Chapter Thirty-Eight
CATHERINE
Beirut, 1974
Ann Marie and I moved out of the Khalids’ house after the Christmas holiday and into our own apartment. It was near the grounds of the university campus and only blocks from where Gabriel and I used to live. I was still legally forbidden from leaving with my daughter because, as an American citizen, I didn’t have the right to take a Lebanese child out of the country. My Lebanese attorney, working with Fitz and Charley and Stewart Fishman—who was personally working on getting me a new passport—had managed to ban Gabriel from having any access to her because of his past behavior and his refusal to obey the initial court order. We’d heard he fled to Cyprus or Cairo but didn’t know for sure.
Our new home was a tiny, furnished one-bedroom apartment with a butcher-type retail shop on the first floor that served food to go and had a few convenience items. Not a full grocery but things like milk, candy, cigarettes, and such. I would take Ann Marie down there once in a while and walk through the store, pointing out items and trying to teach her how to say them in English. The man behind the counter was a lovely man named George, maybe in his early sixties. He would smile and wave to her when we’d stop in, but I was told to keep my distance from people, so I never really stopped to chat. He probably thought I was horribly unfriendly.
Ann Marie and I shared a full-size bed and slept together each night curled up like puppies. The walls of the apartment were bare but clean. The windows had been washed and the curtains pressed before we’d moved in, and there was a balcony where she and I would sit and get some fresh air while eating our breakfast. Under normal circumstances, the place was perfectly livable. Under my circumstances, it felt like a house of cards, ready to collapse along with my nerves at any moment. All I knew was that we’d be living there for an infinite amount of time until everything was ready and in place for our escape. I was told to wait for a call—could be days, could be months—but once it came, I’d better be ready.
One morning we were in our little kitchenette and I was singing Frank Sinatra tunes to her while making breakfast. She was perched on the counter next to me as I crooned a cappella when I suddenly cut my finger slicing a block of cheese. Ann Marie panicked, screaming with tears running down her puffy cheeks at the sight of blood, so I remained calm.
“It’s OK,” I said and ran my hand under the water. She watched intently as she caught her breath and saw the blood wash off my skin.
“Non!” she yelled.
“It’s OK, my sweet girl. Watch.” I pointed to her eyes. “I’m going to make it better. I will show you.”
Step by step, I cleaned the wound, dried the cut with a clean towel, and wrapped a bandage on my finger. “All better.” I kissed my own hand and then placed it in front of her lips for her to do the same. She softly kissed the bandage and looked at me.
I grinned. “All better,” I repeated with a nod, asking her to say it, too, if she could.
She smiled. “All better.”
After breakfast, we walked downstairs to the shop. It was an unsettling time to be in Beirut, as there was civil and political unrest among the Christians and Shiites and Palestinians. In the paper, I would read about incidents that had begun to happen all over the city, like kidnappings and murders in otherwise upscale, peaceful communities. There were prominent leaders being targeted and people coming into their homes without provocation and being murdered in front of their families. And then the streets would be closed down, sometimes for weeks, and there would be sand piles and Jeeps and tanks blocking the flow of traffic. One evening, I heard a bunch of commotion in the street, and I ran to the window. Outside were four to five cars stopped in the middle of the road. Then a bunch of men got out and ran through the building across from mine, looking for someone. Neighbors flocked to their balconies to see what was going on, just praying the target wasn’t someone in their households.
About two weeks after we moved in, Yasmine and Danny came by to visit with us. They had been inviting us over, but I’d become so paranoid during that time and wasn’t comfortable straying far from the apartment. Even a trip to the beach held too many dangers, as far as I was concerned, and I didn’t want to miss the call.
“We’re going to get you out, but it’s going to be very last-minute, so make sure you always have everything ready,” Danny said.
“If I never see any of these possessions again, it will be too soon.”
“Well, you can’t board a plane with no luggage. It will seem suspect,” he said. “We are working on getting you new passports. And for your protection, we’ll be issuing you both false identities. You will have little time to memorize everything about them, yours and Ann Marie’s, but make sure you know exactly what they say about who you are and where you’re from.”
I nodded. “I understand, and we’re ready.” I glanced over at Ann Marie sitting in Yasmine’s lap, paging through a Dr. Seuss book. “I keep a carry-on bag packed at all times, and we just keep wearing the same few outfits over and over. There is not much else here that belongs to us, other than the toys and baby stuff.” I cast my eyes across the room. The walls were beige and bare, save for the front windows with their green-and-blue-striped curtains. A large rust-colored couch sat against the wall with a rectangular wood coffee table in front of that, and a small table with four chairs where we ate. Across from the couch was a little bookshelf where we kept Ann Marie’s toys and books. “Everything is replaceable if we ever get home.”
He took a breath and patted me on the knee. “You will get home.”
“What if I mess up at the airport? What if I’m questioned?”
He shook his head. “You will have all the papers you need, and there will be no reason for that to happen. If it does, Wassef will be there with you, as another passenger, and he will step in if needed, but he will not be boarding the plane.”
“What about Ann Marie? The first time we left here, she needed documentation and permission from her father.”
“She’ll be an American citizen who is traveling abroad this time. You both will.” He paused. “I can assure you there will be no details left undiscovered. We are working to make certain you won’t have any problems. Now, are you sure you won’t join us for dinner?”
I stood and gave him a hug. “No, thank you for everything, though. We’re going to stay here.”
And stay we did. Another three months passed with little news and even less contact from Charley or my father. It became a full-on waiting game, and there were days I thought she and I would never leave. I’d stare at the blank walls and the dust-covered windows, wondering when I should just throw in the towel and find a proper home that didn’t smell like raw meat and exhaust fumes. I did my best to teach her English and speak to her in French as well. We didn’t venture out very much other than the grocery down the block and the butcher below, and even then I made it a point to keep to myself.
One morning Ann Marie woke me very early, babbling in two languages, and she seemed a little stir-crazy. We both were. The streets were quieter than normal at that hour, so I thought I’d put her in the stroller and get some fresh air. We bundled up and walked a few blocks to a neighborhood bakery that opened when the sun rose. My daughter delighted at the scent of fresh bread and pastry, and we sat in the shop’s front window and shared a Manakeesh with lemon and olive oil as I sipped a mug of Turkish coffee.
Just as I was cleaning up our table, three policemen stormed through the front door and walked to the back of the bakery. I dropped what was in my hand, ran back to our table, grabbed Ann Marie’s arm with one hand and the stroller with the other, and hurried out the front door as a large military tank pulled up. I could see people looking down on us from balconies wearing robes and pajamas. Some were screaming in Arabic, others were silent, and some were yelling at the driver of the tank. I dragged my daughter by the hand and led her clumsily down the sidewalk. After a few feet, she tripped over herself and fell to the pavement. I scooped her up into my arms, held her against my hip, and ran, leaving the stroller behind until we reached our building.
The butcher, George, was just opening his doors as we arrived.
“Is everything all right?” he asked, reading my face.
“No, no, it isn’t!” I took a deep breath, and he ushered us inside with great care, lifting Ann Marie off her feet and into a chair.
It took a moment for my heart rate to normalize. “I’m fine,” I assured him. “Thank you. We just had a scare at the bakery down the street.”
He glanced out the door but couldn’t see from where we were standing. “What happened?”
I shook my head. “I really don’t know. Some police came in and went to the back, and I just got out as quickly as I could.” I paused to catch my breath. “It very well could’ve been nothing, but I just can’t take any chances these days.” I made eye contact with him. “I mean . . . no one can.”
“Everyone is on edge.” He placed a hand on my shoulder. “I’m sure you did the right thing.” He glanced down at Ann Marie’s hand, which was covered in blood.
“Oh my!” I said when I followed his gaze. “Honey, you scraped your knee right through your pant leg. Let’s go get you cleaned up.”
“Let me help,” George said, and Ann Marie began to cry when she realized there was blood involved. She and I stood in his store as I tried to calm her, and he went to fetch a napkin behind the meat counter, ducking to avoid three spiral strips of bright yellow tape covered in dead flies.
“It’s not even that bad, honey. We’re going to make it all better, remember?” I assured her.
Her bottom lip jutted out, and she continued to cry until he picked her up and placed her on the front counter.
“How about some gum?” He pulled a pack of Trident off the rack.
“Oh, she’s not allowed to have chewing gum yet,” I began. “But thank . . .”
Ann Marie leaned forward and snagged the pack from his grasp. “All better,” she said.
George and I both laughed, but as soon as he began to get chummy with me, I was eager to leave. “Don’t make too many friends,” Danny had warned me, in case people started to get curious about an American woman with a daughter who didn’t speak her language. I wasn’t allowed to contact Walid or any of my past acquaintances, and Brigitte had proved she wanted nothing to do with us. There was a constant worry that Gabriel was still plotting something, and no one would’ve put anything past him.
“Make sure we are the only people who know where you are,” Danny had said. “You don’t need to be telling strangers your address anyway.”
“So, is everything else all right for you both?” George asked innocently enough. It was obvious I wasn’t a student, and the number of single American women that would choose to live in Beirut—at a time when you could smell war in the air and even many Lebanese citizens were fleeing—was minimal at best. I may have been the only one.
“Yes, I . . . I mean we are just fine. My husband is away very often on business. He’s a research assistant at AUB.” I lifted my daughter off the counter. “Do you have the time?”
He checked his watch. “Just after seven thirty.”
“Thank you so much for your help,” I said and walked out to the back stairwell that led to our second-floor apartment.
I untied the scarf from Ann Marie’s head and helped her out of her jacket. “I think that’s enough excitement for one week,” I said to her. “How about a nice glass of warm milk?”
She heard me but just continued to marvel at the gum.
The phone rang as I was turning the burner on. I hadn’t even taken my own coat off. “Hello?” I said.
There was a short moment of silence before I heard Danny’s voice. “It’s time.”