Lost

August 2014-1

August 2014She was walking down a long, dark tunnel, moving toward a light at the end of it.

After two days, Alessandra opened her eyes and the gauzy light, almost as if she was in the middle of a fog, brought the memories rushing back: the dust, the explosion, her fall over the stair railing, the sharp blow to her head and, finally, the broken glass raining down on her. She shut her eyes again: there was no pain, at least for now, and for a moment she felt as if she was in another dimension.

When she opened her eyes a few minutes later, the fog was gone, but it took her a few minutes to realize that she was in the operating room in the Aleppo hospital. She heard voices nearing, and they were speaking French.

Arthur Ruben and his young Syrian assistant entered the room and were greeted by two wide-open, bright blue eyes.

- Mon dieu, elle s’est réveillée - said Arthur.

Alessandra tried to put the two shadowy figures approaching her bed into focus.

- Dear girl, how are you feeling? - this time Arthur spoke English.

- I’m not in any pain – stuttered Alessandra, first in Italian and then, tentatively, in English.

Arthur reached into his pocket for his ophthalmoscope and examined her eyes.

- Ma chère, you’re still under the effect of the morphine, but unfortunately as it fades the pain will be back. What I’m actually concerned about, though, - he continued, - is the hematoma on your head. It’ll take a while to reabsorb and I can’t completely exclude another operation.

Then he drew a chair up to her bed and went on: - As far as the wounds on your arms and hands go, you’ll recover perfectly in a matter of weeks. The only potential risk is an infection. - Arthur paused and Alessandra blinked to show she understood. Then, the surgeon pointed to the young doctor standing by his side and introduced him.

- This is Maram al-Masri, he’s Syrian and he assists me in all the operations we deal with here. For now, this is where you’ll stay: it’s the only sterile and air-conditioned room we have. Ideally, we would do an MRI but unfortunately we don’t have the proper equipment, therefore you will have to move as little as possible. Without an MRI, we can’t establish the extent of the damage you may have suffered. Maram and I will always be nearby… this is our main work room, after all. Whatever you need, just give us a sign, ok? - Arthur smiled.

- Ok, thank you. - answered Alessandra in a weak voice, her eyes full of tears.

Just then they heard shouting and strange noises in the hallway. Two male nurses barged into the operating room, carrying a young bearded man. Arthur helped them put him on the stretcher and then he and Maram got to work: there was an iron rod sticking out of the poor man’s left side.

The next two weeks flew by and just before the middle of August Arthur received orders from Médecins Bénévoles headquarters in Paris to evacuate the small hospital as quickly as possible.

The rebel front was retreating and the soldiers from Damascus advanced from neighborhood to neighborhood, from building to building, usually preceded by Russian air strikes. In fact, the bombing of the hospital hadn’t been a coincidence but a warning: soon the entire area would be in the line of fire.

The following week, using two ambulances provided by the Red Crescent, the patients in more serious conditions began being moved to safer areas east of the city.

The biggest problem for Arthur was where to transfer the young Italian volunteer. Taking her to Damascus with them would be risky: without a CT scan they had no way of establishing the extent of the hematoma. For now the best thing was for the girl to rest for at least another two or three weeks. Therefore, they had to find a safe place for her not too far away.

Avanisch, the young Indian doctor, visited Alessandra whenever he had the chance. He would sit on the bed next to hers and make some small talk in English, knowing perfectly well that if he went overboard, Arthur or Maram would put a stop to his visits, especially because this remained the hospital’s only operating room.

It was plain to see that the young doctor had fallen head over heels in love with Alessandra. It only took Arthur and Maram one glance to realize it: whenever he entered the room he was visibly nervous, his eyes were misty and, when he spoke to the girl, he stumbled on his normally perfect English. The two older men would often look at each other in amusement when he entered the small operating room as quietly as possible. Alessandra didn’t seem to entirely reciprocate: she smiled at him, sure, but her answers were short and it was clear that her thoughts were elsewhere.

On the fifth of September, in the early morning hours, three curtain sided trucks belonging to a private company stopped in front of the hospital’s entrance and ten men got off. They were there to begin clearing out the structure, starting on the top floor with folding beds, mattresses, pillows, sheets, lockers and, finally, the nurses’ and doctors’ luggage, which included Alessandra’s small suitcase.

Arthur and Maram were hard at work in the operating room, packing all the equipment so that everything would be ready once the men worked their way down to the ground floor and started clearing it out too. Here, they would begin by disassembling the empty beds, then they would move on to the medicine supply and, lastly, they would come and retrieve the operating room equipment.

Despite the noise and bustle, Alessandra had dozed off, thanks to the light sedative Arthur had administered along with her usual pain killers. The surgeon himself, on the other hand, was worried and tense, given that he still hadn’t found a solution to the problem of where to relocate the girl. That’s when he picked up the envelope containing the pictures of Alessandra, delivered to him just a few days ago by a middle-aged Syrian claiming to be a local photographer. His name and address were neatly printed on the yellow envelope and, after asking for Maram al-Masri’s help, Arthur discovered that the man’s house was in the eastern part of the city.

The doctor summoned his assistant and asked him to take a taxi there, find the photographer, and bring him back to the hospital as soon as possible: he had an urgent request for him.

The previous day Arthur had given Alessandra the last painkiller he had; in the afternoon he would administer an IV of vitamins and glucose, but after this he’d be left with only some very mild painkillers for her. The girl was slowly recovering. Her cracked rib didn’t yet allow her to walk, but it was the hematoma on the back of her neck that most concerned Arthur.

The following day doctors, nurses and the patients Arthur hadn’t been able to relocate in private residences would be leaving the hospital. The journey toward Damascus was too long, too dangerous and too hot for Alessandra to face in her current condition.

Later in the morning Maram al-Masri entered the partially evacuated hospital with the photographer following close behind and carrying his beloved camera inside a filthy satchel. Nizar Quabbani would never leave the Nikon that had, over the years, become an extension of his body and, more importantly, of his mind.

The two men crossed the now-empty ward quickly, and Maram led Nizar into the operating room. Arthur was putting his patients’ files in a cardboard box and when he heard them entering the room, he stopped and looked up, directly into the photographer’s eyes.

The two men were almost complete strangers, but their one brief encounter had left Arthur with the impression that the photographer was a good man who could be trusted.

Arthur greeted him in English and offered his hand. As Nizar shook it, a half-smile appeared on his weather-beaten face, while his eyes remained alert as he searched the doctor’s face for clues as to why he’d been summoned here. The surgeon asked him to come closer and opened the curtain that separated Alessandra from the rest of the room. The girl was lying on the bed, her big blue eyes wide open. Nizar was so surprised he took a step back exclaiming: - Allah Akbar!

He recognized the girl he’d photographed a few days earlier believing her to be dead, and he was scared and incredulous.

Time was short, so after giving Nizar a moment to regain his composure Arthur asked him to take a seat on the other side of the desk. He explained the order he’d received to evacuate the hospital as quickly as possible in order to flee what was now a rapidly escalating situation: with the Russian and Syrian soldiers advancing from the south and the rebels preparing their defense, the area would soon become the scene of a battle. It was no longer possible for them to stay here without putting the patients’ – and the medical personnel’s - lives at risk.

- The problem is the girl - said Arthur pointing to the bed where Alessandra lay, before shifting his gaze back to Nizar.

- This is the situation: taking her with us to Damascus is out of the question. The journey there would be too painful and tiring in the best-case scenario, fatal in the worst. It’s over 360 km and we don’t even know if all the roads are practicable, not to mention the fact that we haven’t been able to give the girl an exact diagnosis because we don’t have the right equipment here. Her condition is apparently improving steadily, but there are no certainties yet and for all we know she could take a turn for the worse.

Arthur looked up. Nizar was silent, he still couldn’t understand what this English-speaking French doctor wanted from him.

Arthur paused, opened one of the desk’s drawers and took out two thick, elastic-bound rolls of bills. He put them deliberately on the desk: they were all that remained of his emergency funds.

The photographer looked at the money, even more flabbergasted, as the doctor continued: - These are for you, two thousand dollars to take care of the girl for two or three weeks, until it’s safe for her to travel and someone from our organization can come and pick her up. We’ll take her to your house with an ambulance, but we have to hurry.

Nizar Quabbani finally broke his silence: - You are crazy!

- No, I’m not crazy, - replied Arthur lowering his eyes, - You’re the only chance I have to save the girl’s life.

About an hour later, the ambulance left the hospital with Alessandra tightly bound to the stretcher and Avanisch sitting next to her and doing his best to explain the situation. Maram al-Masri was driving, with Nizar directing him from the passenger seat. It took them over an hour to reach the neighborhood on the outskirts of Aleppo where Nizar had always lived. His little white house had been built little by little and with great sacrifice by his father, supported by the love and determination of his young wife. It consisted of five rooms on one floor, with a water tank on the roof and a small garden enclosed by hibiscus bushes. Near the entrance, a pretty tile plaque read ‘Nizar Quabbani, photographer’ in English and in Arabic.

The photographer and the Syrian doctor were the first to get out of the ambulance, and Nizar opened the front door of the tiny house.

Although there was no air conditioning, the rooms were cool thanks to the cinder block walls and stone floors, while the sparse wooden furnishings and the thick curtains gave off a feeling of serenity.

Nizar went directly to his parents’ old bedroom and got a clean set of sheets from a chest of drawers; from a wardrobe he took two pillows and, with Maram al-Masri’s help, made the bed for the young girl.

Meanwhile, Avanisch had stayed behind in the ambulance, doing his best to comfort Alessandra.

- Soon, - he said, - In two weeks at the latest, I’ll be back and I’ll take you to Damascus where we’ll all be together again.