What Changes Everything Read online

  He looked so sad, so defeated. He is a young man, and he thought he had a strategy for saving the great Najib. Who knows to how many he had spoken? What promises, however halfhearted, he worked to extract?

  "My son," I said, "Why should we rush to buy 25 uncaught sparrows when all we really need is one in our hands? I will be out of here soon without these elaborate machinations made of air. I"m Muslim, and I am Pashtun. The fundamentalists are also Muslims and Pashtuns. They will not hurt me; they will banish me. I will be with my family soon enough. And together we will wait to return, because water will flow through this parched riverbed again."

  And so, my daughters, through relaying this conversation with Amin, I say the same to you. Your father will not come home cowed. But he will come home. We will be together soon. And until then, you and your mother are with me in every dream I have.

  I pass this sealed letter on to Amin to mail, its envelope filled with my love,

  - Najib

  More Letters

  Stela, September 14th

  Dear General McChrystal,

  This is another letter from Stela Sidorova. I am writing once again because I would still like to go over, in more detail, the criteria for awarding medals to fallen soldiers. My youngest son, Piotr, with surprising reddish hair, wanted to be a botanist—not unexpected given his lifelong refusal to kill the spiders we found in our house (he would capture them in a jar, keep them as pets a day or two, and then dump them outside). Anyway, I"m sure you can"t remember the names of all the mothers who must correspond with you, nor of everyone who was awarded a Silver Medal, but my Piotr was one of those, and you can probably look him up somewhere, no?

  Piotr Sidorov.

  However, there have been questions about the circumstances of his death. I don"t want to believe any army under your charge, as Piotr and his fellow soldiers were at that time, would ever be anything but honest with me. But I am wondering if you could reply and specify for me quite simply the circumstances of the award he was given posthumously. (Such a horrible word, isn"t it? I imagine you dislike it as much as I do.) This would do much to set a mother"s heart….

  Dear Steve Coll,

  Congratulations on your Pulitzer Prize. I am sorry to say I do not have your book in my

  shop, Bulgakov"s Bookshelf. I would like to say it is because no one who ever buys that book wants to later sell it to a used bookstore. And I"m sure that is true, by the way. But I must be honest. In my case, the people who frequent my shop have very little interest in reading about Afghanistan. They live in a dream world, most of them, cut off from the pressing matters of our day.

  I, however, checked your book out of the library and read it with great interest. I am writing to see if it is possible that, in your research, you came upon information about the Pech Valley and specific activities there. I am wondering if there are army records that give more details about fatalities than are given to family members of fallen soldiers. I have already written four polite letters to Gen. McChrystal and so far received no reply. Should you have any details on this, I"d be so grateful if …

  Dear Mr. Bob Dylan,

  I believe you are the Pushkin of America. He was also very young when he began to be recognized, and he was a radical spokesman. A woman, of course, was his downfall, and you have managed to avoid that so far; I congratulate you. I read an old Playboy interview with you once—I don"t subscribe, of course, but I received old issues from an estate sale for my bookstore, Bulgakov"s Bookshelf—and in it, you were so sarcastic that I almost stopped reading, but I kept on and I"m glad I did because you said something I still remember: "Art, if there is such a thing, is in the bathrooms; everybody knows that." Even if you meant that to also be sarcastic, I think my son Danil would agree.

  I guess I"m late in telling you my name is Stela Sidorova and I started reading about you because you were one of my other son Piotr"s favorite musicians. Which always struck me as funny, because he was not of your generation. And also because he ended up enlisting to fight, and you were against war. So how much to heart could he have taken your lyrics? Forgive me for asking.

  But now I wonder if maybe Piotr liked you because you wouldn"t let people call you a prophet. It"s an important question for me because they are calling my son a hero, and I wonder if maybe he wouldn"t want that either. Do you believe labels are used deliberately to give life to lies? But how did your mother feel about the names they called you, good and bad? And I must ask you as a true skeptic: don"t we have to trust in something, at least a few of the big things, in order to…

  Dear Danil, my beloved son,

  You always protected him and you are protecting him still, first from the bullies and now from the myth-makers and deceivers. I see that, and I know he would want it. But try to imagine what it is to be a mother. It"s not an easy matter to accept losing a baby to a mistake. Mistake becomes a swearword, one that I could begin to pronounce only after I read the generals were withdrawing our troops from that place. The place Piotr died. Leaving? Did it mean we"d won on that sour, unwelcome patch of ground? No, they said, it meant in fact that we couldn"t win there, but they went on to say that was fine, because we didn"t need to win there. We didn"t need to hold that territory. I wanted to scream: why, then, was Piotr ever sent there?

  And if that was a mistake, what else? Now I say it, though it breaks my heart: I fear what you told me may be true.

  It"s not that I doubted you, Danil. I know that"s what you thought. It"s that I couldn"t face something that big and ugly lingering over the loss of Piotr. And yes, I didn"t want you to sweep

  our dirt outside our house. I see now it wasn"t our dirt.

  I give you my blessings to speak your own honesty; you no longer have to keep your views secret in the world, if you wish. But please, Danil, rejoin me. Even if you are still angry, a bad peace is better than a good quarrel. I have sent you many letters; I"ve begun and thrown away even more. Please, please let me know you have received this, and that you are willing…

  The Gallery

  Danil, September 15th

  "I"m so glad you sent me the photos, Danil," said Marco, the gallery owner. "Your work is strong. It fits thematically with what we"re after. So here"s what"s happening. Some patrons with fat wallets and media connections want to bring attention to the war."

  "Why?" Danil asked. "It"s hardly a good-news story at this point. It seems to me most people are busy looking away."

  Marco shrugged. He had the darkest eyes Danil had ever seen and an intimate way of speaking that made it seem like he was sharing a secret. "Political reasons, personal reasons, moral reasons, who knows?" he said. "All I can tell you for sure is there"s a strong commitment. They want this show ready in time for the anniversary of the invasion, for PR reasons, so they"re pulling it together fast. Here"s the vision."

  Marco took Danil"s arm and walked him away from the entrance, into a second room with two brick walls and two white ones. "They"ll put up large photos of your street pieces over here," he said, "so they"ll be seen in the context of their locations. They have some other artists lined up too. Plus work by some of the photojournalists who"ve been covering this. The pieces will sell; you"ll get your cut. But here"s the kicker, what makes this visionary, what will attract the media attention. On opening night, all these folks will come, wine, hors d"oeuvre, the usual. And they"ll watch you." He gestured to one of the brick walls. "Right in front of them, you"ll put a stenciled piece directly on the gallery wall. You"ll have to show us what you"re going to do in advance, of course, but the only thing we ask it that it be a new piece, and about war, like your others. Bring your spray cans, whatever you need. We"ll put up a little caution-tape barricade, but people will be able to get close. We"ll lower the lights a bit." He squeezed Danil"s shoulder. "It"ll be great. It"s visual art, a political statement on several levels, but also performance art, and that makes exciting. Of course the piece will have to be removed later, maybe in three weeks, to make way for the next show. But stre
et art is transient anyway, right? And by then, it—and you, at work—will have already been photographed, videoed, interviewed."

  "Videoed?" Danil wondered if that was even a word.

  "So it"ll give a bit of permanence to it, don"t you think? And then, you"re launched."

  "My identity will be known?"

  "If this is an issue, let"s talk about it." Marco motioned Danil toward his office in a corner of the gallery behind a glass wall. "We don"t want you to get stuck doing community service," he laughed, "and a mask might be interesting. But if you let them see your face, it fits with what this is all about. We want to call the show Transparent War."

  "Transparent?"

  "As in laid bare, through your work, and the others." Marco sat down at his desk. "Truth, they say, is the first casualty, right? The backers of this show want to get at that." He tapped a thermos in his office. "Coffee?" Danil nodded and Marco poured him a cup. "Black okay? Anyway, it"s going to be a good show, on several levels. Plus I believe you"ll end up making some real money in time. People will hire you to put up stencils in various locations. You"ll do some speaking, if you want. Maybe the college circuit for a year. Professors will know that you"ll connect with their students."

  Marco struck Danil as passionate but only half-way genuine, a salesman first of all. And he himself was being handled like a potential big buyer. "Sounds a bit unlikely to me," he said.

  "That"s what we want. We don"t want to do the usual."

  "And also…"

  "Commercial, is what you"re going to say," Marco interrupted. "Look, I know, my friend, I get it. This is a private commemoration of your brother. A war hero; I heard about him. Silver Medal. Goddamn, I"m sorry. But look at it this way. This will just broaden the respect he"s given."

  "I don"t want my…I don"t want him part of it."

  A slight expression of annoyance swept across Marco"s face, but only for a second. "I understand. But I mean, people are going to ask you about your connection to the work and all, and your brother, well, it"s a natural… it might creep into the publicity material even if we try to keep it out. But, Danil, this is an amazing thing to fall in your lap. I know you"ve got your questions but—forgive me for being frank here—I did expect some more enthusiasm."

  Danil stepped out of the office and over to one of the brick walls. He ran his hand along it, feeling the texture, the mortar between the bricks, glad for something solid. He could picture a piece on the space. But what about the promise he"d made his mother to keep the real story to himself? Didn"t she have claim to Piotr"s memory too? "I need a couple days," he said to Marco, who"d followed him.

  "I know there"s no money up front—" Marco began.

  "It"s not that."

  Marco looked at him directly for the first time, as if sizing him up. "Okay. But do get back to me by Thursday afternoon, no later. If I don"t hear from you, I"m going to figure this is a no. I mean, one of our benefactors specifically chose your work, Danil. But we do face some time constraints here, so if I have to find someone else…"

  "Yeah, thanks. I just have to think it through a little more. I appreciate your understanding."

  On the way to the subway, he texted Joni. "Met the gallery owner. He"s got big plans."

  Before he went underground, he got her reply. "Don"t turn your back on this, Danil. This could be your break. You hear me?"

  His break. Sure, but. Though he hadn"t been able to tell Joni everything, he"d mentioned unidentified, pressing family issues. She"d been clear on her viewpoint. "Do what you have to do for the future of the work, and your future," she"d said. "Don"t ignore an opportunity. Take no prisoners."

  It wasn"t so simple.

  What if his "break" collided with his commitments? This work was supposed to be his private, principled response to an immoral situation. How could he justify letting it end up breaking a heart already shattered once before?

  Maiwand Hospital

  Mandy, September 15th

  First she had to sidestep through a slender entrance to Maiwand Hospital, past an armed guard and beneath a large sign of a gun with a red line through it indicating she was not to be carrying weapons. As if someone doubted her word on that, a woman right inside the entrance patted her down. Then she stood to one side of the courtyard watching others negotiate their way into the hospital until another woman arrived, introduced herself as Zarlasht and said she would accompany Mandy on her tour. She was not warm and did not seem thrilled to have Mandy visiting or to even understand why she was there. Her English, however, was clearly excellent.

  Mandy handed over a large box of supplies, which Zarlasht gave to a young man dressed in white, an orderly. "Thank you. It will be distributed," she said.

  "I"m a nurse and nurse trainer," Mandy said. "Specifically emergency room—I don"t know if they told you. Maybe I could meet…"

  But Zarlasht was already walking ahead. "We"ll stop there first," she said over her shoulder.

  The long, narrow emergency hall, to the left of the entrance, was teeming with people, so choked that Mandy saw they couldn"t enter without pushing others aside. It was dark, and dense with the scent of blood. Mandy looked at Zarlasht, whose face gave nothing away, and then she plunged forward. This was why she was here, wasn"t it?

  Managing to steer through the clogged entryway, she reached a hallway that opened up slightly into a wider room, still overcrowded. Some people supported wounded patients, others slumped on the floor or leaned limp against a wall. A few lay on stretchers. Mandy wondered what had happened; some had visible signs of trauma like bleeding from a limb, but most did not. One hospital employee seemed to be taking down information from those in a line. At first she didn"t see any medical personnel; then she picked out two doctors and one nurse. They were clearly overwhelmed by whatever disaster had occurred; they didn"t even notice her. She wanted to spend time here but understood that right now her presence would simply add to the chaos.

  She pushed her way back out to where Zarlasht waited. "What happened?" Mandy asked.

  "What do you mean?"

  "An attack? An accident?"

  Zarlasht looked at her with a combination of doubt and derision. "This is always how it is."

  Mandy tried to recover quickly. "Maybe we could set up a time for me to meet with the nurses, talk about how they work?" Mandy suggested.

  "Maybe," Zarlasht said in a way that seemed to Mandy to mean no. "For now, I suggest the children"s wing."

  "Sure," Mandy agreed. She had to be flexible, and try to learn something if she couldn"t teach something. Zarlasht led her through a large garden. Perhaps a dozen families had set up impromptu "camps" with food supplies, blankets, and an occasional suitcase. "These are visitors?" Mandy asked.

  "If they live far away and don"t have family in Kabul, they stay the nights here," Zarlasht said. "We don"t have accommodations for them anywhere else."

  Mandy had the sense that every question she asked seemed stupid. She vowed to be silent

  for a while.

  The building that housed the pediatrics ward had surely never been attractive. Now it stood in decay, crumbling in places, and worse, with no sense that anything had been sterilized or even fully cleaned. Still, it felt spacious and calm in comparison to the emergency room.

  On the ground floor, they went from room to room visiting children lying on beds, covered with blankets made of gauze-like material, most with a family member or two at their side. Many children appeared to sleep, though a couple of boys sat up when they entered, and one toddler, a girl wearing blue pants, no shirt, and a colorful necklace, smiled slightly at them. The relatives—usually mothers or grandmothers, Mandy guessed—sat quietly on the edges of beds, often appearing exhausted, disinterested. She saw no IVs or monitoring equipment.

  They took the stairs to the second floor, which felt more crowded, and again they went from room to room. Again Mandy saw virtually no equipment; the wing felt more like it belonged to a drab and under-furnished college dormitory t
han to a hospital.

  "You can see, of course, that we need more nurses," Zarlasht said, her tone proprietary, as if offering Mandy a job. "The ones we have don"t last. The job is stressful, the pay is low, and with large parts of the country in disarray, many have troubles at home."

  "And besides staffing? What do you need most in terms of supplies?"

  "The list is long. We need a new emergency room and more up-to-date monitoring equipment. We need a modern operating room. We need even basics. Paper gowns would be an amazing concept." Zarlasht shook her head. "We"re a teaching hospital. I sometimes wonder what lessons the young doctors learn here."

  Mandy felt a rush of shame. What could she do here? How could she have done such little preparation to assess needs? "My antibiotics and sterile bandages don"t do much," she said