“Yes, I’m Hanley Martin. You must be Sister Marie Claire.”
“You do not look as I thought you would.” She had not turned to look at him, had not seen him as far as he could tell. “She said you were handsome. I suppose I expected someone else. My friend has a very odd sense of humor. She said you were sincere and sincerity goes a long way here in the bush. This child has leprosy and that is why I’m bathing him here and not in the clinic.” She told him as if he had wondered.
It had not occurred to Hanley that the child might be sick.
“Shouldn’t you be wearing a mask or something?”
“Or something? Right now, it’s not a concern, at least not for me. He comes from a family where there is leprosy; his grandmother. She has been caring for him for the past three months, since his mother was killed by the Janjaweed. His aunt brought him to us because she could not care for him or did not want to. It should matter but it doesn’t. He’s been here for almost a month. I don’t think it’s a threat to me. His bathwater contains an antibacterial solution. His aunt said the grandmother covered her mouth and hands with cloths when she handled him. She boiled the cloths each night. It wasn’t enough. I didn’t say that right, did I?”
“Sounded right to me. I have to say that I admire your courage; or your commitment. The work being done here is truly amazing.” Hanley’s appreciation was genuine.
“My courage is nothing compared to the courage of the people here. I have no courage. Their lives have been turned into a hell on earth. They face constant persecution and starvation. Many Europeans and Americans could not comprehend what these people face almost every day of their lives. They are being chased from this land in the name of a god that must cry or scream at what’s being done here, at the cruelty.”
As she spoke, her voice grew louder with a deepening intensity. Suddenly, the baby in her arms began crying, a sudden, loud wail of fright. Sister Marie Claire stopped and began to whisper to the child, gently rocking him back and forth. The baby’s scream turned to sobbing as the nun comforted the child. She put the boy to her shoulder and stood, walking back and forth beside the stool. As she stood, the wet towel fell to the ground and she kicked it away as she walked. Hanley moved to where she had been and picked the towel up at its edge with two fingers. He laid it across the stool and said, “When was the last time you wrote to Sister Mary Kathleen? She always complained that you didn’t write often enough. That seems to be a common complaint of the people with friends and relatives working here.”
“Wait and you will see. Time to write does not come often. I hear Jumma’s been assigned to help you become acquainted with the mission and the area. He’s a good one to have for that. He’s one of the brightest we have taken in. I have much hope for him, but schooling is difficult. Money is always an issue and a position for non-Muslims at the university is difficult,” she said.
With the boy now quiet, his head resting on her shoulder, the nun, turned to Hanley and asked, “Will you carry the stool and the bucket back to the clinic for me?” She leaned and retrieved the wet towel, then walked with quick strides to the open end of the ruined building. “Just pour the water out on the ground.” She instructed and went toward the clinic.
Doing as he was asked, Hanley dumped the bucket and took both it and the stool as he followed the nun to the cement block building. She already disappeared through a door near the end. The sound of children crying had been a faint noise behind their conversation, registering a mild discord as they became acquainted. Entering the clinic, the dismay and fear of children being ministered to surrounded him, their sounds again reminding him of his granddaughter. A nurse was taking the child from Sister Marie Claire, who removed her gloves and washed her hands in a nearby sink, then turned to her next patient, a girl of either fifteen or sixteen years. The nun held the girl’s face in both hands and asked her something in a language Hanley did not recognize. A frightened look was the response, with eyes wide and uncertain, her face dark and thin, with high, pronounced cheek bones and a thin, straight nose. Hanley thought her features had the echo of some other heritage. Small straight scars were visible on both cheeks. Her hair was cropped short. Keeping a hand to the girl’s face Sister Marie Claire reached into a pocket of her dress and produced a small light, the kind used when examining patients or searching for car keys inside a jumbled purse. The nun asked another nurse, the African, for something in the same language that Hanley could not understand. She shined the light into the girls’ eyes, then her ears and finally her mouth. The other nurse came with a long swab, the end of which was soaked in something orange and swabbed the girl’s throat. Throughout the process, the girl appeared scared, despite the nun’s attempts to comfort her. She only relaxed when she was told she could get down from the stool. She smiled somewhat uncertainly but her face did not relax. Hanley watched the nun write a note on a form clamped to a clipboard. She hung the board on a small brass hook screwed into the end of a long table. Hanley looked at the counter top, saw very few supplies, saw the despair in the wanting. He was surprised by his reaction. Whenever he had seen a doctor, he always took note of the amount of supplies kept in the examining room. Open cardboard boxes always dripped latex gloves onto the counter, antiseptic wipes wrapped in small packets strewn about and tongue depressors, striking in their uniform perfection, held by the dozens in large glass jars. Here, there was no such excess. Only a cloudy drinking glass with three tongue depressors propped up on the side, waiting in loneliness for replacements next to a box of tissues. Hanley hoped the cabinets beneath the counter top held more supplies, medicines and ointments, something that would at least give these people a chance, some hope.
“She’s lovely is she not?” the nun asked Hanley.
“Yes, she most certainly is. Her features look as if she has something other than African in her. Is she local?”
“She is from west of Rumbek, more toward the Darfur region. Her name is Naja. What you see is the result of the rape of her mother by men from the north. This war is old but the consequences of war are still young. She is here now because her mother was raped again and then murdered; beaten to death with an axe handle, her sister also. She ran off and was not molested. A miracle. The women go into the brush outside the villages to gather firewood and sometimes wild food at a great risk every time but these are necessities for their families and so they do it. Heroes are not always in movies Mr Martin. When life is difficult, they are sometimes everywhere.”
“Yes, I once saw a political cartoon that showed a professional basketball player standing next to a shabbily dressed woman holding a bucket. Under the basketball player was the description, “Paid millions to play a child’s game;” under the woman was the caption, “Single mother who put three kids through college.” Under both was the question, “Who is the real hero?” Maybe, when times are tough, just doing what needs to be done is a bit heroic,” Hanley said.
“This has all turned to madness. I’m certain there are reasons that God will not show us, but the faith required is great, greater than I can maintain at times, if I have enough at all. We believed we are what we should be but most of the time we delude ourselves. Delude is the correct word is it not? Oui? Bien. So, what do I do to understand all of this? Tell me. Americans have all the answers, or so they say.”
“Who says? I doubt that I or any American have answers for you. I have none for myself most of the time. I believe the rest of the world doubts that America knows what it’s doing. At least they don’t seem to think so, not to me, not anymore. Do you want to know what Americans don’t understand? Why do people dislike us so until they need our help? I mean, when people do need help, then they call on us first. When things are good, we are the people everyone hates.”
“Hate? I don’t think Americans are hated. The actions of your leaders are questioned and often misunderstood. Your country does more than most. My own country does little for the people here and in other parts of Africa. America is not doing what it
should. No one is. America shares its indifference towards Sudan and Africa with the rest of the world. I think Rwanda was a lesson no one learned.”
“They had only people and not oil, which was their problem. Even in the Balkans, everyone hesitated to become involved until it was late in the day. I think the US’s involvement had more to do with the politics of appeasing Muslims as with humanitarian matters,” Hanley said.
“That may be true but it seems so cynical don’t you think?” Sister Marie Claire asked.
“Every decent, reasonable man is ashamed of the government he lives under or should be,” Hanley said.
“Do you really believe that?”
“Maybe. It’s a quote from H.L. Menken, I…”
The wood of the doorframe above the head of another nurse exploded, raining splinters over everyone nearby. Just as the wood began filling the air around the door, Hanley heard the faint crack of a gunshot; the distance was significant as the report was faint. Someone screamed, a child, but only one. Everyone in the clinic reflexively squatted down to the floor, everyone but Hanley. Sister Marie Claire hissed, “Get down” to the American but he stayed up, and turned toward the sound of the gunshot, on tip-toe, trying to look through the small, high window for the shooter in the bush beyond the clearing. A second bullet hit the cement block wall with enough force that Hanley felt it through the dirt floor into his boots. It would have hit Hanley just below his rib cage but for the impenetrability of the block. Hanley ducked down, a feeling of nakedness a surprise to him as he wondered what he should do. He thought that perhaps only an American has a first reaction of regret at not being armed when faced with attack. He would trade anything for a rifle at that moment, the bigger the better he thought. There was another crack of rifle fire but this shot failed to hit the building.
“Stay down,” The nun instructed as she and the other nurses made certain the children remained on the floor and did not run for the doors. No one made a sound. The children did not cry but remained composed, their sullen expressions nurtured by a short life filled with the threat of violence. Another round struck the building and then the sound of automatic gunfire could be heard in the distance. Three short bursts, ten seconds of silence and then a single shot. No one moved for another minute or so. Hanley stood slightly and walked, bent over, to the door and went outside. “No,” the nun said but he was past her and out before she could move. Outside, Hanley moved down along the gray block, straining to hear any movement, the approach of men through the brush. He heard nothing. The entire compound had gone prone, waiting for the appropriate number of minutes to pass, a unit of time that experience randomly chose as enough. Hanley, bent over as he walked, made it to the corner of the building and surveyed the compound. He saw several people lying on the ground, others sitting behind trees, away from where they believed the gunfire was coming; some lying beneath a large truck, the one that had arrived late last night, he suspected. No one moved. Hanley slowly peeked around the corner of the building and looked in the direction from where he thought the shots had come. He stared into the bush and trees, squinting, trying to force his eyes into being more efficient. He could feel his eyes resisting. Maybe they didn’t want to see what was out there he thought. “You’ve always been good, but I didn’t realize you were also smart,” he said aloud to his eyes.
When a hand touched his shoulder, Hanley twisted around quickly, producing a pain in his lower back, causing him to reach back to find the muscle that cramped.
“Are you trying to get yourself shot?” a harsh whisper asked. Sister Marie Claire held on to his shoulder, which did not help the pain.
“No. Do you really believe I would?” Hanley said rubbing his back muscle to make the pain go away. The shirt he was wearing was soaked through but he hadn’t notice until he grabbed for his back. The nun hung on, pulling Hanley back from the corner of the building. The pain started to fade and he turned, wrenching his shoulder away from her grip.
“Let go, will you?” Hanley turned to the nurse. Her face was composed and stern. “I will not be ignored,” she said. “You cannot have had any experience with this type of thing Mr Martin. You will get yourself killed and you haven’t been here a week. We have spent some time developing a plan for you. If you’re dead, you’re of not much value to us.”
“I wanted to see if anyone needed help and I was checking to see if anyone with a gun was heading this way,” Hanley said. “Anyway, it’s touching that you should be so concerned, especially considering you’ve invested that much time in putting together my job description.” Hanley moved back to the corner and peeked out again. Sister Marie Claire moved up and punched him in the shoulder. Hanley pressed his lips together hard, his expression of annoyance was washed over lightly with exasperation. He shook his head slightly back and forth. The heat of the day was now intense, dust rising from the ground seemingly on its own, searching for something to cover or penetrate. The hard dryness of his mouth was suddenly there, his tongue stuck in place against its roof, as a cigarette sticks to a dry lip. Swallowing several times, trying to conjure up some spit, he said, “A friend of mine in college, who was educated in a Catholic High School in Ohio, said all nuns were sadists.”
“Well, then get shot, I really shouldn’t care,” she said. He expected to hear her walk away but she stayed right behind him. Hanley saw that the man who had found shelter behind the tree was starting to move. Slowly he slid down to lay on his back and then carefully rolled over making certain most of his body remained protected by the tree. He then slowly peered around to look in the direction of the gunfire. The man and the tree were maybe sixty feet from the children’s clinic. As Hanley watched, he noticed the tree had sustained damage but the harm was not new; the bark was marred, badly marred. “The trees have saved some lives it seems,” Hanley said. “How often does this happen?” he asked.
She did not answer and Hanley turned slightly to see why. The nun was moving back toward the other end of the building, toward a dense bit of brush at the edge of the clearing near the far end of the clinic. Hanley watched her movements for a second and then looked beyond toward the edge of the clearing. An arm and hand protruded from the dense brush, the dark skin stark against the light brown grass and dust. The nun was running, shouting for help to the others in the clinic. Hanley ran for her, knowing she was about to put herself in danger.
As he cleared the edge of the building, he stopped and crouched, looking to where the shots had come from. Jolted by an immediate shame, he straightened and ran hard to where the nun had fallen to her knees. She had not stopped, had not hesitated for an instant; but he had. She was half into the high grass, bent over the head of the child, pushing down on the grass, creating some space to work. Hanley caught up to her and when he saw the girl’s head he turned away, bile rising to his throat. His mouth wide open, he gasped for air and choked back the acid rising to his lips. Spitting out the sour waste, he was aware of two more nuns running past, silent and scared; they had seen this before; this kind of death, a child’s death, wasteful, horrid, stupid. The kind of death men cause; the kind women don’t understand but have learned to deal with. No one should learn to accept this, Hanley thought.
It was the girl the nuns had just treated before the gunfire started, the girl from west of Rumbek, the beautiful girl whose mother had been raped and beaten to death. The entire left side of her head was missing, the bullet, the one that had not struck the building, had pierced her skull just above and slightly behind her right ear; it made mush of her brain and exited taking most of her head as a souvenir.
Sister Marie Claire stood and said something to the other nuns that Hanley did not hear. She stepped from the grass, her face white and rigid. Another nun, sobbed and Sister Marie Claire snapped something at her and then said to Hanley, “Get used to this Mr Martin. This is Sudan. She is Sudan; she was Sudan.”
Two of the doctors came to the edge of the clearing, examined the body of the girl for a minute and then left. Thre
e Sudanese men placed the body on a stretcher and carried it away, draped with a green sheet. It was now an hour since the gunfire had killed the girl. Movement was returning to the compound. Hanley sat in the Land Rover waiting for Jumma to ride with him to the airplane. After the girl was taken away, Sister Marie Claire told Hanley he would be meeting with Father Robineau, one of the doctors and her that evening to discuss his stay at the compound and his schedule, including his first flight for the organization.
8
Hanley wanted to see the plane; he needed to see the plane; he needed to see and touch something that made him feel normal. This feeling was certainly not normal. While planning for his move to Sudan, Hanley had thought that, at his age, he would be better prepared to handle what he knew he would see here. Now, as he sat in the old truck in the heat of this awful day, he knew he would never be prepared. He was soaked in his own sweat, the sweat of being near murder. It was strange that he was shocked but not surprised by what happened. He was also disappointed that he did not handle it better. Now his reaction was homesickness. It was a need to be back in Kokomo, to see Elizabeth, to hold Rocky, to walk his old dog. He was scared. Fear, his fear, of anything, was always a disappointment. Hanley most feared his weaknesses. Could he handle this, day after day for months? In his mind, he had always assumed he would be there for a year, maybe longer. Now, he questioned if he could stomach that kind of commitment. The thought of climbing into his plane and flying home had entered his head and while, at first, he liked it, the thought soon frightened him as much as the girl’s murder. Giving up this soon was unacceptable. It would make a mockery of those he left behind in Kokomo, those people he loved who supported his decision, those whose lives he had disrupted. It would cheapen the effort of those who were working here, those who would stay, who were dedicated to helping these people. He could not leave, he knew that; it wasn’t homesickness; it was wanting to be somewhere else, anywhere else.
Sometimes the Darkness Page 7