by Attila Orosz
Chapter Seventeen
They were running. Jumaane’s ankle was hurting badly, now the pain was shooting up to his knee. He stumbled a few times; his strength was waning away quickly, but the white man helped him up and gave him support. The events of the last half an hour only left him more confused. First their lives were in danger, the soldier wanted to kill them or sell them as slaves, but then Jumaane had killed their captor and now they were both running free. It was all a mess, happening too quickly to comprehend.
He had no idea where they were going now. They ran until the movement ceased behind them. Somehow those chasing them did not seem very keen about going into the woods. Probably the forest was cursed, or maybe there were rogue militants hiding there. Back home it was always a problem, militants from other groups who had not belonged to those protecting his village had often confronted men and women who had ventured too deep into the woods. He was now sorry that he had left the rod behind. A weapon could come in handy if they were to meet armed men.
They reached a little clearing and the white man stopped. He said many things that Jumaane could not understand. Then he sat down and fell silent, looking thoughtful. Jumaane sat down beside him and tried to think straight. It was difficult. His stomach was spasming, and his ankle hurt even more now. He was sweating a cold sweat, even though he was chilled to the bone.
I killed a man, he thought to himself, I took a life. He could never have imagined he was capable of it. Even though his own life had depended on it, it seemed just unreal. He only wanted to live in peace with his family, in their little home. They had been poor, but they had few problems. Now all his life was a problem. He had to run, but he did not know where he was running. He had to eat, but there was nothing to eat. He became a murderer, even though he loathed violence. And there was nobody he could tell.
Then the white man got up beside him. He was listening intently and looking around. He checked his pockets, pulled out something, glanced at it and put it into his jacket quite absent-mindedly. Then he looked at Jumaane. The man made a gesture, like he was eating with his hand, then another one towards Jumaane, signalling him to stay put. Jumaane understood. He was probably going to hunt. He nodded in approval, then the white man disappeared.
***
The village was not only small, it was poor and forlorn. The houses were in a dismal condition, the pavement was mostly missing and weeds grew from the cracks of what once had been the road. The façades of the houses were dull and greyish. Some colour was evident, but everything was covered in grime. The weather did not help either, the grey cloudy sky making everything look all the gloomier.
Alex had left the refugee in the bushes before he came into the village. It was really difficult, not being able to talk or explain anything to him, but they seemed to be getting on fine now. The man understood most of his gestures, which was a good start, anyway. Surely the African would be missing the next train. There was no chance for them to make it there on time, not with the slow pace they could manage among the trees, not if they wanted to avoid being blown to pieces by another landmine, or get a fill of shrapnel. Still, they had to find their way back to the HQ; they had no other choice. Either that, or capture, and that would be a death sentence to both of them.
Alex was certain that they would eventually make it, but first they needed supplies. It was already morning and he had not eaten since midday yesterday, and God only knew when the African had seen any food. It was a tough decision to make, but he had to risk showing himself to the locals, hoping that he would not raise an alarm or too much suspicion.
He had tried to pull himself together before venturing to show up in public. He had discarded his dirty jacket and cleaned his jeans as well as he could. He had passed for acceptable in his own judgement, hoping his face had not gathered too much grime. He had wiped the sweat off his brow and tidied up his hair, then stepped out onto the streets, trying to walk as casually as he could. His clothes were black, and he was hoping that the dirt did not show, or at least it did not look in excess to what seemed normal.
As he looked at the few inhabitants of the street, the slim faces, unkempt beards, ragged, dirty clothes and the empty eyes, he felt he still might make an impression of not belonging there, just by being too well dressed and fed. If the village was a disgrace to human settlements, the locals were the perfect inhabitants, really giving a bad name for the species as a whole. Blank stares looked away from him, people with bent backs and shaky movements passed out of doorways, just to disappear behind others as quickly as they could. A few suspicious faces turned towards him, but they seemed to lose interest instantly.
He turned a corner, passing a billboard on the side of a building. On it were two African soldiers. In the background, dead children. The black soldiers were eating raw meat. There was something written in the native language of these parts underneath. He could not read it, but did not really care to look at propaganda.
Behind the next corner there was another billboard. On that was a young border guard in a perfectly clean uniform. Behind him, a happy family, supposedly his own, and a street as clean as any perfect Hollywood film would have shown. It was a sunny day, and the soldier was holding the woman’s hip; they were all smiling. Underneath, the caption read in four languages:
‘A hadsereg gondoskodik rólad!The army provides!L’armée est là pour vous!Die Armee kümmert sich um Dich!’
Fine specimen, he thought, and he turned away with a frown. Did people really believe when they were told that they lived like that? He was afraid that the answer might be more disturbing than the question. If you kept repeating something long enough, people were capable of making themselves eventually believe it, despite the facts, despite the obvious, even in face of their own experience. And that, as it seemed, included their own lives. People like that were not simply hopeless, but they were infinitely more dangerous than any army. Just by believing what they were told, they could make sure that those who were responsible for their miserable condition would stay in power indefinitely. A lot depended on the oppressed, but they rarely used this power for anything but cementing in their own oppression.
Yet another corner revealed what looked like a grocery store. He checked himself one last time in a window, cast his eyes down, and tried to look as miserable as he could. Then he went inside. Entering the store was like time-travel into a dark past he had only learned about in history classes. Crumbling, empty shelves, dust accumulating everywhere, and an old, bent shopkeeper who eyed his every move with deep suspicion, were all he found inside. On the shelf closest to the counter he saw a few cans of tuna and spam. Behind the counter, in a cabinet with a heavy padlock and thick bars to guard it, was what must have been some sort of liquor. The bottles were unmarked, and the liquid was colourless, yet the increased security indicated value. He took his eyes off the bottle as soon as he caught the shopkeeper’s glare. He did not want the man to get the wrong idea.
Alex took a few cans of fish and spam, and brought them over to the counter. Then he reached into his pocket. Then into the other. The back pockets were empty as well. He had money, he was sure he did. He began to sweat while trying to look as normal as possible. No need to raise suspicion. He kept his eyes cast down. The jacket! I must have put it in there! He contemplated leaving the stuff and going back for the jacket, but he could not excuse himself in any language other than English. He had managed to avoid talking so far, it would be best to keep it that way.
The shopkeeper then pulled out a drawer and Alex caught a glimpse of what looked like pouches of tobacco. Smoking had been prohibited in the United States of Europe for over a decade. He recognised the illegal substance and looked at the shopkeeper in surprise.
“Oh shit—” The words just slipped out of his mouth as his eyes locked onto the maddened gaze of the other man. The shopkeeper stared at him with eyes wide open. Then he said something in his own language, his hand reaching for something.
“Oh no-no-no. Don’t be ala
rmed! It’s fine!” said Alex, desperate to make good of the situation, but he already knew it was too late.
As he had suspected, the locals had been alerted to look out for him and the African. And that was when it all sped up. The man began to shout something in his language, but Alex could not make a word out of it. Alex tried to soothe him, but he would not listen. A few people were already gathering in front of the store, and the shopkeeper took up what looked like an ancient telephone.
“Hívom a rendőrséget! Polis! Polis!” The man yelled at him in his thin, old voice.
Alex could not stay a moment longer, the authorities would appear any time now and they would know who they were looking for. He grabbed the cans from the counter and dashed for the door. Some locals tried to block his way, but he had the advantage of being nearly twice their size. He broke through their barrier easily and kept on running down the streets, back to the forest from where he had come.
***
Jumaane was squatting behind a bush, waiting for the white man to return. This time he did not think about running away. The white man trusted him with leaving him behind, so he tried to trust the white man too. After all, they were making their escape together, and they might even be able to help each other now.
He saw movement further away, deep in the forest. He crouched lower. The soldiers must be here. But the noise was somehow different, somehow softer. He waited. Then he heard some voices talking, female voices, scolding a child in his own language. It’s them! He jumped up from his hiding place and ran towards the women. He waved at them from afar, not daring to shout. One of the women noticed him, stopped and signalled the others to wait.
“It’s you again!” she said, with a broad smile. “You are alive!”
“Yes.”
Jumaane stood panting. He looked at all of them. Two women and two small children, the same little group he had previously met.
“I’m glad you made it this far,” he said, “and I’m happy that you went away earlier, as I told you to. It was too dangerous. But you are still alive! I’m sorry that I was shouting at you, I just wanted you to go as far as you could. It was dangerous.”
“What happened to you?”
“I had to kill a man,” he said, and he choked on the words as he spoke. “The soldier who captured me and another white man. He was killing us. He wanted to shoot us. So I killed him.”
They all stood in silence for a while. The women looked at him with silent admiration, but said nothing. Jumaane watched them carefully. Beautiful young ladies, tall, slim, and pretty. They carried themselves like they were the queens of the forest. Who knew, back in Africa they might as well have been.
“The children,” he said finally. “You must find shelter for them. And food.”
“We have food,” said one of the ladies. “We have enough even for you. Here, eat something!”
She took a bag off her shoulder and offered it to him.
“No. You need it more, the children need it. I might die soon, but they can live. Keep your food for them.”
His hunger was killing him, but he would rather starve. These four still had all their lives before them. They were so young. They could still have a future. How, or where, he could not imagine.
“Don’t say that,” said the other woman, laughing. “You look strong. You are a grandpa, but a strong one! See, you still have all your teeth!”
She laughed, but her laughter was forced. Then she fell silent. All of them were silent, even the children didn’t move, only looked at him with big pleading eyes.
“You should come with us,” she said finally.
“No, I cannot leave him behind.”
“Who?”
“The man I saved. He is a white man, but he is the slave of the other whites. I cannot abandon him now.”
“So where is he?”
“He went…”
“Went?”
“Don’t know where, probably hunting. To bring food.”
“But we have food. And he might not be coming back. And it’s a white man. You shouldn’t trust him!”
“I do now.”
Silence again. They were looking at each other, he was longing for them to stay, but wishing at the same time that they would go so far he would never see them again. They said nothing. Jumaane stepped forward. The women looked scared for a moment, but when he opened his arms, they exhaled deeply and came closer. He embraced both of them.
“Take care of the children. Don’t go deeper into the forest. There the ground explodes just like in the no-man’s-land at home.”
“We will be careful,” said the younger woman. She was already in tears.
“There is hope! Not all white men are bad! There is this one with me, he is a good man! Try and find more good men, they will help you! Just be careful. And don’t go deep into the forest!”
“We will not.”
They stood there in silent embrace, the three of them. The children were standing stunned, not knowing what to do. Jumaane released the women, his face wet with tears.
“Goodbye.”
“Goodbye.”
They left, not looking back. Only the children kept looking at him as they disappeared in the bushes. He waved at them. They did not wave back.
They are the future, he thought, I am past. Even I may die, but they still live. All is good. All is as it should be. He watched the forest quietly for a while then he started back to his former hiding place. The white man could be coming back any time now.
***
Alex found the African where he had left him. So it seemed he could really trust the old man. Old, real old man, he saw that now. He had never had the chance to have a proper look at him, and he was now studying his companion with deep interest. His frame was strong, but worn. His arms sinewy, his bones sticking out. He held his head down, and his back bent in a hunch, but his eyes were hard and resolved.
He put down the cans beside him, offering one. The African looked at it, then at him in confusion, like he did not know what it was. Alex pulled the top open and the smell of fish quickly filled the air.
“It probably tastes as bad as it smells,” he said, “but better than nothing.”
He offered it to the African and the man took it tentatively. He sniffed it, then put a finger into the oil and licked it. He looked at Alex and smiled.
“It’s yours. Eat, eat!”
Alex tried to make gestures to indicate it belonged to him and nobody would take it away. The black man did not move, so he opened another tin and started eating from it. The black man still did not budge. Then he remembered the way they had communicated in the tunnel a little earlier. He stopped eating and looked the man deep in the eye. He pointed at the fish, then at Jumaane, then made gestures like he was eating his fish, and finally nodded with his head. The African nodded too. He looked into the can and started eating.
Alex sighed, “Finally.”
The African’s face turned sour and he spat. He looked at Alex in disbelief.
“I know,” he said, “but that’s all there was.”
This time the African seemed to have caught on quicker, because he nodded again and started eating the bad smelling fish. Alex was watching the man eat. It looked like he had not eaten in a while, and Alex felt a strange satisfaction for bringing food to him. It was something he had never experienced before.
“I’ve just realised something, you know,” he said to the man, “I was not really helping anyone. I mean, like ever. I was acting out of spite. At first I thought it was about avenging my family, you know. When I lost them I was angry, but I was not half as angry about them as for having lost my own life. The good life, the parties, the studies… Sure it was all taken away, but look at you. You get a little tinned fish and you are as happy as a junkie on the shot of his life.”
The African chewed away, smiling at him.
“Hii ni samaki mbaya. Lakini ni vizuri kula.”
“Yeah, I guess you don’t really read my head, do
you?” Alex let out a bitter laugh. The African laughed with him.
Chapter Eighteen
The church tower was clearly visible over the treetops. It was a fortunate landmark, and a promise of safety. They had moved towards it after they had finished eating. It was not safe to stay in one position, even though the woods provided shelter and the minefields now meant protection, staying in one place was no solution. Alex had never considered the role of the Church in Europe before, but it seemed to have a particularly long standing tradition.
Back home in the United North America, the Church was traditionally strong. His parents had been devoted believers and talked a lot about Christian values. It was a nice idea after all, the brotherhood, and sharing your wealth with the poor, even though there were no poor people left in the UNA, so it was only a phrase, really. He was vaguely aware of the Hippies of a hundred years before, and the various ideas of spiritual awakening of the beginning of the century. The Church of America was relatively young, but rapidly gained popularity as it managed to appeal to both the traditionalists and the new believers. They did a good service too, and stayed true to their words. It should not be all that different in Europe either, Alex guessed. After all, it was the traditional Christian values that the Americans always used to cite and, as far as it concerned western religions, one could not get much more traditional than in a European country. The idea occurred to him that it might as well be the Church that was behind the whole HUM operation.
He remembered, although only vaguely, his mother telling him stories of priests from the last century. They took part in movements and were politically active, especially here in Europe. Those times were over now, but he knew that there were plenty of undercover agents working secretly for the greater good, and a Church this close to the border would surely have ticked a lot of boxes.
The African nudged him with an elbow. Alex looked up but the man indicated to him to keep quiet. Then he pointed his thin finger toward the woods. There was a rustling between the leaves. Alex held his breath as they both crouched as low as they could behind the bush.
