I awoke the next day more determined than ever to get to America. Surely Delan would help me after I helped him with the Hazaras. I went to see him.
He said there was nothing he could do.
Ever since I was young, I wanted to go to America. I knew that if I settled in Germany, that dream would end. It was with a heavy heart I called Abbas. I had not spoken to him since we parted ways in Pakistan. He was surprised and happy to hear my voice. “I’m so happy to hear that you’re finally coming to Germany. I will arrange to have the German consulate in Istanbul issue you a visa. The German consulate in Kabul can prepare the paperwork for Afsana and the children. I can’t wait to see you.”
Abbas was there to meet me when I arrived at the Frankfurt Airport. “I’m so happy to see you, Bar. When I saw you enter the terminal, I still couldn’t believe my eyes. I feared this day would never come. Destiny has brought us together again.”
“I’m happy to see you as well, Abbas. But you know this is not where I want to be.”
“Destiny had a different plan for you. It’s more powerful than your own desires. You should not swim against the current, Bar. You should swim with it. Accept your destiny and be happy.”
Waiting to hear that my wife and children had left Kabul made each day long and painful, so I focused my energies and attention on news about Afghanistan, spending hours listening to the Voice of America broadcasts in Dari and Pashto. My body was in Germany, but I had never really left Kabul.
A few weeks later Uncle Gholam received a telegram from Kabul: “The parcel will be arriving soon.” The next day, before the sun had risen, Abbas and I left for the long drive to the Frankfurt Airport, where the “parcel” would be arriving. At the terminal hundreds of Afghans were sitting under trees or leaning against cars, many chain-smoking. They had camped overnight, awaiting the daily flight from Dushanbe, Tajikistan—the stopover from Kabul. Inside the terminal hundreds more sat waiting for a loved one, a relative, or a friend. Many came simply hoping to recognize a familiar face. There was always cause for hope, but there was always worry as well. Had they been caught by the police in Kabul? Were they stopped by airport security and turned back? I was all hope and no certainty.
We went to the airport terminal, but no “parcel” arrived on that flight nor on the flights over the next two days. All I could do was return each day and hope to see the faces of my wife and children.
As we waited in the terminal on the fourth trip, someone shouted, “The plane is landing!” and a wave of excitement surged through the crowd. We all stared through the glass wall at the corridor where the passengers would appear.
“They’re here!” someone shouted. The Afghan refugees looked in amazement at the throng of Afghans cheering their arrival. More followed, all peering at us through the window, as anxious to see a familiar face as we were. Then the stream became a trickle. Then it stopped.
I stared at the glass wall feeling empty.
A woman appeared, struggling with a cart piled high with suitcases and bags. Two small children clung to its sides. It was Afsana, preoccupied with the cart, and Walid and Mariam. As soon as Walid and Mariam saw me, they started running. Walid was older and faster than his sister, and I caught him in my arms. Mariam quickly followed, hugging me even harder than her brother. I set Walid and Mariam down and looked up. There stood Afsana. Our eyes met.
When we embraced, my world was once again complete.