LITMIR.BIZ

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head with facts and figures, hoping to leave no space for worries, hoping to tire my thoughts enough for sleep at night.

      I clung to normality and routine, points of reference that held my life together; going to school, seeing friends, strolling around the markets, peering in shop windows.

      And as I walked home from school with Layla one day, we talked of our plans for the future; which university to apply to, which course, without admitting to ourselves that these dreams of ours may come to nothing, may turn to dust in front of our eyes.

      We spoke of careers we aspired to, and achievements we dreamed of – mine to become an architect, hers to be a teacher – and when we reached our homes, we waved and smiled to each other and went our separate ways. And as I dropped my bag in the doorway and strolled through to the kitchen for food, I found Uncle Aziz and our neighbour Ali, Layla’s father, standing in the kitchen with Papa, serious looks on their faces and spades in their hands, an old map spread across the table, held down at its edges by cups or glasses.

      I looked to Aziz and he winked at me. I still see it now, that look, frozen in time in my memory, and I feel that warmth it gave me. He could always make me smile; a rotund man with a laugh to match and a bald head that reflected the sun so much I’m sure he must’ve polished it. He was younger than Papa, although he looked older, with the fuzz around his face making up for the lack of hair on his head. And when he smiled his face would split in two and his eyes would dance with the mischief you would see in boys daring each other to steal fruit from the market place.

      He beamed at me, his piano-key teeth still stained with the tobacco he gave up two years ago. ‘Lina!’ He grabbed me and hugged me, the air squeezing from my lungs. ‘Look at you. You’ve grown so tall and thin.’

      I rolled my eyes. ‘Uncle Aziz, I saw you two days ago.’

      ‘Yes, my dear, yes. But you’re looking thinner. You must be working too hard, studying too hard. You need exercise, fresh air, to build your muscles up. Come.’

      What I should’ve done at the sight of those spades was retreat to my room, with stories of homework and exams, but I’d been caught now, and escape was unlikely. And I liked playing along with Aziz. He made me feel younger, feel a child again. He led me to the back garden, Papa a few paces behind, an unaccustomed smile tickling his face.

      ‘We start here.’ Uncle Aziz stuck the spade into the ground and stood firm with his hands on his over-sized hips. ‘Dig.’

      I picked up the spade and jabbed it at the ground, barely a dent made. ‘What are we looking for, Uncle?’

      ‘Water.’ He smiled.

      I glanced to Papa leaning against the wall, his smile disappearing, Ali standing next to him. My spade hit the ground again, and as I teetered on the blade, I looked to Aziz. ‘Somebody bigger would be better at this,’ I dared to joke.

      His face parted at the mouth, his eyes creasing. He boomed a laugh, and flicked me off the spade like a troublesome fly.

      ‘Yes, your old Uncle has more muscles.’ He winked at me again as I picked myself up off the ground.

      For the next hour, I watched and fetched and carried. Bringing water and food, or towels to mop brows, as they dug holes across the garden. Though they’d failed to find water, they’d succeeded in making an anti-burglar device – should anyone try to sneak in to the house through the back garden at night, they’d have broken an ankle before making it to the door. Papa, Aziz and Ali dropped the spades to the ground; defeat finally admitted. I inspected the holes. At first I was surprised by the black treacle reaching up and choking the ground, then I understood.

      In how many places on this earth would you be disappointed to find oil in your garden?

      This dig for water, it turned out, was one of Papa’s preparations for war. A colleague of his at the university had a map of old water wells in the city, one of which, it appeared, was directly below our garden. Only it didn’t appear. Next, they told me, they’d try Ali’s garden, in case the map was inaccurate. I thought to warn Layla of the work that lay ahead of her.

      Papa and I did many preparations for war together in the weeks that followed. While taping up windows we didn’t say a word to each other, but I was fuming at being kept off school to do something so tiresome. By the time we’d finished there was so much tape on them you could barely see out, and the inside of the house was nearly as dark as the basement beneath us.

      He said nothing about why we were doing these things, just “you’re staying at home today to help me”. But I wanted to go to school. I wanted to see Layla, and Raneen, and Zenab and my other friends. I wanted to chat with them, gossip, have fun, go for a walk after school. I wanted to see if Aliya had managed to talk her mother into getting her the shoes she wanted, if Anita had failed the maths test, if our teacher had had her baby yet.

      And I wanted to study.

      I didn’t want to dig holes, tape windows or cart food supplies into the basement. I didn’t want to stand for hours at the gas station filling cans with fuel for when we ran out. I didn’t want to go round market stalls with Papa, tripping over sandbags piled next to shop doorways, selling old things to raise enough money to buy a generator.

      Always Papa would stop at second-hand shops, though, or at market stalls selling jewellery, and I saw his eyes scan over the necklaces for sale. Someone’s once cherished possessions sold for cash to survive the war. I wondered, at first, what he was looking for, but soon I realised.

      And I knew what it meant to him that it wasn’t there – that it must still be with her, somewhere, that green necklace with the filigreed gold.

      I could do nothing to help him, and, selfishly, I wanted to get on with my life.

      Why so much food? I wanted to ask. Why do we need bottles of water? Why a generator? But my papa was not one for conversation or for answers.

      I was desperate to know what would happen when the war began. There was no ‘if’ any more, every sunrise bringing more inevitability. I didn’t follow the news as I suppose I should’ve, and people didn’t say much, but I watched the streets and the people and I felt the mood. Fear on people’s faces was the easiest emotion to read, and the news gave no answers, even if you dared to think the questions. I wanted to know, was desperate to know, what would happen and how long for. What about school? My hopes for university? What about my friends? What about Mama? What would it be like after?

      What would be left?

      Who would be left?

      Would I?

      

      On that day in March, which so many of us will never forget, Papa and I closed the windows, locked the doors, turned off the lights and – with a last look around – headed into the basement.

      We sat on a mattress together, leaning up against the wall, surrounded by boxes and cartons, bottles of water and food, all sorts of everything. Papa looked at me with his arms outstretched and I curled myself into his embrace and waited for the bombs to come.

      At the top of one of the walls was a tiny window, barely large enough to be of any use for anything, but while we waited, our eyes never left it. What we were waiting for, I’m not sure, and as the minutes ticked on, I wondered if it would happen at all. Were all the preparations for nothing? All the anticipation and dread and worry?

      I felt it before I heard it. A rumble. A plane approaching? The window rattled. The ground shook under me, grumbling, then a bang.

      No, not a bang – an explosion, a torrent of sound. Then another, the noise tearing through the air, ripples and echoes following it. I felt my body tense, leaned in to Papa. He stroked my hair, his breath even on my face.

      And the window lit up orange.

      And the basement rocked.

      And

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