Love in the Land of Barefoot Soldiers

by Frances Vieta

  Take care of yourself.

  Yifru

  She had reread that letter until it was fraying apart. She had followed his movements until May 5, when Emperor Haile Sellassie reentered Addis on the fifth anniversary of when he had been forced to flee. He restarted his rule.

  As Ceseli walked down the wide staircase from her bedroom to the entranceway at exactly four that afternoon, the knocker hit the door.

  “I’ll answer the door, Daniele,” she called towards the kitchen as she opened the door. She smiled at Yifru as he entered holding a bundle of red roses. “They’re beautiful, Yifru. Thank you,” she said, smelling them.

  “They come from the emperor’s rose garden, and he sends with them his best wishes and can’t wait to see you about the university.”

  “I’m glad you could come. I’m touched by the emperor’s greetings. Let’s sit on the verandah.” Ceseli said, leading him into the dining room on the way to the terrace.

  Yifru stopped. “That’s very nice,” he said, indicating the painting above the sideboard on the dining room wall.

  “My Uncle Warren did it. It is good, isn’t it? He painted it in Wyoming, but I’ve always thought those were the purple mountains of Ethiopia. It always travels with me.”

  Opening the French doors, Ceseli lead him outside to the veranda where the table was set for tea. “You must be very used to high tea by now,” she laughed.

  “Actually, no. Every spare dollar, or pound as you will, went to buying arms. Not tea and crumpets.” He paused looking out at the garden. “I’ve never been here before. To Standish’s office and the minister’s, but not inside the actual residence.”

  “It’s very sparsely furnished, as you can see,” she frowned, looking around her. “Not at all as it was with Uncle Warren. He’s in London, you know, and Standish is still in Geneva. Sotzy will be here in a moment. She’s having a little difficulty with the altitude.”

  “I wish Warren Rutherford had been in London when we needed him. Probably nothing would have changed, but hope springs eternal,” he sighed.

  Ceseli sat down smoothing her long shantung silk skirt over her knees. “I almost didn’t recognize the city. All these new buildings, the wide streets and avenues. The Italians have done themselves proud. And the parks.”

  “To build them, they bulldozed all the tukuls that were in the way.”

  “Yes, I saw that. It’s a typical Fascist technique. When Mussolini complained he couldn’t see the coliseum from his office window in Piazza Venezia, they bulldozed the entire neighborhood around the coliseum and built a long wide avenue that passed the forum and named it the Imperial Way.” Ceseli paused feeling increasingly nervous. “You know they brought my obelisk to Rome. Zeri and I went to see the unveiling. You remember Bruno Zeri? The Italian journalist? It was on the fifteenth anniversary of the Fascist March on Rome. Mussolini was in full dictator form.”

  A few more minutes passed before tall and erect Frances Sheraton walked out to the verandah dressed in a long, flowery skirt with a white silk tunic. Her white hair was pulled into a neat chignon that framed her face, accentuating her piercing blue eyes.

  “I’m Ceseli’s grandmother,” she said, shaking his hand warmly. “And you must be Yifru. She calls me Sotzy, and I hope you will too.”

  “Thank you,” he said, smiling at her. “My grandmother had eyes like yours. She was British.”

  “As was mine. You see, we have something in common other than Ceseli.”

  Then Yifru saw the small child clinging to Sotzy’s hand. She was blond, with curly angelic hair floating around her face and wore a light cornflower blue flowered dress that matched her eyes.

  Yifru turned to Ceseli. “You never told me?”

  Ceseli audibly drew in her breath. “I didn’t think it was something I could put in a letter,” she explained. “Then it seemed like it was too late.”

  “What’s your name sweetheart?” Yifru asked, smiling at her as he squatted down to be at her level.

  “Marca.”

  “Marca?”

  Ceseli smiled. “The feminine of Marco. If my father can create names, why can’t I?” Smiling, she added proudly, “And Marca speaks Amharic.”

  Yifru looked surprised. “Do you?” he asked Marca.

  “Awo Amaregna enageralehu, Yifru,” she said, timidly rocking from side to side.

  “You know my name? Do you know what my name means?”

  “Sort of,” she answered shyly, now twisting her finger in her hair.

  Yifru looked up at Ceseli and smiled at her before continuing. “Marca, I promise you that you will never be afraid of me,” he said, taking her hands into his. “But I will call you Meklit,” he said, smiling at her. “Do you know what that means?”

  “What does Meklit mean?” Ceseli and Sotzy asked at the same time.

  “God’s gift. She truly is a gift from God.”

  Yifru rose and went to Ceseli. “You thought she would make a difference to me?”

  “I truthfully didn’t know,” Ceseli said, wiping away a tear, “but hoped she wouldn’t.”

  “Sotzy, does Meklit look like Ceseli did at the same age?” he asked, pleasantly.

  “Oh, yes, she certainly does,” Sotzy replied, encouragingly. “Very much so. And she has her mother’s temperament as well. Beware.”

  “Warning heard and understood,” Yifru smiled openly. “My grandmother used to say a word to the wise is sufficient.”

  “Mine used the same phrase,” Sotzy laughed easily.

  “Yifru hugged Ceseli, then held her away from him. “But I assure all three of you that I wouldn’t have you any other way. I’ll love all three of my ladies,” Yifru smiled broadly, holding Ceseli to him. Then he laughed as Ceseli had not seen him do in a long time and nodded his head “Well, indeed, we are going to need those schools, my love, and a very big house. It’s good that I am a good promiser.”

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I AM DEEPLY GRATEFUL to the many people who helped me to get this book published: For my agent, Peter Riva, and his team, for having confidence in this book.

  Yohannes Mengesha and Ketema Yifru, my Ethiopian colleagues at the U.N./FAO World Food Programme in Rome, Italy, who in 1985, introduced me to their country for the first time.

  Professor Richard and Rita Pankhurst in Addis Ababa, for taking me under their wings and personally taking me to all the places I would have to describe.

  Romia Bull Kimball, who helped me devise the harmonica code for Zeri’s music on the amount of mustard gas being used to win the war.

  Meklit Menkir in New York, who helped me find the right Ethiopian names for my characters.

  For my family, children and grandchildren, and the many friends who absorbed with good humor the many numerous changes that went into this final version—some offering advice and others offering good ideas in differing degrees of attachment.