Kidane wipes down the hem of his tunic and his trousers. He is dusty and disheveled. His hair clumps around his head. His eyes burn and they are surely bloodshot. Aklilu’s sharp eye would not miss any of this.
And Worku? He needs to eat, Dejazmach.
On any other day, Aklilu would have obeyed in silence. This morning, he can’t stop asking questions.
I said feed him! Kidane’s voice trembles and he folds his arms across his chest to calm down, grateful for the shelter of his tent. He looks again at the scars on his hands. After it was done, he had let the girl go and sat beside her, prepared to comfort her, but she didn’t cry. Instead, she scrambled away without a noise, pulling down the bottom of her dress as she flung herself into the night. She vanished without giving him a chance to let her know that he meant no cruelty. Kidane wipes his face and straightens. He holds himself tall, and gets ready to step out to meet his men.
Seifu and Tariku are molded from the same bones.
Tariku nods eagerly. I can do it, Dejazmach Kidane, he says. I’ve been a lookout for months. I even go by myself and check things sometimes. Tariku grins shyly at his father. I don’t always tell him, he adds.
Seifu pulls his son into an embrace, beaming with such pure pride that Kidane smiles. On another day, he might have been jealous, but today there is a small sense of hope.
We’re not sending you alone, Kidane says. He nods to the older man standing off to the side, his bright eyes blazing with focused intensity. He has not stopped looking up into the hills since the men approached Kidane’s tent.
They’re heading toward the cliffs, Seifu says.
Tariku nods. I saw some trucks with lumber yesterday, armed laborers too.
There’s nothing there, Kidane says almost to himself. And as soon as he says it, he knows Ferres was right: that is where the new prison will be. We need to find exactly where they’re starting construction. Stay away from the soldiers, look for the laborers, find their ammunition stacks and weapons. Be careful.
Never forget that they could be watching you, Seifu says. The worry is clear in his face.
Tariku grips his father’s hand tightly. I’ve done this before, Abbaba, he says, pushing his long hair out of his eyes. He sports the outgrown curls of the arbegnoch and the length has become difficult to keep under control. On Tariku, the effect is a tall bloom of vivid black hair, like his father’s. When he squints, he is made more frightening by the undiluted determination of youth.
Seifu settles a hand on Tariku’s head. I told you to pull this back, he says. I’ll braid it.
Tariku slides out from his hold. I like it like this, like all the fighters.
It’s dangerous, Kidane says. They’ll see it from a distance. It’s good for the battlefield but not on this mission. Your father will braid it.
Tariku looks between Kidane and his father, momentarily shaken. Seifu pats his back and drapes his arm protectively around his shoulders and when they look at Kidane, comforted by each other’s presence, Kidane sees everything he might never have.
HIRUT STEPS INTO the back of the line between the supplies and donkeys and the men serving as the rear guard. She can sense the way heads swivel as she gets into place. She focuses ahead, toward the front, where Aster and Nardos walk so close together they could be linking arms. None of the women have tried to speak to her since Kidane came for her. She has been left alone to get her belongings, pack bandages and powders, and find her own place in the march. She slips in line with the other servants, with the crates and pack animals and water gourds, with those objects other people need in order to survive. She is, she tells herself, where she belongs.
The woman in front of her turns around. She is a stranger whom Hirut has not seen before, one of the new recruits pushed out of a nearby village. You know, the woman says, I heard Aster didn’t even go to his tent this morning. Nothing, not one word. A smile plays across the woman’s lips before she grows serious. Now you just have to hope he doesn’t get bored.
Hirut stays quiet, confused.
Anyway, the woman says, better him than a poor man.
Hirut speeds up until she finds a space in the line between two women. They look at her blankly, then keep going. She clutches her basket tighter and adjusts the Wujigra against her back. Instinctively, she looks for Aklilu, then moves farther up in line. New murmurs and stares pave her way. Hirut stares at her feet, careful not to trip over those in front. For several minutes, all shifts back to the normal boredom of a march. But then Aster spins around and the line stops abruptly. The women part as Aster strides toward her. She is wearing Kidane’s old tunic and jodhpurs, the cape sags across her tight shoulders.
Enough of this, Aster shouts. I hear all of you talking. It’s her fault. She points at Hirut. Hers.
Hirut stands alone in a growing circle of whispers and soft laughter. Then they are face-to-face. There are deep shadows beneath Aster’s eyes. A vein thickens in the middle of her forehead. She has not slept either.
He’s my husband. Do you understand? I know him better than anyone, Aster says. She is smoothing her tunic, flattening the wrinkles and arranging the folds. It is one of the signs of agitation that Hirut has learned to recognize. It is what Aster does when she tries to calm herself.
Between them in the quiet drops the whistle of curious birds, the caw of a distant raven, a donkey’s tired bray.
So now you have your broken rifle and you think you can do anything. Aster grabs Hirut by the shoulders and shakes her hard, her voice made more frightening for how soft it is. I’ve seen the way you look at him.
Behind Aster, all the other women have stopped to stare. Nardos has come to stand closer, her arms helplessly at her sides. Hirut steps back and lets her basket go slack in her arms. Her rifle slides down against her arm. Thick shafts of sunlight spill onto the tops of trees, shining like gauze over Aster, deepening the delicate lines around the woman’s mouth.
I’ll kill him, Hirut says softly. Though her voice is steady, the words deflate her. She is speaking against a current.
The problem is you think you’re the only one, Aster says quietly. You don’t know how common you are. Then she wipes her eyes with the back of her hand. If you do anything to hurt my husband, I will kill you myself.
She turns her back to Hirut and pulls Nardos along, and the march begins again.
THERE ARE FOUR GUARDS LEADING THE SURVIVING ETHIOPIAN TO him, four grown men struggling to restrain a wily, rebellious captive who seems to believe he can escape though his compatriot was executed on the spot. Carlo takes another sip of his coffee as he watches the guards make their way up the short incline that separates the camp from this higher plateau. He has ordered his men to appear at the thick-rooted tree that stands at the edge of a footpath his workers will soon make into a road. It is a flat stretch of land at the top of the mountain they have secured as their own. Across the field, two tall boulders loom above a dizzying drop. Farther away gleams a patch of smooth ground he has had his men clear of stones for his new prison.
Carlo slips his binoculars around his neck and slides his sunglasses onto the top of his head, feeling a surge of pride. He checks the buttons on his shirt and wipes the dust off his boots. He feels for his pistol. There is one thing he has learned in Ethiopia: capturing an Abyssinian is never about capturing an Abyssinian: where there is one, there are two. Where there are two, there are multitudes. That he sees nothing in the hills is not proof they are not there.
Someone tell Navarra to meet us at the tree, Carlo says. Tell him the colonel needs him again. He smiles, thinking of this soldato, an earnest young Venetian who has come into his army with a camera. Then he motions the guards forward. This way, he says. And get Ibrahim, he throws over his shoulder.
The Ethiopian pulls against the ropes. He is younger than Carlo expects but old enough to be dangerous. He makes a handsome figure in his braids and white tunic: a Grecian statue from an ancient time. Dark marble sculpted by an expert hand. He has been b
eaten severely, but no bones have been broken, there are no stab wounds that Carlo can see. Only his swollen eye and bruised jaw speak to what the encounter with his men must have been like. He smiles as Ibrahim appears with the rest of the ascari and a rope. His soldati are moving quickly to get into formation. Navarra is jogging to get to his place beside him, his camera dangling from his neck. Carlo takes a deep breath. And so this begins.
Ibrahim salutes. The supply truck is coming soon, sir, he says. Your guest is also on her way.
The prisoner looks between the two of them, no longer struggling. His sharp eyes are moving from the rope to Carlo’s face to the tree and then to Ibrahim. The young man swallows, and drops his head. He grows so still that the guards step closer to him, hold his arms tighter, suddenly more alert.
I’m ready, Colonel Fucelli. Ettore Navarra walks hurriedly to the tree, his camera already strapped over his shoulder, a fresh roll of film in his hand. Then he stops short, held breathless by the rope in Ibrahim’s grip.
Carlo takes his time: the prisoner has a striking face with angular cheekbones and penetrating eyes. He stares at Carlo with the bristling, unpredictable air of a cornered boxer, a fighter ready to confront the final blow. Carlo steps close to the prisoner and pulls his sunglasses over his eyes. He stares, relishing the young man’s discomfort and confusion; the prisoner is expecting noise and violence, he is not sure what to do with this silent, close scrutiny.
Navarra, Carlo says. You’ve been learning some Amharic with the ascari, practice your lessons, ask him what his name is. Remember what I told you, if you can’t speak to them, you can’t govern them.
Ettore Navarra has the air of a man just roused from sleep. He takes a deep breath, looks the captive over, then asks in Amharic, then Italian: What’s your name? Simih man new? Come ti chiami?
Anbessa, the younger prisoner says without hesitation.
Anbessa, Ibrahim repeats. It means “lion.” He might be part of the rebel group that calls themselves the Black Lion Resistance, he adds.
Carlo turns back to the prisoner. There is a deep gash on the side of his head. And still, he thinks this machismo will work. It’s a pity, he says to Ibrahim. Some of them would make good ascari, wouldn’t they?
The prisoner turns to Ibrahim and spits at the ground, saying a word that Carlo understands to mean “traitor.” Or perhaps it means “slave.” It is a common refrain amongst the Ethiopians when they see the ascari.
Well, let’s get this over with, fascisti, Carlo says. Rome says the war is over, but we know better. This is why we’re doing things my way, my rules. I’ll show you how to win, really win, this war. He takes the rope from Ibrahim and settles it in his open palm. He pretends to weigh it, reveling in the prisoner’s growing fear, then he flings it over a sturdy branch and watches it spin and drape down to the tall pile of extra rope on the ground. It is long, thick enough to hold a man, pliable enough to be knotted tightly and cinched around a slender neck. Carlo smiles as Ettore slides in to snap a photo then ducks out of the way. Nearby, the soldati and ascari wait, tense and silent. The dangling rope hangs in front of them all like a curious and skinny spectator.
When Navarra is done, Carlo resumes his stern expression. What you see is a thwarted ambush, Carlo says to his men. This means there’s a whole unit somewhere nearby, he adds. If we let him go, we’re inviting chaos. This is the stopgap. How much of this language of theirs have you picked up, Navarra? Carlo says to him. You walk around and talk to the natives when you photograph them?
I try, sir, but it’s hard.
The Ethiopian is known for his reserve, do you know that?
They tend to be somewhat shy, Navarra says.
Blood drips from the cut on the prisoner’s head and seeps into the shoulder of his shirt, spreading into a stain that looks like an insignia. He is shivering but trying not to show it. Navarra keeps looking at him, and the Ethiopian returns Navarra’s stare and Carlo realizes that he is bleeding because part of one ear has been cut off. A warm sensation rises in Carlo’s stomach.
Carlo nods to Ibrahim. Let’s get started, he says.
Ibrahim and the guards push the prisoner to the rope. The Abyssinian’s white clothing is a nice contrast to his men’s uniforms. His injuries and that braided hair will be a subtle detail to draw the eye toward the savagery of these people. Navarra will make a tableau vivant, accented by bruises and blood, full of promise of what’s to come. Carlo takes out his pistol and holds it in his hand.
The younger prisoner grasps audibly.
Do you know how to control these people, Navarra? Carlo asks.The clothes are an important clue, soldato, Carlo says. They don’t care about dying, we’ve seen this in battle. They make themselves into targets, they think we’ll eventually give up.
The younger captive throws back his head to emit an extended shout, his voice echoing and multiplying. Then he releases his full weight against the guards holding him, throwing them off balance. He yanks down on their arms as they stumble forward, then he raises his feet off the ground, and they are a tangle of bone and muscle, of desperation and confusion, of fear and obedience. They tumble toward Carlo.
Carlo jumps back, unnerved, and sweeps his pistol in front of him. He takes perfect aim at the prisoner’s chest, his finger already on the trigger, his mouth open to give the order to shoot, sweat drenching the back of his neck.
Colonello! Ibrahim shakes his head.
Carlo takes a breath and steps back slowly, his grip still tight on the gun. It happened so fast, the reflex motivated by that old attack in Benghazi that left him with a knife scar in his chest. It is a terror that Carlo knows will never leave him. He smiles to ease the tension. You know what to do, Carlo says to Ibrahim, thankful for his presence of mind. It was Ibrahim’s quick thinking that saved him in Benghazi, his unwavering loyalty in the face of dangerous intruders. This, Carlo will also never forget.
Ibrahim slips the rope around the prisoner’s neck. The Ethiopian clamps his mouth shut, lifts his chin, and starts to breathe heavily through his nose. His chest contracts and expands rapidly. In his eyes, there is a frantic light, a surge of panic that is swallowing him up as Ibrahim makes a knot, working meticulously and quickly.
A soft, tender spray of sun filters through the leaves to fall across the prisoner’s shoulders. The prisoner is younger than he first appeared. A young man still testing his courage.
A cry erupts from the ascari: Una spia abissina! An Abyssinian spy! They scream it like an oath. Un abissino! An Abyssinian! He’s here to kill us!
Ettore braces himself against the noise and anger. He has managed to maintain a calm façade. It is getting harder to keep it up. In the cloudless light, the prisoner’s stark terror lures the soldati closer to the spectacle. There is Mario, pushing through the crowd to get to the front. Fofi follows at his heels, mesmerized, his cheeks flushed. Giulio moves cautiously, his jaw clenched.
Colonel Carlo Fucelli pats down his face with a handkerchief before slipping it into his pocket. Navarra, take the picture now, the colonel says.
As if on cue, the prisoner shouts, his voice a surprising deep boom that ricochets across the hills. Ettore flinches, certain that he has just heard the unmistakable Amharic word for “Father”: Abbaba.
Picture, Fucelli says. These boys won’t wait long. He twists his mouth into a sardonic smile and folds his arms across his chest, pleased.
Ettore snaps the photo, aware that the prisoner is not looking at the camera. He is staring with derision at the shifting mass of men in uniform calling for his death.
Without warning, Fucelli thrusts his fist in the air. Ragazzi, he shouts. Forty years after Adua, the sons of the brave are back! He speaks louder. For times like this, soldati, Italiani, bravi fascisti, for times exactly like this, is why you are here!
Fucelli’s eyes blaze with pride. This must be witnessed, he says to Ettore. He waits for a picture before slipping his pistol back into his holster. Fucelli takes the rope. Ibrahim, you ha
ve the stool? Carlo balances his cigarette in the corner of his mouth as Ettore takes another photo.
The prisoner bares his teeth, and the words he whispers are heavy with loathing.
Translate, Navarra, Fucelli says. Let’s see how good you are.
He said he’s going to kill you. Ettore is surprised at how the words fall into place in his head. These were the first words he learned in Amharic: “Soldier. I kill.”
A useless gesture, Carlo says quietly. The last words of a dying, brave peasant, and he wastes them on me. Enough pictures, let’s move on.
FATHER: WHEN A BODY lifts of its own accord. When it stretches heavenward and flings its head back to catch the sun. When the wind aids in its ascent, and the gods of Olympus bend to cup the rebellious flight and hold it still. When we who are strong are held captive by the glories of resurrection. When neither cold nor heat nor human stench can shift our eyes away. When dark-winged birds carry a name and settle it in that burdened tree. When a body remembers its eternal grace and moves against invisible currents. When it rises out of its beaten shell, and returns our gaze still furious and proud. It is a miracle, Father.
NOW HERE THEY ARE IN THE BAR THAT FUCELLI RESERVED FOR THEM, a tiny tej bet in the center of Debark, nothing more than a single room with a corrugated tin roof. A series of chairs and a large unsteady table balance on a dirt floor covered with lemongrass and frayed rugs. It is the end of a long day. The prisoner still hangs from the tree. Ettore’s camera still dangles from his neck. Two exposed rolls of film still poke in his pocket against his leg. There is ample evidence that he is here, outside of Gondar, in this tej bet far from home, and yet he cannot erase the image of his father stepping into the bar, a stack of photographs gripped in his hand while looking for answers.
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