Page 148 of War

I take several deep gulps of air.

A nightmare. Right.

I wet my lips, sitting up, and the horseman moves back a little, giving me space. My skin is damp with sweat, and strands of my hair are plastered to my cheeks.

It’s been weeks since I last had this nightmare. I had almost forgotten that before War, this particular memory had all too frequently haunted my dreams. I don’t know why it’s decided to take a backseat until now. Maybe lately my mind has just been haunted by newer and more grotesque images.

“What were you dreaming of?” War asks. Just the way he says it makes me think that the horseman doesn’t dream—or that if he does, it’s a very different experience from my own.

My finger traces the scar at my throat. “It wasn’t a dream. It was a memory.”

The water rushes in—

“Of what?” War’s voice is hard as flint, like he wants to do battle with something as insubstantial as a memory.

I swallow.

Might as well tell him.

“Seven years ago Jerusalem was getting overtaken,” I say. Rebels and zealots had fronted an attack on my city. “My mother, sister, and I were escaping. No one was safe in the city, particularly not a half-Jewish, half-Muslim family.”

Those days of tolerance and progress that my parents once spoke of had been snuffed out like a candle.

“My family made it to the coast.” I can still see the shuffle of bodies on the beach. There were so many other families just like ours, desperate to escape war-torn Israel for another place—anyplace.

“We piled into a motor boat. By then, most engines in Israel had stopped working, and the ones that were still in operation were unreliable at best.”

That was seven years ago. Since then, all engines had stopped running.

“My mother knew it was dangerous, that something could go wrong, but it was our only option.”

Europe had closed its borders. They didn’t want foreigners—particularly not ones from the east and south. In their minds we’d steal their jobs and eat their food and overwhelm their precarious economies.

If we wanted to get through their borders, we were going to have to do it illegally, and this treacherous boat ride was the only way to do that.

“The boats were … bad. They were narrow and rickety, but worst of all, they relied on motors for propulsion.

“I didn’t want to get in ours. I was so afraid the motor was going to give out right in the middle of the open ocean. I was afraid I’d die at sea.”

War listens, rapt, his eyes searching my face as I speak.

“In the end, my mother and sister shamed me into stepping into the boat. They knew I didn’t really want to leave Israel—or New Palestine as it was starting to be called.” That was where my father died, where I grew up. It held all my memories. I knew we needed to leave, but I didn’t want to. It seemed cruel that I had to give this up too. We’d already lost everything else.

“We made it off the beach. The engine was making funny noises, but we got away from land at least.”

I pause.

Some memories are lost to the sands of time, but others, like this particular one … I could live to be a hundred and I’d still never forget.

“The explosion was a surprise.” I didn’t know enginescouldexplode. “One moment I was sitting there, alongside my mother and sister, and in the next I felt heat and pain as I was thrown into the water.

“My backpack had been wrapped around my ankle.” That bag was full of the last of my earthly possessions. “I remember it dragging me down.”

My lungs pound. The sunlight above me grows dim even as I struggle.

“I tried to get it off, but I couldn’t. I was sinking, and I couldn’t get back to the surface.”

I open my mouth to cry for help.