Home Is Beyond the Mountains (7 page)

“It would mean they changed
their minds,” said Mrs. McDowell. “These government officials seem to do
nothing but change their minds. They let some of the Assyrians across the
border weeks ago and then made them come back.”

“What about us? Will they
make us come back?”

“No,” said Mrs. McDowell.
“They know you orphans will stay where they put you. But they also know that
some of the Assyrians will do almost anything to try to get back to their
villages. The only way to stop them is to keep them on this side of the
border.”

“Why do they want to stop
them?” said Anna. “All of us should go back to the places we came from, to
our homes.”

“There is still fighting
going on.” Mrs. McDowell shook her head. “And travel is very dangerous. For
the moment you children will be in the camp we're making at Kermanshah.” She
looked out the window at the dusty land and added, “At least I can promise
you that Kermanshah will be cooler than Baghdad.”

It was true. When they
arrived in Kermanshah the air was clear and cool. The children stood on the
train platform, breathing in fresh air and staring up at high
mountains.

“It feels a little bit like
home,” said Samira. “What mountains are those?”

“The Zagros Mountains,” said
Mrs. McDowell. “Your village is beyond those mountains. A long distance
beyond. Impossible to reach right now.”

“But Kermanshah is another
step,” said Samira.

“Yes, it is,” said Mrs.
McDowell. “Where I come from we would say it's a step in the right
direction.”

SAMIRA AND ANNA STOOD
at
the door of their tent and looked around. The Kermanshah camp stood on the
edge of a lake in beautiful open fields with the mountains beyond. The tents
were exactly like the ones at Baqubah. There were seven of them — six for
sleeping and a big one for eating.

“I think this is the same
tent we were in before,” said Samira. “I recognize that place where it's
mended.”

Later she said to Benyamin,
“If I sleep in a tent for three years, is that tent my home?”

“Of course not. We live in
these tents because we have to. Some day we'll get home. Home to
Ayna.”

“How can we?” asked Samira.
“They tell us over and over that it's impossible.”

“We have to find a way,” said
Benyamin. “I'm afraid they'll put me and the other boys in the army when
we're sixteen. I won't go into any army, so I have to get back to
Ayna.”

“You won't be sixteen very
soon, will you?” asked Samira, wondering how it could be that she wasn't
sure how old her own brother was.

“I turned fifteen in
Baghdad,” said Benyamin. “So I have another year to be an orphan.”

“I'm twelve,” said Samira.
“I can be an orphan for a few more years.”

She looked past Benyamin and
saw seven tents and an empty field — places to sleep and eat and play.
Nothing that was hers.

“I have to get back to Ayna,
too,” she said in a low voice. Then, louder, “When I'm too old to be an
orphan I have nowhere to go, not even the army.”

“You could get married. Lots
of girls get married when they're fifteen or sixteen.”

“You think I could get
married here? In one of these tents? Without a village to live in? No!”

Samira suddenly realized
that she was shouting at Benyamin as if he could change something.

Just then they heard the
sharp sound of a mallet hitting a board three times. It was the signal that
the orphans should gather in the big open area beside the cluster of
tents.

Benyamin gave Samira a half
smile.

“Good news?” he said. But he
shook his head and they walked together to join the others.

A tall man with a beard
stood in front of one hundred and fifty children.

“I have some things to tell
you,” he said, “and I hope you can understand me. I've only been studying
Syriac for a short time and I know I make mistakes. As you know Mrs.
McDowell has returned to Baghdad. My name is Mr. Edwards. I'm with the Near
East Relief in the city of Hamadan, and we run this orphanage. You'll be
living here for several months until we can move you into proper buildings
in Hamadan.”

Samira could feel the
children around her sigh and slump, but Mr. Edwards was going on.

“You'll be sleeping in these
tents and we'll build a kitchen and a schoolroom that will double as an
eating hall. School will start as soon as we can bring in a teacher or two.
You'll have jobs to do but you can have fun, too. You are in no danger here.
You can run in the field and swim in the lake. You may not be where you want
to be, but you are in Persia. Welcome!”

Mr. Edwards was kind, and
Samira could see that he worked hard, but he often had to be away in
Hamadan. The cook stayed but the teachers, nurses and other helpers came for
a few weeks and then went off to other more permanent orphanages.

“We should be able to leave
and go somewhere else the way these other people do,” Anna grumbled. “But,
no, we have to stay here where there's nothing to do but odd
jobs.”

The boys helped the builders
and the girls took turns in the kitchen. When there was a teacher they went
to school. Otherwise the children found ways to entertain themselves. As
long as the summer lasted they went swimming in the lake. The boys played
games with sticks out in the fields and the girls kept the young ones busy on
the lakeshore.

Then the autumn rains came,
and the tents leaked just as they had in Baqubah. One morning the grass
sparkled with frost. Samira rooted through the ragbag of worn-out clothes to
find a jacket she could mend for Elias. More jackets and quilts arrived, but
they never seemed quite warm enough in the sharp mountain air.

Every morning when Samira
came out of the tent she looked at the mountains. The Zagros Mountains. Mama
and Maryam lay in the earth somewhere in those mountains, and Papa, too. But
on the other side was home.

Benyamin came and stood
beside her one day.

“I'm off to gather fuel for
the kitchen,” he said. “There's always some job to do. But nothing that
matters.” He stared at the mountains, frowning. “The builders say that some
people have made the journey, that they are back in their villages.” He
looked at Samira and she could see the longing in his eyes.

“Don't listen,” she said
sharply. “It's only talk.”

“It's not only talk,” said
Benyamin. “Some people have made it.”

He turned and walked away.

Samira's heart was heavy.
She wanted to get over those mountains, too, but she was afraid. For Elias
and the other little children, she told herself. But really she knew. She
remembered the journey through the mountains too well. It was for herself
that she was afraid.

One morning when it was
barely light, Samira heard someone calling her name from the doorway of the
tent. She crawled out from under her quilt, wrapped it around her and
stepped out into the cold air.

Ashur stood there looking at
her, not saying anything.

“Why are you here? Where's
Benyamin?”

“He's gone,” Ashur said at
last. “So are Yakob and Simon. I think they've gone away to the mountains.
They're going to try to get home.”

Samira didn't want to make
sense out of the words he was saying.

“Benyamin's gone? Are you
sure?”

“I'm sure. He sleeps beside
me and he's not there. He's taken his warm clothes and his knife. Yakob and
Simon are gone, too. I woke everyone in the tent. We realize now that each
one of them had been talking about getting over the mountains and going
home. I guess they just couldn't wait anymore.”

He stopped talking as Elias
came through the tent door and leaned against Samira. He had put on his
trousers and his thick shirt, but his feet were bare.

“Why are you out here?” he
asked Samira. “It's cold.”

“I'll come in and get
dressed,” said Samira automatically and followed Elias into the tent.

When Anna saw them she said
sharply, “Where have you two been? Something has happened, hasn't it?”

“Benyamin's gone. He's gone,
Anna. He went with Yakob and Simon to go through the mountains and get
home.”

“Benyamin? He's run away
from the camp? Benyamin? Are you sure?”

“Ashur is sure. Benyamin
said nothing to me. And he went without me.”

“He wouldn't have taken you
into the mountains,” said Anna. “And if he had told you, you would have
found a way to stop him.”

Elias looked up at Samira.
“He told me,” he said solemnly.

“What did he tell
you?”

“He told me he had to go
away but I would see him again and I should stay near you so you wouldn't be
too lonely.”

Suddenly Samira was angry.
“He was afraid to tell me. He did what he wanted and now I have to sit here
and worry. Maybe I'll never see him again.”

She looked down at Elias. He
looked ready to cry. She knelt down and hugged him.

“You didn't do anything
wrong,” she said. “It was Benyamin who did a foolish thing.”

She looked around. All the
girls in the tent were sitting up and staring at her.

“I have to talk to Mr.
Edwards,” she said to Anna. “Right now.”

She found Mr. Edwards in the
school building. He came to her and took her hands for a moment.

“I've heard about Benyamin,”
he said. “I know how worried you must be. I thought Benyamin had more sense.
He knows how rough those mountains are. Very cold, too, so early in the
spring.”

“Can't someone go and look
for them?”

“I won't send any of the
other boys into the mountains and there is no one else to go. We'll get
messages out so that people in the villages and the men working on the roads
will be on the lookout. The boys will have to seek help sometime. All we can
do here is pray. I'm sorry, Samira.”

Samira went down to the
lake. The morning sun was glinting on the water but the air was still cold.
She pulled her jacket tight around her and wondered whether Benyamin was
cold. He had his warm jacket. But had he taken a quilt to wrap around him
when he slept?

She looked at the mountains
beyond the lake. They looked like a solid wall. The very idea of walking
into those mountains made her shiver. But that's what Benyamin was
doing.

She heard footsteps and
turned to see Elias bringing her a folded piece of lawash. He handed it to
her without a word and to please him she ate it. The bread was spread with
honey, and its sweetness and familiar taste were comforting.

“Thank you, Elias,” she
said. “I don't want to go to school today. Shall I come and read stories to
you and your friends?”

“Yes,” said Elias. “Read us
your books.”

As Samira read the stories
she had written long ago about Ayna, she thought that the village Benyamin
might return to would not be like the village she remembered. No one to
welcome him. The gardens in ruins. The houses falling in. That's what he
would find.

At supper Mr. Edwards told
them that no word had been heard about the boys.

“But they haven't been gone
for even a day yet,” he said. “I'm sure we'll get news before long. Remember
that Benyamin and Yakob and Simon are strong boys and smart, too. I think
they will find that they have made a mistake and be safe with us again.” He
looked around the room at the silent children. “I know you want to get home,
too, but I'm sure you understand that this is not the way to do
it.”

As soon as it was dark
Samira went to bed, exhausted from worry and anger and sadness. She fell
asleep at once and dreamed that she was crossing a deep chasm on an endless
bridge made of sticks that broke under her feet. She woke and lay staring
into the darkness, remembering how Benyamin had held her steady on a bridge
long ago.

When the gray light told her
that it was very early morning, she quietly got up and dressed.

She stepped out of the tent
and saw a white mist rising from the lake. The mountains were hidden, and as
she walked along the shore she felt as if she was the only person awake in
the whole world. But perhaps Benyamin was awake. Where had he
slept?

The mist was blowing off the
lake in wisps. It surrounded Samira and she could hardly see where she was
going.

“I'd better go back,” she
thought. “I don't want to walk into the lake.”

As she turned, she ran into
something very solid.

Not a tree. There were no
trees by the lake and this was not hard, like a tree. She looked up and saw
a face looking down at her through the mist.