When the Moon Is Low(36)

“Get in,” whispered the driver. “Quickly.”

This was Mahmood’s plan for us, I reminded myself, as I ushered my children into the van. Trust him that this is the right thing to do.

Two other families were packed into the van, each with four or five children. I whispered a greeting and led my family into a corner of the hollowed-out vehicle.

There was no room for idle chatter. Too much weighed on our minds. Thick silence was cut by Aziz’s noisy breathing as it harmonized with the rusted engine.

Just outside Herat, the driver stopped the van and leaned over the back of his seat.

“From here, we cross the desert and then the border. You will all pay now or be left here.” His tone was dry.

The driver got out of the van and opened the back door. He pointed at the man sitting across from me who crept out to settle his family’s fare. His wife and children watched on anxiously, nervous to be even a few feet apart from their father.

Next went the father of the second family. I looked at my children, watched them stare unabashedly at the fathers.

I must be everything to them, I told myself.

I stepped down to meet the driver, leaving Aziz on Saleem’s lap. I handed over a small envelope and waited while the driver nimbly thumbed through the bills I’d already counted and recounted.

“You and your children are traveling alone.”

I nodded.

“That’s a problem. I don’t think we can take you.”

I tried to steady my voice.

“What’s the problem? The money is all there.”

“You know how it is. I’m taking a risk by bringing people across. But you, an unescorted woman . . . you understand? This is a much bigger risk for me and not one I can do for this price. It’s not fair to me.”

Though Asim had predicted this, I seethed to hear the driver’s reasoning. If we were stopped, no one would pay a bigger price than I. But I was prepared. I would play his game.

“Please. Have mercy on me and my children. We have nothing left. What are we to do for food?”

“Sister, what is anyone to do for food? I have children too. Do I look like a king? Who will have mercy on me?”

The border was so close I could taste it.

“This is all I have left,” I said and reluctantly slipped a gold ring with a turquoise stone off my finger. “This was a wedding gift from my late mother-in-law, God give her peace. Now I pray I’ll find a way to feed my children.”

“God is great, my sister,” he said as he stole a quick glance at the stone before stuffing it in his jacket pocket. “Your children will be provided for.”

THE ROAD ROUGHENED AS WE LEFT HERAT’S LIMITS. WHEN THE van came to a stop, we all held our breath. I put my hand on Saleem’s.

“This is the border,” the driver announced. “The guarded passage is ten kilometers that way. There’s a trail that cuts through the mountains. I’ll lead you across. It’s not easy, but many have crossed it before you. Keep your children close and keep them quiet. Watch your feet. There are loose stones, scorpions, and snakes to worry about. Watch for my flashlight.”

Saleem and Samira pressed themselves against me, terrified by the driver’s warnings. Under my burqa, Aziz’s breaths felt moist and rapid on my neck, as if even he felt nervous.

We trod carefully, following the distant yellow glow of our guide’s flashlight. When I heard a hiss, I nudged the children along without breathing a word. They were frightened enough without naming the shadows. For hours, we stumbled through the dark, falling and scraping knees, bending ankles. I’d flipped my burqa back and let it drape behind me, like the other women. I’d swaddled Aziz with a long muslin cloth and tied him around my torso. I held my children’s hands as we did our best to tread carefully.

Samira’s hand pulled out of mine and I heard a yelp.

“Samira! What happened? Where are you?” I strained my eyes to make out her shape.

“She fell, Madar,” Saleem said calmly. “I’m holding her hand.” Even as Samira’s ankle had turned in under her, he had held on.

Samira whimpered softly in the dark.

“Can you stand, my love?” I watched the distance between us and the others widen.

“Get her up and walking,” the driver hissed at us. “We cannot fall behind.”

I felt around for her ankle. My hand touched something wet and warm, and I realized she must have cut it against a rock. I prayed it was not too bad. I took a scarf from our bag of clothing and tied it around her ankle.

The driver’s light grew dimmer. My heart fluttered with alarm.

My daughter pressed on, though I could tell she was limping. Saleem did his best to support her weight, but he too needed to be careful with his footing.

God forgive me for putting them through this.

An hour later, the mother of the family ahead of us slipped, with her two-year-old in her arms. Their cries rang out in the night.

The flashlight turned on them. The mother’s face looked horrified.

“What have I done?” Her husband was at her side, helping her up. The baby’s arm had twisted grotesquely, bent between the elbow and wrist in an obvious break.

They were distraught. I wanted to help but didn’t know how.

The baby howled when his father tried to touch his arm. The driver stood over them, sighed heavily, and spit into the darkness.