When the Grey Beetles Took Over Baghdad

by Mona Yahia

  Father unfolds the evening paper, spreads it round him like curtains. Bereft of words, he will spend the whole evening behind the world news, without turning the sheets even once. Too tired to grieve or even to feel, I climb up to the roof, lie in bed – resolved to forget.

  But my mind is far from empty. Ugly, cruel thoughts keep swirling round my head, hemming me in inside their circle of evil. They disdain our worries, ridicule our hopes, call us nothing more than pawns in some game, manoeuvred by people much more powerful than ourselves. I play with the idea, develop it into some board game of sorts – with colourful pieces, with dice, with various kinds of cards – not that different from Monopoly. Only my game takes place in prison, since initially my players have been sentenced to death. Each player is handed fifteen day cards to begin with, the fifteen days until his execution. Survival is the ultimate goal of each player, that is, to win time. The dice should be cast by turns, the pieces moved correspondingly on the squares of the board, each redefining your current situation. On one square for instance, your lawyer has pleaded for stay of execution, you may collect five day cards from the bank. On the next, your letter has been censored, you had called the party nasty names, you pay two day cards penalty to the bank. On some other square, due to your good conduct, your mother has been granted one last visit, during which she tucks ten dinars in your pocket. Money, like tools, like information, falls in the category of reward cards. Not only is escape impossible without them, but they can be traded too, for time cards for instance. The game goes on. Due to your recurrent fits of violence, you have been placed in solitary confinement, that is, you miss two turns. It is the President’s birthday, each player is to draw one chance card. Your chance card says your cell has been searched, you must hand over your entire reward cards to the pack. Sooner or later, you will either run out of time cards, or stumble upon the square which shows the noose. Unless you bribe the chief warden with three reward cards, you will be executed on the spot. There is no way one can be pardoned or vindicated in this game. The most honourable way of winning is escape, but it requires the combination of certain reward cards plus seven day cards. In that case, the game ends, the rest of the players go to the gallows. Otherwise, the winner is the player who manages to survive longest.

  Some entertainment on sleepless nights! I turn over, open my eyes. Shuli’s bed is still intact. He is not stargazing either. It is two in the morning. I leap out of bed, go downstairs. The broadcaster’s voice coming from his room tells me he is listening to the news.

  Paris, 22 degrees. London, 18. Rome, 25. Madrid, 27. Brussels, 22. Zurich, 21. Copenhagen, 12. Frankfurt, 16. New York, 26. Vienna, 19. Istanbul, 32. Lisbon, 29. Luxemburg, 22. Paris, 22 degrees. London, 18. Rome, 25. Madrid, 27. Brussels, 22. Zurich, 21. Copenhagen, 12. Frankfurt, 16. New York, 26. Vienna, 19. Istanbul, 32. Lisbon, 29. Luxemburg, 22. Paris, 22 degrees. London, 18. Rome, 25. Madrid, 27. Brussels, 22. Zurich, 21. Copenhagen, 12. Frankfurt, 16. New York, 26. Vienna, 19. Istanbul, 32. Lisbon, 29. Luxemburg, 22.

  Is it my imagination or is the weather forecast repeating itself?

  Quietly I open the door. His hands clasped behind his head, Shuli is rocking himself on the back legs of his desk chair, listening to his tape recorder, riding the meteorological waves in their trip round the world.

  Vacant Desks

  —The kids will be running in as soon as the bell rings, Dora’s mother explains. Thirty, forty at most. All you have to do is hand each of them two sandwiches and a lollipop in a plastic bag, together with a bottle of fizzy drink. Nothing can go wrong. You’re welcome to a snack yourselves, there’s plenty available. Please wash the knives thoroughly after use, and bring them back, together with the crockery, to sit Habiba’s office.

  I eye sit Habiba, our school secretary, in panic. Our task is ever expanding. To start with, she said we were to help the volunteers prepare sandwiches for the children. Then it turned out we were to replace them. Now, it is not only the preparation, it is the distribution too.

  —I’ll send a third student to help you as soon as I find one, says sit Habiba, ignoring my look of entreaty. If you need anything, let me know, I’m in my office. Any questions, girls? Can I rely on you?

  We simper, defeated.

  —They’re no longer children, let them learn to give for a change, sit Habiba mutters on her way out, loud enough for us to hear.

  The moment the two women have left the school hall, Selma kicks the crate of fizzy drinks.

  —Once in a lifetime a teacher’s ill and we’ve got a free hour, and that’s precisely when that woman’s into education. Just another word for shelling hard-boiled eggs. Abel a’aliyah, may mourning fall upon her! She just can’t bear the sight of young people enjoying themselves …

  —Come on, Selma. The sooner we get down to this chore, the sooner we’re through with it.

  Still groaning, she gathers her shoulder-long locks into one red ponytail, rolls up her sleeves. We unpack the cartons, spread out their contents on the two tables. I shell the eggs, peel the cucumber, pit the green olives. Selma slices the tomatoes, the chunk of white cheese. The knife shifts from one hand to the other, her left gifted with precision, her right with strength. I keep nibbling every foodstuff I handle.

  —Try the cheese, Selma, it’s delicious!

  —I can’t. I’m fasting!

  —Fasting! Why? Is it some holy day?

  —No, no, it’s a campaign to draw world attention to the plight of the Russian Jews. Some Let My People Go stuff. Mama picked it up from Kol Israel yesterday, and I decided to join the fast on the spur of the moment. But frankly, now that we’re talking about it, it sounds ridiculous. The Russian Jews are far better off than us. Don’t you think?

  —I think it’s the tang of mango pickle!

  —Lina, I’m dead serious. They want to emigrate? – well and good, so do I. But they aren’t disappearing from the street, or being hanged in the squares of Moscow. Imagine us making claims for human rights and staying alive!

  I uncap one Sinalco, take my first sip.

  —You mean it would make more sense if the Russian Jews fasted for us?

  Selma stifles her guilty smile. I pass her the Sinalco. She swigs the sparkling drink the way sportsmen passionately consume refreshments in commercials. Then, like someone who has not eaten for days, she snatches one roll, fills it with two fish koftas, spreads thick pickle inside. I repeat the procedure, in slower motion.

  —The seasoning’s great, it would have been a sin to miss it, she mumbles, her mouth full, hardly capable of clear utterance.

  She sips more Sinalco to help the food down, then goes on in the same light-hearted tone,

  —Say, Lina, did you know there were children in our school who can’t afford their lunch?

  The kofta sticks in my throat. Ironically, the piles of food have made me forget the very reason for its presence. I have indeed heard of plenty of Jewish families who were having financial problems due to their unemployment. I even saw the women volunteers, once or twice, heading to the school hall, carrying what looked like food cartons. Yet I never pursued that thought or those scenes in my mind to draw the obvious conclusion.

  —Not really. Come to think of it, I wish someone else would take over the distribution. I feel quite uneasy having to face these children.

  Selma casts the end of the roll into her mouth.

  —Don’t be silly. They aren’t gonna eat us!

  She waits in vain for my laughter, unaware of the tactlessness of her remark. My fault. Selma’s insensitivity knows no limits, why raise the subject with her in the first place? Strange how the list of things I dislike in her has grown over the last months. Her vitality for example, which used to inspire me to stretch my own limits, now seems no more than some insatiable need for recognition.

  —Yallah, let’s get back to work, she says, picking up the knife. Otherwise we won’t be ready when the little monsters show up.

  She slits the rolls open, casts them over fo
r me to fill. I divide the sandwiches into three heaps: egg, cheese, kofta. Whenever too many empty rolls have piled up, Selma stops cutting to help me catch up. While we work in quiet co-ordination, my thoughts revert to the children. Once spoken of, my reluctance to deal with them has faded, while some old, underlying fear is surfacing: fear of the day we will run out of money. I imagine father, gathering the family to say that we have nothing left to sell, to elaborate on our deplorable state of debt. We listen in concern, expecting the practical solution to follow. Yet father shocks us with the conclusion that – no longer capable of providing for us – there is only one thing for him to do, resign from his paternal duties.

  The door of the hall creaks open. Dudi’s head pops round, intruding on our family conference. Cheerfully, he trundles towards us,

  —So what I’ve heard is true! It’s your day of muswah, good deeds.

  —How come you’re running around? says Selma dryly.

  —I’ve asked permission to go to the loo, but I don’t feel like going back to the classroom. English literature! Not my cup of tea, as the English say.

  —And how will you account for it?

  Dudi chuckles,

  —There’re plenty of vacant desks in our classroom this year. We keep telling ustad Ghazi stories about the flu circulating at school. He’s not that gullible, of course, but still he gets confused as to who’s off for good, who’s ill, who’s in the toilet, and who’s playing truant. I don’t think he cares any more. He doesn’t even bother to call the register.

  If ill luck had not struck, I would not have stood here right now either. Last month, Sabah’s father finally notified us that he would soon escape with his family, that we could join them if we were still determined. It sounded so definite that mother fetched the four suitcases from the storeroom, dusted them, put them in the sun, while each of us sorted out the necessary items to pack. The next morning, father woke with high temperature. It dampened our spirits to say the least. We tended to his needs with utmost devotion, hoping he would recover in time. Yet, in spite of the quantities of medicine plus the cold compresses, father’s temperature would not drop. Flight within the week was out of question.

  —How many students have already made it in your class? inquires Selma.

  —Five! Nader and Ezra left in the summer. Rita got out shortly after term began, and Linda three days after her. Farid fled two weeks ago as you know. What a betrayal! We used to cry on each other’s shoulder each time another desk stood empty, fearing we’d be the last to remain.

  —I can’t say I miss Laila particularly, says Selma. Anyway, you don’t have to worry, Dudi, you won’t be the last to leave. Baba’s not budging from here in spite of the scenes I make every other day. He tells me I’ll be free to go when I’ve finished school and come of age. Period!

  —You may not have to worry either. Last week’s blow seems to have destroyed all escape routes until further notice.

  Last week, some eighty Jews were captured in the resort town of Rawandouz in the north, on the eve of their crossing. Unfortunately, many of them were incautious enough to take their children’s school diplomas, or other certificates with them. Some women were wearing lots of jewellery. How could they explain to the police that they were “only on holiday” with this load of evidence? Nobody seems to know their whereabouts. Nobody has dared to take off since.

  —By the way, girls, the smell of your sandwiches is irresistible. May I help myself to one or two? I’m dying of hunger.

  Selma’s forehead furrows. Dudi hastens to correct himself,

  —I didn’t mean for free. I’d pay, naturally.

  —Tsk, Selma utters.

  —In fact, I’m ready to pay double the price at the kiosk.

  —Tsk.

  —But why not? You’ll have leftovers, and they’ll end up in the rubbish as always. Mama’s among the volunteers, and she doesn’t stop complaining about the waste.

  —No!

  —Give the money to sit Habiba. Let her buy chocolate or chewing gum for the kids.

  When Selma does not reply, Dudi treats himself to two pitted olives, testing out her compliance. Her knife darts threateningly over his fingers. Dudi tosses the olives into his mouth, munches them loudly, taunting her with his minor triumph.

  —It doesn’t even occur to you to offer help, you selfish spoiled brat! You think you can buy the world with your money? Well, you’re wrong this time. We’re not selling. Go and push your way through to the kiosk like everybody else, or go without lunch for all I care. It won’t do you any harm, you’re growing as round as a barrel.

  If Selma’s words have hurt him, Dudi manages to conceal it. Feigning innocence, he turns to me,

  —What’s the matter with her? Why’s she eating and drinking me?

  Selma is, in fact, unpredictable when it comes to Dudi. Sometimes, she will joke with him for hours, other times she will snub him or pick on him for no obvious reason.

  —What if he earned his sandwich instead of paying for it? I suggest. What if he … told us stories for instance?

  —You’re kidding! Dudi snorts. I’m offering double the price and you treat me like a beggar! Why don’t you ask me to stand on my head or dance like a circus monkey?

  Selma’s face lights up.

  —That’s a good idea! Tell us a story, Dudi.

  —Come on, Dudi, it’s second nature to you. Didn’t you say you were dying of hunger?

  Dudi clucks.

  —May God never bring anybody to the state of needing you! All right, I’ll tell you a story. Your minds will fly when you hear it, but it’s absolutely true.

  —Anything will do, provided it’s entertaining.

  —It happened yesterday. The amn, security police, raided the market seeking Jews and other ill-fated merchants to torment. Does the name Naji Shumeil ring a bell?

  Who can forget it!

  —Well, it seems there’s another Jew with the same name, Naji Shumeil. The Naji who was publicly executed last year was from Basra, this Naji’s from Baghdad. The Basrawi’s dead, the Baghdadi’s alive. No way to confuse the two Najis, right? Wrong! Yesterday, poor Naji was picked up from his store …

  —Which one? The one still alive?

  —What? Yes, of course the one who’s still alive, don’t spoil my story! Where was I? Oh yes, Naji Shumeil was picked up yesterday from his store and underwent a full day’s interrogation at the amn headquarters. Guess what they kept asking him? “Didn’t we hang you a long time ago? How come you’re alive and still at work? You’re supposed to be in the grave, fi khabar kan, you’re in the past tense!”

  The two of us laugh while Dudi dissembles earnestness,

  —Girls, it’s improper to make fun of a Jew’s misfortune! Didn’t they teach you that at home?

  —I don’t believe a word you say, Selma replies, wiping her tears.

  —Suit yourself, but I’ve earned my two sandwiches.

  —Two? Who said two? Selma starts up, recovering her hostile tone. We agreed on one story for one sandwich.

  —Oh no, we didn’t! You asked me to tell a story. You didn’t explicitly say one story for one sandwich.

  —Well, I’m doing it now: a story for a sandwich. Take it or leave it!

  Dudi takes his time to examine the heap of rolls, fiddling with them, pressing them, opening those still unwrapped to peer inside – trying Selma’s patience.

  The strident ringing catches us off guard.

  —Goodness, they’ll be here any moment! Selma starts up. We haven’t wrapped half the sandwiches yet.

  No sooner has she finished her sentence than the swing door is shoved open with such force that it knocks the wall next to it several times. Three lads, seven or eight years old, storm inside, racing in our direction, shrieking with excitement, their echo filling the hall. The three of us huddle together, clutching sandwiches, like hand grenades. Some yards from us, the lads slide gracefully on the shining tiles. It is the one running fastest who notices the change
. His eyes linger on us trying to place us, then shift to the table. The drinks, the wrapped rolls reassure him. The scrape of their shoes on the floor tones down. Seconds from each other, they halt smoothly, just inches from our stand.

  —Wow, you’re as fast as rockets! Selma exclaims. Are you the three musketeers?

  They exchange puzzled glances. Dumas’ heroes seem outdated.

  —No, you’re the three muskess … muskesteers! replies the fastest cheekily, pointing to us with his forefinger.

  His friends press their hands on their mouths to stifle their fit of laughter, too similar to our own misbehaviour in the classroom. Do they consider us grown-ups, like the volunteers, to play the monkey with us? When Selma requests orderliness, they pull themselves together, feigning shame. Having received their lunch, they sprint out, screaming, kicking each other, releasing who knows what urges they have suppressed for the last two hours in the classroom.

  In no time, more children turn up, running in, running out. If I did not remember my own restiveness in those years, I would have thought children learn running prior to walking. They calm down, however, in front of our table, none of the usual jostling – not when they lack the coins to clink their demands. None of the gratefulness I had feared either. They seem to take us for granted, counting on that vague rule of nature which commits the older ones to care for the younger.

  Quickly I wrap the rest of the sandwiches while Dudi uncaps the fizzy drinks, lines them up on the table.

  —Look how they’re exchanging lollipops, Selma nudges me. They compare everything, just as we used to do at their age.

  We did?

  One slim child, his jacket too large, unwraps his sandwich in front of our table. His lower lip droops in disappointment. He peeps inside, holding it loosely, thinking of some way to drop it casually.

  —If you don’t eat eggs, I’ll give you something else. What do you prefer, cheese or fish kofta?