by N. H. Senzai
This kid and Razan would get along, thought Nadia, taking Mishmish and putting him on the floor so he could go explore.
“So you’ve been here these last months?” Ammo Mazen asked the older boy, who ducked his head and nodded. “Why didn’t you leave with the others?”
“I needed to stay here,” he mumbled.
“But it’s dangerous for just the two of you to be here, alone.”
“Oh, I’m not with him,” said the little boy, reaching down to scratch Mishmish under the chin.
Ammo Mazen folded his arms, face settling into a serious expression. “Sit,” he ordered, pointing to a set of chairs. “And tell me your names.”
• • •
After fifteen minutes of interrogation, they learned that the older one, Tarek, had been at the school since he was five. One of over a dozen orphans, he was being trained by Imam Ali to become a religious scholar. The little soldier, Basel, was eight, and on his way to a rebel battalion on the eastern front to join his grandfather. Casually, as if he’d been talking about the weather, he’d explained that the building he’d been living in with his grandmother had been hit by a barmeela a few weeks before. She had not made it out. He’d run away from the neighbors who’d taken him in, to find his grandfather. His parents, he’d added in a matter-of-fact tone, had been killed in a car accident when he was a baby. He’d stopped at the mosque to rest for the night, and stumbled onto Tarek.
Nadia stared at him, horrified by his story. Her heart softened as she realized he must still be in shock.
“Sir, where’s this food you were talking about?” asked Basel pointedly.
“I don’t have much, but what I have we will all share,” said Ammo Mazen, wincing slightly as he rose from his chair.
Nadia noticed that his shoulders were stooped and his steps were slow. “Let me help you,” she said as the boys followed him to the cart.
“Thank you, dear girl,” he said, pushing aside the tarp, revealing that in their mad dash, the things Nadia had neatly organized were a jumbled mess. Ammo Mazen reached for a lumpy bag and extracted a small pouch. As he bent down to retrieve the leather rucksack from beneath the cart, the brown-paper-wrapped package tumbled to the floor. Tarek quickly bent to pick it up and handed it back.
Ammo Mazen gave him an appreciative smile, securing it safely under the tarp. “Thank you. I have to deliver that before we head north, and it mustn’t get damaged.”
The kitchen was empty, cupboards bare, but there was still gas left in the cylinders for the stove. When Basel saw the meager fare Ammo Mazen laid out on the counter—half a packet of dried beans, some wrinkled carrots, an onion, and stale bread—he sighed.
“I can help,” he said, pulling a slingshot from his stained pack. Soon after disappearing, he returned, three scrawny pigeons tucked under his arm.
“You are a useful young lad,” laughed Ammo Mazen, taking the birds to dress them. The heart and liver he tossed to Mishmish, who ate happily under the table, purring contentedly.
Nadia took off her mittens and helped cut up the vegetables.
“Nice color,” said Basel, pausing from humming a patriotic marching song to admire the glitter in her nail polish.
“Thanks,” said Nadia, careful with the knife so it wouldn’t chip her nails.
The little boy sat next to her, drawing pictures in the dust using a stick of wood. Tarek, meanwhile, lugged in a bucket, sloshing with water from the well. Half he poured into a pot on the stove. When steam rose from the tin pot’s depths, Ammo Mazen added a bouillon cube and the pigeon pieces, vegetables, and dried beans. Then he opened the small leather pouch and pulled out a bottle. As he unscrewed the lid, Nadia felt the breath leave her chest. She grabbed the edge of the table, overwhelmed by the memory of being in Nana’s kitchen, helping her prepare magnificent feasts. She inhaled the familiar mixture of allspice, cardamom, black pepper, cinnamon, coriander, and cumin rising from the bottle.
“My personal combination of baharat,” Ammo Mazen said, adding a heaping teaspoon to the pot.
“That sure does smell good,” said Basel, rocking back and forth on his heels as he and Tarek stared intently. “My nana was the best cook in the world,” he added wistfully, a faraway look in his eyes.
“Mine too,” said Nadia, giving him a smile.
While the stew bubbled merrily and mouthwatering smells invaded the kitchen, the kids set the table. From the corner of her eye, Nadia spotted Ammo Mazen pouring himself a cup of water and swallowing a pill. He stood at the window, gazing out over the courtyard, a thoughtful frown on his face.
• • •
Within an hour they were sitting around the table, preparing to dip a piece of Ammo Mazen’s dry bread into the delicious broth.
“Wait,” cried Tarek. As the others paused, he recited: “Bismillah wa ala barakatillah. In the name of Allah and with the blessings of Allah.”
As they dove into the food, Ammo Mazen sat, deep in thought.
He looks drained, thought Nadia. Although he’d said he was hungry, half of his stew remained.
“Are you going to eat that, sir?” asked Basel, eyes hopeful.
“No, you may have it,” said Ammo Mazen with a smile, pushing it toward him.
The boy didn’t need to be told twice, and he sank his teeth into a tiny pigeon leg. “This is so much better cooked.”
“You ate it raw?” asked Nadia in horror.
He shrugged. “You have to survive.”
“You shouldn’t stuff yourself,” admonished Tarek, staring in disapproval at the boy. “It is advised that eating less is healthier; a third of your stomach should contain food, a third water, and a third air.”
“Well, my stomach has been full of air for days, so I’m filling it up now,” said Basel. “I’m sure the Prophet wouldn’t mind, sir.”
While they bickered, Ammo Mazen put on his glasses and reached inside his vest. From inside emerged a small black book. Gently, he flipped through the pages, pausing to jot down notes. With a deep sigh, he looked up at them. “Before leaving the city I have to take care of a few things,” he said.
Nadia frowned, scrunching up her father’s woolen cap in her hands. “How long will that take?”
“Don’t worry,” said Ammo Mazen. “The people I need to see are on our path out of the city.”
Nadia wanted to argue, but held her tongue. After all, she was the one interrupting his schedule. She had to be patient, a virtue she was unfamiliar with.
“But for now,” continued Ammo Mazen, “there’s still another hour or so before sunset. My sleep has been sparse, so I must rest.”
“There are rooms at the back,” said Tarek. “I can show you.”
“Thank you, son,” said Ammo Mazen, following him.
Basel muffled a burp and collected the bowls to be washed. “That was the best thing I’ve eaten in a while,” he said happily.
Since the kitchen was still the warmest place in the building, Nadia decided to bring back her bedroll and the book. While she made herself comfortable, Basel slumped down beside her.
“What’s that?” he asked, pointing to the leather-bound folio.
“A book,” said Nadia, irritated.
“What kind of book?”
She rolled her eyes. “Alef Layla.”
“Never heard of it,” he said.
“How can you not have heard of it?” she asked.
He shrugged. “We couldn’t really afford storybooks, and my grandmother didn’t have that much time to read to me.”
“Oh,” she said, surprised to feel sympathy. “Well, how about I read to you?”
“Would you, ma’am?” asked Basel, his long-lashed brown eyes eager. “That would be really great.”
“Okay, but first, stop calling me ma’am,” said Nadia. She flipped open to a tale she knew he would enjoy, of the great adventurer Sinbad the Sailor, who goes on an epic quest to find riches while defeating monsters and villains along the way.
Chapter F
ifteen
October 10, 2013 7:03 p.m.
He really needed the rest, thought Nadia, taking a measured look at the dark shadows under Ammo Mazen’s eyes.
“Which way are you headed exactly, sir?” Basel asked as he watched Ammo Mazen and Nadia pack up the cart.
“Northeast,” said Ammo Mazen, tucking the tarp along the edges of the cart.
“Can I go with you to the Old City?” asked Basel. “The rebel group my grandfather joined, the Freedom Army, is there.”
Nadia looked at him in surprise. Such a little boy joining a rebel group? That’s not safe.
“Unfortunately, we won’t be going that far east,” said Ammo Mazen, giving him a sympathetic look.
An odd feeling of guilt tickled Nadia’s mind. It didn’t feel right to leave the boys behind. They’re not my problem, she reminded herself. She had to focus on getting to the border without distractions.
“Can I come with you as far as you go?” he pleaded.
The old man paused from tying down the tarp. He glanced from Nadia and back to the little boy, a fleeting look of calculation crossing his features. “Certainly,” he finally said. “But if you are to travel with me, you must pretend to be my grandson and listen to my instructions. Agreed?”
The same rules he set for me, thought Nadia as Basel nodded happily.
“And what about you?” He turned to Tarek. “The battle may push this way soon. Are you sure you want to remain here, alone?”
Tarek nodded, eyes downcast.
“Why?” Nadia couldn’t help but ask. “You’re an orphan, right? What’s here for you?”
Tarek’s cheeks flushed. “I have to stay.”
“Have to?” probed Ammo Mazen.
“He thinks his mother’s coming back to get him, sir,” said Basel.
“You be quiet!” cried Tarek, fists clenched.
“You call out for her in your sleep,” said Basel.
“Your mother?” asked Ammo Mazen, his voice soft.
Tarek stared down at his feet, face stony.
“When did you see her last?” Ammo Mazen gently prodded.
“When she left me here,” muttered Tarek.
“When you were five?” said Nadia. “That was like ten years ago.”
“Nine years ago,” said Tarek, glaring at her.
“And you haven’t heard from her in all these years?” asked Ammo Mazen. When Tarek shook his head, he continued, “I understand your desire to stay, son, but the city is getting more dangerous by the day, and without food you will not survive. When your mother hears that Imam Ali has left for Turkey, she’ll look for you there.”
“I have to wait,” said Tarek. “I’m old enough now, and it’s my duty to take care of her.”
Nadia stared at him as if he had rocks for brains. His mother dumped him here, and now he wants to take care of her?
Tarek must have seen the look of disgust on her face. “It doesn’t matter what she did, or why she did it. We must respect our parents, mothers above all. It’s written in the Quran that heaven lies beneath our mothers’ feet.”
When Basel muttered, “He’s a regular preacher,” Ammo Mazen gave him an admonishing look.
Nadia stared at Tarek, an alien sensation bubbling up inside of her. Shame. She lowered her gaze, realizing she’d never bothered to think about all the things her parents had done for her all these years.
“You must do as your heart guides you,” said Ammo Mazen, clasping the boy’s shoulder. “But I leave having advised you that this may not be the best decision.”
“I appreciate that, uncle,” said Tarek, his voice soft.
• • •
Nadia pulled on her visor and, unable to resist, glanced back at the orphanage. A pale face hung in the second-story window, watching them go. He should have come with us, she thought.
“That Sinbad the Sailor is amazing,” Basel said, interrupting her thoughts. “What an adventure, to land on an island with giant birds, a valley of snakes, and treasures!”
Nadia couldn’t help but smile at his enthusiasm. He’d begged her to keep reading, and she’d done so, both lost in the book as Scheherazade spun her magic over them. Then finally, they’d slept. Her smile evaporated as she remembered that Tarek had sat nearby, Mishmish in his lap, smiling at the sailor’s misfortunes.
“That’s one of my favorites too,” said Ammo Mazen with a chuckle as he tucked his compass back into his vest pocket. “Though I’ve always wished to find Aladdin’s magic lamp with a jinni to give me three wishes.”
They continued their conversation in hushed whispers, tensing as the scream of a jet passed above. But no sounds of bombing echoed in its wake, so they continued through a desolate neighborhood, illuminated by the silvery light of the full moon. On both sides of the road rose skeletal buildings. It was a scene that would have fit on the moon itself: gray and lifeless. Nadia swallowed, her throat suddenly parched, a sense of foreboding stealing over her. She stared at Ammo Mazen, wanting to ask him how they were going to exit the city. But he had slowed, eyes focused along the narrow road they traveled. About a hundred feet away, it met a wider street. He stopped, put a finger to his lips, and waved at them to slow down. Ten feet from the intersection, he motioned for them to stand still. He extracted a long wooden stick from the cart, a rearview mirror attached at its end. He crept forward and angled the mirror toward the intersection.
Nadia caught a glimpse of bright lights and a group of soldiers reflected on its silver surface. A checkpoint.
“We can’t go this way,” whispered Ammo Mazen. “I don’t recognize any of them.”
Nadia frowned, wondering how he could know the hundreds of rebel groups that had carved out sections of the city to rule. It was yet another mystery about him.
Through a series of streets, they hurried toward what looked like a long stretch of darkness. Nadia wondered where they were, and tried to imagine a map of the city. Her eyes focused and she realized they were on the edge of the Saad al-Ansari district, on the western side of the sinewy Queiq River. It was also called the River of Martyrs, Nadia had learned, after a hundred men and boys were found in its depths, hands tied behind their backs, executed by government forces. A thousand years ago, the river had burst its banks and swept away European crusader camps, helping save a besieged Aleppo. Now the river was a trickle compared with what it had been, its power diverted by a dam built at its source in Turkey.
And there was only one way to cross from one side of the city to the other from this point. “Bustan al-Qasr crossing?” choked out Nadia, horrified.
“Yes, I’m afraid we will have to pass through there,” said Ammo Mazen, handing around a water bottle.
“My father told me it’s manned on the western side by Syrian army forces and by rebels on the eastern side,” said Nadia. “People crossing there are targeted by snipers, so it’s been nicknamed the Death Crossing.”
“Snipers?” gasped Basel, choking on a gulp of water.
“Don’t worry,” said Ammo Mazen, though his face was serious in the silver light of the moon. “I’ve done this many times. The thugs who once ran the checkpoint have been replaced by a more agreeable lot. For now, let’s rest a bit.” He turned toward the cart and lifted the tarp.
As Basel pulled Nadia toward a spot beneath a tree, she glimpsed Ammo Mazen reaching into his small leather bag for his bottle of pills.
With the recent rains, the park bordering the river was lush and green. Let loose, Jamila happily ate her fill of soft, fresh grass, while Mishmish, curtailed by a length of rope tied around his neck, lazed beside Nadia and Basel, who sat with their backs against a tree trunk. Nadia stretched, feeling a twinge in her thigh, which she rubbed away with a grimace.
“So,” said Basel, fashioning a sort of basket out of leaves, “what happened to your leg?”
She opened her mouth to tell him to mind his own business. Instead, somehow, the dark, tangled memories came tumbling out. “When food was hard to find in Salah
eddine, my mother heard that a shipment of flour had made it in. Bread would be available, though it would be expensive. They sent my cousin Malik with money. But since I’d been cooped up in the house for months, I wanted to go too. They wouldn’t let me, so I snuck out and joined him while he was standing in a line that stretched over ten blocks.”
She trailed off as an image of the day came back . . . a perfect mix of warm sun and cool breezes. Instead of grumbling about the wait, the people had been laughing and joking as the yeasty smell of baking bread wafted down the street.
“Then what happened?” prodded Basel, swatting Jamila’s head away as she tried to eat his leaf basket.
“That’s when we heard the helicopters,” said Nadia. “I don’t remember much of what happened after that, only that Malik and his friend carried me home.”
“A bomb fell on you?” Basel whistled.
“No, a bomb did not fall on me.” She grimaced. “The bomb landed on a car across the street from me. The shrapnel hit me.” She didn’t tell him about the excruciating surgery Khala Lina had performed on the dining room table because they couldn’t go to the hospital. Or of the months she’d taken painkillers when they could find them, and struggled to heal and walk properly again. And how she’d started sleeping under her bed, and refused to leave the house. “We found out later that Assad’s regime was bombing bakeries . . . to starve and kill his own people.”
• • •
“It’s over there,” said Ammo Mazen, pointing toward the end of the street. It was strewn with discarded clothes, garbage, and an old television set. “Take a deep breath and relax,” he instructed. “If they ask, tell them I’m your grandfather and we’re going to stay with relatives since our house was bombed. Okay?” Both nodded and fell in beside the cart as Jamila trotted forward.
This is it, thought Nadia, wishing they didn’t have to go this way. But it was one of the few access points from the western side of the city, under government control, to the eastern side, controlled by rebels. However, the boundaries changed as battles were fought and won. Goose bumps rose along her arms as they emerged onto the western end of Karaj al-Hajaz street in the once vibrant Bustan al-Qasr neighborhood. This leg of the road was the infamous Death Crossing that desperate souls braved every day to reach friends and family on the other side; to attend the university, back when it was still open; to go to work, if still employed; or to find food. A street vendor hawked Korean-made generators on the corner, a hot commodity these days. Much of the business being conducted was through barter, since people’s cash had disappeared. An old man hurried by, gently guiding his wife along.
