She spent a sleepless night camped by the side of the road, and reached the outskirts of Homs the next evening. At a stable near the train station, she sold the camel and the donkey for a handful of piastres, then bought a train ticket to Damascus and sat for hours in the women’s waiting room while the attendants made apologies for the delay. The usual train had been requisitioned for troop movements, they said; its replacement would be there shortly.
A thump—and the steel-cornered trunk at her feet lurched slightly to the left. Sophia frowned and nudged it forcefully back into place.
It was past midnight when the train arrived. There was no heat in the women’s carriage; the stove, it seemed, had also been requisitioned. A group of officers’ wives and their maids sat clustered in the middle of the carriage, blankets spread across their laps. They glared at Sophia as she boarded, as though to ward her away.
Reluctantly Sophia took a seat near the window, where it was coldest. A discarded newspaper lay upon the carriage floor, and she placed it inside her satchel while a porter loaded the rest of her luggage into the rack overhead. She’d need to know more about the state of the war, if they were to have a hope of reaching New York. Likely the newspaper was heavily censored; still, there might be something she could use.
By the time they arrived in Damascus she was shaking so violently she could barely stand. A porter helped her to a wagon; and by dawn she was at the Victoria Hotel. The desk attendant stared at her travel-stained clothes and dilapidated luggage, but such was his desperation for paying guests that he allowed her a room regardless.
The bellboy carried her luggage into the room, and withdrew. The door closed behind him—and at last Sophia fumbled at the trunk’s latches.
The jinniyeh exploded into the room. “Two days!” she hissed. “Two days in a wretched box!”
Sophia said nothing, only swayed on her feet, then stumbled to the fireplace. There was wood, and kindling; she heaped both into the grate, then reached shaking hands for the match-box.
“Oh, move aside,” muttered the jinniyeh, and lit the kindling with a touch. There was a whump of flame, and a burst of welcome heat.
The jinniyeh paced while Sophia huddled as close to the grate as she dared. “Why are we in this room?”
“Because,” Sophia said when she could form the words, “this room has a fire in it.”
The jinniyeh growled in frustration. “When do we leave?”
“We’ll need a plan first. I can’t get us past the blockade until I know which routes are open and which aren’t.”
“And how will you do that, from here?”
In answer Sophia crawled to her satchel, extracted her scavenged newspaper, and brought it back to the fire. The jinniyeh peered over her shoulder as she scanned its pages. Was there anything that might help them? Here, a report of smugglers evading the blockade; perhaps she could bribe one to take them across . . .
Exhausted, she turned the page—and the headline American Warship Arrives at Jaffa leapt at her like the answer to an unspoken prayer. She read the article, then said, “Here, look. A ship from my country is ferrying expatriates from Syria to Egypt—mostly settlers from the Jewish colonies, I’d expect. If we can get to Egypt, we can sail to England and find passage from there to New York, if anyone will take us.” She frowned, and checked the date. “No, wait. The ship sails from Jaffa tomorrow afternoon. We’ll never get there in time.”
“Why not?” asked the jinniyeh.
Sophia dug her railway timetable from the satchel and unfolded it to show the map. “We’re here, in Damascus. And this is Jaffa, here. The trains only go as far as Haifa, and they’re unreliable at best. It’ll take us at least a day and a half to reach Jaffa. Still, we ought to get to the coast. Perhaps the navy will send another ship, after this one.”
The jinniyeh peered down at the map. “But why can’t we simply . . .” And she drew a line with her finger from Damascus to Jaffa.
“Because that’s half again the distance from Homs to Palmyra, and across a mountain range.”
Dima pondered this. “I could fly such a distance,” she said. “And no jinn would recognize me, this far from my old habitation. Carrying a burden would be difficult, but not impossible. The mountain winds might even help us.”
Burden? Sophia thought.
“We can reach it by tomorrow morning,” the jinniyeh said. “Would that suffice?”
Sophia gaped. “Tomorrow morning? You can’t be serious!”
The jinniyeh pointed at the luggage. “But we must leave this behind. Take only what you absolutely need.”
“Dima.” Fear clutched at her. “I’ll freeze up there.”
The jinniyeh’s expression did not soften. “And I will exhaust myself. But neither of us will perish.”
Later that morning, a maid who was sweeping the hallway outside Sophia’s room noticed a strange breeze pulling at her ankles. She peered down in confusion as the breeze grew, whipping her skirt about her legs.
The door to Sophia’s room flew open with a bang.
Something fell over and shattered. Dust swirled, stinging the maid’s eyes—and for a moment she thought she saw a whirlwind, and a figure inside it, rising from the balcony beyond.
The wind died away, revealing a room in shambles, its lamps smashed, the curtains torn from the rods. Sophia’s campaign trunk lay tipped upon its side, its contents scattered. Its owner had disappeared without a trace.
The emigrants stood in a line that stretched along Jaffa’s narrow quay.
For days they’d gathered at the port, waiting. Most were European Jews, citizens of the Russian Empire, the ones who’d left the Tsar and his pogroms to build a new homeland in colonies like Tel Aviv and Petah Tikvah. But the war was worsening every day, and their own position had grown more perilous. Some of their neighbors had decided to take Ottoman citizenship; others simply declared that they would put their trust in
