As I watched my father pack the boxes away and slide the top back on the crate, one question nagged at me.
“What brought the end of Ai-Khanoum, Boba?”
My father gave the crate one quick tap with the heel of his fist.
“Didn’t invaders come at them from the East?” Neelab asked.
Boba straightened his back and looked at us, the slanted light of the bulb reflecting off his lenses.
“Yes. But if it hadn’t been invaders from the East, it would have been invaders from the West,” he explained. “Our land seems to attract the most restless men. Every single one looking to make a name for himself, no matter the price.”
Boba shut the safe and gave each of the three dials one quick spin. He sealed off the compartment again, and we retraced our steps back up the stairs, floorboards again creaking and groaning. Once we were in the kitchen, my father kissed the top of my head and touched Neelab’s chin.
“Sahib!” a soldier called out from the doorway. He pulled his feet together and drew his shoulders back.
“Yes, what is it?”
“The president is asking for you. Urgently, sir.”
My father nodded.
“History lesson is over for now, girls,” Boba said with a wan smile. His eyes looked heavy with shadows, even in the bright light of the kitchen. There were lines etched into his forehead and a heaviness in his step. It occurred to me that I’d not seen my father sleep in days. “Promise you’ll stay out of trouble.”
We nodded obediently and drifted into the gardens to look for our brothers. The high walls of the palace gave the illusion of privacy, even when there were probably a hundred people spread over the eighty-three acres of grounds and buildings. As we walked, I let my fanned fingers graze over the shrubs and took in the bright scent of the orange trees. One rosebush had gone into early bloom, and Neelab, an amateur botanist, wanted to touch the velvety petals.
Uniformed soldiers were posted beneath an arched portico of Dilkhusha, my favorite building in all of the palace. The soaring wooden doors creaked open, and President Daoud Khan emerged. With their faces partially hidden by olive-colored caps and their pant legs tucked into thick-soled boots, the soldiers stood at attention. The president, flanked by three advisers, walked with his hands clasped behind him and his body angled forward, as if a strong wind blew at his back. He walked a few meters away from the palace before turning on his heel and pacing in the opposite direction.
Neelab and I crouched down. Shrouded from view by the dense rosebushes, we watched and listened.
“Sir, give the word and I’ll order the soldiers to round up the prisoners and do away with them tonight.”
Neelab’s face went slack, her eyes fixed on her grandfather. I held her elbow because she looked like she might topple over.
“So another crop of white flags will grow out of the earth?” a second adviser barked. “Creating martyrs out of dissidents is like taking a blade to an itch.”
My father emerged from a side door and joined the conversation that had clearly been going on for days.
“Respectfully, we are in the very quandary I predicted when the construction of the prison began. We build large schools in hopes they will fill with children. We build grand masjids in hopes they will fill with believers. We built Pol-e-charkhi, a prison large enough to fit thousands of people. Did we really intend for those cells to sit vacant?”
“We don’t have time for philosophy,” one adviser retorted. “What’s to be done? Moscow says if we allow them to increase and gather, those fingers become a fist.”
The president stopped abruptly, clapping his hands against the sides of his legs. Neelab and I flinched at the sound.
“No one kills a single prisoner without my word!” he declared.
“Moscow will not be pleased if—”
“We did not wrest free of the British to be ruled by Moscow,” my father insisted.
“Enough!” Daoud Khan roared.
The adviser lowered his head and relaxed his shoulders. I’d never seen the president’s jowls quiver with anger. By the expression on Neelab’s face, I doubted she had either.
“He is right. Moscow has mistaken our hospitality and gratitude for weakness. I am not under their control. This nation is not under their control!” he grumbled. “The Politburo needs to take a step back or they will put us all in danger.”
Neelab motioned for us to leave. As she turned, she let out a yelp. Two scarlet drops slid down her forearm from where a thorn had pierced her skin. Knowing the sight of blood made her light-headed, I quickly pressed the hem of my black shirt to her arm. When I lifted my shirt from her arm, the blood was gone.
But Neelab did not look relieved. Instead, she looked betrayed by the soft blooms.
“Come,” I said to distract her. “Let us find the boys.”
We spotted our mothers at the fountain. Faheem was pitched over the circular concrete edge, his hand splashing in the bubbling water and a bare foot dangling in the air. I heard my brother’s corkscrew laughter, the giggles that rose and fell and drew more attention than the muezzin’s azaan at prayer time.
The palace had been desperate for lightness lately. The walls seemed to be bending inward. Neelab stared at the fountain.
“Sitara,” she started quietly. “Do you think the people of Ai-Khanoum escaped? Or do you think they were buried with all those treasures?”
I’d known Neelab so long, it was as if our lives were plaited together. Sometimes I imagined she was God’s way of making amends for reclaiming my older sister before I could meet her. I could tell from the lilt of her voice that Neelab was terrified. We were fluent in the cutting conversations of politics, but what we’d just heard chilled us both.
“It was a long time ago, Neelab. Maybe they went back to Greece or went searching for some other land,” I offered. She was not assuaged by my theory.
“There must have been children in Ai-Khanoum,” Neelab said somberly.
I found myself saying things I didn’t even believe because I wanted to rally her spirits.
“I didn’t see any toys or small rings in the crate. I bet they were too busy carving stone into columns to think of having children.”
Neelab looked skeptical.
“Come,” I said brightly, pulling at her hand. “Let’s sneak up on our mothers. With all the wives and foreigners present last night, maybe we’ll catch a bit of juicy gossip.”
We stepped forward in synchrony, as we always had, except that I dared to look back. The wooden doors were once again closed. The president, his advisers, and their tall shadows had all disappeared and the garden was once again serene.
Faheem was crouched behind a wheelbarrow in a game of hide-and-seek, his flattened palms pressed over his eyes, his chestnut hair catching the afternoon sun. A note of glee escaped his parted lips.
“Where is my little boy? Wherever might he be?” my mother sang out. But her voice was tinged with melancholy. Perhaps she was lamenting, as all parents do, the truth my brother had yet to learn—that closing his eyes would not make him invisible to those determined to find him.
Chapter 5
April 27, 1978
After that day it was as if the palace was a purse and someone had pulled its strings. Arg became a dark and suffocating chamber. I overheard my parents debate whether it would be best for us to leave. But then a commander increased the number of armored tanks stationed outside the palace’s high walls and the bolstered security reassured Boba.