A Brighter Fear (12 page)

Whatever happened to Sacha? Part V

How much time passed in the dark, in the hole, in the ground, she had no idea. Daylight was barely distinguishable, and the hours passed like days, months or years, as her thoughts and memories spiralled out of control.

And although on the first day she waited for the lid to open, for her name to be shouted and to be taken out and tortured or killed, it didn’t happen, and gradually she let herself feel some semblance of relief, a sense of peace and gratitude at being left alone. No torture or electricity, no whips or chains, no sounds of women crying or screaming or sobbing. No guard at the door hollering her name, no walk down to that room with fear in her belly like a sickness.

And on that day, that first day, Sacha stepped away from reality, retreating into her head and her memories. Thoughts of her husband and her daughter filled her hours, memories of her mother and father, her sisters and brother, her days at school, studying in London, trips to the orchestra, exams, first house, first day at work, first case in court. Markers of her life.

One by one she lifted each memory out of its box, replayed it in her mind, watching it unfold before her like an old film, before wrapping it up again and tucking it back inside.

And the hours passed. And the days. And the weeks.

And sometimes the lid would open, their eyes would close against the sunlight glaring down, trying to catch the dried bread dropped in, waiting as the bucket of water was lowered down on a length of rope, her and Nahla standing underneath, grateful for any splash upon their faces, their mouths wide, their tongues out, catching drips like dancing snowflakes.

But the heat inside baked them; the stench swirling and writhing around them, hope evading them, desperation clawing at them.

While she sat in the dark, the question came to her often: if she wanted death to release her.
Is wanting, or praying for death, the same as suicide?
she thought.
Is it a sin? God gives us life, should I be wishing it away? But what god does this, allows this? Do I deserve this?

And with those questions, came doubts in the belief she had carried since childhood, the religion she was born into. Yet the thought of losing her faith scared her more than death. While she believed, she knew that heaven waited for her, that she would, in time, be reunited with her family. Her mother and father would smile at her again, her husband would kiss her again, and she would again hold her daughter to her.

Fear kept her belief singing in her chest.

Fear stopped her doubting.

Fear held her god up high and the gates wide open for her arrival.

I clung to the memory of that day with Steve. And I wished for the chance to meet properly again, where we could pretend he wasn’t a soldier, where we could be ourselves, and my head dreamed of scenarios where impossible things do happen.

And time ticked on. The weeks and months disappearing behind me. My life disappearing while I waited; to see Steve, to decide if I should leave Iraq, to find the courage to go.

But the question of Mama never left my head and when I thought about leaving, I felt heavy with guilt. I should stay. I should wait for her. I should never give up on her. Never.

I would look at that photo, of Mama and Papa holding me as a baby, the smiles on their faces, the green necklace around Mama’s neck, the flash from the camera glinting from it and I would ask myself what I thought she would want me to do. To stay here? To wait for her? I couldn’t answer. I would return, I told myself. When things were better, safer. And I would find her when it was safe to travel around the city, when the prisons were fair places.

Was I convincing myself?

I started to hate the sound of my own thoughts; whining, moaning, negative. I wanted to smile and laugh, tell stories of good news. But I didn’t know of any.

But as another new year approached, when Aziz had to queue with five hundred other cars for over thirteen hours to fill up, when we had no electricity for three days, no fuel for the generators so we could cook, when things were so bad, after another night kept awake by explosions and gunfire, another day arriving home in tears because of what I’d seen on the way, I knew it was time for me to leave. I knew there was no choice for me any more.

It was New Year’s Eve. Another one. I longed for some time alone, some quiet, some peace to clear my head, to think about the past year, to remember Papa. And I convinced Hana to let me out of the house alone. Only for ten minutes, I told her, I promised her.

But of course there was no quiet or peace. The streets were as dangerous as ever, and thinking I could walk around without worrying about every street corner or window or approaching car was naive.

I strolled down streets with my head down, listening to sounds around me. The grumble of a car engine, the putting of a moped, Arabic chatter here and there.

And the shout of a soldier.

I looked up, a trooper on the other side of the road, his gait so familiar to me, the way he held his rifle. My eyes stopped, blurring away what surrounded me, and focused upon him. I crossed the road, watching him. Daring to believe that it was him. And he turned and saw me, smiling as if it was only yesterday we had been to the lake.

For a moment we stood next to each other, awkward, not knowing what to say, what to do. I wanted to stretch out a hand to him, or for him to put an arm around me and hold me, but I knew that couldn’t happen, that something so simple, so natural, was impossible. But it was there, that feeling, that acknowledgement of something, as we stood together with a smile, and as we turned together and walked.

“You still thinking of leaving?” he asked.

I sighed.
Was I?
I asked myself. And I nodded.

“You want to go to Europe?” he said, a vague smile on his face. “Think I know of someone who can get you there.”

“Europe?” I questioned, nerves leaping at my throat. “That’s a long way.”

“But you’d be safe.”

I didn’t know what to say. Not since before Papa died had I imagined going as far away as Europe. “I was thinking of somewhere closer. Syria or Jordan. Then when things are better…”

He let out a sigh. “You want to come back?”

“It’s my home,” I replied. “Everything I know is here… I don’t know if… if I would dare go anywhere else.”

He shrugged his shoulders. “Lina, I’ve talked to people, they say you’re not allowed to work in Syria, they say people have to return here when their money’s gone. That they’re no better off. You’d have to support yourself. Could you do that? Your aunt’s not going to send money, is she? They said about people being turned away at borders and having to live in tents, or in refugee camps.” He stopped walking and stared at me. “I wish I could take you home with me. Back to the States. Get you a place to live. A job, or hell, into college.” He sighed. “That’s not gonna happen. But you can get to Europe.”

We both fell silent. I felt somehow disappointed. Had I really been hoping for him to take me with him? To America? Is that what I secretly wanted? Did he mean that much to me or was he just someone who had shown me some compassion? I didn’t know now. I was so scared. Scared to go, scared to stay. What should I do? I had the money from Papa; that would support me for a long time in Syria. But would it be for long enough?

“You said you had money, right?” Steve asked.

I nodded, thinking of the box in the wall in my old house.

“Then it’s not a problem. Believe me. This guy, he’ll take you in a truck from here, through Syria, then to Greece, Italy, and if you want, France and England.”

My head reeled. “England?” I thought of Papa’s friends there. Maybe they could help me. “And a passport?”

“Yeah. A British passport. Then, y’know, you can get set up over there. Hell, I could even come over to see you. Or you could come to me.”

I struggled to think straight. It seemed like fantasy, a dream, the opportunity of a new life, in a new country. A safe country? With a passport?

“Is it…? It’s not legal, is it?”

He smiled at me with his blue eyes.

“How much?” I asked.

We walked together, my head covered, my body covered, my face low, I was anonymous to anyone but him. And I didn’t even think what it must look like; an Iraqi girl walking down the street with an American soldier. Embroiled in a serious conversation. I didn’t notice what street we were on, who we walked past, or even if anyone stared or shouted comments at us. My head was trapped in a mixture of excitement at the possibilities Steve was offering me, and the fear of what it would actually mean. All the places I would pass on the way. A new country to live in, to explore. All the things to see when I got there. The unknown. To travel all that way. A stowaway in a truck or boat. At the mercy of a stranger. And what about returning for Mama?

“Nine thousand dollars,” he replied.

I didn’t repeat it. I didn’t stop walking.

“I wish I could offer you some, but…”

I shook my head. “I wouldn’t take it from you,” I replied.

“Hell, you would. I’d make sure you would. I’d pay the whole damn thing if I could, to know you’d be safe…”

I shook my head. “I can do it.”

We walked on in silence and thought. Nine thousand dollars. I thought of the money, hidden in a tin, behind the broken brick, at the top of the wall, at the bottom of the stairs, in the basement. There was fifteen thousand in there. That would leave me some spare. I’d have some to live off when I got there. Or I could leave some for Hana and Aziz. Or I could do both.

“What about when I get there?” I asked. “What about work, or somewhere to live?”

“Yeah, this guy, who I was talking to, said he’ll help you, get you some work, somewhere to sleep until you’re sorted.” He turned to me, staring at me with such seriousness. “You want to go?”

I paused. I felt excited, scared, hopeful, worried. My head whirred from one decision to another, a thousand questions in my head, a thousand scenarios playing out in my imagination. What would the journey be like? Would it be safe? Would I be caught? What would life be like when I got there? What would I do? How would I live? Would I be happy?

I didn’t understand why Steve was doing this for me. A stranger in my land and my life, and yet he cared about me enough to help me.

“When does the truck leave?” I asked.

“Three days,” he replied.

“Three days?” I repeated quietly. My stomach turned upside down; I felt sick. My thoughts spun. Three days. Three sleeps. Three more mornings checking I was still alive. Could I really do this?

We turned the corner at the end of the street, and I saw the rest of his squad.

“I have to go.” He took a piece of paper from his pocket. “This is where you need to be, near the Grand Mosque,” he said. “And the time. You give the money to the driver. And there’s my email address. When you get to England, get in touch.”

“Will I see you before I go?”

“I don’t know.”

I nodded and we paused, awkward. His hand lifted to my face, but withdrew. “I’m glad we met,” he whispered, “but I wish it had been different. Wish we could’ve met somewhere else.” He sighed and lowered his head. He took a step towards me. “When this is all over we’ll meet somewhere else, some
time
else, and it’ll be different. Maybe you’ll be in England, in London. And you’ll be standing looking at Buckingham Palace. It’ll be raining, because it always does in London. And a red bus will pull up and I’ll step off. Neither of us will have an umbrella, because we’re optimistic, and we were expecting sun. I’ll see this woman standing near the railings, with beautiful dark hair down her back, and I’ll walk towards her, and you’ll turn around with your deep brown eyes and there’ll be this handsome blond-haired, blue-eyed man smiling at you.”

“Handsome?” I said. I pretended to appraise him, my head tilted to one side. “Passable, maybe. But handsome?”

He laughed. “You’ll smile back at me, the rain pouring down your face. We’ll say something like, ‘Haven’t we met before? You seem familiar?’ and we’ll laugh. I’ll lift you in my arms, tears mixing with rain on our faces.”

“I would like that,” I said, quietly. “I would like to meet you in London.”

He placed the paper in my palm and held my hand. Just for a moment. And I couldn’t say a word. I could only stare at him.

“Some day,” he whispered. “Some time.”

And he lifted his hand to my face again, and I felt his fingers touch my cheek and wipe away a tear.

And with the vaguest of smiles, he turned and walked away.