Saleem raked the moist hay and soil into the wheelbarrow and carted it off to a corner of the farm where the manure would eventually compost. The stench clung to his clothing and skin. Saleem kept to himself on the bus in the evening, knowing he turned noses on his way home.
While Saleem breathed through his mouth, Ekin would wander idly past the open barn doors, again and again. She began to clear her throat as she passed by. Soon, she began to sit on a crate in the corner, a casual observer to his work. How or why she stomached the smell baffled Saleem. One day, she began to speak to him in broken, elementary-level English.
“Not good,” she observed. “Still dirty.”
“I am not finished,” Saleem answered, keeping his eyes on the ground. He doubted a Turkish father would be much different from an Afghan one when it came to his daughters. He wanted no problems with Polat. Ekin had a tall tumbler of water in her hand. She gulped loudly.
The barn’s dust had dried his tongue and airways. The sound of her drinking made him furious but he said nothing.
“What is your name?” When she did not get a response, Ekin repeated her question, louder and annoyed. “I said, what is your name?”
“Saleem,” he mumbled.
“Saleem?” Ekin played with her stringy hair. She picked through the ends, her fingers getting locked in the knots. “This is name for old man. Why you have old man name?”
Saleem’s lips tightened.
“Why you not clean there? It will still smell if you do not clean this. The animals will be sick. My father will not be happy.”
Saleem remained tight-lipped, finished as quickly as he could, and returned to the fields where the Armenian woman raised an eyebrow and nodded in the direction of the barn. When he shook his head in frustration, she smiled. They were beginning to understand each other.
A WEEK LATER, EKIN SAW SALEEM MAKE HIS WAY INTO THE BARN
. She followed after, turned the crate over, and sat on it, stretching her legs out before her.
“The summer is too hot. I am in the house all day. It is too long! School is better. Better to see my friends.”
Saleem’s silence was not a deterrent.
“Here, there is nothing. I cannot talk to my friends. I am alone.” She paused. “You do not go to school so you do not know. Have you been to a school?”
Saleem raked harder.
“I know the work people do not go to school. But my father and mother say I must learn so I will not be a worker. They say I must be a schoolgirl and be clean, have a nice life. Why you do not talk? It is good you are not in school. In school the teachers say you must talk!” She laughed, tapping her heels on the straw-covered floor.
Mrs. Polat’s voice rang out. Ekin stood with a heavy sigh. She brushed the straw off the seat of her pants and left the barn, throwing Saleem a curious look on her way out. Saleem was thankful for the reprieve. A few moments with Ekin was more exhausting than a fourteen-hour workday. But before he could fully enjoy the silence, she returned with his lunch sandwich in her hand.
“Here,” Ekin called out from the barn door. She paused and looked down at the sandwich in her hands. She brought it to her face, so close that Saleem could see her nose brush against the meat. “It is good. We can eat together?”
Ekin sat on the crate and just as Saleem walked over to claim his sandwich, she carefully pulled it into two pieces and handed him half. Saleem watched angrily as the bread and chicken disappeared between her teeth.
“This food is for me,” he objected.
“But we eat together,” Ekin replied, confused. “Like friends, okay?”
“No. No. No. Not okay!” Saleem’s back ached. His fingertips burned, and his stomach growled angrily.
Ekin seemed surprised by his reaction. After a moment she stood, reached into her dress pocket, and pulled out a packet of two small sugar cookies. She tossed the packet onto the crate and walked out of the barn without saying a word.
Saleem, furious, could think only that he would be hungry for the rest of the day. The half sandwich she’d left him was not much sustenance, and there was no use complaining to Polat or his wife. He threw the rake to the ground and shoved the half sandwich into his mouth. He looked the sugar cookies over and wondered what they meant as he scarfed them down.
Ekin did not venture out into the fields, but Saleem could feel her eyes on him from a distance, watching him pick tomatoes as she pretended to read a book. The Armenian woman noticed Ekin’s presence too and clucked her tongue disapprovingly. She put two fingers to her
lips and shook her head. She pointed to the six rows of tomato plants left to harvest and patted her pocket.
Say nothing,
she was telling him.
Get back to work and earn your money.
Saleem knew it was sound advice. As a young child, he’d seldom worried about money. If he did think about money, it was to wonder if he had enough to pay for a piece of candy or a soda in the market. They were far from wealthy, but Padar-
jan
made sure they had plenty. After his death, Madar-
jan
rationed their savings and meted out small allowances for groceries and the absolute essentials. Saleem knew they had little, but it never occurred to him that their funds would dry up entirely. Now that he was passing his wages over to his mother, he understood that they were financially in a very precarious position.
There are too many of us,
Saleem thought on the truck ride home. He recalled the thick envelope of cash his mother had traded Abdul Rahim for the documents. The price of documents, food, and smuggling fees multiplied by four left the Waziri family with little reserve. Samira was too young to realize how hard Saleem worked every day. She stayed home and helped Madar-
jan
with chores but only when Hayal wasn’t catching her up on school lessons. Aziz was even needier.
Saleem regretted his thoughts. He loved his sister and brother very much, but the frustration and fatigue was beginning to wear him thin.
Every day, his mother needed more of him. Saleem ignored his desire to curl up against her. There was no room for him to be a child. Saleem still ached for his father, but he often thought it was Padar-
jan
’s decisions that had put their lives in danger. On other sleepless nights, Saleem lamented his childhood mischief and the disappointment he’d caused his father. He was a kaleidoscope of feelings when it came to his parents.
And now Saleem was the breadwinner. The more he thought about it, the more he felt like the head of their family and the less he felt like taking orders from others. Mr. Polat kept his burgeoning adolescent ego in check but when it came to his mother, Saleem’s tongue was loosening. He said things he would not have dared to say a year
ago. He shot her looks he knew were out of line, but he gave himself latitude to do so. He worked long hours, kept the family fed, and wanted his opinions respected.
He returned to the Yilmaz home to find his mother cleaning the kitchen. Samira and the baby were already asleep.
“Are they all right?” he asked, slumping into the chair.
“They’re fine. Aziz’s eyes look for you, though,” she offered with a weak smile. She slid a plate of food in front of him and sat with him while he ate. Things were not fine, he knew, but she wasn’t going to burden her young son with her worries. He was doing enough.
It was good to be cared for, Saleem thought, as he fell onto the floor cushion and closed his eyes.
“WHY IS HE ALWAYS SICK?” SALEEM ASKED. HE’D WALKED IN TO
find me sponge-bathing his baby brother. Aziz was pale and whimpering. He’d vomited twice already.
I wrapped a towel around Aziz and laid him on the floor gently. I didn’t have a real answer for Saleem.
“I think it’s the changes. The air, the food—everything is different here. And he’s so little. His body must be having a hard time adjusting.” I drizzled olive oil onto my palm and rubbed my hands to warm them. Even as I gently massaged Aziz’s chest and belly he seemed to be uncomfortable. “Maybe Aziz needs some vitamins to make him stronger.”
Aziz hadn’t gained much weight since we’d arrived in Turkey. I was trying everything I could. I used the few Turkish words I’d learned in the market to purchase fruits and vegetables.
Havuc, bezelye, muz
. When my vocabulary failed me, I resorted to pointing and rudimentary sign language. I picked through the herb bundles and found those I knew had healing properties. I boiled them and spooned the
tea into Aziz’s mouth. I fed him the greenest spinach, the juiciest pears, and ground-up chunks of meat with an extra bit of fat on them. None of it seemed to make an ounce of difference.
Saleem walked into the kitchen. I heard his heavy sigh and the wooden chair legs sliding against the linoleum tiles. My explanation hadn’t satisfied either of us.
“We will take him to the doctor tomorrow, Saleem,” I heard Hayal say. “Eat your dinner. An empty stomach will only make you more upset.”
Samira was in the kitchen as well. She’d set out to prepare supper for her brother as soon as she heard him come through the door. Everything she’d felt for her father had been redirected to Saleem, a deep adoration that came with expectations and needs. She was that bulky winter coat that kept him warm but slowed his step.
Samira did what she could to help. She helped mash fruits and vegetables to feed Aziz. She watched him while I went to the neighbors’ homes to clean or do small jobs. She always looked drained when I returned.
“Aziz is not easy,
janem
. He’s scarcely any better when he’s with me.”
Samira was unconvinced.
HAYAL AND I TRAVELED DOWN THE LONG VILLAGE ROAD TO SEE
Doctor Ozdemir who had, years ago, cared for her sons. The doctor was still practicing and had been joined by his son. Their home was at the far end of town. Father and son saw patients in a small room adjacent to the house. The setting was simple but cozy, with the doctor’s wife stopping in with a small plate of cookies.
I was nervous, too nervous to eat anything. Mrs. Ozdemir read the apprehension on my face and I could see she wanted to say something but we did not speak the same language. She exchanged a few words with Hayal and placed a comforting hand on my shoulder.
I looked at my son and, for a second, saw him through Mrs. Ozdemir’s eyes. Wisps of hair clung to his moist forehead. His head was starting to look too big for his body. He did not look well, I had to admit, and it had been so long since I’d seen him smile or say a single word. I couldn’t imagine what our situation would have been like without the inordinate kindness Hakan and Hayal showed us. I wondered how I could ever repay these total strangers for all they had done.
Aziz twisted and writhed in my lap to get into a more comfortable position. He hated to lie down. I knew him well, but I could not say what was wrong with him, just that he was nothing like my other children and it frightened me.
Doctor Ozdemir entered the room, his warm smile fading when our eyes met. I realized how distressed I must have looked and stood to greet him. The doctor had a mop of gray hair, a solid paunch above his belt. I trusted him and his silver hair immediately and knew something good would come from today’s visit. He nodded his head in greeting and motioned for me to take my seat again. He pulled another chair from under the counter and sat across from me.
Through a unique medley of Turkish, English, and Dari, we were able to communicate. Where words failed, we gestured and mimed. At the doctor’s request, I placed Aziz on the examination table and undid his shirt and pants. Doctor Ozdemir pursed his lips in consternation even before he laid a hand on the baby. Aziz had fallen asleep but as he started to wake, his chest rose and fell dramatically. He wriggled left and right, unable to pull himself up to sitting.
Doctor Ozdemir pulled at the skin on Aziz’s belly and listened intently to Aziz’s chest for what seemed like an eternity. Using a light and a wooden stick, he peered into Aziz’s mouth and then pressed his fingers against Aziz’s round belly, again and again, inching his way across his body. My heart raced.
“Doctor-
sahib,
” I interrupted as respectfully as I could. “Is there a problem?”
I looked nervously to Hayal, hoping the doctor understood.
Doctor Ozdemir sighed deeply. He removed his stethoscope from around his neck and wrapped Aziz in his blanket before placing him back in my arms. I propped him up in my lap and turned my attention back to the doctor who began to speak slowly, enunciating carefully and reading my expression. His words fell heavy on my ears as I strained to understand what he was saying.
Problem.
That was all that had been confirmed.
“What problem? Does he need antibiotics? Vitamins?”
Doctor Ozdemir shook his head no while he repeated “antibiotic” and “vitamin,” words that needed no translation from Dari to Turkish.
Doctor Ozdemir pointed to Aziz’s chest, to his heart and repeated the one word that he had been able to communicate.
“Problem. Kalp.”
“Kalp?”
Another crossover word.
Kalp
meant heart. I felt my arms grow weak.
The doctor stood up and pulled a book from the countertop. It was a soft cover book, its binding taped together more than a few times. He began to flip through the pages to find a picture that would help him demonstrate his point, but he quickly lost patience and tossed it back onto the counter. He pulled a pencil and paper from his desk drawer and began to sketch.
I pulled my chair closer to his. He drew a heart and started to open and close his fist rhythmically. Then he drew two shapes and began exaggeratedly breathing in and out.
Lungs,
I thought. The heart and the lungs. I nodded, and the doctor returned to his rudimentary drawing. He pointed to the heart and again opened and closed his fist, but slower this time. Then he pointed to the pictures of lungs and began to shade in the bottom parts. Something was blocking up Aziz’s lungs. Doctor Ozdemir again started his exaggerated breathing, but this time he did so with difficulty, breathing faster and harder, his face drawn in fatigue.