend who was D
utch. Or they like tulips. Or cheese. They give me offerings. A ring. A cobalt blue evil eye pendant. A jar of Nutella, which is much appreciated. One woman lived six years in Germany with her husband. She has forgotten most of her German, but we manage to communicate. Several women want me to explain the lyrics of American pop songs.

  I fight this overwhelming and paralyzing fear that's growing inside of me, a feeling of powerlessness, of abandonment. Although I receive Ana Luzzatti's care package, I begin to doubt whether she ever really visited me. I begin to doubt if Kazan ever existed. Or the world out there. I begin to doubt my Dutchness. All I have is my memory. What if I begin to forget? Who will I be?

  My biggest fear is that I may never see Kazan again.

  I wake in the middle of the night. The TV is still on in the corner. One of the sixty-watt light bulbs has flickered out. I hear muffled moaning and faint clanking, as if someone is hitting a pipe. I slip out of bed and pick my way to the far wall. The moaning and clanking is coming from the other side. Like the moaning of ghosts. I wonder how the other women aren't awakened.

  The next morning, when we line up in the courtyard, I observe that our cell ends twenty feet before the outside wall. Several feet below the roof-line are two small windows, sealed with aluminum sheeting. Later, I ask Belma about it.

  “They took Gül,” Belma explains. “One of the terrorist girls. Their leader. They take one at a time to interrogate, then lock 'em in there.” Her chin lifts and points to the far wall. “No light, only bread and water. Very bad. She's been in there for a week. Soon she gets out.”

  There's no particular reason the “terrorist girls” should trust me. The authorities put moles in among prisoners all the time. But I think I should warn them about what's coming. Whether they choose to believe me or not, or think I am a spy, is not important. If I were their leader, I would at least consider the possibility that what I say is true. I would tell everyone to lay low—no protests or hunger strikes. And devise a plan.

  The question is how to talk to them without raising suspicions among the rest of the women.

  It isn't long before I learn that one of the women, Omay, has a birthday. I take one of the birthday cards, a very pretty photo of spring in the mountains, and take it around to each woman to sign. I don't know what the card says in Turkish, but the women like it, giggling and making furtive glances at Omay. Those who can't sign their name make an X or a smiley face.

  The errand brings me to the terrorist girls. As I go from one to another, I tell them in French that I need to speak to Gül when she gets out.

  That evening, after a long discussion among the women as to who will have the honors, Belma gives Omay the birthday card, who makes a short speech and cries. She has never received a birthday card before.

  A few days later Gül gets out of Solitary and returns to the coven of terrorist girls without fanfare. Later, one of them drops a French newspaper on my bed with the words bathroom and ten penciled in the crossword puzzle.

  At ten, I go to the bathroom. Gül stands naked, washing out her underwear in the trough. Bruises cover her thighs and back. I tell her in French to be prepared for a terminal blackout.

  “When the time comes, I need your girls to organize the women so they don't panic.”

  “Why should I believe you? Maybe you're setting us up to attempt a prison break, which will get us shot.”

  “Why would anyone bother setting you up? If they wanted to shoot you, they'd just shoot you.”

  She shrugs.

  “I want you to get the women out first.”

  She ignores me and continues washing her lingerie.

  Eid ul-Adaha

  “Abeela Burakgazi!”

  The cell door slams open, and a guard, accompanied by two Turkish soldiers, yells my name. At first I don't respond, having forgotten my latest appellation.

  “Abeela Burakgazi!”

  Belma jabs me with her elbow, and I stand. The guard motions for me to follow. At first I think I may have a visitor. I put on my abaya and veil.

  The guard cuffs my hands in front. They did not cuff me when Ana Luzzatti came. And visitors don't visit at night. This can't be good.

  Instead of heading to the visitation rooms, we turn down a hallway to a different wing of the building. West, I think.

  We enter a large room with windows.

  Of all the horrors in the world, I can't imagine one worse.

  Shirzad Sahar sits behind a long table in front of me, with a mutawa on either side of him. One mutawa is small and old, a round-faced owl with glasses, the other is tall and thin with a black beard that falls like an apron over his chest. Both wear white caftans and red turbans. Shirzad wears a suit. He was always a natty dresser.

  Why in hell is Shirzad here? All I can imagine is that he had me followed from Amsterdam to Turkey. Leading him to Reynard—just like Laszlo predicted. Guilt and dread make my head spin.

  Maybe he doesn't know who I am.

  I am led to a square marked in yellow tape on the floor. The guard leaves me and steps to the side by the wall. I wonder why I have not been taken to a courthouse.

  There is no prosecutor, no witnesses, only these three grim faced men.

  The owl speaks first, confirming my identification, date of birth, names of my parents, my nationality, my residence, my reason for being in Turkey. The proceedings are slow, everything being translated from Turkish to English, and from English to Turkish.

  Then Blackbeard speaks. “Abeela Burakgazi, you are accused of appearing in public without an escort, participation in demonstrations against the state, resisting arrest, and carrying a fire arm. How do you plead?”

  “Not guilty.”

  “Please tell the court how you came to be here.”

  I give them my story. “My husband and I are on hajj. The train stopped in Istanbul for two days to allow the pilgrims to visit the holy sites and stretch their legs. My husband and I went shopping for provisions for the last leg of our pilgrimage. Somehow I got caught up in the crowd, torn away from my husband. He had asked me to carry his pistol for him in my purse because he did not have pockets. When the execution started, I stayed to see justice performed by the state.”

  “Why has your husband not appeared to claim you?”

  “I do not know what happened to my husband.” I manage a frightened whimper, which is not hard to fake. “I do not know why he has not gone to the police to look for me.”

  One of the guards chuckles, and Shirzad gives him a scathing look. Even the guards know that asking the police for a missing person only invites the prospect of getting arrested yourself.

  The three men of the court lean their heads together, confer, and then nod. The bespectacled imam speaks. “During the first ten days of Dhu al-Hijjah, it is most blessed to be charitable. Today is Eid ul-Adaha, the Festival of Sacrifice, the most sacred day of the month, celebrating the willingness of Ibrahim to sacrifice his son Ismail, a blessed day for clemency. We are inclined to believe you were in the wrong place at the wrong time. It is a blessing to help those on pilgrimage. However, we cannot release you on your own reconnaissance. Your husband must claim you. Provide the court with the name of your hotel, and we will send someone from the court to fetch him.”

  I'm to be released? Is it possible?

  “Tesh a kur,” I say. Thank you. “Allahu Akbar.”

  Shirzad turns to the female guard. “Take off her veil, please. We need to verify her documents.”

  She approaches and unfastens my niqab. A bolt of terror shoots down my spine. I pray to God Shirzad doesn't remember me. The veil drops, hanging by a corner above my ear.

  Shirzad's eyes open wide; his habitual bland and impenetrable facade deserts him, his jaw agape. Oh, no. He is getting up to take a closer look. He stops in front of me and pinches my chin, turning it left, then right.

  “Krijg je niet rond?” he says in Dutch. Don't you get around.

  I begin to breathe rapidly, my face hot, my knees wobbly.
<
br />   “Well, you are no coward, I'll give you that.” He chuckles to himself. “I'm terribly curious as to what brings you to the Islamic Republic of Turkey.”

  His leering smile tells me exactly where his “curiosity” will lead him.

  He turns to the court. “This woman is an impostor. I knew her as Salima Sahin, who worked as a secretary for the Landweer in the Islamic Republic of Holland. One of my subordinates. There is every reason to believe this woman is a traitor. I request permission of the court to interrogate her.”

  #

  Four guards drag me down a long hallway, lights flickering gloomily above.

  The floor slopes down, the air getting moister, cooler. Dear God, where are they taking me? To the bowels of the earth? The corridor narrows, the floor gummy with clumps of ancient dirt, covered with a thick layer of loose dust. An older part of the prison that was never reopened. Small dank jail cells stand vacant on either side, doors open. Rusty manacles dangle from the walls.

  This can't be good.

  My knees give out. The guards curse as they hoist me up by my elbows, half dragging me. I cry and blubber, kicking and throwing my arms about, my toes and elbows scraping against the walls. “Please. Let me go. I am innocent. I am just a woman.” I can't help myself.

  The lights go out. It is completely black. A palpable living black. The black of a deep cave.

  “Kahretsin!” curses one guard. “Where are the emergency lights?”

  “Something must be wrong with the backup generator,” suggests another guard. “It's supposed to kick in when we have a blackout.”

  “Damn incompetents. Can't they keep anything going around here? Shit! This flashlight isn't working.”

  “Mine isn't working either. Can't see a damned thing!” I hear some more clacking on his belt. Switching of knobs. “The radio is fucked, too!”

  “Kahretsin!”

  “How come there's no siren?”

  In the absence of electricity, there are no buzzing lights. Only the echoes of yelling elsewhere in the building.

  “Let's go back. We'll never find the interrogation cell in this.”