Free Refugees by Catherine Stine Page A

hugged his little cousin. “Jazakullah, Ramila.”
    “I was taking her to help me sort the vegetables when the soldiers came for your aunt,” said Ramila. “Before they could capture us too, we ran and hid here.” She knelt downnext to Bija and stroked her head. “I gave her my old doll to calm her.” Ramila gazed at him. “I can keep her with me, Johar, until it's safe for your return.”
    Johar couldn't concentrate on Ramila's words. As glad as he was to see Bija's tiny chest rising and falling, he knew Maryam might be in great trouble. If only he knew where she was. If only he'd been with her, she would not have been alone when soldiers came.
    Bija was waking. Johar swept her up in his pattu. “Ramila, was there any clue as to where the soldiers would take my aunt?”
    “No, Johar. But I heard them inquire of your whereabouts when they came near the shed. The soldiers will be back for you. You must go!” Ramila gathered supplies and pushed them into his hands.
    Johar hesitated. “I must find my aunt.”
    “They will hold her in jail for a time, but they won't kill her. Go before the soldiers carry you off,” she insisted.
    Johar remembered the old plan, the family plan they'd hoped they'd never have to follow. “When you see Maryam, tell her we will ride south, over the Pakistani border, to the camp where her friend once went—the camp Suryast in Pakistan—where Bija can be safe. Tell her we'll wait for her there. Tell her I love her.”
    Ramila held her arms out. “I can look after Bija.”
    “Bija must come with me,” Johar answered. “I promised my aunt.”
    “Are you sure?”
    He nodded. No one would harm his cousin. He would make sure of it.
    Ramila lowered her arms to her sides. “Asalaam alaikum. Safe travels, Johar.”
    “Alaikum asalaam, Ramila.”
    Bija clung to his shoulders as he ran back to Maryam's. Johar had memorized each of her hiding places, and went to them now: gathering the spindle behind the false wall, the knitting needles stuck inside straw, the wool in a false ceiling, a trampled Rabi'a book from under the floor. He moved them to his own hiding places: an extra pouch in his pack, a pocket under his pattu, the inside hems of the quilt. The donkey would carry only the essentials, for he could not bring attention to the cargo.
    Johar hurried down a deserted path toward the temple of Sorkh Kowtal. He knew this winding trail well. That old crater hole had been his playground; this ruined hut had been a fairy-tale bazaar where he'd sold imaginary crafts to his friends. Mixed with his fear was a powerful nostalgia for these things of his past, which he might not see again. If he made it tonight to the southern trade road leading to Charikar, he would feel safer. Johar quieted Bija's hungry fussing with a heel of bread that Ramila had given him, and pressed her close to warm her.
    As the hovels on the outskirts of Baghlan receded and bushes gave way to camel thorn, Johar imagined he heard his father's murmur from the fog-laden sky: “Follow the dried riverbed if need be,
and speak up.
” Speak up? The poetry of the dead was sometimes murky, as the heavens were tonight.
    “Speak up,” a voice demanded from the clearing. Johar jerked to attention. Bija began to howl.
    In his confusion Johar had led them to a checkpoint guard. “Foul, foul hell,” he hissed under his breath.
    “I said halt! What business has kept you past curfew?” ordered a black-turbaned Talib, emerging from theshadows. His small eyes were set inward, like knots on trees. “Why are you travelling the roads so late? Where are you from and what is your destination?” Johar had a momentary urge to spur his donkey on, but yielded when the guard raised his Kalashnikov toward Johar, and two other men stepped from the shadows. Johar draped the pattu over Bija to conceal her.
    “I'm from Baghlan, sahib. I travel to see my uncle in Charikar.” Not exactly a truth, but the first story Johar's panicked mind could