The Girl from Baghdad (19 page)

Linda, Klara and I were often lunch guests at Dani's house. They knew about our difficult situation and took care of us when they could, even if Dani's father, a famous lawyer, refused to help Mum in the case she wanted to file against my father. Mum wanted a divorce and, above all, to gain custody of the three of us girls. For Dani's father, it was one thing to offer us a hot meal but it was another to challenge the history and culture of the Iraqi people by defending a Western woman against a member of one of Baghdad's most renowned families.

Those days were not easy. Reflecting on the great distance that separated me from the memories of my father and our happy childhood, I felt lost. Our house was empty of furniture and the future seemed hopeless. But every time I felt overwhelmed by it all, a letter from Bàsil arrived, making me feel hopeful. One day he wrote, ‘You know what an American guy at my college used to always say? He'd say, “It's not over until it's over”.' Of course his sentiments, reassuring as they were, were only words and didn't resolve daily hardships, but deep down he was right: it wasn't over. Even if Dad had abandoned
us, we were still together: me, Mum, Linda and Klara. And this was good enough reason to carry on.

Luckily, we had enough to eat. We were good at making the groceries Dad continued to bring us last, but we didn't have loose change to buy lollies from the shop close to home. At that point, Klara and I would send Linda on a mission. We knew she won over people's hearts wherever she went with her big, light, baby-doll eyes. The shopkeeper gave her some sweets, pinching her cheeks. She came back home triumphant and we divided the loot.

I went back to organising markets with my girlfriends, like we used to do when we were younger. For them, it still seemed like a game. But for me, selling my drawings, little ‘wish' cards I had coloured and decorated with flowers, and toys meant I could earn a little money. Sometimes I traded a Barbie for a drink that Linda wanted but we couldn't afford. The only thing I wasn't able to sell was my favourite doll Dad had given me all those years ago, it represented the happiest days of my life and I wouldn't have traded it for anything in the world.

I still passed by the local toy shop with its fantastic window displays every once in a while. The shopkeeper knew me because when I was little, I often went with Dad. Now at fourteen, whenever I stood in front of the window, it was just to recall good memories of going in there with my father. Seeing me there one afternoon the
owner came out and made me a sordid proposal: if I let him touch me, I could have whatever I wanted. Shocked and disgusted, I ran off.

Dad was sitting on the couch next to Mum. It had been a long time since we had seen them like this. He was calm. For once they weren't fighting. Mum had called us from our rooms and Linda, Klara and I were standing in front of them, like soldiers. I expected the screams and arguments to start again any minute, but nothing happened.

The oppressive silence was finally interrupted by Dad who said, ‘Your mother and I have to ask you something very important.' He stared at us meaningfully. ‘We have to know who you want to live with.'

Klara and I looked at each other, bewildered. I turned to my mother. My eyes met hers for an instant, but then she lowered her face.

‘You have to decide if you want to live with me or with your mother,' our father repeated.

None of us responded.

At that point, he referred directly to me, ‘Michelle, do you want to live with me or with Mum?' It was as if he was pointing a gun at me.

‘With Mum. I want to stay with Mum.'

Dad didn't say anything, but his face clouded over.

‘And you, Klara?' he asked my sister.

She hesitated. She looked at my mother, then at me, then at Dad again, ‘Me too. With Mum.'

‘Linda?'

‘
Maminkou
,' she replied, using her affectionate term for Mum.

We all knew Linda would follow us. Klara might have chosen differently, but the thought of being apart from us scared her. We all gathered tightly around our mother. Dad looked profoundly embittered, as if our choice had wounded his heart. He stood up and headed towards the door. He turned around again to face us, but didn't say another word. Then he left and closed the door quietly behind him. The click of the door closing was the sound of a man ending an era of his life.

Nights were the worst. And not just because of the bombings. Mum had the locks on the front door changed, because my father's raids had started again. He had become somebody else even more frightening. He wanted to kick us out of the house and take possession of it for good. We lived in fear, anxious about his next return.

‘Help me move the wardrobe, Michelle,' Mum said late one evening. It was now dark outside and time for bed. We were exhausted.

The night before, Dad had tried to bash in the door when he found the locks had been changed. Mum screamed desperately. The three of us girls clung to her, petrified. He left in the end, but we were all still afraid that he would return. I was certain he would kill us if he was able to get in. So, that evening, we barred the front door with the few pieces of furniture we had, hoping to barricade ourselves inside.

‘Now we should be safe,' Mum sighed. Moments later, we heard noises coming from the floor above.

‘What's that sound?' I asked, terrified.

Mum brought a hand to her mouth, ‘The terrace! The terrace door!'

It was the only entrance impossible to blockade. The lock was broken, but we didn't think anyone would try breaking in that way.

‘Stay here, Michelle. Don't move.' Mum sprinted up the stairs and, disobeying her orders, I followed.

At the end of the hallway, on the terrace was the silhouette of a man fiddling with the handle, trying to open the door. Mum ran towards the terrace, screaming, trying to get our neighbours' – or anyone's – attention. The man wedged open the door slightly. It was Bàn's uncle.

‘Open up! Open up!' he insisted, hitting the door with his shoulder. I saw his horrible hands slide through the crack. ‘Let me in, dammit!'

‘Get the hell out, dirty pig!' Mum shouted.

Mum and I pushed with our entire might against the door, but he was still able to slide a foot in the gap. We screamed at the top of our lungs, desperately calling for help. He lifted the frame of the door. Just a second longer and he would have forced his way inside. At that moment, a neighbour across the street, who must've heard the racket from our house, turned on their lights. Bàn's uncle took fright and let go, running off into the darkness. Mum and I collapsed to the ground, shaking uncontrollably.

Bàn's uncle wasn't the only one who tried to break into our house to take advantage of us. In the following weeks, other men tried to break down the door, passing like spiders from the roof of the neighbouring house, across the terrace. They were strangers, but had heard we were alone, a mother with her three completely defenceless girls.

That broken lock was our nightmare. Even if we had a telephone with which we could call the police, they still wouldn't have come to rescue us. The siege continued almost every night. Each night I dreamt of the dark, narrow staircase that led to the terrace door, and woke remembering the hulking shadow on the stairs from my dreams.

The winter cold had become more intense. It was December 1987 and soon it would be Christmas. Only a year before my father was with us and we were still a family. Now we were alone. For the first time, we weren't going to Bibi's house for Christmas. Our father's family had cut all ties with us, and we didn't want to see them. We thought it was their fault that our father behaved like this.

On Christmas Day there was no party at our house. Mum wrapped herself in an old blanket the entire day and we snuggled close to her to keep warm. My father had taken everything, even the heaters. It was cold and difficult, and the sadness penetrated our bones more than the chill. Nothing could soothe that pain.

I spent the afternoon in bed with the covers pulled over my head. I hoped sleep would envelop me and numb me to my sorrows, but, instead, the memories came alive: images of Klara, Linda and me hanging decorations on the tree, the tree-lighting ritual, the mountain of packages beneath branches full of tinsel.

Mum woke me gently. ‘Wake up, dear. I have a surprise for you.' For the first time in months, I saw a weak smile on her tired face. ‘Up. Rinse your face. Put on your best clothes and fix your hair. We're going out tonight.'

‘Where are we going? What's happening?' I was still half asleep. Mum had put on her elegant clothes and had made herself up. But the outfit fell limp on her thin body
and the makeup wasn't enough to mask her hollowed cheeks and the black circles under her eyes.

‘Linda and Klara are almost ready. Up, don't make them wait. It's almost time to go,' she said, pulling the covers off me.

I got up begrudgingly, and chose something plain to wear from the closet. I didn't know where she wanted to take us. It all seemed very bizarre. Perhaps Aunt Ahlam had invited us to her house? Or maybe Aunt Kasside? Maybe they were sorry for having treated us badly? I thought about what Kasside said to me the last time I saw her at Bibi's villa:

‘I know it was you who convinced your sisters to stay with your mother. Otherwise, they would have stayed with us. This is no longer your house. Go away. There's nothing more for you girls here.'

I was devastated. But maybe now, after all these months, she was sorry. Dad must've had a change of heart. He had never stopped loving us and maybe he had finally forgiven me. It had to be so. What else could explain what was going on with my mother?

The empty bus Mum made us get on didn't go in the direction of Zeyůne, the neighbourhood Bibi lived in. I flopped down on the seat sadly and watched the nocturnal panorama pass by the window. The war had damaged so many buildings. Rubble and demolished houses were everywhere. Where were we going? The
bus turned down the driveway of the Hotel Al Rashid. It had been ages since we'd been to that place. My hope reignited. Perhaps Dad had made a date with us there? We got off the bus in front of the large dining room full of colourful Christmas decorations.

We entered with great excitement. I looked around for my father but couldn't see him.

‘Where is he?' I asked my mother.

‘Who?'

‘Baba, where is he? He's waiting for us here, right?'

Her face darkened. ‘No,' she replied dryly, ‘but us four are getting along wonderfully without him, no?' She sounded almost hysterical. ‘This is my surprise, a nice Christmas dinner all together, just as it's always been.'

Astonished, I stared at her. Linda was delighted.

‘Dad's not here,' Klara added gloomily.

Mum spoke slowly, in a low voice. ‘He's not here and he's not going to be. We're alone now.' She shifted her gaze to her empty plate. Then she bravely took the menu in her hands. ‘Come on, girls, decide what you want to eat,' she instructed.