The Girl from Baghdad (21 page)

Um Butrus dropped by our house every afternoon after she finished work nearby. She must have been in her
seventies. She was there when I was a tiny baby and saw me grow up. Um still saw us as her children. One day I opened the door, and she was climbing up the front stairs, gasping for air. She had staggered along the street with a giant pot of lamb stew she'd cooked for us.

Um Butrus placed the still-warm pot on the table and asked if Linda was home to greet her. Although she was stern, she always had a soft spot for Linda. When Linda hugged her, she melted.

I looked inside the saucepan. The gorgeous aroma of herbs and meat wafted up. Um Butrus was an extraordinary cook. She taught my mother almost all the recipes she knew. I thanked her with a hasty kiss and ran to my room to finish writing my umpteenth letter to Bàsil.

When she was leaving I called out goodbye to her from my room. I wouldn't see Um Butrus again. She fell ill as soon as she got home. Waiting for the doctor, her family had laid her down on her bed. She fell asleep and never opened her eyes again.

Leaning on Bàsil's shoulder, I lost myself in his gentle touch. We still met in secret, always at his house.

‘What can I do to help you?' he asked, worried by my tired demeanour.

‘Nothing. You can't do anything,' I responded in a flat and tense voice. ‘Neither of us can do anything to resolve this situation. There's nothing left to do.'

‘Don't say that. There has to be a way,' he continued. ‘Isn't your father obligated to take care of you all?'

‘He doesn't care about us anymore. Maybe if we had a lawyer things might be different. Otherwise, it's impossible to get him to change his mind. When he comes at night we hear him argue with Mum. It's frightening; he's become another person. Sometimes I think he wants to kill us. I know he wants us out of the house.'

‘But he can't kick you out into the street!' he objected indignantly. ‘Then what will happen to you?'

‘I have no idea. That's the point. We don't have anywhere else to go.' I averted my gaze. I didn't want to unload my anguish on Bàsil, but I had to talk to somebody to keep from going crazy. And he was so sweet, so understanding. I know if he could have done something he would have. Too bad he wasn't much more than a boy.

‘What does your mum think?' he asked.

‘I don't know. She doesn't speak much. She called my grandmother in Dobříč the other day. I heard her ask if we could stay with her for a little while. Maybe she'll take us in.'

‘You're leaving?' Bàsil seemed alarmed.

‘I hope not. My home is here. I don't want to leave.' I couldn't stand the idea of being away from Baghdad, and
especially from this boy. I watched him as he brooded on this information.

‘What's wrong?' I finally asked.

‘If you were to leave, I'd really miss you,' he said under his breath. We embraced. I kept my eyes closed, clutching onto him, as if we were going to be pulled apart at any moment.

‘Wherever you go, I'll never leave you alone,' he whispered in my ear. Then he pulled himself away, looked straight into my eyes and said, ‘You know that, right? We'll keep writing to each other. Promise me.'

I agreed and buried my face in his shoulder. I knew this hug would be our farewell.

At the end of July the news circulated; Iran had accepted the United Nations resolutions. The war would soon be over. Eight years of fighting and bombings had destroyed the city and left the country on its knees.

After Otůr's house was hit by a missile, many other homes in our neighbourhood had been bombed and destroyed. Even Yermouk, the prestigious neighbourhood where Ahlam and Elham lived, had been badly damaged. Our house had miraculously escaped the rain of missiles, as did many in Zeyůne, the area in which Bibi's house was located. A few years later,
during the second Gulf War, that district would burn to the ground.

But in July 1988, the unimaginable happened: the war with Iran was about to end. The news of the fighting's imminent conclusion had restored hope to the population.

A month later, on 20 August, the ceasefire was official. Explosions were still heard on the outskirts of town, but people took to the city's streets in jubilant celebration. From the terrace of our house, I saw a huge, joyful crowd descending on Arba'taash Ramadàn. Rejoicing, they shouted with glee and hugged each other. Those with a car honked their horns madly. It seemed as if everyone had gone crazy with happiness, with relief. Even I was smiling. It was really over. No more missiles. No more explosions, death, destruction, or constant looting. I hoped things would also change for us – for me, Linda, Klara and Mum.

Linda screamed and clapped her hands to the music coming from the street. Even Klara was cheerful, but I knew our happiness would be short-lived.

A few days later, in the early afternoon, Klara entered my bedroom. ‘Mum has something to tell us. Come in the living room. She says it's important.'

Linda was already sitting next to our mother and Klara sat cross-legged on the rug.

‘We have to leave. Tonight, an uncle you don't know will come to pick us up and take us to the airport,' she announced solemnly.

‘What? Why in such a hurry?' Klara asked.

‘We have our visas and there's no reason to wait,' she answered.

Two days before, we met Dad briefly at the Baghdad passport office. He had come to sign the consent form that would allow us to leave. He quickly did what he had to do, leaving my mother with an envelope. Then he departed without saying goodbye. It was the last time I saw him.

‘I don't want to leave here!' I burst out angrily. ‘Why do we have to go? The war is over. Now things will get better!' But I knew my words were hollow.

‘Your father has booked us the last flight tonight for Frankfurt. From there we'll go to Prague. We're going to stay at your grandmother's place in Dobříč.'

‘I'm not leaving Baghdad!' I screamed through tears.

‘You girls should go and pack your bags now. There isn't much time.'

‘What can we take with us?' Klara asked.

‘Whatever you can fit in a suitcase. We can only take one each. Only choose things that are important.'

‘But we don't even know how long we'll be away. And besides, what will happen to the things we leave here? … Looters will steal them,' I objected.

‘Nobody will touch anything. Now go and pack. Your uncle won't wait for us and neither will the plane.' Mum got up and went to her room. We heard her open the closet and start taking out her clothes. Quietly, we did the same.

As I was deciding what to include in my large bag, I realised I wouldn't have time to say goodbye to Dani and Bàsil. I didn't know how long we would be gone. I quickly wrote down the address of the house in Dobříč and a short message on a little piece of paper. I ran to the street to hide it in the usual spot. I had to tell Bàsil about my unexpected departure, I didn't want to lose contact with him. I was anxious when I came back inside. What if the note got lost? What if he didn't notice it?

Defeated and upset, it was difficult for me to decide what to pack in my suitcase. Each object had a history for me. It was painful to have to leave things behind. And the thought that my remaining clothes and belongings could be stolen by strangers made me uneasy.

In the next room, Mum was helping Linda and Klara close their luggage. Linda slumped next to her bag, sobbing quietly. Her eyes were red from crying. I understood her sadness and wanted to be free to cry like her, but I wasn't a little girl anymore.

Mum sat down next to her, stroking her fingers gently through my sister's hair. ‘Linda, there's no time for
tantrums or discussions. Your uncle will be here soon. We can't miss the plane. Get your doll.'

Of course, our dolls – Dad's gift. I returned to my room and cuddled mine. I placed it in the suitcase and closed the lid. I felt so angry about this unplanned departure. It seemed so unjust to me.

The sound of a horn blasted from the street. I looked out the window.

‘Hurry, let's go. Your uncle is out the front waiting for us,' my mother said from the hallway. Her big bag was already at the front door. Klara and I grabbed our suitcases and headed for the car. Mum took Linda by the hand and tried to coax her towards the door, but Linda dragged her feet and refused to follow, struggling and screaming.

Mum stopped. She looked more exhausted than I had ever seen her. She swung open the door and lugged the bags outside, loading them in the back of our uncle's pick-up truck, which was waiting for us, the engine still running. I gave her a hand while Klara tried to calm Linda down.

‘Let's go,' Mum said. Linda let herself be taken by the hand.

‘I'll be right there,' I said, ‘I'm going to take one last look at the house.'

It wasn't true. Instead of just looking at the house, I wanted to remind myself of the precious times before
things went so sour for us. I closed my eyes and saw the five of us at the kitchen table; Linda as a tiny toddler running from one room to the other as Klara chased her; Dad coming home from the market with enormous sacks of fruit. I could hear the music playing in the living room – my mother's favourite ABBA song.

I opened my eyes. The house was filled with a ghostly silence.

I looked around for the last time. I turned the handle and closed the door behind me. I stood there leaning against it for a few seconds, trying to hold back my tears. I took a deep breath and headed to the street.

From the rear window of the pick-up truck, I watched my house get further and further away until it disappeared. I would never see it again. The humid night air carried the fragrance of freshly cut grass through the open side window. The streetlights alongside the road to the airport passed by quickly. Our uncle drove fast the entire trip, not saying a word. He left us at the airport entrance, dropping our luggage on the sidewalk. We entered the large, nearly deserted lobby. I knew every inch of the departure hall with its shiny, rosy marble floor, where I had often been during happier times.

Babička's house hadn't changed much, even though it had been more than a year since we'd been there.

I was glad to discover that the little wooden cubby-house that Grandpa had built for us one summer was still in the backyard. Adored by Linda, it had a red roof and two side windows. We had hung some curtains by the windows and written our names on the front of the house. It was slightly stained by weather and rain, but still standing. The yard was familiar and chaotic, littered with forgotten tools and planks of wood. A dirty, malnourished hen scratched about next to the small vegetable garden behind the house.

The dog, Maida, recognised us immediately, greeting us, tail wagging. We settled in our usual room, choosing
our beds and dividing the cramped space in the dresser for our clothes. Babička hugged and kissed us; she seemed worried.

That same evening, we all gathered together around the table, where Grandmother asked Mum what her intentions were.

‘I don't know yet,' Mum said, shaking her head. ‘Right now I just need to rest a bit. Then I'll look for work. I'll see what sort of job I can find.'

Klara threw a quizzical look my way before asking, ‘Do we have to stay here long, Mum?'

‘We'll see. We just got here. You girls need a little peace and quiet too. We'll talk about it again in a few days.' She stood up from her chair, and started clearing the table, signifying the end of the discussion.

Babička took the plates from her hands, saying, ‘Go on, Jana. I'll take care of it. You need to sleep.' She must have realised that Mum was truly emotionally exhausted because we had never seen her show such kindness.

My mother spent the first two weeks locked in the bedroom, where the three of us girls normally slept, a shattered shell of her former self. Huddled up under the covers, she stared blankly at the wall, her eyes full of pain. She ate very little. Every morning, when I brought her breakfast, she told me to put the saucer of milk on the nightstand and to leave her alone as she wanted to rest. When I went to bring her lunch I saw her breakfast
untouched and she lay frozen on the pillow, her hair dishevelled and her eyes swollen. She had been crying, and I often heard her stifle her sobs at night so my sisters and I in the next room wouldn't hear the full extent of her pain.

Gradually, Babička's expression hardened. Mum's depression was starting to anger her. Klara, Linda and I ate, keeping our eyes averted from her, and tried not to listen to her complaints. We tidied the kitchen after each meal and Babička put away the food in the pantry, locking it with three turns of a key that she kept on a string around her neck.

The summer was coming to an end. This would be our first time experiencing autumn and winter in Czechoslovakia. Dobříč's summer was only slightly warmer than Baghdad's coldest months. The winters were bitter and the evenings became colder as dramatic storms swept away the last of the sun's heat.

When the housework was done and if the weather permitted, my sisters and I spent our free time playing in the courtyard with the animals. I sometimes played cards with Grandpa on the long, grey, rainy afternoons. Although deep down we knew it wasn't going to happen, we anticipated the phone call from Dad that would bring us back to Baghdad.

Maida started barking. It was the woman who delivered the mail. She'd often come to have coffee and fill our grandmother in on town gossip. Mrs Radka was quite pudgy, and her dark uniform gripped her large hips. An enormous square leather bag, bursting with letters and telegrams, was fixed on the front of her bicycle. She made her daily run to all the town's houses, distributing mail while collecting news. She had been one of the first to know of our return.

Babička yelled at me to get the mail and to hurry back to do laundry. I ran out to Mrs Radka, shivering. The air at the beginning of September in Dobříč was already chilly. We had left Iraq a month ago and I still hadn't begun to get used to the Czechoslovakian cold. Mrs Radka handed me some envelopes, told me to say hello to Mum and Grandmother, and took off on her bicycle.

I read my name on one of the letters. The stamp was from Baghdad. While I ripped the paper, I instinctively thought of Dad, but then I saw it was from Bàsil. I was able to read the first few lines before Babička's shrill cries called me to return to work. I hid the letter in my pocket and found my way back to the laundry room.

Bàsil's optimism made me feel terribly homesick.

How I wanted to be home at that moment, to sneak into his room. I answered him with a very long letter, explaining that the situation was very complicated. I didn't have any idea when I would see him again, but it was crucial that we kept writing to each other. Our correspondence continued. Every week, a delicate, white envelope arrived by airmail, bringing me news from Iraq.

By October there was still no sign of Mum recovering. She seemed to have sunk into an even deeper depression. Mum was frightfully weak and emaciated; most of her day was spent sleeping and she never left the bedroom. The meals we brought her remained
untouched. I had never seen her in such a state. To look into her eyes was like looking into an abyss. I didn't know how to help her.

Every once in a while I would sit by her side. I caressed her hair. I told her about Bàsil's letters, but she seemed saddened by any mention of Baghdad, so I changed the subject. She listened to me absently, keeping her eyes closed – the tiredness had won. At night, I sometimes lay down next to her, alternating with Babička, who would sleep beside Klara and Linda. Mum would let me place my arm around her side; I felt her bones under her nightshirt. She lay with her back to me, huddled up like a puppy. We stayed in that position for a moment before I withdrew my hand, disheartened, and fell asleep with the dreadful knowledge that I could never soothe my mother's sorrow.

Babička locked herself in the bedroom with my mother for short periods, during the day. I often heard her harsh voice telling her to get up, ‘to pull herself together'. Mum didn't respond. After berating her a bit more, Babička would leave the room defeated and more annoyed than before. She would then take her frustration out on the three of us girls.

As soon as Babička told me we were registered for school in the nearby town of Nučice, I ran to ask Mum for an explanation. I found her, as always, curled up in the bedroom with the curtains drawn.

‘Please, Michelle, don't make things more difficult for me. You'll go to school here this year,' Mum muttered.

‘I don't want to go to school here. We have to go back to Baghdad,' I objected.

‘We're not going back,' she said, hiding her face beneath the covers.

‘But it's our home. You said –'

‘This is our home now. We're not going back to Iraq,' she replied with resignation. ‘Please, dear. Let me rest now. I'm very tired.'

‘You're always tired,' I whispered sadly. ‘It's not fair. I'm tired too and I want to go home.'

She didn't answer. Two hot tears ran down my cheeks. I slammed the door behind me as I left, angry with her and the entire world.

I got on my bike and started pedalling with all my might. I passed the brewery surrounded by the brown fields full of barley stubble, already ploughed for planting. The odour of the earth and rotten leaves curled into my nostrils. My eyes blurred with tears as I rode furiously. I arrived at a path that crossed the wild cherry orchards. The trees lifted their dead and bony branches toward the grey sky. The cold air stung my tear-streaked face.

The branches at the back of the orchard were not pruned, and low boughs blocked the path. I stopped, left my bike and continued on foot. For a moment I
thought I was lost. But there it was: the little pink lake with its still, mirror-like water, its outer edge tinted a pale cherry red. It had been a long time since I had been to the lake.

I sat on the bank, in a green glade between beds of reeds. A bird took flight, breaking the silence. A great peace came over me as I listened to the croaking frogs and sound of fish breaking the water's surface. In the village, strange stories were told about this place. The locals believed it was inhabited by witches and wicked spirits. Somebody had mysteriously drowned there. I thought back to my horrible life at Babička's house and likened my arrival at the lake to an escape from my evil grandmother. I smiled at the irony of the situation. Staring into the placid surface of the water, I suddenly felt lighter. Contrary to local superstition, this place didn't scare me at all. Instead it restored a feeling of tranquillity, washing my insecurities away, at least momentarily.

As soon as I arrived home, I heard Babička's voice coming from the kitchen. ‘Linda, sit still. I'm almost done. There, now you can go.'

I moved closer and saw my sister seated in a chair with a towel on her shoulders. Her chestnut curls were lying on the floor. She ran a hand over her remaining tufts of hair. My grandmother had given her a severe bob haircut.

‘It's too short!' Linda screamed. ‘I'm a monster!' She ran to Mum, throwing the towel on the ground. Babička picked it up.

‘You'll see, by tomorrow you will already be used to it. It doesn't have to be pretty, it has to be practical. Your hair will dry quicker and you'll keep it clean. You'll need to with all the germs that go around school. Come on, Klara, it's your turn. Sit down,' Babička commanded, without wasting time.

I looked at Klara. ‘You're not going to let her cut your hair like that too, are you?'

My grandmother waited impatiently, the scissors in her hand.

Klara sat down then turned to face her, ‘Not too short, Babička. Just below the ears,' she said timidly.

‘When you're big,' said Babička, cutting off my sister's braid with one snip, ‘you can decide for yourself. Don't move. It won't take long.'

My sister frowned and surrendered, lowering her head. My grandmother cut her hair exactly as she had Linda's, without stopping for breath. As soon as she was finished with Klara, Babička turned towards me and called me over, ‘Come here, Michelle. You're the last one.'

‘No, I'll keep my hair long, thank you,' I responded defiantly, playing with a lock of hair.

‘Don't make a scene. The sooner we do it the better. Get over here!'

‘I'm fifteen years old. I'm free to –'

‘Quit the tantrums!' she sharply interjected. Babička grabbed me by the arm and forced me to sit in front of her. ‘Even if you were twenty, as long as you live here, you do as I say.'

Screaming, I tried to wriggle free, but she was stronger than me. She twisted my wrist until I yelped in pain.

‘Quit squirming or I'll hurt you!' I felt her gather my long hair into a ponytail on my neck. She held it tightly; her scissors opened at the base of the bunched hair.

‘Let me go! You're hurting me!' I shouted, gripping onto the chair. I knew I would have to give in to her in the end, but I couldn't stop myself going against her will.

It happened instantly; she cut off and threw my beautiful chestnut ponytail on the floor in front of me. She had won. I tried to hold back tears of rage. I clenched my teeth, silently crying inside, until she had finished. As soon as she let me go, I ran to my room to look at myself in the mirror.

The reflection of a young boy with a ridiculous fringe, bloodshot eyes and flushed cheeks stared back at me. With trembling hands, I touched the short tufts of hair around my ears and on the base of my neck. My head felt unexpectedly light, empty. In just a few minutes, Babička's scissors had erased every trace of femininity.