Beneath the Lion's Gaze (17 page)

“What’s this?” It was Emama Seble, her black figure making its way to them, her eyes resting on Shiferaw. “Hailu, you should check his mouth.”

The soldier took Shiferaw’s arm and shook it lightly. “A strong state begins with its people.”

“The Derg has new rules for their neighborhood associations,” Hailu said. “They want to control everything we do.” His eyes hadn’t wavered from the soldier, but Sara sensed an air of resignation in the way he spoke; his shoulders slumped slightly.

“It’s a necessary step in our progress,” the soldier said, matching
Hailu
’s tone. “Unity is a guarantee of sure triumph.” He smiled stiffly, mechanically. “Do whatever he says,” the soldier added, pointing to Shiferaw.

A bewildered crowd had gathered around the two men, Hailu’s community of families now a quiet circle watching the spectacle cautiously.

“But that house”—Hailu turned towards the courtyard—“it’s not empty.”

The small house hidden in a corner of the courtyard was where his mother had died. She had found a peace in that dark home that no one could understand. It held for Hailu all his childhood fears and hopes, those moments when he saw life doggedly maintaining its grip on a body that was resisting all such effort. His mother lay in that single room whose windows swallowed up the sun, and she waited for the battle to rage, then end over her existence. “It isn’t up to me,” she said, daily forcing him to cross each arm over her chest in preparation for her last breath. “It is only up to me to wait.” But every day she lived, the disappointment and sorrow in her face became harder for him to bear. He began to feel responsible, to see an accusation in her eyes that none of his hugs and kisses could erase.

It was in the days and months after his mother’s death that he decided to become a doctor, determined that one day, he would help tip the scales towards the patient’s wishes. No one would be helpless anymore. It had not been simple with Selam, he had broken his own vows to himself, but the possibility of her full recovery had pushed him. Hope, he’d decided while caring for his wife, was the only exception.

The house had been locked tight, its curtains forever drawn, until Bizu, sunken into a sadness since she’d seen the documentary about the famine in Wello, had begun to sleep there. “It’s warm here,” was her rebuff to them. “It’s nice and dark.”

In the courtyard, two pretty young women hanging clothes to dry stole shy glances at the soldier, whose chest inflated with each flirtatious look.

“His name is Shiferaw,” the soldier said again. “He’s an important man, but you can come to me if you have any questions.” His eyes lingered on the tallest girl, who smiled and then went back to her clothesline. “I’m stationed in this neighborhood.”

“Let’s go inside,” Sara said to the children. “Your mother’s made
us
dinner,” she added to Berhane, pointing to Sofia, who stood at the doorway with her hand over her mouth.

“Berhane, come here,” Sofia said, frantic. “Hurry!”

Berhane, fascinated by the rifle and the soldier’s uniform, stood gaping at the older man as if staring up at a looming mountain. “You’re a soldier?” he asked.

“Berhane!” Sofia shouted, running down the steps of the veranda to get him. “Stop talking to that man!”

“Yes, do you want to be one?” the soldier said, ignoring Sofia. “My son does.” He smiled, revealing a toothpick-sized gap between his lower front teeth.

Berhane nodded. “My daddy’s a soldier. But we can’t find him.” He held up three fingers. “It’s been three years.”

The smile disappeared from the soldier’s face.

“Berhane, get over here!” Sofia grabbed her son and dragged him into the house.

28.

A WHISPER FLOATED
into the late afternoon sky and settled back on Dawit and Lily lying in a thick shaft of dying sunlight. Soft shadows played across the rounded curves of Lily’s face as she looked at a small stack of letters next to Dawit.

She shook her head. “There was no way to get letters to you except through another
zemecha
who was running away and coming back to Addis,” she said. “I wanted to see if I remembered everything. Thank you for bringing them.”

Lily had been one of the tens of thousands of students sent across the countryside of Ethiopia to teach peasants about land reform and other changes made by the Derg. She’d come back gaunt and frightened, her hair cut short, it seemed, to highlight her startled stare.

“Sometimes, I was just writing to myself.” She held the letters gingerly, weighing them in her palm. They were folded sheets of paper without an envelope, dotted with fingerprints around the edges. “You felt so far away. We were so far from the city.” She pressed her naked body against Dawit’s.

She unfolded one letter. “Our first day Tariku called a mandatory meeting of the village elders.” She started to grin. “He spoke for one hour before one of the men stood up and walked away.” Her smile widened. “They didn’t speak Amharic, they didn’t understand anything Tariku was saying. It was a beautiful speech.” She let out a sharp laugh, her eyes alert and cold. “You’re so lucky your father found a way to keep you in Addis,” she said.

Dawit watched her open the next letter.

“It rained so much I used to think the farmers prayed for storms to drive us back to the city,” she continued. She took his hand and held it tightly, talked to him as if he’d never read the letters, as if he hadn’t memorized every fact and imagined the terror of a young girl stuck in
a
village full of angry people. “The night Tariku and Meseret destroyed their altars, they came after us with guns. The police just watched. I found out later they had orders from the Derg to arrest any of us who survived.”

Her eyes were closed. She shook her head slowly with a finality Dawit couldn’t understand and picked up the third letter, then put it down. This was the first time she’d talked about that night.

“You’re back,” he said, hugging her close. “You’re home now.”

“The Derg executed some of the
zemechas
,” she continued, holding her head. “Meseret was jailed. They almost suspended me from exams, but they said they’d give me one more chance. Tariku …” Her mouth quivered. “Enough of this.” She sighed and smiled softly at him.

He kissed her and watched her wipe her eyes. She’d gained back the weight she lost in the countryside and styled her growing hair to show its curls to full effect. She was once again the immaculate, groomed girl he knew, but across her cheeks were spots where her skin had darkened,
madiat
. It was, his mother had once told him, the physical evidence of a woman’s deep distress.

“We should go,” she said, looking at her watch. “It’s almost sundown.” Her troubled eyes, slanted slightly at the edges, followed Dawit’s hand trailing a path down her body under the blanket.

“Curfew’s at midnight.” He wrapped his arm around her.

She leaned into his chest, composed again. “I have an exam tomorrow,” she said. “And there’s a
kebele
meeting in my neighborhood.” She stared at him and let her eyes linger on his. “I have to speak at the meeting. That’s why I needed these letters.”

Dawit sat up, surprised. “Since when did you start doing what the Derg wants?”

“It’s not for the Derg,” she said, pulling the blanket closer around her bare shoulders. “Don’t you know me by now? It’s about the women’s associations we tried to start in the village. I’m explaining what we can do to make sure it works in the city. I have to.”

“You’re helping the Derg,” Dawit said. He moved away from her.

She shook her head and put an arm around him to draw him close. “Teaching women about their rights is a good thing. And since
kebele
meetings are mandatory, we might as well use it to our advantage. We
can
take them over one day, or at least get close enough for a clear shot,” she said coyly, kissing his shoulder. She was quiet. “Maybe the way to fight is from inside. As long as we keep fighting.”

Dawit drew his knees to his chest and stared at his feet. “Everything’s become another way to fight. Every rule is there to break,” he said. “But how are people being helped?” He reached for his shirt.

Lily handed Dawit his jeans and watched him dress. “Sara said Mickey came looking for you.” Her voice was carefully controlled. She slipped on her blouse and skirt.

“I’m not talking to him.” Dawit stomped his foot as he tied his shoes and a cloud of dirt leapt and hung in the light streaming from the window.

“He made sure you didn’t get caught distributing pamphlets when you first started.” She put her jacket on and wrapped her arms around his waist. She was much shorter than him and had to raise her head to look him in the eyes. “You owe him something.”

Dawit pulled out of her hold and put on his belt.

“You can’t blame him for a promotion,” she said.

“You don’t get a promotion for doing nothing. It’s a reward. What do you want me to do? Congratulate him?” Dawit said. “I’m not doing it.”

Lily grew quiet. “It’s getting more dangerous with these
kebeles
watching everything. People are scared. They’re turning in anyone just to avoid jail themselves. You need him.”

“I don’t need a lecture. You don’t know what I know.” Dawit thought back to that early morning when Mickey had come to his door in a blood-splattered uniform, a rifle lost and a gun in his belt, confessing to acts that neither of them spoke of again. It was after that that their friendship had begun to unravel; quiet moments were no longer comfortable, and conversations stumbled into stilted, awkward silences. Then, when news of Mickey’s promotion traveled through the compound, Dawit had refused to talk to him at all.

“So he’s your enemy?” she asked, walking to the door.

“Do you understand how bad things are?”

“I’m going to the same meetings you are. I’m passing out the same newsletters.” She paused. “I’m the one risking a medical school scholarship.”

“And of course that means everything,” Dawit said.

She stood at the door with a tight grip on the handle. “Don’t you think about a better future for yourself?” She was curious, then defiant.

He sighed and moved to wrap his arms around her. “I’m sorry,” he said.

Lily pushed him away and grabbed her shoes.

Dawit opened the door and waited for her. “One day you’ll cut your foot walking outside without shoes.”

A smile played across her face. It was a rhyme they’d made up together, a way to end any fights. “My feet are tough.” Her response was lyrical, a practiced song.

“And what would happen if you stepped on a nail and started bleeding?” He put his arm around her as they walked to the car.

“I would jump up in the air and scream like a monkey …” She rested her head on his shoulder and wrapped an arm around his waist.

“And then what?” he asked.

“You would catch me,” she said, giggling.

“How do you know?” He held her closer to him.

“Because you promised me you’d always be there,” she said, serious and quiet in his arms.

Dawit kissed the top of her head, then let his mouth find hers. They kissed, the tension forgotten for a moment, then drove down the hill into the city. The sky burned a deep orange, empty of the sun and not yet ready for the moon.

HAILU COULD HEAR
the faintest moans of a
washint
in his head, the hollow reed instrument spinning what had been Selam’s favorite song, “Tizita,” a melancholy tune of memory and home. He was in the bathroom adjoining his bedroom, unwrapping a new bar of soap. There is a girl in the hospital, far from home, calling for her father, he thought, looking at his palms, and I have done nothing but cause her more pain. Hailu let cool water run over his wrists and trail between his fingers. He turned on the hot water and coolness slid into a pleasant warmth that ebbed into a searing heat. He kept his hands under the tap, watched suds bubble and cascade into the drain, then disappear. No matter how many times he washed his hands, he’d have to go back and inspect wounds no human being should have. Animals in this condition would
be
put out of their misery. He lathered the soap again. What gave the Derg the right to tell him when he should be home, what he could listen to on the radio, what he should read, and now, who he could treat in his own hospital, and how?

“Abbaye, time to eat,” Tizita called.

Hailu began to scrub his hands. “Get started without me,” he said. The water gurgled as it drained. What kind of man could do what was done to this girl? How was it that he had become another instrument in that process?

“Abbaye says we always have to eat together,” Tizita said, her words muffled as if her mouth were pressed firmly against the wood door.

“Go see if Dawit’s home, then I’ll be ready.” He dried his hands on an old, rough towel and inspected his nails. There was nothing on them, he told himself. You can go eat
injera
with clean hands, he reassured himself. A new thought nudged itself awake from a corner of his mind, bent him over the sink: his mother’s home was no more.

29.

THE NEWS CAMERA
scanned past a group of soldiers from the hundred-thousand-man peasant army, the People’s Militia. Wearing North Korean uniforms and carrying Soviet machine guns, they marched into arid, dusty hills, their sweat visible even at a distance. Lining the roadside where they walked, women and girls clapped and raised their voices in encouragement as other soldiers, less tired, monitored the cheering with pointed rifles. The soldiers dragged themselves over the road, mechanical and obedient.

“Turn the volume down, Tizzie,” Yonas said.

The camera cut to Guddu, crisply dressed, his green fatigues perfectly tailored. He paced in front of another large group of hunched soldiers, his smoker’s lips enunciating words with sharp precision. His eyes, small and furious, darted back and forth with barely restrained agitation; the rest of his body was kept under strict control. He shouted at his men, pumped his fist into the air, then pointed to the flag hanging limply behind him. The screen flashed to a map of Ethiopia and a yellow line snaked a path north, into the Eritrean region, and ended in a big red X.