Battle Scars

by Jane Harvey-Berrick

  “I want to show you two places today, Miss Buckman, so you can see what we’re up against.”

  The first place he took me was an abandoned office building not far from the central area near Dam Square.

  “Thirty-two men live here,” he said. “They moved in because otherwise they would be out on the street. We don’t know the real figures, but the government says that there are 100,000 refugees and asylum seekers in my country. It could be double that—we just don’t know.”

  He pulled aside a battered tarp and led me into the darkened building.

  “There’s no heating or electricity, but they have access to running water and toilets. That’s all. There’s nowhere to cook, so they survive by begging on the streets and on what organizations like mine can give them.” He gave me a sideways look. “Sometimes they steal because they are driven by hunger. It is terrible, Miss Buckman, to be hungry.”

  He shook his head.

  “Internationally, we are seen as a tolerant, liberal country. But the anti-immigration party is popular in the opinion polls, and the government doesn’t want to attract more asylum-seekers. Now they have implemented a harsh policy, very tough, especially cruel during our freezing winter months.”

  “Can the men here apply for asylum?” I asked.

  “One or two of them, perhaps. But the others, they’re all men who have had their claims rejected. They are supposed to go back to their country of origin. But they are afraid, so they run away from the official shelters, and now they live here.”

  The building felt cold and damp. I saw piles of cardboard boxes that had been dragged inside to give some insulation from the coming winter. Piles of newspapers were scattered like straw, and the stale air stank of despair.

  “They can’t work, so they have no money. We bring them food, but there’s so little we can do.”

  His frustration and anger bled through his words.

  “Will they talk to me?” I asked, as I snapped some photographs.

  Pieter nodded.

  “I have arranged for you to speak to Tareq. He came from Libya, and walked or hitched from Italy. When the Jungle was torn down in Calais, he ended up here.”

  I’d heard about the infamous Jungle, a massive migrant camp in France, filled with thousands of men, women and children, desperate to get to Britain, but stuck on the coastline, just twenty miles from their goal. Britain didn’t want them and neither did the people of Calais. Eventually, the Jungle had been torn down and the people rehomed throughout France, although I’d since read reports that many were drifting back to live rough, in the continuing hope of finding a way to slip past the guards and get to Britain. Most tried to hide in the back of trucks returning from continental Europe; a few tried to walk through the Channel Tunnel, risking being killed by the trains that thundered through—all in the belief that the streets of England would be paved with gold, or state benefits. They were often disappointed in both, but at least it was safer than where they’d come from.

  Pieter rattled out some guttural Dutch to one of the men who’d been watching us with dispassionate eyes. He shook his head twice before standing up and leaving.

  Frustrated, Pieter tried another man, with the same result.

  He rubbed his forehead and turned to me.

  “I’m sorry, Miss Buckman. They say Tareq isn’t here. I don’t know if that’s true, but they’re scared to talk to you. I’ve told them you’re a journalist, but they’re afraid it’s a trick.”

  “None of them will talk to me?”

  Pieter shook his head.

  “I’m sorry, no. But I’ve arranged for you to visit one of the established shelters, too. Perhaps you will find a story there.”

  His voice was tired and cynical. I couldn’t blame him for that.

  He led me outside into the daylight, and I dragged the crisp, clean air into my lungs.

  “No one would choose to live like that,” he said bitterly. “But it’s better than being sent home to die.”

  I watched as his hopelessness hardened into determination.

  “Even though many are economic migrants and not fleeing warzones?” I questioned him.

  He shrugged.

  “Yes, they wish for better lives. That’s all. That’s why we will never stop helping them, why we push the government to do more. They run regulated emergency asylum centers, but the refugees are not allowed to cook for themselves, they have no privacy, and it is very hard for them to mix with locals. That breeds fear, on both sides. But in our shelters, run on contributions from the public, they can lead as normal lives as possible. But we are small, we only help a few and there are many.”

  The second place could not have been more different. The first thing I noticed was the smell of cooking and the spicy scents hanging in the air. The second was children’s drawings tacked to the walls. And then I saw them, dark-eyed boys and girls whose ready smiles and rapid chatter showed their contentment. Their parents, however, seemed tired and defeated, but still proud to show me how they gained a little privacy by hanging blankets to create small rooms.

  They had cooking and washing facilities here, but their frustration at being reliant was apparent.

  “I was a civil engineer in Raaqa,” said Nizar, speaking through an interpreter. “But when Daesh swept into the region, I was afraid for my family and for my life. We took our car and left, but when we ran out of gas, we had to leave the car. We had to leave everything. We are here with only our memories and the clothes on our back. I feel I have failed my family as a husband and father.”

  Tears reddened his eyes, and he wiped them away angrily.

  “All I want is a future for them, but we are waiting here, waiting to see if a future will be given to us.”

  I thought a lot about what both Coby and Pieter had said as I took another train, heading south to Paris. I thought about what Nizar had told me and what I’d seen at both shelters. So as I wrote my story and downloaded the photographs I’d taken onto my laptop, I hardly saw the countryside as the train rushed past, until we rolled into Paris Nord station. I emailed the story to my editor, but there was no answer to the problem, no conclusion, and very little hope.

  I rubbed my forehead. There’s a certain dichotomy required when you’re a journalist. You have to care about what’s happening, you have to care about the news that you’re writing, but you also have to be able to switch off. It’s always a fine line between protecting yourself emotionally without suffering from compassion fatigue. I wasn’t sure I’d ever got it right.

  I needed a dose of my sexy Marine to bring the joy back for a few, precious days.

  La Rue Désolée

  OUR HOTEL WAS situated halfway along La Rue Désolée, two minutes from the River Seine and a short walk from the Louvre gallery. One of my colleagues had recommended it, and I fell in love from first glance.

  It was an older building, some four or five hundred years old, hidden on a back street, and as I entered, the red and gold décor mixed with old beams was at once gaudy, stylish and oddly welcoming.

  The woman at the front desk greeted me.

  “Bienvenue au Grand Hôtel Dechampaigne.”

  “Merci. Parlez vous anglais?”

  “Yes, of course, madame. How may I help you?”

  I gave her my reservation, and she smiled.

  “Your friend has already arrived. Maybe one hour ago.”

  Shivers of desire mixed with anxiety and urgency spread through me, my heart fluttering.

  She gave me the room number and a key. Not a key card, a good old fashioned key. I gripped it tightly as I entered the tiny elevator which rumbled and coughed its way up three floors. The doors wheezed open and I stepped out into a narrow, carpeted corridor with dim lighting and muted sounds, giving it a soft, romantic feel.

  My heart began to beat faster as I approached our room and slid the key into the lock. The heavy door swung open silently.

  Jack was lying face down on the bed, his sneakers hanging off t
he end, as if he’d been dropped from a great height, or perhaps too tired to kick off his shoes. I knew he’d been traveling twenty hours.

  I realized with a start that one of his beautiful dark blue eyes was watching me, then he rolled over onto his back and smiled.

  “Maggie.”

  That was all he said, my name, but spoken with such love, such peaceful joy infusing those two short syllables that it brought tears to my eyes. I climbed onto the bed and slipped into his waiting arms, snuggling against his broad chest, safe and content.

  “I’ve missed this,” I sighed.

  His arms tightened around me as a reply, and we held each other, washing away the weeks apart, the longing and regret.

  He dropped two soft kisses into my hair before I turned my face toward him and found his lips with my own.

  Kisses turned to caresses, and touching turned to tasting, and when that wasn’t enough, we shed our clothes and I felt the warm press of his skin against mine. And when he lowered himself so I felt his weight on me and in me, I felt wanted, loved and protected.

  Long, languid thrusts, intense blue eyes gazing into me as I clutched his shoulders and wrapped my legs around his back.

  Sweat broke out across my skin as delicious friction lit my body and I began to tremble around him, digging my nails into his deeply tanned shoulders.

  His jaw tightened as he fought to bring his own body under control, but it was a battle he wouldn’t win.

  His hips began to thrust aggressively and my knees were pressed toward my chest, and when he slid in further, hitting a new angle, reaching a new depth, the sex went from fantastic to overwhelming as I flew apart.

  He shuddered and became rigid, our bodies pressed tightly together, and then, with a satisfied sigh, he relaxed, kissing my throat and breasts affectionately as he pulled out.

  I curled against his shoulder, chuckling as he mumbled something about not needing PT with me around.

  My fingers trailed down his ribs, drawing thoughtful circles over old scars by his hip.

  I felt lazy and satiated, content to lie here and stare out at the darkening sky.

  “Waal, I gotta say,” Jack said with a smile, “Paris is livin’ up to its name as the most romantic city in the world.”

  I laughed.

  “Mr. Tough Marine is getting all soft on me! Is the world still turning?”

  “Not tonight, sugar. Tonight the stars will stay exactly where you hung them and the moon will do as it’s damn well told.”

  “Spoken like a true Devil Dog.”

  “Ooh-rah!” Jack shifted so he could look at me. “Although I may just have reserved two tickets to go see the Eiffel Tower at night. You want to hunt down some dinner first?”

  “Oh my God, yes! That sounds perfect! Thank you, Jack.”

  “Thank you for being you, Maggie Buckman.”

  I had no words for that, so I kissed him.

  We couldn’t see the Eiffel Tower from our room, but as soon as we stepped outside, it was like a beacon, drawing our gaze upwards. Spotlights bathed it in a pure white light, and from this distance it seemed ethereal.

  “Makes a helluva radio mast,” mused Jack, before taking my hand and strolling toward the river.

  “That’s slightly less romantic,” I smiled as he grinned down at me. “Were you always like this, romantic one minute, calm and practical the next? I mean, before the Marines.”

  “I don’t think I’ve changed that much. Mama would say that I’m tidier and more organized, and that the romantic side comes from her. But yeah, pretty much, although the Marines taught me a lot about patience. There’s a lot of waiting. You know: Hurry up and wait. That happens all the time. Plus, running around screaming doesn’t get the job done. We’re taught not to let our fears freeze us—you gotta work through them, or work with them. You have to trust that the guy next to you has your six. That’s the way it works. Shit happens,” he blew out a breath. “Shit happens and then you deal.”

  I didn’t reply because I was trying to avoid serious tonight, so I squeezed his hand and pointed out a sidewalk bistro that looked appealing.

  We dined well and drank cheap Beaujolais, then walked hand in hand along the riverbank as a cool breeze blew across the water.

  When we crossed the river to the Left Bank, the sidewalk was lined with artists selling everything from handmade jewelry to watercolors to large canvases in vivid Impressionist styles.

  We feasted with our eyes and enjoyed every moment of intimacy as we created special memories together.

  The lines at the Tower weren’t long, and we were soon gliding up to the second landing place, then gazing out at the Paris landscape.

  We watched the red and white car lights flowing down the wide boulevards, and gazed at the classical lines of the Louvre splendidly lit, and the gothic beauty of Notre-Dame cathedral. Then we shuffled round to the northern-facing platform and a guide pointed out the Moulin Rouge and Arc de Triomphe.

  There was so much history here, so many centuries of stories told and lives lived. It made me nostalgic for something I’d never had and vividly alive at the same time. I leaned into the safe circle of Jack’s arms as we shared this moment of magic.

  “It’s really somethin’,” he said, “but I can’t help thinking it’s even better seeing it with you.”

  And this time I had no witty comeback, because I felt exactly the same.

  We kissed at the top of the Eiffel Tower, making more memories that would last a lifetime.

  Then we made our way back down, stopping at the base of the tower to drink bitter black coffee and buy matching tourist t-shirts that said, ‘Je t’aime Paris’.

  Living in New York, I was used to walking around a city at night, but Paris was different. The streets weaved in and out, and few were built on straight lines. Every block revealed something new and wonderful, an old building, an art gallery, kebab stands and Moroccan cuisine, or shops selling French chocolate. Each was new and wonderful, and I could have spent weeks exploring every nook and cranny.

  We wandered back across the river and thought about going to the Folies Bergère, but decided strolling around was more enjoyable.

  We were heading toward the Pompidou Centre, renowned for its curious modern construction, when we found ourselves outside the Bataclan theater. I stopped and stared, realizing what the floral tributes meant.

  The theater was really nothing more than a large café-bar with a concert venue and dance hall. It was so pretty, decorated in a colorful Chinoiserie style, and I knew it was over 150 years old. But now it was most famous as being the place where eighty-nine music lovers were gunned down in an appalling act of terrorism on Friday 13th, November 2015.

  Jackson’s lips pressed together and he pulled me tighter against him.

  I shivered, a tremor that was nothing to do with the creeping cold.

  “Sometimes it seems like the whole world is on fire,” I said, my voice low and despondent.

  Jack didn’t speak, because what was there to say?

  We stood in silence, paying our respects, then walked away, his arm around my shoulders, keeping me close.

  When we made love again that night, we clung to each other fiercely, and I wondered how our lives would continue after this moment. Would we travel together, or were our roads leading us in different directions?

  I didn’t have the answers. I wanted love to find a way . . . but I was beginning to think it would need a helping hand.

  I’d never thought I’d choose a man over my career, but the powerful feelings that coursed through me every time we were together, they were growing louder and more demanding.

  In that Paris bed, with Jack sleeping peacefully beside me, I knew.

  I knew.

  I’d met the love of my life.

  And I wasn’t letting him go.

  City of Peace, Bay of Troubles

  OF COURSE, LIFE doesn’t work like that—‘work’ being the operative word. We both had lives to return to, o
ur real lives. Being in Paris, painted with the romance of the city, it was a perfect, rose-tinted bubble, but it couldn’t last. Less than forty hours after Jack had arrived, he had to fly back to San Diego, and I flew in the opposite direction, home to Cairo.

  The heat seemed even more oppressive after the cool, crisp air of Paris in the fall. The changing leaves in the City of Lights had suited our increasingly somber mood. I wondered if we’d ever visit there in the springtime. I wondered how Jack and I could ever have a real, lasting relationship.

  Something would have to give.

  But for now, at least, I was back at work.

  My next assignment was in Sharm El Sheikh. A city on the southern tip of the Sinai Peninsula, it had been one of the jewels in Egypt’s thriving tourist trade.

  With glittering white buildings, soft breezes and a perfect climate, Sharm sat prettily on the Red Sea, a favorite place for beach vacations and those who enjoyed snorkeling, scuba diving and any variety of watersports. The sea sparkled, sunlight glinting on the water, a picture-postcard turquoise lapping up to pale, gleaming sand.

  Millions of visitors from all over the world arrived every year, boosting the tourist industry profits to record heights.

  Until Flight 9268 exploded midair on October 31st 2015, with the loss of 224 lives. Crash investigators eventually agreed with the clamoring and bereft relatives of the many dead that an improvised bomb aboard the aircraft was responsible for the disaster. ISIS, known locally as Daesh, were proud to accept responsibility.

  All across the world, flights to this popular resort were canceled and the grand hotels with their beautiful beaches stood empty.

  Thousands of local people lost their livelihoods, and to date, more than eighty hotels had closed.

  A few intrepid tourists were beginning to drift back, many from Saudi and Kuwait, but the Europeans were far fewer in number. Immediately after the terror attack, a worldwide travel ban had been sanctioned by nervous governments. Most countries had now lifted that, although the British were still banning flights to Sharm.

  I had been invited to stay at the magnificent Four Seasons, a large building of white stucco and elegant Moorish arches, its tall palms providing shelter across the broad, baking sands. But the four swimming pools were almost devoid of visitors, and everywhere small discreet signs revealed the guilty truth: