by N. H. Senzai
“What is your business here?” bellowed a thickset man in jeans and a sweater.
“We need to see the bishop,” said Nadia.
“What is your business with the bishop?” said the man, frowning.
“We have something for him, something important,” said Nadia. “And our grandfather, he needs help.”
The man looked at Ammo Mazen, lying in the back of the cart. With a curt nod, he sent in one of his buddies with the message.
Minutes later, the door burst open, revealing a man in black robes, a long, gray-streaked beard reaching his chest and entangled in a large gold cross, which hung from a heavy chain. He took one look at Ammo Mazen and paled. “What happened?”
“He fell and hit his head,” said Nadia. “We need your help.”
“My dear child, what is your name?” he asked.
“Nadia,” she said, not wanting to reveal more. “And this is Basel.”
“I am Bishop Aphrem,” he said. “Mazen is a good friend and you are all welcome here.”
Relief flooded through Nadia. Two men carried Ammo Mazen inside, leaving Jamila and the cart under the protection of the other guards. She grabbed the package and followed them inside. Soft light from lanterns illuminated a sprawling vaulted space. The marble floor, she was surprised to see, was lined on both sides with bodies covered in blankets. Sounds of sleep echoed through the room. Wooden benches had been moved to the side to make space. The bishop led the men up the central aisle toward the altar built of shining white stone, decorated with gold leaf. From the corner of her eye, Nadia spotted a boy slumped on a bench. Above him rose a statue of the Virgin Mary, her head covered by a veil. Eyes solemn, filled with love, she stared down at the baby in her arms, her son, the prophet Jesus. As Nadia looked at the back of the boy’s head, she caught a flicker of red and white. I know who that is!
Chapter Twenty-Two
October 11, 2013 4:39 a.m.
Nadia hurried toward the boy as if a jinni had taken hold of her body. “It’s you,” she whispered, heart hammering against her ribs.
The boy awoke, startled, and used his worn red-and-white-checked scarf to wipe wet cheeks. “Yes, it’s me,” he said with a watery smile.
“Are you okay, sir?” asked Basel, running to catch up with her, his eyes wide with surprise. He still lugged the bag of figs.
“Yes, I’m fine,” said Tarek, though there was a cut on his chin and his clothes were torn and dusty.
“You decided to come,” said Nadia, brimming with relief.
Tarek’s smile faltered and he glanced back at the prophet Jesus, eyes grave. After a moment, he whispered, “He was his mother’s only son, a miracle from Allah.” Then his face hardened. “She’s not coming back. There was no use in staying.”
Nadia’s heart felt heavy. She wasn’t particularly good at sympathy. “I’m so sorry,” she said simply. She looked at Tarek and could see a well of anguish, a sense of loss that surpassed her own thousandfold. After all, she was on her way to Turkey to find her family. He had given up hope of ever seeing his mother again. She was about to ask how he’d found them, when the bishop called out to them softly.
“I see you’ve found your friend,” he said, accompanying the men carrying Ammo Mazen. “Now all of you, come along with me.” He led them toward an arched door a dozen feet down from the altar.
“What happened to Ammo Mazen?” whispered Tarek as the men went first, entering a wide hall that traveled deeper into the church.
“He just collapsed,” said Nadia, the excitement of finding Tarek fading. Worry ate at her as she watched the men disappear into a room on the right.
Nadia followed and found a group of men huddled over Ammo Mazen, who was lying on a sofa in a cozy sitting room. To her surprise, she saw the dark-robed figure from the square at the far end of the rectangular room, stacking boxes with his men.
“Give him air,” ordered a short man with reddish hair, authoritatively pulling a stethoscope from his bag. As he listened to Ammo Mazen’s chest, the bishop leaned over to talk to him. The doctor blinked in surprise, then turned to the dark-robed figure. “Imam Ismail, any medical supplies in those boxes from our Kurdish friends?”
“Yes, there’s an assortment of medical instruments, bandages, and medicines.”
“Give me glucose,” said the doctor. “Also, please show me all the medications you have.”
Nadia pushed her way through the men. “Is he okay? What’s wrong with him?”
At her voice, Ammo Mazen stirred. “What . . . where am I?” he mumbled.
“Praise be to Allah,” cried Bishop Aphrem. “You’re awake.”
“Here, drink this,” said the doctor, giving him a cup of water mixed with glucose, plus two pills from a dark bottle in one of the boxes.
After drinking it down, Ammo Mazen sat up, color returning to his cheeks.
“You will need to take these with more frequency,” said the doctor, handing Ammo Mazen the bottle, an uneasy look on his face. “Plus, after that skull cracking, you’re going to have quite a headache, to be sure.”
“Thank you, Doctor,” said Ammo Mazen, giving a nod and pocketing the bottle. “These will be a great help indeed.” He turned toward Nadia and spotted Tarek. “How did you get here?”
“I saw the address written on the package when I picked it up at the mosque,” said Tarek with a smile. “You mentioned you needed to drop it off before heading north, so I decided to take a chance.”
“Clever boy,” said Ammo Mazen, then blinked. “The package!”
“Here it is,” said Nadia, holding it out to him.
“Give it to the bishop,” said Ammo Mazen, eyes filled with relief. “You’re the one who brought it this far.”
All eyes on him, the bishop gently peeled away the brown paper, revealing a folio of delicate vellum, the text in faded ink and decorated with gold-and-jewel-toned illustrations. Basel leaned forward to see, and even Nadia found she was holding her breath. With shaking fingers the bishop traced the letters, as someone whispered in reverence, “Ya Allah, the Peshitta.”
“Pesha what?” asked Basel.
“This, my child,” said the bishop, eyes welling with tears, “is one of the only surviving copies of the original Bible in Syriac, the language closest to what Jesus spoke, which was Aramaic. Where did you locate it, Brother Mazen?”
“It had been taken from the monastery and hidden in a town north of Aleppo,” said Ammo Mazen. “My contacts were able to procure it before it disappeared into the black market.”
Nadia stared at Ammo Mazen, wondering just how far his web of contacts spread and how he had cultivated them. Like Sulaiman . . .
“Thank you,” said the bishop, shaking with emotion. He turned to the men. “Brothers, this is Mazen Kader. A dear friend and, as you can see, a procurer of things invaluable.”
Ammo Mazen ducked his head, embarrassed. “Now, Bishop, I am no such thing.”
“You are a magician,” said the bishop, “helping countless with your ingenious ways.”
Introductions were made, and it seemed the group represented various churches and social and civic organizations around the city. Given a plate of bread and strips of basterma, dried beef, by a young priest, the kids were directed to a corner to sit. Basel handed the priest the bag of figs, which was passed around.
A grizzled old priest took one and stared at it with a forlorn sigh. “It reminds me of the land promised to Prophet Abraham, filled with figs, pomegranates, olives, wheat, and honey—where you could eat without scarcity, and not lack for anything.”
His companion snorted. “Now we are in a wasteland where the people starve.”
Nadia caught Tarek staring at the rich pink interior of his fig, muttering quietly to himself, “ ‘I swear by the fig and the olive.’ ”
“Why are you swearing, sir?” asked Basel, chewing with his mouth open. The bread and basterma swirled around in a gross mass.
Disgusted, Nadia elbowed him. “Eat w
ith your mouth closed.”
“Don’t you know anything?” asked Tarek, looking irritated.
Basel shrugged and popped another piece of meat into his mouth.
“There is a verse in the Quran about the fig and the olive,” sighed Tarek. “They symbolize the land between Palestine and Syria where such fruits grew, along with the teachings of the prophets Abraham, Moses, Jesus, and Mohammad, peace be upon them.”
“Oh,” said Basel. “I don’t know about symbols, but figs are pretty tasty.”
While the boys bickered, reminding Nadia of her brothers, she turned her attention to the men. She glanced at Ammo Mazen with relief. He looked better, but was still very weak. She wanted nothing more than to leave, but watching him sip a soothing broth, she bit her tongue. He needed to regain some strength before they could go.
“Did you hear?” said a pale, slender man as he paced. “The mukhabarat sent out leaflets telling people they will face persecution from the rebels. Even though many Christians are in opposition to Assad, others have had close relations with the government, and are scared.”
Ammo Mazen nodded. “Fear is understandable. The mukhabarat and the Assad regime use fear to control people, pitting religious groups against each other to keep a hold of his power.”
“He’s right,” said Imam Ismail. “I heard that government workers in the city of Homs were paid to agitate violence. They spray-painted messages all over the city—‘Christians to Beirut and Alawites to the grave.’ It is driving a wedge between the communities, keeping them from working together.”
Just like the French, thought Nadia.
“But if the Assad regime falls, there is talk that opposition groups will take revenge,” continued the man. “Especially these extremist foreign fighters coming from abroad—they are out to kill Christians!”
Bishop Aphrem broke in: “Now, now, brother, there is no plan to kill Christians just because they are Christian. Bombs and bullets are equally targeting Muslims and Christians.”
“Bishop Aphrem is right,” said the grizzled old priest. “Before the war, Syrians of all religions lived in peace for hundreds of years. Now we must come together and fight for peace.”
Ammo Mazen put down his cup. “You are both correct. We must battle tyranny, not only from the Assad regime, but also from outsiders who are bringing intolerance toward Christians and toward Muslims who do not believe as they do.”
“Brothers, I must go,” said the imam. “I must make a delivery to the Jesuit Refugee Service, and there’s news that Assad’s forces have locked down the area north of Jdeideh.”
That doesn’t sound good, thought Nadia.
“So there’s no passage north from here?” asked Ammo Mazen with a frown.
Nadia’s heart sank.
“No, I’m afraid not,” said the imam.
“We have to go north,” burst out Nadia, unable to restrain her panic.
The men looked at her with a mixture of pity and irritation.
“Yes, my child,” said the bishop. “But the path north is perilous from here.”
“You will have to go further east, then head north at a safer crossing point,” said the imam.
Ammo Mazen looked at Basel. “Well, now we can find your grandfather and the Freedom Army he belongs to.”
Basel ducked his head, nodding, while Nadia fumed. More wasted time.
Chapter Twenty-Three
October 11, 2013 1:12 p.m.
He isn’t here, Nadia thought, waking with a start. She sat up on the sagging sofa, looking for a hint of marmalade fur. Instead, she bumped into something hard—a book. Alef Layla. Memories from the night came flooding back, of leaving the church, despite the bishop’s pleas to stay. Ammo Mazen had caught Nadia’s fearful gaze and insisted they leave. He had taken them to an old hotel where they could rest before heading east. And upon their arrival, Ammo Mazen had handed her the book and said, “I believe you have need of this more than a dusty old library or museum shelf does.” Now she stared at his slight figure. He was sleeping, aided by two pills she’d handed him from a bottle labeled MORPHINE. Morphine, what Khala Lina had given her to reduce the pain in her leg after surgery. What pain is he battling? she wondered.
She glanced past the dusty curtains through the window, where the sun indicated it was well past noon. We should get moving. But maybe just an hour more rest, she thought, giving the old man a final, thoughtful look. Tarek lay sprawled on the floor, snoring softly. Something else was missing. Basel. The mound of blankets he’d used to construct a nest was empty. She peered across the run-down sitting room. Nothing.
Crossing the threadbare rug, she tiptoed through the door and ran across the black-and-white-tiled foyer to the front door Ammo Mazen had unlocked with his skeleton keys when they’d arrived. Still locked. The door to the bathroom stood ajar. She inched along the wall and peered inside. Mishmish snoozed beside Basel, who lay curled up in a tight ball, asleep. At his feet lay his gun. And all around him, on the tiled floor, he’d drawn a picture with a piece of charcoal. It was of an old woman in a dress, stick arms and legs jutting out. In one of the figure’s hands was a lemon, like the one he’d plucked from the tree in Jdeideh. Lemons . . . his grandmother loved lemons. Propped against the door, Nadia felt grief consume her. Nana . . . where is she? Where is everybody? She wanted to reach down and hug the little boy, as if he were her own Yusuf. She wiped the tears away and forced herself to head toward the foyer. She needed to steel herself before waking the others. She was thirsty. She headed past a yellowed advertisement hanging on the wall:
Hotel Baron, the only first-class hotel in Aleppo. Central heating throughout, complete comfort, uniquely situated. The only one recommended by travel agencies.
A faded World War II–era Syrian map hung beside it, along with an old poster announcing a trip aboard the Orient Express, in which one would travel in opulence from Europe to Baghdad via Constantinople, stopping in Aleppo. She spotted an old-fashioned black telephone hanging in a booth. The line was dead, of course, telecommunications still down. With a sigh, she wandered on through the elegant yet shabby hotel, followed by Mishmish. She peered at old photographs and memorabilia displayed on the walls and headed toward the wood-paneled dining room, tiled with green and brown ceramic. Her stomach growled for a hard-boiled egg or just a slice of bread, as an old memory blossomed, of wearing a frilly pink dress, legs dangling from one of these chairs. At a table beside her, her father huddled with men in business suits, haggling over phosphate prices, as a jovial old waiter brought her lemonade. Seeing her glum expression, he entertained her with stories of the prestigious hotel and its illustrious guests. King Faisal had declared Syria’s independence while standing on the balcony in Room 215, and presidents from around the world had stayed at the famous Hotel Baron, including Theodore Roosevelt of America, who’d sat in the same room, enjoying roast pheasant, venison stew, Persian caviar, imported French wines, and rich puddings. The first man to travel in space, cosmonaut Yuri Gagarin, had been a guest, and the famous mystery author Agatha Christie had written Murder on the Orient Express while sitting on the terrace sipping tea.
Nadia picked up Mishmish and turned toward the front desk, wondering where the kitchen was. As she passed, the cat stiffened in her arms, hissing. A large black terrier sat beside the desk, its head buried in the lap of an unshaven man slumped over in a chair, his eyes closed, navy woolen cap askew. A handful of papers was clutched in his hands. Dead. He’s dead, she thought, horrified. The terrier’s nose twitched, and the dog jerked up with a shattering bark. Mishmish burst from her grasp, leaving painful scratches, and Nadia screamed.
Seconds later, Tarek and Basel stood beside her, while Ammo Mazen hobbled toward them, breathing hard. “Are you all right?” he asked.
The man was not dead, but was staring at Nadia as if she had two heads. “Quiet, Sasha,” he said, patting the dog to calm him.
“Armen, is that you?” asked Ammo Mazen, coughing as Tarek held him up. “We
didn’t mean to frighten you.”
The man, Armen, blinked blearily. “No, no, it’s all right,” he said, patting the dog, who now sat obediently, though Nadia could tell he wanted to track the smell of cat.
“Apologies, but we let ourselves in early this morning,” said Ammo Mazen, sitting in the chair Basel had dragged over for him.
“You are always welcome. As you can see, there are quite a few vacancies,” said Armen, peering at the old man with a frown. “Mazen, are you all right?”
“ ‘Time is like a sword,’ ” murmured Ammo Mazen. “ ‘If you do not cut it, it will cut you.’ And the sword of time has taken its toll on me these past few months.”
Nadia frowned at the old man’s cryptic use of the proverb. Armen nodded, eyes troubled as he glanced at the kids.
“How are you, my friend?” asked Ammo Mazen. “And your family?”
Armen sighed, a deep, soulful sound rushing from his lungs. “We are fine, but hold our hearts in our hands, watching the city tear itself apart. I fear the best years are behind us.” His eyes glassy, he stared out over the lobby.
“Don’t think that way,” said Ammo Mazen.
Armen snorted. “My great-grandmother had the idea to build a luxury hotel in Aleppo while on her way to pilgrimage to Jerusalem from Armenia, nearly a hundred years ago. Did you know that?” he asked, not really expecting a reply. “I remember the day Hafez al-Assad came, shortly after his coup. And his son . . . even he came here.” Deflated by his outburst, Armen seemed to shrink. He added, voice hoarse, “We survived two world wars, multiple deportations, several coups, and thirty-five years of socialism. But I don’t know if we’ll survive this.”
“It will all be well again,” consoled Ammo Mazen. “Your family’s hotel is part of the very fabric of Aleppo.”
Armen nodded, and shrugged off his outburst with a tired smile.
