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gone,” she said
quietly. “Oh, my poor child.” She put her arm around Samira for a moment.
Then she said, “We’ll find a place to lay her to rest.” She took off the
shawl she was wearing and wrapped it around Mama.
    Samira got back into the
wagon and sat by her mother as the woman drove a short way until they
reached a place where a river must flow after a rain. Now there was just a
narrow stream between steep rocky banks.
    The woman said, “We must
leave your mother here above the river. Maybe some day we can come back and
bury her as we should. Perhaps you can remember the name of the village
nearby. It is called Sain Kala.”
    Two men came with a shovel
and made a grave. When Mama was buried, the woman went with Samira to gather
rocks to put on the grave so that animals couldn’t dig it up.
    She stood beside Samira and
bowed her head and said a small prayer. Then she said, “Amen.”
    â€œAmen,” said Samira. After
that she did not speak.
    It was dark now and the kind
woman found her another wagon to ride in the next day, explaining that she
must go back along the road to find others who needed help. Later other
people took her into wagons or walked with her, but Samira didn’t know who
they were or where she was on the journey.
    At every river she looked
for Papa and Benyamin, but they were never there.
    Samira did not count the
days, but afterwards she heard that the long, terrible journey took
twenty-eight days. Or thirty. No one knew for sure, but at last the people
who were walking came to a place where there were soldiers and tents. Samira
could hear voices around her saying “Hamadan” and “British army.” She
stopped walking and stood still.
    A man in a uniform came up
to her. Samira thought he must be a British soldier. He gave her a piece of
strange hard bread and a tin cup of water. When she had drunk the water he
took the cup and gave her a handful of raisins.
    Then he said, “Syriac?”
    Samira nodded. Yes, she
spoke Syriac.
    The man took her by her
shoulders and said two words. They meant, “Your people.” Then he pointed her
toward a large group of people under some chinar trees. They seemed very far
away, but the soldier gave her a little push and turned to someone else with
his bread and raisins.
    As Samira walked toward the
group she saw many women and children and only a few men sitting in little
groups, just waiting. They were so dusty that they almost seemed to be part
of the earth. A few stood and watched the soldiers send one person after
another toward them.
    As someone new approached,
one of these people would call out a question.
    Soon Samira could hear the
words. “What village?”
    She stopped, confused. A
woman came toward her. She looked very old and her clothes were so dirty
that Samira could not see the color of the fabric. But her eyes were bright
and she spoke kindly.
    â€œDear child,” she said. “You
are alone. Can you tell me what village you come from? Perhaps there is
someone else from that village with us here.”
    Samira thought of her
family. None of them were here. But she could say the name of the
village.
    She whispered,
“Ayna.”
    â€œAyna,” said the woman.
“There was someone saying that name.” Suddenly she shouted, “Ayna! Ayna!”
making Samira jump.
    Immediately the crowd of
people began to ripple and murmur. “Ayna, Ayna, where is that boy? A boy.
You know, a boy who said Ayna.”
    The words flowed around
Samira like water, and then she saw a boy coming out of the crowd. She was
startled at how tall he was and how thin but she knew he was Benyamin. He
came to her and, for the first time she could remember, he put his arms
around her.
    â€œSamira, Samira,” he said.
“You are here. But, Mama. Where is Mama?”
    â€œShe couldn’t walk anymore
and she died, Benyamin. She died.” She