Escape from Aleppo

  For the people of Syria: those who stayed, the countless who fled, and, sadly, the ones who perished

  Chapter One

  October 9, 2013 4:37 a.m.

  It was neither the explosions, the clatter of running feet, nor the shouting that woke her. Because, as on most nights, Nadia was oblivious to the world, huddled beneath her bed, barricaded under a mound of blankets. Curled up beside her lay Mishmish, his purr in her ear, along with a cold, wet nose. It was her cousin Razan who finally roused her, by dragging her out from under the bed by her stockinged foot.

  “Nadia, you oaf, wake up,” she hissed, voice tight with fear. In her other hand, she held a sputtering candle. The warm light bobbed in the cold, dark room, illuminating Razan’s pale, delicate features, making her appear younger than her twenty-four years.

  “What?” mumbled Nadia, gazing bleary-eyed at the window, boarded up with wooden planks. Around the edges she could see nothing but inky darkness. They were supposed to wake as the call for fajr prayers rang out in melodious Arabic, before the first light of dawn.

  “Get your things, we have to go,” ordered Razan, placing the candle on the desk.

  “But we don’t leave till the morning,” grumbled Nadia. Then she heard it. A deep boom in the distance. She froze. That was no familiar call to prayer. “No, no, no! Make it go away,” she breathed, eyes squeezed shut.

  Fear curled through her belly. Her ears homed in on the echoes, imagining them as waves that rippled from a stone thrown into a pond. With lightning speed, her mind calculated the vibrations back to the point of the bomb’s impact, a skill she’d perfected since the war began. She imagined a narrow, thin-lipped face peering at her with a raised eyebrow. Ms. Darwish. How her algebra teacher would smirk if she found out that Nadia could now solve complex math problems in her head. Less than two years ago, her teacher had written in her report card that although Nadia was a bright student, she didn’t apply herself.

  The report card had horrified Nadia’s mother, who, it turned out, had been a childhood friend of Ms. Darwish’s. They’d attended the same school growing up, but had lost track of one another after graduation. Nadia had flippantly replied that she wasn’t interested in algebra nor most of her other subjects—which were boring—except music, drama, and sometimes history: not the tedious dates, of course, but the fascinating, swashbuckling stories of kings and pirates. Her mother had ended up making an appointment with Ms. Darwish to address Nadia’s surly attitude and lackluster performance.

  Nadia pulled the blanket over her head, wanting to burrow back in time and magically emerge at school, even if it was algebra class. Huddled in the back row with her best friends, they could joke about the rumors of how Ms. Darwish had spurned marriage in order to dedicate her life to teaching her beloved algebra. The passion for her subject, they firmly believed, extended to the man who’d invented it, Muhammad ibn Musa al-Khwarizmi, whose soulful portrait hung in the classroom.

  “Don’t lie there, you harebrained hamster,” Razan yelled, giving her a well-placed kick in the backside.

  Nadia grunted, the pain bringing her back to reality. The explosion was from a barmeela, a merciless barrel bomb packed with shrapnel, dumped from helicopters onto the rebel-held areas. It was a favorite of the Syrian army. This one had detonated nearly a mile away, Nadia had calculated, likely reducing its target to rubble. Her mouth ran dry as the memory of a similar bomb rose within her, the one that had left the deep scar from her knee to her hip. I can’t go out there, she thought. She crawled back toward the security under her bed.

  “Oh no you don’t,” growled Razan, grabbing her leg. “This is not the time for you to play ostrich.”

  “But . . . ,” cried Nadia, heart-racing panic building in her chest.

  Razan grabbed her face and held it close to hers. “I know you’re scared, but you have to focus,” she said fiercely. “We’ve practiced this and all you need to do is exit the front door. I’ll drag you the rest of the way!”

  Reluctantly, Nadia nodded, teeth clenched. Razan hurried toward the heavy wooden armoire. “Get your things—we don’t have time to waste.”

  Nadia crawled toward the corner of her room where she’d put her backpack, filled days before, and double-checked to make sure her little pink case was inside. She pulled on her threadbare winter coat, running her finger across the silver pin, shaped like a fallen-over 8, fixed near the collar, then slipped on thick woolen mittens. She grabbed the special burlap case she’d spent weeks sewing, with the help of Nana, who was always there to find a solution to her problems.

  “Amani!” Khala Fatima bellowed out Nadia’s mother’s name. “Get the kids—we have to go!”

  Nadia could imagine Khala Fatima standing at the front door of her apartment, down the hall from theirs, her face red with exertion, her stocky figure enveloped in a flowing gray dress. She’d given up her favorite oranges, pinks, and yellows when snipers had taken roost atop deserted buildings, looking for targets, which more often than not ended up being defenseless women and children. Now it was best to blend in with the drab concrete wasteland that the city had become. But what her aunt said next made her blood run cold.

  “Malik thinks the helicopters are coming this way.”

  Malik was her cousin and Khala Fatima’s eldest, and he and Nadia frequently butted heads, especially when he was being a bossy know-it-all. But if he’d actually seen helicopters . . . She flew into action, despite the fear dragging down her limbs. She reached beneath the bed, pulled out Mishmish, and held the comforting mass of white-and-orange fur for a moment. Found as a newborn, the kitten had been kept alive by Razan, who’d applied her veterinary skills. In a way, Mishmish had given life back to Razan, who’d been lost in a well of grief after her husband was killed in a bombing at the university where they’d both been studying. The kitten had grown fat and sleek, and to Nadia’s consternation, because she didn’t like animals, little kids, dirt, or disruptions, the cat decided Nadia was his. He followed her around, slept on her bed, ate off her plate when she wasn’t looking, and brought her special treats of dead mice.

  The cat allowed himself to be secreted away inside a burlap bag and lay curled along Nadia’s side when she slung the bag over her shoulder. She grabbed her pack and followed Razan, candle in hand, from the room. “Let’s go,” said her cousin.

  You can do this . . . you can do this . . . , repeated the voice inside Nadia’s head. According to the emergency plan, her grandmother, mother, and three aunts and their children were to assemble downstairs within two minutes of an alert.

  They hurried down the dark hall of the spacious apartment that had been Nadia’s home her entire life. It was identical to the other three apartments in the building, built by her grandparents thirty-five years ago. Each son had been given the key to his own flat, while they occupied the top floor. Mostly, they’d all lived happily together in the rambling space as part of a large extended family. Overwhelmed by the thought that she was leaving the only home she’d known, she tripped on her shoelaces. Instantly a sharp pain shot up her leg and she gritted her teeth. She paused to rub her leg where the pain had flared, near her knee, a few inches from where a sliver of shrapnel still lay buried.

  “Tie your shoelaces,” grumbled Razan, adjusting her bag.

  “Are you girls ready?” came a breathless voice from the master bedroom. It was Nadia’s mother.

  “Yes,” said Razan.

  “Go on downstairs,” urged Nadia’s mother, now in the hall. “Razan, help Nadia,” she added. “And, Nadia, stay with Razan and listen to what she says—no arguments!”

  Nadia grimaced. Razan’s job was to make sure she didn’t get stuck.

  “Don’t worry,” said Razan, latching onto Nadia’s ar
m. “Aren’t you coming?”

  “Just another minute,” responded Nadia’s mother. “Yusuf can’t find his shoes.”

  Nadia frowned. Her younger brother was always a pain. “We’ll wait for you,” she grumbled, lips twisting downward.

  “No,” said her mother, eyes stern. “You go, I’m right behind you.”

  Reluctantly, Nadia let her cousin propel her toward the front door.

  Her brother’s wail echoed behind them. “I don’t want the red ones,” he fussed. “They’re too tight. Where are the blue ones?”

  “We can’t find them now,” came her mother’s patient voice as they exited the apartment and stepped out onto the third-floor landing.

  “The helicopters are circling back!” came Malik’s bellow from above.

  Nadia imagined him somewhere on the balcony, looking out over the night sky with his binoculars. Her throat tightened at the thought of leaving. She had barely stepped outside their building in over a year . . . not since the day she’d been hit by a barmeela. I can’t do this, she thought. I can’t go back out there. . . .

  Chapter Two

  October 9, 2013 5:03 a.m.

  Come on, everyone!” shouted Khala Fatima, exiting her apartment, dressed head to toe in a dreary gray as Nadia had predicted. “You girls okay?” she asked.

  As Razan nodded, Nana floated out next, a sprightly figure in black. Tucked beneath a forest-green scarf, her grandmother’s once rich brown hair had gone white practically overnight when Nadia’s grandfather, Jiddo, had died of a stroke and her sons had left for war. With a calm smile on her elegant features, she gave Nadia an encouraging smile and led the little kids, who marched in practiced, military precision, toward the stairs. One of them started sobbing.

  “Now, now, my heart, don’t cry.” Nana’s soothing voice drifted up from the stairwell. “We’re going on an adventure, you’ll see. Soon we’ll be somewhere safe. And maybe we’ll find some chocolate—what do you think about that?”

  Safe. What does that feel like? Nadia thought, her heart racing as she stood on the landing, clutching the banister till her knuckles shone white. Chocolate. She remembered her birthday cake, her taste buds recalling the creamy, sweet goodness.

  Razan turned to Nadia. “Come on,” she said encouragingly. “You can do this. We’ve practiced it over a hundred times.”

  With a gulp, she followed her cousin down the marble steps and caught the comforting whiff of her grandmother’s soap: a calming, earthy fragrance of laurel oil. Khala Lina came into view, standing in front of her apartment with her twin boys, dressed in threadbare woolen pants, button-down shirts, and too-small cardigans their father had purchased on a trip to London long ago. Khala Lina always insisted that they look their best, even in the midst of a war. Silk scarf tied in place over her hair, lips marked with a touch of pink lipstick, she looked as if she were on her way to work at the hospital to deliver a set of triplets. But regardless of how much she irritated Nadia, especially after she’d blamed Nadia for her own injury—like I wanted to get hit by a bomb—it was Khala Lina who’d saved her leg by removing most of the shrapnel, except for that one piece, and given her painkillers to control the pain. “Has everyone come down?” Nadia asked Khala Lina.

  “Khala Amani is behind us,” replied Razan as they continued down.

  Nana kept an eye on the kids in the lobby while Razan’s mother, Khala Shakira, stood apart, staring out the front door into the darkness. Even with all the chaos surrounding them, her soft golden eyes seemed vacant. They’d been that way since the day Razan’s father had disappeared, taken away by the mukhabarat, the government’s secret police. Just thinking of the shadowy figures in their black leather jackets sent a shiver of fear through Nadia. Every day, her aunt had sat at the window, expecting him to come home.

  “Mama, stop,” cried Razan, running toward her mother, who’d pulled open the front door, as if to walk out.

  Nadia stood separate from the kids, hidden within the shadows of the staircase, and eavesdropped on her other aunts.

  “What do we do?” whispered Khala Fatima to Khala Lina, checking the blank screen of her mobile phone with a frown. “We can’t get a hold of the men. The phones still aren’t working. Neither is the Internet, so I can’t send an e-mail either.” She shoved it back into her purse, her face now as gray as her dress.

  “We stick to the original plan,” said Khala Lina with authority. “We were going to meet them at the dental clinic at noon. Now we’ll just get there a few hours early.”

  Nadia remembered the night her father and uncles had made a rare appearance at home, a few weeks back. Huddled over a meager meal, they’d shared the news that the war was not going well. The Syrian army had recaptured Khanasir, the city on the main road into Aleppo, or Haleb as it was known to locals. The rumor on the streets was that a major siege was coming. Though it broke their hearts, they’d decided that the family had to leave, before the next wave of death and destruction battered the city.

  Where are the men? thought Nadia, hand trembling as she unconsciously patted the cat. I hope they’re all right. Her mind raced, praying her father, older brothers, and uncles were on their way to the dental clinic.

  A circle of bright light shone from atop the staircase, distracting her. It was followed by Malik’s feet. He careened down the steps and stood panting at the bottom. “It’s coming this way . . . we have to go now!”

  Nadia’s aunts stood frozen, staring at each other, until Khala Lina flew into action. She ran up the stairs, shouting, “Amani, where are you? We have to go!”

  What’s taking Mama so long? Nadia fumed. Yusuf and his stupid shoes. The kids screamed as an explosion reverberated from up the street; then they started bawling in earnest. Nadia did the mental math. The helicopters were in the street parallel to theirs, a quarter of a mile away.

  Malik wiped a sheen of sweat from his forehead as silence descended over the lobby. Khala Fatima had just opened her mouth when they heard her mother call out, “We’re coming.” Footsteps rang out against the stairs as her mother descended, shouldering a bulky bag and carrying Yusuf, wearing his too-tight red shoes. Obviously, they hadn’t found the other pair.

  Anxiety bubbled through Nadia, coupled with anger, an emotion that seemed to accompany her everywhere these days, especially when things didn’t go her way. And in the last few years, it seemed that everything that could go wrong had. Even though she tried to push the awful feelings away, she couldn’t help but hate everything: her stupid little brother, the fact that they had little to eat, the loss of her previous life, the stupid war . . . everything.

  “We should avoid the front door and use the back,” said Malik, leading the way.

  But we’re supposed to use the front door, thought Nadia, legs tense. That’s the plan. That’s what we practiced. Her anxiety worsening, she trailed behind the others as they hurried through the hall that ended at the back door.

  Having passed through the doorway, the group descended a series of steps. Nadia watched everyone run across the carport, past the dusty old Jeep, parked parallel to the steps. The men had taken the truck, and Jiddo’s gleaming sedan had been stolen long ago. Without repairs or gasoline, the Jeep and two other cars sat useless. Even if they had been operational, it was too dangerous to maneuver through the city, avoiding helicopters, militias, and checkpoints.

  Outside. I have to get outside, thought Nadia, finally registering that she was alone. Where’s Razan? Panic blossomed in her chest as she glimpsed her cousin with her mother. Nadia inched toward the back door, legs trembling. Chill autumn air caressed her hot cheeks as her fingers reached to grip the doorframe. She pulled herself through the opening and paused to catch her breath. Nearly there. Malik’s flashlight bobbed in the distance, illuminating a path through the cars. Nadia’s aunts herded the little ones between them, urging them to be silent as they gathered at the back gate.

  Razan stumbled to a stop, then looked around. “Wait!” she cried out. “Wh
ere is Nadia?” An arc of light bounced back toward the apartment building, careening from the rusty old Jeep to Nadia, who raised her hand to shield her eyes. The whir of the helicopter’s blades sounded in the distance, signaling its approach.

  “Why is she just standing there?” came Khala Lina’s irritated voice. “Does she want to kill herself? Kill us all?”

  “Nadia, you need to hurry!” pleaded her mother.

  “Sweetheart, don’t be afraid,” added Nana. “Come down, I know you can do it.”

  “I’ll get her,” said Razan, about to run back.

  Malik grabbed her arm. “No, let me,” he said.

  Not that fool Malik, thought Nadia, embarrassed. With a grunt, she heaved herself forward just as the wind above them shifted. The helicopter, she realized in horror, was looming just beyond their apartment building. Nadia stalled, a memory flashing back, of another helicopter . . . another bomb.

  “Please, go,” cried Malik, waving at the rest of the family, huddled at the back gate. “I’ll get Nadia and meet you on the corner, near Shawarma King restaurant.”

  But the women stood at the back gate, indecision flooding their faces. Nadia stared as Malik raced toward her, but before he was halfway to the Jeep, a shuddering thud hit their building. A deafening roar reverberated through the air as the right corner of their roof shattered and came tumbling down. The force of the explosion sent Nadia tumbling down the steps. Her forehead slammed against the Jeep’s bumper and she lay there, ears ringing, blinded by the cloud of dust.

  “Nadia!” cried Malik as a plume of gray powder filled the air.

  “Where is she?” shouted her mother. “I don’t see her!”

  “Malik!” she heard Razan scream. “Find her!”

  “Nadia, where are you?” cried Malik, his voice muffled as the left wall of the apartment complex crumbled in an avalanche of dust and debris.

  “Ya Allah!” cried Nana, her voice echoing.

  “She’s not here!” shouted Malik, coughing. “All I see is rubble.”