Caravans (13 page)

“With an American woman married to an Afghan the problem is somewhat different,” I said sharply.

“Any ferangi who marries an Afghan does so with her eyes alert,” Stiglitz replied impatiently. “I treated Madame Nazrullah several times.”

“What for?” I asked.

Stiglitz looked at me coldly. “She was a well-adjusted, likable young woman. Quite happy with her husband and he with her. I’ve grown to respect Nazrullah as one of the finest Afghans. Say, Herr Miller, are you hungry?”

“I am.”

“You eat pilau and nan?”

“At every chance.”

“Good. I’m starved.” Then, for the first time, I saw him hesitate, as if he were unsure of himself. “Herr Miller, may I be very rude?”

“You may.”

“I wish that the invitation I just extended could mean what it would in Germany. That I was taking you to dinner. Frankly, Herr Miller … You saw the fee they pay here.”

“I’m taking you to dinner,” I assured him.

“No! My own dinner I can afford. But sometimes you ferangi eat like such pigs …”

He summoned a watchman, who appeared from a room in the back carrying a rifle and two daggers. Carefully Stiglitz locked the cupboard with its pitiful supply of drugs, then unbarred the door, which the watchman locked behind us as soon as we had left. Stiglitz led me to the public square,
which contained an eating place of better than average appearance.

Cautiously he asked, “Do you like beer?”

“Not particularly.”

“Good,” he sighed with real relief. “I manage to find a few bottles each month and it makes life bearable. So if you don’t mind I’ll not offer you one. Why don’t you have an orange?”

“I usually drink tea.”

“Better for you,” he laughed uneasily.

When our meal was served, the waiter produced from some well-protected corner a bottle of lukewarm German beer, which Dr. Stiglitz attended to personally. With meticulous care he pried away the top, quickly pressing his mouth over the foaming bottle to catch each drop that would otherwise have been wasted. Next he took a long, slow, satisfying draught, closed his eyes, and placed the bottle reverently on the table close to his right hand.

“What would you have said,” I asked, “if I had liked beer?”

He opened his eyes slowly and winked. “I’d have said, ‘How unfortunate. In Kandahar the mullahs allow no alcohol,’ and right now we’d both be drinking tea. I won’t try to explain, Herr Miller, but this is my only contact with Europe. It’s so precious …”

“Would you have any guess as to why Nazrullah’s wife disappeared?”

“I’m not satisfied she has.”

“Any rumors?”

“I give no credence to rumors.”

“That means you’ve heard some.”

“Herr Miller, I hadn’t even heard she was missing.”

“You hadn’t?”

“Why should I?” he asked impatiently. “They left here last July to work at Qala Bist. Haven’t seen them since.”

“Was she all right … when you knew her?”

“All right?” he asked angrily, licking his fingers. “Who’s all right? Maybe she was planning to murder her husband and have a baby by a camel. Who can you point to in Afghanistan and say, ‘That one’s all right’? She was healthy, she laughed more than she cried, and she was well groomed.”

“How do you know about the crying?”

“I don’t. Every time I saw her she was laughing.”

It was obvious that he intended the interrogation to end, but I could not resist one final question. “Did you know her by her western name?”

Dr. Stiglitz threw down the piece of nan he had been using as a fork and sputtered, “No more! Eat!” He took a long swig of beer.

This relaxed him and he asked philosophically, “Herr Miller, have you ever speculated as to why it was such a terrible punishment in these lands to cut off the hand of a thief? No? The awful part about it was that they always cut off the right hand. Look around this restaurant and see if that gives you an idea.”

There were perhaps fifteen eating areas in the dusty room and at each men were eating pilau, but I didn’t see the connection. Stiglitz pointed out, “They’re all eating with their right hands. See!” He pointed to a rug on which five bearded Afghans were digging freely from a common bowl, and
each used his right hand. The left never appeared in motion.

“I don’t understand.”

“Only the right hand is allowed in the food bowl,” Stiglitz said ponderously, like a German professor, “because when a man goes to the toilet he must always wipe himself with his left hand. In lands where there is little water, this is a prudent rule.” He took another drink of beer and reflected, “It was a terrifying punishment, to cut off a man’s right hand. Automatically it banished him from the food bowl.”

I was about to ask the point of this story when I saw two men rigging a string of lights across one corner of the square. “What goes on over there?” I asked.

“That’s for the dance,” he explained. “Spring festival brings out the dancing boys, the dirty little monsters.”

I described the team I’d seen on the truck and he banged his empty beer bottle. “That’s the kind. They’re all alike. Filthy animals.”

“The ones I saw looked fairly clean,” I protested.

“Clean? Yes. Even perfumed. But they’re cruel little pederasts … sodomites. When they come to town they create a great evil.”

“You astonish me,” I gulped.

“I shouldn’t. If you have a society where women are forbidden, men must volunteer for the female functions.”

“I was remarking on that the other day. But not in this context.”

“This is the context that counts,” Stiglitz snapped. “Our handsome dancing boys are all dirty
little whores. How could they otherwise afford the clothes they wear?”

The lights were now in position and a stage was being marked off, about which began to cluster several hundred men in turbans and a few in karakul caps. From an alley which was to serve as dressing room a man in his fifties, whom I recognized from the truck, appeared to make a speech.

“Let’s go see the little monsters,” Stiglitz proposed, and we walked slowly across the square to join the crowd. We were in time to hear the speaker assure us that he had brought to Kandahar the finest troupe of dancers in Afghanistan, who had just finished a season in Kabul, where they had danced for die king. Five musicians came on stage, older men who played flutes, drums and a bucket-like fiddle containing at least twenty strings. The music had a standard Oriental, wailing quality, but also a fierce rhythm quite alien to countries like China and Japan. This was the throbbing music of the upland plateaus, a modification of Indian, Mongol and Greek strains. As sound it was attractive; as rhythm it was compelling.

“I’ve grown fond of the music,” Stiglitz said, “and these men are good.” They played for some minutes and induced in the crowd a subtle change. Men stopped talking. Bodies began swaying, and a sense of excitement became almost tangible. Then, with a shout, two young men in candy-striped costumes leaped out of the alley and began a whirling dance in which their long hair stood out straight from their heads. They were unlike western dancers, more controlled in their torsos, but more abandoned
in the way they used their extremities and their heads.

I whispered to Stiglitz, “Do you deny they’re artists?”

“It’s their other skills I object to,” he snapped.

During the first half-hour the star of the troupe did not appear and the interval was filled with flying bodies and wild music. The audience seemed to grow impatient and it was clear they were waiting for the young man who had insulted me on the bridge, and I too was waiting for him. The master of ceremonies knew this and took advantage of our anticipation by sending his musicians among the crowd to collect donations in their karakul fezzes.

“What do I give?” I asked the doctor.

“As little as possible,” he growled, and I saw him throw in a few small coins, which caused the musician to sneer at him as a ferangi. I contributed a bill and gained a professional, ingratiating smile.

The musicians reassembled and the master announced that we were now to see what we had been waiting for, the premier dancer of Afghanistan. The long thin drums, with goat leather at either end, began throbbing and flutes scurried up and down the register. The music halted and from the alley appeared, in the slowest of rhythmic steps, the young man who had made such an impression on me that morning.

He was dressed in a tunic cut from some rare purple fabric threaded with gold. His trousers were gray whipcord that flowed about his legs as he danced, and his turban was of pale blue silk, its free end flying out from his left shoulder. At this
stage of the dance his extraordinary hair was held in place by the turban, but at his shoulders it was free to twist and move in the flickering lights. He was a young man of extreme physical beauty, and I was repelled by him for the reason that he knew he was beautiful and intended using his beauty to create confusion.

The tempo of the music increased, but now the audience did not move and the solitary dancer began to shift his body and his feet more deftly. I noticed that he kept lagging behind the beat of the music, as if he were too languid to keep up, and this gave his dance a quality of sexual boredom and lethargy.

Then the musicians began to shout and hammer their drums in planned frenzy, giving the impression that the boy was being driven to dance more rapidly, and as he did so the end of his turban pulled loose and was soon expanded into a flash of color and a hypnotic gyration that I had to admit was thrilling. No woman in a steamy hall, loosening her garments one by one, ever generated more excitement than this young man did in twirling away his blue turban until his furious black hair was free to whirl out in great circles parallel to the earth. He now intensified his rhythm until he was beating the earth like a drum, his head twisting in ecstasy.

Dr. Stiglitz, who refused to acknowledge his spell, growled, “Probably his last year.”

“He’s not twenty!” I protested. “He could dance thirty more years.”

“You forget. His job isn’t dancing. He’s here to attract customers for a troupe of nasty little boys.
When they grow too old to attract these swine,” he said, indicating the silent, panting watchers, “they’re through, and that sweet little man playing the fiddle finds himself ten more teen-age mountain boys who enjoy sodomy.”

I felt a little sick at this scientific appraisal of what I was seeing, but such thoughts were banished when I looked across the stage to see in the front row the young man from Badakshar, who stood mesmerized, swaying back and forth in his tattered European coat. I tried to attract his attention, but he was enchanted and could not take his eyes from the young dancer, who now entered the final portion of his performance.

Elbowing my way through the crowd to speak with the young mountaineer, I incurred bitter remarks from Afghans who were similarly bewitched by the exciting dancer, but I ignored them and came at last to the youth from Badakshar. “He’s good, eh?” I asked in Pashto.

He did not hear me. He was not aware that anyone had joined him, for he was captivated by the expert who had now whirled about the stage in wide circles, his hair flashing in the night, his gold and purple costume rippling like crests of sand in a windswept desert.

I poked the young mountaineer, and he blinked his eyes. Finally he was able to focus on me, as if from a distance, and he muttered weakly, “Without wings, he flies.” Having uttered this, he returned to his trance and watched as the dancer leaped and gyrated into a furious finale. Now even I had to pay attention, for I did not believe that a human body could move so fast and yet maintain control
The drums exploded and the flutes ran riot. There was a flash of hair and wild eyes and grinning mouth and golden cloth. The dance ended. At my side the young mountaineer gasped and said, “In Badakshar we saw no dance like that.” I wished him good night, but I fear he heard no words.

When I awakened in the morning I saw Nur Muhammad perched on the spare tires, a mirror propped against a knee, a can of hot water at his side, shaving contentedly, for in the hotel at Kandahar there was no bathroom. After admiring his dexterity for some minutes I said in English, “That dancing boy we met on the bridge put on a terrific performance.”

“The one who cursed you?” Nur asked.

“Stiglitz said they were all sodomites.”

“They are,” Nur said methodically. “But the police watch them.”

I pondered my next question for some time, then asked, hesitantly, in Pashto, “Nur, would you tell me what you know about Stiglitz?”

He continued shaving, inspected his chin as if today a good shave were important, then dried his face with ostentatious care. Apparently Nur had anticipated this question before we left Kabul and had consulted with government officials as to how he should answer. Carefully he replied, “We first heard of Otto Stiglitz in February of last year. That’s 1945. Without any warning he crossed the border from Persia. Had no valid papers and was arrested in Herat. Never been to Kabul. He did
carry with him papers that claimed a doctor’s degree in medicine from some German university.”

“His sign says Munich.”

“I believe it was. When the war ended we directed our ambassador in Paris to investigate the matter and he satisfied himself that Stiglitz was a legitimate doctor. His degree was authentic. As I recall, we received a copy of his university record. It was impressive.”

“But it’s so difficult to get permission to enter Afghanistan,” I pointed out. Since we were speaking in Pashto I automatically used the standard pronunciation, as if the word contained no
gh
sound at all. To us who worked or lived in the country, it was Afanistan. “How could an ordinary man like Stiglitz just walk in?”

“You forget,” Nur pointed out. “He wasn’t an ordinary man. He was a doctor, and we need doctors. He was also a German, and we’ve always needed Germans. Forgetting the unhappy experience with the bridges, our nation has been built by Germans. We’re sometimes called ‘The Germany of Asia,’ and we’re not going to turn away German refugees now.”

“You believe he was a Nazi?”

“Weren’t they all … legally?” Nur asked quietly, as he began to pack away his shaving gear and offer me the hot water.

“That’s all you know?” I pressed.

“Obviously, he came to Kandahar and opened shop as a doctor. Local people advise us he’s very good. At any rate, we’re glad to have him and I suppose he’ll stay here for many years.”

“Why do you say that?”

“For most Germans, Afghanistan is the end of their road. From here there are few places they can go.”

“Not even back to Germany?”

“There least of all.”

“How many German nationals have you in the country?” I asked, with a kind of morbid fascination, for although I was no professional German-hater I did have to acknowledge that had I been a citizen of that country in 1937 I would now be dead. And my relatives and many of my friends would also be dead. And since I’m a man who has always found joy in my association with relatives and friends, the thought of their being mutilated and starved and dead was not only morally repulsive. It scared the very devil out of me. Instinctively I feared Germans and always will.

I don’t think this sprang from an unhealthy preoccupation with death. From early childhood I had been prepared by my parents to face the fact that people died, and I knew that one day I would; but Jews have a love of continuity—which accounted in part for the delight I took in the history of Afghanistan—and prior to World War II, whenever I thought of myself as dead, I thought of future Millers continuing. “There’ll always be some Miller who has tickets to Symphony Hall,” I assured myself, and if I weren’t among them my absence would be regrettable but not tragic; but if Millers and Goldbergs and Sharps and Weinsteins were not there—if all were gone—it would be unbearable. Had my family not emigrated from Germany we would now all be dead, and I could not ignore that fact.

These personal reflections kept me from hearing all of Nur’s reply, but I did catch the figure of more than six hundred Germans reaching Afghanistan, some with exalted credentials.

“All Nazis?”

“That’s a matter of definition. Many were decent men and women who hated Hitler and who had scars on their backs and minds to prove it. I talked about this with Moheb Khan …” Again I lost what he was saying, for his phrase “I talked about this with Moheb Khan” didn’t jibe with my experience of the two men. Whenever I had been with Moheb in the presence of Nur, the former had treated Nur like a servant. Apparently there was much I didn’t comprehend about Afghan espionage and I supposed that some day I would find that Nur was Moheb Khan’s younger brother or nephew to the king.

“If Stiglitz is so good, why doesn’t he come to Kabul?”

“An understanding we have with all refugees. They’ve got to settle in different parts of the country. Where they’re needed. If he proves himself in Kandahar, he could be invited to Kabul.”

“Then he’s not free to move around?”

“You aren’t free to move around,” he pointed out. “You had to get permission from Shah Khan.”

“I’m an outsider.”

“So’s Stiglitz. Until he proves himself.”

“Is he doing so?”

“Yes.” Obviously, Nur wished to say no more on this subject.

But I asked, “What’s the average Afghan pay for a visit to a doctor?”

“Possibly eight cents.”

“So the refugees don’t get rich?”

“Not in Kandahar.” Again he ended the conversation, then added with cool calculation, “But if later on he could move to Kabul, then perhaps he’d be able to serve the diplomatic community. Perhaps even officially. And for that he’d receive good pay.”

“Do you suppose Dr. Stiglitz would consider coming to Kabul?”

Nur looked straight at me as he filled my shaving mug with hot water. “I should imagine that he dreams of nothing else.”

“Could you give me an opinion as to how long his apprenticeship in Kandahar will be?”

“That will be decided by our government … and yours, if you should be thinking of employing Stiglitz as embassy doctor.” I made no comment.

I was amused when Stiglitz and Nur met at lunch that day. The German was much more careful with Nur than he had been with me, for he quickly guessed that Nur might be an official with some power in Kabul. “It’s a pleasure to meet Your Excellency,” Stiglitz said ingratiatingly.

“I’m not an excellency, sad to confess,” Nur parried. “I’m Miller Sahib’s driver.”

Stiglitz looked carefully at Nur’s western shoes, western suit and expensive karakul cap and decided not to fall into that trap. “I must congratulate Herr Miller on having one of the finest drivers in Afghanistan. I wish I spoke English as well as you, Nur Sahib.”

“I wish I were a doctor with a fine degree from
Munich,” Nur replied, and the pudgy German radiated gratification.

In succeeding days I saw a good deal of Stiglitz, and the more I saw the more assured I became that the embassies would be getting a good doctor if they got him, and I decided to help engineer his promotion to Kabul. We often ate together, he jealously guarding his bottle of beer, I asking questions by the score, and he was willing to permit this because I paid for the meals.

My questioning assured me of one thing: Stiglitz was no Nazi. He had a humanitarian attitude toward medicine and an understanding of what it could do to alleviate mental as well as physical suffering. He was hungry for philosophical discussion and each night dined with me on nan and pilau, then accompanied me to see the dances, after which we talked till midnight as he smoked his pipe.

One memory of Stiglitz persists when I recall those exciting days in Kandahar: his outspoken disgust over the dancing troupe and the lead dancer in particular. “They’re a blot on Afghanistan,” he railed, pronouncing the name of his new land like a native. “They represent a deep malaise. By God, they ought to get the women out of chaderi and put this country on a normal psychological basis.”

One day at lunch we were discussing this with Nur and he laughed tolerantly. “Every ferangi who comes here has some one thing that ought to be done right away. Dr. Stiglitz says, ‘Get the women out of chaderi.’ The French ambassador says, ‘Educate two thousand more medical men.’ The American ambassador tells us, ‘Pipe water into the city
from the hills.’ And the Russians say, ‘Pave your streets.’ Do you know really what we must do first?”

“What?” Stiglitz asked eagerly. This was the kind of conversation he liked.

“All of them,” Nur replied. “Yes! Laugh! But we’ve got to move the entire nation ahead on all possible fronts. And that requires more brains and more courage than we have available. Pray for us when you go to sleep.”

“I’ve been praying that you’d take me to the house where Nazrullah lives when he’s in Kandahar,” I said.

“I completed arrangements yesterday.” Nur bowed. “Will you join us, Doctor?”

“I would be honored,” he said formally. He was about to dig into his pocket for some change when a pleasant thought struck him. “Is the ferangi paying for this lunch?”

“I am,” I said. No refugees worried so constantly about money as the Germans. He sighed with relief when I produced the money, and I noticed that just before the bill was totaled he grabbed an extra piece of nan, which he munched as we hiked through the streets.

Nur led us to the typical walled house, where the inevitable gate watcher inspected us grudgingly, then allowed us to pass. The establishment contained no unusual feature: it had a garden, some fruit trees, mud walls, some Persian rugs, and a male servant. There was a big colored photograph of the king and on the table three very old copies of
Time.
The furniture was upholstered in a bilious pink mohair.

Then something quite different happened. From one of the doors appeared an apparently young woman in a pale blue silk chaderi. Dr. Stiglitz showed amazement when he saw the shroud worn indoors, as did Nur Muhammad, who introduced me as the gentleman from the American embassy. In Pashto the shrouded figure said, “I am proud to welcome you to Nazrullah’s house.” Then she whispered to Nur, who nodded assent, and she called for a male servant, who appeared with two children, a girl four years old and a boy only a few months old.

“Nazrullah’s children,” Nur said approvingly. “The oldest is the age of my youngest.”

“How many children have you?” I asked Nur.

“Three,” he replied.

“Is your wife Afghan?”

“It’s none of your business,” Dr. Stiglitz snapped.

“She’s from the north,” Nur said obligingly.

It was obvious that we were speaking among ourselves because the presence of the woman in chaderi embarrassed us. Normally any Afghan man advanced enough to bring a ferangi into his home for presentation to his wife would tell her, “You can remove the chaderi, dear.” And Mrs. Nazrullah must have wanted to do so. But she was restrained by the fact that Nur Muhammad was an official of the government and might be a man committed to retaining the chaderi. To protect her husband, she had to remain covered.

Nur, on the other hand, was known to me positively as an enlightened Afghan who wanted to see the chaderi go, and he was certainly inclined personally to say to Mrs. Nazrullah, “With us you can
drop the chaderi,” but he was afraid that someone might report his action to Kabul, and he was not sufficiently well placed in government to establish his own rules.

So two people who knew the chaderi was doomed were thus locked into positions where pragmatically they defended it. I broke the impasse by asking, in English, for I had no idea how a man addressed a woman whom he couldn’t see, “Why didn’t Mrs. Nazrullah accompany her husband to Qala Bist?”

“Ask her,” Nur said, so I restated my question in Pashto.

“There were no quarters for us,” she replied softly. It was a curious sensation, hearing words issuing from a shroud.

“I understand,” I said, but at the same time I remarked to myself: Ellen Jaspar found quarters.

“Do be seated, gentlemen,” she said as the servant appeared with four glasses of orange drink. I wondered: How’s she going to drink with a chaderi on?

“We’ll be seeing your husband soon,” I said. “Can we take him anything?”

“You’re very thoughtful,” she replied in what I detected as embarrassment. Then she laughed charmingly, and I saw by the wall a box of things already waiting for us to take to Qala Bist.

“Nur’s been here before me,” I said with what gallantry I could command.

“Yes,” she said easily. “He arranged it yesterday, but I’m pleased you have the same idea. I wouldn’t want Nur to exceed his prerogatives.” Her use of words was so precise that I had to readjust my
concept of the Nazrullah triangle. His Afghan wife was no barefoot desert girl hurriedly acquired to have babies which would extend the family line.

“Can you speak other than Pashto?” I inquired.

“French.” Then slowly, and with pride, she added, “And a little English.”

“Wisely so,” Stiglitz grunted. “Some day she’ll be an ambassador’s wife.”

Mrs. Nazrullah didn’t hear this and Nur repeated the compliment in Pashto. The veiled figure laughed, then turned to the doctor and asked, “Do you speak French?”