by N. H. Senzai
“By the way,” added Ammo Mazen, “have you heard of the rebel group the Freedom Army?”
Basel froze, a look of panic on his face. Nadia frowned. Why isn’t he excited about reuniting with his grandfather? she wondered.
“No, I’m afraid not,” said Armen. “The rebel groups are like rabbits, doubling their numbers every month.”
Ammo Mazen nodded, shivering as he pulled his coat in tighter. “My friend, I am on my way to Turkey and do not know when I will return.”
“Turkey?” asked Armen, surprised.
“Yes, to take these children to safety,” said Ammo Mazen.
Armen nodded, then gave him a cryptic look. “I’ve heard some things . . . ,” he murmured, trailing off.
“Children,” said Ammo Mazen. “Please get me a glass of water, will you?”
“The kitchen is that way,” said Armen, pointing down the hall.
Nadia exchanged a look with Tarek. With Basel in the lead, they walked toward the kitchen, but Nadia lingered around the corner, pretending to tie her shoelace.
“Men dropped by earlier this week, asking about you,” said Armen, voice low.
“I was expecting this,” said Ammo Mazen. “Someone has recognized me and is asking questions.”
“I told them I hadn’t seen you in months,” said Armen. “You must be careful. I don’t know how long you can play on the razor’s edge. . . .”
Razor’s edge? thought Nadia, hating it when adults spoke in riddles.
“The children have proved useful, particularly at checkpoints,” said Ammo Mazen.
Nadia frowned. Useful? What does that mean? Doubts she’d buried resurfaced.
“We all have our destiny, written in the stars,” continued Ammo Mazen with a sigh. “My journey is soon at an end.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
October 11, 2013 3:00 p.m.
We must be swift, but careful,” said Ammo Mazen, weariness lining his face, as he slipped out the front door into the gray of late afternoon. He’d been nearly as eager as Nadia to leave, not waiting for the cover of darkness he usually preferred.
They passed the large vintage thermometer hanging on the wall beside the door, inscribed in French. “It’s only nine degrees Celsius,” reported Basel.
It sure feels like it, thought Nadia, shivering as she buttoned her coat up to her chin and pulled her father’s cap and the protective visor over her head. She watched as the boys helped Ammo Mazen descend the steps to the carport, mistrust clawing at her heart as she recalled his words to Armen. Is he just using us as cover to navigate through the city? Who is looking for him and why? She wondered if she should have shared what she’d learned with Tarek. But she had no proof that he meant them harm, and how could he? He was so ill he could barely walk. And so far, all he’d done was help them, and all the other people they’d met. Shrugging off the sensation that something wasn’t right, she followed, realizing that she would have to be on her toes, safeguarding the boys while making sure they all got to Turkey.
“The Old City is just a few blocks from here,” said Ammo Mazen, looking at each of them in turn, his usually gentle face grim. “It’s overrun by different rebel groups, many of them squabbling among themselves. And the citadel is under Syrian army control, with snipers posted along the top. Once we pass it, we’ll turn north. If we’re stopped, use the same story: I’m your grandfather and we’re looking for shelter at a relative’s house because ours was bombed. Understood?” They nodded.
Nadia took the reins while slipping the compass into her pocket. “Come on, girl, time to go,” she whispered in the donkey’s ear.
Jamila stared into her eyes and brayed softly in reply, stepping through the iron gates out onto Baron Street. Nadia took a deep breath; the air smelled like rain. Good, she thought, glaring up at the rooftops with a shiver. On their way to the hotel, they’d heard shots fired at a passing van and realized a sniper sat like a vulture atop the Sheraton hotel. Rain would make seeing through the scope of a rifle more difficult. I hope the merciless kalb drowns. . . .
“Water,” sighed Tarek, rubbing a raindrop across his cheek. “Allah tells us he made every living thing from water.”
“Really?” asked Basel, and they fell into a whispered theological discussion.
“Stay within the shadows,” said Ammo Mazen, keeping an eye on the rooftops as he lay in the cart, watching for any hint of movement. Nadia complied while taking a last look over her shoulder at the once grand Baron Hotel.
At the next corner, a group of men stood huddled beneath the awning of a travel agency, having a hushed, intense conversation.
Nadia slowed, the boys crowding in closer as Ammo Mazen called out, “Salaam, brothers. What news is there of the Old City?”
The youngest, the collar of his coat upturned, replied, “Things have been quiet after all the fighting. Perhaps a bit too quiet.”
“Yes,” added his friend, restlessly rocking on the balls of his feet. “It feels like the calm before a storm.”
“I’m just tired of it all,” grumbled the first. “Life was hard before the war, but good enough. Why did we have to go off and start fighting?”
His friend punched him in the arm, eyes wary. Keep your thoughts to yourself, Nadia could hear him think.
“Thank you,” replied Ammo Mazen. The men nodded politely and melted into a side street. “Head to the square,” he said, coughing, pointing toward the clock tower that rose in the distance. “There is a gate there that leads into the Old City.”
“Rest, Ammo,” said Tarek, adjusting the pillows and blankets they’d taken from the hotel to make him more comfortable.
“Thank you,” said Ammo Mazen with a smile, his voice hoarse. “I think I will close my eyes for a bit.”
Jamila, who had a mind of her own, leapt forward, eager to keep moving. Mishmish sat behind her, tied with a leash, nose twitching as he sniffed the wind. With Nadia in the lead, Tarek and Basel flanked either side of the cart. Spine straight, eyes on the road, Basel was a pint-size soldier on the lookout for trouble. Only Nadia knew what lay beneath the bluster of his tough-guy act.
North . . . Turkey . . . Father . . . , thought Nadia. Her mental recitation was interrupted as the echo of hand grenades was heard in the distance, following by answering machine-gun fire. She calculated it was a quarter of a mile away, in the direction of the Old City. Not good . . . She shared a worried glance with Tarek as they crossed the street, which was empty except for a few people hurrying along, carrying supplies and food they’d collected. On the other side of the street, a gray building straddled the block, circled by an iron fence. Hundreds of sandbags lay stacked across the courtyard. Up closer, she realized that they weren’t just lumpy sacks; a massive stone foot protruded from beneath. A few yards down from it stood a craggy Roman god, guarding the main entrance of the building, barricaded by concrete blocks. I’ve been here, she thought. It was the National Museum. Professor Laila had told them how the curator and staff had locked themselves inside, trying to protect priceless treasures, like the Ebla tablets.
They soldiered on, moving cautiously as they approached the edge of a square where the city’s famous clock tower still stood. Nadia remembered visiting with her family, strolling along Yarmouk Street to their favorite juice vendor. She licked her dry lips as the sweet-tart memory of pomegranate came back. She shook her head of the memory and peered past a broken-down gasoline truck.
“Bab al-Faraj, the Gate of Deliverance,” muttered Ammo Mazen, staring at the far side of the tower, where a city gate could be seen, one of the nine original entrances to the Old City. Unfortunately, it was guarded by a dozen men in fatigues, and they didn’t look friendly. Abruptly, half of them grabbed their rifles and hurried beyond the gate into the Old City.
“We can’t go this way,” said Nadia, stomach sinking.
“There’s another gate, back the way we came,” said Ammo Mazen, pulling out a kerchief to muffle the coughs that shook his body.
He’s getting worse, thought Nadia, staring at his pale face. She turned the cart around and they merged onto a parallel street, which took them south, along the old city wall. The street was lined with silent shop fronts, where haggard figures lurked in the rubble, scavenging. Burned-out cars obstructed the path. As they neared a fork in the road, Nadia held up her hand in warning and pulled Jamila to a halt behind the burned-out husk of a truck. She took out Ammo Mazen’s stick with the mirror and angled it down the road.
“Let me see,” whispered Ammo Mazen, getting off the cart, his steps uneven. “Bab al-Antakya is down another hundred yards. It doesn’t appear to be guarded.”
The old man climbed back onto the cart with Tarek’s help.
As they neared, Nadia could see why the gate had been left unmanned. It was once the western gate into the city, but now it was reduced to rubble, blocking entry. While Nadia and Tarek investigated the damage, Basel wandered up the street, light-footed as a cat, looking for a place to relieve himself.
Nadia hurried over to help Tarek try to shove aside blocks of stone.
“That’s no use, children,” said Ammo Mazen. “I’m afraid . . .
“Hey,” interrupted Basel, waving at them from further down the road. “Over here!”
The explosion that had destroyed the gate had blown a path straight through a workshop next door.
“Watch your step,” whispered Tarek, taking the lead as Nadia tugged Jamila’s reins, Basel keeping an eye on Ammo Mazen from behind. Inside the ruined shop, it was tricky maneuvering the cart over leather scraps, metal tools, and shattered machinery parts.
As Nadia entered the street on the other side, her foot landed in a puddle of freezing water. Extracting her foot, she saw that the alley was strung with sheets and froze. Snipers . . . The rooftops were clear, but from the corner of her eye she caught something stirring at the end of the lane. Something black fluttered, then disappeared into the ruins of a small restaurant, its sign for roast chicken crumpled on the ground. Somewhere in the distance, revolutionary music ebbed and flowed, as if played from a moving car.
“We need to go,” urged Basel, holding his rifle close.
Nadia pulled out the compass. “That way,” she said, pointing to a narrow street that veered east.
Carefully, they crept through narrow alleys and natural fortifications provided by the Old City’s historic architecture, which had served as cover for both the Syrian army and rebels who had turned the Old City into a battlefield. Elegant, venerable homes; schools; caravansaries, where caravans along the silk route plied their goods; bathhouses; and mosques lay mangled, their innards littering the streets—carved pillars, shattered tiles, furniture, and personal items of those who’d fled.
At the corner, they turned past an Ottoman villa, gutted by mortar, its beams bent and broken. Nadia craned her ears, hunting for echoes of gunfire, but besides the patter of rain, the only other sound came from the lurch and creak of steel and stone, like sinister wind chimes. So focused was she on the compass that she didn’t see that the boys were no longer walking beside her.
“Nadia,” hissed Basel, “stop. . . .”
She turned and found them standing still, openmouthed and staring at the horizon. She frowned, wondering why they were examining an empty patch of sky. Then it hit her. “Where did it go?” she blurted. A magnificent minaret had once stood in that spot, a part of the skyline for nearly a thousand years, rising from the Umayyad Mosque. Unlike traditional cylindrical minarets, this one had been square, blush-colored stone, wrapped in intricate Arabic inscriptions. As Nadia gaped, wind rustled past, reminding her of the call to prayer that had flowed from the minaret five times a day, calling believers to prayer from all over the Old City.
“I heard government artillery knocked it down. The dome collapsed into a pancake, destroying Prophet Zechariah’s tomb,” said Tarek, spitting on the ground as if he had a bad taste in his mouth.
“Wanton destruction . . . ,” muttered Ammo Mazen, cheeks pale as he surveyed the damage. “It survived sackings by Abbasids, Byzantines, Armenians, and Mongols—even an earthquake. And its library—priceless manuscripts and books reduced to ashes—I could not save any.”
“Come,” said Tarek softly. “No point lingering here.”
Nadia nodded and slipped into an alley. Handsome homes, empty of residents, flanked the lane. They were remarkably intact.
It’s too quiet, thought Nadia. The hair on the back of her neck was rising.
“Wait,” hissed Basel from up ahead.
She and Tarek froze, staring toward a gap between two sagging houses where the boy pointed. Sandbags, piled high, blocked the parallel street. A man stood beneath a balcony, his cigarette glowing in the shadows.
“Turn around,” she whispered urgently, tugging on the harness, Jamila’s eyes rolling with fear.
Chapter Twenty-Five
October 11, 2013 4:18 p.m.
Go, go, go!” hissed Basel, grabbing Mishmish and shoving him into his canvas bag for safety.
“I can’t. . . . The cart, it’s stuck,” cried Nadia, tugging on Jamila’s reins.
Tarek crawled under the cart to push from behind.
Ammo Mazen slipped down from the back and joined him, face white with exertion, breathing heavily.
Oh, no . . . , thought Nadia, desperate to get away. Just leave the cart. . . . Her eyes met Jamila’s, which were rolling with fear. We can’t leave her. She patted the frightened animal’s neck, whispering, “It’s okay, girl.”
“Wait! Stop!” called out a harsh voice.
Footsteps echoed up the alley. “Come on, girl,” Nadia urged as the cart creaked forward. But it was too late. A pack of men in civilian clothes blocked their path.
“Who are you?” asked a shaggy-haired figure at the head, his rifle raised.
“My name is Mazen Kader,” said Ammo Mazen, coming to the front to shield the kids, shakily holding up his hands. “I’m a bookseller, traveling with my grandchildren.”
“What are you doing here?” asked the man, eyes narrowed.
“Our house was destroyed by barmeela,” continued Ammo Mazen, sagging against Jamila. “We are trying to reach relatives beyond the Old City.”
“Brother Khalid,” called a voice from the back, “they’re just civilians.”
Nadia frowned, trying to place the man’s accent. The interrogator hesitated, lowering his rifle as a lean figure elbowed his way to the front.
Heart racing, Nadia stared at the young man, dressed in crisp jeans and a thick coat, carrying a camera in a bandaged hand. His dark eyes were shrewd, and a week’s worth of stubble grew along his jaw. “They could be helpful,” he said to the leader, Khalid, who nodded. Then he turned to them. “My name is Ayman—I’m a journalist. I’m sorry we frightened you.”
“You did,” Basel blurted out.
Ayman grinned. “I don’t want to inconvenience you, but are you coming from the western side of the city?”
Before Ammo Mazen could reply, Basel piped up. “Yes, from Salaheddine.” Nadia elbowed him to be quiet.
“I heard rumors that the army was pushing in from that point,” said Ayman. “Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?”
Ammo Mazen looked warily at him and the armed men, and finally nodded.
• • •
Twenty minutes later, they were huddled around a fire, juggling mugs of hot, sweet tea and handfuls of almonds while Ammo Mazen provided Ayman with news of Salaheddine, the spate of barmeela attacks, and the impending movement of the Syrian army. Nadia eyed Ammo with a pang of worry. Although he’d taken a pill the doctor had given him back at the church, he was drooping in his seat.
“Thank you for agreeing to talk to me,” said Ayman, jotting down notes. “I want to tell the outside world what is happening here, share stories of the people and their suffering. The Assad regime has a stranglehold on the news coming out of the country. He’s kidnapping, torturing, and killing journalists, but I, and others like
me, will not let him hide his crimes.”
Ammo Mazen smiled at his earnest expression. “We need people like you to tell the truth of what is happening here. Now, tell us what is happening outside Aleppo.”
“The fact is that things are getting worse by the day,” said Ayman. “Over a hundred thousand Syrians have perished in the bloodshed and nearly two million have fled the country.” Nadia sat back, reeling at the terrible numbers. “Assad has intensified his attacks all over the country and is using more and more deadly force, including chemical weapons.”
“We heard about Ghouta,” said Ammo Mazen, expression grim as he recalled the city Assad had attacked with poison gas.
“There are rumors that Assad plans to encircle Aleppo and cut rebel supply lines into the city. But it’s not just the government,” he added, voice falling an octave as he eyed his companions. “Rebel groups, including foreign fighters, are carrying out atrocities against civilians. There are bombings, executions, kidnappings, and torture.”
“What is the outside world doing?” asked Tarek, aghast.
Ayman’s nostrils flared. “The Americans, Europeans, and others sit at the United Nations bickering, while the Syrian foreign minister pompously tells them that Syria is not engaged in a civil war but a war on terror.”
“War on terror,” muttered the man who’d made their tea. He had an ugly gash across his forehead. “The only terrorist is Assad!”
A boy, barely in his teens, rose in the back and kicked a metal can, muttering, “No one cares if we die.”
“I wish we could offer you more food,” said Khalid, “but our supplies are gone.”
“Thank you for your hospitality,” said Ammo Mazen, “but we know how terrible the situation is.”
“It’s so bad that clerics have issued a religious edict that it’s okay to eat haram, or forbidden foods, such as dogs and cats,” muttered Tarek. The men looked at the cat in Nadia’s lap with revulsion as Nadia angrily elbowed Tarek in the ribs. “Sorry,” he whispered apologetically, rubbing Mishmish under his chin.
