by Attila Orosz
When at home somebody lost a cow, or their crops died, or the militia killed the provider of a family, the community came together in the Church, and led by Father Kibwe they organised help. They collected food, or decided who would care for the orphans. But this man, disguised in priest’s clothes and living in a stone Church that did not invite people in, was nothing like that; he did not mean to help at all. Probably his white friend had realised that too, because he had knocked the fat man down and they had made a good escape.
This was the first time Jumaane thought of the white man as his friend. They were in trouble together, and Jumaane saved the man’s life. They ought to be friends after that!
There was a movement in the bushes. Jumaane stopped short and wanted to grab the white man’s arm, but he was already crouching tight, listening to the sounds. Jumaane crouched down as well.
“Hey!”
Jumaane tightened. Someone was calling out in a hushed, soft voice.
“Hey! You come this way.”
It sounded like a female voice although he could not tell for sure. It was barely a whisper.
“Come, come!”
Jumaane chanced a look from behind the tree he used as cover. It cannot be those women with the small ones, he thought. It wasn’t. He saw an elderly looking white lady, who was even now beckoning to him with wild gestures, while she kept looking behind her back. He wanted to crouch back down and nudge the white man, but he was already standing up with his mouth wide open. Jumaane got up and approached the old lady who looked suspiciously at the white man.
“Who are you, lady?” he asked.
***
What he saw, Alex knew could not be true, yet it all happened right before his eyes. An elderly lady had emerged from the forest, like in a children’s tale, and she had spoken to them in a language the African seemed to understand. Alex was sure he was going crazy. Was this some sort of hallucination? Does the drug have side effects? Flashbacks? What is happening?
The African had approached the old woman and they were talking now. He wanted to warn him that they could not be careful enough, but he did not know how to. After the priest, they could never know who to trust, and the appearance of the old woman did not do much to alleviate suspicion. In fact, it was the single most suspicious thing that could have happened.
It was surreal. She did not belong there. She wore fine, but old fashioned, clothes and her long grey hair was in a half knot behind her head. The whole effect was that of an old, forgotten aristocrat who did not realise that time had passed by, and somehow remained there from the last century or before. She looked fragile, her hands thin, her skin pale, yet she moved with grace. As she talked, in what sounded like French now, her voice was kind and her tones musical. And this phenomenon was in the middle of a hostile forest, peppered with landmines and guarded with armed patrols. She surely did not belong there.
“Excuse me, can just I ask you where you came from?”
He tried to ask her as politely as he could, somehow feeling the need for politeness towards her. There was no reply, only a gentle smile and a nod of her head.
“Do you speak English, Ma’am?”
He was sure that she did not, yet he insisted on finding it out for real.
“Je ne comprends pas un mot de ce que vous avez dit, jeune homme,” she replied with a smile and turned back to the African, with whom she was in conversation.
This put Alex’s mind at ease somewhat. The African did not seem to mind her. They arrived to the edge of the forest, and he could see buildings. The old lady pointed at a house, a little removed from the others, in the shelter of the trees.
“Nous y allons,” she said and started towards the house, followed by the African.
Alex caught up with them.
***
Jumaane was sitting on an armchair which reminded him of the one he saw in the priest’s house. It was quite soft, and not very practical. Once he sat down, it wasn’t easy to get up again. White men had their strange ways, he was beginning to realise this. They were in the old lady’s cottage. It was a lot smaller than the false priest’s house, yet still a lot bigger than what he was used to. A nice stone house like that only the richest people, usually the leaders of militia, could afford at home. Here somehow everybody was very rich. The legends about Europe might be true after all.
The room was furnished with items he could not recognise, or understand. It all seemed just too cluttered. Pleasant to look at, but unnecessarily crowded. The lady herself was a small old grandmother, with a kind voice and a perpetual smile. She talked quietly and her voice was smooth. Jumaane liked to listen to her. She sounded like somebody who had never experienced hardship, and she certainly looked like that too.
“I’m sorry, I cannot talk more in your language,” she said. “I hardly ever learned some of it. At my age, that is probably a great achievement, anyway. But I speak French. It is one of the official languages around here.”
She spoke French fluently, but with an accent that made it difficult for him to understand. She used polite words. Father Kibwe used to speak like this, but even he could not make it sound that soft.
“Nobody I met so far spoke a word of it,” he replied, still not knowing what to say.
“Yes, it is not very popular in these parts,” said the lady. “Your journey was a difficult one, I reckon?”
Jumaane wanted to answer, but she hushed him, “It was not really a question, dear. I can see your clothes are torn and your shoulder is bleeding.”
He had forgotten about his shoulder. Between his aching ankle, his constant hunger which the few pieces of bad smelling fish could not quite satiate, and his exhaustion at not having slept for days, his wounded shoulder seemed like the smallest of his problems.
“That is nothing. But I did have difficulties.”
“You will be fine, young man.”
Jumaane laughed out loud.
“I’m sorry, grandmother, but nobody called me a young man in a very long time.”
“I should imagine so. How old are you?”
“I am forty-seven,” said Jumaane, still smiling.
“If you don’t mind me saying so, you look a lot older than that,” she said with a naughty smile. “After all. I’m not that very old myself.” She let out a little laugh now. It sounded genuine, but very contained. “And I am not aware of having become a grandmother yet. My only son does not have a family of his own, not yet at least.”
“Forgive me lady, I didn’t mean to—”
“It’s fine, son. I know you mean it as a compliment.” She winked at him. “Soon you will meet people who are there to help you. Like my son. My real son, I mean. He works for some guerrilla sort of people. They call themselves ‘New Dawn’, I am told. They help visitors to avoid detection, you see. They transport them away from these parts, from all these guns and killing, to where it’s much quieter.”
“And what happens then?” said Jumaane. The question had been forming in his mind since he had arrived, but there was nobody to ask it from. “If they want to kill me here, why would they welcome me there? Wherever that is…”
“That I do not know. But one thing I’m sure of, and it’s that my son is a good man. Not like this fellow here. I have never seen him around these parts. He is a foreigner; I do not trust him.”
“He has helped me. And I saved his life.”
“I don’t know about that. But my son has helped hundreds of people. But what do you say? You saved him?”
“Yes, grand—, I mean lady. I had to. He was to be shot.”
“You can call me grandmother if you like,” said the old lady, smiling. “But what you did is awfully kind of you. Who wanted him dead?”
“A soldier who captured me too. He took us down under the ground for execution.”
“That sounds very much like a border patrol. I wonder what they had against him though, it is not usual to kill Europeans. Anyway, we cannot ask him now…”
Her voice trailed
off and her eyes looked dreamily into nothing.
“Lady… Why are you helping us? It is dangerous,” said Jumaane.
“Ah, I told you my son helps your kin. I have taken my part too, you know. I run this place as a sort of sanctuary. I take people in for a short time, until my son or his colleagues can come and collect them. Sometimes I just give them directions, it depends. It is risky but I sleep better for it. Nothing bad has happened to me so far… and anyway I’m old, I might as well give my worthless life a purpose with doing the right thing.” She laughed a little. “I usually know of any arrival in advance, but nobody told me about you coming!” she added.
“You are a sweet old grandmother and your son must be proud of you,” said Jumaane with a warm smile.
“Oh, thank you dear, you are very kind. Now, I’m not sure what I could do about the two of you. You see, I wasn’t contacted.”
She went to a chest of drawers, and took something out.
“See this map? It marks the positions of the landmines. I usually give one of these to anyone who needs directions. Here, the place they all go is marked. You could probably try going there.”
“How do I know I can trust those people? We went to a Church of some sort, only the priest was not a real priest and the Church was like a prison!”
The old lady chuckled.
“Yes, my son, that was a real priest, I’m afraid. You cannot expect much help from him though. I knew the man for thirty years, he is more loyal to the authorities, whoever they are at the time, than anyone I ever knew. No, the Church is not the place to seek help.”
Jumaane fell silent. This did not make sense, the Church was supposed to mean hope. But there was so much more that bothered him. These thoughts never had time to manifest, but the conversation with the nice old grandmother was opening up valves in his mind that let out many thoughts which had been suppressed and kept under high pressure.
“I saw posters of black militia. People know about them here? So why not fight them? I watched those men kill my family! Then I saw white men take my people for slaves! Now the white man displays the black soldier’s portrait. What sort of a place it this?”
“You misunderstand. It is not about them. That blood-stained black face with the hateful eyes and the ready weapon, is supposed to be you.”
“Me?” Jumaane was shocked.
“All of you. The ‘illegals’, as they call your people.”
“Illegals? Why would black men be illegal? And why would they make us look like our own enemies? We come here running from those madmen!”
“Oh no, it is not only black men, not only the African. Everybody who comes to Europe, at least anyone who is not white, is called an illegal. Those posters are up there to prepare us, so they said, for when we meet you. We are supposed to know who we are fighting…”
“That is—” said Jumaane, then he fell silent.
His head dropped, his broad smile disappeared. When he looked up at her, his eyes were full of pain. “I think I understand what you are saying. The words. But I do not understand what they mean,” he said quietly.
There was a silence that was heavier than anything Jumaane had ever felt. He knew something was amiss, he knew an explanation was due, but he also knew the old lady would not be able to give one. What she said now was madness, yet somewhere deep inside it was right at the heart of his own actions too. When he had killed the white soldier, this was the way he had felt. And it just was not right. People turned against people they did not even know, for no reason at all.
The old lady broke the silence, “Forgive me, I’m so rude! I did not offer you anything yet! Would you like a cup of tea?”
A wild exclamation from the white man drew their attention at the same moment. He was holding a strange picture in his hands and kept taking in his language, which neither of them understood. His face lit up, he looked genuinely surprised, but happy about it nevertheless. The picture was not flat, and although slightly transparent it showed a clear image from all sides. Jumaane had never seen anything like it before.
“That’s a picture of my son. He was a late child, you see,” said the old lady, not expecting the man to understand. She smiled politely. Turning to Jumaane, she explained, “I think I have been a little obsessive about my son, when he was younger, but he was like a gift at that age, I never thought I could still have children. He did feel like an escape from a bad marriage too…” Then she changed the subject quickly. “I believe you never have seen such an image. It’s called a holograph. You will see many wonderful things you could not have imagined before.” She chuckled to herself. “Newer ones can even move!”
Jumaane pulled the small weathered photograph out of his pocket, and gave it to the old lady who studied the picture with interest.
“My dear, I have not seen one of those since I was a little girl!” she exclaimed in honest surprise, “Is that your family?”
“Yes,” said Jumaane. “The priest in our village used to have a camera from before the war. He also had a box of papers for the images to show up on. He said there was only a few left, so he was keeping it himself, and he let each family take one picture with it. He said we should take a picture at a time we wanted to remember, something to look at, when we grow old. I took this one when my wife was expecting our third child. It did not show yet, but she knew. She was never born, my daughter, she died in her mother’s womb, but she lives on in her smile on this picture…”
A tear appeared in Jumaane’s eye but he smiled, as he went on, “Now I know the baby was wise for not wanting to come to this world, she must have known that the others will join her soon. They are all together now, and I’m sure I’ll be with them shortly.”
The white man interrupted him, talking loudly, making wild gestures with his hand, pointing at the image, and then himself.
“He seems to recognise your son,” said Jumaane, laughing at the man’s gestures.
“Yes. And if he does, it means you were probably right. He might be here to help you after all.”
***
Alex was looking at the three dimensional holographic projection of a young officer he was holding in his hand. He had watched the African and the old lady talk until now. He found it ironic that the only honest person they met would be the only one he could not talk to, but at the same time his companion understood her just fine. And the young officer on the picture seemed to be her son. He could not understand what she said, but there was something in her smile. Besides, why would she keep the picture of a young officer? She doesn’t really look like someone who— He laughed to himself and discarded the thought before it even formed in his mind.
And it was the picture of his colleague, Rickard! He tried to explain that he knew Rickard, and worked with him, but he was sure she did not understand a word of what he said. Still, just how deep could the organisation go? This really fascinated him. Through all those years he had learned virtually nothing about the people he had been working with.
This would, of course, all change now; he would have to take his job seriously. After all, there was a whole web of similarly inclined people, and they really did a fine job in helping others. About time he did it like he meant it too!
Yes, fate had strange and twisted ways and he was only beginning to realise how little he knew about navigating them. Just now, he had met Rickard’s mother. He knew that guy well. He had worked for the HUM since forever. He usually stayed at the HQ and organised missions from there, kind of the right hand of the main man. But this was a projection of him, wearing a military uniform, in front of the parliament of the United States of Europe in Brussels. It said ‘Lt. Patrick Rickard’ on the projector’s base. He never knew Rickard used to be in the army. Anyway, this must have been many years ago, the man was still very young there. The Rickard he knew wore a suit, was a lot older, and the honest smile of youth had long disappeared from his face. He would not have called his looks worried, but it definitely wasn’t happy, or open. In fact, he would have
had a problem to describe what his expression was like if he ever had to.
There was a violent knocking on the door. Everyone in the room fell silent. The knocking repeated, this time even louder, almost like someone banged his fist against the wood. He signalled to the African, who got up very quietly, whispering something to the old lady. She nodded and gripped her hands together in front of her chest. She looked scared.
Alex glanced around. There was an open door leading to the next room. Putting the picture down, he tiptoed there as fast as he could, without making a noise. He looked inside. It was the bedroom. A large window was wide open, probably airing the bedclothes. He beckoned to the African, who followed him noiselessly in there and out through the window. When they dropped down onto the grass, they started running towards the woods immediately. He heard men shouting from the other side of the building, in the language of the locals. He heard the old lady protest loudly. As they made it across the garden, he heard the door implode. Then more shouting. Two gunshots. Then silence.
Chapter Twenty-One
The Colonel turned on his communicator, which looked like a traditional desk-phone to match the style of his office.
“Send for Captain Rickard, will you?” The request was addressed to the clerk sitting outside his office.
He had to keep this as official looking as possible. Delivering bad news was never easy, wrapping it inside procedures always helped. He did not know how best to deliver this to him. He never sensed much emotion in the Captain, but something told him this was a special case.
When he finally appeared, the Captain looked like someone who had been dragged away from an extremely important task. He did not look exactly impatient but as close to it as he could be.
“You sent for me, Sir?” A slight hint of puzzlement might just have made it across in his voice.
“Captain, I need to tell you something. Well, there was a slight hiccup. And something happened… Something you ought to know about.”
