About one-third of my new novel, Her Artificial Heart, yet to be published, is set in Syria. In celebration of Syria’s new freedom today under an Assad-free country, here is one part relating to the past freedom fight. The character has returned to Syria to find his house destroyed and daughter dead. It takes place in 2017 while the rebels still held the north. I wrote this a year ago never imagining Syria would be free before I published it.

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To Claudia, a weedy strip of blackened trees seemed to be the only remaining signpost of the once-green El Waer artery.

“I used to call this The Boulevard of Tears,” Homer said. “Because that’s all I ever did the entire way to and from my wife’s grave. “I never imagined it would one day live up to its name for the entire neighborhood.”

It wasn’t until they turned a corner and passed the ruined innards of a villa that Homer straightened and shouted: “It’s the striped curtains. I drove past these every single day to work. We’re here.”

Tattered bits of mauve and white striped curtains still clung to a side wall. They were the gaudiest things Claudia had ever seen. Missing a facade and roof and emptied of all furniture, the imposing structure could have been mistaken for a lifesize dollhouse. 

Faisal rolled to a stop and Homer stepped out and stared at the ruined heap of his own two-story home. Some walls still stood, but otherwise it was an open-air wreck with neither windows nor doors.

“Someone shot holes in the garage door,” Homer announced. “Otherwise it looks exactly as it did the day I drove off.” He smiled at Faisal. “I’ll leave Claudia and Khalid in your capable hands, Faisal. I want to check the underground garage first for anything Daphne might have left behind. Don’t wander too far,” he said to Dafnis before disappearing down concrete steps at the side of the house.

 “Was father talking about me?” Dafnis turned to Claudia. 

“Come on, Kha—lid,” she squeezed his hand as hard as possible. “Let’s find Homer.”

Dafnis frowned and slammed the car’s door on his way out. He branched off up the front steps and into the ruined house, Faisal on his tail.

Claudia found Homer rifling through a utility cupboard, small tools like screwdrivers and oily rags scattered across the concrete floor. He was spinning the combination dial on a metal tool box. He flung open the lid and froze before he upended it.

“Homer?”

He spun around. “It’s gone. Oh, thank God. She’s alive.” He threw the box aside and pounded out, Claudia close behind.

“Faisal?” he called.

“They went inside.” Claudia pointed at the front entrance and Homer bounded into the split level foyer and up the stairs.

“She’s alive. Daphne’s alive.” His voice rose with each step to the second story.

They had almost reached the top step when Faisal appeared. “Faisal. Daphne re—” The man pushed past Homer with such force he spun Claudia off-balance as well.

It was the first clue not all was as it seemed.

Chapter 20

Human skeletons in camouflage gear dot war zones the world over. That was not what horrified Claudia. Neither was it that this one happened to be in Homer’s former living room. What twisted her guts was that this corpse was in two pieces: The torso tied to a chair—its skull in a far corner—having rolled or been thrown there. Everything, including the skull’s close-cropped black hair, lay under a netherworld-like veil of thick dust.

Since she didn’t see any visible trauma to either the body or skull Claudia wanted to believe a gust of wind had dislodged the skull. A red stain told otherwise. It stretched from the collar of the camouflage jacket all the way to the wooden chair the corpse was tied to. The victim must have been beheaded.

Homer, a man of such formidable stature, shrank before her eyes as he approached the skull and stood transfixed. “What base madness has taken hold of the soldiers in this conflict?” he asked with heavy indignation. “The mismatched pants and flak jacket make me think it’s one of the Free Syrian Army lads.” 

From the corner of her eye, she caught something in Dafnis’s hand. No doubt a wad of tissues, considering all the dust. He was awfully quiet.

“I found this letter inside the breast pocket of the jacket,” he said to his father.

Homer turned to stare at the outstretched fist holding a scrap of brown paper, but his limbs seemed useless to retrieve it.

Now Claudia saw the fear in Homer’s eyes.

“Check the pelvis. Male or female?” he said to her.

Dafnis stuffed the letter into Claudia’s palm and dashed from the room just as her mind latched onto the horror of what Homer feared. She bent to the remains and ran her hands across the skeletal pelvic bone protruding from the light cotton trousers. Her voice soft and low Claudia said, “It’s a female.” As a doctor she had seen many severed body parts, but this time the remains might be that of his beloved daughter.

Homer fell to his knees, cradled the skull between his palms, and immersed his face into the dirty, unkempt hair. Even from where she stood the hair reeked of sweat, soot, and dried blood.

Claudia waited patiently, but Homer seemed nailed to the spot, motionless on his knees, his body and mind shutting down molecule by molecule.

She raised the scrap of paper and read the scrawled words.

 

Jan. 25 , 2012, El Waer, Homs

My dear child Daphne, 

I’m writing this in English for your eyes only.

Forgive me but I have waited for you to return home as long as it is sensible. I fired up the kerosene burner tonight and dropped the last of my rice into a pot with some of my precious water but I refused to start up the vehicle’s heaters and waste gas I will need to escape.

When I leave Syria in the morning all I will take from my former life is a briefcase full of ideas. All that awaits me here is starvation and the loss of my research. My hospital is long gone. I emerged from the underground garage of our house today for the first time in almost a month and set eyes on the decimation to the horizon in all directions. In the smoldering rubble nothing moves, not even a bird crosses the sky. There is no longer water nor electricity and our own house is open to the rain and cold.

For a time, I convinced myself you would return when one side won over another. I scavenged what I could and hunkered down underground inside the ambulance—yes, of course, you don’t know—I salvaged it from the hospital’s ER bay the day I fled from the lab.

Normally, I would say an adolescent such as yourself is too young to understand war but perhaps the destruction of our beautiful Syria has made you a woman, a revolutionary. As for myself, three days ago when a military vehicle tracked me down to serve at the only functioning hospital, I gladly went, embarrassed to be hiding while others died. 

At first I hoped you might be brought into the military hospital but then I prayed you would not. The place is a house of torture for the injured Free Syrian soldiers who are chained to the beds naked, whipped, and electrocuted. My job is to revive them each time so the interrogations can continue. I too was serving under threat of torture.

But today, hearing some neighborhoods will soon be bombed into submission, I was allowed to come home to retrieve what I could and check my dog. Yes! I finally have a puppy for you. I’m snuggled into my usual bed on top of one gurney, the blanket at my feet vibrating with the swish of the beagle’s tail. Bonded for the moment, I know he’ll forget me and be skittish as ever in the morning. How I would love to tell you that in the months since your disappearance I’ve found a cure for the Plague which killed your mother, but one of the side effects of my vaccine is memory loss so it’s back to the beginning when I get into a lab somewhere.

My opening has arrived to make a run for the Lebanese border. From the rumblings of passing military tanks, I know the government has routed the rebels from our street. Not that I feel partisan to any side. I’ve had an abundance of hours to contemplate my place in this war. The government’s bombing of my hospital catapulted me out of my complacency. You remember Masoud from our Greek Orthodox church? I still carry his personal cell number, have memorized it, in fact, and won’t hesitate to call him if I think it can save me.

As for the rebel side, doubt is the one thing we now share in common. Our mutual doubt is stronger by far than the faith I shared with Masoud. But it is still not enough to send me into their ranks.

My life will always be dedicated to saving lives no matter what side they’re on.

I won’t dare drive the M-1 for the border. Who knows whether the checkpoints will be government soldiers or rebels or even ISIS. On the backroads I can bargain with the ambulance fuel and drugs but the best I can hope for is to arrive at the Lebanese border with my life.

My hope is that someday you will return to find this letter and, God willing, I will lay eyes on your beloved face once again. Until that day, whatever you’ve heard about me, forget that now and know the focus of my research has always been to save lives.

With so much love, your papa.

Claudia handed the wrinkled paper down to Homer who folded it into itself, taking pains to follow the original creases before slipping the tiny scrap into his jeans’ pocket.

“What should we do?” she whispered.

He murmured, “Nothing. I’m not going to leave Daphne now that I’ve found her.” He did get to his feet, though, and with the skull still in his hands, his face white with shock, he scanned the room, seeming bewildered by what to do next.

“Should I send Faisal for a shovel?” she asked.

Homer’s head snapped up. “No. He’s one of them. Assad’s men did this. ISIS never entered the city.” He barked the sentences, his voice rising with each word.  “The best I can hope for is that this house will fall down and entomb her in the place of her happy childhood.”

Homer trudged painfully to the corpse, Claudia’s mind churning with the dread he might place the skull in his daughter’s lap. Instead, he lowered it to his feet where he came to stand before his daughter’s bound hands. In the meticulously loving movements of a mother braiding her child’s hair, he loosened the knots one by one. This, his final fatherly duty playing itself out in horrific fashion. 

“She was so upset with me when I wouldn’t let her wear a woman’s hijab.” His eyes shone oddly above a faint smile. “I suppose I should have been happy to see her striving for modesty, but I feared covering her head would only bring more eyes on her. How my heart ached when told me. ‘My friends don’t want to be with me anymore. They think I look like a man.’ You see, good Syrian girls don’t hang around with strange men.”

Homer frowned and flung the first binding aside, indignant fingers tugging at the rest. “These were the impossible choices before her—alienate herself at school or draw the rancor of men who would see her as a monster.  I gave in on the condition she never go out alone. And she didn’t—until that day a missile struck near her school and they let them out early.  She didn’t wait for me to pick her up.” 

A puff of concrete dust billowed up as the final binding fell away.  “ He looked over his shoulder at Claudia. “She never arrived home. Masoud was useless. Too preoccupied with arresting protestors to help.” The skeletal arms now free, he gently guided them into his daughter’s lap, then dropped to his knees and lay his head there, his lifeforce seeming to evaporate in sharp pants. When she crouched and wrapped her arms around his waist, he moaned. A gift of human touch in a hellhole of butchery. If there was any way to keep Homer in this embrace all day and night until they were safely out of Syria, she would have gladly done it.

Her arms fell away as he stirred, the two of them now on their knees face to face. “Strange how I’ve traded places with Faisal. I used to be the one who made everyone watch what they were saying. I just don’t know if I can trust him anymore.”

Homer’s eyes had locked on something behind her as they both rose to their feet. He crunched trancelike into the shattered remains of his picture window—the largest shards capable of piercing any ribcage, she thought.

“I sat right here all night.” He was staring at the street below, but his voice rose from someplace beyond. “The neighborhood was so quiet it disturbed me. At dawn, she appeared at the checkpoint over there.” He tipped his chin. “She must have hid herself all night because her skirt and white hijab were stained with rust. She ignored the soldiers, probably weary of being interrogated. Out of nowhere, one of them stepped forward, placed his hand on one of her breasts and shoved her off-balance.” Homer’s hands thrust at a phantom enemy.

“At the time I wanted to believe he meant her no harm, he simply couldn’t reach her shoulder. Like lightning, she hoisted him off the ground and tossed him into a tangled heap against the other soldier, then took off running. I watched one of them limp forward and fire, but he missed.”

Homer’s chest heaved as if he too was dodging the bullets. “She could have easily pummeled both of them into unconsciousness and climbed the stairs to this room but my child was a gazelle, not a hardened criminal.” He turned to Claudia. “I taught her to avoid bullies, never imagining they might one day be government soldiers with assault rifles.”

“She got away,” Claudia murmured.

“That time,” he said. Homer’s bottom lip trembled. “I never saw her again until today.” Reality was crowding in and his tears wouldn’t be so easy to turn off. He drew near and pulled the letter out. “We should burn this so no one else reads it.”

Claudia snatched it away. “No.” She folded it to half its former size and slipped it into her bra. “I’ll keep this close to my heart until it’s safe.”

Homer’s head shook with pained uncertainty.. “Faisal’s served in a war zone for five years. Why would one more corpse make him flee? Did he know what we would find here?” He took in his daughter one final time, ruination in his eyes. “We can’t bury my baby without causing suspicion. We’ll have to pretend everything’s fine.”

She led the way, but halfway down halted on the stair in front of him and turned. “Homer.” Her voice thick, her palm trembled as she cupped his hand to her cheek. “How in the world are you going to get through this? I’m about ready to scream myself.”

His fingers icy, his face was already gripped by a bloodless requisite pall. “We’ll be fine, but can you talk to Dafnis for me? Ask him if Faisal read the letter.”

Beside the car stood Faisal, watching Dafnis pace back and forth far down the street.

“You go to him,” Homer said to Claudia with a wave of his hand.

Dafnis had stopped and was staring at his feet when she caught up.

“Your father wants me to talk to you. We have to give him space right now.”

“That skeleton is my sister, isn’t it?”

“Yes. I don’t know why he didn’t tell you about her, but I’m sure he will eventually. He’s really hurting so let’s be nice to him until he does.”

“Even when he’s not nice to me?” Dafnis scowled. “He wrote about this girl and our dog but not a single line about me. It’s like I don’t exist.”

He was right, she realized. “It is strange, isn’t it? Dafnis, it’s important . . . did Faisal read the letter?”

When he nodded Claudia’s chin fell to her chest as she cupped her palm to his shoulder. “Dear. Try to remember you’re Homer’s employee, Khalid, not his son. Okay? That’s important, too.”

“When I woke up this morning I couldn’t remember Homer was my father. Now that I do, I still screw it up.” Dafnis slouched with utter defeat. “I’m such a loser, aren’t I?” The liquid despair in his eyes beseeched her to love him anyway. “It’s not because I want to be.” 

His sadness ripped to her core, so much so that Claudia slammed her heart into lockdown mode. “The brain is still a mystery. You may wake up one day and find everything is back to normal.”

“Do you really think so?” The white lie had him smiling, at least. Dafnis was another version of the hapless beating heart cadavers in his father’s clinic, but unlike those victims, he would have to live through every relentless, confusing minute to his final breath.

“I’m sorry you had to see it,” Claudia said, letting her gaze go mushy.

He smiled swifty. “That was nothing. I’ve probably seen more death than you.”

My God. He was absolutely right.

“I don’t get upset with the dead,” Dafnis said. “They’re not suffering anymore. It’s the living I cry about.” He scanned both sides of the demolished street. “I don’t know what happened here, but a lot of people suffered. Do you think that’s why Homer wants me to stay on the island? So I only see nice things? I mean, everyone is so happy in Homer’s republic, aren’t they?”

“I guess so. Mostly.”

With his head cocked, Dafnis rocked on his heels before asking, “Do you love Homer?”

“Well. Sometimes. How about you?”

“He’s my father. I probably have to, right?”

No, you don’t. Before she could tell him this they turned in tandem to Faisal beckoning them back to the car.

Inside, with Homer in shock and Dafnis dozing again, Claudia sat behind Faisal and tapped him on the shoulder to drum up small-talk. “Have you never seen that before, Faisal?”

“Oh yes. From all sides at one time or another. It’s horrible to think I will never again doubt the darkness of the human soul.”

How, she wondered, could a man who seemed so decent be serving such a heartless regime. “And yet, you don’t worry about aligning yourself with Assad? The darkest soul of all.”

“Believe me,” Faisal said, countering her accusation with his own boldness. “I didn’t hesitate one second when I was offered this chauffeur job. My wife needed cancer treatment. Masoud got her to the head of the line.”

Nobody was more surprised than Claudia when Homer suddenly spoke up for Faisal. “It makes perfect sense to me.”

She glared as if he’d lost his mind. 

“Please don’t feel you have to defend me, Homer. We all make choices we have to live with. I, for one, don’t see this war as very complex. I’m Shi’a Muslim, you’re Christian, and my neighbor is Sunni. Religion isn’t the issue. The Assad family figured out long ago the more they turn the wealthy against the poor, the more power they hold onto.

“I look at your wealth, my friend. Money I don’t have. If I want some of it, I can fight and die, or I can support the Assads and live. I made my choice. But they can’t stay in power forever and when they’re gone we can all go back to living side by side in harmony as we always have. I pray to Allah for that day.”

Homer exchanged looks with Claudia. Faisal’s words were not only genuine but starting to sound reasonable to her. His forthrightness didn’t mean they were safe, though. She had no doubt he would choose his family’s safety over surrendering Homer to the police. The Syrian jails, she knew from media reports, were filled with returning Sunni refugees tricked into believing Assad’s amnesty, only to be tortured into a confession and imprisoned.