What Changes Everything

by Masha Hamilton

  "I will serve you chai until the UN comes to deliver you to the airport," he said, but by the way his eyes filled as he spoke, I knew he does not truly believe they will come for me.

  I believe, though, my daughters. I believe.

  On the strength of that belief, I twice refused Massoud"s offers to spirit me away to the north of Afghanistan, to Panjshir. I do not trust him—in the end, he is an Islamist just like Rabbani. If the worst comes, these Taliban will capture me and then banish me from Afghanistan—I am of their blood, a fellow Pashtun, and they will do nothing worse than that. Gen. Tokhi agrees with my assessment. My younger brother, your uncle, does not, I fear. Though he stays silent, when he looks at me, I see what is in his eyes. I do not allow such looks of fear in my own gaze now.

  Paradise is a good place, my brother says, but the heart must be lacerated to get there. For those I have harmed, and this includes you by my absence, they will never know how fiercely I wish I could stand before them—before you—and ask forgiveness. My daughters, I love you. I love your mother. I love my siblings, and send special greetings to my oldest sister Saleha, my khoro, who little Onie so resembles. I have missed you all almost to the limits of my endurance over these years. I am not afraid and I will not say farewell. But just in case, I want you to know I am thankful for all I"ve had. Death on a full belly is better than a life of hunger.

  I don"t want—nor expect, if Allah wills—to depart this earth without being in your company again.

  All my love, your,

  Najib

  The Last Letters

  Stela, September 21st

  To: Mr. James Fairfield, Editor, Arts Beat

  Dear Mr. Fairfield,

  My name is Stela Sidorova and I am writing to extend a personal invitation to you for an upcoming gallery opening and to give you a very good tip on a young artist whose work should be covered by the New York Times if you are to remain truly relevant in the art world today. His work is compassionate, textured, stimulating and important. (Yes, I have looked at some of the descriptions you yourself have used in your columns.) It"s street art making its way into galleries; it will be featured two weeks from now in the Rustlessend Gallery in the Chelsea area of Manhattan and the artist himself will be there, actually painting on a gallery wall as if to simulate the work he does late at night outdoors. His work is a visually moving reminder to America of its place in the violent world that we inhabit and to which we contribute. He defies the law in creating it, but there is a reason for that. The work is dedicated to his brother, who was killed as a soldier in Afghanistan under murky circumstances that are still under investigation, or should be. (Information on this is difficult to obtain.) Therefore, he questions the legality of his own brother"s death. He is articulate, and his story is compelling.

  The artist"s name is Danil Sidorov. I have held back that information until now because, yes, we are related. (He is my son, and it is my other son, Piotr, who died in Afghanistan.) But that is not the reason I am alerting you to this great opportunity. It is because too little of our art is this meaningful in so many contexts. Please send someone, a junior reporter if you must, or better come yourself. I will be there and will make sure Dani answers any questions you may have.

  Thank you for your time, and sincerely, Stela Sidorova

  Dear Piotr, oh dear Piotr,

  I remember. I remember so much. I remember it all.

  Those early years, the three of us a core of light that burned at the center of every day.

  The Saturday morning that you and Dani went out after a rainstorm to play while I worked to clean the house and do the laundry. Then you appeared at the back door, both of you naked, covered with mud and laughing. For a second, I was angry, thinking of your dirty bodies tromping across my clean floor, but then I began to laugh, too. I lifted each of you in turn and carried you to the shower.

  The day I took you boys to a neighboring farm to see the cows and goats, and one of the baby cows came up and tried to kiss you, grabbing gently onto your T-shirt. I was laughing, and you were too, though you were also scared. I didn"t notice that at first, but Dani did; he was the one who pulled you away.

  The day you came home after that nasty little boy had bullied you. Your cheek was bruised. And you said when he hit you, you found you couldn"t lift your arms to hit him back, that they froze in place, and you didn"t know why. Finally you were able to lift them, but only to shield yourself. And how angry Dani got on your behalf.

  Remember how you called a hippopotamus a "cow-fish"? And how you used to believe if you waved your arms quickly enough, you could make a windstorm? And how you could burp on command? Remember the Easter of freak weather, when you and Dani hunted eggs in the snow? Remember when I got frightened because your voice sounded like you were sick, but it was because you"d inhaled the helium from a birthday party balloon?

  I want those moments back.

  Of course I wouldn"t be able to have them back even if you were still here now, a grown man, and of course I would still mourn their loss. But not with the bitterness I feel now.

  I can"t stand to have lost you.

  Piotr, Dani is an artist now, and has his first gallery show in New York City in a few weeks. I wish so much that you could be there, but you will be there, because the work is dedicated to you. In fact, he signs each piece not with his own name, but with IMOP. It stands for In Memory Of Piotr. We had trouble after your death, Dani and I. I couldn"t accept the truth. But Dani made me see it. He did it out of love for you, which I didn"t understand at first, but you would have, I"m sure, even from the beginning.

  There is nothing to match the way I love you and Dani. There is nothing to ease what I feel with you gone before me. I haven"t been able to find a philosopher or poet whose words bring true comfort, though I keep opening the books, searching. I hope you can rest in peace, without any burden of pain, and that we can carry that pain for you. I want you to know, if there is any way for you to know, that you live on through Dani and me, and that you touched us deeply and that we miss you beyond the power of words to say.

  I love you, Piotr. Mom

  Going Home

  Mandy, September 21st

  Mandy leaned over her suitcase, tucking in the few items she was bringing home as gifts. A Tajik hat for her brother. A scarf to give one sister, a small container of saffron for the other. For Jimmy, a string of lapis lazuli prayer beads and a note signed by six men he"d fought with who were still here; Hammon and Corporal Holder had helped her track them down. "It went so fast," she said.

  "I"m just glad it went safely," Hammon answered. She hadn"t seen him for three days, and no one had been able or willing to tell her when he would return, so she"d feared she"d have to depart without saying goodbye. He"d managed to show up half an hour before she had to head to the airport.

  "You"re going to be a little relieved to have me gone, I suspect. One less person to be responsible for."

  "It"s been no trouble at all."

  "Now that"s not true." Mandy smiled. "How long do you think you"ll stay here? Or is that classified?"

  Hammon shrugged. "As long as there"s work to do. Work that seems meaningful. So I think I"ll be here when you come back."

  Mandy started; she actually was thinking of returning, but she hadn"t said that aloud yet. Was Hammon kidding, or had he somehow read her mind? She studied his face, which looked serious. "You really think Jimmy could come here and help you?"

  "He"d be great here. He"s talented with the computer stuff and he understands the place and he"s got solid judgment about people."

  Mandy considered Hammon"s assessment. "I think that"s true," she said. "But still… wouldn"t he have to come face to face daily with the things he can"t do anymore?"

  "There are things all of us can"t do. You"d never been here before and you don"t speak the language. Would you call your trip successful?"

  Mandy sensed Hammon wasn"t referring to the nurses" training or the supplies she brought. He was asking somet
hing more elemental. In fact, at last, a process of forgiveness was starting to take hold in her: forgiveness for Jimmy, and for herself. But that was too personal and tentative to share. "I"m glad I got to see the first frame of what Jimmy saw," she said. "I made some connections that are important, at least to me. And I admit it"s been good, in an odd way, to be in a place where tragedy isn"t something to be denied. Nobody here is insisting I have a nice day."

  The driver who would take her to the airport appeared at her door. Hammon held up a finger, signaling one more minute. "Ready?" Mandy zipped up the suitcase, and Hammon carried it out for her.

  "What happened to Jimmy," Hammon said as they walked toward the car, "it could have happened to any of us."

  "I know," Mandy said. "I"m sure you"ve had your close calls."

  She stood on her toes to hug this friend of her son"s, and then she leaned back to look him in the face. "One last question for now," she said. "Is Hammon your real name?"

  He laughed. "Who wants to be google-able?"

  "There"s my answer."

  "No, this is your answer: trust what you see, what you feel, and don"t worry about

  insignificant details."

  She smiled as she settled in the car.

  "You give Jimmy my best when you talk to him," Hammon said through the open

  window. "In fact, every time you talk to him." Then he waved as she pulled away, heading to the airport and back home.

  On The Way

  Clarissa, September 22nd

  Clarissa leaned out toward the window, a blanket wrapped over her shoulders. She was on a military flight, surrounded by soldiers, still an hour and a half from Ramstein military air base. A base she"d never heard of before yesterday but now would probably never forget. This is where she would be reunited with Todd. She believed he was there already; they"d been intentionally vague about that, but she imagined him showered, shaven, fed and now sleeping. She herself couldn"t sleep. Both she and Ruby had been able to speak to Todd, but briefly; he"d still been in Afghanistan then, in U.S. hands. That felt solid to her but there"d been a tentative quality to the tone of the American official who had called her and then put Todd on the line for a few compressed minutes. She"d understood that he couldn"t yet answer all the questions she had, and she couldn"t yet share all the thoughts and emotions crowded inside her like unruly schoolchildren. It was as if nothing could truly be certain until he"d departed from Afghan soil.

  The plan was for Todd to spend two days in Germany for debriefing and a physical checkup—there were injuries, she"d been told, but nothing too serious. And then they"d be flown home. She"d suggested to Ruby that they both go to Germany, but yesterday, Ruby had called and said Clarissa should go alone, she would connect with her father later, it would only be a few more days anyway. It had been a generous gesture, one of reconciliation.

  She"d been calm and strong all the way through this last part, except with Mikey an hour

  before she"d left to catch the flight.

  "You did good, Clarissa."

  She shook her head. "I"d let Todd lift the pain of those other losses, so when I thought I was going to have to go through it all again, I…you know."

  "Grief is stubborn. It holds on a long time," Mikey said. "When you think it"s over, something touches it off again. But you weren"t like with Mom and Dad, Clari. If the worst had happened, you"d have found the resources."

  She wasn"t sure. She decided not to be too hard on herself now, though. Now was a time to feel gratitude—especially for Amin. He"d given her something she really, deep down, hadn"t thought possible: a happy ending. Thinking about how close they"d come, she leaned against Mikey.

  "I know," he murmured as he let her cry. "I know."

  Arriving Home

  Amin, September 22nd

  He left directly before dawn and stopped only once, pulling the mat from the trunk to pray by the side of the road. He tried not to let his eagerness to get home make him rush through the praise of Allah, because it was surely Allah Himself who had cupped Amin in His hands this time and seen him through this venture. But except for the prayer, he sped as quickly as he could over the pockmarked roads that led from his uncle"s home to his own. It was still early when he arrived. Though she"d been given no word as to when he might appear, his wife stood at the door as if she"d been expecting him, and he for his part was not surprised to see her there. He lifted her palms to his face, smelling on her the scent of dawn, and of his home.

  "And so, my wife of little faith," he said lightly.

  "Congratulations, husband," she responded as she led him inside. "You have returned. You took a risk."

  "Not such a risk."

  She laughed. "Such confidence rides on your voice."

  "I confess to a certain doubt at one point about whether Mr. Todd would agree to this compromise with his kidnappers," he said. "But I reminded myself that the past is not the present. Najib was asked to sneak from his own homeland. That"s different."

  "Except that a man"s pride is as powerful as it is illogical," she said, pouring him a cup of chai. "It can lead him to embrace an unreasonable act or refuse a reasonable one."

  "You speak not of me, of course, but of Najib and Mr. Todd," he said, allowing himself to smile.

  She ran her fingers lightly along his arm. "And now, husband. Can we consider that whatever debt you thought you owed has been paid?"

  "So you regard an infidel as adequate payment for an Afghan president?"

  She shook her head. "To me, such calculations always seem to be the work of men, not women."

  If he were a different sort of man, he thought, or if they were from a different country, he would laugh with a wide mouth and scoop his wife into his arms. She filled him with pride; she was strong and determined, and she would raise their children well in a place that tore its offspring from the ground by their roots and flung them into sharp-toothed canyons of fate. There were sorrows ahead, he was sure; there were always sorrows here. But with her, he could meet them. He drank deeply of the chai, controlling the leap of his heart within his chest.

  She left him alone then, sensing in some way his need, and he sank onto a toshak. Mr. Todd—a thinner, weaker, limping Mr. Todd—had been both apologetic and grateful, and willing without question to do as Amin had promised the elders he would. He would leave immediately. He would never return. The elders could count this as a victory. There remained a much larger battle to be fought here, but someone else would fight it. Amin had been relieved.

  "Crazy as it sounds," Mr. Todd had said, "I heard your voice sometimes. Telling me what to do."

  Amin laughed. "And so you?"

  "Did it." Mr. Todd smiled. "Mostly."

  They"d shaken hands. Amin wondered if they would ever see one another again.

  Probably not—but neither would they forget.

  One man is not the same as another. Success in one venture does not make up for horrible failure in another. And yet, in some way, this was a private commemoration. Dear Najib, Amin thought. You were large and flawed and prophetic and bull-like. I admired you, and still I could not save you. I will never stop being sorry. But at least, at least there was this.

  CONCLUSION

  Cover him, cover him soon!

  And with thick-set

  Masses of memoried flowers—

  Hide that red wet

  Thing I must somehow forget.

  —Ivor Gurney

  Najibullah: The Last Night

  September 26th, 1996

  Only now has it fallen quiet, as if finally the day is finished, though in fact it is almost midnight. Only now have the distant gunshots stilled, the rockets stopped making exclamation points in the darkness. It is not, however, a peaceful silence, this Amin feels deep within his body. It is the hush of muscles tensed, breath contained, knees bent in readiness to pounce.

  Both Najib and his brother are awake. They are in the room Najib uses for welcoming visitors. Najib, standing, wears socks but no shoes a
nd the Afghan-style clothing he has favored here all along; his brother, who sits, is dressed as if a Western man. Only one of the two bodyguards remains outside the door. The other eloped into the warning night without explanation, and no one has mentioned his disappearance. It is, at the moment, too small a detail to be of import.

  Amin could go, too. His services are not required. Najib has barely eaten for days; he won"t want food now. And the brothers have chai enough to last them through to morning, if morning still comes. They do not need him. They are as if in a bubble together, communicating with only a few words but with enormous intimacy. They seem, in fact, to have forgotten his presence. But Amin can"t bring himself to depart.