Mohammed took a deep breath and explained.
“There has been trouble, and we need your help.”
He guided her to the back of his cart and showed her Mike and the others.
“Inside, quickly,” she said as she opened the gate.
Elsa and Hamid helped to pull the cart into Fariba’s courtyard.
With the gate shut tightly behind them, Elsa leaned against the cart and turned to Mohammed. “Is there anyone else here?” she asked. “Are we safe?”
“Yes, yes,” Mohammed answered. “My sister is a widow, and she lives here alone. No one will think to bother her.”
Mohammed and Hamid carried Mike into the little house, and Elsa bent over him to tend to his wounds. His paleness was ghostly.
“He needs surgery—soon. We cannot stay here, Mohammed. We must get him back to Bamiyan.” Her voice was filled with the undeniable fear that Mike could still die.
Mohammed nodded. “Yes, you are right. But if we all go at once, we will attract too much attention. The Taliban are looking for you and Hamid, and probably the soldiers. We cannot go together.”
She turned and looked at Mike, whose eyes were closed. Panic threatened to engulf her again, and she fought to hold it back.
“Help me, Mohammed,” she pleaded. “Tell me what to do.”
Mohammed paused, wiping the sweat from his brow. “I think that you, the soldier, and I should go first. We can pretend to be a family going to bury a brother. I have a box that we can hide him in,” Mohammed said. “It is a wooden coffin that was intended to hold my body when my family thought I would die in Bamiyan’s prison. My sister has kept it here.” He pointed to what had appeared to be a long table, covered with a piece of cloth. Then he spoke rapidly to his sister, and she nodded.
“She agrees that we should leave quickly. She says that you will be safe, Hamid. No one ever comes here.”
A momentary relief washed over Elsa and she turned to Hamid. “If you stay here, the soldiers will be back for you today. I know that they will come for you.”
“You will be safe here,” Fariba said softly. “But if by chance there is trouble, I have a weapon,” she added. She pulled a large handgun from under her sleeping pad. “My husband’s.”
She opened the cylinder and checked her bullets. “Do not worry.”
Through twinges of pain, Hamid nodded at Fariba.
“I must trust you, Fariba, and I thank you for your help.”
“Please,” Elsa asked, her voice so soft Fariba had to lean forward to hear, “do you have a blanket?” She looked back at the cart that still held Parween and Dave. “So I can cover them,” she said, her voice breaking.
Fariba touched Elsa’s arm and reached for a nearby blanket. Nodding to the cart, she handed it to Elsa. “Go,” she said.
Elsa clutched the blanket and approached the cart. Parween and Dave lay side by side, their eyes closed, blood still seeping from their wounds. Instinctively, she reached out and checked for signs of life. But there were none.
Her friends were dead.
She wanted to fall apart, to let the grief swallow her, but there was no time. Not yet. Not until Mike was safe.
She gently covered Dave and Parween with the blanket, and she offered a silent prayer.
Elsa wiped her face on her sleeve and turned back to the house, where Mohammed was scurrying about preparing for their journey. She knelt by Mike’s side and whispered their plans to him.
He nodded in painful agreement, then moaned and said, “Tell me about Dave. Is he hurt bad?”
Elsa hesitated and pushed down the dread she felt at sharing the news. “He’s here, Mike, but… he was badly injured.” She choked back her own tears and continued. “I’m sorry,” she cried, “but he didn’t make it. Neither did Parween—they’re both dead.” A choking sob tore from her throat.
Mike’s body jerked with the news, and he struggled to push himself up, but Elsa wrestled him back down and held on to him.
“Mike,” she whispered, but he seemed not to hear.
He closed his eyes and moaned so low and with such sorrow that Elsa thought he would die as well. His moan grew until an animal’s growl of agony poured from the deepest part of him. He cried then with such raw force that Elsa thought his insides would spill from his wound.
She applied pressure to his gaping injury and begged.
“Please, Mike, you’re still bleeding. You’ve got to stop.”
“Oh God,” he groaned. “Why Dave?” His grief-stricken wails faded and he lay quietly, tears spilling from his eyes.
Elsa explained that they were going to get him ready for the trip to Bamiyan.
“Just do as I say, Mike.” She took a deep breath, steeled herself, and applied a heavy pressure dressing to Mike’s abdomen. She tore a piece of fabric from the hem of her dress and wound it around him, tying it tightly to secure the dressing.
Mike lay quietly as Mohammed swathed him in a white martyr’s shroud and placed him in the coffin. His blood seeped only faintly through the fabric, and Mohammed paused.
“Fariba,” he called, “where is the small goat that I killed yesterday? I need him.”
Fariba hurried outside and returned, pulling a headless carcass. Grimacing at the smell, Mohammed lifted it and packed it alongside Mike under the shroud.
“If someone opens this coffin, the terrible stink of the goat and the amount of blood will be evidence enough that only a dead body lies herein.” He smiled grimly as he packed the shroud around the goat and Mike.
Mike gagged at the stench and Elsa told him to breathe through his mouth. She spoke softly and told him not to throw up or he’d start the bleeding again.
Mohammed held Mike’s pistol up to Elsa. He put his hand on the trigger to demonstrate its proper use, and once he’d checked the bullets, he passed it to her.
“Famidi?”
Elsa nodded and wrapped her hand around the gun. Mohammed checked his own pistol then and hid it as best he could in his shirt.
Elsa turned to Fariba and pointed to the blood that saturated the front of Elsa’s own dress. “I need a burqa, please. Do you have one I can use?”
Fariba lifted one from a hook and pulled it on over Elsa’s head. Elsa kissed Fariba on both cheeks and with tears in her eyes, she knelt beside Hamid.
“You have been my true brother. I will see you later today, Hamid. May Allah watch over you.”
“And over you,” Hamid said as he reached to squeeze Elsa’s hand.
Elsa pulled the burqa over her face, and she and Mohammed hurried outside. They struggled to load Mike’s coffin into the rickety old hay wagon, and then Mohammed quickly harnessed his sister’s two weary donkeys to the front of the wagon.
Hidden in the folds of the burqa, Elsa climbed into the back and sat by the coffin; she would play the role of distraught widow. As the emaciated donkeys set off at a painfully slow trot, Mohammed spoke.
“We will surely be watched. The Taliban are looking for the foreigner and the soldiers. Stay quiet and alert.”
Elsa nodded, and caressed the side of the coffin. The stench of the rotting goat already oozed out into the air. Part of her hoped Mike had already passed out so that he wouldn’t have to endure the putrid odor.
“Mike,” she whispered, not knowing if he could hear her, “stay strong. As soon as we are safe, I’ll get you out of this damn box.”
The road back to Bamiyan was tortuous, winding through the loneliest recesses of the valley. There were countless hidden groves from which Taliban or others could observe passersby.
“There are surely suspicious eyes following us,” Mohammed said.
Before long his instincts were confirmed. A lone Taliban emerged from a line of trees and, waving his Kalashnikov in the air, let off a shot, demanding that Mohammed stop.
Mohammed pulled the reins on his tired donkeys and they stopped, looking glad for the unexpected rest.
“Che’ ast? What is this?” the man demanded.
Mohammed remained calm and sadly explained that the man in the coffin was his dear brother and this woman was his widow.
Elsa’s heart was racing but she kept her head down as Parween had taught her. Her hands trembled, and she folded them in her lap.
“Open it,” the rebel demanded.
Mohammed stepped to the rear of the wagon and opened the lid, unleashing the hideous stench of the dead goat.
Elsa held her breath and tried to remain calm as she unfolded her hands and felt for Mike’s pistol. She placed her hands firmly around the handle, the cold, hard feel of the metal fueling her resolve. She would shoot the man if she had to. She had no doubt.
“Aghh!” the disgusted Taliban cried. “Shut it and go. Bury him quickly. He is already rotting!”
Mohammed complied, murmuring his thanks to the Taliban and to Allah, and he whipped the scrawny donkeys to get them moving. Once they were out of earshot of the Taliban, he screamed, “Allah u akbar!”
Elsa crawled to the coffin and lifted the lid. She unwound the stinking shroud from Mike’s face and started to cry.
“Are you okay? Can you make it to Bamiyan? Please speak to me.”
Mike winced and nodded, though obviously in great pain.
“I’m okay,” he said faintly.
“We’ll be there soon. Just hold on.”
Elsa replaced the shroud and pulled the cover of the coffin back down.
The donkeys finally seemed to sense the imminent danger and picked up their pace. Elsa and Mohammed watched every shadow, every bird that took flight, every rustle of leaves, for any hint that the Taliban were near. But somehow, against the odds, they made it.
They wended their way to Bamiyan’s clinic. Laila and Ezat came outside, confused by the strange sight, and when Elsa pulled off the hood of her burqa, they jumped in surprise. She quickly explained what had happened, and together, they moved Mike to the small ER.
Ezat promptly tended to Mike’s wounds, and when Elsa moved in to help, Laila shook her head and steered her from the room.
“No, you must take care of yourself. Ezat will look after your friend.”
“I should be with him,” she said. After protesting weakly, Elsa sent a message to the Chief.
It seemed only minutes before a pair of soldiers arrived at the clinic. One was a medic and he took charge of Mike, moving him to a clean stretcher for transfer to the safe house.
The Chief—red faced with anger—arrived in a second vehicle.
“What the fuck, Elsa? What happened?”
Through tears and sobs, Elsa relayed the events of the day.
“Dave’s dead. Parween too,” she said, tears spilling from her eyes.
The Chief slumped for an instant before he turned to his interpreter and began barking orders.
“Ramatullah, get this man, Mohammed, to explain where Dave and the others are and write it out so we can send in our men. Take him with you if he’ll go.”
The Chief turned and saw that Elsa was trembling. Despite what he must have been feeling, he softened his voice.
“Oh, shit, I didn’t even ask—are you okay, honey?”
But Elsa couldn’t answer. Sobs were her only reply, and she collapsed into a chair. He crouched beside her.
“We have to get Mike to the safe house. Do you want to come with us? We can get you out today.”
She couldn’t speak. She had to see Rahima, to wait for Hamid. She couldn’t go, not yet. She shook her head and rose to say goodbye to Mike, who lay on the stretcher they were preparing to place on the back of the jeep. The soldiers parted and let her through.
She took his hand and kissed him full on the mouth.
“I’ll see you soon.”
Mike’s words were a whisper.
“Elsa, you can’t stay. Promise me… you’ll leave.”
She nodded, and the soldiers returned, lifting the stretcher and moving it quickly to the waiting jeep.
Laila and Ezat had stood back as soon as the soldiers arrived, but now they stepped up next to Elsa where she sat. Laila crouched down next to her.
“Elsa, are you all right?” she asked, her voice filled with concern. Ezat stood next to her with his brow wrinkled.
Elsa cried and told them in more detail what had happened.
“Dave and Parween—” Their names caught in her throat. How could they be gone? God, make it not true.
“Oh, Parween,” she cried, and her shoulders sagged.
Laila reached out and wrapped her arms around her.
“Come, we’ll walk you home.”
“I have to see Rahima.”
“Yes, but you must clean up first. You don’t want her to see all this.” She pointed to the blood that covered Elsa’s dress and hands.
Ezat and Laila escorted her to her house, and along the way even Ezat tried to comfort her in his limited English. When they arrived, Elsa turned to them.
“Thank you,” she said, “but I need to take care of things myself now. Will you go back to the clinic and let everyone know what happened?”
They both nodded, and once Laila was convinced that Elsa would be all right, they set off again across the little stream.
When Elsa entered her bedroom, she saw Mike’s camera sitting on her upended suitcase. It had been there for at least a month—it had almost become a part of the furniture—but she hadn’t used it. She’d meant to take pictures for Parween, but she’d forgotten again and again.
Cradling the small camera, she remembered Mike’s words. Dave’s used most of that film taking pictures of himself. Fresh tears spilled from her eyes. Though there was nothing of Parween in the camera, at least Dave’s wife would have something.
She poured water for a bath and cried still more. She washed quickly and donned a clean dress before she heard the unmistakable whir of helicopter blades. She climbed to the roof and watched as a U.S. Army helicopter landed in the distance, amidst swirls of dust and dirt.
It was the chopper that would take Mike to a proper hospital.
All was quiet for a while, then she heard the engine roar again and the helicopter rose. It hesitated for only an instant before it banked sharply, made a complete turn, and headed straight for Elsa’s roof.
She stood and started to wave her arms. She screamed out, “Mike!” But the chopper didn’t slow. “I love you!” she shouted, trying to carry her words over the screeching of the blades. She knew he couldn’t hear her, but it didn’t matter.
33
As soon as the helicopter was out of sight, Elsa climbed down from the roof and set off to see Rahima.
How could she ever explain what happened? She didn’t even understand it herself.
The familiar walk seemed to take forever and only an instant. She knocked at the outer gate and was quickly admitted to dear Uncle Abdullah’s compound.
She hesitated; it had been just hours since Parween had left this house for her journey to Sattar, and in that short time, the world had fallen apart.
Elsa choked back her grief and went in search of Rahima.
She found Parween’s mother holding baby Raziq and chasing after Zahra, who ran straight into Elsa’s arms, shouting, “Essa, Essa!”
The sound of her little-girl laughter filled the air. Elsa held Zahra tight as the tears started to fall. Her tears and her anguish and her unquenchable grief finally seized her, and she sank to the floor, consumed by large, gulping sobs.
Zahra pulled free and backed away, suddenly frightened.
“Che taklif? What is it?” Rahima said as she knelt to touch Elsa’s shoulder. Then a thought seemed to strike her, and she looked around to see if there was anyone else with Elsa. A glint of fear appeared in her eyes.
The words caught in Elsa’s throat.
“Parween, our beautiful Parween, has died,” she sobbed.
Rahima seemed to stop breathing, and she sank to the floor.
Zahra started to cry.
Elsa and Rahima wrapped themselves around one another and
gave way to their sorrow. They sat in a tight embrace until their tears were spent, and then they sat in mournful silence, holding Parween’s babies close.
Elsa spent the next few hours with Rahima, and when the soldiers finally brought Parween home, she and Rahima washed the blood from her wounded body and tenderly dressed and prepared her for her final journey.
Parween’s body was frail in death, and Elsa noticed for the first time how thin her friend was. Why hadn’t she seen it before? Parween was not the sturdy woman she’d pretended to be.
Elsa left Rahima’s side and walked outside for some fresh air. There, she saw Zahra playing in the dirt.
“Mama mariz?” she asked.
Nodding, Elsa drew the little girl into her arms and sat on the ground holding her.
Hussein, stunned into silence by the tragic turn of events, went quietly to the little plot of ground that held Abdullah, Mariam, and Parween’s stillborn baby. He broke up the earth there once again so that Parween might be buried alongside those she’d loved so dearly. When he was finished, he hastily arranged for a small wooden coffin.
Word of Parween’s death traveled quickly through Bamiyan and rumors began that Parween was surely the famed lady rebel whose exploits they’d all followed and admired. Though she’d fought them for years, the gossips said, the Taliban had finally caught her unawares.
There was unmistakable proof—Parween, dressed as a boy, had been killed in a shoot-out with their hated oppressors. Witnesses stepped forward with their own accounts of her heroic feats and though the stories were fictional, it no longer mattered. Her death elevated her status and she was declared shaheed, a martyr for all that was good in Afghanistan.
Later, Hamid, his wounds freshly bandaged, arrived at Parween’s house and confirmed that Parween had saved them all.
“I have never seen such bravery, and Parween is surely the true lady rebel,” he said proudly. “She fought alongside the soldiers and she saved us.” He nodded to Elsa.
Rahima was overwhelmed by the stories of Parween’s courage, and she remembered the plucky little girl who had so loved to fight and so wanted to run with the boys.
Lipstick in Afghanistan Page 27
