Читать книгу Voice of Rebellion - Roberta Staley - Страница 8

CHAPTER 2

Escape from Kabul

NASRIN SAT IN the living room, holding herself stiffly to hide her trembling. Hafiz leaned back against one of the red cushions, sipping chai. Hafiz was Nasrin’s favorite sibling—a half brother and the eldest of five sons from her father’s first marriage. All the siblings looked up to him, often went to him for advice, even though they were now adults.

Nasrin’s tea had gone cold. “A missile hit an apartment just a block away the other night,” she said, her voice shaking. There was no need to describe the high-pitched whine and vibrating air, like a meteor falling from the sky, followed by a boom that felt like a volcanic eruption—Hafiz knew the sound all too well. Worse was the terrified weeping of the children: Mozhdah, Safee, and Masee. The only thing Nasrin could do was take them in her arms and crouch down in a corner of a room farthest from the windows, whispering to them to keep their heads down, telling them it would be okay. After the shock of impact, Nasrin could hear the shouts of neighborhood men running to the flaming, smoking rubble to search for survivors.

“It is only a matter of time . . .” Nasrin’s voice trailed off.

“So let’s make a plan,” Hafiz said firmly.

“Bashir has let me know through a, uh, contact, that we should go to Pakistan with a group to help pay for a truck to take us through the mountains. We have no passports,” Nasrin said anxiously.

The Afghan government refused to give passports to people like Bashir and Nasrin who weren’t supporters of the Communist government. A clandestine escape was the only way out. The quickest route to Pakistan would be via the main road south from Kabul to the province of Logar. From there, a road ran east to Paktia, the mountainous frontier region bordering Pakistan. The roads were peppered with checkpoints, manned by Afghan army soldiers, whose job it was to stop the exodus of fleeing citizens, as well as search for mujahideen weapons going in to or out of Kabul.

As Nasrin and Hafiz talked, a plan crystallized. Hafiz knew two other families also desperate to leave Kabul. One was his brother-in-law Rahmat Hasanzi and his family. There was also the family of Haji Abdul Shakoor Yousef. Hafiz made a quick calculation; in all, seventeen people would be escaping to Pakistan: nine children and eight adults.

Haji Yousef would be vital to a successful escape, Hafiz said. He was a cousin of a mujahideen leader in Logar, whose name was Commander Rawani. The commander would help facilitate their flight into Pakistan, connecting them with local drivers who had vehicles sturdy enough to navigate the steep, rugged mountain passes into Pakistan.

Travel to Logar would be highly dangerous. Shortly after the 1979 Soviet invasion, Logar became the heart of mujahideen activity, largely because of its proximity to Pakistan, which provided training centers and funneled money and weapons supplied by America, Iran, and China to the guerrilla fighters. Many mujahideen groups maintained their headquarters in the border city of Peshawar in Pakistan. Logar had also been where mujahideen leaders planned guerrilla attacks on Soviet targets. The Soviets had retaliated with a vengeance, leveling entire villages and killing all the inhabitants to try to intimidate Afghans and deprive the fighters of shelter and food. News blackouts didn’t stop reports of Soviet atrocities from reaching Kabul. In the rural areas, where mujahideen built pockets of resistance, the Soviets undertook bombing raids with Mikoyan-Gurevich MiG-21 fighter-bomber jets and Mil Mi-24 helicopter gunships, often referred to as flying tanks. Soldiers would carry out systematic searches of the villages and, if a single bullet was found, shoot male family members. The Soviets destroyed crops and irrigation systems, killed animals, and at times, slaughtered entire villages, from women to babies.

To make it past the army checkpoints along the main road into Logar, Nasrin, her family, and the other escapees would have to disguise themselves as rural villagers, pretending they had come to Kabul to sell harvest vegetables like melons and eggplants. The women would wear burkas over long, loose-fitting kurta shirts, the men would be unshaven and don shalwar kameez with shawls and flat-topped, brimless woolen pakol hats. Nasrin would get her mother to scour the marketplace for used roughhewn outfits and the thick, heavy scarves, called chadors, that peasant children wore. They could take nothing with them—no books, toys, or Western clothing—nothing to identify them as urbanites.

Nasrin had already started selling the children’s books and clothes, as well as her jewelry, including gold bangles and a favorite gold and pearl necklace. She thought longingly of her collection of elegant high-heeled shoes. She had bought them before the Soviet invasion, when Kabul was referred to as the Paris of Asia, and young, educated women like Nasrin looked to Europe for fashion inspiration, wearing short skirts, the latest hairstyles, and heels. She would get a pittance for them, but every cent was needed not only for transportation, food, and water but also for bribe money, called baksheesh, that would—God willing—get them through checkpoints.

The most frightening part was how to get all four families to the bus stop where they would catch a bus to Logar province. They could not gather at one family’s home, then travel en masse—that would draw attention. Nasrin suspected that some of her neighbors were spies for the PDPA government and had been keeping watch for officials in case Bashir returned home. If he showed up, they would alert the army, which would send soldiers swooping in for an arrest. They could not leave the house in peasant clothes during daylight; that too would arouse suspicion. Only one bus for Logar left Kabul each day, and that was in the early morning. The curfew lifted at 4:00 AM. How would they get to the bus stop in time?

Nasrin’s eyes suddenly widened. She looked at Hafiz, grinning. “Atiq! Of course! Why didn’t I think of him before?”

Atiq was Nasrin’s cousin and a recruit of the Afghan National Army. His main job was driving the military generals to official functions, which meant he had access to a jeep at all hours of the day and night.

“A jeep is too small for all four families,” Hafiz pointed out.

“Atiq could make several trips,” Nasrin countered.

“Can he be trusted?” Hafiz asked.

“Of course. He is family,” Nasrin replied.

It was decided. Nasrin would contact Atiq and propose a plan to drive all four families in an army jeep to the Logar bus stop. It sounded insane, Nasrin thought. It sounded desperate. But then, they were desperate.

NASRIN HAD GOTTEN a message to Atiq to meet her close to her house at a small park that was now a dismal landscape of brown flower beds, dead trees, and missile craters. Skeletal dogs with dirty, short tan coats skulked about, noses close to the ground in search of food. To the casual passerby, it looked as if Atiq had stopped Nasrin: an authoritative soldier questioning a civilian. She explained to him how Ghafoor Alipour had tried to have Bashir conscripted into the Afghan army. She then outlined the escape plan to Pakistan through Logar and the need for the four families to pool resources to pay for a driver and truck to navigate the mountain passes into Pakistan. But first, they needed someone to pick up all the families from their homes and drive them to the bus stop.

“It’s crazy,” Atiq said, his face grim. “What if I’m stopped? Why would I have peasants in my jeep? And seventeen people? That’s at least two, probably three trips to the bus station. And I’ll have to pick up Bashir, wherever he’s hiding.”

“But you’ll do it?” Nasrin asked.

Atiq looked at Nasrin and his face softened. She was much thinner than the last time he had seen her, with a pale face and dark bags under her eyes from lack of sleep. The plan would put him in grave danger. If caught, he would be tortured and killed, leaving his own wife and children destitute. But, Nasrin was his cousin. “There is a dinner for the generals at the Hotel Inter-Continental this Thursday. It will be a night off for me, so I’ll be free to take all of you to the bus.”

Nasrin slipped Atiq a piece of paper on which she had written everyone’s address. “We will get word to everyone to be ready to go Thursday night,” she said.

The families, Atiq emphasized, had to keep watch and be ready to slip as unobtrusively and silently as possible into the jeep as soon as it stopped outside their home. They must carry very little: water and a bit of food. “I will not wait for them,” said Atiq. “Tell them that.”

“We will be ready,” Nasrin said, nodding. “Khuda hafiz—peace be upon you. Thank you—a million times thank you.”

NASRIN DREW THE thick dark curtains shut. It was only late afternoon, but Mozhdah and Masee needed to get some sleep before the late-night rendezvous. She closed the bedroom door, heard them whispering and giggling. They were already dressed in traveling clothes. She prayed they would fall asleep.

A brown burlap sack holding Safee’s clean diapers was already waiting by the front door. In between the folds of cloth she had hidden Bashir’s master’s degree, as well as his undergraduate degree and teacher education certificate. Nasrin couldn’t find her own teacher’s certificate, but told herself it was of little consequence. When would she have the opportunity to teach again, she thought, pouring boiled water for Safee’s formula into a green-striped half-gallon thermos. She eyed with consternation the simple brown Afghan vest waiting on the kitchen counter.

Before Kabul became a moonscape of broken buildings, Bashir and Nasrin had loved to go to the Old City and walk among the kiosks selling kites and spices like turmeric and saffron, as well as rose petals for making rose oil for perfume. They would hunt for coins once used as currency along the Silk Road, the ancient trade network connecting East and West, from China to the Mediterranean Sea. Bashir and Nasrin would find rough-edged coins of silver, gold, or brass covered with delicate Persian writing—some of the coins dated back a thousand years. Nasrin could not bring herself to sell the collection of two hundred coins and had spent several evenings creating tiny pockets on the outside of the vest for secreting each one. She tried the vest on, dismayed at its heaviness, knowing she would be carrying Safee as well.

“Bulletproof,” she said aloud, smiling grimly.

Nasrin peered out the window that looked out onto the road in front of the house, keeping watch for headlights. Her silky blue burka lay folded on the burlap sack holding the diapers, naan, a container of water, the thermos with boiled water and infant formula. Tafsira waited with Nasrin, but they didn’t speak. In the past few weeks, they had said everything that they could possible say and vented every emotion: recrimination, regret, grief, and then, simply, resignation and love. Off in the distance, Nasrin spied a dim suggestion of headlights.

“He’s here, Gul,” Nasrin whispered to Tafsira. “Let’s get the children up. Quickly.” Nasrin took the heavy vest and pulled it over her narrow shoulders, draped the burka over her arm, and then picked up the sleeping Safee. Tafsira went into the bedroom to shake Mozhdah awake and pushed her to the door, carrying Masee.

Mozhdah was on the point of tears. “Why do we have to get up now? I’m tired.”

“Shhh, Mozhdah jan,” said Nasrin. “We are going on a bus. It’ll be fun.”

“I don’t want to go on a bus ride,” Mozhdah pouted, slipping her feet into shoes.

A military jeep pulled to a stop opposite the apartment. The driver killed the engine. Nasrin waited. What if it wasn’t Atiq? What if their escape plot had been discovered, and this was a soldier come to arrest them? She heard the sound of a vehicle door opening—the noise magnified in the dark and the silence. Nasrin heard quick, soft footsteps against the cement walkway. She waited. There was a knock on the door.

Nasrin quietly opened it. It was Nazir.

“Let’s go. No talking,” he whispered.

“Are you ready, Gul?” Nasrin whispered, turning to look at Tafsira, her hand on the doorknob.

“Yes, Nasrin jan,” Tafsira murmured. “Go!”

They trod lightly down the stairs, Tafsira holding the hands of Mozhdah and Masee, who had woken up, too numb with sleep to complain. They quickly crossed the road and Nazir opened the back door of the jeep.

“Nasrin, let me take Safee,” he said. “Jump in.”

“Atiq—you came! Thank you!” Nasrin exclaimed softly as she clambered onto the hard, cracked leather seats.

Atiq craned his neck and grinned. “I said I would, didn’t I?”

Nasrin threw the burlap bundle onto the floor and jumped, gasping in alarm, as she sensed another person in the back.

“It’s me—Bashir.”

“Oh, Bashir,” she cried, throwing her arms around him, noting the bony frame and scratchy, untrimmed beard.

“Hand me Safee,” Bashir said. Nazir handed the baby to Nasrin, who passed the bundle to Bashir, who gently kissed his son, still asleep. As Nazir hoisted Mozhdah into the jeep’s back seat, she yelped with joy, “Daddy?” Masee, plunked next to Nasrin, climbed over his mother to reach his father for a hug.

Nasrin slipped out of the jeep.

“Where are you going?” Bashir said anxiously.

“Give me a second,” she said, walking towards Tafsira, who waited a few feet away. She stood in front of her mother and gripped her shoulders. “Please, come with us!”

“No, I will only be a burden,” Tafsira said. “I will not come.”

“Then promise me we’ll see each other again,” said Nasrin, tears rolling down her cheeks.

“God willing,” said Tafsira, and after one desperate, hard hug, she turned away from her daughter, the outline of her body dissolving into the night, as if she no longer existed. They would never see each other again.

Nasrin climbed back in the vehicle and pulled the door shut, flinching at the loud metallic clang. She quickly pulled the burka over her head, grateful for its privacy, hiding the tears she didn’t want her children or Bashir to see. The jeep pulled away from the curb, bouncing over bumps, rocks, and potholes—taking them from fear and hopelessness into dread.

About twenty minutes later, the headlights of the jeep illuminated the outline of rows of buses and low-slung, small buildings off in the distance. Atiq stopped the jeep and turned off the ignition.

“You have to get out here,” he said, turning around. “The area is patrolled by Afghan soldiers, and I don’t want to be stopped and questioned. Your friends are here already. I dropped them off earlier.”

“Oh, Atiq,” exclaimed Nasrin, grabbing his arm and squeezing it. “I can’t thank you enough.”

“Nasrin jan, no need to thank me. Just get to Pakistan safely.”

Nasrin looked through the mesh of her burka at Nazir, who sat in the front passenger seat. “Thank you for helping us get here, for helping keep my husband safe, for supporting me when I was crazy with worry.”

Nazir smiled. “Now it is your turn to keep Bashir safe—and he you. Remember, Nasrin, you are a peasant woman—do not respond to any man’s questions. Leave everything to Bashir.”

Nasrin took Safee from Bashir, who opened the jeep door and put out his hands to Mozhdah and Masee. One at a time, he lifted them onto the cold, dusty ground. He then grabbed the burlap sack. Atiq turned on the ignition and shoved the stick shift into first gear, pulling a U-turn to return to the city. There was no going back now.

It was cold and too early for the dawn light to help them navigate the rocky, uneven ground. A conservative Afghan woman walks several steps behind her husband, so Nasrin followed Bashir at a respectable distance, her frightened breathing magnified in the oppressive blue sheath. She placed her feet carefully on the ground in front of her, feeling her way in the blackness, blinded by both the dark and the burka.

They stopped when they came close to a row of parked buses, dented, dirty, and rusting, with thinning tires. About thirty feet away from the buses, their friends sat huddled together on the ground, the children leaning against their parents, eyes wide with fear. The men, in linen shalwar kameez and long heavy vests, sat on folded layers of burlap sacks—the kind used to carry produce to the city from farms outside Kabul. Bashir walked up to them, murmured “Salaam,” and looked cautiously around, noting the bus stop was being patrolled by several pairs of soldiers, dressed in heavy brown camouflage uniforms and black leather boots, cradling AK-47s. One pair of soldiers stared at them and began walking over.

Nasrin quickly pulled Mozhdah’s chador down over her head to hide her eyes. It would not do for the soldiers to see her daughter’s soft, smooth cheeks and clean, shiny hair, so different from the pinched, sunburned face of a peasant girl who had spent her young life picking vegetables and fruit, hauling water, washing clothes, and gathering and spinning wool. Nasrin chided herself; Mozhdah’s chador and traditional tunic and baggy pants were too clean. She should have made more of an effort to make them ragged and shabby.

The soldiers turned on a square flashlight and shone it directly into the faces of the men, sweeping the beam slowly across the huddled blue forms of the women, who clutched their children. The flashlight lingered on Mozhdah, who turned her face towards the light.

The taller soldier barked in Farsi: “Az koujastin?” (Where are you from?)

“Logar,” Bashir said, shielding his eyes with a hand.

“Kouja mirein?” (Where are you going?)

“Logar,” Bashir repeated.

The soldier stared at Bashir in the harsh light as the group held their breath. Then he snapped the light off, turned away, and walked off with his fellow soldier.

Gray sky emerged in the east, hinting at the approaching dawn. About fifteen minutes later, thin rays of sun grazed the frost on the ground, turning it to crystals. A naan seller slowly walked by, a stack of bread in a cloth bag, and Bashir bought several warm, fragrant discs, enough to last them the day.

The bus drivers arrived, unlocked their vehicles, and turned on their ignitions, warming up the engines, choking the air with black exhaust. Bashir, along with Hafiz, walked over to one of the drivers, whose jacket was stained with motor oil and grease. They were the only people getting on the bus to Logar. A wad of worn, grubby Afghani bills exchanged hands. Bashir beckoned and all seventeen piled aboard. Nasrin stared out the windows as the dawn morphed into day. She cradled Safee tightly, trying to stay calm.

An hour later, with the sun still in the eastern sky, the bus slowed and braked to a stop with a grinding screech of metal that set Nasrin’s teeth on edge. Hearing harsh voices, she peered through the dirty window. They had arrived at an army checkpoint, consisting of a small mud-brick shack snug against a pile of sandbags on top of a horseshoe-shaped hard dirt wall. Two soldiers came over to the bus, and the driver pulled the door crank, allowing them to stomp on board.

“Don’t say anything!” Nasrin whispered to Mozhdah and Masee, seated beside her.

The soldiers walked slowly, looking carefully at each person, picking up the burlap bags and shaking them. One stopped beside Nasrin and stared at her hands—smooth and pale, with neat nails—as she cradled Safee.

“Az koujastin?” he barked.

Nasrin stayed silent and Bashir responded, “Logar.”

“You’re lying.” The soldier laughed scornfully. “You’re from Kabul!” The soldier turned, yelling at the bus driver, “These people are from Kabul! Don’t lie to me!”

Nasrin stopped breathing. The bus driver said nothing, got up, and beckoned the soldier to follow him. Jumping stiffly onto the hard ground, the driver walked casually over to join a group of soldiers standing near the sandbagged mud wall. Pulling a cigarette out of a pack in his pocket, he offered cigarettes to the soldiers, then lit his own smoke with a match, inhaled deeply, and began chatting. The soldier from the bus joined them.

Nasrin was terrified. She kept her head down, murmuring to Safee, who grabbed at the unfamiliar mesh hiding his mother’s face. Then their driver walked back to the bus, took a final, heavy drag from his cigarette, and flicked the butt to the ground. He jumped on board, slipped into the driver’s seat, turned on the ignition, and put the bus into first gear. Nasrin glanced at the soldiers, who stood outside smirking. Why hadn’t they been arrested?

Bashir, seated ahead of Nasrin, turned his head slightly and said gently, “Are you okay?”

“Yes,” Nasrin lied.

“It is a good thing,” Bashir chuckled, “that Afghan soldiers are so corrupt.”

The bus passed through two more checkpoints. Each time, there was an intimidating search by soldiers and a payment of baksheesh. By the time their stop came, at a collection of mud-walled homes that could barely be called a village, Nasrin estimated it was about 2:00 PM. They piled off the bus, stiff and hungry, and thanked the driver profusely, telling him how much they admired his cool-headed negotiation skills.

Haji, whose cousin was the famous mujahideen commander, led the way past the single-story, light brown homes with their uneven flat roofs and large plastic water jugs outside. Logar seemed deserted. They walked for about five minutes until they came to a larger home surrounded by a high wall made of mud bricks enclosing a large courtyard. Nasrin could just see the top of the roof over the wall, which was pockmarked with bullet holes. Part of the wall had collapsed—possibly from a Soviet rocket—and been inexpertly rebuilt. Off in the distance, a herd of sheep, tan and dirty white, grazed on the brown grass.

“We’re here,” Nasrin said to Masee and Mozhdah.

“You mean Pakistan?” Mozhdah asked, puzzled.

“No, Mozhdah jan.” Nasrin laughed. “This is our friend’s home. We’re here for a short visit.”

They came to the closed front gate and Haji called out a greeting. A man in shalwar kameez, with a pakol hat and worn leather sandals, AK-47 slung across his chest, opened the gates. They were expected, as Haji had managed to get a message to Commander Rawani that they would be coming. The families shuffled in. Through the burka face mesh, Nasrin spied hens with dusty feathers scratching in the dirt and a gray-brown donkey standing near a wizened tree, its eyes nearly closed and head bowed, swishing its tail, enjoying the tepid sun warming its back. She ached to take off the heavy vest and burka.

There was no glass left in the windows and plastic had been nailed over some of the openings. They followed their escort to the house and, after taking off their shoes, entered. They were then led into what Nasrin assumed was the living room. There were no homey comforts, no rich, thick Afghan carpets as there would normally be in a house of this size, just thin cotton floor mats and some faded pillows, or boleshts, propped up against the wall for people to lean against when sitting on the floor.

The group settled themselves against the boleshts, and soon an elderly man came into the room carrying glass cups on a tray. He left the room and returned with two large pots of chai. He seemed incurious about the group, and Nasrin wondered how many hungry, thirsty, and frightened stragglers bound for Pakistan had stopped at the compound.

As they sipped their tea, a man walked into the living room. His face was deep brown, with rivulets of wrinkles around his eyes and mouth and an aquiline hooked nose. He wore dusty pale khaki pants with side pockets, a tan shirt, and a long dark vest. A traditional white-and-black checkered shemagh scarf hung loosely around his neck and a woolly pakol rested on his head. He had a black moustache, wiry beard, and penetrating, intelligent eyes. He placed his hand on his chest: “Salaam. I am Commander Rawani.”

Nasrin and the others murmured a greeting and thanked the commander for his hospitality.

Haji got up to greet Rawani. “Cousin!” he said, embracing the commander.

“I heard that you were stopped at three checkpoints, but the soldiers were easily bribed,” Rawani said, a grin widening across his face. “They are greedy for baksheesh and easily manipulated. We will drive them out of power yet.”

Nasrin looked at Bashir and raised her eyebrows. This was the famous Rawani, a commander of Mahaz-e Milli-ye Islami-ye Afghanistan, the National Islamic Front of Afghanistan, considered one of the most moderate of the mujahideen groups that fought to drive out the Soviets before 1989 and was now trying to overthrow the Communist PDPA government. Mahaz-e Milli was one of the famous Peshawar Seven, a loose alliance of seven factions created in the early 1980s to oppose the Soviet-backed PDPA. Unlike other more fundamentalist mujahideen groups, members of Mahaz-e Milli were royalists who advocated for the return from exile of King Zahir, as well as democracy and a free press.

“We are honored to be guests in your home,” Bashir said, as Rawani settled himself on the floor, reached for a cup, and poured himself some tea.

The elderly man who had followed Rawani into the room took the empty pots of tea away and returned with them replenished. Commander Rawani, a Pashtun who was fluent in Farsi as well as his native Pashto, began telling the group about the struggle he was leading, how his mujahideen fighters had to move to new locations almost every night to avoid being bombed, and how terribly the people of Logar had suffered, under first the cruel Russian soldiers and now the Afghan National Army, which had inherited the Soviets’ savagery.

“I will tell you a story,” said Rawani, “about one especially terrible day in Logar.”

Rawani began telling them about a village called Padkhwab-e Shana. The village had a remarkable gift: an underground river the villagers used for drinking and irrigation. In the fields, where farmers pastured their sheep and cattle, a complex irrigation system called a karez had been created over many years, allowing animals and crops to be watered easily from wells dug down into the flowing water source. In addition to surface channels that allowed easy irrigation, deep underground tunnels were built as well that preserved water during times of drought. They also provided shelter for villagers escaping bombardment.

Padkhwab-e Shana was built near a point where the river rises quite close to the earth’s surface and irrigates a vast and flourishing vineyard. Near the middle of the village, the stream naturally descends. Long ago, stairs were cut into the earth and a tunnel created. People would walk down these steps into a cool, dim cave and fill buckets of water for drinking, washing, and cooking.

About half a mile away, the Soviets had set up an encampment with seven thousand soldiers. Several years ago, Commander Rawani continued, early one morning, as dawn broke, warning came to the villagers that Soviet soldiers from the nearby garrison were en route to Padkhwab-e Shana to press-gang the village men and boys into military service. There was no time to escape into the countryside, so more than a hundred boys and men fled down the stairs into the tunnel leading to the underground river. When the Soviets arrived, all the males had vanished, except for the elders, who stood outside the village store, drinking tea.

The soldiers searched the homes, finding them empty. The Soviet commander assumed that the men and boys had hidden underground and angrily demanded that two of the elders go into the tunnel to tell everyone to come out of hiding. The elders descended the stairs and then returned, reporting that there was no one down there. Unfortunately, one of the men in hiding, named Sayyid Hassan, panicked, and came running up the stairs into the sunlight. The Soviet commander roared at the two elders, accusing them of lying.

Sayyid shook his head. Only one other villager was down there, he told him unconvincingly.

The Soviet commander ordered Sayyid to retrieve the man and bring him to the surface. Sayyid scurried down the carved clay stairs into the darkness but didn’t return.

The commander didn’t wait long. He turned to two soldiers and barked orders. They leaped into a military jeep and roared off in the direction of the Soviet garrison.

The return of the soldiers was first marked by a bright flash of sun on metal and dust churned by big tires. It wasn’t soldiers in jeeps who were coming but two large tankers. The commander talked to the drivers, who drove off and parked next to two well shafts. They got out and unleashed hoses from the huge vehicles. One began pumping gasoline into a well shaft. The other driver pumped kerosene into another well. The choking smell of petroleum drifted over the village like poison.

Several other Soviet soldiers, wearing protective gear and gas masks, and carrying bags of a dry white chemical, trotted down the tunnel stairs and emptied the bags into the gasoline-and-kerosene-infused waters. While this was going on, other soldiers rounded up the remaining villagers and pushed them together into a group to watch. Two more soldiers moved to the entrance of the tunnel leading down to the underground river and began firing into the hole. Explosions rocked the ground, shaking it like an earthquake, and the agonized shrieks of the dying rose from the tunnel.

They were burned alive—105 people. Twelve children were among the dead. It took a week for the villagers to winch out all the bodies.

Nasrin sat on the floor, stunned, blinking away tears. She had heard stories about the cruelty of the Soviets but nothing close to this. Commander Rawani apologized for telling such a tragic tale. But such sadism and cruelty were what the mujahideen had been fighting all these years, he said.

“When you arrive in Pakistan,” he added, “inform others what Afghans are enduring. Do not forget us.” He then smiled and said, “Tonight we will celebrate the new life that awaits you all!”

Later, in the dark, the women were cordoned off from the men in an area of the living room farthest from the open windows. There was no plastic covering these windows, and the freezing wind blew into every corner. Mozhdah and Masee snuggled next to Nasrin, curled up like kittens to keep warm. Nasrin kept Safee close to her chest, with the burka spread over top of her and the three children. She could hear the faint sound of men’s voices coming from rooms in the far end of the house and the constant trudge of footsteps. She couldn’t sleep, kept awake by the story of the cruel massacre, by the coins digging into her flesh, and by the cold wind that never ceased to blow.

BREAKFAST WAS EARLY—before the sun came up—consisting of tea and fresh naan that was baked outside by two men, former Afghan National Army soldiers who had been captured by Commander Rawani’s soldiers and turned into house servants. Nasrin had spoken briefly to them while she was boiling water in the kitchen. This fate, they said, was better than life in the Afghan army.

A truck and driver had been hired the previous day with the help of Commander Rawani.

“How much?” Nasrin whispered to Bashir.

“Eighty thousand Afghanis, split four ways,” Bashir replied.

“Will we have any money left after this?” Nasrin asked worriedly.

“A little,” he responded.

The truck was a six-wheeler, badly dented, with paint faded by dust, wind, and time. The truck bed had thick wooden slats topped by metal slats, and a latch door at the back. It would provide shelter from the wind while hiding them from prying eyes. Nasrin went to the back and looked inside, catching a whiff of manure. Obviously, the truck had been used for transporting livestock, but at least it had been swept out and doused with water.

Nasrin had refilled the thermos with boiled water and washed Safee’s baby bottles. Commander Rawani and the driver, a man in his fifties with a loosely tied green turban, skin as brown as cardamom pods, and hands blackened with motor oil, stood talking quietly, enjoying a cigarette. Another man, young—too young to grow a beard—tall, slender, and light of skin, cradling a heavy submachine gun with a huge drum magazine for bullets, stood with them.

The driver turned to the tired group. “We must go right away,” he said, “there are reports of army movement in the area.”

Bashir helped Nasrin into the back of the truck, then handed her Safee and the burlap sack, some fresh naan inside. When it came time to put Mozhdah and Masee into the back of the truck, Bashir grabbed them and swung them high in the air, making it a game, causing them to shriek with laughter.

Everyone clambered aboard. Commander Rawani came to the back of the truck as everyone settled into a spot on the uncomfortable metal floor. “There are places along the roadways,” he said, “where you can stop for food, water, and shelter. You will meet many mujahideen who are not part of Mahaz-e Milli. They might rob you.” He was sending one of his men, Mahboob, to accompany them to Pakistan and keep them from harm. “Khuda hafiz—may God protect you,” the commander said, putting his right hand over his heart. He moved aside to let Mahboob leap lightly into the back of the truck. The young man stood tall, cradling his weapon.

“This man,” Haji announced to the group, “is my nephew.”

The group smiled and greeted Mahboob warmly.

“Tashakur—thank you! Khuda hafiz! Tashakur! Khuda hafiz,” the families yelled to their host as the truck roared to life, spewing diesel fumes that made them choke.

As the vehicle lurched forward, the fumes lessened and Nasrin breathed easier. But the noise of the engine grew louder, making her wonder if their journey might be over before it even started. No—it wasn’t the truck engine, Nasrin realized, looking up into the sky. It was a low-flying jet, the morning light bouncing off its steel exterior, streaking towards Commander Rawani’s headquarters. The families all stood up in the truck, clinging to the top metal bars for balance, to watch. Even from a couple of miles away the boom of the bombs hitting the earth felt like a blow to the chest. Black smoke swirled into the air and Nasrin felt sick, realizing how narrowly they had escaped. Had Commander Rawani been killed? Mozhdah and Masee, who couldn’t see over the sides of the truck, looked stricken.

Nasrin sat down hard on the metal floor, holding Safee close, and put her face into his blanket, letting it absorb her silent tears.