Love in the Land of Barefoot Soldiers

by Frances Vieta

IT WAS LATE IN the afternoon of the second day when Standish and his precious party finally reached Addis. Rutherford threw his arms around Ceseli and held her to him. “You’re safe now.”

  “I know,” she said, not making any movement just standing there and letting him hold her.

  “Everything is going to be okay. You must be starving. We’ll eat in a little while,” he said. “I’ll have Hilina bring you some hot water.”

  “That would be wonderful,” she smiled.

  Five minutes later, Ceseli opened the door to the tukul. Standish stood by her as an emotional support. “I don’t think you’ll find any change,” he said.

  “Thanks.” She looked at him over her shoulder and smiled wanly. If you only knew, she thought tiredly.

  There was still plenty of light inside the tukul so that she didn’t need a candle. On her little table was a stack of letters. Sotzy. Oh dear, thank god for Sotzy. She took the one highest up on the pile and opened it. It was postmarked March 31, from New York. Maytchaw she thought.

  Ceseli Dearest,

  I know letter writing has never been your forte, but after almost four months of hearing nothing I would like to know whether you still abide in this heaven on earth or have flown off to a more ethereal habitat. I have heard from Warren though, so I know you are still alive.

  I liked your description of your young doctor. I would have no problems with his being Italian. As to being a Fascist, that’s a mute question because everyone in Italy is one. I hope he doesn’t believe in Mussolini, but the very fact that he has volunteered with the Ethiopian Red Cross is clear indication that he does not.

  I agree that humor is one of the most important parts of a good relationship. Looking like an angel doesn’t hurt either. I think it might be great fun to be one of his patients. I love Florence. I stayed there with my mother when I was about five. I’m sure he will find the cure for malaria. Please give him my best.

  Please contact me immediately. Consider yourself kissed.

  Your loving grandmother,

  Sotzy

  P.S. All the bills in New York and Geneva have been paid. Don’t worry about a thing.

  Ceseli read and then reread the letter. She needed to answer immediately by telegram. The tapping on her door startled her. “It’s me, Miss Larson. Hilina, with your hot water. Can I come in?”

  “Of course, Hilina, and thank you,” she said, opening the door.

  Hilina put down the pail. “Thank you, Miss Larson. Thank you for all you did for my country. And I’m very hurt by Mr. Marco’s death.”

  “Thank you,” Ceseli said, hugging her as the tears rushed down her cheeks. “Thank you.”

  After Hilina left, Ceseli poured the water into the tub and got in and pampered herself with a long, leisurely bath. She needed to write Sotzy and tell her about Marco. But it didn’t have to be tonight. Tonight she was too exhausted. It would be all she could do to get through dinner.

  CHAPTER 53

  “CONVEY MY GREETINGS TO your President, and tell him that the fate of my country may serve as a warning that words are of no avail against a determined aggressor who will tear up any peace agreements when they no longer serve his purpose,” Haile Sellassie said, holding out his hand to Rutherford.

  It was the end of April, and the emperor had mercifully escaped the Italians and returned to Addis. They were shocked by his appearance. His face was haunted, his eyes deep and brooding.

  Later that afternoon the emperor issued a short statement to the press: “Ethiopia is not defeated,” he said. “It will carry on its fight to the last man. But Addis Ababa will continue to be an open city.”

  The foreigners were thankful that there would be no last stand in the city. They were less worried about the number of deaths that might cause, than that their property might be destroyed.

  In the evening, Haile Sellassie summoned his councilors to his throne room. They were the country’s most powerful and influential aristocrats. Conversation was subdued. Dutifully, they knelt and kissed his feet. His chartreuse uniformed servants passed silver trays with small glasses of white vermouth. He told them about his plans. He planned to move the seat of government into the western mountains, perhaps to Gore. A majority of them seemed interested.

  Ras Kassa, the emperor’s respected and loyal second cousin, the second most powerful voice in the empire, a Christian pacifist who had survived the battle at Maytchaw, was sick of the war and was adamantly against the plan from the beginning. He spoke passionately. “You must go to Europe. To Geneva. You must appeal to the League for help from those great nations that promised help under the Covenant of the League. These nations, despite what they have done so far, are our only hope for liberation.”

  After the long meeting ended, Haile Sellassie, by now tired and depressed, rode up to the Little Ghibbi, where, for the first time in many months, he was to see his wife.

  Plans had already been made for the empress and their children to leave on the railroad on Saturday for Djibouti where the British ship, Enterprise, was waiting to take them to safety. The empress argued vehemently that he should accompany them. She pleaded with him that his days might be better spent in a life of prayer in the Holy City of Jerusalem, rather than the mountains of Gore or the corridors of Geneva.

  The next morning, May 1, 1936, Yifru entered the emperor’s study holding a single sheet of paper. The emperor read it, then looked up. His eyes were hollow and tired.

  “The Italians are only one hundred miles from here. Your majesty is in great danger.”

  Haile Sellassie sighed heavily. “Have the great drums of Menelik placed on the hillside in front of the Grand Ghibbi. I will address my people at noon.”

  The green, yellow, red Ethiopian flags with the great lion’s mane in the middle were raised for the last time. Menelik’s war drum sounded for an hour and a half. All of Addis heard it.

  Yifru stood attentively behind him as the emperor faced his people. He was like a sundial measuring the feelings of his people. When the crowd grew quiet, the emperor decisively rejected the advice of his council. He issued an appeal for a last effort to keep the Italians from entering Addis Ababa. He asked every able-bodied man to take up whatever arms he possessed, supply themselves with enough food for five days, and march the next morning against the invader.

  “We shall go!” they cried out. But they did not. Of all the men and the young military cadets ordered north, only a handful went. Yifru knew that the emperor was vacillating: part of him wanted to escape, to leave, to flee. He did realize that his only chance lay in convincing other League members to come to his aid. He must go to Geneva to plead his own cause. The fate of his people, his empire, depended on it.

  Overhead they heard the engine of an Italian plane. Haile Sellassie knew there were no alternatives, and no more time. Alone the emperor walked out into his garden and went to see his Arab horses. Very few of them had returned from Dessie. They were thin, their bones protruding. He also visited his lions, petting them one last time.

  CHAPTER 54

  SHE KNOCKED BEFORE OPENING the door. “Warren, can I talk with you?”

  “Of course, my dear, come in,” he said as he knocked the ash from his pipe into a small green ceramic bowl.

  She looked around the room where she had spent so much time. “Warren, I’d like to go to Djibouti on the imperial train tomorrow.”

  “That’s an excellent idea. I’ll send Standish to arrange it.”

  “Warren, if you don’t mind, I’d like to do this myself.”

  Warren studied the determined look in her eyes before nodding. “Of course, my dear. I’ll give you the money to get to Geneva and what we call a laissez-passer. It testifies that you are part of my family and that you are not subject to searches.”

  “Will that mean I can go to Italy through Naples? I’d like to find out if I can still take my fellowship from the American Academy.”

  “I can’t see any problems with that.”

  “And you,
Warren?”

  “My orders are to close down the mission, ship out papers we might need, burn the rest. Then I will go to Washington, and Standish to Geneva. At the end of the month.”

  “Warren, I’d like to ask you something. I’ve sat here in front of that painting,” and she pointed to the one with the purple mountains, “I know your paintings have a theme. What is this one?”

  “If you excuse my tone deafness, I’ll sing it.

  ‘O beautiful for spacious skies,

  For amber waves of grain,

  For purple mountain majesties

  Above the fruited plain!’

  Ceseli joined him in an equally tone deaf, but loud refrain.

  America! America!

  “Would you like it? I’m flattered. Take it as a birthday present.”

  “I’d love it. Thank you. But for me, these are the purple mountains of Ethiopia.”

  “I’m pleased you like it. Now go see Yifru.”

  That evening, Ceseli walked up the familiar staircase. Everything was in flux. There were no pet lions on the landing, nor any attentive barefoot guards. All day long the packing of important documents and personal belongings continued. Now instead of moving out of the city westward, the trucks carried their cargo to the railway station. Ceseli knocked softy on Yifru’s door. Even here the packing continued.

  “Ah, Ceseli,” he said as she peeked inside.

  “I’ve come to pack my papers and photos.”

  “Of course.”

  “I wish there were something I could do, or say. What about Yohannes?”

  “He will go with the freedom fighters to Gore. He’s leaving now.”

  “Yifru. I’ve come to ask you a favor,” Ceseli said, awkwardly. “I would like to go to Djibouti on the imperial train. I don’t need any special treatment. All my papers are in order. From Djibouti, I can go to Europe.”

  “The train may be bombed,” Yifru said. “I can’t guarantee your safety.”

  “Warren doesn’t believe that Mussolini will bomb the train. He has too much to lose. And it doesn’t matter where the emperor is as long as he’s not in Ethiopia.”

  “Does he know you want to do this?”

  “Warren? Yes. He thinks it’s a good idea. There’s nothing more I can do from here.”

  “How are you doing, Ceseli?”

  “As well as can be expected I guess. I’m keeping busy. I feel just like I did when Daddy died. But life went on.”

  “Warren and Standish are staying?

  “Yes. They have orders to close the mission. Warren will go to Washington. Standish to Geneva. You will tell me where you are?”

  “We will go to Jerusalem. Their majesties want to pray at our church there. Then we go to London. We’ve been offered asylum. And of course, Geneva.”

  “I will catch up with you.” Ceseli hugged him and then turned, closed the door, and left the little Ghibbi.

  CHAPTER 55

  CESELI BEGAN PACKING THE few things she would carry with her. The first thing was Zeri’s music. He had told her to guard these pages with her life, and she would. She would catch up with him in Rome.

  She picked up Marco’s worn leather bible and opened it briefly. She planned to deliver it personally to his father in Florence as she traveled from Rome to Geneva. She thought of whether she should meet his family and decided that yes, it would be hurtful and difficult, but it was a small thing in comparison to saving her life. Her own bible held no surprises as she tucked it into her satchel next to the cameras. The Afar Girl. She looked at the photo again now. The edges were frayed, but the eyes of the girl were haunting.

  She took her photos of the war. She must succeed in getting them to Geneva without risking going through any customs point in Italy. Even with the laissez-passer, she was worried. She thought of her options and then went to find Daniele.

  “How good are you at carpentry?”

  “Is something broken?”

  “No. I was hoping you could make a second bottom for my trunk.”

  “I’m pretty sure I can do that, Miss Larson.”

  And he had. The false bottom was perfectly concealed and now held her photographs. Now she had no doubt she could get these photos to whomever she could get to help. Later, she would vindicate Marco’s death. She would one day prove to all those who believed in decency that the Italians had used mustard gas. Her precious photos must be protected as much as Zeri’s music.

  She looked around the small tukul then she sat down on the bed next to the candleholder. She rubbed her eyes trying to eliminate the thoughts that kept pushing themselves forward. So much energy had been used to get her to Axum and so much to get her back. Marco crept into her thoughts, and Yifru and Yohannes. The dreadful waste of the war: the smell of bodies, the burning of houses, and the breakdown of every social structure. She thought of total destruction and of its physical attributes: the arson, pillage, putrefaction that were all part of it. And then she thought of Habtu. What would become of the future generations of Ethiopians? What would become of him? She took her pen and wrote to Sotzy.

  Dear Sotzy,

  I know you have heard from Warren that I’m alive and well. Well, not as well as I might be, but dealing. I think Warren has also told you about Marco and the circumstances leading to his death.

  Ceseli paused. Warren’s telegrams were protected by diplomatic immunity, her letters were not and though she wanted to tell her grandmother about the Red Cross bombings, she didn’t want to play her hand just yet. She also didn’t want to jeopardize her fellowship at the American Academy in Rome.

  I’m leaving tomorrow for Djibouti and from there I will catch a ship for Naples. Then to Geneva. I’ll write you from there.

  Thank you for paying the bills there. I’ll repay you for that.

  All love,

  The light knocking on the door of her tukul surprised her. She walked over to the door and slowly opened it.

  “Ceselí.”

  “Yohannes. What a pleasant surprise,” she said, kissing him three times on the opposite cheek in the French style of greeting.

  “Mr. Standish said you were here. I wanted to say goodbye. My uncle says you are leaving with him on the train.”

  “I need to go. I have work to do and a life to live. What about you, Yohannes? Where will you go?”

  “I’m going with the Freedom Fighters to the mountains. We will wait for the Emperor to return.”

  That might take a lifetime, Ceseli thought, but would certainly not voice her misgivings.

  “Ceselí, I must go, à bientôt,” he said, again kissing her three times.

  “Bon chance, Yohannes, and thank you again for all you did.” She closed the door when he left. What would become of Yohannes, she wondered. She thought about the war. Italy had lost only three thousand men, most of them Eritrean Askaris. Ethiopia was broken. She had lost hundreds of thousands of lives. Those are people, not numbers. They were human beings. People killed for utterly no reason. She closed her satchel and blew out the candle. If Yifru could smuggle German guns in piano crates, she could smuggle her photos in her Louis Vuitton trunk. She was ready. She would do it.

  CHAPTER 56

  BY 2 A.M. ON that May 2, 1936, Haile Sellassie, bowing finally to the pressure of his wife, his chiefs, and his religious advisers, was ready to leave his home and his empire. As he strolled through his palace office, the cuckoo clock struck. He heard his pet parrot answer, “The emperor, Haile Sellassie!” He wondered if he would ever hear his title again.

  He walked to the gilded cage, opened it and took out the bird. Carrying it carefully, he opened the window and then helped it lift into flight. Out the window, following the flight of the bird, he looked for the last time at the vast expanse of his mud and wattle capital, where even at this hour, tiny fires like fireflies illuminated the sides of the steep valley. Then he shut and locked the window and walked out of his still unfinished Ghibbi Palace.

  It was hauntingly empty inside the railroad
station, like a theatre before the audience arrives. Several extra wagons had been added to the train to haul the documents and Austrian silver Maria Teresa Thalers the emperor would need in exile. A few passenger cars had been added for those who would share exile with him.

  Ceseli and Standish stood over to the side waiting. Ceseli felt like crying, but she kept back the tears. “I know it’s time for me to go, it’s just . . .” she paused. “I don’t know. This has become my home. I would like to stay on and help,” she said, looking up at him.

  “It’s time to go. It’s different for us. We need to close down the mission. There will no longer be a Minister to Ethiopia. Ethiopia is now Italian.”

  And then the play began. The imperial party entered the station and walked to the train that would change their lives. The emperor, Empress Menen, who was wearing a heavy mourning veil, and their six children climbed into their special railroad car with its white leather cushions. The high court dignitaries, who intended to share their exile, climbed aboard.

  “We are ready, Ceseli,” Yifru said. “If you want to come, it has to be now.”

  She nodded and stooped down to pick up her satchel containing her precious cargo and some food. The trunk was already loaded.

  At 4:20 a.m., the imperial train, slowly, sadly, without any whistles, pulled out of the station in the direction of Djibouti. The emperor was not deserting his country, although many had deserted him.

  It was already late in the morning of May 4, 1936, when the train reached the safety of Djibouti. Ceseli hung out the window as the train pulled up along the same track where she had first seen Marco. She sat remembering the renaissance angel running up to the train, and into her life. It seemed like a century ago. Nervously, she fondled the thin gold cross Marco had given her and felt it next to her father’s dog tag. It had protected her.

  The French soldiers, in dress uniforms, fired a royal salute as the emperor stepped down from the train followed by his family. Ceseli cried at the sight of Haile Sellassie, King of Kings, Conquering Lion of Judah. He was bareheaded and looked travel-stained, weary, haggard and dejected. The rows of ribbons seemed to decorate a cave not a chest.