by Gudrun Mouw
Children in cribs to the right and left babble and cry. Some children sleep, some stare at the ceiling. One toddler crawls to the end of his bed and tries to squeeze himself into the corner for security. Friede throws her head from one side to the other, as if she is trying to change what is happening.
After the Americans leave I see Friede’s father offering her some food, but she shakes her head. The ship heaves and her stomach lurches. I can feel the sickness inside her and almost lose hold of my perch. Hans reaches between the bars of the bed; his pale skin is whiter than usual.
“You’re too thin,” he says to me, “your cheeks are hollow like a prisoner.”
I am a prisoner, I want to say to my father, but my throat is too dry and closed. I have thrown up everything and am afraid to eat or drink, and the ship travels farther and farther away from everything I know. Still, I’m glad my father came to visit me. It’s good to hear a language I understand.
* * *
One night, as I lie in my too-small bed, I see a light glowing on the dark wall as if coming from nowhere. The light expands and the night turns bright. I feel a healing presence and I know that I will be well for the first time in a while. This presence seems to come both from inside and outside everything. A halo surrounds the bed rail and white light stretches out from my hands. Light surrounds the doorframe. As I gaze at the light I do not blink for a long time. I remember this light.
The next morning I watch the light for a long time, at a point where the corner wall meets the ceiling, and the light seems to be telling me: “Friede, remember this. Stay with light and you will not get lost.” I tingle all over and feel protected inside the light.
My father brings a fresh roll from the bakery and thrusts it toward me. I am wondering about what the light said to me, lost in thought.
“What’s the matter? Are you upset because your mother couldn’t come? She’s sick, too, you know.”
I ask, “Do you think we can get lost?”
“No, Friede. Don’t worry. The captain of this ship has a special instrument to keep us from getting lost. He knows exactly where we are and where we are going.”
Later, when there is no one around my bed, I see the light again, coming out from the foot of my bed. Light shimmers around the sheets and its heat expands inside me, as though I were close to a warm hearth. A bright presence hums inside me.
There is light on the wall shaped like a feather; another part looks like a mountain peak. I see a beautiful fire in front of a cave and I feel calm. “Stay close,” I whisper to the light.
Friede
Indiana, U.S.A
We live for months in an abandoned chicken coop before moving to the place our American sponsor had promised us. The new house is surrounded by a large yard and a chain-link fence. I am standing in the far corner of the yard admiring the house, white against the green of trees and grass. I can hardly believe the comfort and space that has become our family home.
One day my father arrives from work on the bicycle he recently bought at a police auction. He lifts something round and feathery out of the basket attached to the handlebars. “Put your hands out, Elfriede,” he tells me.
I take the gift and cradle it in my palms. Its fluffiness amazes me. I marvel at the bright yellow chick’s body, lift its down to my cheek, and let it tickle me. A tiny beak opens. Staring eyes remain fixed like dark pearls.
I want to carry my new friend everywhere, but Mutti, standing just inside the front door, shakes her head. “No animals in the house.”
* * *
I am sitting on the ground and lean against our fence. I face an old garden, overgrown with weeds. The chick scrambles from my lap, lifts up tiny wings, scurries here and there pecking at clumps in the dirt.
I squeeze warm soil with my fingers and see a black beetle crawling out from under a leaf. A hummingbird whirs overhead. Morning glory drapes purple-blue bells over the hedge at the far end of the garden. I play with grass between my toes as I sip the cool air that drifts down and remember what feels like an ancient happiness, the happiness of meadow grass and sun, animal friends, and blue skies.
The chick slides down a trowel whose handle is propped against a wooden fruit box. The bird lands on its beak, gets up, and ruffles its feathers vigorously before scampering off with a diminutive screech.
I laugh out loud. The sound of my own laughter surprises yet soothes me.
* * *
My parents buy an old car. The bicycle mostly remains at home and its battered blue frame rests under the house eaves. The chick, who has grown into a plump, brown-feathered chicken, often rests in the narrow space between the bicycle’s back tire and the house foundation. It occurs to me that the bicycle, having brought such a delightful friend into my life, might be something I can learn to ride.
I sit on the bicycle with one hand on the back wall of the house for support and pull myself along. I tilt, fall, get back on. I wobble but don’t give up.
Sun angles in such a way that the house throws shadows on the ground, and one of the shadows looks like a large hole threatening to swallow me. I tell myself it’s just a shadow and the path opens again.
The chicken flaps its wings, scurrying off to the side out of my way. As the bicycle takes off it stirs up hot summer air and takes me along as though weightless. The bicycle and I fly over the dirt path. Wind brushes my skin, and an easy balance carries me forward, pedals turning, wheels rolling. I feel exhilarated and free. My smile widens. Then I bump the fence and fall, but it doesn’t matter. It is a beginning I will not forget.
The Phoenix / Friede
How many times I have circled the globe during windstorms, electric storms, sea storms, and coastal storms, through hot layers, cold layers, wet layers, and dry layers of air? Currently I seem to be stuck in between cloud layers, living the life of a child, who I have promised to protect, but I can only do so much.
* * *
The week before we are scheduled to move from my favorite house, I return from a ninth birthday expedition with my mother and can’t find my pet chicken.
I look everywhere until my father gets impatient. “It’s time to eat dinner. I have made a delicious meal,” he says in a controlled voice.
He empties a serving spoon heaped with chicken stew on my plate. My mother frowns and father says, “Don’t look at me like that.” I am staring at my plate, not sure what I am seeing. “Friede, as you know,” he says, “we are moving next week to another state. It’s pretty far and we won’t be able to take much with us.”
I see how my mother’s beautiful olive skin fades as papa serves her. Mutti examines her plate, picks out pieces of chicken with her fork, and moves them to the side. She brings some rice and vegetables to her mouth.
Something tells me what I dare not say. I cannot eat. I feel the tension between my parents. Last night I heard my father screaming and my mother trying to comfort him. When I asked her earlier about what I had heard, she said, “It’s his nerves. From the war. When things get difficult, it’s worse.”
My father presses a long, right forefinger in the middle of his forehead. He rubs the other hand over an old wound in his leg. His eyes close down and harden like blue marbles. He heaps his own plate full and watches his wife chewing. “Good, is it not?”
She nods, but her eyes, before looking down, seem to crack like delicate stained glass. She finishes a second forkful of rice and vegetables and says, “Sorry. I’m not very hungry today.” She pushes her plate away.
I press my lips together and join in, “I’m not hungry either.”
Father gets up from his chair, walks around the table, and stands next to me. He points to the fork lying next to my plate.
“Pick it up,” he says. His hands are trembling.
“I feel sick,” I stall, clamping my mouth shut. I look at my mother.
“Hans, please,” she says, but I can see in her face what she does not say—I am afraid, there is nothing I can do.
“Nonsens
e,” he retorts angrily, “everyone is way too sensitive around here.”
“Hans,” Mutti pleads. I peer up out of my plate and see a blood vessel along the side of my father’s head that looks as though it is about to burst.
“I know what I’m doing, Marta.”
I look back down at my plate and am not able to move, speak, scream, breathe. I hold my breath inside my body, as if by not breathing everything can be altered, as if by not breathing an assault can be deflected.
I don’t blink. Tears roll from my eyes. Around my plate I see the yellow tablecloth and a ceramic pot, my mother’s favorite, as if they aren’t real. My eyes close and I slip through a hole in time.
“Here is a very small piece of meat,” my father begins quietly. Sobs escape, returning breath to my body. He guides a fork, his hand over mine, until it forces its way into my mouth. “Chew,” he says.
I chew. His hand comes off my shoulder and he removes his other hand from my hand. The fork drops to the table and my father returns to his chair. I jump up, run to the bathroom, lock myself in, and retch into the toilet.
* * *
The next day the kitchen looks clean and orderly; not a crumb litters the floor. Daisies from the yard fill a bowl at the center of the table.
My father sits in his chair, drinking a cup of coffee. He looks pleased. “This morning,” he greets me, “we are going for a drive. Your mother wishes to see some country scenes. She has been waiting patiently and now we don’t have much time. There is so much to do, but I think we can spare a couple of hours.”
I don’t say anything and he continues, “Yes, indeed! What a fine day this is. Look outside at that sky! The temperature couldn’t be more perfect.” He winks at Mutti. “Look at this girl, you’d thing she has seen a ghost.”
I search his blue eyes. The sickness seems to have left him. I look at my mother, who seems more relaxed, as if tension had been wrung from her body during the night. I don’t know what to think. I feel suspended like I might drop.
* * *
I climb into the back seat of the family car. Farms, cows, horses, and tall trees appear and pass away. Trees from both sides of the road bow towards the center, creating arches filled with sun-speckled shade. Leaves glow translucent and green where the sun hits. I rest my cheek against the car window, where an honest sun warms my face. Shadows come and go. Grass, dirt, flowers, bark, water, and all natural things pass before my eyes.
As I ride in the car, my parents murmuring things in the front I can barely hear, I close my eyes. I see a young girl studying her English words. I see a slender man with a fur around his shoulders. I see a red bird in a green tree. They seem familiar and gradually I feel better.
The Phoenix / Saqapaya
In early times I lived a long cycle lasting centuries. Now the cycles seem shorter. Is the need greater? I am the only one of my kind, and I will be here until there are no longer people of water and earth present.
I watch myself as Saqapaya with Hew and his son, Ku’n. This young man has an erratic nature, I can tell, and remember such an age very well. I can see in his face and bearing that Ku’n is quick in his affections and in his judgments. I am torn. Hew is concerned for his son and Saqapaya considers taking on an Uncle role. Unfortunately, unavoidable tragedy looms.
* * *
I consider Hew’s request. I have no children, no brothers or sisters. I like this robust, not-quite-fully-a-man boy born at the Mission. Hew has done his best to encourage his interest in plant medicines. Still, my life in the mountains is very dangerous. Soldiers often come looking for runaways. Is Ku’n ready for this journey?
The three of us arrive at the cave. Hew’s son, eager for ceremony, waits impatiently on a large boulder next to the creek and looks for fish, while Hew and I discuss our plans. We will be fasting today. We are on sacred ground.
Hew says, “As I told you, Ku’n is interested in our ways; his only remaining uncle died in the latest epidemic. The soldiers are against me because the padres do not wish us to practice our rituals. As you know, he has not passed through to manhood yet, and I think spending time with you will help. I have told everyone he is visiting his mother’s relatives because of a death in the family.”
“I shall look after him the best I can.”
“Thank you, Saqapaya.”
“Just remember, he has an impetuous nature. And he may not mature easily.”
“I have seen that for myself.”
The three of us enjoy an evening fire. Hew and I show Ku’n many things, but as frogs begin to sing the youth can no longer contain himself. He moves away from the fire out into the shadows as if to challenge the darkness. He bursts forth, singing back at the frogs, loudly. Hew and I smile, for we remember those days when we expressed ourselves freely in the open air. However, my smile is tentative. Though there have been no signs of soldiers this far up the mountain yet, I am uneasy.
Ku’n picks up a stick and stabs it into the air. “Frog is like a warrior grabbing the flying beasts from midair! And wind-through-oak scares even the crickets away!” Ku’n continues to sing with an exuberance I had almost forgotten.
“My boy likes it here,” Hew says.
“This place has been a good shelter over the years.”
“He is older than we were when we first came here.”
After Ku’n is finished singing, we listen to Coyote and his friends responding. A large bird sits high across the creek. It is Brother Owl. I can just see him raise dark wings up against the sky, then lower them back down. I have seen him there before. Does something hang from his beak? Maybe it’s a squirrel, mole, or rat. I pull my wolf cape around my shoulders against the high canyon cold. I get up from the fire. Something troubles me. I walk towards Hew’s son.
Hew has excellent instincts, but Ku’n is not like his father. He is a contradiction of qualities, more than most youths I have known. He will not follow direction easily, I think.
* * *
I sit on top of the boulder by the cave where Saqapaya cannot see me. I call out, as if in mourning. I call out again, a long, low note, and Saqapaya responds. He motions Ku’n back towards the safety of the cave. The youth, unaware of danger, makes a face and an abrupt insolent movement by flinging up his hands.
Friede
Illinois
My father and I remain at an uncleared table. Mother left right after eating dinner to lie down. She has one of her bad headaches. I saw her stop at the kitchen door on the way to the bedroom down the hall, and she looked at us as if we were strangers. I know she has not been happy here. Father speaks in an odd voice, trying to convince me. “I care for you very much, Friede. Perhaps, too much.” He strokes the back of my neck. I squirm away. This father frightens me. This father reminds me that I knew another father, a father who was gentle and kind.
He scrapes his chair on the floor. “Things do not seem to be working out here as we had hoped. I expected more opportunities in the city. There is still much hatred against Germans. No one thinks to ask what your mother has suffered. She is not the same as she was.” He frowns, looking out the kitchen window at the garage across the backyard where Jasper, my new puppy, is waiting for me. I look too. I know it angers him that I yearn to be with my dog. His frown deepens.
He continues, “You must not persist with your fantasies. It is dangerous. Bad things will happen.” He points a finger at me. “How can you know anything, except what you see with your own eyes, hear with your own ears, touch with your own hands?” He bangs the table with his fist. I wonder: is he really speaking to me? Or is he speaking as if my mother were still here? Sleepless nights have gotten the best of him lately. I’ve been hearing him call out, yelling. Now he tells me, “God does not exist. Don’t you forget.”
I hope to deflate his disturbing, insistent tone and say, “I’ll put the dirty dishes away and wash up.” He waves his hand over the table, absentmindedly, as if to give permission. I jump up.
“Don’t take so many dishes
at once. Leave that pot for me. Save the compost for the garden. No, take that other bowl for the leftovers.” Usually he helps me. When we work together, the kitchen seems to clean itself. Today I am relieved to escape to the garage, when it’s finally time to feed Jasper.
In the garage I hug my friend, caressing his soft fur, relishing his quick puppy breaths against my hair. “Maybe Sunday if it’s not too cold,” I tell him, “we’ll go for a long walk to play in the park.”
When I eventually return to the house after dusk, I see my father heading into my parents’ bedroom. He closes the door with a loud click. This means it’s locked. I see a light go on under the door and I can hear my mother’s moan. Bright lights bother her when she has these sick headaches. I go to my room quietly. My room is right next to theirs and I lie on my bed careful not to make noise. The headboard is on the wall adjacent to my parents’ room.
I want to contemplate my father accusing me of having fantasies and nightmares. When he says that I get angry. I want to prove him wrong. I want to get to the bottom of things.
My father’s voice comes through the wall as he declares, “Friede is not to be coddled about these nightmares she is complaining about, and there is also her preoccupation with the dog. I admit, it was probably a mistake to get him.” I am shocked to hear this because it had been my father who had encouraged my desire for a pet.
“Hans, she adores that dog.”
“As she turns away from us.”