Chapter One

Assia

August 6, 1990

"Maryam, hayati , I love you."

    "Mama, please tell me! What's happened to Afaf?"

    "They're all right ... They're going to be all right. I'm trying to work things out and I should be back with you before long."

    "Mama! Mama, tell me what's wrong ..."

    "Maryam, if I'm not with you by the end of September, call Layla."

    "Mama, be careful. Is there anything I can do?"

    "Pray for us."

* * *

Maryam

October 1960

Mama first told me about my brother when I was twelve. The last class of the first week was history. The teacher announced that the topic this term was the last fifty years in the Middle East. Homework was to ask our parents some questions.

    "What kind of questions?" Mama asked.

    "Oh, about you. About the war."

    "Which war?"

    I remember being surprised at how annoyed she had seemed, surprised also she did not know which war the teacher had meant. I hadn't thought much about which war. It had seemed obvious to us kids that our parents would know what the teacher meant.

    "Why does she want us to tell her about the war? Isn't she the teacher?" Mama had turned to my grandmother, Sitti, as though she might have the answer.

    "Don't worry, child," Sitti had said very quietly. "It's nothing. Just some homework."

    I remember being struck by the fact that Sitti had called Mama "child." For a moment I had thought that she was talking to me. Sitti was sitting in her usual corner and embroidering. She turned to me and asked me what the questions were.

    "There aren't very many. It won't take a minute. Then I can help with dinner."

    If I helped with dinner then I could go and play. Suad and Fedwa's uncle from America had come for a visit and he had brought wonderful things for everyone. The best were the beautiful baby dolls that cried when you turned them over on their tummies. We played with them for hours. I'd never seen anything like them. If Mama could quickly tell me the answers to the questions, there'd be time to play before dinner.

    The three of us were sitting in the big living room overlooking the Mount of Olives, and it was just before sunset. This day was like every other day after school when I would sit with them and tell them what had happened that day. The A- in math. The A+ in writing. Ms. Weaver's black hair that had been all black last year, but that this year was suddenly white at the bottom.

    "What happened to her? Is she going to die?"

    I remember Sitti laughing from her corner.

    "Ah, Maryam, hayati , always so earnest. No she's not going to die, but she should dye her hair!" The two of them had laughed out loud, and I felt better.

    Then, when I'd told them everything, except the way that Fuad chased me around the playground and how afraid I'd been, but also a bit excited because I liked him even though he scared me, I sat down at the dining room table to do my homework.

    "OK, so what are the questions?" Mama asked.

    "Let me see."

    I fished around in my satchel for the list of questions, anxious to do the history homework before Mama changed her mind.

    "Here it is. The first question is: when were you born?"

    "May 1920."

    "Where?"

    "Jerusalem."

    "When did you marry Baba?"

    "May 1945."

    "You were 25."

    "Good girl," Sitti smiled approvingly, "A in math."

    "What are your strongest memories of the war?"

    "So, we're back to the war. Which war?"

    I didn't know.

    "Maryam, I don't know why but I don't like these questions."

    "But, Mama, if you don't answer she'll think that I haven't done my homework and I'll get an F."

    It had not even occurred to me to ask Baba, even though the teacher had told us to ask both our parents.

    " Hayati , let's go on with the interview after dinner. Why don't you go over to Fedwa's for an hour. Be sure to be back by 7:30."

    After dinner, when Baba had disappeared into Afaf's room as usual, we did the dishes and tidied up the kitchen. Sitti made some white coffee, which Mama brought into the living room. I loved the orange blossom taste and smell of the steaming hot drink.

    "Mama, why were you angry with me?"

    "Not with you, hayati , with the teacher."

    "Why?"

    "She has no right to go prying into other people's lives."

    The evening passed and we did no more of the questions. I didn't dare ask lest she be angry again. Mama went with me to school the next day. When the others handed in their assignments to the history teacher, I waited behind. I had heard that she could be fierce and I dreaded telling her that I could not do the interview. But that day she was not at all fierce. She told me not to worry this time. For the rest of that year I worked extra hard on the history class

    Although we did not speak of it again for several months, something had changed. The war had come between us. Uninvited, it had settled into our lives and I knew that there were things that I did not know, that there were questions I was not supposed to ask.

    The year passed pretty much uneventfully. Oh, except that Fuad and I kissed once. It was behind the playground after he had chased and caught me. He told me that when we grew up we'd get married.

    It was summer. One hot night, I heard Mama and Baba talking in their bedroom. It was odd to be able to hear their voices above the low level hum of their bedtime conversations. Suddenly, I realized that they were quarreling. They tried to keep their voices down but I could hear bits and pieces. The name Usama kept coming up. Gradually, the sounds subsided and I thought I heard Mama crying.

    I got out of bed and tiptoed to the door of their room. Silence. Then again the sound of Mama crying. I knocked.

    "Mama, are you all right?"

    "Yes, hayati , go back to bed. Everything's all right."

    But the next day she took me into Afaf's room. Baba had just left to buy bread and tomatoes, and Afaf was lying in her bed. Quiet as usual. It was then that she told me her strongest memory from the war.

(Continues...)

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