Escape from Aleppo Read online

  Nadia, don’t be so selfish, rebuked a voice inside her head, one that sounded like her mother. Her shoulders slumped in shame at the truth of the words. Ammo Mazen had offered to help her, and it was unfair to ask him to leave his faithful donkey. “So when do we leave?” she asked with more humility.

  “I have found that the safest way to travel is in the protective embrace of darkness,” he explained. “We rest by day and journey at night.”

  “But what if we’re too late and I miss him at the border?” said Nadia.

  “Don’t worry, we will find him,” said Ammo Mazen. “We know exactly where he will be, and he’ll make it known he is looking for his daughter. Keep a positive heart and keep your faith in him who is greater than us all.” Nadia nodded grudgingly. “By the way,” he added, “do you have your identification card?”

  Every Syrian citizen has a national identification card that displays the bearer’s name, address, date of birth, national identification number, and photograph, as well as a bar code. In addition, it contains two peculiar administrative details: imana, which part of Syria one is from, and qayd, one’s father’s or grandfather’s village or neighborhood of origin. With these two items, the cardholder’s regional ties, ethnicity, and, by inference, religious group could be gleaned. Nadia shook her head. “No, my mother has it,” she said.

  “No matter,” said Ammo Mazen, and as he was about to say more, a deep shuddering cough racked his slender frame. He pulled a snowy-white handkerchief from his coat pocket to cover his mouth. “Nadia,” he wheezed. “Go . . . the cart . . . find my small leather bag . . . hurry.”

  Frightened, Nadia ran and dragged the tarp off the cart. She rifled through his belongings, tossing aside tools and dumping clothing, bags, and books onto the floor, until she spotted the small leather bag. She sprinted back while opening the zipper. “What do you need?” she asked, placing the collection of bottles, tubes, and small boxes onto the blanket.

  With shaking fingers, he grabbed a dark brown bottle and unscrewed the cap. He shook out a pale blue pill, one of two that remained in the bottle, and swallowed it with a sip of tea. Eyes closed, he leaned back on the cushion, Nadia crouched beside him, heart racing. After a few strained minutes, his breathing finally eased.

  “Are you all right?” whispered Nadia.

  His eyes flickered open. “Yes, child. Old age, exhaustion, and this terrible war have taken their toll. I believe sleep will do me wonders. I suggest that you also rest up.”

  • • •

  As the fire in the brazier burned down, Nadia lay cocooned in the blankets, watching the old man. After tucking the leather case beside him, he’d started snoring within minutes. He’s exhausted, she thought, studying his sharp features. He was certainly old, older than Jiddo had been, and very thin, practically gaunt. She eyed the medicine bag and wondered what the pills were for; Jiddo had taken medicines for a variety of ailments.

  Restless, she finally pushed aside the covers and wandered toward the cars, wishing she could just drive like the wind all the way to the border. A twinge at her knee made her pause at the door she’d seen earlier. Curiosity got the better of her, and she turned the knob, revealing a messy, cramped office. A metal desk stood against the far wall, stacked with receipts, manuals, and car parts. A phone sat on the corner and she reached for it instinctively. Dead. Useless without electricity. Disappointed, she was about to turn, when flames from the fire illuminated the wall, revealing a line of familiar faces. A thrill flared through her as she gazed at the faded posters.

  Umm Kulthum stared down at her with arched brows. Many swore she was the best singer of the Arab world, her powerful voice bringing people to tears. Beside her stood willowy Fairuz, whose delicate melodies resonated with hope and love. Nadia’s eyes roamed over the familiar faces, stopping at bright eyes rimmed with kohl: Carmen, the contestant from Arab Idol she had so admired. With a last glance, she gently pulled the door shut and limped to the fire.

  She caught sight of the cart and stopped short, staring at the mess she’d made. Chagrined, she folded the rumpled clothes, lined up the tools, stacked plates and pots, and grouped cooking utensils back in their place. The brown-paper-wrapped package Alaa had given Ammo Mazen still sat snug at the back of the cart, tucked between dozens of books. As she lined up the tools, her sleeve caught along the side of the cart. To her surprise, as she pulled away a little door sprang open. From inside the hidden compartment tumbled a black velvet bag. With tentative fingers, she picked it up, and was surprised by its weight. Unable to resist, she pulled open the strings. She gasped. Inside were stacks of bills—American dollars, Euros, British pounds—and over a dozen gold bars: a small fortune. What else is in there? she thought, tempted to reach inside the compartment. Instead, she guiltily shoved the bag back inside and sealed the door, which lined up with the grain of the wood, impossible to detect without close inspection. Heart pounding, she glanced back at Ammo Mazen. He was still asleep. But suspicion flared in her mind. Who has this kind of money? Where did he get it?

  All she knew about him was that he’d grown up in a small village in the mountains and had been a fisherman and a book repairer. But so far, he hadn’t done anything but help her. For now, she had no choice but to trust him. There was no way to navigate through the city on her own to reach her family. Family. Where are they? Did they get caught in the fighting? She stood, fingering the silver pin on her coat lapel, wishing there was something, anything, that would take her mind away from her tortured thoughts. She wished the old man had a radio or CD player so that she could listen to some music. Instead, in the cart there were books, over fifty of them, mostly old and tattered. Over the years her mother had bought her dozens of books on all sorts of topics, hoping she’d be a reader like her brothers, but she’d only really been interested in fashion and gossip magazines.

  She ran a finger along the dusty old spines and one caught her eye, a tall, slim book with gilded edges. Gently tugging it out, she saw that the cover was practically falling apart. The title read Alef Layla. That rang a bell. It was a collection of fantastical stories collected from the Middle East and India. It had the same title as a blockbuster movie from a few years earlier, One Thousand and One Nights. She carried the book back to the fire and flipped it open to the first delicate page, written in an elegant script of old Arabic. Lyrical words flowed across her tongue and she fell into the familiar story of the cunning Scheherazade, the brave queen who told her husband, the king, a different tale every night to keep him from killing her.

  • • •

  She’d finished “The Merchant and the Demon” and was deep into “Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves” when she heard Jamila snort. Awake and on her feet, the donkey snorted again, and before Nadia could make out what the silly animal was doing, Jamila trotted forward and nudged Ammo Mazen in the side with her head, waking him. Mishmish had made his way over to Nadia and stood, head cocked at an angle.

  “What’s wrong, my dear?” he said, grabbing his spectacles as he sat up. He closed his eyes and listened. Nadia froze, and from deep within the ground, she felt it. A low rumble. “We need to leave,” said Ammo Mazen, exhaustion still lining his face. “Quickly now, collect your things. We must find a safer place to find shelter till night falls.”

  Nadia grabbed Mishmish and gently put him in his bag, wondering if there was a safe place anywhere in the city. She folded up the blankets and stacked them in the cart along with the book she’d taken.

  “Did you enjoy the story?” asked Ammo Mazen, putting Jamila’s harness in place.

  Nadia nodded a bit guiltily, thinking that perhaps she shouldn’t have taken his book without asking permission.

  “Scheherazade was a woman to be commended and admired,” said Ammo Mazen, hooking up the cart. “She took on the king and outwitted him with her intelligence.”

  Nadia smiled in relief, realizing he didn’t mind. She put the visor over her cap.

  “We need some speed, my sweet,” Amm
o Mazen whispered into Jamila’s ear. Muscles tense, the donkey pranced through the door as soon as Ammo Mazen rolled up the metal shutter. “We will move further north and find another spot to hide away for nightfall.”

  Nadia glanced up to see that the sun was still high in the sky, indicating that it was past noon. From the west came a familiar pop, then another, followed by a fiery explosion. Rapidly, she calculated. “The rebels are firing jarra about half a mile away,” she called up to Ammo Mazen.

  He pursed his lips and muttered, “Those homemade hell cannons are unpredictable and dangerous.”

  Nadia nodded, lips puckered with worry. Blue propane cylinders filled with nails and ball bearings, jarra were notorious for going off course, killing and maiming whoever had the misfortune of standing nearby—rebels themselves or innocent civilians. She couldn’t help but think of the battalion of women they’d met that morning. I hope they’re all right. . . . Allah, please keep them safe. Cold wind whipped by, numbing her face. She pulled down her hat, hiding her ears and neck. Jamila slowed to go around a broken-down Jeep from which a group of well-dressed women and children descended.

  “Can you help us?” called out the woman who’d been driving.

  “My apologies, but I know nothing of fixing automobiles,” said Ammo Mazen.

  “What’s happening, brother?” asked a woman Nana’s age.

  “A battle is stirring in the west,” he explained. “Army and rebels are at each other’s throats.”

  “It’s not like Ghouta, is it?” asked the old woman, her face creased with fear. “How can Bashar be so unmerciful and cruel?”

  Nadia froze. Two months ago, a sarin gas attack had killed over a thousand civilians in a rebel stronghold outside Damascus, called Ghouta.

  “No, sister, thank Allah there are no reports of chemical weapons being used,” said Ammo Mazen.

  The old woman’s face tightened in disgust. “That American president, what did he say? If the devil Assad uses chemical weapons, that would cross a red line and would have consequences! Ha, the line has been crossed, but he and the west do nothing but watch us die.”

  Ammo Mazen nodded, cutting off her diatribe. “You must hurry now. Take the little ones and find a hiding place. The best is to find a room in the lower level or basement.”

  “Thank you, brother—may Allah be with you!” she shouted as they moved on.

  “Where are we going?” asked Nadia, trying to figure out where they were. A deserted school appeared on their right, but it wouldn’t offer much protection since the entire face of the building had been sheared off.

  “I know of a place,” said Ammo Mazen, pulling out his compass.

  Jamila turned off the main boulevard and merged onto a side street. Zigzagging through a maze of narrow alleys, she slowed as one ended in a quaint cul-de-sac. A small mosque sat in a courtyard, enclosed by a metal fence. Sturdy, abandoned apartment buildings, scarred by explosions, shouldered it on either side.

  “We’ll stop here,” said Ammo Mazen, guiding Jamila into the courtyard. He pulled up next to a fountain filled with rainwater. With a snuffle, Jamila eagerly dipped her muzzle inside and drank.

  Nadia gingerly stepped down, holding Mishmish close to her chest while scanning every corner of the courtyard, looking for any sign of movement. The air seemed heavier and the sounds of battles muted.

  “I know the imam in charge,” said Ammo Mazen, walking briskly toward the mosque, where a flock of pigeons roosted atop the dome. “He runs the orphanage there.” He angled his head toward a squat building rising beyond a small stretch of scrubby grass. The old man paused at the door and stood a moment, listening. Nadia followed, the eerie silence sending a rush of goose bumps along her arm.

  Ammo Mazen gently pushed open the door, revealing a darkened hall, the floor covered in faded green carpet. “They’ve left,” he said, shoulders drooping, face pale.

  He needs to rest, thought Nadia.

  “I know he was thinking about it, but I guess they couldn’t stay any longer.” He headed back to the fountain. “Come,” he instructed, pulling Jamila’s head from the water.

  Irritated, she snorted, spraying water all over Nadia. “Oooh,” she grumbled, eyeing the cantankerous beast, who seemed to be laughing at her. It was because of the smelly beast that they were going on foot, and now this.

  “The most secure place will be the orphanage,” said Ammo Mazen. “There is a big hall where the cart will fit.”

  As they approached the wide double doors, pockmarked with bullet holes, a voice from the window above boomed out. “Stop! Don’t enter if you value your life.”

  Nadia stopped dead in her tracks. Her head jerked up toward the window where the barrel of a rifle was aimed down at them.

  Chapter Fourteen

  October 10, 2013 3:52 p.m.

  Go away,” came a bellicose voice from above.

  “We don’t want you around here!” shouted another.

  Nadia froze, but Ammo Mazen nudged her to get behind the cart.

  “We mean you no harm,” said Ammo Mazen, his tone cordial. “We were just looking for Imam Ali. Do you know where he is?”

  Silence resonated above, followed by intense whispering. Nadia caught snatches of hushed words.

  “He says he knows your imam. . . .”

  “He’s lying. . . . Don’t trust him. . . .”

  Ammo Mazen stared at the window, a shrewd look on his face. “Imam Ali and I are good friends and I’ve brought food to share.”

  Nadia frowned. Why is he offering our food? We should just leave these crazy people alone!

  A scuffle sounded from above, then a loud “Go away!”

  An annoyed whisper interrupted, “But they have food.”

  “Be quiet,” hissed the first.

  Then the muzzle of the gun shifted and wobbled. “Give me that!” the second voice yelped.

  “Ow,” came a howl of indignation. The weapon jerked sideways and tilted down.

  “Move away,” grunted Ammo Mazen just as a large rifle with a wooden butt came tumbling through the air. Nadia ducked for cover beneath the cart as the gun landed with a sharp clang against the stones. This was not the time to die from an accidental discharge.

  Ammo Mazen grabbed the weapon and stared at it in amazement. “An StG 44,” he muttered. “German made, from World War Two. Very rare indeed.”

  Nadia stared at how easily he checked the magazine clip, which was empty. How does he know so much about guns?

  “Look at what you made me do!” hollered a furious voice.

  “Stop squabbling and open the door,” Ammo Mazen ordered. “We are not here to hurt you, but to help.”

  After another round of muffled quarreling, footsteps approached. A series of bolts thudded and the double doors creaked open. From behind the cart Nadia spotted a boy, no older than eight or nine. Hands on his hips, he stood imperious, his round frame encased in a loose, not particularly clean soldier’s coat, which he’d tightened with a belt. He scowled, the expression almost comical on his round, dimpled face, framed by too-long, silky brown hair.

  From behind him, a lanky boy stepped forward. This one was in his early teens. “Who are you and what do you want?” he asked, his thin features pinched, long dark hair tied back. He wore a simple white tunic and pants, a faded, red-and-white-checked keffiyeh scarf draped over his shoulders.

  “Yeah, what do you want?” asked the soldier boy, pushing out his chest.

  “Now, is this a way to talk to your elders?” asked Ammo Mazen, eyebrows raised.

  Color blazed across the older boy’s cheeks and he lowered his gaze.

  “This is war,” blurted the little boy. “Not a time for being nice. We have to protect ourselves.”

  Surprised by his audacity, Nadia stared at him, eyes narrowed.

  Ammo Mazen smiled wearily. “You have a point there, young man.”

  “Apologies,” muttered the older boy, bowing his head. “But he is right. We had to be careful.�
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  “Where is Imam Ali?” asked Ammo Mazen.

  “He left, a month ago,” said the older boy, eyes shifting.

  “And the students?” asked Ammo Mazen.

  “They left with him,” said the boy.

  “Where did they go?” asked Ammo Mazen.

  “To the border,” said the boy, “to Turkey.”

  “And you stayed?” prodded Ammo Mazen.

  The boy nodded. Ammo Mazen was about to ask something else when the little boy interrupted. “Can I have my gun back?”

  The old man hesitated. “Where are the bullets?”

  The boy scuffed his foot against the floor. “I, uh . . . don’t really have any. It was my grandfather’s. He gave it to me before he left to join the rebels.” Ammo Mazen nodded and handed it back. “So do you really have food?” asked the little boy, hugging the rifle to his chest.

  “I do, but how about you let us come inside and we chat a bit, then we’ll eat?”

  The taller one hesitated. “Did you really know Imam Ali?” he asked.

  “Yes, since he was a little boy,” answered Ammo Mazen. “His mother, Zainab, was a teacher. She and her husband, Majid, were very proud of Ali’s work.”

  The boy nodded, shoulders easing. Doors pushed aside, he showed them into a long hall, filled with small desks. Ammo Mazen led Jamila inside and Nadia followed, Mishmish sticking his head out of the bag.

  The older boy jumped back in surprise. “You have a cat.”

  “Uh, yeah,” muttered Nadia at the obvious.

  “Can I hold it?” he asked, surprising her.

  Nadia gave him a measured look. Finally, she handed Mishmish to him.

  A smile broke out over his melancholy features as he sank his face into the tolerant cat’s fur. “What’s his name?”

  “Mishmish,” replied Nadia.

  “Good name,” he said solemnly. “Cats were loved by the Prophet, peace be upon him, you know.” Nadia shrugged.

  He continued, “Once he cut off the sleeve of his prayer robe rather than wake Muezza, his favorite cat.”