Refugees (14 page)

He told her about C Squat, an abandoned tenement on Avenue C where lots of runaways holed up. C Squat seemed like a good solution. If she and Jude stayed there, no one could track them down. They wouldn't have to deal with Pax, and Jude wouldn't be as tempted to run back to his mother. Dawn thanked the kid.
Don't be so uptight,
she scolded herself as she walked to the squat.
Some people actually want to help you.

A Goth guy draped in a black shawl sort of ran C Squat. He said, “You can stay in my friend's room, but only until he gets back from Santa Fe.” The room stank of mildewed mattress, and she had to clasp back the black polyester curtains with her hair scrunchies so a slice of sun could peek through. But after a vigorous sweep and the old boot-stomp on no less than five monstrous roaches, she settled in.

Two days later it seemed the right time to call Jude and
tell him the good news. He answered on the third ring. Dawn didn't go into detail or delve into the scary bits—her sweaty insomnia, how each ambulance siren convinced her the city was under new attack, how alone she felt. “C Squat is good,” she said. “Come stay there with me. There are lots of cool kids, and your parents won't find you.”

“I don't know,” he said. “Is there hot running water and a shower?”

“Communal bathrooms,” Dawn answered. She kept her mouth shut about the black polyester curtains, the mildewed mattress, the bare lightbulbs, and the roaches.

Jude's tone was cool. “Honey, I need a mirror and a private john.”

“Come on, Jude. It's fun to rough it. Remember our ride east?” Dawn hummed some lines from “Rock Candy Mountain.”

“Let's face it, that was hell on wheels, and the squat sounds like grunge city. If I were you, I'd lose the hobo fantasy and come back. I miss the way you entertain me.”

Dawn's giddiness fizzled to flat. Jude had seemed less nice ever since they'd left San Francisco, but maybe she was being too sensitive. “Come for a visit, then.” Maybe if Jude saw it, he'd change his mind.

“Okay, just for a visit,” he promised.

Dawn folded up the sat phone. She got out her flute, propped her music on the dusty sill, and began the mournful Grieg. Her music poured up the rickety staircase, out onto the tar roof, and through the unusually somber streets of her new neighborhood.

F
ar past Kabul, Johar and Bija had seen the smoke from distant rocket fire in the city, and Johar could sense the sickening onslaught of war. After 430 kilometers and what seemed like months (but was closer to three weeks), Johar stood, heavy with exhaustion yet relieved, on Camp Suryast's northern ridge. He surveyed the mirage of tents undulating in the afternoon heat. It was a canvas city pitched unsteadily on poles and fringed by hastily dug mud caves with tarpaulin roofs baked to cracking. The camp stretched into the horizon.

Riding closer on Aman's donkey, Johar and Bija saw the refugees. Wizened men stared vacantly, children bit nubs of fingernails, babies' sticklike limbs splayed from their mother's arms, and boys leaped over a ditch that reeked of human waste. Aunt Maryam's friend had come
back from this place? It seemed a spot where all roads ended. As Johar continued to look, the dread that he'd felt since he left Kabul agitated to toxic levels, and he fought the urge to scream. He clenched his fists around the reins and began riding toward a wooden building that seemed like an office.

It was Suryast's main office. Johar dismounted, lifted Bija up and onto the ground, and tied the donkey to a post. After an eternity in line, a Pakistani aid worker tipped his head in greeting. “Your business, boy?”

“My name is Johar. My cousin here is Bija. We fled the Taliban and the rumor of war. We ask for shelter here in Suryast.”

“Bad bombs are coming,” Bija whispered, her brown eyes fearful.

“Vikhrim my name,” announced the worker. “Many flee and many come here. Over three thousand peoples at Suryast. No tent available.”

“What can we do, then?” Johar asked, his voice rising. With no tent, Johar and Bija would have to search for another camp.

“Until application will be approved and more tents, you share tent with other family,” Vikhrim answered in clumsy Dari.

At least this man was trying to speak their language. Most Pakistanis spoke Urdu. “Many thanks,” Johar replied as he studied Vikhrim's Western pants and odd felt hat that rounded over one side of his head. Johar followed Vikhrim wordlessly, Bija's hand in his, as Vikhrim pushed his way through the throngs. Even a corner in a tent would be merciful splendor.

Dust blew into Bija's eyes. She began to wail as she
rubbed them, which prompted a coughing fit. Her coughs turned to hacking, then retching sounds. Johar steadied Bija's shoulders as she vomited reddish phlegm onto the sand. Her illness had returned with even greater force after leaving Kabul.

“Is there a doctor here?” Johar asked anxiously. “I had hoped my cousin was better, but she is worse than ever.”

“Many sick here. There is one medical compound.” Vikhrim pointed to the outskirts of the tent city. “But lines stretch around the camp. See the red mark on the white wooden building past the tents?”

“I see.” Johar nodded as he kicked sand over Bija's blood-flecked mess. She lifted her palms, begging Johar to pick her up. He swept her up and under his arm.

“Many have disease.” Vikhrim waved toward the cacophony of voices and bodies, the circle of waifs shadowing them. “Ration tickets scarce. Little food. Aid workers promised wheat to Suryast, but delivery delayed by American bombs. First they bomb and then bring food. Can you imagine?” Vikhrim raised his hands in exasperation.

I can,
thought Johar, pained at the memory of the droning jets that had appeared overhead some time after they'd left Kabul. Later the yellow packages had fallen from the sky and onto the road like golden kites. Johar had first suspected they were land mines; the Russians had dropped tiny mines years back. He'd heard stories of children who had picked them up, thinking that they were toys. But these yellow packages had English writing
—Humanitarian Daily Ration—
and pictures of people eating. Food! Johar had been hesitant, but hunger overcame fear when he'd poked a package with a stick and it hadn't exploded. He and Bija had ripped the plastic and gobbled up a sticky mess of
peanut-flavored glop with raisins. What odd food the Americans ate. They managed to pick up one other before the rest were grabbed.

“Tent number one-oh-two,” Vikhrim announced as they reached a tent larger than most. Its number was printed in faded ink on the canvas flap. “Wait here.” He lifted the flap and stepped inside. While Johar helped Bija wipe her nose and drink water from their flask he overheard what sounded like a heated argument from inside the tent.

They sat on a nearby ridge and waited for Vikhrim to emerge. Curious bands of children stared from a distance. Johar stroked Bija's feverish head and thought of Aunt Maryam. If she was lucky, the Taliban would have freed her from prison. If she wasn't lucky…Johar didn't dare imagine that now. And Daq, did he fight with the Taliban? Was he injured, or worse? If by some miracle Daq had escaped, Johar prayed he would remember the emergency family plan to meet at Suryast. Johar must write letters as soon as he managed to procure paper. The hardest part of having the family split was the not knowing. Would Johar never know? The pieces might be thrown so far that their perfect puzzle curves would never again fit together as one.

Vikhrim's sun-baked face finally poked through the tent flaps, and he motioned for them to join him.

Inside the tent, an aged man with a snowy beard sat in a corner clacking prayer beads through his fingers. “Johar, meet Wahir,” Vikhrim said. Johar said hello, and the old man grunted. Two boys crouched in front of Wahir by the cooking fire, warming a pot of rice. One was a boy of six or so, and next to him a boy about Johar's age.

Vikhrim pointed to the large boy. “Johar, this is
Romel.” Romel continued to stoke the dung coals without looking up. His scowl seemed to say
Go back to where you came from.

“And this is Romel's small brother, Zabit.” Zabit's grin was guarded as he poked a stubby finger over gums where two front teeth had been.

“I am grateful to you for allowing us to stay,” Johar murmured.

“It wasn't our choice,” Romel blurted. “You'll have to get your own food. We've not enough food to feed our own.”

“You must apply for ration booklet.” Vikhrim explained. He adjusted his slanted hat and skittered from the tent.

Johar and Bija faced the old man and his sons. “What did Vikhrim mean by the ration booklet?” Johar asked the old man, Wahir.

Wahir eyeballed Johar as if he were a fool. “No wheat without ration tickets. Apply at the compound for tickets. It takes many days.”

“But what will my cousin and I eat until then?” Johar asked, alarmed.

“Drink from your tears and eat your despair,” laughed Wahir bitterly. Romel chuckled along with him.

“I have some nuts.” Zabit removed the fingers from his mouth and shoved them in his pocket, producing two walnuts. “But I need them.”

“Share,” Bija cried sharply. The last of their keshmesh had been eaten a day ago, and Johar knew she was famished. Bija approached Zabit, who popped the walnuts back into his pocket. She started to howl, which sent her into another coughing fit.

Wahir paused from his beads. “What's wrong with the girl? Her lips are blue.”

“My cousin has a bad cough.”

“There is a doctor by the western edge of the camp,” Wahir mumbled, resuming his bead clacking.

“An American,” snorted Romel as he stuffed a mound of rice in his mouth.

“Thank you for telling me.” Johar piled his bags in a corner near the door. “We will not take up much room.”

“No, you won't,” agreed Romel, stretching his feet toward Johar's bags. Zabit stared wide-eyed at Bija's bluetinged face.

The sound of Zabit and Romel gobbling their rice made Johar's mouth water. What would they do for food? He must get his cousin to the doctor, but if she could eat a bite first, it would do her good. Johar pulled a hat—the one with the sunburst design—from his pack and held it out. “Would this do in return for a handful of rice?”

Romel's eyes gleamed with interest, but he held back. “I said we do not have enough. Didn't you hear me the first time?”

Wahir's beads fell silent. “Give them a fistful, boy.”

Romel scowled as he slapped a clump onto the plastic cloth near Johar's feet and grabbed Johar's hat. Bija scrambled over and stuffed in a mouthful. As she chewed, she began to cough again, but this time she couldn't stop and with each cough her lungs produced a wretched gurgling.

Was she breathing? Her eyes were wide, but she didn't seem to see him. Johar couldn't let her choke to death! He scooped her up, hurried her outside and tied her to the donkey's saddle. He mounted and raced the beast toward Suryast's western edge, to the building with the red mark.

What a disaster! thought Johar. The line of sick people stretched over the ridge into the fading sun—maybe thirty people deep—just as Vikhrim had warned. Bija's eyes rolled back to show the white parts. Her breaths were barely audible. Bija might die if they waited in line. She needed help now! Every nerve in Johar's body strained to ride faster. The donkey clambered along the cracked plain, sending up clouds of dust. Finally they reached the front of the line. Johar leaped down, untied Bija, and pulled her into his arms.

He pounded fiercely on the flimsy wooden door. “My cousin is dying!”

“My son is sick too,” yelled an angry man, “and we've waited for hours to get up to the doctor's door.” He pushed Johar away, but Johar swerved around him and pounded harder on the door.

“What are you doing, you selfish boor?” demanded a one-legged man behind the first. He hopped on one foot as he brandished his cane. “I've waited all morning in the wretched sun to get a leg.”

“American doctor, please help! She's dying!” Johar yelled in English through the open window.

The door swung open. A man with cloud-colored hair around a pink face emerged. Behind him was a woman in owlish spectacles, also with pale skin. “What's the trouble, Nils?” the woman asked the man.

The pink-cheeked man began speaking to Johar in Dari. “What is the trouble?”

“I'll show you trouble!” screeched the one-legged man. He smashed Johar on the back with his cane. “The boy jumped the line.” Johar winced in pain but held his place.

“Stop!” Nils grabbed the cane. “Patience,” he shouted,
prodding the man back into the angry crowd. Nils stationed himself between Johar and the throng like a human shield.

The spectacled woman approached. She began to examine Bija, peering down Bija's throat and listening to her chest with a metal stethoscope. “Rales,” she muttered.

“Can you help my cousin?” Johar begged in English. “She cannot breathe!”

The woman raised her eyes to his, startled by Johar's words. She turned and opened the door. “Bring her in.”

The crowd roared. “Thrash that boy! He cut in.”

“Just because the boy speaks Ingleesi.”

Speaking in Dari, Nils attempted to calm the crowd. “Your turn will come. We will see you all.”

Johar's heart pounded as the woman took Bija in her arms and carried her into the compound. She laid Bija on a metal table, stuck an instrument down her throat in a concentrated motion, then pulled it out. Johar came over and helped to hold Bija steady. She shuddered and coughed, then began to breathe—breaths that beat like hummingbird wings. Bija was still alive! The doctor rubbed the instrument along a glass slide, then removed some blood with a needle.

“This medicine will treat her infection.” The woman said. She rubbed a patch of Bija's skin with a piece of cotton, then poked another needle into her arm.

Johar sighed deeply. The din of the crowd, which had faded in those awful moments, returned in a swell outside the window. “Will she live?” he asked in English.

With sturdy hands the woman set Bija on a cot by the wall. “We hope so.” She removed her glasses. Her eyes and the strands of hair that peeked from her scarf were both the slate color of goat's wool. “Your cousin is one sick little girl
with an extremely high fever. I suspect that she has bacterial pneumonia. Do you understand?”