Free A House Without Windows by Nadia Hashimi Page A

years ago, they’d taken the children to the river. It was close to Nawruz, the spring equinox and start of the new year. Basir, Shabnam, and Kareema had played in the shallow banks, perched on stones. They’d splashed their hands in the water and soaked their clothes. Kamal had slept on the sheet she’d spread out while she watched the children, water droplets on their earlobes and fingertips catching the sunlight and sparkling like tiny crystals. They had trudged home, clothes heavy with water, but hearts light with the miracle of one joyous day.
    In a family photograph taken nearly two years later, Kamal held Shabnam in one arm and Kareema in the other. Basir stood in front of his father, looking up at the lens obediently. Zeba stood demurely behind Kamal, her seated husband hiding the round of her belly, hiding Rima who was yet a few months from joining the family. She remained composed though her heart was ready to burst.
    Could anything have been more perfect?
    THE CHATTER OF HER CELLMATES BUZZED IN HER EARS, BACK GROUND noise to her own thoughts. What were the children doing? Were they terrified? Were they being treated decently? Her only consolation was that they were together.
    Zeba’s stomach tightened to think of her children as orphans. But Basir, he was the type of boy a mother could have faith in.
    Basir had said nothing when they’d taken Zeba away. Zeba had shrieked when they pulled her away, clawing at the air to reach Basir who lifted one arm toward her but hesitantly. A shadow had crossed his face, a darkness Zeba pretended not to see. All the children, especially Basir, were old enough to have known their father for what he was. Still, an angry father was better than a dead father.
    Zeba’s neck was still sore from Fareed’s vengeful grip. Basir had helped two neighbors pull his father’s cousin off his mother.
    â€œLet the police take her!” the neighbors had cried and turned Zeba over to Hakimi’s wide-eyed custody.
    ZEBA FELT THE GUARDS’ EYES ON HER, KEYS JANGLING UNCERE MONIOUSLY as they strolled the wide hallways. It was a show, mostly. This was a job like any other, and the guards here had received little special training in policing inmates. The government wages were unreliable but better than nothing, and the titillating stories kept the day interesting enough.
    Zeba’s story was more intriguing than most. Typically, husbands killed wives, not the other way around.
    Whispers. Snickers. Eyebrows raised in acknowledgment.
    Even the women who spoke in hushed voices were so near to her that Zeba could almost feel their hot breath in her ear. Some voices made her head throb as she pictured her children huddled together, confused.
    God help those children. If she’s got daughters, they’ll probably be given away before her case goes to trial.
    You know what they say. You can’t kill your husband, even if he’s the horned devil himself.
    It wasn’t clear when the judge would summon her to discuss the charges, but it had to be soon. The children were staying with Kamal’ssister, Tamina. Zeba had begged for them to be sent to Rafi’s home instead, but Chief Hakimi, recalling Fareed’s fiery threats, had scoffed at her request.
    â€œKhanum, I don’t think your head is clear. Your husband is dead. Let’s not dishonor him further by sending his children to the home of a stranger.”
    â€œIt didn’t have to be this way,” she said quietly. “You could have saved us.”
    Hakimi had not replied, busying himself with paperwork and nodding for another officer to take her into custody. True, Zeba had come to him a month ago, the flesh over her cheekbone purple and blue, warning him that some of the men from the village were praying to a new god, one that lived in a bottle. They spent their evenings in a stupor and returned to their homes in a punishing mood.
    God will strike them down for their sins, Zeba