Cindy Gerard - The Way Home

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.

WHEN RABIA AWOKE IN THE middle of the night and her askar was not in his bed, she knew where she would find him. Bothered that she too often thought of him as her soldier but unable to think of him any other way, she walked quietly outside on bare feet and climbed the ladder to the roof.

As he often did, he lay on his back, a blanket beneath him, the stars overhead. His eyes were open, his thoughts as far away as the moon.

Two days had passed since the Taliban had invaded their home and he had hidden in the dark under the floor. He had not come out of the hole the same man who had gone in. He had become sullen and quiet. And she worried for him.

“Is this what Americans call the silent treatment?” She hoped to provoke him into talking to her.

He didn’t look at her. “Go back to bed, Rabia. You don’t want to be around me right now.”

If he were an Afghan man, she would have done as he had told her. But he was not. He was unlike any man she had ever known.

She sat down beside him. “Because you are troubled?”

When he said nothing, she gathered her courage and pushed again.

“Do you think the pain in your mind is more difficult to confront than the pain your body has endured? Do you think that the woman who cared for you through it all, who has survived years of war, is not strong enough to deal with what happened to you while you hid in that hole?” Concern for him made her bold. “Do you think I do not understand that it changed you?”

He closed his eyes. He looked so very weary. “What I think is that you almost died that day because of me. What I think is that I have to get out of here before they come back and do something worse than search your house.”

“This is not news. There has been risk from the beginning. Something else troubles you.”

He remained quiet for a long time. This time, she waited. She was good at waiting.

“I remembered,” he said, after what felt like an entire phase of the moon had passed. “I lay in that hole, in the dark, under the floor… and I remembered what happened to me. I remembered my name.”

Her heartbeat quickened. He blinked slowly, his gaze still on the sky. “Jeff. Jeffery Robert Albert.”

Jeffery. She rolled the name around in her mind. Then whispered it softly. “Jeffery.”

He reached for her hand. She entwined her fingers with his. “Say it again. Make it real.”

“Jeffery. Your name is Jeffery.”