Beneath the Lion's Gaze (30 page)

“Where did you see him last?” She wrung her hands. “How could he just disappear? He’d never leave his newspapers like that, never.”

Robel wrapped his head in his trembling hands. “I didn’t hear anything. I dropped him off as usual, then I went to check on him.” He paused. “He wasn’t there.” He pulled at Sofia. “Let’s go to the police.”

Sofia nodded, as she’d done hours earlier, but she didn’t move towards the door. Her eyes stared off into a distant space. “They won’t help. They never help.” She suddenly dropped to her knees, her forehead touching the ground. “I beg you,” she prayed, one hand in the air, “give him back, I’ll give you my life.”

Robel cradled her. “Emama, let’s go to the police.”

She sat up, her fingers finding the edge of her shirt, ripping the fabric. “I promise, whatever I’ve done to be punished like this, I promise to pay. Keep my husband, keep Daniel, give me my son. My light.” She tore her shirt, the thin cotton coming apart at the shoulders, exposing a straight, elegant collarbone. She began to pound on her breasts, her moans reverberating, her chest a deep-barreled drum.

“Emaye,” Robel cried, holding her arms down and planting his head on her chest. “Stop, please.”

“Daniel!” she wailed. “Where is my son? Help me!” She tipped to the floor, dragging Robel with her. “Why is God angry?”

Robel gently eased his mother to the ground and folded a pillow under her head. “I’ll be back soon,” he said.

She stared at the ceiling and a hand traced the crucifix that hung around her neck as she repeated her youngest son’s name.

THE POLICE STATION
smelled like vomit. Just inside the gate, a group of women and a cluster of girls sat huddled in a tired bunch. They were dressed in black, their tear-stained faces hidden behind their
shammas
. A soldier paced back and forth in front of them.

Robel shoved himself into the middle of a long line, then pushed through the queue to squeeze into a cramped office. He ignored the mumbling and muttering behind him. He slapped a hand on the counter and got the attention of an agitated police officer.

“Stop that,” the policeman said. “If you want to report someone, just drop the name in the box over there.” He pointed to a square white metal box near the entrance.

“I’m looking for a small boy, my brother.” Robel put a hand to his chest. “This tall.”

The policeman shook his head. “No boys today. We just brought in those women from a funeral for an anarchist.” He rolled his eyes. “Don’t they know the laws about mourning for enemies?” He smiled tiredly at Robel. “You seem like a smart boy.”

“My brother sells newspapers at Peacock Café. He was gone when I went to pick him up. I need to find him.”

The policeman sighed. “Maybe he just went to play with friends.
I
have two sons,” he added. “They leave the compound all the time, even when I tell them not to.” He patted Robel’s hand reassuringly. “Go home and wait, he’ll come back.” He turned and walked back to his desk and soon became lost in a stack of papers.

Robel stood at the counter until another officer walked by. “Get out of here. We’re busy,” he said. He shoved Robel away from behind the counter. “Go on.”

Robel walked out, defeated. He saw one of the soldiers kick a thin woman and raise his rifle butt above her head. She curled up at his feet, a pile of bones and black cloth.

BERHANE SAT STRAPPED
in a metal chair that was bolted to the ground. In front of him, two large men in uniform hunched over a box of long needles and ropes. One of them, the tallest, tugged on two ends of a long rope and brought it close to Berhane’s face.

“This one should work,” he said.

Berhane whimpered as he felt his legs lifted and tied to the chair. The man stood up, satisfied, when he was finished. Berhane’s feet dangled, the end of the rope dragged on the floor.

“Don’t make me do this,” the man said. He patted Berhane’s head. “Just tell us the name of the man who gave you this note.”

“I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know!” Berhane cried, terrified. His tears caught in his throat and he coughed them up. “I don’t know, I’m not lying. I promise.”

The man pulled one of the long needles out of the box and waved it in front of him. “Do you know what I’m going to do with this?” he asked.

Berhane shook his head, too afraid to speak. He tried to jerk his arms free, but that made the rubber strap cut into him. The man put the sharp tip of the needle on his thigh. It felt cool and sharp against his skin.

“I’ll push it all the way through. Do you know how much that’ll hurt?” the man said.

Berhane saw the shorter man wipe his upper lip. “Enough,” the short man mumbled. He couldn’t bring himself to meet Berhane’s gaze. “Enough. He doesn’t know anything.” He slid the box closer to himself. “He’s telling the truth. Stop.”

The tall man turned around, angry. “He knows. They always know.” He swept the needle through the air and Berhane’s eyes followed every motion, ready to scream when it touched him. “They think they can use kids now and we won’t dare question them? He’s not a child”—the man pointed at him. “This is our newest enemy.”

Berhane was so intent on watching the short man run to a corner and kneel that he lost track of the needle. It stabbed his thigh before he had a chance to scream. It went through his leg, its coolness warmed by his blood, and he thought he heard the tip hit against the metal chair before the man ripped it back out, flesh sliding from the end. Berhane gaped at the gushing wound in his thigh and realized the voice wailing into his ears, slamming through his hot, pounding head, was his own. The needle came down again. Berhane saw it arc slowly through the air, a brilliant ribbon of red floating through silence and nothingness.

SOFIA STARTED AWAKE.
“Robel,” she said, shaking him, “wake up.” They were huddled under one blanket. She sat up and held Robel, tears rolling down her face. “I sent him there, I made him start working at that place.”

“It’s okay, Emaye,” Robel said, rubbing her back. “We’ll find him. Don’t cry.” He swallowed the tears that rushed to his throat. “I promise. I’ll find him for you.” What he didn’t say was that now there were two people lost to them, and that if there was a God, maybe they’d finally found each other.

50.

SOFIA SANK TO
the ground as soon as Sara opened the gate to let her in. She fell to her knees, her arms outstretched, crawling towards the other woman.

“They took my son,” she moaned. “They took him. Someone saw them take him. They beat him. They beat my son.” Sofia was gasping for air, her eyes vacant. “Who is this God I pray to?” she asked. “Who is he to do this to a small boy?” Sweat poured down her face. She swayed, almost tipping over.

Sara dragged her through the gate and closed it quickly. “Stand,” she told her. “Get up, let’s go inside before Shiferaw sees.”

Sofia struggled to her feet and pressed against Sara as they walked into the house. Once inside, she collapsed onto the sofa.

Sara rubbed her hands. “Tell me what you heard.” Her eyes were gentle, sad.

“Another newspaper boy saw him taken in a military truck. He watched a soldier hitting Berhane.” She rose up angrily. “Why couldn’t he do anything?”

Sara sat next to her and held her. “He’s just a boy, they’ll let him go.”

“I had a dream,” Sofia said. “Daniel and Berhane, walking together.” She began to sob. “I made him work at that café, I moved him from the square.”

“They’ll both be okay,” Sara said, trying to smile. “That means they’ll be okay.”

Sofia shook her head. “Daniel’s dead. I’ve known. I’ve known for so long.” She dropped her head. “He was killed the same night the emperor’s officials were executed. I couldn’t bring myself to tell my sons. I wanted them to still believe in something, to hope, until they were old enough to understand.” She turned anguished eyes to Sara. “Do you think I killed my son? Do you think he did something foolish trying to find his father?
You
remember how he always talked about finding him. I tried to stop that, to just get him to pray. But this is my punishment for lying.” She was still, rigid as stone. “This is God’s way. In the end, we always pay.”

THE BURNING CANDLE
in the dark room grew brighter as the sun set through Emama Seble’s window. The old woman sat hunched over a bowl of
dabo kolo
, tossing the kernels of baked dough in her mouth.

“You should be glad they didn’t go into Dawit’s room and find him. They only took Hailu’s medical bag. But you keep wanting to test God,” Emama Seble said, shaking her head. “Just leave things alone.”

“There was a woman who was eight months pregnant. All she did was work at a printing press that these murderers thought was counterrevolutionary. And another
kebele
dog killed her. A pregnant woman!” She put her head in her hands. “Now they have little Berhane, that sweet boy.” She wiped her eyes. “What if they’d taken Tizita?”

Emama Seble grew quiet. “They executed the man who killed that woman. He died with his own demons, he did worse to himself. There was justice.”

“It’s not enough.” Sara wrung her hands. “And what about Berhane? How can we do nothing?”

Emama Seble brought Sara’s hands to her chest. “So you think stepping into the battle will help your family with Hailu gone? What can you do to bring this boy back to his mother? Nothing.”

“My mother fought in battles, my father almost died in one. It’s the way I was raised.”

Emama Seble scooped another handful of
dabo kolo
. “You can’t grab a gun and march into the streets.” She flicked an eye towards an open window and stood to close it. She lowered her voice. “Listen to me. Stay alive, do what you can to keep living. Be a sister to Sofia, comfort her son. What matters is life.”

“It’s how you live.”

“And your daughter? After all you did to keep her with you, now you’re going to risk your own life?”

“I don’t want her growing up thinking we didn’t fight back,” Sara said.

Emama Seble shook her head.

“I’m a daughter of patriots,” Sara said. “They charged at Italian rifles with spears. My aunt was burned from those chemicals they dropped from the planes, but she tried to fight as soon as she could.”

Emama Seble seemed to sift through words, choosing carefully. “So much anger. You can’t see what you have,” she finally said. She put her hand on Sara’s knee. “How much more will you ask from God? Hasn’t he given you enough?”

“I’m not going to wait patiently while people are dying,” Sara said. “Maybe you don’t understand.”

“You forget I was one of the women who lived through the Italian occupation.” Emama Seble put a hand on her stomach. “What they did to us was another side of the war.”

“I know,” Sara said quietly.

“We all talked about your mother, how she fought in the bed with one of them and strangled him. All the women in Addis celebrated.” She stared into Sara’s eyes. “She was brave. Brave enough to give birth, unlike some of us.” She touched her face.

“Those rumors aren’t true,” Sara replied, her voice trembling. “I know who my father is.”

“Then you should know there’s no need to fight. It won’t make you any more Ethiopian,” Emama Seble said. “It won’t bring back anything you think you’ve lost.”

“It’s not enough just to pray,” Sara said.

Emama Seble sighed. “We all have our own ways and times to die, including our enemies. Don’t rush God’s work.”

“Nobody gets punished enough. If we don’t do something, we have to suffer for their wrongs for generations,” Sara said. “My mother knew this.”

Emama Seble shook her head and lit another candle. “Go talk to Melaku,” she said. “That man is foolish enough to agree with you.”

MELAKU’S DOOR SUDDENLY
flew open and the unhinged lock clattered noisily to the floor.

“Emaye!” he cried out, startled into the child’s habit of calling out for his mother. He groaned in frustration when he realized it was Emama Seble, and that she’d kicked his unlatched door open with her foot.

“Can’t you knock?” he asked. He tried to slow her entrance into his home, but she shoved him aside and examined the room with critical eyes.

“Who comes for tea this early?” Emama Seble pointed at the empty teacup sitting next to his. “You’re too old for night guests.” She sank onto the bed, frowning at the squeaky coils. She leaned back slowly.

Color rose to Melaku’s cheeks. “Seble?”

She rolled her eyes. “Don’t be so vain.” She propped a pillow behind her. “We need to talk about Sara.”

Melaku collected himself. “Did the soldiers find anything besides Hailu’s bag?”

Emama Seble’s eyes didn’t leave his face. “Sara’s coming to talk to you.”

“About what?”

“What do you think?” Her hands were folded in front of her. “Why else would I be here?”

Melaku let out a short laugh. “Not everyone is part of the resistance.”

Emama Seble leaned forward. “Take care of her. I’ll hold you responsible.”

“I’m not in any underground movement.” He pointed to the empty teacups. “In fact, these bastards searched everything last night and took my best teakettle. What do you need a teakettle for? I asked them. But they took it just in case it was counterrevolutionary. I don’t have anything.”

“Your lies work on other women, not me,” Emama Seble said.

“What makes you think you know everything about me?” he asked sharply.

“Just be ready when she comes to you.” She stood up and looked around. “Clean this place.”

Melaku walked to the door and opened it. “Haven’t you misjudged me before? Isn’t this why we’re both alone now?” He saw that she wasn’t making any move to leave. “Go,” he said. He felt her eyes sliding from his ankles to his shoulders.

She stepped close. “I wasn’t the one who made bad choices,” she said.

“You’re not always right,” he said.

Emama Seble walked out and slammed the door. It hit the frame, then bounced open again, leaving the rusting metal latch to clank loudly.

SARA SMELLED OF CLOVES
and cinnamon, a musky sweetness that Dawit breathed in. She hunched into the flickering candle, daylight dying above her head, shadows cascading through her hair.