It was a hopeful sign, Decker thought, that the other men had remained behind at the truck. Perhaps they had stayed to get Tom out and would be bringing him into the same room at any moment. Decker lay waiting for the sound of the door and for Tom to be brought in, but it never came. He had no idea how long he had waited, but when he woke up some time later, he found that his blindfold had been removed and his feet retied.
Six and a half months later
As near as he could tell, Decker guessed the date to be June twenty-fourth, his wedding anniversary. Twenty-three years. He tried to remember if he had ever heard what the traditional present was for the twenty-third anniversary. He hadn’t. He tried to imagine what Elizabeth might be doing that day. He could almost endure the separation, but the isolation—and not knowing if it would ever end—was more than he could bear. Feelings of total helplessness filled him both with self pity and with rage at his captors. He just wanted to be able to tell Elizabeth that he loved her and that he was alive. The need to reach out and comfort her was the worst pain of all. He knew he might never go home. He might never see his wife’s face again—or his children. In his anger and frustration, he pulled at the bonds that held his hands and feet. He could not have broken the ropes even when he was in peak condition, but in his weakened, half-starved state it was doubly futile and only added to his despair.
Decker had gone over and over in his mind the events of the day he and Tom were captured and all that followed. He couldn’t explain why, but his instincts told him he was in Lebanon. He searched for any clue to support this hunch. If just once his captors would bring his food wrapped in old newspaper or if he could catch the sight or sound of a seagull from the Mediterranean … But the most he had to go on was the occasional use of the word Al-Lubnn 27 by his captors. He refused to believe Tom Donafin was dead but he had not seen his friend since that night in Israel when they were blindfolded and gagged. For that matter, he had not truly seen anyone. The men who held him captive wore masks every time they came into the room and they almost never spoke to him.
He had not seen anything outside the locked door of his room, but he perceived that he was in an old apartment building. The ropes on his feet were tied manacle style with about twelve inches between his ankles so he could take small steps. To prevent him from untying himself—an act that would have resulted in severe punishment—the ropes around his wrists provided almost no slack. He was, however, able to hold his food bowl and take care of the necessary toilet activities. Personal hygiene was nearly impossible, and he was provided with a bucket of water with which to bathe only once a week or so.
Earlier, when Decker had been there about four months, one of his captors had given him a copy of the Koran in English. He’d wanted to tear it to shreds but he knew that to do so would probably result in his death. He knew that to Muslims, the Koran is more than just a book containing what they believe is God’s word; it is in itself a holy object. To deface it is not just to insult Allah, it is to assault him, and thus invite both his wrath and the wrath of his followers. Besides, with nothing else to do or read, it provided Decker with some distraction. He had heard the claims that Islam is a peaceful religion—that those who murder and take hostages and commit acts of terrorism in Allah’s name do not represent “true Islam.” But as he sat on the floor reading the Koran with his feet and hands tied, he found it hard to believe.
He took some consolation in the fact that things could be worse. His captors had not tortured him since early in his captivity. All of the cigarette burns had healed by now. Only the most serious ones left noticeable scars.
At first his captors had seemed to enjoy threatening him with knives and razors. They were not all just threats, however. At one point, one of the men had gone to elaborate lengths for sadistic satisfaction. He began by tying Decker so he could not move and then telling him he was going to cut off his ears for trophies. If Decker moved at all, the man said in broken English, he would slit his throat instead. Starting at the topmost point of Decker’s left ear the man made a deep, bloody gash, then pulled the blade away, laughing uncontrollably at the pain in Decker’s eyes as he gritted his teeth, trying not to flinch. When the man left the room and closed the door, he was still laughing under his mask. Decker was left tied in that position overnight. With some effort he managed to shift his weight, roll onto his stomach, and turn his head so he could lay it on the floor with the weight resting against his partially severed ear. The pressure was agonizing but necessary to stop the bleeding.
Despite his fear and pain throughout the ordeal, Decker had found it amazingly easy to not cry out. His surprise and curiosity at this fact was an extremely propitious distraction from the pain. Lying there, he remembered a short poem by Nguyen Chi Thien he had read years before that explained his silence under torture. Nguyen, a prisoner of the Communist Vietnamese for twenty-seven years, had written a volume of poetry about his life called Flowers From Hell. The particular poem Decker recalled was:
I just keep silent when they torture me,
though crazed with pain as they apply the steel.
Tell children tales of heroic fortitude –
I just keep silent thinking to myself:
“When in the woods and meeting with wild beasts,
who ever cries out begging for their grace?”28
Several hours later Decker woke to find that the pool of blood had dried, gluing his ear to the floor. As he tried to pull free he felt the scab begin to tear. He knew he couldn’t just lie there. If he didn’t move himself, his captors would, and they would not be gentle about it. For the next three hours Decker let spittle run from his mouth down his cheek to the floor to soften the dried blood while he carefully worked his ear loose. Still, some fresh blood was added to the pool.
Now, so many months later, Decker’s biggest problems were endless boredom and depression brought on by the feelings of helplessness, hopelessness, and anger. He had long ago read about an American prisoner of war in Vietnam who handled the boredom and kept his sanity by playing a round of golf every day in his mind, but Decker had never had time for sports. For the last twenty-three years it seemed that all he had done was write and read.
For a while, he tried to recall every article he had ever written. Then he hit on the idea of rereading novels from his memory. When he couldn’t remember how the story line went, he’d make it up.
Somewhere along the way, like Nguyen Chi Thien, he began to compose poetry. Silently he’d recite each line of the poem over and over in order to be sure to remember it. Mostly he made up poems to Elizabeth.
Moments lost, I thought would last;
Promises broken that cannot mend;
Dreams of days from a wasted past;
Days of dreams that never end.
Nights and days form endless blur.
Walls of drab and colors gray,
Pain and loss I scarce endure,
While dirty rags upon me lay.
I’ve wasted such time that was not mine to take,
Leaving sweet words unsaid, precious one.
Now walk I on waves of a limitless lake
Of unfallen tears for things left undone.
There are many things a man can think about when left alone for so long, and it seemed to Decker that he had thought about them all. Usually he thought about home and Elizabeth and his two daughters. He had missed so many things because he had always put his job first. And now, because of his job, he might never see them again. So many chances and opportunities lost.
As he lay on his mat in the room, illumined only by the light that came through the cracks in the boarded-up window, it suddenly seemed strange to him—almost funny in some pitiful way—that he had always called his wife Elizabeth and never Liz or Lizzy or Beth. It wasn’t that she was somehow too proper to be called by a nickname. It just seemed they had never had enough time together to become that informal.
9
Dream a Little Dream of Me
Two y
ears and three months later
Somewhere in northern Lebanon
“MR. HAWTHORNE.”
“Mr. Hawthorne.”
“Wake up, Mr. Hawthorne, it’s time to go.”
Decker opened his eyes and looked around the room. As he twisted his body and shifted his weight to sit up, the ropes that bound his hands and feet slipped off like oversized gloves and shoes.
“It’s time to go, Mr. Hawthorne,” the voice of a young boy said again.
Decker rubbed his eyes and looked toward the voice. There in the open doorway of his room stood Christopher Goodman. Now fourteen years old, he had grown remarkably since Decker last saw him.
“Christopher?” Decker asked, puzzled at this obviously unexpected turn of events.
“Yes, Mr. Hawthorne,” Christopher answered.
“What are you doing here?” Decker asked in confused disbelief.
“It’s time to go, Mr. Hawthorne. I’ve come to get you,” Christopher said, making no attempt to explain.
Christopher walked from the room and signaled for him to follow. Decker lifted the 115 pounds that remained of his body and followed Christopher out of the room and toward the front door. Halfway there, he hesitated. There was something he was trying to remember, something too important to forget, something he could not leave behind.
“Tom!” he said suddenly. “Where’s Tom?” he asked of the friend he had not seen since they were brought to Lebanon.
Christopher hesitated and then raised his arm slowly and pointed toward another door. Silently, Decker opened it, looking for any sign of his captors. There was none. Inside, Tom lay on a mat identical to the one Decker had now spent nearly three years sleeping on, sitting on, eating on … living on. Tom was lying with his face to the wall. Decker entered and began untying the bonds that held his friend’s feet.
“Tom, wake up. We’re getting out of here,” he whispered.
Tom sat up and looked at his rescuer. For a moment they just stared at each other’s faces. Finally, Decker forced his eyes away and began untying Tom’s hands. He had not looked in a mirror at any time during his captivity, and though he knew his body was emaciated, he had not seen his face, where the most dramatic effects of his captivity were evident. Seeing Tom’s face, he was struck with such grief and sympathy for his friend’s similar condition that he had to look away to hold back tears.
Outside the apartment, Decker and Tom walked stealthily down the hall, hoping to avoid detection. Christopher, on the other hand, walked on ahead of them, showing absolutely no sign of concern about the seriousness of the situation. They went down three flights of stairs, cluttered with trash and broken bits of plaster and glass. Still there was no sign of their captors. As they emerged into the open air Decker closed his eyes as the bright sunlight struck him in the face with its warmth and glow.
When he opened his eyes again, he was staring at his empty room. The morning sun shown in on his face through the cracks in the boarded-up window. He realized he had been dreaming.
Usually Decker dreamed of his family. When he awoke from those dreams he would close his eyes again to try to hold on for one more moment to the vestiges of the illusion. It was all he had. This dream, however, was just a curious distraction.
Decker flipped over onto his back. As he twisted his body and shifted his weight to sit up, the ropes that bound his hands and feet slipped off like oversized gloves and shoes.
He shook his head; was he still dreaming? He wasted no more time thinking about it, but quickly got to his feet. The door was unlocked, and he quietly cracked it open to look into the apartment. It looked just as it had in his dream. No one else was there. He crept toward the room that in his dream had held his friend. Until this moment Decker had not known where Tom was, or even if he was still alive, but when he looked into the room, there was Tom.
Moments later Decker and Tom were walking down the hall and then down the same cluttered stairway. When they emerged from the building, Decker used his hand to shield his eyes in anticipation of the sunlight. None of this made any sense, but if he was dreaming, this time he didn’t want to wake up.
The two men moved from doorway to doorway, building to building, staying out of sight as much as possible. As they continued down the street they saw no one; it was like a ghost town. They decided to try to put as much distance between themselves and their captors as they could right away and then wait until nightfall to go on. All they knew to do was to move south, which they hoped was toward Israel. They had no idea how far they were from the border, but with their eyes they silently pledged to each other to die rather than be recaptured.
When they were a safe distance away, Decker related the strange dream of their rescue, though he did not tell Tom about Christopher’s unusual origin. Later Decker regretted revealing the dream and made Tom promise not to repeat it to anyone.
For the next three nights Decker and Tom worked their way southward. As much as possible they stayed off the roads and away from any sign of population. On this night they had started early, about an hour before sundown. Decker could tell their time was running out. Soon he and Tom would be too weak to travel. Their diet was limited to what they could catch, which meant mostly insects. On their first day they found a small wild dog that had apparently been killed by another animal, but reluctantly decided it had been dead too long for them to eat. They regretted that decision now.
Just before dark Tom and Decker came to a well-traveled road. Waiting in a field of tall grass, they planned their crossing for after dark, hoping that traffic would be lighter and they could cross unseen. As night fell, the traffic continued nearly unabated, though there were occasional gaps of several minutes between passing vehicles. Slowly, they approached the road, stopping short about fifty yards. The road was straight and flat and they could see several miles in each direction. A series of trucks passed, then there appeared to be a break. The nearest vehicles were coming from the east, about three miles off.
Decker and Tom moved quickly. As they reached the small rise on which the road was built, it seemed they would have no trouble getting across. Then, unexpectedly, halfway up the rise, Decker felt a tug at his leg. Looking down, he saw he had caught his pant leg on some barbed-wire fencing. He tried to pull free but the barbs dug into his leg and he fell, catching his other leg in the same tangled mass.
Tom had already stepped into the road when he heard Decker call out. He hurried back to help, but as the seconds passed they were forced to reassess the situation. The next group of vehicles was getting too close. Their only option seemed to be to lie as flat and still as they could and hope the slight rise of the road would hide them from the direct beams of the passing vehicles.
Tom lay on his stomach next to Decker and they held their breath. The vehicles inched closer, moving much slower than Decker had first thought. As the first truck passed, Tom moved suddenly. Before Decker could stop him, he was running into the road, shouting and waving his arms. It’s over, Decker thought.
The next truck stopped a few yards from Tom. From the back of the truck came men in uniforms, carrying rifles. They surrounded Tom, their rifles pointing at him. Another group encircled Decker, who was still on the ground. Slowly Decker rolled to his back and looked up at the men. Each man wore a light-blue helmet with an emblem of fig leaves surrounding a globe. The same emblem, which Tom had seen on the first truck, was emblazoned on the flags that flew from the antennas and was painted on the door of each of the vehicles. Decker recognized it. They were from UNIFIL, the United Nations Interim Force in Lebanon.
That night Tom and Decker showered, were given clean clothes, and slept in real beds. Their stomachs could not handle much food, but before they fell asleep in the quarters of the UN compound, they each had two pieces of bread and a half cup of beef stew.
The next morning Tom and Decker were invited to share breakfast with the Swedish UN commander. “I read the report of the team that picked you up last night,” the commander said a
s they walked across the compound to the mess hall. “That convoy you stopped had a very special guest on it. That’s why the men responded as they did—they thought you might be Hizballah. That group of crazies would love to get their hands on somebody like Ambassador Hansen.”
At breakfast Tom and Decker met the commander’s special guest, the British ambassador to the UN, Jon Hansen. He was very interested in the story of their capture and escape, which they gladly told him, although neither mentioned the dream about Christopher. After breakfast they were taken to the compound’s communications building. The UN post had one phone link to the United States via satellite, used primarily for contact with the UN headquarters in New York. Tom, who had no close family, insisted that Decker call first.
It was just after one o’clock in the morning in Washington when the phone rang. Decker listened as it rang two more times. Only partially roused from a deep sleep, Elizabeth Hawthorne picked up the phone. “Hello,” she mumbled, her eyes still closed.
Decker listened to the sleepy, sweet sound of her voice. “Hello, honey. It’s me,” he said as tears began to roll down his cheeks.
Elizabeth quickly sat up in her bed. “Decker! Is that you?”
The love he heard in her voice brought new tears to his eyes and he could barely breathe as he answered, “Yes, it’s me.”
“Where are you?!” she asked anxiously. “Are you all right?”
“I’m in Lebanon at a United Nations post. Tom’s with me. We’re both okay. We escaped.”
In His Image Page 11