The Way Home

Chapter 16

Afghanistan, September

THE COOKING ROOM STAYED RELATIVELY cool, the thick exterior walls blunting the effect of the afternoon sun. Rabia stood back in the shadows near the window, watching the walled courtyard and worrying that the askar pushed himself beyond what was wise.

He was still so thin and not yet well, but there was no getting him to stop the grueling exercises he called a workout. Such a stubborn man. A determined man. A man she could not help but admire for the stoic way he endured his injuries and the way he had willed himself off the poppy. She did not know many men who, once mired in the drug, had the strength to fight their way free. And she knew of no man who had suffered as he had during withdrawal and not begged for the relief a dose would bring.

He was also a kind man. Like her husband had been kind. But something had changed inside him the night on the roof when they had talked of his leg.

“I suspect your leg was once broken and did not heal well,” she said as he leaned on her for support.

“Bastards wouldn’t set it. They dumped me in that hole and…”

He had not said anything more. But she knew he had remembered something. When she had asked, he had insisted it was nothing. That the thought had made no sense.

He had not been truthful. Whatever memory had come to him had caused him much anguish, and he did not wish to share.

For many days after that, he had been sullen and silent. Now he was restless and driven to fight his way home.

She did not know how this would be possible, no matter how much of his strength he regained. The village was cut off from Internet and telephone lines, so they all relied on foot messengers passing from village to village. The latest report had arrived yesterday. Taliban patrols had doubled in the two months since the askar had escaped.

Find his way home? How? How did he plan to do that? She had no idea if there were any American forces left in the country. Before she had left Kabul, she had heard of the American draw-down and knew it was about to take place. The Americans had decided the ground had been washed with enough American blood.

She watched her askar as he sweated and strained. This ground had been washed with his blood. She did not want any more of it spilled.

“What American forces?” she had demanded when he had said he would find a way to reconnect with them. “There was once an American military post at the halfway point between here and Kabul. Even if it is still there, you could not get to it. Messengers report that all roads in the province have Taliban checkpoints stationed every half-mile or so or over the next hill or bend in the road.”

She had told him all of this, and still he was determined to find a way.

The thought frightened her. Only because she had much time and care invested in him, she told herself. And because if he were captured, he would be tortured, and if he broke, the Taliban would then come after her and her father.

But this was only part of the truth. She had come to care too much. He reminded her with his presence what it was like to share a life, share a bed, and sometimes, foolishly, she wished he could be content to stay here.

Foolish. Impossible. But the thought came, unbidden, especially when she let herself look at him.

He was still so very thin. The meager meals she made for him and her father had added little weight to his bones. His eyes, however, no longer looked empty. He no longer seemed only a victim of the brutality and torture his scars suggested.

Today his chest was bare and slick with perspiration. His head and feet were also bare. He wore only the trousers she had given him. And looking at him like this, in secret, where neither he nor her father could watch her, she felt an ache low in her core that neither guilt nor prayer could deny.

His skin was burned brown from the many days he had spent in the courtyard, testing his strength until his limbs trembled and he could hardly hold his head up.

“What is that you do?” she asked one day as he had lain on a mat on the ground.

“Leg lifts. I’m up to ten sets of five. Slow, tedious.” He grunted and pushed himself to do yet one more. “Baby steps.”

“And what does this do for you except cause you to grunt and swear and make horrible faces?”

Her grumpiness had made him smile. “You don’t like my horrible faces?”

She had crossed her arms at her waist. And said nothing.

“It builds core muscle strength,” he’d explained. “I can’t do sit-ups, so this will have to do.”

She had watched him try to do his sit-ups. The dizziness had hit hard and fast. He had vomited violently, then lain very still for a very long time until the dizziness left him.

“Can’t do squats, either.” Because of his leg, she knew. “So I have to modify.”

He had asked for heavy rocks from the street, which he lifted over and over again above his head. At his request, she had found him a heavy iron bar that he had propped between the forks of two apple trees in the courtyard. Every day, he painfully and slowly chinned himself over and over again.

Ten nights ago, she had awakened to a noise outside and found him climbing the ladder to the roof.

“Why are you not sleeping?” she had whispered from the ground.

“Got to build my lung capacity. Can’t do this in daylight. And it’s the closest I can come to running stairs.”

Then he had proceeded to climb up and down and up and down, his leg clearly giving him pain. Finally, she could not stand watching anymore and had gone back to her bed.

Now here he was again. Pushing himself beyond his limits. She could not bear it any longer and stepped out into the courtyard. “I will not drag your carcass inside if you burn like meat on a spit out there in the heat.”

He stopped chinning and looked at her. Sweat ran down his temples, slid down his neck, then trickled down his chest. “I promise it won’t come to that.”

“You are right. Because you must stop now. Evening meal will soon be ready. You must bathe. You cannot sit at my table covered in dust and sweat and smelling like a goat.”

He laughed out loud—a sound that, judging by the look on his face, surprised him. It surprised her, too. She had never heard him laugh. That she had been the cause for such a rich, deep expression of joy made her own heart swell with happiness.

“Yes, ma’am.” He touched his fingers to his forehead in salute. “I learned long ago, never piss off the cook.”

“Piss off? What does this mean?”

He laughed again, and she could tell it felt good to him, too. “It means I’m going to go clean up so you don’t hit me over the head with one of your cooking pots.”

This time, she smiled. “You are stubborn but wise. My pots are very big and very hard and very heavy.”

He was still smiling when she spun around and headed back inside.

And later, when he appeared again in the courtyard, smelling of soap and dressed in clean clothes like a proper Pashtun man, she could not help but wish it were so.

She had become accustomed to seeing him at her table, which was a cloth laid outside on the ground surrounded by cushions. Because of his bad leg, he could not sit cross-legged. Instead, he’d gotten as comfortable as he could, and as she had taught him, he had left his shoes at the front door and made certain he did not sit with his legs outstretched or his feet facing either her or her father—to do so would be an insult.

He spoke softly in Pashto, inquired about her father’s health as was considered polite, and complimented him for having such a good cook as his daughter. He held the acceptable amount of eye contact with her father and avoided looking at her altogether, again, to honor her father and respect Pashtun law.

He had listened and learned her lessons and waited respectfully for her father to eat first from the communal dishes she had prepared. Because his left hand was his dominant hand but was considered unclean in her culture, she could see him concentrate to remember to use his right hand to pass food and to eat. He had become quite accomplished at scooping his food up into a ball at the tip of his fingers and then eating it.

Yes, she had turned him into a proper Pashtun man—who would leave her like a bird in flight if he could but find his way home.

HE HAD STEPPED out into the courtyard to start his workout the next morning when Rabia’s father lifted a frail hand and beckoned him over.

Rabia had left for the market, so the two of them were alone, as they were every day when she left to shop. This was the first time, however, the old man had shown any interest in him. He often made himself scarce, respecting their prayer time and staying out of the old man’s space. Consequently, they had exchanged few words in the month or more he’d been here, so Shaghalai Kakar’s summons surprised him.

So did the first words out of the old man’s mouth when he sat down beside him.

“My daughter is a precious jewel. I regret that I called her back here.”

The old man sat on the ground, his legs crossed in a yoga position, his back pressed against the outside wall of the house. A grape arbor of sorts shaded them from the summer sun. Smoke curled up from the hand-rolled cigarette the old man held between fingers stained by tobacco. His face was a wrinkled road map carved by time, loss, war, and worry.

“Had you not called her back, I would be dead. For that, I am grateful,” he said, also in Pashto, giving the elder tribesman the respect he deserved. “I regret, however, that my presence here has put you and her in peril.”

“Life is peril. Life is regret. Only Rabia proves the latter wrong.”

“Rabia jana is a fine woman,” he agreed respectfully.

“She is a fine Muslim woman.” The squinty eyes staring at him were yellowed and filmy with cataracts. “She is Pashtun. When you look at her, your eyes often say that you forget.”

Ah. So Wadkar wasn’t as out of touch as his silence and constant sleeping suggested. His eyesight was also better than he had thought. He was also right.

“I do not wish to dishonor you or her.”

“Wishes mean little. Only actions speak.”

Right again. “As soon as I figure out a way to leave here, I will be gone.”

“You are welcome to take refuge as long as you have need.”

Even Pashtunwali, it seemed, trumped a father’s concern for his daughter’s virtue.

“I thank you for that.”

“Make certain when you go that you will not be captured. They will torture you. You will tell them that we harbored you.”

“There is little I remember about my life. But this I know. I would not betray you or Rabia jana. I will die first.”

“You will pray for death, but they will not let you die until they find out who protected you.”

With that, the old man closed his eyes. The discussion was over.

Everything he’d said was spot-on right. He watched Rabia far too much. Watched her work, watched her gentle way with her father, watched her as she hummed softly while she cooked. Watched the door where she slept in the room only a few feet away from him. Watched and wanted her.

He had to get out of here. But the old man was right about that, too. Until he was stronger and came up with a plan that would minimize the risk of capture, he also risked their lives if he tried to leave.

Deep in thought, he limped over to his chin-up bar. He’d finished five lifts when he heard the front door open and close. Rabia had returned from the market. A bee buzzed by his head as the back door flew open and she ran outside.

“Come. Quickly!” She ran to him, out of breath. “Taliban patrol. They are searching houses. Hurry!”

He followed her as fast as his leg would let him as she ran back inside.

She didn’t have to ask him to help her move her work table in the kitchen. Shortly after he’d become ambulatory, they had gone over the plan to hide him should something like this happen.

Together, they moved the table aside. She tossed back the rug to reveal the trap door in the middle of the floor.

“Hurry!” she pleaded as she jerked it open.

He took one look at the small hole dug into the earth and got broadsided by a wave of nausea and fear so great he froze like a statue.

He was back in that four-by-four-by-six-foot hole, with the snakes and the ice and the snow and the heat.

Two hundred fifty-five lines.

“Please, askar. You must hurry!” Rabia entreated again.

His throat closed up, and his lungs seized as he stared at the damp, dark hole. And he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t make himself crawl inside.

Yet if he didn’t, he would sign Rabia’s and Wadkar’s death sentences.

Swallowing back stark, consuming terror, he lowered himself down, closed his eyes, and prayed to a God he thought he had stopped believing in to give him strength.

The last thing he saw as Rabia lowered the trap door over him like the seal of a tomb was her face, awash with fear, backlit by the sunlight streaming in through the window.

The last thing he thought as absolute darkness closed in and his pulse spiked and his breath clutched at his throat was that he had to keep it together.

Then the claustrophobia set in. And the panic doubled.

This was bad. He knew this was bad. Raw terror quickened his heart rate. Increased his respiration. Blood rushed from his head, and the vertigo hit him with a vengeance.

He clamped a hand over his mouth to keep from screaming.

Willed himself to concentrate on regulating his breathing.

Slow.

Deep.

Steady.

Again.

Slow.

Deep.

Steady.

Over and over and over, until, amazingly, the panic began to subside, and he felt transported to another place. A familiar place. A place he remembered. A place that had gotten him through endless days of pain and starvation and despair.

And there he stayed. Aware of every measured breath. Aware of every single heartbeat.

Aware that if he didn’t keep it together, Rabia would die a horrible death.

AFRAID AND OUT of breath, Rabia hurriedly replaced the rug and, fueled by adrenaline, moved the heavy wooden table back into place. She quickly scanned the kitchen to see if there was anything that would give away that a third person shared their space.

Then she ran to the sleeping room the askar shared with her father, quickly gathered up his bedding, and laid it on top of her father’s. Knowing that time was short, she rushed to her bureau, pulled out her burqa and donned it, covering her face and hands so as not to provoke the Taliban fighters.

Satisfied that nothing in the house would give his presence away, she rushed back to the cooking room, hesitated briefly, and resisted the urge to get down on her knees and ask the askar if he was all right. He had to be all right. None of them would live through this if he wasn’t.

She rushed to the back door and almost knocked her father over as he stepped inside.

“Is all in order?”

“Yes, Father.”

“Then calm yourself. They will not find him.”

It was in that moment that she realized she feared as much for the askar’s life as she did for her father’s.

She flinched when a loud knock sounded at the front door.

Her father placed his hand on her shoulder. “Calm,” he said again. “All will be well.”

The door crashed open before she could open it. Seven Taliban fighters burst inside, wielding AK-47s pointed directly at them.

Terrified, she kept her head down and said nothing, as was the expected behavior for an Afghan woman.

“Why do you disrespect me by entering my house pointing guns?” The anger in her father’s voice horrified her, and she feared he would be shot outright.

But the leader of the group ignored him and nodded to his men. “Go. Search.”

The fighters split up and began searching the house and the courtyard, even climbing up to the roof.

“You dishonor yourself, and you dishonor me with your intrusion. You could but have asked, and I would have welcomed you to my home.”

“A man harboring an enemy of Islam is already dishonored.”

“What enemy of Islam?”

“An escaped American prisoner,” the warlord said, insulting her father even more by not apologizing for this disrespectful breech of etiquette.

“It is common knowledge that you have been searching for this man for some time,” her father said calmly. “I assure you, you will not find such a man here. As I assure you, you are not an honorable man.”

Rabia flinched, silently willing her father to stop baiting the warlord. Honor to a Pashtun was the defining characteristic of his self-worth and reputation. Honor to her father was courage and responsibility to his family. This type of insult—forcefully entering the home of a village leader—represented the most grave display of disrespect.

The Taliban warlord considered her father and, for whatever reason, chose not to take offense. “You will understand if we look for ourselves.”

“It appears I have no need to understand. I have only to tolerate this invasion.”

Again, instead of becoming angry, he laughed. “Such bravery for an old man. You would have made a good warrior in your day, I think. Do you have a son?”

“I have no son. I am no warrior. I was a farmer until my bones became old and brittle and would not let me work the fields any longer.”

“This is your wife?”

Rabia stood with her head down, not daring to look up.

“My daughter,” her father said. “My wife is dead.”

“Your daughter? Does she have a husband?”

“Also dead. She takes care of my house.”

The fighter moved so fast Rabia didn’t see it coming. He ripped off her burqa.

She stood frozen, willing herself to keep her head down and her gaze on the floor. If she dared to meet his eyes, he could order her stoned to death.

After a long, terrifying moment, he shoved the burqa at her.

“Many a cowardly infidel has hidden beneath women’s clothes,” he explained, as if that excused his actions. “Cover yourself.”

With trembling hands, she pulled the burqa over her head as the fighters started trickling back into the room, all reporting that they had found nothing.

Beside her, Rabia’s father seethed with anger. “You will leave my home.” His hand shook as he lifted it and pointed a finger toward the door. “You will disrespect me and my daughter no longer.”

“Do you know anything of this infidel?” The warlord ignored him and pushed past them into the cooking room.

Rabia held her breath as renewed fear shot through her.

“Only that you are looking for him.” Her father followed. “And that he is but one man who eludes an army.”

Knowing he was attempting to hold the warlord’s attention but afraid he’d pushed too hard this time, Rabia threw herself in front of her father to protect him from a bullet or a blow.

When none came, her father set her gently away.

“Unfortunate she was not a son,” the warlord said thoughtfully. “She has the spirit of a warrior.”

He walked around the cooking room. All was in order, Rabia reminded herself. Then she saw the corner of the rug covering the trap door. It was turned under. And the table was not quite square on top of it.

Praying he would not notice or, if he did, he would think nothing of it, she held her silence, her heart hammering, perspiration trickling down her back.

The warlord took his time looking around. Insolently helped himself to a handful of currants sitting out on her work space. When he peered out into the courtyard, a wave of light-headedness hit her. What if he noticed the chin-up bar? What if he—

“You will leave now.” Her father’s stern command interrupted her fearful thoughts.

The Taliban leader turned around, took three steps forward, and spoke an inch from her father’s face. “The entire village will be searched and warned before we leave. If anyone knows anything, they must report or expect Taliban justice. Neighbors may turn on neighbors. No one will be safe. Do you understand what I am saying, old man?”

“Do you understand that perhaps you do not find this infidel because he is dead?”

“He will be dead,” the leader said angrily, “when we find his body or when we execute him. Until then, we search.”

With a final quelling look, he stormed out of their house, his men following.