The Girl from Baghdad (24 page)

‘Last week, I spent the rest of my pension on the black market to buy four sausages. You girls have never experienced hunger and toil. During the war, I worked in the fields for days without even a crust of bread to put between my teeth!'

She continued to curse the Nazis and her miserable life for hours. At the dinner table, we risked her wrath because Linda didn't finish her soup. It only took the raising of my grandmother's hand to make my sister's appetite return.

Babička had a real obsession with food. She poured all her rage into eating. She had an endless hunger.
She finished her meal first and always helped herself to seconds. She insisted we, too, eat more than we could stomach.

It had been more than a year since we had gone to stay with her and, although the stress of arriving in a new country and school took a toll on my weight in the first few weeks, I had slowly gained extra kilos during the following months. Babička seemed happy to see me this heavy. She harboured an absurd rivalry towards me. Sometimes she snuck up behind me while I brushed my hair in front of the mirror.

‘I used to be pretty too. Just because you see me like this now … All of the suffering I endured has made me this way. If I hadn't had to deal with all the problems you and everyone else here has created for me, I would still be an attractive woman,' she remarked. It seemed a completely senseless thing to say, so I didn't even reply.

When I looked at her, I thought about my Iraqi grandma, Bibi. They were both tough and authoritative women. But Bibi knew how to demand attention, making herself be respected with a single glance. She was a powerful woman and, however right or wrong she may have been, she knew how to be hugely influential without resorting to violence or cheap intimidation. She never raised her voice because she didn't need to. Babička was a very different woman. Bibi always had the last word; Babička, just the last slap. Unlike Bibi,
Babička was an unhappy woman – her only desire was to see others as unhappy as she was.

One Saturday morning in December, I accompanied Mum to her office. I wanted to see how it was set up and I would have gone anywhere else just so I didn't have to stay at home with Babička. It was still dark when we left the house. There was no public transport to the customs office where she worked, so we walked about three kilometres, crossing frost-covered fields, until we saw the forlorn little station: Mum's workplace.

‘It seems deserted, but every once in a while it buzzes with life,' Mum joked. We laughed, lengthening our steps as we reached closer.

The office, which consisted of just the one room, was warm inside. But when we took off our coats, I realised that the enormous windows were full of cracks and had blades of cold air creeping through them. Mum started fiddling with the stove and ignited the gas beneath the small kettle. The room was sparse and desolate. There was only a dusty typewriter, a pencil holder with a few pens, some containers for documents, and a bookshelf stacked with messy piles of paper. The musty odour of the room, no doubt from the ageing paper, dust and mould, filled my nose. The walls were grey and dirty.

‘I know it's somewhat depressing, but I couldn't find anything better.' She sat down on the only other chair in the room. ‘Because I'm working, I'm saving a little bit of money. I'm tired of depending on my mother. We'll leave soon. Try to be patient.' She turned on a small battery-powered radio she kept on her desk. ‘It keeps me company. The afternoons are long and I don't have much to do.' She turned the knob until she reached the news channel.

The broadcaster announced that there had been demonstrations in Prague. As this was a government-owned radio station, the information given was very vague.

At home I had heard Mum and Babička discuss the ongoing political demonstrations at the table. Since the Berlin Wall had come down on 9 November 1989, there were many student protests in Bratislava and some capital cities. Dobříč was close to Prague, and people returning from the capital passed on the information that the radio news left out to the locals. This is how we learnt that a crowd of peaceful protesters who were calling for democratic elections got into trouble with the police. The people responded by taking to the town square again, this time in their thousands. Mum and Babička said this revolution would sweep across the entire Soviet Union like a wave. But, naturally, Babička was convinced that no change of government could improve the quality of her life.

That evening, when Mum and I arrived home for dinner, we noticed that Grandpa wasn't at home.

‘It's Jarda,' Babička said, as she finished setting the table.

I had a feeling that I knew what she was about to say. I had seen him that day, when I returned home to pick up something before going back to see Mum. Jarda sat on the bench in the courtyard with his head hanging down to his chest and his tongue sticking out. The image flashed through my mind.

‘This morning, while he was helping Grandpa chop wood, he started feeling bad,' Babička continued. ‘By the time the doctor arrived it was too late. He had a heart attack. They took him to the hospital.'

Jarda never came back. He was already dead by the time the ambulance reached the hospital. He had always been a silent presence. Nobody really noticed him much around the house. Grandpa was devastated. He was the only one who truly cared for him, while Babička had never acknowledged him as her son. Rather, she considered him a burden, another mouth to feed. On top of that, he couldn't help her out too much around the house. ‘What use is he?' she used to say to no-one in particular.

As soon as the days became warmer and the climate improved, I helped Mum prepare the vegetable garden in the backyard. We hoed the soil, and my sisters and I had fun collecting dirt clods full of worms to give to the hens.

Some evenings, when a band performed at the town pub, Grandpa took his trumpet to play music with the locals. Now that I was sixteen I was allowed to go along. It was the only fun Babička allowed me to have. I flirted with a few boys, who invited me to dance the mazurka or other folk dances. They were fun times.

Sometimes the townspeople held parties to celebrate the slaughter of a pig. We drank boiled animal blood and ate pork sausages. My grandmother always helped out. Her reputation for being a great cook was known throughout the town. She enjoyed preparing fruit preserves made from peaches and prunes. For all her meanness, I had to admit her sweet-and-sour cucumbers were the best in the district.

Even if I was permitted to participate in the local festivities, I wasn't allowed to do things other girls my age could do – spend an evening out, have a drink with friends or catch the train to Prague. Babička wouldn't even let me go to the cinema. My mother submitted to Babička's will. My grandmother always had the last word on everything. I had never been so constrained, not even in Baghdad.

The sign on the crystal shop window read: ‘Shop assistant wanted'. The shop was located on Prague's Wenceslas street, the same street where my parents had their first date, which was one of Staré Mešto's commercial streets, not far from the big town square. Across the Charles Bridge, under which the Vltava River ran, I could make out the historic Malà Strana neighbourhood, illuminated by the August sun. Yellowed election posters were still fixed everywhere, but nobody stopped to look at them anymore.

Two months earlier, in June 1990, there had been the first free and truly democratic elections since the Communists came to power. After the fall of the Wall, there had been great changes in Czechoslovakia. What
we were witnessing was known as the ‘Velvet Revolution' because the Communist government had been overthrown without the use of physical force, or violence. At that time, it wasn't clear to me what it all meant, but even in my naivety, I was able to recognise a refreshing euphoric sentiment amongst the people and an enthusiasm for the future.

I had travelled to Prague to meet Aunt Zdenka. She had come to town to visit her daughter, who had just given birth. I was going to spend a couple of weeks at her house for my summer vacation. Mum had given me permission, going against Babička's wishes, because the tension between my grandmother and me was escalating. We fought almost every day. I became increasingly less tolerant of her complaints and demands.

I had plenty of time to wait for my aunt so I caught a bus from Nové Mešto Station to the city centre to have a stroll and to look around. I stopped in front of the store almost by chance, attracted by the sparkle of the finely crafted goblets in the window.

I peeked inside. A shop assistant was showing a vase to a couple of foreign tourists. The couple talked and gestured to the young woman, trying to bridge the language barrier. I recalled holidays I had taken with my parents, when the world seemed like a giant market, where my father bought the most splendid things and gave them to us as presents.

‘Are you here for the job?' a voice said, bringing me back to reality. A stout blonde woman stopped outside the store, a plastic shopping basket in one hand and a purse in the other. She seemed to be in a hurry and looked at me impatiently.

‘Pardon?' I asked, flustered.

‘Are you here for the job?' she repeated. She pointed at the sign. ‘I saw you looking.' With both hands occupied, she leaned her shoulder against the door to open it.

Seeing her struggle, I instinctively stretched out my arm to push the door open.

‘Thank you, you're very kind,' she responded, smiling at me.

I followed her into the shop. She greeted the shop assistant and set her things down behind the cash register. I guessed she was the owner. She removed her coat and took a deep breath. ‘Good, where were we? I suppose I guessed right – you're interested in the job?'

I didn't have the courage to say no. Besides, it wouldn't hurt to listen to what she had to say, and I figured I could always refuse.

‘Yes,' I answered.

‘How old are you?' she asked me.

‘Seventeen. Nearly.'

‘Are you foreign? You have a strange accent.'

‘My mother is from Dobříč, but my father is Iraqi.'

‘I see. Do you live here?'

‘No, I live with my mother.'

She gave me a curious look. Perhaps she wanted to ask me what happened to my father.

‘You've already worked in a store, right?' she continued.

‘No, but I learn quickly,' I replied confidently.

The woman seemed perplexed, but kept asking me questions. By now I was very determined to get the position. Despite my initial doubts, my gut told me it was a good opportunity. I couldn't let it get away.

‘Do you speak English by any chance?'

‘English, German, a little Russian. And naturally, Arabic.'

‘Well, of course, but I doubt you will need it here. The tourists are mostly European. But either way, it's always useful, right?'

The interview seemed to be over. Two customers left the store and the woman approached the shop assistant, exchanging a few quiet words. She came back to me.

‘Listen, I've talked to Ivana about it. You seem like a good girl. Let's give it a try. We need an interpreter on the weekends, when we're busy. Could you start in a fortnight?'

‘Yes, of course,' I said without hesitation. I didn't have any idea of how I would pull it off, but I was already buzzing with enthusiasm. My first job! I couldn't wait to tell my aunt.

‘Pardon me. We haven't even introduced ourselves. I'm Mrs Bànenka, but you can call me Aneta,' she said, offering me her hand.

‘Michelle. It's very nice to meet you. And thanks a million,' I replied, shaking her hand firmly.

‘Wait to thank me. You'll have a lot to learn and do! I hope you won't have second thoughts. See you in two weeks.'

I shook her hand again before closing the glass door behind me, almost skipping onto the street.

My aunt was very excited for me and started plotting out my future in Prague. ‘You need to find yourself accommodation here in the city, right away. However, there's school to worry about. What do you think you're going to do? You can't think of abandoning your studies right before your graduation,' she mused, waiting for me to say something.

‘Maybe I could just stop …'

‘Don't even think about doing that! Your high school is really just on the edge of the city. Even if you do move to downtown Prague, you can still go to lessons during the week and work on the weekends.'

She seemed to have a solution for everything. This was one of the many things I loved about Aunt Zdenka.

‘Babička will never agree.' I sighed.

‘What do you care? Your mother won't object. She wants the best for you. And it's wonderful that you can
finally earn some money, even if you'll have to pay rent and everything else.'

I wasn't thinking about the money. For me, the job was purely a means of escape from my miserable life under Babička's tyranny. Of course it would be demanding, but nothing could be worse than cleaning her chicken coop and listening to her constant whingeing about us and her life.

So with my aunt's help, I began my big move to the city. I rented a single room in the centre of Prague, advertised as an ‘apartment'. The apartment's only window faced directly into another person's room in the building pressed against mine. There was no kitchen, not even a stove. The walls were peeling, and a strong odour of stale air and dust hung about. A bare light bulb dangled from a wire in the ceiling.

‘I took the bed back, but I left you this,' the landlady said, pointing at a stained mattress thrown on the floor.

I looked at it reluctantly. ‘It'll be wonderful,' I lied.

She shook my hand. The deed was done. The rent was low, but it was still more than half what I earned at the shop. Even if the room was bare and claustrophohic, I was ready for the adventure, however hard it would be.

As soon as Babička heard about my plans, she made a scene, telling my mother, ‘Your daughter will come to no good, alone in the middle of all those men! She'll come home pregnant!' But despite her protestations I took
my things and moved into the city in time to start work. I made a pact with Mum; she would let me go as long as I promised to graduate from high school.

My one-room ‘apartment' was situated in the fourth district of Prague, near Vyšehrad. I had to make a short trek on foot to catch the subway to get to work. Wintery conditions returned, and the stinging cold left the trees in the park stripped bare. The grey sky was like a heavy cloak. I would walk quickly to work and kept my eyes down, so as not to make eye contact with anyone in that city of strangers.

After the first weekend working at the shop, Aneta handed me an envelope with my wages. I hid the money under my clothes and strode home. I didn't like being alone on the poorly lit streets in my neighbourhood; the large apartment buildings had a ghostly air about them. Once inside my room, I locked the door behind me, still panting from the fast-paced walk.

I pulled out the money and counted it. It wasn't very much, but I was proud of myself. I hid it inside the pocket of a pair of pants I kept concealed at the bottom of the dresser.

The joy of that moment passed quickly. Feeling scared and lonely, I plopped down on the old mattress and
looked around. I had a can of tinned food for dinner. My stomach clamped up just thinking about it. I almost missed Babička's cooking. I wasn't used to being all by myself, and I was feeling very exhausted, but the thought of returning to my grandmother's house was even more terrible than the solitude.

In November, my boss asked if I could work another afternoon during the week. I accepted, cutting back on my studies. After working all day, I fell asleep on my books. Going to school in the morning became torturous. Regardless, I was determined not to give up. I quickly befriended Ivana, the girl I worked with. She knew I wasn't happy, alone, in that tiny apartment. One evening as she lowered the store's roller shutters after closing, she asked me to dinner at her place.

‘Really, I can't, but …' I didn't want her to invite me out of pity.

‘Come on, don't make me beg you. My parents are curious to meet you. My brothers will be there too. You'll like them,' she convinced me.

Ivana's family was very hospitable. She lived with her parents and her two younger brothers in a modest apartment just outside the city centre. Her mother hugged me as I arrived and immediately accompanied me to the dinner table.

I relished the food, savouring it in silence. It was the first hot meal I had eaten in weeks. I quietly observed
my hosts. I could see that they all loved each other. I remembered what it meant to be in a real family and felt all the more isolated.

Ivana and I stayed to give her mother a hand while she tidied the kitchen. Her father had returned to the factory. When the little ones were in bed, Ivana's mother took out a small bottle of spirits. She wanted us to celebrate my presence with a drink. As the three of us sat around the table, she began to tell me about their hardships.

‘You know, Michelle, even if all three of us work, it's difficult for our family to make ends meet. There aren't many opportunities in this country. My husband is thinking about moving to Germany. His brother is already there. He left a year ago, found a good job and earns good money. He writes letters to us each week and says he's setting aside a decent amount of savings. He misses us a lot.'

She made me read his letters. Some passages told of his heart-wrenching homesickness for his family, a feeling I knew well.

Ivana's family hosted me overnight, as it had got late and the trains had stopped. I found it hard to fall asleep. I continued to think about what Ivana's mother had said; about the fact there was little opportunity in Czechoslovakia and about the life I had lived for the past few months, a life without any prospects. Even if I went
out some evenings to distract myself, where I lived was little more than a flophouse. I struggled daily with the feeling of being unable to move forward.

Aneta said that year at Christmas, with the opening of Eastern Europe, she expected tourists to flood into Prague and spend freely because of the favourable exchange rate. She asked me to work all day during the winter vacation, which I hoped would help me with my savings.

From the beginning of December, glittering decorations lit up the historic Old Town and the festive atmosphere seemed to enliven every corner of the city. But it was a lonely time for me. At night, walking down the animated streets, I felt homesick for Iraq and I missed Mum and my sisters. I also wanted to see Aunt Zdenka. The closer it got to Christmas, the more the painful memories resurfaced: the last dinner at Hotel Al Rashid, the blissful childhood years in our house with Dad. My thoughts were constantly preoccupied with Baghdad.

In August the Iraqi army had invaded Kuwait and ignited a new war. Only two years had passed since the end of the conflict with Iran. Plans for a massive international response to the invasion of Kuwait led by the Americans were all over the radio. Through all this recent drama we had little news about my father and his family. Despite everything he had done to us, I still worried about his safety. Tormented by these constant
thoughts, I squeezed into my heavy coat after work and ran home quickly to seal myself in my tiny dark cave. The melancholy swept over me.

One evening, I couldn't take it anymore and went out in search of a public phone. I called Mum. ‘I'm coming home for Christmas Eve,' I said trying to still the quaver in my voice. I wanted to see her and I needed to find a bit of peace again after those first difficult few months in the big city.