THE CARETAKER
By Frode Z. Olsen
The shabby looking van parked tightly against the high wall sticks out. I spot itasI get out of ourarmored off-roader. The van is empty and there is no front license plate. Cautious I put my hand on the front; cold. Further down the narrow back street a blue burqa-clad woman is walking away. In the opposite direction two talking men leaned towards their bicycles are looking in my direction.
I nod to Hamid, the driver. He locks the off-roader and walks the few steps to the rough wooden cemetery gate. It’s locked. He knocks and shouts something in Pashtu. A Friday afternoon in January; blue sky and freezing cold; the shadows are long in the Sherpur quarter. I squeeze the Danish pine wreath under my arm, look around and take my time about it.
This is a detour. I arrivedin Kabul two days ago from Copenhagen with a governmental delegation tasked to have talks with officials about permission to repatriate some of the illegal Afghan migrants in my country. They come in thousands to find sanctuary far from home. The visit to the Christian cemetery came up in the last minute. Years back a prominent Danish explorer died and was buried in Kabul. A stopover at the grave laying down a wreath was hastily included in the program.
There is a lazy stillness in the air; still I have to be careful, no reason to stay any second longer than necessary.I just risk end up with my mouth full of dirt – as the permanent residents at place. The cemetery is surrounded by a three meter high grey wall. After the senseless turmoil in Afghanistan, honestly, Ihave my doubts if the Danish grave is still there.
The left half of the wooden gate opens a little. Hamid starts immediately to talk. I step closer giving the wreath another squeeze. Hamid speaks to a young Afghan boy about twelveyears old. After a few sentences he lets us in and locks the gate from the inside with a rusty iron hinge. The light is sharp. Behind the closed walls the cemetery has the size of a soccer field. Dry frozen grass struggles with a thin layer of snow to cover ground and pebbles. A few low trees stretching their naked grey branches towards the sky seem like the rest of the place to be in a lethargic state. The scattered graves with their headstones are in a surprisingly good condition, considering Taliban ruled this country a long time, and that even today locals still call it the “white cemetery”. To the right I notice a little stone shack with a single dark glaring window and a sloping tin roof. Close by two strutting chickens stretch their necks to see what goes on at the gate.
The boy keeps both hands in his pockets as he talks in a soft butfirm voice. He pretends not to freeze but his worn-out black jacket is thin and the blue jogging pants stuck into a green pair of rubber boots offer little protection from the Afghan winter.
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He looks me in the eyes as he claims to be the caretaker of the cemetery; he wants to know the purpose of our visit, Hamid translates.
I hear my own voice break the following silence, strangely telling the boy about the Danish explorer, carefully pronouncing his name. Suddenly a clattering metallic sound comes from behind the dark window of the shack; my throat goes dry. Another boy with rubber boots comes out, hardly nine years old. He has a kite with blue, green and red stripes in the right hand and a skeptical look in his eyes.
The caretaker instantly knows where the Dane is buried and takes us directly to his grave, less than thirty steps to the left of the gate. The reddish headstone erected on the spot more than fifty years ago is dusty but entirelyundamaged. The carved letters are easily readable. Grey brick stones mark the size of the grave. The youngest boy comes closer dragging the kite in a string after him. His nose is running. My knee creaks as I bend down and place the pine wreath below the headstone. Its green color lights up the grey dust. For a second my head is empty; then my lips whisper: - I guess none of us could ever imagine a meeting like this.
Afterwards the caretaker explains that the boy with the kite is his younger brother. They live in the shack at the cemetery together with an old uncle. Can I see him? No, he is out on business at the moment. I nod and look at Hamid. He shrugs his shoulders. On the way to the wooden gate I search my pockets; find a few local bank notes and a chocolate bar. The caretaker keeps his premature adult look at me as he with a measured bow accepts my meek donation. He folds the money and sticks them into his pocket. His younger brother’s eyes are fixed on the chocolate bar. The caretaker unwraps, takes a bite, and hands the rest to his brother.
As I bid him farewell, the caretaker quickly swallows the chocolate and ask me, what is written under the explorer’s name at the bottom of the head stone. I look towards the grave and recall the first line of a well-known Danish psalm: Altid frejdig når du går - always dauntless as you walk.