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Zusatztext "Bay Area writer N.H. Senzai! who based her first novel in part on her husband's family's escape from Soviet-controlled Afghanistan in 1979! has a warm! engaging style that belies the subject matter. She keeps the story firmly through Fade's eyes. He is a middle-schooler! plucky but not precocious! struggling to adjust to his new life in America! stricken by guilt about his sister! worried about his ailing mother! but still a boy."-- Sandip Roy! San Francisco Chronicle! July 01 2010 . Informationen zum Autor N. H. Senzai Klappentext A powerful debut--this coming-of-age novel artfully captures one family's flight from Afghanistan and their new life in San Francisco. IT’S A PERFECT NIGHT to run away, thought Fadi, casting a brooding look at the bright sheen of the moon through the cracked backseat window. It reminded him of the first line of the book From the Mixed-up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler. “Claudia knew that she could never pull off the old-fashioned kind of running away.” Fadi was only halfway through the first chapter, so he didn’t know how successful Claudia had been in her getaway, old-fashioned or not, but he sure hoped that his family would be. If they weren’t, they were going to be in an awful lot of trouble. Under the protective cover of darkness, the taxi he and his family were traveling in swerved around a bombed-out Soviet tank and exited the pockmarked highway. They needed to avoid the checkpoints set up by black-turbaned men on the main road. With the headlights turned off, the car careened over a rocky plain, rattling the passengers’ teeth. Fadi pressed his nose against the cold glass, peering across the desolate landscape. His reflection flashed back, revealing a thin face with unruly dark hair escaping from beneath a traditional beaded cap. His nose sloped slightly to the left, evidence he’d broken it once. He held his breath when the driver nearly hit a tree stump while plowing through a parched wheat field. Another mile and they arrived at the outskirts of the sprawling city of Jalalabad, in the eastern province of Afghanistan. The driver slowed, weaving his way through narrow alleys toward the crumbling buildings that rose in the distance. They bypassed quiet residential neighborhoods and a shuttered local vegetable market. Finally, the brakes squeaked in protest and the taxi came to a lurching halt alongside a row of deserted warehouses. The concrete walls were riddled with bullet holes and grenade blasts. “Is this it?” asked Fadi’s father, leaning forward in the front seat. “Yes, Habib. We’re on the corner of Jalalkot Road and Turi Street,” replied the driver. Habib peered at the corner, his lips compressed in a tight line. “As a boy I remember coming here with my father,” added the driver with a heavy sigh. “For generations the merchants here created beautiful handcrafted paper.” Fadi took in the desolate junction, trying to imagine bustling streets, shops overflowing with stacks of gleaming paper, customers haggling over prices. “All right, then,” said Habib, his voice quavering for a moment. “Let’s go.” “Come on, Fadi, snap out of it,” whispered Noor, Fadi’s older sister. She pushed open the door and stepped out first, followed gingerly by their mother. “Zafoona,” said Habib, turning to his wife, “are you all right?” “Yes,” said Zafoona, her voice a thin whisper. Noor took her mother’s elbow and gently propelled her toward the side of the road. Fadi emerged next, keeping a protective hand on his younger sister, Mariam, who slid out behind him. The faint moonlight provided just enough light to help guide them into the sheltered doorstep of a shuttered tea shop nearby. Noor and Fadi’s mother stood enveloped in burkas, two smudges of light blue against the drab gray walls. Fadi glanced back a...
