I stared at the black and white image of an old man with a long grey beard. In all these years the only photocopied photos we’d seen had his face obscured by the cartoon lion’s head. It had to be that way because the devil’s soldiers would surely have murdered him if they had known what he looked like.
‘See his beautiful face. Our beautiful King David,’ my mother cried out. ‘I knew he would be beautiful.’
But to me Grandpa had always been the drawn cartoon figure from my children’s books – carrying his staff, a halo over his mane of long hair and a flowing robe. He was the all-powerful conquering hero of my childhood. The photo Rebecca held up was of an ordinary old man.
I wasn’t really sad but it was impossible not to be swept up in such a public outpouring of grief. I threw myself onto the floor, wailing: ‘Grandpa, Grandpa, Grandpa. Why did you leave us?’
Chapter 11
Walking with Buffaloes
Hypnotic incantations floated across the garden, hanging in the thick, hot air. Marching side by side, my parents circled the building as they chanted in joint prayer.
I sat cross-legged next to a rose bush, watching. I had baby Aimée in my arms. Guy and Vincent sat at my side. Guy, who had been so badly affected by my mother’s forced long absence when he was two, was still particularly clingy with me, getting panicky and agitated if I disappeared from his sight for more than a few minutes.
He turned to me with puzzled look: ‘What are Mommy and Daddy doing?’
‘They are making our new house nice, sweetheart. It’s called a Jericho march. Do you know the story in the Bible when Joshua and his army marched around the city of Jericho before they went into battle? Well, Daddy is doing that, but for our new home. Just stay quiet and watch him.’
Matt and Marc stood in a far corner of the garden, heads down in the type of private conversation the two of them seemed to have more and more these days.
Slowly, with a perfectly matched rhythm, Mom and Dad repeated their marches round and round the colonial-style green-roofed three-bedroom villa that was to be our new home. Mom suddenly drew a sharp intake of breath, as if she’d been hit with a large object. She fell writhing to the floor and started speaking in shrill tongues, but in two different voices, as though two people were having an argument.
Marc threw her a look of disdain.
She stood up, waving her arms in the air: ‘Go, leave this place. Leave us. I cast you out.’
Dad followed her lead, also urging something to go.
After a few more laps and then going inside to repeat the process in each room, Dad came bounding out, grinning over to us. ‘Welcome to your new home, everyone.’
I was 11. We had just moved country again, this time to Indonesia. We’d landed a few weeks earlier, having been told we were to be based in a large commune in Jakarta. I was not looking forward to being in a big group house again because memories of Bangkok were still all too raw.
But we arrived to the middle of chaos. Grandpa’s death had led all sorts of people to start asking questions about The Family. Dad told us there had been lots of really mean articles in the newspapers saying bad things about him, calling him a madman and a drunk who liked to hurt children. I was upset on Grandpa’s behalf. These people didn’t even know him, so how could they say such things? My father said it was because the ones who were saying it were the crazy ones. The newspapers that wrote those things were in the western countries. The Antichrist controlled those countries and all the institutions in them, including newspapers.
But these stories had created such a problem for The Family that large communes were now deemed a security risk, attracting too much attention. All big houses were ordered to be broken up and their inhabitants dispersed into smaller groups, so they could blend in to the system more easily. Any material stored in communes that the outside world might think was bad – such as the Davidito book, Heaven’s Girl books, Mene letters, Mo letters – were ordered to be burned in a project that the adults called ‘the purge’.
Almost the moment we arrived, a Shepherd asked my dad to start helping him carry boxes of papers to a big bonfire they were building in the garden.
My parents were secretly furious. We’d just been moved out of a perfectly safe, small house in Malaysia. They’d dragged their kids to yet another new country, only to find there was nowhere for them to stay. On top of that my mom was pregnant again, with her eighth child.
Dad managed to secure a meeting with a senior Shepherd to plead our case. The man gave him some funds and told him to find himself a house for us all, but to make sure there was enough space in it to take another family or a few singles if needed. My father was nothing if not resourceful and after asking around the local area found us a villa that had stood empty for years. It had a certain charm but it definitely wasn’t a palace.
We didn’t have any furniture, beds or even mattresses. Mom asked if we could bring some spare things over from the commune but she was told that everything had already been allocated to others. When she questioned this she was told everything had been fairly divided according to need. It was clear that this was not the case. The senior inhabitants took the best furniture and anything valuable for themselves. That upset my mom. She was a pregnant woman with a large family. Surely that should have put us higher up the priority list?
She harked back to the early days of the group when a generous and giving hippy spirit filled the group, the days when someone would rather sleep on a cold floor than see a friend go without a sleeping bag. That ethos had long passed. In the end we managed to salvage a few battered pots and pans and some mattresses.
Despite Dad putting on a brave face we moved into our empty house with heavy hearts. The funds my father had been given covered the rent on the house but not any living costs. He was instructed to ‘live by faith’ and was given several boxes of pamphlets to sell on the streets. The normal rules applied – a percentage of what he made daily we could live on, and the rest was supposed to go back into the group coffers.
Every day he got up at dawn and pounded the streets, in the same way he’d done as a 17-year-old recruit back in Paris. But there was one big difference. Indonesia is a Muslim country. No one wanted to buy his leaflets, not even out of curiosity. People ignored him, pushed past him; others spat at him, calling him an infidel. If he was lucky a couple of old ladies might take pity on him, dropping him a few coins. He came back from witnessing exhausted, tired and depressed, and feeling like a terrible father for failing to bring enough money home to feed his hungry children.
An American uncle moved in with us. He was so creepy, and balding on top with a long ponytail at the back. He had sharp little teeth like a weasel. I hated the way he looked at me. Fortunately my mom noticed it too and did all she could to keep me out of his way, ensuring I was never left alone with him.
Life was definitely hard, in many ways harder than we’d ever known it. But for me there was a silver lining. For the first time in our lives we were a family unit. I shared a room with my siblings, and when we did have enough food for a meal we ate it together. No more Isaiah hitting me with a scrubbing brush, no more Aunty Rebecca force-feeding me eggs, no more twisted perverts like Clay and no more brutes like Ezekiel.
Or so we thought.
On a visit to the senior Shepherd’s house to beg for more funds my dad was startled as someone called his name.
‘Well, if it isn’t me old mate Brother Moonlight. How are you doing? When did you get here?’
The voice was nasal, drawling.
My father turned to face him. ‘Ezekiel.’
‘Come on now, no need for that tone. Time to let bygones be bygones. I have forgiven you for your sins against me, Shepherd Moonlight. I know that messengers of evil poisoned your mind towards me. The Lord sure does test us, doesn’t he?’
‘So where did you go when you left Malaysia, Ezekiel? Straight here? I suppose I should have guessed.’
‘Yes,’ Ezekiel replied. ‘The exco
mmunication was taken to a higher level. No offence, brother, but you were wrong to do that. Your seniors thought so too once they’d heard the truth. They told me it was all hush-hush, to come here and start over. Away from mind-poisoning liars like you.’
My father shook his head in disbelief. In the past few weeks he’d arrived in a new country to find his family had nowhere to live, he’d been told to feed his kids by faith alone in a country with a radically different faith, and he’d seen a man he had thought had been excommunicated firmly still a member of The Family. In the past he’d had doubts, even wondered what it was all for. Now he felt blind fury.
For the first time since they had left France he was able to go home, stand in his kitchen and tell his wife exactly how he felt. Neither of them had to go share another’s bed that night; no one could overhear them, no one was going to report on them. As he vented his rage she stood behind him massaging his shoulders. When he finished she cupped his cheeks in her hands and kissed him. ‘Don’t feed your anger. Find the victory, my love.’
He put his hands on her heavily pregnant belly. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me. Maybe they were right to forgive Ezekiel if he repented. I don’t know. I honestly don’t know.’
She kissed the top of his head gently. ‘Why don’t we go pray? Children, come. I want us all to pray for Ezekiel and his family.’
We gathered in the kitchen, got down on our knees and did as she asked. As I prayed a vision of Clay floated into my mind. I flirted with the idea of telling them about the abuse. There was nothing to lose now and I was quite sure that they wouldn’t accuse me of lying. But I let the thought go, deciding that telling them wouldn’t change anything.
For a couple more months we bumbled along, hungry and worried about the future, but generally OK. Without the stress of other aunties and uncles monitoring our behaviour both my parents relaxed our usual discipline. One morning Mom took us completely by surprise. She was cooking a gratin for dinner but had run out of milk.
‘Darlings, why don’t you go fetch me some? Don’t go far, just to that little shack two streets along, you know the one. Do not talk to anyone and come right back. Daddy will be home soon and this needs to be ready for him. Matt, you will be in charge. You make sure you all hold hands. OK?’
He nodded, his face a picture of excitement. She handed us a few coins and sent us on our way. It was astonishing. The only time any of us had been outside without adult supervision was back in Thailand when Matt and Marc had wandered outside to look at some birds. They were caught by an uncle and thrashed. I couldn’t think of a single time I had gone out alone.
The four of us practically danced down the street. Fields of rice paddies surrounded the dirt road, and buffaloes wandered by, kicking clouds of dirt into the air with their hooves. Even when a man cycled past us wearing a pointed straw hat I didn’t flinch. Our new-found freedom was more emboldening than scary. We turned left into the road, then right again and into a tiny local bazaar made up of a glass-fronted shop selling systemite medicines in little white boxes. Next to it was a wooden shack selling tins of food, milk powder, boxes of crisps and fresh fruit. Behind it, humming loudly, was a large refrigerator. I didn’t like it. I pulled Vincent away, half expecting it to open and snatch us. Matt had taken on an air of seriousness as he pointed at the fridge and spoke to the man standing beside the shack. ‘Fresh milk, please.’
I was in awe. Where did he learn to do that?
Matt fished in his pocket and handed the man all the coins. The man counted them, then handed Matt some back. Matt looked confused and handed them back over. The man gave them back, laughing as spoke in broken English: ‘No. Too much. This change.’
Matt looked at the coins he’d been given, then at us, then back at the coins. ‘No,’ he muttered to himself, placing them back in his pocket. ‘Come on, let’s go home.’
I grabbed his hand, Vincent hanging onto mine. We’d barely got to the corner when Matt stopped, telling us to wait. He took the coins back out of his pocket, placed them in his palm and stared at them again. He looked at Marc questioningly.
Marc understood exactly: ‘Yeah, why not? She won’t know. Not if we don’t tell her.’
We walked back to the stand, eyeing the goods in wonderment. By now it was obvious to Vincent and me that Matt intended to spend the change. My eyes lingered greedily on a packet of chewy sweets in a pink candy-striped wrapper.
Matt held out our booty to the man. He put the coins in his pocket, chuckling to himself, before handing over a little carton of yoghurt drink. He fished under his counter and pulled out a yellow plastic straw. ‘Here. Take.’
Matt carefully opened it, put the straw inside and took a long sip. ‘Oh yummy, this is gooood.’
Next he handed it to Marc. ‘In age order, OK? No one be greedy and no one spill it. OK, Vincent? Be careful.’
One by one we took a careful sip, nodding and grinning at each other.
When we’d drained the carton of every last drop we walked home in a gleeful silence. As we neared the house Matt stopped us again.
‘No one says anything. Right? This is our secret. Ours.’
We nodded at him reverentially, our new leader.
When we got home my dad was already there. He was sitting on the floor with his head in his hands. Mom was peeling potatoes, but she was also crying.
I ran over to my father, pushing myself onto his lap. ‘Daddy. What’s happened?’
He stared up at me with exhausted, dejected eyes. ‘We are being deported, Natacha. We have to go to France.’
‘France? I don’t understand what you mean. Why do we have to go?’
His eyes met my mother’s. They looked at each other for a very long time before he spoke: ‘Because the system found us, that’s why.’
Chapter 12
The Devil’s Land
I’ve never been afraid of flying. When you are raised believing you will die in a glorious battle with the forces of Satan, a bumpy landing isn’t much to be scared of. But I still squeezed the arm-rests as we touched down at Charles de Gaulle Airport in Paris. My father gave me a reassuring smile as we taxied across the tarmac.
‘It’ll be all right, Natacha.’
I wasn’t so sure.
Paris looked like a catacomb from the air – a dark labyrinth filled with unknown dangers.
I should have been dead already. According to Grandpa, God felt we had failed to adequately serve him or demonstrate the necessary faith. But now Grandpa was dead and Mama Maria had taken over the leadership. Through God’s mercy she told us the Apocalypse was rescheduled for 1996.
But here we were, heading straight into the belly of the Beast.
‘Bonjour.’
My father handed our passports to the uniformed man behind the counter. I gripped my mother’s hand and stared down at the floor.
‘Mademoiselle?’ I knew he was addressing me, but I didn’t look up.
‘Mademoiselle?’ This time he said it with more force.
I raised my head and our gaze met. I tried not to let my fear show. As I stared into a pair of blue eyes the images of Heaven’s Girl flashed through my mind. Would I soon die staring into eyes such as these?
‘Merci beaucoup.’
He waved us through. My heart was pounding and I felt light headed.
A childish tittering roused me from my daze. My brothers were helping Dad collect our luggage. Our battered suitcases looked ready to spew their contents over the luggage carousel.
I turned my head towards the giggling. A girl of about my age was whispering into her mother’s ear and pointing.
I shifted uncomfortably. ‘Mommy, why is everyone staring at us?’ I asked.
‘Oh, Natacha, darling. Everyone is not staring at us.’ She looked around. ‘And if they were, it is because they are system people and they can see we are God’s people. It is God’s image shining in you that makes them stare so.’
‘Do they want to hurt us?’
&n
bsp; ‘No, my darling,’ she continued, beginning to hit her stride. ‘It is just that they have never seen the beauty of God’s love made manifest in people such as us. And that is why we are here, remember – to share God’s love with these lost souls before it is too late.’
I suddenly became very aware of my surroundings. Everything was shiny, clean, properly built and maintained. The people were neatly groomed in expensive-looking clothes. Several of them were fat. Many of them smoked. Others looked bored, as if waiting for luggage at a gleaming airport in the Antichrist’s stronghold was perfectly safe. Didn’t they even know what danger they were in?
By contrast, we looked like refugees from a different planet. We were underweight, underdressed and under the impression that we were the normal ones – the ones, amidst all this material system wealth, who really knew what was going on.
Dad told us an uncle named Samuel was coming to pick us up. I was relieved to know we weren’t expected to take a system bus. Samuel was waiting for us in the main concourse. He was tall and strongly built, with dark curly hair and deep blue eyes. He greeted us with a warm smile and hugged my parents vigorously. ‘Bonjour, bonjour, welcome to Paris.’
He and my father walked ahead, jabbering at one another in a language I didn’t understand. Since moving to Thailand, American English had become my parents’ chosen spoken language because that was the official language spoken in The Family. Mom had taught us a smattering of French vocabulary when we were alone with her, but English was my native tongue.
Samuel held open a huge metal-framed glass door and gestured us through it. I held back for a moment, not trusting him and wondering if it was a trap.
‘Come on, ma chérie, hurry up,’ Mom urged me on with a smile.
It was absolutely freezing. The first thing to hit me was the wind. An icy blast bit into my face, causing my eyes to screw up and water.
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