“No,” she said. “I’m a visitor. We did not mean to stay past curfew.”
The big man said again, “We’re looking for the cousins, Marid or Mahmoud Rasul. Are they here?”
The girls were silent.
“Can you translate?” the handsome one asked Leila.
“Yes,” said Leila. She switched to Arabic and faced Hala. “They’re looking for your cousins Marid and Mahmoud.”
Hala shook her head. “I don’t know!” she said. “Ask my father, I do not know! I have not seen those cousins since I was seven years old.”
Leila looked back at the Americans. “Hala says she does not know, and she hasn’t seen those cousins since she was a small girl.”
The Americans sighed together. “Are there hiding places in the house?” said the big man.
Leila translated this into Arabic, and Hala shook her head again. “Only the pantry, downstairs next to the kitchen. We do not hide people here. Marid and Mahmoud are not here.”
“She says only the pantry,” said Leila in English. “They are not the kind of people to hide cousins.”
“That’s what they all say,” said the big pale man. He had a swagger about him, a grumbling arrogance that made Leila fearful. Another unwelcome feeling floated to the surface: Leila was glad the other one, the handsome one, was there. Fastened on the front and center of his grayish brown combat uniform was the double-bar insignia of a captain. An officer.
“Well, they’re not in here, Ike,” said the blue-eyed captain. He turned to Leila. “We need you all to stay in this room. We’re going to be searching the house, and it’s safer if you stay put.”
Leila nodded.
“Asaf, sorry for the intrusion,” he added. He paused, as though about to say something more, but then he marched out of the room, followed by his companion.
Leila’s shoulders slumped in relief. “Oh!” She hugged Fatima tight, then Hala. “They say to stay here. They say sorry.”
“Thank goodness!” said Hala, tying her light brown scarf about her long hair, a few minutes too late.
“Why do they want Mahmoud and Marid?” asked Souad, Hala’s younger sister.
“They think they might be insurgents,” said Leila.
“I don’t know why they targeted us!” Hala said. “We’ve never done anything wrong!”
“I think there are things that our fathers and brothers do not tell us,” Leila said, with a glance exchanged with Fatima. “These are dangerous times.”
“You don’t need to tell me that,” said Hala. Her hands were pressed to her sides, trembling. “My Omar is dead, remember?”
“We’re sorry, Hala,” Fatima said, patting Hala’s hand for the dead fiancé.
Leila was sorry for her friend’s loss, but Hala was better off for not marrying Omar Habibi, she thought. If Hala had married him, then she could expect more raids by the Americans, dragging off her new husband in shackles under a dark hood. Omar could not wait for the paradise of martyrdom, and let him have at it, thought Leila.
The five girls, two al-Ghanis and three Rasuls, stayed in the room as instructed by the American soldiers. The night took on the feel of a secret slumber party, with the girls crammed in together and chattering away in the afterglow of excited terror. Each had stories to tell of friends or family and her own encounters with the Americans.
An hour later, someone knocked on the door, and the girls scrambled to put on their head scarves. “One minute!” Hala called. “All right!”
The door opened. It was Mr. Rasul, looking shaken. “The Americans have gone. They found nothing.”
Leila wondered if that meant there was nothing to find, or if the cousins were still hidden somewhere in the compound.
“What happened when they came in here?” Mr. Rasul asked.
“There were two soldiers,” said Hala. “They just came in and asked if we knew where Mahmoud and Marid might be. We said nothing, that we did not know anything.”
“Huh,” said Mr. Rasul. “You were without your hijab?”
“No, sir.” Leila spoke fast. “We’ve been wearing our scarves all evening. The Americans did not see us out of state.”
Hala shot her an astonished glance, but did not say anything.
“Good,” said Mr. Rasul, nodding. Leila wasn’t sure if he believed her, but for his own peace of mind he would clearly not pursue the point. “Hala, the al-Ghani family are our guests tonight. And keep the music down.”
“Yes, Father.”
When Mr. Rasul closed the door behind him, Souad breathlessly said, “Leila, I can’t believe how well you lie!”
“She does it all the time,” said Fatima.
“I learned at university,” Leila said. “Whenever I had a late assignment or missed a lecture…it pays to come up with little white lies. It’s not to hurt anyone.”
“Still, you’re so calm,” said Souad. “I wish I could do that! That way Father would never guess how I glance at Rashid.”
“Isn’t he Kurdish?” Fatima asked.
“Mm-hmm,” Souad sighed. “He has light eyes. So exotic!”
When Leila went to sleep in the ladies’ guest bedroom next to Fatima that night she, too, dreamed of light eyes. Blue ones, the color of the deep sky on a summer day. When she awoke the next morning, she remembered her strange thoughts in the night, but chalked them up to the American raid.
She and Fatima were out of the Rasul house at daybreak, munching on figs and leftover flatbread for breakfast as they walked. It behooved them to get home as soon as possible. Naji walked behind them with dark circles under his eyes, as though he had not slept.
“Were the cousins really there, Naji?” Leila asked.
“I don’t know,” he sighed. “It is impossible these days. No one tells the truth; everyone has secrets. Even kin and tribe.”
“What should we tell Father?” Fatima asked.
Naji cleared his throat. “The truth,” he said. “Let me do the talking. And Mr. Rasul said you had your veils on when the American soldiers came upon you upstairs?”
“Yes,” said Leila. “And they were only there for a few seconds. No threat from women.”
“They don’t know you, Leila,” Fatima said, low enough so Naji couldn’t hear.
“Father will know of the raid already,” said Naji. “Just tell him what you told me. There is nothing to it. It doesn’t concern you, anyway.”
“Yes,” said Leila. She threw out her arms. “None of this is to do with us.”
“Leila…” Naji said.
“Sorry.”
At home, Tamir al-Ghani stood in the doorway waiting for them. His whiplike arms crossed over his tall figure and his face was stern. It gave him a look of spiritual emaciation, no room for humor or mercy. Leila had already made up her mind that the best tactic would be to play helpless, and let her father comfort her over those evil Americans. She tried to look as bewildered as possible. Fatima she could count on, since the elder girl was genuinely frightened.
“Father!” Leila exclaimed, running forward.
Tamir broke his crossed arms to embrace Leila, patting her on the back as she put on a good show of shaking. “There,