Village of Sau

118 Kilometres East of Kabul - 7 Kilometres West of Jalalabad

Same Day

At a casual count there were no more than forty houses and yet in this small village was a crowd of men so dense that many were standing shoulder to shoulder: the centre was as busy as a market in Kabul. There were young boys, grown men, elders. More were entering the village from the mountain trails – so many that some had taken position on the higher ground, squatting on a terrace ledge, lined up like crows on a telephone wire. The village had become a pilgrimage site, drawing people from every direction. Some were carrying gifts: jugs of goat’s milk and bowls of dried fruit, nuts and berries, as though there were a religious festival or wedding taking place. The celebratory nature of the gathering should have put Captain Vashchenko at ease. However, he seemed agitated. The Spetsnaz soldiers readied their weapons, taking up defensive positions, none of them going as far as to point their guns directly at the villagers, an act of provocation from which there’d be no turning back.

Appreciating that this situation could rapidly descend into violence, Leo took the lead, raising his arms, showing that he carried no weapons. He spoke in Dari:

—I am unarmed. We’re here to talk.

He appreciated that the claim he was unarmed carried little weight considering that he was flanked by heavily armed special forces. A wall of inscrutable expressions made it impossible to judge whether or not they’d even understood. Leo’s accent was easy for an urbanite Afghan to follow, perhaps harder in rural areas. He turned to Nara.

—Speak to them. Reassure them.

Nara stepped forward, joining Leo.

—The attack on the village of Sokh Rot was a terrible mistake. It does not represent the regime’s intentions. We wish to discuss how to rebuild this area. We want to replant the orchards and clean the soil. We want fruit to grow in those fields once more. We are here to listen to you. We wish to work with you, at your direction.

She spoke earnestly, with genuine regret at the destruction and sincere desire to rebuild the community that had been lost. Though this attempt at reconciliation was the stated purpose of their visit, the captain’s thoughts were clearly elsewhere. He was looking right and left, preoccupied, not asking for a translation and not giving any instructions of his own.

Among the crowd an animated discussion broke out, a pocket of noisy disagreement. Voices were raised, arguments overlapped. The discussion faded as suddenly as it had flared and the crowd returned to its state of silence. Taking a chance Leo moved towards the point where the debate had erupted. Studying the faces of the various villagers, he stopped beside an elderly man with an astounding fire-red beard. Defiance as bright as his beard blazed in his eyes. Fiercely proud, the man was dperate to speak, wanting to make a statement. It took an effort for him to remain silent. Leo suspected the smallest action would be enough to provoke him.

—The attack on Sokh Rot was an outrage. Help us. Advise us. How can we make it right?

As expected, the man could not hold his tongue. He pointed to the scarred landscape where the village had once stood.

—Help you? Here is how we will help you. We will defeat you. We will drive you from this land. And you will thank us for it for you do not belong here. You have powerful weapons. But no weapon built by man compares to the power of Allah. His love will protect us. We have been shown a sign that this is true.

The crowd reacted strongly. Men cried out for him to be quiet. Leo asked:

—What sign?

There were more calls for him to be silent but the old man was keen to speak.

—A child survives! A miracle boy! Look at all these people that have come to see the miracle! See how it inspires them. Leave our village. We do not want your help. We will rebuild our country without you!

Several in the crowd echoed his cry.

—Leave!

Parts of the crowd came alive, some clapping and cheering, while the more prudent creased their faces in irritation, shouting for the impetuous to be silent. Leo was quick to follow up.

—A survivor? A boy?

The old man was being escorted away from Leo. As he tried to follow, other men stepped in his path, blocking his way.

Captain Vashchenko pushed through the crowd, wanting to know more.

—What’s going on?

Leo explained:

—Not everyone was killed. A child survived the attack. They’re calling it a miracle.

The captain didn’t seem surprised. Leo asked:

—You knew about this child?

The captain didn’t deny it:

—We heard talk. First came the stories of the massacre, then stories of a boy. They believe the boy is proof that Communism will be defeated. Our sources in Kabul say that in just a few days the idea of a miracle child has become valuable propaganda for the insurrection. Poems are being sung about the boy being protected by the hand of God. It is ridiculous. But defections from the Afghan army jumped three hundred per cent yesterday alone. We have also lost five police officers: one turned his weapon on his comrades. It would seem that the miracle is more important than the massacre.

Leo began to understand the captain’s interest – a bombed village was hardly worth his attention, a miracle was. Nara joined them. Unaware of the developments, she said:

—We should leave. There are too many people. We cannot negotiate.

The crowd had not settled down. The captain shook his head.

—Tell them I want to see the child.

Leo was baffled.

—They’re going to refuse. It would be offensive to them. Nara is correct. We need to leave now. We can return when the mood is less volatile.

As though Leo had not spoken, the captain repeated:

—Tell them I want to see the child. Translate.

Leo stood his ground.

—We can come back when there are fewer people.

The captain turned to Nara.

—I want to see the child.

Under orders, Nara addressed the crowd, raising her voice:

—With your permission we wish to see this miracle boy for ourselves.

The request caused fury. Some men raised their arms while others called out, a hundred refusals at the same time. A rock was thrown, hitting Nara on the side of the face. She dropped down, clutching her cheek. Before Leo could reach her there was machine-gun fire. The captain’s gun was pointing at the sky. The soldiers were targeting theirs on the crowd. Leo edged to the captain’s side.

—If we walk away, no one dies. If we stay, the situation will become violent.

The captain was calm, ignoring Leo, helping Nara to her feet.

—Are you OK?

She nodded.

—Tell them once more to show me the boy.

Nara repeated the command in Dari. As soon as she finished speaking, the captain fired another burst from his gun into the sky. He lowered the gun, aiming it directly at the crowd. One of the soldiers took out a grenade, pulling out the pin and dropping it on the ground. Despite the threats, no man in the crowd made any movement or gave any indication of where the boy might be. Leo said:

—They’re not going to show you!

Believing this to be true, the captain moved to the largest house, spying the presents heaped outside. Leo followed. As the captain entered the house, he addressed his soldiers.

—Form a perimeter. No one comes in. Stay alert.

Leo and Nara entered the house. The soldiers remained outside, guns raised.

The interior of the house was dark: a thin layer of smoke had collected under the roof, smoke rippling like a trapped cloud. Candles were arranged in a rough semicircle and incense was burning. The smell was powerful, overwhelming. In the centre of the room, on a platform covered with a beautiful woven mat – arranged like a stage – was the boy. He was dressed in white shawls and was no more than fourteen years old although it was hard to be sure of his age since his appearance was so extraordinary. He was completely bald, with no eyelashes or eyebrows, dressed and positioned like a religious figure. There were no obvious burn marks, his skin was untouched by the fire and shrapnel – he seemed to have no injuries at all. There were two elderly men seated beside him, but not on the stage, framing him, signalling his importance: a fourteen-year-old higher than two elders. Looking carefully at the boy’s face, Leo saw that he was terrified.

The captain turned to Nara.

—Ask them how the boy survived the attack.

Nara translated his question. One of the elderly men spoke softly using one hand to gesture while the other remained upturned on his lap.

—You dropped bombs, burning trees and fields and people. Your machines departed, leaving the dead, some bodies as black as ash, others who appeared to be alive, but there was no life in their lungs. Buildings were burning. Trees were burning. Then, as the smoke cleared, we saw this boy. All his hair had been burnt off his body. He was naked. Yet there was not a mark on his body. He had been protected, walking barefoot through the carnage of your warplanes.

Once the elder had finished, Nara looked at Leo, unable to translate. The captain cried out:

—Translate!

Leo obliged, hurriedly summarizing. The elderly man looked at the captain, defiant, saying in Dari:

—This boy is the reason we will defeat you.

The captain didn’t wait for Leo to translate. He raised his gun and shot the boy in the head.