From Ashes Into Light: A Novel

by Gudrun Mouw

  * * *

  Everything has changed. Our village is gone. We are not allowed to gather our medicines or practice our ceremonies. I continue to do my best to help our people by living in secret in the high mountains, at times helping some escape to inland villages.

  Today is a very special day since my old and dear friend Hew has found me. There have been too many long and lonely times when we have not been able to meet. Now, Hew and I are not young anymore.

  Thirty years ago the invaders began building their Mission. Had we known they would imprison our people, we could have fled east. Hew tells me of the latest struggles. Burial and naming rites are denied, a mother beaten for gathering acorns instead of going to a religious ceremony.

  I assure him that our people’s souls will continue to find their way. I bid him rest as long as he can here, where it is still possible to sense the soul’s journey to the upper world.

  As we grow quiet, I feel the pull of more than one soul drawn through the canyon like leaves swept by a strong wind, even though there is not a blade of grass that stirs. Many, many souls have gone through the Land of Kumqaq on their way to the Land of Abundance.

  Hew, his forehead crossed with anxious lines, waits. I know he wishes to say something more before he goes down the mountain and back to the Spanish Mission. We continue to sit near a great oak that lies on the ground along the canyon, its limbs hanging out over the edge. Earlier, when we first reunited, I had said to Hew as I leaned down and touched the rough bark, “Oak helps keep the earth intact.” Now time is passing too quickly, and I have not yet been able to speak of what weighs down my heart.

  We sit on a green stone and continue to face the powerful forces that move through the canyon. I know Hew feels this too, because he eventually breaks the silence. “Everything in this place rushes down the canyon.”

  “Yes, Shoop empties herself. Soon it will be time for me to leave as well.” Hew lowers his head and I hear a sound as if his breath has become heavy.

  Afternoon light deepens and the sky turns golden, as Hawk, Eagle, and a great condor, one after the other, pass overhead, riding the air with steady wings. Lizard emerges from a crevice in the stone, flicks out his tongue, and looks at us with an unblinking eye. The sharp smell of dry sage reaches out from the chaparral behind us. We both know that a visit such as today may not be possible again.

  I sit straight, naked from the waist up, unlike the Mission neophytes and catechumens, who are required to wear coarse breeches and a shirt, chemise, or skirt. Hew, the arms of his shirt tied around the waist of his pants, hesitates. He wishes to stay, but he does not want to create trouble for others by not returning. It is a warm, late autumn day and large white clouds drift along the horizon. The rains have not yet begun.

  I hear crackling and turn quickly to see a black bear walking on all fours between two shrubs. Her fur is thick and glossy. I jump to a higher ledge to face her. I swing my arms widely back and forth and sing with a loud voice. Hew joins me and we chant together. Bear is one of my helpers and I know she will listen to me. “Sister Bear, we greet you. Sister Bear, welcome. What do you wish to tell us?”

  The bear raises herself up on her hind legs. We stand above her. She drops down and heads back to the brush. She looks over her shoulder at us, acknowledging our song, before she disappears.

  “Even Bear has nothing to say.” I return to my seat on the rock.

  Hew nods. “Bear will hibernate soon.”

  “Bear knows there is a time for doing and a time to be still.”

  Hew brings up the subject he has been waiting to discuss. “By staying with our people I thought I could help, but our people are sick and discouraged and are losing their strength.”

  “Do not become discouraged, my friend. When you pass on the stories to the little ones, you keep our ways alive. I know you take your nephews and nieces to Sxa’min to honor her at wave’s edge. Remember, they will be uncles and aunts one day too and will pass on what they have learned from you.

  “Do not lose heart. Sometimes I wonder if I should not go back with you, but I might succumb to anger and be a poor model for the men. I have been alone too long, but you are the best example for them.” I look at him to show the truth in my eyes. “You keep our people and our ways in your heart, while doing what you can to uplift the daily lives of our relatives. If the invaders will not allow you to gather our foods and medicines, they cannot prevent you from at least passing the knowledge on. Even the making of one tomol will preserve the skill for the next generation through the telling of it.”

  Hew wipes away tears. We embrace, then part in silence. He approaches the beginning of a deer trail down the mountain. He stops and turns. With my back to the edge of the canyon I raise my arm, and Hew waves back before he follows the trail between scrub oak, visible only to the careful eye.

  The Phoenix / Friede

  Munich, West Germany

  I find myself in another continent and another country. I find a tree bereft of leaves. There are just a few buds emerging here and there. I look down and see someone I had almost forgotten, Hans Mai. I watch him carefully and know I must find a way to reach Friede.

  After five years in Siberia, Hans Mai stands on the street in front of an apartment building in the city of his birth, a city he hardly recognizes any more. His pale eyes squint, dimmed from near starvation and overwork. His blond hair has receded greatly since he last saw Marta. He hesitates. He moves slowly towards the address of the house from the most recent letter he received. He barely remembers the wife he never really got to know. He can’t even imagine a child of seven years. He knocks on the door. Marta opens.

  I am standing behind my mother and peek out into a glaring light. I have a father now, my mother told me, but I can barely see him. The light behind him blinds me and his face is all shadows. My new father and Mutti kiss briefly, like awkward strangers. “This is Elfriede,” Mutti says, “but we call her Friede.”

  “Friede, peace. Yes,” this man called Hans replies and he touches the top of my head. I think he is about to stroke my hair, but he does not.

  “Give a welcoming hello to your father, Friede.”

  “Hello,” I say, but I know my voice does not sound very welcoming.

  He enters the one-room apartment, which is small and dark, with not much furniture. He drops a duffle bag next to an old wooden chair. The bag sags. I can tell there is not much inside. He is looking at the chair. I wonder if he knows we got it from his family’s summer home—a rickety chair from the porch that Grandmother Mai only gave us because my mother’s favorite sister-in-law told her to. “Well, we’ll just make the best of things,” Hans continues, “won’t we now?”

  Mutti nods vigorously, but she keeps staring at him like she doesn’t know him. She tugs at her apron. She looks plump and healthy; my new father looks thin, almost skeletal.

  “We’re very lucky to have a place to live,” she says. “There is a terrible housing shortage. So much damage, you’ll see.”

  “Yes, I noticed. In the front. Must have been quite a fountain there before the war.”

  “Let me get you something to eat. Go, Friede, pour your father some milk.”

  * * *

  On April Fool’s day, a week later, my father calls to me and points out the window. “Elfriede, there are little green men playing out there. Look!”

  I peer through the glass. It’s drizzling outside. A drop runs down the pane, leaving a trail through the dirt on the window. Pieces of stone lie in front of the building where there once was a fountain. A few tufts of grass poke up between the piles of stone. “I don’t see any green men,” I answer.

  “Maybe you have to go out there,” he suggests. “Maybe you can’t see them from here.” He helps me on with my coat. He pushes large buttons through snug holes with effort. The top button is gone.

  “How big are the green men?”

  “Big as the button missing on your coat,” he says, sounding impatient. He nudges me th
rough the door.

  Outside on my own, I run towards the ruins. Maybe the green men are hiding. I stick out my tongue to catch rain droplets. They taste cool and fresh.

  I sit on a foundation block. I don’t care if I get wet. I don’t care if there aren’t any green men. Isn’t it good to have a father? “Papa.” I practice the word that feels new to my lips.

  There are pieces of granite at my feet, flat surfaces, points, and sharp broken edges. I stroke moss growing soft and moist on the underside of stone, pull a grass blade from between slabs, and chew on the stem end. I remember how this morning in the bathroom mirror I had noticed with pleasure that my eyes are spaced far apart like my father’s. My hair, which is not thick and dark like mother’s, is also more like my father’s, blond and thin. I hear a soft trill from a tree a few feet away.

  I look up and see a strange-looking bird. The feathers remind me of fire. I watch fascinated and think I hear more than just trilling. “Be careful,” the bird seems to be saying as it nods its head back and forth sideways.

  I watch the bird spread its wings. It looks like it is about to fly off, but it doesn’t. Instead, the bird flaps its wings rapidly. “Oh,” I whisper, “poor bird, it’s trying to dry itself.”

  I am distracted by a door shutting. Is it time? My father promised he would buy me a balloon at the nearby market.

  “It’s remarkable,” father had said, “you still have such things here.”

  “The balloon man owned a novelty store before the war,” my mother replied. “I’ve seen the most unusual things salvaged. You never know what might prove valuable. They’re so expensive. Are you sure?”

  “We’ll use some of the service money I received as a prisoner of war. It will be a special treat for Friede.” He speaks proudly, looking at me, and I tell myself to ask him later what it means that he was a prisoner of war.

  Now, I’m wondering what choices of color I will have for my balloon. I am very excited. Will there be an orange, or yellow, or red balloon available? I imagine I have them all at the end of a long string. I imagine they are helium like the one I saw at the birthday party, where instead of cake the mom had made pretzels, apologizing that she had no other ingredients. I loved the party.

  I feel a tug on the imaginary string and a breeze sweeps me up. Air rushes underneath me like a river current. Next to me is that strange flame-colored bird with a twig in its mouth. The twig has a tiny hint of a green bud on it. I rise to the rooftop of the apartment building, follow cobblestone streets to the square where a bronze warrior stands. I pass high over a church steeple. A white mist settles below so I can’t see anymore. The bird next to me is calling my name in a low voice that sounds strangely familiar and worried: “Friede.” And then, from far away, I hear my father’s voice, urgent and compelling.

  “Elfriede!”

  I jump up from the concrete block and run towards him. Inside, my mother sits at our small table in the middle of the room. She holds my old dress that hardly fits any more and looks at a seam that has burst. My father helps me off with my coat. His fingers tremble. While he was making his rounds to the government offices yesterday, my mother told me that my father is not very well. “The doctor wants him to get more rest before he can go to work again,” she said, and she sounded almost angry, which didn’t seem fair.

  Mutti lifts her head and asks papa, “Are you going to see about your disability check tomorrow?”

  “Yes, yes, but today we are going to get Friede a balloon before they are all gone.”

  * * *

  The next day, my father comes back from what he calls one of his paper shuffling mornings, but this time he really loses his temper. He had already been angry when we weren’t able to get my balloon the day before. By the time we got there, the balloons were all gone. My mother didn’t really want me to have one. She considers balloons to be a waste of money because everything is so scarce and expensive.

  “What is in this soup?” Papa complains. He scowls at Marta and throws his spoon to the floor.

  I pick up the spoon and bring my father a clean one, but he doesn’t care. He knocks it out of my hand. “I’m not going to eat this. It tastes terrible. I might as well be back in prison,” he yells, and I am confused. Who is this person? This can’t be papa. I see him grip the table, his hands shake, his lips turn pale. Mutti rubs her forehead. I frown at her. Do something, I want to say.

  “What’s wrong?” Mutti asks papa, but he doesn’t answer, clenching his fists until his knuckles turn white.

  Days pass. Papa explodes with various other rages I can’t figure out and mother withdraws. She looks distrustful and resentful with a secret, growing anger. Eventually papa finds work as a streetcar attendant and mother is a little more relaxed when he is away. I feel relieved and a little ashamed that I had been so hard on her. When he comes home from work, papa complains that he can no longer be a pastry baker and create those rich delicacies that were his specialty before the war. His nerves make his hands too shaky, he says.

  Mutti offers a suggestion. “Perhaps, we can get an American sponsorship through my church program. I hear that housing and work opportunities are more plentiful there.”

  “Let’s look into it,” papa agrees. I wonder where this America is and how we will get there. I am afraid and I don’t like this idea. I have a bad feeling about it.

  * * *

  One night I fall asleep and do not hear my parents go out. The room becomes very quiet, so quiet I wake and look for my parents in their bed, then inside the wardrobe, but there is no one there.

  The hallway door is locked. I try to peer through the keyhole. It has been stuffed with cotton. I need to go to the bathroom, which is down the hall, and I begin to cry. I am crying and then sobbing like a baby. All the hard things in my life bubble up and I can’t stop.

  I see someone from far away moving towards me. A slender man wearing rabbit skin stretches out his hand and places it on my shoulder. I can feel the heat from his hand and there is light coming out of the darkness. I see that strange, flame-colored bird that I saw before, sitting on the slender man’s shoulder. A soft voice tells me, “Courage, little one. Remember who you are.”

  I hear a click and stop crying. My eyes open wide. The door opens and Mr. Anton, the landlord, comes in. Mrs. Anton stands behind him, looking anxious. Both are dressed in nightclothes and robes. Mrs. Anton leads me to the restroom, then takes me by the hand to their sitting room. I sit on the divan. Mrs. Anton goes to the kitchen to heat some milk.

  “I’m sure your parents will be home soon,” Mr. Anton says, peering over the tops of thick rims and pushing his eyeglasses higher up on his nose. He scratches a bald circle on top of his head. “Don’t worry. We’ll take good care of you in the meantime.”

  Mrs. Anton enters. “Here is some milk. Drink slowly, dear,” she says, “so you don’t burn your tongue.” She hands me a mug.

  The cup feels warm in my hands and the divan plumps up around me like a soft nest. Mrs. Anton tightens the belt of her black robe. White bunches of hair escape the braid at her neck. She makes clucking noises with her tongue, like a bird, as she sits down next to me and pats my leg. “There now,” she smiles. “There, there.” Love radiates from Mrs. Anton’s ample body.

  I am still trembling from my outburst and look at Mrs. Anton in wonder. She says, “Poor thing,” and squeezes my arm ever so softly.

  After a while, my parents come in from the hall entrance. “She had to go to the bathroom,” the landlord explains. “She was crying, so we brought her in here.”

  My mother looks flustered, her skin is flushed. Papa clenches his lips together, pale, thin, and angry. Suddenly, everything seems so complicated.

  The Phoenix/Friede

  Transatlantic Crossing

  1951, on a transport of displaced persons from Europe to America, the military ship’s hold contains rows of cots hanging from metal posts, three high, filled with enough humanity to tax the available oxygen. Many become sic
k.

  To get air, one must be well enough to climb up from the nether regions to a deck flung so steep that any carelessness could easily wash a person overboard. Planks shine, wet and slippery, and March weather threatens to overwhelm the ship as it rumbles and groans. Here and there, a few hardy ones huddle in corners on the deck floor with their backs to cabin walls. Waves dash over the rails and spray salt into eyes. Odds and ends slip off moorings. Small flying objects slide into the churning sea below.

  A few displaced persons with strong digestive systems nibble on bits of food. Some walk, holding to the cabin wall rail; their shoulders are tense against the cold. Dispirited eyes wait for the sky to clear, for a better footing, and, most of all, for land to appear.

  * * *

  I am flying between water, air, and earth with ease. I do not let the weariness of the people below burden my wings. I maintain a distance, but there’s no escape from what I foresee. The land ahead is not what it once was. It will be difficult to bring forth Saqapaya’s vision to uplift the people.

  I sense Friede’s presence far below. She is scared and sick. Someone holding a medical chart says in a language that Friede does not yet understand, “She will be eight this year.” Suddenly, there is a strong wave. The deck shifts. I lose sight of what is going on.

  I descend and find one of the smaller rails on the ship. There is no one around and I am able to clasp tight.

  I am close enough to see easily into the ship’s hospital. Two American Red Cross nurses stand at the foot of Friede’s bed, next to a medical doctor with a stethoscope over his military uniform. The uniform, I can tell, creates an echo in Friede of past disturbing experiences. She is frightened