Love in the Land of Barefoot Soldiers

by Frances Vieta

  Yifru pushed through to where three men were lying on the ground. Marco knelt next to one after the other, evaluating their wounds. “Do you know anything about first aid, Miss Larson?”

  “Basic Red Cross.”

  “Then take this and put a tourniquet around his arm. We need to stop the bleeding. Then I’ll remove the bullet.”

  Ceseli took the strip of cloth he handed her and wrapped it around the man’s arm just below the shoulder and held it as the blood slowed. She squinted against the sun as Yifru stooped down next to them.

  “Can I help?” he asked.

  “You can keep the audience back,” Marco said, as he threaded a needle.

  She was not going to be sick at the sight of blood, she told herself, fighting the impulse to retch. She managed to hold the tourniquet as Marco extracted the bullet and started to suture. The man’s eyes were locked on Marco’s hand and he never grimaced from the pain of the stitches.

  “He’ll have an ugly scar, but that will probably improve his reputation.” Marco smiled at his patient as he cleaned the needle and put it back into his bag. “Tell him that he should get those stitches cut out in a week. He can come to the hospital. I’d be glad to see him.”

  “I’ll remember this,” Yifru said, signaling some of the guards to help the injured man up onto the train. Three of the guards in their khaki uniforms with rifles across their backs came forward to help. The other two men had only superficial wounds, and they were taken care of quickly. Soon the train was ready to resume the trip.

  CHAPTER 3

  “THAT WAS VERY IMPRESSIVE,” Ceseli said, after they returned to their compartment. “You’ve had good training.”

  Marco shrugged, but seemed pleased by her approval. “I don’t do a lot of that, Miss Larson . . .”

  “Don’t call me Miss Larson, please. It’s so formal and I’m not formal at all. Call me Ceseli.”

  “Si, Ceseli, I don’t do a lot of this. I work with tropical diseases. I’m that ultra-idealist who wants to discover the vaccine against malaria. Then we can get it out of Italy.”

  “I didn’t know there was malaria in Italy.”

  “South of Rome, all along the coast where the Pontine Marshes used to be. It’s been a problem for thousands of years. Julius Caesar thought of reversing the Tiber River into the marshes to flush them out. Several popes had plans too, but Mussolini has done it. Several thousand families live there now.”

  Ceseli smiled thinking of Mussolini, known as Il Duce, who had been the Italian dictator since 1922. He was openly caricatured in the American press, credited with getting the Italian trains to run on time and for draining marshes, but not much else. Just my luck, Ceseli thought, an ardent young Fascist.

  “And there’s malaria even in Rome,” Marco continued. “Near the Coliseum.”

  “Roman Fever, right? Has Mussolini been draining that area, too?”

  “Trying to.”

  “Does that make him feel like Caesar?”

  Marco looked around. “Whether one likes it or not, he is our elected leader and everyone in Italy is now a Fascist whether they want to be or not. My family is not Fascist, but that means very little.”

  Ceseli looked across at him and decided not to continue. She knew what her father would say: Don’t argue when you’re up against a wall.

  Their conversation was interrupted by the heavy knocking on the compartment door. Marco went to the door, and unlocked it. Tariku, the porter, was trying to restrain a man twice his height and at least four times his weight from breaking open the door. Without waiting for an invitation, the man pushed his way inside.

  “Mademoiselle Larson,” the porter looked at her in exasperation. “Help me!”

  Ceseli looked at Bruno Zeri realizing he was the man she had seen photographing at the watering station. “It’s okay, Tariku. You can wait outside.”

  “Congratulations, Doctor,” the intruder began.” My name is Bruno Zeri. I’m a journalist with the Corriere della Sera. That’s a Milan paper,” he said, turning to include Ceseli. “I’m actually based in Rome, which is where I’m from. I apologize for my English, signorina.”

  Ceseli looked at this man carefully. Bruno she knew was the Italian word for brown and often a name. Zeri was very tall and he did look somewhat like a large, gruff brown bear. A gladiator, perhaps, or the statue of some Roman nobleman with his swarthy skin, abundant black curly hair and penetrating dark brown eyes. But the statues she was thinking of were of marble and they had nothing to do with the animation of his long slender hands as he spoke. His beard was long and in need of a trim, his clothes were rumpled and the blue cotton pants were extremely baggy, although Ceseli didn’t know whether it was the style, some recent diet, or just from sleeping in them. His light blue shirt looked well-worn around the collar. The sleeves were rolled up revealing powerful arms. Around his neck were a silver chain and a Star of David. An unlit cigar hung from his lip.

  “My paper has sent me here to do some background stories about Ethiopia,” he said, looking at Marco.

  “What kind of stories?”

  “Local color. Like what you just did. ‘Young Italian doctor in the wilds of Africa.’ Saving that guy. That kind of story.”

  “I extracted a bullet. It was not life threatening. I can’t see how that would be of much interest.”

  “Let’s talk about you for a moment,” Zeri smiled. “Judging from your accent, you’re from Tuscany.”

  Marco smiled at Ceseli before answering. “Florence. I guess that gives us something in common. I see you smoke Tuscan cigars.”

  “Toscani are my favorite,” Bruno smiled, chewing on the unlit cigar. “And your name?”

  “Marco Antinori.”

  “As in the Florentine vineyards? The best Chianti wine in Italy?”

  Marco shrugged in reply.

  “Where did you study medicine, Antinori?” Zeri asked, writing in a small pocket-sized notebook.

  “In Bologna. I graduated in 1930. I spent two years at the hospital there. Another in Florence, and I’ve been in Ethiopia almost two years.”

  “How did you get here?”

  “I volunteered. I’m at the Italian hospital in Addis.”

  “Are there other Italian doctors?”

  “Three.”

  “Do you treat many Ethiopians?”

  “That’s why the hospital was started. But most of my time is in research. Smallpox, malaria, typhus, and cholera.”

  “I read that Emperor Menelik had a pox-scarred face.”

  “Si, I think that’s true.”

  “Do you find it difficult to treat Ethiopians when we are facing the probability of war?” Zeri asked, with his pencil poised.

  “I’m a doctor. My duty is to heal. I’m not a politician and I have very little patience for politics. I’m trying to find a cure for malaria. If that happens, it will benefit both the Ethiopians and the Italians. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to spend these next few hours practicing English.”

  Zeri seemed to get the hint, snapped shut his notebook and stood. “I admire your work, doctor. And your politics. Arrivederci, signorina,” he said as he pulled open the heavy door and then let it slam after him.

  As Zeri walked back to his own compartment he couldn’t help wondering what a Florentine aristocrat was doing working as a doctor in Ethiopia. It was something he was curious to explore.

  Ceseli turned back to look out the window. Bruno Zeri intimidated her, she knew, but besides his physical size, she couldn’t decide why that should be. He was a journalist and her father had told her that there is a very strong censor in Fascist Italy, but certainly it wasn’t that. He was clearly Jewish, but she lived in New York and it couldn’t be that either. That he was Italian? Marco didn’t intimidate her at all. She felt at home with him. Was that because he was a doctor with what her father would refer to as a bedside manner? He was also refined, perhaps that was it. Whatever it was, she felt vulnerable in Zeri’s company and she didn’
t in Marco’s.

  “Shall we eat?” Ceseli asked. “I’m starved.”

  “Certamente, let’s see what we’ve got,” he said, reaching for the cardboard boxes.

  “Start with the box on the bottom, please.”

  “Why?”

  “I think it was the travel agent’s first choice.”

  “That’s a good enough reason,” Marco said as he handed the first to Ceseli.

  “Wow. He said there was some choice, but look at this,” she said, showing him the box. “Canned meat, hard-boiled eggs, bread, crackers, cheese, canned pate. Now I am impressed!”

  “Is there a can opener?”

  “Do I detect a bit of sarcasm in that question?” she asked, looking at his rueful grin. “Yes, there is a can opener and napkins and plates, forks and knives.”

  “Let’s try this one too,” Marco said, handing her the next.

  “Eggs again, another canned meat, but a different kind. Let’s leave one of the boxes for Tariku,” Ceseli suggested.

  “That’s a nice gesture. What did you think of Zeri?”

  “Not sure,” she answered, with her mouth full of bread. “Seems a far-fetched subject for an article.”

  “I just hope he doesn’t embellish it too much. I don’t want readers back home to get the idea that I’m an ardent Fascist. Do you want to try this meat?”

  “What is it?”

  “I can’t answer that, I’m afraid. But someone went to the trouble of canning it and your travel agent put it in your box, so it must be edible. And if you get sick, you have a doctor with you.” He paused, and she felt he was about to say something about Fascism.

  “Can I ask you something?” he began. “Is Ceseli a real name?”

  “Probably not in the way you mean. When I was born, both of my grandmothers wanted me named for them. Daddy couldn’t decide whether it should be Frances or Elizabeth. He compromised. Ceseli. Why did you choose to come to Ethiopia?” she asked as she cracked the shell of one of the eggs.

  “My father always wanted to live in Africa, but my mother wouldn’t leave Florence. I thought I could do some good. Ethiopia desperately needs doctors. So I volunteered. I’ve got another six months.” He paused. “This is actually pretty good,” he said, handing to her half of the canned meat.

  “Florence will be pretty tame after Ethiopia.”

  “I’ll get used to it. I’ll go home and marry my high school sweetheart. One of them that is,” he said, smiling mischievously. “And have a hundred children.”

  “Sounds like Solomon,” Ceseli laughed. “With his four hundred queens and six hundred concubines.”

  “Well, maybe not a hundred. Five or six.”

  “I’m sure you’ll be a wonderful father. Five or five hundred.”

  Since Djibouti, the train had climbed steeply up the western rim of the Ethiopian Great Rift Valley, where the volcanic lava flow from Mt. Fautalle spread over the plain. It worked its way up the six thousand foot escarpment through hidden valleys from the Akaki River Valley past the crater lakes of the Bishoftu hills to emerge onto an eight thousand foot plateau. Soon the train picked up speed, entering a gentle plain surrounded by a lush forest of eucalyptus. In the distance, across a vast rolling, grassy plain, Ceseli could see Addis Ababa crowned by Mount Entoto.

  The Ethiopian flag waved jauntily on the red tiled roof as the train pulled into the yellow stucco and brick station. I’m here, she thought, I’ve arrived at Addis Ababa.

  CHAPTER 4

  “NOT SO BAD,” MARCO said, stretching and pulling the window down.

  “But I’m glad it was the express.”

  “Now you can understand why I had to catch this train. I’ll pass our bags out through the window,” he said, as the train lurched to a final stop.

  “You seem to like windows much better than doors,” Ceseli laughed and climbed down off the train. Once outside the window, she had her satchel in her arms and steadied it, but as she drew it down to her she realized it was being taken out of her hands. She turned almost tripping over a slender young man standing on the platform next to her.

  “Welcome to Addis, Miss Larson. I’m Standish Forsythe. I work with Minister Rutherford. He sent me to fetch you. Is this all the luggage?”

  “No. There’s also a steamer trunk, I’m afraid.”

  In the meantime, Marco had come up beside her with his black medical bag. “This is Dr. Marco Antinori. He’s a doctor at the Italian hospital. And--”

  “Standish Forsythe,” Standish answered. “Do you need a ride into town, Doctor?”

  “No, someone from the hospital will be here. They meet every train. Ceseli, nice meeting you. Please, drop by the hospital and let me look at that head.”

  “I’m fine, I’m sure, and again thank you,” she said, watching him turn and walk away. A feeling of loneliness came over her. He had seemed like a protector, like her father, and now he, too, was leaving.

  “Thank you for your help,” she said, turning back to Mr. Forsythe.

  “What’s this about your head?”

  “We had a rendezvous with some bandits and I fell badly. Dr. Antinori thought I might have a concussion. It was extremely exciting. Bandits and trussed up animals to stop the train. Thankfully there were a lot of guards and they beat them off.”

  “It happens a lot. You’re lucky it was the express. When I came for the emperor’s coronation in 1930, the ride took three days. We didn’t travel at night because of the bandits. We stayed in rather primitive hotels and ate cold Greek food, but I got here,” he smiled.

  “I’m glad things have improved.”

  He was of medium height, she saw with a shock of light brown unruly hair slicked back from his forehead. The sun was glinting so against his steel-rimmed granny glasses that she had difficulty seeing the hazel color of his eyes. He wore a light blue shirt that was peeking out from under a safari jacket.

  The same first class travelers she had seen in Djibouti were now climbing down from the train and jostling each other on the narrow platform anxious to enter the small station and to exit on the other side.

  As Ceseli looked into the crowd of passengers, she saw Yifru approaching and to her surprise, Standish and Yifru hugged each other, Russian style, like two upright grizzly bears.

  “Welcome back. I didn’t know you’d be on this train,” Standish said, still holding both his hands. “We missed you.”

  “I got finished earlier than planned and managed to catch the express. Hello again, Miss Larson,” he said, turning to her. “Standish’s father was my professor at Columbia. You’ll need to see the emperor about that trip to Axum. Drop by and see me when you come to the palace. By the way, how’s the head?”

  “Just a little sore. I’ll be fine.”

  “Good. We can’t have our archaeologist laid up before she even gets started. See you soon, Standish,” he said, walking out of the station.

  Standish reached for her satchel. “Thanks, but they’re my cameras. I’m used to carrying them.”

  The smell of disinfectant was overpowering reminding her of the new smell of Africa. She followed him into the station, and as soon as her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she saw the bales of hides and skins, stacks of coffee bags, and piles of elephant tusks that were ready for the return trip to Djibouti. They would be replaced by the incoming bales of imported American bleached cotton ready to be sewn into the traditional white shamma, the toga like clothing all Ethiopians have worn since the period of the Kingdom of Axum.

  Off to one side, workers were unloading the six piano crates straining with the weight, their bodies glistening with sweat as the crates were transferred up onto a heavy duty open truck ready to be pulled by a team of four oxen.

  Outside, in the brilliant sunshine in front of the station she looked up at a magnificent gilded statue of a lion with its Ethiopian scepter and sword.

  “What’s that?”

  “Beautiful, isn’t it? It’s the Lion of Judah. One of Haile Sellassie’s
many titles. The statue was a gift to the emperor from the railroad company in honor of his coronation. The scepter and sword are his heraldic signs.”

  A long string of brown plateau camels tied neck-to-tail were sleeping contemptuously on their flat feet to the left of the station. They seemed to pay no heed as their handlers piled cotton goods, coffee, and clanking tin ware on their pack saddles. As Ceseli slithered through to get past, one brayed and spat in protest against its handler. She brushed the swab of spit off her arm and wondered if it brought good luck like pigeon shit in Venice.

  “Where are we going?” she asked, hurrying to keep up with him.

  “Directly to the United States Legation where Minister Rutherford is waiting for you. An urgent telegram came in and he had to stay behind to answer it.” Standish helped her into the old, but well maintained, black Ford model A. After several grunts and hissing noises, the engine finally came alive and he drove up the hill away from the station.

  “This is the main street,” he said, “and one of only a few tarred ones. There’s another road that leads up to the palace. Next door is the police station, and that’s the Hotel De France over there,” pointing to indicate the hotel. “Add to that a coffee house, a butcher shop, and a bazaar and that covers the downtown. There are three hospitals, a school named for the emperor, and an Italian one run by missionaries. If you like to walk, it takes one and a half hours to walk across the city from the American mission to the British compound. If you want to get there in half the time you can ride a mule, or take our car for that matter.”

  As far as she could see, the city was hidden in a forest of Eucalyptus trees peeking out from every building and along the sides of every street and pathway. It was an enormous network of green through which one could see the thatched roofs of the round mud-and-manure native huts known as tukuls. Other than the blanket of the Eucalyptus trees were the snowflakes of the bleached white shammas togas the people wore.

  The Ford was the only car on the road, but lots of people were walking or riding on donkeys and mules with their leather saddles and trimmings. There was a heavy smell from the pack animals that jostled against the car and she felt thankful that she was looking out over the heads of the donkeys and was not right in their midst. Standish honked hard at a stray mule that had come up on the roadbed and turned sharply to miss it.