Matt remained in the background after talking with Maggie, the orphanage’s supervisor. She showed him the entrance/exit points and he asked where the children could go if the Taliban started spraying the place with bullets. Was there a safe room? The two-story yellow stucco building sat back off an asphalt street near a busy intersection in downtown Kabul. Goats, donkeys, and a camel caravan, along with dozens of motorbikes and pickup trucks, went past their black wrought-iron gates.
Maggie was happy to have Matt there because they had no security, except for Mohammed. Matt didn’t put much faith in the young Afghan driver; he was helpful but not trained to handle a military assault.
Callie came in with a huge white canvas bag in her hand. All the children shrieked gleefully, leaving Dara and racing over to surround her. Matt smiled as Callie leaned over, pulling out candy canes wrapped in plastic and handing one out to each eager, excited child. There were fifty children here, Maggie had told him. Most of them had war wounds or scars, or had lost a limb. Some hobbled around on crutches that didn’t fit them or their height.
Matt decided to get involved. He put his M4 across his back, not wanting to scare the children any more than they already had been. The Taliban had done these things to them, so Matt walked slowly among them so as not to startle the children.
He got Callie’s attention and stood just outside the three rings of boys who were grabbing at her for more candy canes.
“Hand the bag to me,” he offered, reaching out toward her.
Callie did, and the boys looked around, their eyes growing huge as they realized Matt was an American soldier. They quieted, suddenly wary, watchful.
Matt turned and walked over to a group of twenty little girls huddled in a corner, watching the boys, yearning written all over their small faces. He knelt down on one knee, speaking to them softly in Pashto. Instantly, their fear dissolved as they heard him speak their language.
Matt felt Callie come over and kneel down beside him. He handed out a candy cane to each girl, and they hesitantly reached for them, softly, a tiny “Thank you,” then clutching the sweet to their thin bodies. Then they would hurry back into one huddled mass with their newfound treasures, whispering excitedly to each other.
“You’re a softy,” Callie said, placing her hand on his arm.
Matt finished handing out the last of the candy and turned his head. “In Afghanistan, as you probably know, boys beat the shit out of little girls. They start abusing them early, so by the time they’re in their teens, the girls are nothing but shadows. Like these little girls here. See how they’re all huddled together, like a band of sheep? Those boys are the wolves.” His tone was grim.
Callie became somber. “You’re right. Every day, I’m having to keep the boys away from the girls. There are only a few of us, and we need more help. If we give the girls something first, the boys will come over with fists clenched and start hitting them until they give up what they have.”
Matt slowly stood up and turned, eyeing the group of boys, who stared belligerently at the girls gripping their treasured candy canes.
“Yeah, I know,” he muttered, handing her the sack. “I’m staying right here in the middle of the room until the girls get done eating their candy. The boys won’t attack them while I’m here.”
Callie rose and squeezed his hand. “You’re a big, bad guard dog, Matt Culver. I’m really glad you’re here.”
He nodded, making a sharp gesture to the boys to disperse. And he backed it up with a growling order in Pashto, which startled them. Americans did not usually speak their language, but this soldier did. The pack of boys backed off quickly, like the wind, dispersing in all directions, going into the schoolroom of the orphanage under Callie’s direction.
Turning, he saw Dara standing and watching him. Were there tears in her eyes? Matt couldn’t be sure, but he saw her swallow convulsively, turn away, and hurry into another room and disappear. Damn, she wore every emotion on her face, and there had been such tenderness in her expression; it spoke to his soul.
Dara had already taken that cascade of blond hair and affixed it in a loose topknot. She wore a white lab coat with a stethoscope around her slender neck, her hands encased in a pair of green latex gloves.
Matt hung around the room until every little girl had licked her candy cane into oblivion. He sat far enough away from them not to scare them. Later, a few of the curious children came over to him with hesitant smiles and spoke Pashto to him.
Was he Afghan? He looked like it. He had dark skin like an Afghan. And his eyes. How did they get that color? One bold little six-year-old reached up, touching his hair, which nearly rested on his shoulders. She was enamored with the feel of it and liked the gold streaks of “sunlight” down through the dark brown strands. Matt knew his hair was now sticky, and the scent of mint would be with him the rest of the day, but he smiled and sat very still so she could touch his hair.
Soon, the rest of the girls, even the youngest, began moving in his direction. Matt understood their wariness. Men hurt them. Boys beat the hell out of them. And it broke his heart. These children were so beautiful, with their huge blue, green, gray, hazel, and brown eyes, so gentle and curious.
Some sat around his booted feet, resting their tiny backs against his lower legs. Others leaned against him, propping their heads against his arm or belly or chest. It was as if they sensed in him a friend, someone who would protect them, not hurt them.
A nine-year-old girl cradling a month-old baby in a white wool blanket was the last to take small steps toward him. She was so wary that Matt made a special effort to speak softly in Pashto to her, to relax her so she would come nearer. He saw that her thin arms were tiring from carrying the baby. When she came closer, he slowly eased his hands outward, asking if he could hold the baby and give her a rest for a while. She looked incredulous, then handed the sleeping infant over to him.
Matt was familiar with orphanages because of his experience with the Delos charities. His parents had taught him at a very young age how to hold a baby, so he tucked the tyke in the crook of his left arm, making sure her tiny head was at an angle that allowed her to breathe normally. And then, to his surprise, the nine-year-old slid her arm around his waist and snuggled up beneath his right arm, wanting to be held, too. He fought back tears as he saw her wearily close her eyes and cling to him, exhaustion in her small face. He knew she’d been through hell.
Gently, he lifted his arm, tucked her beneath it. She sank against him, and Matt could feel her surrender, letting the exhaustion drop away for a few moments. He wondered how long she’d been here. Was the baby in his arms her sister? Matt sensed she might be but couldn’t know for sure.
Maggie came out about ten minutes later, her smile huge as she walked over, crouched down, and spoke in fluent Pashto to all the girls. They became enthusiastic, their high-pitched voices raised in excitement.
“Well, you’ve certainly made an impression on them, Matt Culver.”
“I guess so,” he demurred, smiling. “They’re beautiful children. All of them.”
“Yes,” Maggie agreed, gently smoothing one little girl’s hair.
“What about this one under my right arm? What’s her story?”
“It’s tragic,” Maggie said, giving him a sad look. “Her father was the chief of the village. He and his wife were marched out in front of their village by a Taliban leader. The chief of the village refused to help the enemy. They shot them in front of her.” She gestured to the little girl. “I don’t even know her name. She won’t speak. And this is her sister, I think. An old Shinwari man brought them here. He walked fifty miles with them, fed them, and gave them enough water to survive the trip. He said his village was very poor and that if they’d stayed, they would have starved to death. None of the other families in his village had enough food to spare for two more mouths.”
“That’s a familiar story,” Matt grunted, watching the little girl, her black lashes thick across her small cheeks. She was
huddled against him, holding on to him as if he were a life raft. “God, this war sucks,” he said.
“Doesn’t it? If only the world knew how these children suffered. It just makes me that much more determined to give them something better. That’s why I started the Hope Charity twenty years ago.”
“You’re doing very well,” he praised Maggie, his voice thick with emotion. “Listen, I need to get up and go about my duties here for all of you. Can you take this little one?” He gestured at the baby girl resting in his left arm.
“Sure. It’s time for their midmorning snack, anyway.” She stood up, called to the girls in Pashto. Soon all of them left Matt and trailed hesitantly into the other room. Their expressions told him they were leaving him reluctantly, and Maggie leaned down, slipping the sleeping baby girl into her arms.
Matt spoke quietly to the nine-year-old. Gently, he eased his large hands around her, trying to pull her away from him. Her arms tightened and his heart broke as he saw her lift her head, tears streaming down her face. Oh, hell.
Forcing a smile he didn’t feel for her benefit, he spoke in Pashto to her, explaining he had to go keep them safe. Would she let him do that?
The girl whimpered, trying to grasp at his waist again. She cried out in Pashto.
“Oh, dear,” Maggie whispered, her eyes damp. “She’s so traumatized. You must look like her father, Matt. She thinks you’re her father come back to life.”
Shushing the girl, now in tears, Matt brought her up onto his lap, enfolding her in his arms. Instantly, she buried her head against his Kevlar vest, her arms too short to go around his chest, clinging to him, sobbing.
“It’s okay, Maggie. I think she’s releasing a lot of the horror she saw. I’ll sit with her until she stops crying,” Matt offered quietly.
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah, no problem.” He moved his hand over her mussed hair. “She just needs to be held for a little while.”
Nodding, Maggie said, “Yes. I’m so glad you’re here. Maybe you’ll help her. Maybe she’ll talk to us. I hate calling her ‘Child Number Fifty.’”
“Didn’t the old man who brought them here say who they were?”
“He didn’t want to give their names or the name of their village for fear of more Taliban reprisals.”
“Sounds right,” Matt growled, holding the girl, rocking her a little, her sobs wrenching at his heart. These children had so damned little. That was another reason he believed in charities that were there to help children like this girl.
“I’ll just sit quietly with her. When she’s ready, I’ll bring her to you.”
Maggie nodded and kissed the baby’s tiny brow. “Yes, that would be fine. I’ll try to give her some special attention …”
Matt knew Maggie’s charity was badly understaffed and that she was doing all she could, but she was just one woman. As he continued to soothe the child, Matt’s mind churned, shuttling between the girl’s situation and what he could do to possibly help her. Finally, she stopped crying, and he sat her up on his thigh, carefully wiping the last of the tears off her cheek with his fingers. He spoke to her in Pashto and asked her name. Little by little, he began to pull information out of her. By the time he was done, she appeared more at peace, and finally Matt carried her into Maggie’s office.
“Her name is Aliya,” he told her. “She’s from a Shinwari village.”
“Thank God you have her name!” Maggie said, brightening as she took out a file on the girl. “Did you get anything else?”
“Yeah, but nothing helpful. Her grandparents on both sides are dead. The Taliban killed her uncle and aunt, too. She’s without family support, and you know what that means.”
Maggie nodded, giving Aliya a tender look as she clung to Matt’s broad chest. “Anything else?”
“I asked her what her father looked like and she said like me, so you were right.”
“It’s all that hair and beard,” Maggie teased.
He laughed a little. “I guess so. What’s going to happen to her now? She can’t go back to her village.”
“No. She’ll be stuck here like all the rest of these children. All of them would have starved to death if they hadn’t been brought to us. You know how short a village’s life is these days. It all depends upon rain and if the crops grow yearly.”
Grimly, Matt nodded. “Look, I have an idea and I want to run it past you.”
“Sure,” she said, clasping her hands on top of her messy desk.
“My mother runs the Delos charity. I know that our Farm Foundation has a branch up in the northeast area of Afghanistan. It’s about fifty miles from the Pak border. I was on Skype with my mother about a week ago and she was telling me about a woman who had just lost her baby. I was wondering if we might get a contact through her and see if she would be willing to take the month-old baby girl and nine-year-old Aliya. She’s in the Shinwari tribe, so that could be a good match.”
“It sounds wonderful,” Maggie replied. “But what if she and her husband can’t afford two children?”
“I believe their village is rich in food. It’s in a small valley, and Delos has been working with them the last three years. They’ve improved their farming methods, their fields are irrigated, and they have bounty, Maggie. I really think these people could take the two children without a problem.”
“That’s hopeful,” she murmured. “But children cost money.”
“Let me talk to my mother, Maggie. If we brought a dowry with these two, the family might be more eager to take them in.”
“That helps, too, but still, if the woman just lost her baby, she may not want another woman’s baby as a replacement.”
“I know,” Matt admitted, frowning. “But we should try, shouldn’t we?”
“Sure, I’m open to it,” Maggie agreed.
Matt could see that Maggie wanted to believe things would work out, but she didn’t want to be disappointed, or worse, see these two children, who had been through so much, rejected by members of their own tribe.
“Okay, I’ll get involved and see what we can do for Aliya. By the way, she said her baby sister’s name is Freshta.”
“Oh, that’s so sweet! That means ‘angel.’”
He smiled. “Well, she sure looked like a little angel to me.”
“She’s sleeping right now.” Maggie rose. “I’ll take Aliya to the schoolroom.”
Maggie gently took the girl from his arms. She fussed, but Matt spoke softly to her, promising to return tomorrow. Aliya rubbed her reddened eyes and then reluctantly slid her arms around Maggie’s neck.
“It’s an hour until lunch,” Maggie reminded Matt. “Dara usually eats out in the common room.”
“Sounds good. I’ll be there.” Matt had missed her acutely all morning, wanting to watch her at work. Well, maybe after lunch. He picked up his rifle and walked outside, looking at the yard. It was filled with dry, hard dirt, and someone had made a swing set, which needed to be fixed. There were monkey bars, a slide, and a broken teeter-totter.
The yard curved around three-fourths of the building, a ten-foot fence that had seen better days surrounding the area. Matt was glad it was made of massive, strong wrought iron because he knew that anything that wasn’t nailed down got stolen in this city.
After making a tour of the outside of the facility, he went inside and found Maggie in her office. He asked if she had some tools, like a saw, screwdrivers, pliers, and nails. She showed him a closet where supplies were kept, and Matt took the toolbox and went outside. He kept the M4 slung across his back and went to work on the broken swing. This way, he could keep an eye on the traffic outside the orphanage and observe anyone wandering by and casing the place.
He had just finished knotting the torn swing rope when he heard the front door open. Looking over, he saw Dara standing there. Her white lab coat wasn’t clean anymore. From where he stood, it looked like more than one baby had spit up on it. She gave him a small smile of hello.
“Hey,
you ready for some lunch?” she asked.
“Yep,” he said, tugging hard on the knot, making sure it wouldn’t slip. Assured, Matt stepped away, picked up the toolbox, closed it, and carried it to where she stood. “And how has your morning gone, Dr. McKinley?”
Dara turned and walked into the common room. “Busy every minute. That swing set looks good as new. You do good work.”
He shut the door and placed the toolbox nearby. Pulling the rifle off his back, he gestured to a table and chairs at the other end of the large, cool room. The walls were painted white, the red tile floor worn but clean beneath his boots. “I’m going to see if I can’t get the rest of their playground equipment fixed before I leave here.”
He pulled out a chair, and Dara sat down. “Thanks.” She had a paper-bag lunch and opened it. “Did you bring lunch, Matt?”
He sat down at the head of the table, where he had a full view of the entire room, plus the door. Dara sat at his right elbow. “Yeah, protein bars and water. How about you?” He craned his neck toward the bag in her hands.
“Is that all you’re going to eat?” she asked in disbelief.
“Better than MREs,” he said, grinning, pulling out three bars and placing them in front of him on the table. “What’s in your sack?”
“Callie had some cans of tuna in her room. I brought some pickle relish from the States with me. I learned the first time I visited Afghanistan to bring my favorite foods with me since there are no grocery stores over here to buy anything.” She pulled out a huge, foil-wrapped sandwich. “Here, I made this for you.”
“I couldn’t take your meal,” he protested.
Dara grinned. “Come on, take it. I made two. I figured you being a man, you wouldn’t pack a real lunch, and I was right.”
He chuckled. “Thanks for taking pity on us poor males,” he said, opening it.
“Callie said you were a hit with the little girls here,” she said, opening up her own sandwich.
Forged in Fire (Delos Series Book 3) Page 6
