Lost Boys

by Darcey Rosenblatt

  Abass loomed over me. For a split second I wished I could pass out to escape his rancid breath. With a painful, viselike grip, he lifted me almost to standing, yanking my foot free, and growled, “You have no idea how good you have it here. You should be grateful.”

  He slammed me back down on the rusty pipes and sent a swift kick to my ribs. A squeak of pain escaped, but I clamped my mouth shut to keep back a full-fledged cry.

  “That didn’t sound like an apology to me, ingrate.” He grabbed my right hand. “Maybe if a few of your fingers just happened to break. Maybe badly enough to take you away from your precious little play.” His voice got louder. “You think I won’t do it?”

  My stomach dropped. I knew he’d do it. He could keep me from playing and take away the only thing I knew as home.

  “See if this teaches you gratitude.” Abass jerked my finger away from my hand. “I’ll break this finger today and save the others for later.”

  With a strength I didn’t know I had, I wrenched my hand out of his grasp. Before Abass could touch me again, I blurted out, “I’m sorry!”

  In my mind it wasn’t an apology. It was a war cry. I was sorry, but I was sorry for what had happened to me, what had happened to Ebi, what had happened to all the boys growing up in this hole. I looked Abass in the face and thought about every time I’d wanted to stand up for myself and didn’t. I thought about every time I’d let Mother dictate my path, and I said it again. “Yes, I am very, very sorry.”

  Abass dropped my hand, kicked me one more time, and left me sitting on the old pipes, trying to find my breath. I knew I should be grateful he didn’t do any permanent damage, but the sound of my voice saying “sorry” echoed in my brain and I was angry—white-hot angry. When I heard boys in the yard, I realized I’d missed lunch and my friends would be looking for me. I touched my face. There would probably be a bruise where he’d hit me.

  When I walked into the yard, the other boys immediately gathered around. Even little Farhad reached out to touch my arm and asked, “What happened, Rez? We were worried when Abass dragged you off.”

  Jaafer leaned in closer. “Looks like he took a swing.”

  “It could’ve been worse. He was planning to break my fingers if I didn’t apologize, so I apologized. I need these.” I smiled and flexed my still-whole fingers.

  * * *

  Miles asked about the bruise in class the next day. I told him it was nothing, but Salar told him what had happened.

  “That mongrel.” He slammed his hand onto the nearest desk. “I’d like to boil his head in hot oil. I’m going to give my friends in Baghdad a call. I’ll … I don’t know what—”

  “Miles, don’t,” I said in a quiet voice. “I’m okay. Remember what you said about not getting yourself sent home? Especially since we’re so close to finishing the play. Without you we’d never get to perform it, especially not at other camps.”

  “All right, I hear you. I’ll try to take the high road, but the man is evil.” Miles wagged a finger. “And don’t get your hopes up about other camps. I never promised that.”

  “It’s possible, isn’t it?” I asked.

  “Let’s get through our performance here, eh? We’ll see what kind of drama critic our major is.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  I was careful to stay as far away from Abass as I could. We focused on the play, filling the idle hours with talk of going home.

  A few days before the first scheduled performance, the stage was set up at the front of the vocational training room. Miles sat in the back, grading papers while we rehearsed. I looked up to see the major walk by with another man. After a few seconds they were back; the major’s face was pale.

  “Attention,” he said in his most official voice. “Stand for General Kadrat. The general has joined us from Baghdad.”

  “What is going on here?” the general asked.

  “As I was trying to explain,” said the major, “the boys are putting on a play, a fable.…”

  “You’ve seen the script?” the general asked, twirling the end of a large handlebar mustache. I was a little surprised he was speaking Farsi even though he was just talking to the major. It seemed like he wanted us to know what was happening.

  “Why, yes, yes, I have, sir. Entirely harmless, I assure you. Fairly clever, actually. They speak in Farsi and Arabic.” He smiled weakly. “Something for everyone.”

  “And why was the script not sent to me for approval?” He pulled his mustache on the other side. Miles walked to the stage.

  “I … I didn’t want to bother you with such petty details, sir.” The major wiped his palms down the sides of his crisp uniform pants. “But you can certainly see it whenever you like.”

  “All right, I’d like a break. Let’s watch it now.” The general pulled a chair from behind a desk and sat down, waving his arm toward the stage. “Begin.”

  “You … you want them to do it now, sir? But we have places we need to—” stammered the major.

  “That can wait.” The general motioned for the major to take a seat next to him. “Begin.”

  We looked at each other, then at Miles. Miles looked from the stage to the general and back again twice. It was as if we were all watching a quick-moving tennis game. Then Miles clapped his hands.

  “All right, men. All right. Let the show begin.”

  Miles’s words turned on a switch. We took our places and began. At first we were stiff, nervous about this unexpected performance. But we soon relaxed into the rhythm of the work we’d practiced for so long.

  I watched the audience of three when I wasn’t playing. Miles beamed, his eyes sparkling with pride. The major kept stealing glances at the general.

  As we began, the general stared, stone-faced, but at the first of Salar’s clever puns, I saw a hint of a smile on the man’s lips. When Omid popped out from behind the curtain as the angry genie, the general actually laughed. As we took our final bows, all three men clapped.

  The applause made me light-headed and happy.

  We shook hands and slapped one another on the back until we remembered we were in the presence of a general. We fell silent. A grave expression returned to the general’s face.

  “I enjoyed that performance.” The general stroked his chin. “You’ve created something of quality with limited resources. However, though it is well conceived and well produced, I cannot allow this performance to go on.”

  We gasped—all of us at the same time.

  The general turned to the major. “First, it was not approved using the correct procedure. I must be informed of all activities that take place in the camps. But more importantly, it will offend those prisoners opposed to nonreligious theater. I can’t have undue tension among the prisoner ranks.”

  Miles sprang up from his seat. His red hair seemed too bright in the room.

  “But, sir, they’ve worked so hard for this. These are boys, most of them children when they left home. Creating this play has given them a reason to get up in the morning.”

  “I’ve made my decision. There will be no more discussion.”

  Miles threw up his hands in exasperation. “Do you understand the conditions these boys live under? The cruelty they endure from some of your guards? To take away this ray of hope is simply not fair. Is there no—?”

  The general sounded menacing. “Sir, do not forget, you are here at my behest and I can remove you tomorrow.”

  Miles looked at us and took a step back.

  “Major,” the general said as he stood, “send these boys back to their room until lunch. I’ll meet you in the office in ten minutes.” To us, he said, “Thank you for the performance.”

  I looked over my shoulder as we walked from the room. Miles was sitting on the stage, his head in his hands. All I wanted was to sit down next to him and pretend the play had never happened.

  * * *

  All afternoon the songs from the play were stuck in my head. Before breakfast the next morning, Jaafer and I detoured t
o look into the classroom. The stage was gone. The lights were down. The props and costumes had disappeared. We looked at each other and walked on without a word. Yesterday we had played a part. We made people laugh. Today we were prisoners again.

  Soon everyone in camp knew the play had been canceled. Defeat settled in our bones like the cold—a constant reminder that there was no happiness here.

  Without the play to distract us, the possibility of going home was now the group obsession again. We grilled every new boy for news and begged Miles to call his Red Crescent friends. Still, at the end of every week, all we had were rumors and gossip.

  One freezing morning, the major summoned us into the yard. He stood against the wall with a megaphone in his hand. The sun was barely up. The sky above the yard was filled with dark gray clouds shaped like leopard spots, turning pink in the growing light.

  “What’s this about? What’s going on?” echoed from each clump of boys as we gathered.

  “Not a clue.”

  There was chatter about going home.

  “Is this it?”

  “Will they take us all?”

  “Maybe just the younger ones and they’ll leave the rest of us to rot.”

  Excitement spread from face to face. What if they made deals for going home camp by camp? What if I went home and Ebi was left in the northern camp?

  The major brought the megaphone to his lips and spoke in his heavy accent. “Gentlemen, I know you’ve all been talking about the Red Crescent’s efforts to negotiate your release.”

  A ripple of murmurs moved through us.

  “But you need to hear this from your own leader. There is a pertinent message that came from your Ayatollah Khomeini.” He read from a piece of paper that fluttered in the wind: “They are not Iranian children. Ours have gone to paradise and we shall see them there.”

  The major continued, “Although we will keep a dialogue open, you must understand that this strong statement ends any current hopes of sending you home.” The major folded his arms over his chest, as if watching for a reaction.

  At first there was no sound at all. The major’s words—our leader’s words—had sucked the breath from all of us. Then several boys fell to their knees with their heads in their hands. A whisper spread from one boy to the next; confusion turned to anger.

  Jaafer and Omid joined the boys who waved their fists, yelling. Farhad leaned into his crutches, tears streaming down his face. Pasha knelt on the ground, pounding the dust. Salar had no expression on his face at all, which scared me more than anything.

  The major spoke again—words upon words—but no one was listening. All we heard were our private thoughts of home, the home we would probably never see again.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Weeks passed. Farhad and Pasha were among the few boys who knelt when the call to prayer sounded. Sometimes we talked about trying to escape, but the conversation always died before it really began.

  Somewhere there must have been signs of spring. Green buds. The scent of flowers. But not here. Here was sand and beige and always more sand.

  One morning Salar gestured to the never-ending football game. “Gentlemen, care to join us in this game?”

  I shook my head. “There’s going to be a canyon where these guys run back and forth, back and forth across this yard. Maybe if I ever see a real pitch again, I’ll want to play, but right now I’m just so tired of it all.”

  “I only asked out of habit,” said Salar. “I feel the same way. It would be really nice if we could do something else.”

  Miles walked up behind us. “’Morning, boys. I’d say lovely morning, but it’s not really, is it? It’s dusty and hot, and by afternoon this shirt will be stuck to my back. Stinks, eh?”

  We nodded and gave Miles the courtesy of a chuckle. A jeep pulled in and Salar said, “Hey, Reza, here comes the next load of boys. Fish Butt is scarce, but I’m still thinking you might want to stay away from them, huh?”

  I looked in the direction of the office, then turned away. “Absolutely. I don’t even want to look at them. Miles, can we go to the classroom? Maybe we can sneak in a game of cards.”

  “We can,” said Miles, but he hesitated.

  Suddenly I heard running footsteps behind me. I wheeled around and almost fell over. There, coming toward me, was Ebi! Or was it? Could this really be him? An ugly scar ran down the side of his face. When I saw his left arm was missing below the elbow, my heart lurched. But yes, it was Ebi!

  I yelled his name. Then, part yelling, part sobbing, I said, “How? What? I can’t believe you’re here.”

  “I’m here, Maggot,” Ebi replied in a voice smaller than I remembered. “I can’t believe it, either.”

  I didn’t know what to do. I grabbed my old friend and held on to him like a lifeline. Ebi whispered, “I thought I was going to die so many times. I thought I’d never see you again, Rez.”

  Tears ran down my cheeks and I choked on my words, “But you’re here, man. I can’t believe you’re here.”

  We stood holding on to each other’s shoulders for what seemed like forever. We took turns starting to talk and being too choked up and then laughing until we finally both stopped crying.

  I saw Miles smiling over Ebi’s shoulder.

  “Miles, did you know about this?” Remembering Salar and Jaafer were there, I turned to them. “Salar, Jaafer, this is Ebi. Miles, did you have anything to do with this? Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I put the wheels in motion, lad, but I didn’t know if it would work. Didn’t want to tell you because it was a long shot. I asked Majid to bunk him with you, too, so if he worked that out, you guys better behave.”

  I nodded slowly. “Thanks.” I wanted to say more but couldn’t think of any words that were good enough.

  “They told me I was coming here this morning,” said Ebi, softly. “But I just wasn’t going to believe it until I got here.” He shook his head. “You look good. You look older.”

  “We’re so much older, right?” I put an arm around Ebi, smiled, and said, “Salar, mind if I steal your job? Mind if I get this one acclimated?”

  Salar gave a huge flourish of his arm and said, “Be my guest.”

  Once Ebi and the others in his group had their yellow canvas pants, we took them to the classroom. Word spread that Ebi was there, and one by one my other friends arrived.

  “You’re the famous Ebi?” asked Omid. “I thought you’d be wearing a cape and have superpowers, the way the chump here described you.”

  Ebi laughed but didn’t have a quick comeback like I would have expected. Everybody went around the room making introductions. I kept grinning at Ebi, then grinning at Miles. I felt like a kite, soaring, playing tag with the wind. Life in camp was no better than before Ebi had come, but at least for today I didn’t have to think about that.

  Either Majid had worked his magic or it was an awesome coincidence, because Ebi and another kid from the morning’s crew of new boys were placed in our room for lockdown. Ebi and I moved to the back, and the other boys left us alone. For a few minutes we were quiet. It was as if we didn’t know where to start.

  Finally I said, “I was in the hospital for almost two months.” I pointed to Ebi’s arm. “It must have been worse for you.”

  “About three months.”

  “Does it still hurt?”

  Ebi rubbed the stump of his arm. “Doesn’t hurt much now. But it’s weird. Sometimes I feel my hand. I swear it’s there, but when I look down, of course it’s not.”

  “Man,” I whispered. “I’m sorry.”

  Ebi looked straight into my eyes. “No, Rez. I’m the one who’s sorry. You wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for me.”

  “It would’ve happened anyway. My mother would have pressured me to go sooner or later.”

  “But maybe you wouldn’t have been caught in that minefield.”

  “Ebi, haven’t you heard? Everyone was sent to the fields—pretty much every single one of us in all these camps. Th
at’s the strategy. We die better than we fight. We aren’t old enough to handle those big guns. But we’re big enough to set off a mine. Clear the way for the older troops to come through.”

  We both stared into space. I thought about our last morning together. It’d been less than a year ago, but it seemed like a lifetime.

  “What was your camp like?” I asked. “Was it as bad as they say?”

  “It’s bad. Someone disappears every week, and the rest of us were beat up all the time.” Ebi fingered the collar of his shirt nervously. “I got beat pretty bad the day the guys from here were transferred in and I found out you were alive. Guess I went a little wild. Later I couldn’t sleep ’cause everything hurt, but it was okay. I lay awake for hours, wondering if I’d ever see you again. Wondering if I’d ever see my parents.” He smiled at me. “But I’m here. Maybe that means I might see my folks again, too.”

  “Miles thinks it’ll happen someday. Not soon, but he thinks it will.” I worked at a piece of loose linoleum on the floor. “I don’t think I can go home. My mother wouldn’t want me there.”

  Ebi didn’t argue. “You can come live with us. My sister wouldn’t have a chance against the two of us.” In a flash, I saw my old friend in the face across from me. But it passed, leaving only the sad pools that were now Ebi’s eyes.

  “Tell me about Miles,” he said. “There’s nobody like him at Camp Twelve.”

  “I’m not sure there’s anyone like him anywhere.” I grinned. “He’s taught me to read music, and he has a tar that he lets me play. Makes life bearable to have him here.”

  “Well, I don’t know what he did, but if it helped get me out of that camp, he probably saved my life.”

  I looked at my friend and nodded slowly. “I think he saved mine, too.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  The next day, I hung back so I could say something to Miles. Ebi went with Salar to lunch. As I walked toward the desk, Miles put his pen down and chuckled. “Can’t believe we actually got him here.”

  “I don’t know what to say, Miles. I don’t know how to thank you.” I shook my head slowly. “I’m so grateful, but I’m not sure I understand why you did it.”