Ties That Bind

by Rachel Ann Nunes

  Once inside the small jailhouse, André was glad he’d enlisted the help of the taxi driver, because as poorly as the man spoke French, he had no problems with his native Ukrainian. He talked to the men behind the desk rapidly, and soon André was being ushered past the main desk and down a narrow, white-painted hallway. One of the doors in the hall led to a larger room with two cells for prisoners, complete with the classic iron bars. André saw Louis-Géralde immediately, lying on an uncomfortable-looking cot and reading the dog-bitten scriptures Rebekka had given him before he left France. He was comparing them intently with another set of scriptures that André assumed were in Ukrainian or Russian. On another cot in the same cell, another young boy—an American by the look of his blond hair and facial structure—slept soundly under a thin blanket. The other cell was empty.

  Louis-Géralde looked up as the guard stopped at his cell, barking out something in Ukrainian. “André,” Louis-Géralde said, leaping from his cot in surprise. The other missionary stirred but did not wake.

  “Hey, little brother.”

  “What are you doing here?” Louis-Géralde grabbed hold of the bars and brought his face up close. “President Bradley knows, doesn’t he? We’re not supposed to get visits from family, and I don’t want to get in trouble.”

  “He knows. We’re trying to get you out.” André placed his hands over his brother’s in greeting before sitting obediently on the chair the guard indicated. He watched as the man locked the door behind him as he left, presumably returning to the front office where André hoped the taxi driver still waited for him. The locked door made André uneasy. Well, at least I’m not inside the iron bars, he consoled himself.

  “Good.” Louis-Géralde’s anxious expression relaxed. He pulled his cot closer to the bars and sat on it.

  “So what are you doing in here?” André asked, mildly amused that his brother was worried about breaking the rules when he was obviously not doing any missionary work.

  Louis-Géralde looked sheepish. “I thought I was doing everything right, but apparently things aren’t done here exactly the way I think they should be.”

  “I’ll say,” a voice said in English.

  André glanced at the other missionary, who was sitting up and rubbing the sleep from his very blue eyes. A myriad of freckles seemed to dance across his face.

  “He learned a word or two of French in high school,” Louis-Géralde explained in rapid French, his voice low. “I think that’s why the president put us together. In fact, he speaks it better than Ukrainian or Russian, despite being here already six months, which isn’t saying much because his French is really terrible. Mostly we speak in English when we’re alone.”

  “Darn know-it-all greeny wouldn’t listen to what I told him,” the missionary continued in English. “If he’d just slipped them a hundred hryvnias like I told him, we wouldn’t be here. While you’re explaining things, be sure to explain that. Eighteen bucks, that’s all it was. Not worth being here for three days.”

  Louis-Géralde’s face reddened. “You understand what he’s saying, don’t you?”

  André nodded. “Sort of.” Like most people in France, he had studied English over the years, though he wasn’t close to speaking it as well as Louis-Géralde.

  “Well, he’s right,” Louis-Géralde continued with a frown. “It was my fault. But I just didn’t feel like giving the guy my hard-earned cash when I wasn’t doing anything wrong.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I told you—nothing.”

  André sighed. “What did they charge you with?”

  “I’m not sure. What happened was that our investigator’s husband started hitting her one night. We arrived in the middle of it, and I told him if he touched her again, I’d throw him out the window.” Louis-Géralde smiled apologetically. “I couldn’t let him do that to her. I’m not as tall as you are, but I’m just as big, and the guy got scared and called the police. The next thing I know, the policeman is asking for some money to smooth over the threat, but I said I’d rather hang than give him or that wife-beater any money. Imagine, paying the guy to beat his wife—it’s unthinkable! My companion warned me to pay it, despite our no bribe policy, but I had to uphold mission standards.” Louis-Géralde made a face. “And now you’ve had to come all the way from France to save me. How embarrassing. No offense, André, but couldn’t the president send some other missionaries?”

  “He did, but I guess they weren’t allowed to see you. The president himself was here a few minutes ago, but he says going through the regular channels will take weeks—and we don’t have the luxury of waiting.”

  For the first time, Louis-Géralde gazed at him with fear showing in his eyes. “What do you mean?”

  “You know Marc got a transplant, don’t you?”

  “Yes. Mom said Rebekka was the donor. I was a little relieved because I was just getting the hang of this missionary stuff. I didn’t want to leave so soon. I mean, the language was fairly easy for me to pick up—probably because of all the years I’ve taken it in school—but the rest isn’t as simple as I thought.”

  “It never is.”

  “If Marc got the transplant, why are you here?” His face blanched. “He’s not dead, is he?”

  André arose and again covered his brother’s hands where they were clutching the iron bars. “No. But he is dying. He rejected Rebekka’s kidney, and he’s going downhill fast. Without another transplant, he’ll die for certain. They’ve put him near the top of the transplant list because he’s so critical, but with his blood being so rare, you’re the best match—at least until Marc and Rebekka get started on kids of their own.”

  Louis-Géralde sagged with relief. “Then it’s not too late. We have to get home. Can you get me out of here?”

  “I don’t know. I can’t understand a thing the guards say. The only reason they even let me in to visit was because of something my taxi driver told them. I don’t know what. He could have promised them anything, for all I know. It worries me since your zone leaders weren’t even allowed in.”

  “Let me talk with my companion and see what he says. He’s been here longer. Maybe he’ll have an idea.”

  “Okay, but hurry. I don’t know how long they’re letting me stay.”

  Louis-Géralde explained the situation in English to his companion. They spoke so quickly that André didn’t follow much of what they said. When they finished, the missionary stood and walked over to André. “So you’re his brother,” he said in slow English, sticking his hand through the bars, “and I thought you were from the embassy or something. Nice to meet you.”

  “Nice to meet you, too,” André replied, shaking his hand.

  “Thanks for coming.”

  “I’m going to explain your idea now,” Louis-Géralde told him in English. He turned to André and began to speak in French. “My companion thinks that if you explain about Marc it might get some results. But could you say that Marc’s family is offering a reward in order to get me back in time for the transplant, a reward you are willing to share with whoever can get me out? That way, they will have a little more . . . uh, incentive.”

  “I think the taxi driver already told them that I’m your brother. They looked at my identification.”

  Louis-Géralde scratched his cheek, and then raked his hand through his dark hair in a manner that reminded André of Marc. “I don’t think it’ll matter much,” Louis-Géralde said. “They might go along anyway, especially since they know they have nothing on us, and since they know by now that they aren’t getting anything from our church. Plus, if our case gets to the attention of the French Embassy, they might have big problems on their hands.”

  “Okay, I’ll do it.” André started for the door, but Louis-Géralde stopped him.

  “Just so you know, they aren’t all corrupt here. It’s a way of life—to some more than others. The economy is so tight and people aren’t paid very much. They do what they have to in order to survive. I’ve met some of t
he most wonderful people—people who would give you the shirt off their back if that was all they had. There’s even a guard here I’ve been giving the discussions. He’s okay. You understand, don’t you?”

  Memories of his own time as a missionary in France came flooding back to André, vivid and precious. “Your president and I already had a talk about this very thing. I think I do understand. What I’m sure of is that you love this people already, and I’m glad to see it. When we get you back here after the operation, you are going to be a wonderful missionary—if you’ll just learn to stop threatening to throw people out of windows. Bullies included.”

  Louis-Géralde smiled wistfully. “Do you think they’ll let me come back? I don’t know that they will . . . because of the surgery, you know.”

  “Of course they will. You’ll be as healthy as before. You don’t need two kidneys to live a normal life. If there’s any problem, I’ll talk to President Bradley myself. I promise. He’s a great guy.”

  “Thank you. Because as much as I want to help Marc, I feel I belong here right now. I need to bring the gospel to these people. I need to teach them about Christ.”

  André nodded and turned to the door, pretending not to see the tears in his brother’s green-brown eyes.

  He tried the locked door, of course to no avail, and then he banged on it. After four times, he finally heard someone in the hall. The guard let him out and led him to the front office, where the taxi driver was having coffee with the jailers. André smiled at the others and motioned to the driver for a private consultation.

  “Look, my brother says they really haven’t got anything on them. He was only defending the woman from her husband.”

  “I hear that from these guys,” the driver thumbed over his shoulders. “They take the boys here only because that man has a brother who is big guy in town. They say they also want to protect boys, but this I do not believe.”

  “Okay, then tell them the French boy’s family is offering money for his return. A reward, not a bribe. Because of the kidney transplant, got it?”

  The driver’s eyes gleamed. “You think they will better buy that kidney story if you give them money.”

  André fought his growing irritation. “The story is true. My brother needs a transplant, and if you don’t believe it, contact the French Embassy. They know about it. If we don’t get back soon, he’s going to die.”

  “Good idea!” The small taxi driver nearly danced with excitement. “The mention of embassy. Very good. And the time thing—makes them fast. I do it!” He looked admiringly at André. “You are very good with this. Never have I hear a better story.” Before André could reply the driver turned and launched into his explanation to the guards.

  “No better story than the truth,” André muttered.

  He watched as the driver conversed animatedly with the others. Once he pointed at André and then put his hands to his heart. The guards looked unimpressed and continued to listen dispassionately.

  Then, after what seemed like an hour, the little driver was at his elbow. “Where is the money?”

  André pulled out his wallet, noticing one of the guards leaving the room. “How much?”

  “Four times what you give me before. Two thousand hryvnias. You have it, no? I tried to talk them down but . . . And you will still have enough to pay the cab fare, yes?”

  André examined his wallet. “Yes.”

  “Then . . .” The taxi driver held out his hand.

  André didn’t debate but gave him the money. In turn, the driver passed it to the man at the desk, who exchanged the bills for a piece of paper. “You have to sign it,” the taxi driver informed him.

  “What does it say?”

  “That charges are dropped. But you responsible for boys. If more happens, you pay.”

  André signed, hoping he was doing the right thing. To his relief, Louis-Géralde and his companion were coming into the room, accompanied by the other guard. They were each given a manila envelope containing their previously confiscated belongings.

  “Hey, they took my money anyway!” Louis-Géralde exclaimed.

  “Stow it!” André said shortly. He smiled his thanks at the guards and led the missionaries from the room.

  “How much did you have?” his companion asked in English.

  “Almost two hundred hryvnias.”

  “Let’s see,” the American missionary said, concentrating. “That’s about thirty-six dollars and I had about twenty. Ask your brother how much he paid.” André told him about the two thousand hryvnias, and the boy was incredulous. “That’s what . . . three hundred and sixty dollars and with what they took from us . . . wow! They got away with over four hundred American dollars! That’s a lot of dough here.” He slapped Louis-Géralde on the back. “And all for standing up for an investigator. Personally, I think your brother could have gotten us out for a lot less. I bet the taxi driver took a cut.”

  Louis-Géralde didn’t translate the words, nor did André let on that he had understood as much as he did. The American dollar figures meant nothing to him, but he knew exactly how many euros he’d exchanged—not a small amount—and he would barely have enough to pay the expensive cab fare back to the airport. He decided not to tell the boys that he had also paid the taxi driver another five hundred hryvnias to act as a translator.

  André had the taxi driver go to the apartment where the boys rented a room from an elderly couple. President Bradley was there, and he embraced the missionaries warmly. “Pack up,” he said to Louis-Géralde without delay. “You have to leave for France and your companion is going to be transferred. I think it’s time we saw a pair of native sisters in this area, don’t you? That ought to keep things quiet for a while.”

  “Just so long as they take care of our investigators.” Louis-Géralde pulled out his suitcase. He grimaced. “We have a lady whose husband isn’t always nice.”

  President Bradley chuckled. “Don’t worry. I know just the sister missionaries to bring here. Your investigators will all be fine. I’ll make sure of that.”

  André waited impatiently as Louis-Géralde packed his few belongings. The nearly two-hour drive back to where the president had left his car went by even more slowly than the journey to the jail, but at last they bid President Bradley good-bye.

  “Louis-Géralde will probably need several months to recover before he can return,” André warned.

  “Let him take as long as he needs,” said President Bradley. “I’ll talk it over with the Brethren to see if they’ll extend his service so he can make up those months.”

  Louis-Géralde extended his hand. “I’d be grateful for that. Thank you.”

  “We’ll miss you. You’re a good missionary.”

  “And will be again,” André put in.

  “Yes. Meanwhile, I’ll keep you in my prayers.” President Bradley’s voice showed compassion as Louis-Géralde hugged him.

  When they arrived again at the airport, André gave the driver the rest of his hryvnias. At the ticket counter, they booked the next available flight home at three. The direct flight was only three hours, and with the hour they gained from the time difference, they would be back in Paris at five o’clock.

  “Let’s get some lunch while we wait,” André suggested, realizing he hadn’t eaten a thing since his lunch with Rebekka the day before.

  Rebekka, he thought. Better not go there.

  “I’ll have to change a few more euros, but it doesn’t take long,” he added.

  Louis-Géralde brightened noticeably from the somber mood he had fallen into. André knew exactly how the boy felt. What if they were too late? The blessing he’d given Marc was dependent upon Marc’s will and faithfulness. Had he given up?

  Another thought came, just as tormenting. What was Rebekka thinking and feeling and doing right this minute? He hoped his spilled-over emotions hadn’t ruined their friendship.

  They arrived at a small restaurant in the food court of the airport, where Louis-Géralde broke t
he silence, his smile returning. “Good, they have borscht.”

  “Borscht?”

  “A soup made from potatoes, cabbage, and beets.” He pointed to a customer at a nearby table, eating from a bowl filled with a dark red mixture. “That’s it right there. There’s beef in it too, and they top it with fresh dill, parsley, and a dab of sour cream. They give you black rye bread to go with it. You have to try some. You’ll love it.”

  André hid a grimace. “I bet I will.”

  Louis-Géralde eyed the soup appreciatively. “Too bad we can’t take some home. It’s really good after it ages in the refrigerator a few days.”

  Looking at the red soup, André was glad they wouldn’t be taking it home.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  At six-thirty on Tuesday evening, Rebekka was putting a roast into the oven when she heard a key in the lock. Instinctively she looked to where the girls were coloring at the kitchen table. No, neither had escaped when her back was turned. Who could it be? She knew that André’s parents had spare keys, as did Marc, but when she and the girls had left the hospital barely a half hour before, Ariana and Jean-Marc had been visiting their son.

  André? Maybe he was back from Ukraine! Tucking a piece of hair behind her ear, she headed toward the entryway.

  André looked up at her as she came from the kitchen, startled. He kicked the door shut behind him. “Rebekka, I . . . Mom said you had the girls, but I didn’t know you’d come here. I was going to clean up quickly and then call you.”

  Rebekka noticed that he was still wearing the same clothes he had worn yesterday at lunch. The suit was rumpled, the tie askew. Her heart pounded furiously, and she reasoned that was because he had news of Louis-Géralde. “We all felt it best not to interrupt their schedule more than necessary. You know, like the grief counselor suggested.” She spoke softly so the girls wouldn’t hear, not only for their consideration, but for herself; somehow she didn’t want to share his attention with them just yet. “I brought them here yesterday after school. Today I took them to the hospital to see Marc and then back here. Your mom is coming later to sit with them after they’re in bed while I go back to Marc.”