Childhood of the Dead

by Jose Louzeiro

  “That’s how the police station got filled with boys, now. There are fifty-two of them.

  “All naked!” Dona Chiquinha repeated, with a sorrowful look, “ and with this weather...”.

  “You can’t imagine it. When we went to get them, it must have been 42 degrees, outside.”

  “Oh, my God!”

  “That’s right,” Twenty-Five continued, “now we have the following problem: the police chief has to find clothing and food for the boys.”

  Dona Chiquinha adjusted the pillow again behind her back. The policeman sniffed, looking at his dirty soaking boots, and noticed the wide planks of the wooden floor.

  “And how is he going to do that?”

  Twenty-Five had not counted on that kind of question.

  “If you could see if the people of parochial assistance could chip in, you would be of great help to us.”

  “The only problem is that the priest is not in town. He went to Belo Horizonte, yesterday.”

  “What about the other people?”

  “Well, I can always talk to them. In a little while I’ll look for Engra’cia and Maria Quitéria. They are two people with golden hearts.”

  “They boys are technically naked,” the policeman reminded her.

  “Poor things. I hope God is looking after them!”

  The conversation didn’t seem to get well off the ground; it got practical. Twenty-Five didn’t know what else to say. He stood up, adjusted the gun in its holster. Dona Chiquinha followed him to the door.

  “Please, tell Dr. Emiliano that I am very shocked Tabout the fate of these boys. Later on in the day, I’ll go there looking for him. I hope we can do something for them.”

  Twenty-five was nervous. He sniffed several times, rubbed a handkerchief over his face, sat down on the bench in front of the police chief, and said, “I think nothing will come of it.”

  The police chief stopped writing and looked at him worried, “What did she say?”

  “A bunch of things, but nothing substantial. She’ll talk to someone, then someone else; they will make an effort; we must have faith in God.”

  The police chief was irritated with Dona Chiquinha’s lack of concern, “Old hag. When she wants a donation, she asks so many times, night and day...”

  “That’s right,” Twenty-Five said; “it looked as if she didn’t want to get involved.”

  The police chief sat down again, throwing a black book to Twenty-Five.

  “Look up the Secretary-General’s phone number. Call his office. Let’s see what he can do.”

  The policeman looked through the pages with his thick fingers going down the lines. Finding the number he called and waited, then he passed the phone to the chief. “He’s coming.”

  The chief greeted the Secretary-general. They talk about several pending subjects, of delays in weapons delivery; of the police car in need of repair, and of new tires. The Secretary- general promised to see to these things. Then, the chief mentioned the boys.

  “What boys?”

  The chief explained, always repeating the number: fifty-two, as if to impress it on his superior’s mind.

  “Our problem is to be able to get them food and clothing.”

  The Secretary told him to make an effort within the town, while he called on the State of Sao Paulo authorities.

  “They can’t be laying their eggs here. That’s all we needed!”

  The police chief agreed, saying he would call him back in one hour to know what to do, then he added:

  “If you would like, I myself can talk to the people in Sao Paulo.”

  The Secretary-general was tempted, his day was very full.

  “OK. You call them and I’ll call you later.”

  They hung up. Twenty-Five got the phone back. Joao Domingo came in bringing news: “Seu Assunc,ao, from the bakery, can chip in with bread and coffee for all. He can also give us some flour sacs to make clothes with.”

  The fat policeman, seated in a chair said, lazily: “It’s better than nothing.”

  “Joao Domingo went back to the bakery.

  “I think the weather will get better,” Twenty-Five said looking out the window.

  The police chief went through the hallway to the cell. The boys were restless. The boy who had his arms put back in place, had found space on a mattress and the boy with broken arms was whimpering softly.

  “Let’s have a bit of patience, and everything will be fine!”, the police chief said. “Later on we’ll go back to the health center,” he told the boy with broken arms. “The doctor should be there. We’ll put the arms in a cast.”

  VII

  Dona Chiquinha left her house, with an open umbrella, and walked through the strets of Camnducaia. There are mud puddles everywhere. Some houses had opened their windows, but there were very few people in the streets. She went about slowly, telling herself that this was a sacrifice coming from the Highest Power. She opened the little iron gate of Engra’cia’s home and went in. Cleaning the soles of her shoes on the entrance’s mat, she complained of the rainy morning and of the cold. Her friend was alarmed by her being up so early in the day and about her having to walk in the streets in such heavy rain.

  “We turn our weakness into strengh, my dear!”

  They went in. Engra’cia’s home was a little more modern. Her furniture was not as heavy and as dark as Chiquinha’s. There was a crystal case with bevelled glass, where one could see many glasses and colored crystal chalices. In the living room, there was a marble topped table, covered by an embroidered and lacy cloth under the telephone. That was one of the few homes in Camanducaia with a telephone. That had happened when Engra’cia’s husband, now diseased, had been the mayor of Camanducaia. It was then, he had had a heart attack, and later died.

  Dona Chiquinha sat down in a confortable chair and uncerimoniously took off her shoes.

  “The streets are awful!”

  Engra’cia called the maid, a black woman with a white apron on, and asked her to bring some coffee.

  Dona Chiquinha appeared more at ease, and began telling her about the visit she had from Twenty-Five.

  “Finally! Dr. Emiliano has finally asked us for something!” Engra’cia exclaimed.

  “But I think it will be difficult to help him.”

  Engra’cia didn’t understand.

  “This is a horrible thing, Engra’cia, a sign of the times. This is the result of a society that’s getting rotten by sin. A bunch of irresponsible women, spitting out kids and not having ways to raise them. That’s the result, you know!”

  Engra’cia didn’t say anything, but would like for Dona Chiquinha to come direct to the point.

  “What did he ask that’s so difficult, then?”

  “The police station is filled with boys. More than fifty, according to Twenty-Five. These youngsters were found in a gas station not far from here. And do you know how they were? Naked! Completely naked!”

  Her friend covers her mouth in surprise.

  “And we were lucky. Had it not been for the chief, they would have come to Camanducaia. All hell would have broken loose!” Dona Chiquinha was silent for a moment, her eyes wondering about the room, stopping at the telephone and at the colorful crystal chalices. “I don’t think our pryers are being heard, Engra’cia! Now,” she continued, “the police chief wants food and clothing, for the boys. I don’t know what to do.”

  “You think Maria Quitéria will help?” “That’s what I thought. After all, she is richer than us.” Dona Chiquinha said.

  The maid came in with coffee on a silver tray. She brought also a plate with pastries and cornmeal cookies.

  “I’ve been dizzy,” Dona Chiquinha continued, since the policeman talked to me. I’ve been thinking about helping, but I don’t see how. To go out asking for these things, never!”

  “Yes, it’s very humiliating. Old people used to say never to take away from someone to give to another.”

  Dona Chiquinha didn’t understand the meaning of that se
ntence.

  “These boys who arrived naked, may look like angels, but that’s only appearances. They are the kind of kinds parents throw away in the streets.”

  In the meantime, the police chief waited for Dona Chiquinha’s telephone call, and it’s already, almost three in the afternoon.

  He knew it would be very difficult to have help from the church ladies, as a result he shouted nervously to Twenty-Five:

  “Let’s resolve this problem, without them. Go to the Red Light district and tell Elizena Mendes to come by.”

  The fat policeman opened the door letting the cold wind blow in. He hurried to close his jacket’s zipper, and marched out to Usina Street.

  In less than thirty minutes he was back, with a tall, dark haired woman.

  “At your service, chief!”

  “Sit down, Elizena. I have a problem only you can solve.”

  Elizena Mendes listened to the case’s description and accompanied the police chief to the cell’s door. She looked at all those boys, naked or semi naked, piled up against the cold. She no longer listened to what Dr. Emiliano had to say. He knew he didn’t need to say anything else. She felt like crying, mostly whe she saw the little boy twisting in pain, with a broken and swollen arm. She left the police station in a hurry, exclaiming:

  “My Virgin Mary!”

  The police chief called Joao Domingo:

  “Go back to the bakery. Pick up the flour sacs and take them to Elizena’s house. We will transform every piece of fabric we can put our hands on into clothes.”

  VIII

  Usina Street was the unpaved portion of another, paved street. It was made up of tiny low shantys of fragile building materials. These houses were lined up on one side of the street, facing a wooded hill on the other side. The light posts in the street were different from the rest of Camanduacaia’s streets. They were twisted tree trunks, with lights and wires precariously hung up . They could all fall with any stronger wind. Inside the houses, there were at most three rooms. And the bed was its most important piece of furnitinure. Some were so big as to occupy the entire bedroom or on occasion, half of the living room. The left over space was enough only for the dressing table, covered with lipsticks, cheap talc, hair brushes. There was at least one chair in each room, for the client would usually leave his clothes there.

  Elizena Mendes owned one of these houses. She used to say that in the past the women’s street was much longer than today. But as time passed some of her colleagues had given up on the town. Their houses remained closed for many months without re- opening. They showed cracks on the exterior walls and rain water got inside, leaking into the walls. The houses eventually fell. The first one to fall was the source of great happiness to the married women of Camanducaia. The women from the Parochial Assistance Service thought this had been God’s punishment.

  During the following winters more houses fell to the ground. It was no longer news, nor did the mayor’s office permit them to be rebuilt. That’s why Usina Street had been reduced to half a dozen houses, all of them with old ceramic tile roofs, aged, windows and doors of old crate wood. Some had a small backyard, where sometimes bushes were planted. But others didn’t even have that.

  When she got back from the police station, Elizena met Maria de Jesus, Ofélia Pinto, Maria da Glo’ria, Nilva Barbosa and Edna de Oliveira. They were curious. They couldn’t understand why their friend was coming home so dejected.

  “The police station is full of little boys, whom the police chief called ‘pickpockets”. They were pitched off a cliff outside of Camanducaia,” Elizena said. “You gotta see it to believe it. Some are wounded; one has a broken arm. They were thrown out in the early hours of the morning, and they’re totally naked. The police chief has already asked the saintly women of the church for help, but they didn’t make any commitment. He’s counting on us!”

  “I’m only gonna help ‘cause they’re children,” Ofélia Pinto said.

  “Dr. Emiliano only gives us any attention when he needs our help. The other night he saw me at the church square, and he wanted me to explain what I was doing there. I felt like slapping him in the face, but I explained. And then he repeated the rule: a woman who is seen outside of Usina Street, goes to jail.””In the decent streets, only those women who screw in secret can go about without fear,” Nilva Barbosa said.

  “That’s right,” Maria da Glo’ria added. “Those, the law protects.”

  “That’s why next year I’m going away. I’m tired of this pitiful little town,” Edna de Carvalho said, “I’m tired of so much hypocrisy.”

  While they talked, Elizena had already gathered up some bed sheets, had shouted for Dina, and had asked Maria de Jesus to get some thread and a pair of scissors.

  “Nilva,” Elizena said, “ask to borrow Dina’s sewing machine.”

  The woman left to do what their friend had asked. They were all about the same age, except for Elizena who was older than thirty-six.

  Dina showed up, wearing a brown blouse, very low cut. She was blond, had green eyes and was usually very well dressed. She seldom got herself involved with the street’s dos and don’ts. The men who looked for her were usually truck drivers. She had a solid clientelle and rarely would she let herself go to bed with one of the married men who wandered into Usina Street having forgotten to go home to their wives.

  Elizena cut a bed sheet and explained to Dina the situation at the police station and how the little thieves showed up in Camanducaia and ended up in jail.

  “For us to make these clothes right, they’ll have to try them on, or we’ll end up wasting the fabric,” Dina suggested.

  “Ofélia, go tell the police chief to send the boys in small groups. We will write down their names and sizes.”

  Ofélia changed her clothes and combed her hair asking: “I wonder if that pain in the ass, Twenty-Five, will be around.”

  Elizena didn’t answer, so she didn’t insist. Maria da Glo’ria and Edna de Oliveira came back carrying the sewing machine. Dina explained the bobbin needed new thread.

  “I think that by nightfall we should have been able to fix up several outfits, don’t you?” Elizena wondered.

  “I have an appointment for eight thirty. We are going out for a ride,” Dina said.

  “Wow, that’s class!” Nilva kidded.

  Ofelia got to the police station and gave the chief Elizena’s message. The telephone rang and Twenty-Five answered. Joao Domingo looked at Ofélia with a lecherous smile and touched her on her buttocks while the chief was distracted.

  “It’s a journalist who just got here. In a little while he’ll be here and be a pest,” Dr. Emiliano said to Twenty-Five.

  “Joao Domingo, take ten kids to Elizena’s house, and tell them it’s for clothes.”

  The policeman walked out into the hallway. Ofélia made a movement to go away but Twenty-Five stretched his leg and put his foot in her way. She smiled at him.

  “Look here, guys, I need ten on this side,” Joao Domingo said to boys, gathering up as many pieces of tablecloths and other fabrics the boys had brought from the gas station as he could. Then, he made them cover themselves as they could.

  “We’re going out, to make you some clothes.”He left accompanied by ten boys. They went through the town to the street without pavement. The boys could have run away if they wished, but they didn’t want to. They knew there was no point in trying to do so. They needed clothes, or they couldn’t go far.

  At Elizena’s house, Joao Domingo was different, more expansive. He hugged Maria de Jesus and touched Maria da Glo’ria’s breasts. The boys were curious and joked with one another. Elizena told Joao Domingo to behave.

  “Clothes for everyone,” he said jokingly, “and if you can add some shoes, also, it would be helpful.”

  “Clothes, we may get some, my darling, but shoes, those you get only with the church mice,” Ofélia said.

  “The old women left the chief in want,” Joao Domingo said.

  “Aren’t they
compassionate? They’re always praying, saying that we spread sin around the town,” Dina complained.

  “They’re smart,” the policeman said. “They get money all year long, and when they have to do something, they run away. I only know that the chief is waiting for Dona Chiquinha to show up.”

  Elizena laughed. She felt doubly devoted to the work, because it made her feel able to prove they were not the only black sheep of Camanducaia.

  Dina got some paper and pencil and began taking the boys’ names down, who had been very quiet. Edna de Oliveira had been able to find a bench where they could sit. Nilva and Maria da Glo’ria took their measurements; Dina wrote them down.

  Elizena put the first pieces of fabric in the machine, moving the pedal with energy. She remembered the time when she used to do that night after night, in Extrema to help her husband. And now she had nothing. He had gone to look for a job in Belo Horizonte, the state capital, and stayed there. At first he came back home, a couple of times, but the visits became rarer and rarer, until she understood he was no longer the same. She had waited for him many years, but no more.

  Dina gave her the measurements of the biggest boy of the group.

  “This shirt will fit him,” Elizena said pushing away her memories.

  Dina turned to the smallest boy and asked for his name.

  “Zelito,” he answered.

  “And how old are you?”

  “Eight.”

  She didn’t have to ask so many questions, but she enjoyed talking to the boy. He had very round eyes, and appeared fairly happy. She wanted to ask him more, but she refrained. She stood up carrying the paper with her notations and went to the kitchen, where Maria da Glo’ria prepared some coffee, to hide her tears.

  As soon as the boys had their measurements taken, they were returned to jail, accompanied by Joao Domingo. One of them thanked the ladies for the coffee and kissed Dina and Elizena. The women smiled and followed them with their eyes, while they went away much more noisily than when they had come.

  IX

  Around five in the afternoon the news van had stopped in front of the police station. Three men got out: the driver; a man who carried the camera and the flashlight; and a bearded man, who should be the reporter. Leaning at the door, Twenty-Five followed their moves. The bearded man asked for the police chief. Twenty-Five answered a bit testily. He knew the chief was busy and could not waste time giving explanations. When the reporter insisted, Twenty-Five, unconcerned, sat down and made a phone call.