The Girl from Baghdad (7 page)

Although it seemed brutal to me, it was the most widely used system in the neighbourhood to keep the number of domestic animals under control. For Babička, it was simply one of the numerous things that they had to do to maintain the household.

My Czech grandmother certainly didn't hate all animals. She loved Maida. And she treated that dog better than she did people. She was famous among the neighbourhood kids for the blows she gave out with her
stick. As a result, everyone stayed away from our gate. In the house, she guarded her
spiz
, the pantry, like a Rottweiler. She locked it with a deadbolt and told us to keep out. If something went missing, she accused us of having stolen food. Of course, we discovered that there hadn't been a robbery, and it was all her imagination.

Babička was obsessed with food and the fear of starving due to her terrible experiences during the Second World War. The war she spoke about was fought before Mum was born – when Czechoslovakia was invaded by Germany. Nazis stole everything and burned her restaurant, leaving her in poverty. ‘Nazis' and ‘pantry' must have been in some way connected, because Babička used to tell us the same story every time she accused us of stealing something.

Babička often shouted, and not just about food. As I was the eldest she forced me to help her with the housework. She didn't even say ‘please'; she ordered.

‘Iron the clothes! Don't waste time.'

And if I complained there was too much ironing, she'd answer, ‘You'd better hurry up then. You'll only go out to play when you've finished.'

I'd gripe to my mother, but she always advised me to be obedient. ‘It's not right! She does it on purpose! She's always mean to me!' I harped.

‘You know that's not true, Michelle. Grandmother's like that: she's rough but she still loves you. Remember,
we are at her house and we have to abide by her rules.'

Since Babička always won, I was used to spending the majority of my summer afternoons doing housework. By the time I was free, my neighbourhood friends had already gone home and the only thing I could do was play cards with Grandpa. It was my duty to go and buy his beer at the only shop in town, a sort of market full of smoke and half-drunken men, not far from Babička's house. She used to give me the exact amount in small change and sent me to the store with a terracotta mug in my hand. The street on the way back was sloped, and I had to be really careful to not spill a drop. When I brought the mug to Grandpa, he used to give me a tiny sip as a thank you. Tasting beer was something I could only do in Czechoslovakia, as alcohol was absolutely forbidden to children in Baghdad.

We tolerated life in Dobříč, counting down the days until Dad returned. I felt suffocated in that house; every year seemed more cramped than the year before, and Babička more despotic. That summer, when Dad finally came to pick us up, I welcomed him as if he were my saviour.

The trip to Thailand, on the way back to Baghdad, seemed especially promising. We were beside ourselves
as Dad had rented two suites: one for him and Mum, and the other for my sisters and me. Klara and I spent most of our time by the hotel's big pool. We watched American television in our room at night and ate sweets and hamburgers ordered from room service.

During that vacation, just before my twelfth birthday, I remember the walks in downtown Pattaya with my parents, the smell of the ocean, and the strong fragrance of spices in the markets, and thousands of colours exploding everywhere. Tailoring shops, one after another, with fantastically coloured fabric, lined the market streets. One could order a suit in the morning and pick it up at night. Dad ordered two suits and, while the tailor was taking his measurements, he made faces, pretending to be ticklish, just to make us laugh.

I was amazed and challenged by everything there and I asked a lot of questions. My dad always had an answer and encouraged me to taste everything. During a boat trip, he offered me a plate of scampi.

‘Gross!' I screamed. ‘I don't want to taste those bugs!'

‘They're shellfish, and you won't know how good they are until you taste them. Come on, try one,' he said, offering me a bite.

‘No and no! I wouldn't touch them even if I were dead.'

‘Just do it for me. Close your eyes and open your mouth.' His smile was warm and encouraging. Dad
insisted again and, finally, he convinced me. I had to admit, he was right; the scampi were extremely tasty.

We went to the theatre one evening. The actors were men in women's clothing. Their eyes were made up and their mouths were set in fierce grimaces. I was terrified. My dad squeezed my hand and told me they were going to dance for us. He held my hand for the entire show, assuring me that the men in masks weren't going to hurt us. During one of our strolls in downtown Pattaya, I saw a beautiful pair of handmade gold-coloured shoes in a shop window. Although I was just a little girl, I had already learnt to be alluring; a feminine art that was taught at a very young age.

Those shoes bewitched me; I wanted them.

My mother didn't agree. ‘Those shoes are not for a child. Can't you see the heel?'

‘But they are my size!' I tried to convince her.

‘Only because Thai women have small feet!' my dad answered.

‘Anyway, Michelle, I don't want to hear about it anymore. We'll get you the doll you saw yesterday if you want.'

Even as Mum tried to distract me, I wanted those shoes more and more. I sulked all the way back to the hotel. Dad noticed and winked at me.

After dinner, when my sisters and I went back to our room, I found a package on the table next to my bed.
My name was written on the tag: ‘A gift for my little princess'. Even though there was no signature on the card, I already knew who it was from. I hastily opened the present and removed the pair of golden shoes from the box. I put them on and went out onto our balcony.

Dad and Mum were sitting beside one another below, on the green terrace of the hotel, sipping champagne. I wanted to show him how pretty I was wearing his gift. Imagining I was Raghdde dancing in the moonlight, I watched my parents together from the balcony. There were two champagne flutes on their table, and men and women danced nearby to a small orchestra. As the music and dancers swirled around them, my father gazed at my mother without blinking an eye.

I don't know if it's still common for a woman to daydream about her Prince Charming, but I dream of a man who can look at me in the same way my dad looked at my mother that night.

When we returned home from our holiday, I was full of excitement. I was about to start at a new private girls' school. Dad accompanied me on the first day and introduced me to the principal. After exchanging a few polite words in her office, they walked me to my classroom at the end of a long corridor. The principal told me that there were sports stadiums in another wing where I could play volleyball or soccer. In the courtyard, as big as a town square, official ceremonies
and parades took place for Saddam Hussein and other government officials.

A huge picture of Saddam was the first thing I noticed in the classroom. Another thing that attracted my attention was a light-skinned girl named Dani. She was very pretty. She had ash-blonde hair, a fair face full of freckles and brilliant chestnut-coloured eyes. I sat at a desk next to hers, and we stared at each other the entire morning. The third day of school, one of my classmates passed me a note that was going around; it was a poll to elect the most beautiful girl in the class. There were three names: mine, Dani's and another. Almost all the votes were for Dani and me. I voted, refolded the paper, and passed it to my neighbour. Raising my head, my eyes met Dani's: she was smiling at me arrogantly, as if she was sure to win. I replied with a scowl, which she returned as she grabbed an eraser to throw in my direction. At that moment, the principal entered the room. Everyone stood up and she made an announcement:

‘In two weeks we will have the honour of receiving a visit from the Raìs, Saddam Hussein. For this occasion, all our classes will march in a big parade. Tomorrow will be the first rehearsal in uniform. Please, especially first year students, you must be perfect! One of you will be chosen to bring the flag to the flagstaff, where it will be hoisted.'

Dani and I exchanged looks, as if to challenge each other.

The following morning an army of young girls learnt military-style drills in the courtyard. We practised marching in lines, alongside the other classes. A girl in third grade came up to me and gave me the flag; I was proud of the fact that I had been chosen and couldn't resist turning to Dani to gloat. In response, she grabbed the flag out of my hands.

‘You don't deserve it! It's my turn!' she said.

‘Let it go! They chose me! It's mine!' I declared, trying to take the flag back.

Our squabble soon turned into a fight. We started pulling each other's hair and our classmates circled around us. Hearing the screams, the principal came out and dragged us into her office, grabbing us both by the arm.

She was an intimidating woman: very tall and skinny. She tapped her long nails on the desk while she scolded us, looking us up and down. Her black hair shook at her every movement. For the most sensitive students, just one look from the principal was enough to make them start crying.

After a stern reprimand, we were forced to sit on a bench and wait for our parents. Sitting there together, we regarded each other curiously. The fact we had both survived the principal's scolding made us feel like accomplices. Dani made the first move.

‘Is the black car that sometimes brings you to school yours?'

‘Yes, but my dad often needs it, so I have to catch the bus.'

‘Where do you live?'

‘Near Arba'taash Ramadàn, in Al Mansùr.'

‘Then we're neighbours,' she replied, surprised. ‘That means you'll hear my dad screaming at me tonight from your house. He'll be outraged as soon as he knows what we've done!'

We started laughing, but soon heard some steps coming from the long corridor. My dad appeared, looking very angry. He told me to wait there for him; he was going to speak with the principal.

I stood up to follow him when he came out of the office. But, before leaving, I waved to Dani. ‘See you tomorrow,' I said, winking at her.

‘See you tomorrow,' she replied, and immediately added, ‘Listen, if you like, I could pick you up with my driver. We pass in front of your house and it's a shame for you to have to catch the bus.'

My dad looked at us, puzzled. The principal had just told him about our fight but, in the short time he was talking to her, Dani and I had already become friends.

The school was sparkling on the morning of Saddam's visit; it was meticulously cleaned and decorated. It wasn't the first time I had seen our leader in person.
In elementary school, the Raìs and his entourage would arrive with a truck full of toys – balls, dolls and coloured pencils. And he wasn't the only powerful figure to visit our school; Saddam's ministers came too, awarding medals to the best students.

We were already lined up when the government delegation arrived: first a squad of bodyguards, then Saddam and his ministers. I immediately recognised Tariq Aziz as I used to see him on television; people loved him. Saddam approached the small stage, nodding to the teaching staff. The principal welcomed him with an obsequious bow and invited him to take a seat to watch our exhibition. The Raìs sat on a huge throne-like chair, covered in red velvet.

We marched up to the stage for the military salute. I moved away from the line, raising the ceremonial flag. I held the flag in my hands with my arms ramrod straight, my body firm and my chin in the air, just as the teachers had taught me. The rolling of the drums reverberated. I delivered the flag to a girl in sixth grade, who tied it to the rope. Then, at the blow of a whistle, we stood to attention, our eyes fixed on the flag. When the flag was hoisted I turned to the Raìs and saluted him. He nodded to me. I had done a good job. I could take my place again.

Saddam stood up and started talking to the students. He had a deep, energetic voice. He ended by saying,
‘The future of our glorious nation is in the hands of the new generation. Persevere with your studies and honour your land!' At the principal's signal, we applauded. The Raìs lifted his hand to thank us and sat back down.

Saddam's ministers spoke after him, introducing themselves and saluting the students. The Raìs listened attentively, his eyes fixed on us from his throne. I took a good look at him. Even if he seemed like an ordinary person to me, everyone knew he was important. He sat firm. He touched his chin every now and then: a gesture that indicated his authority.

During the school year we took field trips to the ministries and the palace where Saddam lived and worked. I had already visited the palace when I was in elementary school. There were huge portraits of the Raìs in uniform everywhere on the walls. He looked almost as if he were God in those paintings. Outside, there was a magnificent garden with many fountains and small lakes where swans glided past. Inside, there were massive rooms that one could easily get lost in. The ceilings were so high they echoed every sound and the marble floor shone.