As Long as the Lemon Trees Grow (10)
No one takes to a rickety boat on the sea if there is another choice.
Among the tired faces Khawf’s sticks out, with his gleaming eyes and a knowing smirk.
Maybe the reason he’s willing to break me in order to get me on a boat can be explained in a scientific manner: He’s a defense mechanism my brain has provided, trying to ensure my survival by any means necessary. But still my stomach gnaws with apprehension at what horrors await me at his hands.
Within ten minutes, Am finds me in the main hallway. He wades his way through the sea of bodies until he reaches me by a half-broken window that’s covered with a flimsy sheet.
My nervous system is going haywire, zapping electric impulses all through my body that I can’t seem to calm down, no matter what methods I use. My paranoia over Dr. Ziad making an unexpected appearance is high, and I dig my hands into my pockets to hide their trembling. I don’t think I’d be able to go on with this conversation if he were to see me. I’m turning my back on my people.
“So, how many are you?” Am asks, and I snap back toward him.
“Two,” I say. My voice sounds distant.
He studies me for a second. “That’s your whole family?”
Chips crack from my heart, falling through my rib cage. “Yes.”
He nods, but his expression is impassive. It’s not out of the ordinary now to be a family of one.
“I’ll drive you to Tartus,” he says as if he’s discussing the weather. “The boat usually sails from there. About a day and a half through the Mediterranean Sea and you reach Italy. A bus will be waiting for you there to take you to Germany. The most important thing is to get to Italy.”
My heart flutters with every word he says. And despite his dry tone, I can see the journey unfold in front of me. The boat rocking gently over the blue sea, the water lapping against shores that promise safety. Layla, turning to me, an honest laugh escaping her lips that: We’re safe. Yearning rips through my stomach.
A baby cries, shattering my daydream, and the patients’ moans of pain are suddenly deafening against my ears. No. No. How can I think of my safety when I vowed to heal the sick?
But Layla’s pregnant, and I promised Hamza. Layla would never leave without me, and I can’t have her stranded alone in Europe when she barely speaks English, let alone German or Italian. Being a pregnant girl and all alone would make her easy prey. Monsters aren’t confined to Syria.
Indecision is a poison germinating in my blood vessels.
I clear my throat. “How much does it cost?”
He thinks this over. “Four thousand dollars. And there’s a line.”
I blink. “What?”
“I deal in dollars. Liras are weak. Four thousand dollars. Two thousand each.”
Blood drains from my face and my mouth is dry. That’s more than we have. Baba was able to withdraw six thousand dollars in the beginning, but most of the money has gone as the price of food has increased. We barely have three thousand left.
He notes the change in my expression and snorts. “Did you think getting to Europe would be cheap? Did you think it would be easy? We’re talking about smuggling two entire people to a different continent. Not to mention bribing all the soldiers on our way there.”
I’ve lost feeling in my legs. “You… you don’t understand. The other person, she’s my sister-in-law. She’s seven months pregnant. If she gives… The money will be needed for her to survive. I don’t have enough. Please.”
He considers me for a minute. “Four thousand dollars and I’ll let you jump the waiting line. That’s as far as my courtesy will extend. Don’t take too long to think about it. The boat doesn’t wait for anyone.”
And with that, he walks away, leaving me rooted to the ground while Khawf stares after him with narrowed eyes. I wonder what my brain will do with this obstacle.
WHEN DR ZIAD FINDS ME, I’M ON THE FLOOR IN the corner of one of the recovery rooms, clutching my knees as I rock back and forth, shaking and crying, trying to soothe myself. Two little girls lay motionless before me, bullet holes ripped through their throats. Military snipers take to the roofs at the borders between the military’s posts and the Free Syrian Army’s protected zones. The girls look about seven, clothes torn, knees scraped.
The snipers’ victims are always the innocents who can’t fight back. Children, the elderly, pregnant women. The Free Syrian Army informed Dr. Ziad that, early on, the military would target them for sport. Even Layla had a very near miss in October; now she’s not allowed to leave the house. Ever. Not without me.
Dr. Ziad crouches beside me, his kind face weathered with pain.
“Salama,” he says gently. “Look at me.”
I tear my eyes away from the small faces with purple, bruised lips to meet his eyes. I press my hands to my own lips, begging them to stop trembling.
“Salama, we talked about this. You can’t work yourself to this point. You have to take care of you. If you’re drained and in pain, you won’t be able to help anyone. No one should have to handle this horror. Especially someone as young as you are.” His glance softens. “You’ve lost more than anyone ever should. Don’t confine yourself to the hospital. Go home.”
My hands fall to my lap as I process what he’s saying. Over these past seven months, he’s become a father figure to me. I know one of his daughters is my age and that he sees her in me. I also know he’d never ask of her what he expects of me every day. To drench my hands in the blood of innocents and push it back into their bodies. Witness the horror and still come back the next day. And a small part of me, a very small one, begrudges him for it. Though he tries his best to take care of my health, not letting me exceed my limits.