Childhood of the Dead

by Jose Louzeiro

  “Forty?”

  “Thereabouts. A bunch!” the truck driver said.

  The policeman thought the case might be serious.

  “Have you drunk something by any chance?”

  The driver laughed and the policeman joined him.

  “I’ve been driving for more than twenty years; I like to take my drinks, but never when I am at work.”

  “So, you say that if we go to the gas station we’ll find a bunch of kids!

  “That’s right!”

  The policeman sat down and opened a note book, searching for the chief’s telephone number.

  “He’ll be furious. But I have to do it.”

  His thick finger picked out the numbers in the telephone disk, rotating it slowly. He put the phone to his ear and waited. The telephone rang and rang. Until it was answered, finally.

  “Doctor, this is 25. There is a problem at the gas station just outside of town. We have a driver here saying he saw some forty or so naked kids there, raising hell.

  There was a moment of silence. “Hello?!”

  “Right 25. Tell the driver to wait and you get the car ready. Let’s go see what’s going on.”

  The policeman hung up, stretching himself in the chief’s chair and listened to the driver, who appeared to be the type given to long tales, filled with details.

  “I just don’t know where they could have come from.”

  “When they least expect it we’ll put our hands on them.”

  The policeman said, rocking himself back in the swivel chair. He finally stood up and asked the driver to wait.

  “It will rob you of some time, but the chief asked for you to wait here.”

  The driver was beginning to regret having taken a detour to the police station.

  “I’m going to call Joao Domingo. He will come with us.”

  Saying that the fat policeman went slowly through a corridor, knocking at a door.

  “Domingo!”

  The door opened. A mulatto came out, sleepy and red eyed, wanting to know what was going on.

  “Get ready. We have a small job in sight.”

  The policeman went back to seat at the chief’s chair and asked:

  “Is your truck all right?”

  The driver explained he had fallen in the ditch but he knew now that everything was fine.

  “It just happens that the truck won’t be good for this job. The best thing to do would be to get Pedrinho Tara’s bus. Then it will be difficult for the boys to run away.”

  The driver agreed with the policeman’s reasoning, and was glad to free himself of this extra work.

  “If you want I can look for Tara,” he said to the policeman.

  “No!” The policeman said. “Just stay put until the police chief gets here. Then you go with us. If there is no driver available you’ll drive us.”

  “I’m here to help,” the driver said resigned.

  A car stopped in fron of the police station. It the police chief. He is still young and of average height. He didn’t appear anxious for having been called so early in the morning. The policeman introduced the truck driver to him. Joao Domingo was awake now, a belt with the holster on one side and a .38 caliber on the other. The chief took a weapon from the drawer. The fat policeman opened a closet, looking for a raincoat and a hat.

  “It’s pouring outside,” the driver said, for conversation’s sake.

  “I think it will be better for us to take Pedrinho Tara’s bus,” the fat policeman said.

  The police chief agreed.

  After making sure he had locked the truck, the truck driver and the policemen leave. They drive through narrow streets of irregular pavement up to a gas station where two buses are parked. The fat policeman spoke with a worker then called the truck driver, making sure he would drive the bus. He came back to the car where the police chief was and said: “We can take that one!”

  The bus pulled off ahead of the police chief’s car, its windshield wipers scratching against the glass perturbed the fat policeman. Nevertheless, he opted not to complain to the chief.

  The bus led the way slowly, through strong and relentless rain. They passed the ditch the truck driver had fallen into and reached the deserted road, where they drove for about twenty minutes.

  “It was a good idea to bring the old man,” the fat policeman said. “If he is lying, he’ll have to pay for it.”

  The police chief didn’t say anything. Joao Domingo in the back seat found the entire idea funny.

  “The poor man has already lost it!”

  They saw the gas station’s signs, and the lights on in the building. The police chief then, thought of a strategy.

  “We let the bus stop and we pass by, then we manoeuvre around and come back from the other side.”

  They passed by the bus that had already stopped by the gas pump. The truck driver saw the delegate’s car pass by and didn’t understand what was going on, but still asked the station worker approaching his truck:

  “What are all these children doing here?”

  The gas station worker didn’t know exactly how to answer:

  “All I know is that they showed up here, all naked. They tore the tablecloths up to cover themselves. But I have no idea where they came from.”

  He picked up the pump hose, and the driver told him to stay calm, for the police chief was about to arrive.

  The boys didn’t notice the policemen arriving with their guns drawn out.

  “All right. The party is over!” The police chief said.

  The young boys turned around, but Dito decided to confront the newcomers.

  “Aren’t you going to shoot us?”

  The police chief asked his men to put down their guns.

  “Where are you coming from?”

  Dito explained. The strong black boy at his side reinforced every point.

  “I have a bus outside. Let’s go. In Camanducaia I’ll find clothes for everyone. Then we will see what can be done.”

  The bus driver helped organize the seating.

  “No pushing and shoving!”

  The boys sat down, some had already forgotten the beatings they had received, others, with broken arms and dislocated shoulders, were the last ones to get on the bus.

  “These two must go to the hospital,” the police chief said.

  He asked them to stay in the front seat. He touched one boy and noticed he had been running a fever.

  “Let’s go!”

  He went back to the car and followed the bus.

  IV

  The driver talked and talked, filling in the conversation with unnecessary details, according to the fat policeman. But Joao Domingo agreed once in a while with the driver, though he wasn’t always able to get the point of the conversation. He kept looking at the boy with dislocated arms and eventually said:

  “You know, if we push, this will go back into place. It’ll hurt a lot, but it goes back.”

  “It’s better to let the doctor take a look at it,” the fat policeman said.

  “What if there are no doctors there today?”

  “Then, we’ll talk to the chief.”

  The bus got through the detour, the narrow street of one- story houses whose doors and windows were shut against the water cascading from the eaves to the sidewalk. The police chief knew that the boys could run away easily when getting out of the bus. The two policemen and the talkative driver would not be sufficient help to contain the boys.

  Joao Domingo pulled out his .38 and oversaw the unloading of the prisoners, saying, “Everyone in the police station. If you try to run away, you’ll get shot!”

  The boys began to get out and enter the station. The fat policeman helped and so did the police chief. At first all of them stayed in the small front room.

  “First, I want to know your story. How did you end up here?”

  Dito was the first one to speak. He explained how police chief Mauro had made the prisoners play a game, about those who were going to stay in pri
son and those who were going to be expelled. He told him about the guys from the other cell at the end of the gallery who had come to fight them, with kicks and blows, for a guaranteed of lunch and dinner for a month. He talked about Uncle Zé and Gabriel. Then, he told them about the meeting in the prison patio, where he met the boys he had never seen before, and about being placed in the bus with policemen and trained dogs. He described the bus travelling through the darkness and the thunderstorm, and the final beating.

  “It was then,” he said, “that they broke the arms of this boy and dislocated the other one’s.”

  The black boy didn’t forget the details adding:

  “A policeman picked up the six-year-old, the little one, and threw him against the others, inside the bus. His spine broke when he landed.”

  Joao Domingo was surprised with the tale, and the fat policeman didn’t believe one word they were saying.

  “They’ve got to be lying with such a story!”

  The police chief continued to ask questions to each one of the boys. He asked for the wounded ones to be set aside, and he counted fifteen needing medical attention. The smallest one had a dog’s bite on his right thigh.

  “I need a list of names. Let’s begin by the oldest ones.”He began taking notes. Each boy gave his full name and stepped aside. The fat policeman kept order among the boys. Only at that point did the truck driver decide to go away. He interrupted this process to bid farewell to the police chief, who smiled at him and thanked him for his help. He left wrapped in his waterproof cape, still wet.

  When the list was completed, the police chief counted fifty- two boys. The youngest was six and the oldest seventeen.

  “The wounded will come with us to the hospital. The others must stay at the jail, while we get clothing and food.”

  The boys were not opposed to this idea. Not even Dito appeared to mind. They went to the hallway where they entered into the cell, whose door Joao Domingo kept open. In the meantime the fat policeman tried to pull from the corner some old mattresses with the help of some of the boys.

  “Also get some newspapers,” the chief said, reminding them that it got pretty cold at that time of the year.

  The wounded boys were taken away. The one with broken arms and the one with dislocated arms were seated in the front seat. They no longer had energy even to moan.

  V

  The only nurse on call at the health center did not know whether the doctor would be in. The police chief didn’t say anything, he just listened to the excuses.

  “It’s too early for the doctor to be in. If he’s in town.”

  “Who’s on call in his place?”

  The police chief knew only too well as not to pin his hopes on the answer. The nurse shrugged his shoulders, twisted his mouth and said:

  “You know how it is....”

  He knew it. He would have to go along with Joao Domingo’s suggestion to set the boy’s arms back in place, cold blooded.

  The boys who only needed light dressing or bandaging of cuts and scratches went right into the infirmary. While speaking, the nurse, opened up iodine, mercurochrome and alcohol bottles; he picked up cotton balls, wet them in mercurochrome for the light scrathes, and in iodine for the dog bites.

  “This really deserves a vaccine!” he said, as the little blond boy kicked and cried everytime the man touched his dog bite with the cotton soaked in iodine.

  “Be strong!” the police chief said.

  The nurse put a bandage over the cut on a boy’s face, excusing himself:

  “I can’t do this for everyone because my supplies are running low. I’ve already ordered some more, but they haven’t arrived yet. I can see that the chief is very concerned with this situation...”.

  The police chief had nothing to say. The boys got back to the car, squeezing themselves as much as possible to fit in.

  “If you’d like, we can stop at the doctor’s home, which is on that corner!”

  The police chief was already too angry. He didn’t want to wait for any other excuses. He looked at the little boy, at his swollen chest, and he decided he wouldn’t go to the doctor’s house. Let him sleep while the health department didn’t send supllies to the health center, he thought.

  At the station the fat policeman received the chief with a smile. “Did you find the doctor?”

  “Joao Domingo will take care of the boy. Call him up.”

  The fat policeman walked down the hallway, calling for his colleague. “We’ll have to pop the boy’s arms back in place,” he announced.

  The round faced mulatto only listened. The police chief explained, then, they would have to act fast.

  “Or,” he continued, “the boy won’t last.”

  “He’ll survive,” Domingo said, “but he may faint.”

  The fat policeman found that funny, while the police chief asked them to prepare the bench. Joao Domingo was in charge.

  “We must put him lying down on his back. Then, I’ll raise his arms and pull them. I had a brother to whom this happened.”Joao Domingo showed off his abilities. After all, this was his moment. Usually at work, only his colleague would be called to do things; he was always in the background. Now it was his turn, and the police chief would see that he was also capable of resolving some cases.

  The police chief called the fat policeman by his nickname:

  “That’s not the way, Twenty-Five, he has to lie down on his back!”

  The boy was scared, shrinking away to protect himself from Joao Domingo.

  “It’s for your own good,” the policeman said. “It’ll hurt, but the pain will go away in a second!”

  The police chief and Twenty-Five bent over the bench to hold the boy down. Joao Domingo had picked up several old newspapers, folded them and piled them under the boy’s shoulders, who laid down, his eyes wide-open in fear.

  “Hold him, Twenty-Five,” Joao Domingo said.

  Then, he held the boy’s hands and began to raise his arms. The boy started to cry, shouting, trying to get out of there. The police chief held his legs in place with strength, while Twenty-Five held down the rest of the body. The boy’s screams were louder and louder, alarming all of those who were in the next room. But the boys behind bars were the ones even more frightened, not knowing what was going on. The left arm was the first one to be set back in place. The other one was more difficult. Joao Domingo had to stretch it again along the boy’s body and then raise it again. The boy ended up fainting, his head falling to the side.

  “Let’s do it now,” the police chief said. “When he comes to, he’ll be fine.

  Joao Domingo pulled the arm forcefully, squeezing with his large hand the shoulder articulation, and said happily, “It went in!”

  “Get some cold water, Twenty-Five,” the delegate asked.

  The policeman got moving. He had not expected Joao Domingo’s ability. He noticed also that the chief treated Domingo with greater respect, after all, he did something quickly that not every doctor could have done so well. He came back with the water, more relaxed, sure that in other aspects of the profession, Joao Domingo was no good. The police chief would find himself at a loss, if Domingo were to answer the phone. He remembered the time the Secretary General decided to call the station at an odd hour, looking for the chief. Joao Domingo had answered the phone, and though it was only four in the afternoon, he almost said that the chief was asleep. The police chief knew the mistakes Joao Domingo was capable of. It wasn’t going to be that little deed, this morning, that was going to put him above the fame he had earned in his many years of service for Dr. Joao Emiliano. Whenever they left the station, and when by chance the car broke down on the way, that’s when Domingo usually demonstrated all of his stupidity. But he, Twenty-Five, was always asked to do tasks. The police chief knew he was an asset and wasn’t going to mistake him for the other.

  He brought the water bowl and the police chief soaked a rag, placing it on the boy’s forehead and face. Joao Domingo tapped the boy’s cheeks and l
egs lightly. The boy moved his body, cried, opened his eyes and sat up.

  “Raise your arms,” the police chief said.

  Crying, the boy obeyed. And, still crying, tears mixed with drooling, he smiled widely.

  “Didn’t I tell you it would hurt?” Joao Domingo said in a friendly way.

  The police chief asked Twenty-Five to take the boys to the cell.

  “We’ll get them food and clothing. For all.”

  Twenty-Five answered the phone. He pushed it aside and said, “It’s a newspaper man from Sao Paulo.”

  The police chief told him to say he wasn’t there and Twenty- Five answered the call as he could.

  “We don’t know anything. Right now, everything here is quiet.”

  “Someone called the press. Either the truck driver or the workers at the gas station.”

  The police chief was for the moment concerned with his list:

  “I don’t know how I’ll get so many things.”

  “Let’s go around asking,” Twenty-Five said.

  “Go first to the ladies of Parochial Assistance!”

  VI

  The fat policeman wore his raincoat open, showing beneath it his print shirt of green leaves and the handle of his gun in the holster. His beard needed trimming, and his eyes were red, as if he were permanently sleepy. It was still raining, drizzling, and it was cold, intensely cold. The entire town appeared introverted.

  He knocked twice at the door. The hinges scraped and the door opened on an old woman with a kind look and grey hair. “Good morning, Dona Chiquinha.”

  Before she answered, she made him come in and sit down. It was a large room, filled with old furnishings. The ceiling was very high, tongue and groove wood, painted white. On the walls, there are images of saints and two large oval portraits, one of a young man with a mustache and high collar, the other of a young woman smiling. That had been Dona Chiquinha years ago.

  “The police chief needs your help, Ma’am.”

  The woman sat on the sofa and arranged a small pillow behind her back.

  “How can I help Dr. Emiliano?”

  Twenty-Five explained. He said that since five in the morning they had been trying to solve a problem which was out of Camanducaia’s jurisdiction. The old woman asked brief questions, and he went on, without broaching the main subject.