Nadia Hashimi - When the Moon Is Low

Reap a noble harvest, my son.

Saleem stuttered. “I. . I loved my father very much.”

“Of course you did. You are asking questions. You want answers. That is natural. That is exactly as your father would have done.”

The old man had said something else earlier.

“You knew my mother as well?” Saleem asked, steeling his voice back to its normal cadence.

“Your mother, her name is. . oh, my failing memory. . what is it again?”

“Fereiba.”

“Ah, yes, Fereiba- jan, ” he said. But to Saleem it sounded like he knew her name all along. “A delightful woman. As I said, I remember when she was a teacher. She made each student and each lesson important. You know, when she was young, the world treated her callously. But she did not let an unjust beginning spoil her. If you ever meet a former student of hers, you will be honored to hear what kind of teacher she was.”

“How did you know her?”

“I guess you could say I was a friend of her grandfather’s. He had a beautiful, bountiful orchard that was the envy of all in Kabul. But as she became a young woman, I saw her less and less. I was pleased to hear of her happy marriage to your father. Their success made me proud. You know, my son, you’re fortunate. I see both your parents in you.”

“Fortunate” was not the word Saleem would have chosen if asked to describe himself. He had felt anything but fortunate in the last year.

“So, my boy, I can see in your face that you’ve traveled a rough road. But how will you get to England?”

“I don’t know exactly, but this tunnel is probably the best route. I’ve been to the port and the fences are too thick. I just don’t see how it’s possible. Nearly everyone’s been caught trying to get across there.”

The old man stood up and stared off into the channel. From here it was easy to see the currents, linear streams of water a shade different from the rest of the ocean, like secret passages within the depths.

“However tall the mountain, my son,” the old man said. “There is a way to the other side.”

FOR TWO WEEKS, THE JUNGLE BOYS LINGERED IN THE UNKNOWN, a more tightly wound time than the years they’d passed in covert transit. In those two weeks, the old man seemed to have vanished. Saleem asked Ajmal about him, but his roommate only shrugged his shoulders and said he did not know every one of the hundreds of Afghans in their settlement.

Every day, men in wind jackets and neatly pressed slacks came to the camp. From a distance, they pointed, made notes on clipboards, and snapped photos before they would shake hands with one another and head off in different directions. Something was in the works.

One group of boys had hatched a plan. A holiday was coming up in a few days. Two men had amassed quite a following of about two hundred refugees. The idea was to take advantage of the day. The skeleton crew on duty would be distracted, with conciliatory festive meals and a few libations on the job. No one in the camp knew exactly what the holiday signified, and no one really cared. All that mattered was that while the French guards were observing the holiday, they would be observing little else.

They talked about it every day, churning the theory into a hard plan.

“If we all go through at once, how many could they possibly catch? Maybe a few, but most of us will make it.”

“You see! Even you say a few will get caught.”

“Every day a few try to get through and how many actually succeed? Our chances will be much better. The Jungle is about to disappear. This may be our best chance.”

Saleem debated the idea himself. It was a decent plan, he decided. But to brave the tunnel with hundreds of refugees seemed counterintuitive. All his other passages had been done alone, attracting as little attention as possible.

Saleem listened from afar, wishing for an opinion from someone he could trust, but the voices he most wanted to hear were too distant to be audible.

Make up your mind. Time is running out. This money won’t last much longer.

WITH SUNSET, THE BUZZ BEGAN. PEOPLE FIDGETED, LEGS WERE restless. Saleem and Ajmal watched from a distance.

“They look like they’re going to mess themselves already,” Ajmal said. “They’re crazy to do this.”

Saleem chewed his lip as he paced. Though he’d not yet decided if he would follow the others, his legs were restless too.

“Maybe they are. But maybe they’re not,” Saleem said. In a snap decision, he ran into the shack he shared with Ajmal, got his backpack, and pulled the straps over his shoulders.

“Wish me luck, brother. Who knows? Maybe I’ll come back. But I need to at least try.”

At quarter past eleven, with a pale, orange moon hanging low in the sky, the boys, a straggling crowd of a hundred, began their walk to the tunnel. They fractured into small groups, speaking in whispers and occasional laughs to break the tense mood. Most were grim and silent.

Saleem rushed to catch up with the stragglers. The path was familiar to him. He’d sat on the hilltop and stared at the tunnel entrance several times but never worked up the nerve to approach it. The boys reached a line of metal fences. The links were broken in two or three spots, inviting further trespass. Like the others, Saleem scraped through, wincing as the fence clawed at his back.

The tunnel entrance, concrete bored through the base of a grassy plain, was a valley flanked by verdant hillsides. There were open-mouthed entries for trains moving in either direction, a network of tracks leading into the black holes. A narrow, graded median divided the train entry from that of the automobiles. The valley, as a whole, was a bed of metal, pavement, and concrete, set aglow by rows of sodium lamps.

There were few cars on the road tonight.

Saleem let the others lead the way. The walk here had been long. He rubbed his hands together to warm them. He was grateful for the parka he’d been given by one of the men in the camp. Dark shadows jogged toward the entrance, watching for guards, lights, or sirens. The night was still.

Go with them. They’ll be in England soon. This is that chance.

Two or three at a time, they filtered into the tunnel and disappeared from view. Saleem stood behind a tree and watched from the vantage point of a boy unnerved. Frustrated, he punched at the bark.

Enough of this. I am going to follow them.

And just as he resolved to push aside his fears and grab the low-lying fruit, the shouts rang out. White lights broke the soft orange haze. Three police cars peeled into view and screeched to a stop by the entrance. Flashlights led the way.

Saleem’s heart dropped. There were so many. For hours, it continued. Men were led out, their hands tied behind their backs, their feet dragging with disappointment. The boys had considered the possibility that a few would be caught, but it was much worse. They’d rounded up at least half by Saleem’s count. Everything those boys had done, all the money they’d paid and the risks they’d faced and the cold nights they’d endured — all of it had been in vain.

The others would likely be caught on the other side by the British authorities. What would become of them? Would they be given the chance to apply for asylum or would they be shuttled back to France?

Tonight had not been the right night to chase the moon. When all but one police car had finally left the scene, Saleem turned around and hiked back to the Jungle.

NAJIBA- JAN HAS BEEN GOOD TO US. I CAN SEE THE LOOK ON HER husband’s face. Hameed would like nothing more than for us to be gone. Germany offers much better benefits to its refugees, he says, though he has no good explanation for why he does not want to move there himself.