Love in the Land of Barefoot Soldiers Read online

  “Do you really think that’s the way the British are thinking?” Ceseli asked, incredulous.

  “I’m sure that is exactly what they are thinking, my dear. What Mussolini is attempting to do is precisely what the British have done to acquire their own empire. And the French, Belgians, Dutch, Germans, Spanish and Portuguese as well. Empire-building has gone out of style, but that doesn’t mean that England and France aren’t going to hold on to their own empires and they don’t need unrest among the subjugated.”

  Ceseli looked from one of them to the other. “You’re not kidding, are you?”

  “I wish I were” Rutherford smiled.

  “That’s what we had been told,” Evans said, looking uncomfortable.

  To end the conversation, Rutherford pushed back his chair and walked to the verandah where Hilina was preparing coffee. They didn’t have coffee served every night in this traditional Ethiopian ceremony, but Rutherford had arranged it for their guests.

  “Coffee originated in the Kaffa province, to the south,” Ceseli told them remembering her first taste of Ethiopian coffee on the train with Yifru. “The Ethiopians call it buna. There is an old Ethiopian legend about a young goat herder who noticed his herd becoming unusually frisky after nibbling the berries of a tree. After trying some himself, he found that the berries had a stimulating effect. A monk from a neighboring monastery decided to try the berries and to his amazement, he also found that the berries helped keep him alert during his late night prayers. Soon all the monks in the area were chewing the berries.”

  “You will find that Ceseli has a suitable legend or explanation for everything,” Rutherford smiled.

  “Warren!” she protested.

  “She’s got this little book. Ceseli’s Bible. It contains everything you can imagine about Ethiopia. It’s sort of an encyclopedia, journal, and scrapbook. Everything boils down to Solomon and Sheba, even the coffee.”

  Ceseli joined in the laughter.

  “Well, almost everything. She’s been a most welcome addition to our household,” Rutherford continued. “She claims to be an archaeologist, but I fear that she is here to write her autobiography and needed some interesting material. Standish and I are only the background to the emperor.” The three newcomers laughed appreciatively.

  “Does that mean you don’t want me to explain the coffee ceremony?” Ceseli teased.

  “By all means, do. The coffee is nothing without knowing the ceremony behind it.”

  In the meantime, Hilina had spread a pale blue rug on the floor of the verandah. Sitting back on her heels behind the rug, she took fresh, long, green grass and wild flowers and scattered them on the rug. The girl was slender, with giant almond-shaped eyes and tonight wore a shimmering fuchsia shamma with embroidered purple flowers along one side. The pale blue, bright pink, and purple might have seemed like a strange combination, but they blended perfectly, making her look like a bouquet.

  “The rug marks the borders of a sacred space,” Ceseli explained. “The flowers and grass are reminiscent of our connection to nature and the earth. You’ll have to be patient. Waiting for the coffee is an essential part of this ceremony.”

  Rutherford took his pipe and settled down into his comfortable chair, while the other men sat on upright wicker ones.

  Hilina had taken the coffee beans and was roasting them on a tiny charcoal burner. It was of the same black-fired clay as the coffee pot that held the water that she was heating.

  “Incense is placed on the little clay holder,” Ceseli continued. “It is believed that this holy smell transports us into a deeper realm of being. In some areas of Ethiopia, it is believed that the smoke of the incense will carry any bad spirits out of the home.” She paused, glancing at Evans, who was winking at her. “Each crackling noise is a bean opening itself up to release its rich provocative essence to tantalize our senses,” Ceseli said, her voice low enough not to disturb Hilina’s traditional movements.

  “When the beans have been roasted to a dark chocolate color, the coffee maker takes the roaster and moves around the room, inviting us to gently coax the smoke toward us with our hands and become one with its enticing aroma.”

  As if on cue, Hilina stood up, going first to Rutherford, who passed his hands over the burner, wafting the smell toward him. His guests followed suit.

  “Then she will crush the beans into fine grains with a mortar and pestle and sacrifice them in the boiling water of the coffee pot. She can choose to add a pinch of cinnamon, cloves, or cardamom, which will produce their own flavor.”

  “You can add sugar if you want,” Ceseli said, passing the raw brown sugar. She noticed that the men had taken the tiny thimble-like cups and were holding them nimbly. They were smiling at Hilina as she passed again to refill their cups.

  “If you want to go back to the states with us, Ceseli, we’d be glad to have you,” Evans said later as he walked her back to her tukul.

  “When are you going?”

  “Next week. We’ve still got to write out a report for the emperor and hold a few meetings.”

  “I thank you for the offer, but I’m not going yet. I’ve still got a lot I want to accomplish.”

  “The atmosphere is not looking bright,” he said, stopping at her verandah.

  “I know, but I’m perfectly safe for now. Thank you anyhow.”

  “You’re sure about that, Ceseli?” Evans asked again, taking her hand.

  “I’m very sure, but thank you.”

  “All right. Look me up when you get stateside.”

  “I promise I’ll do that, and thank you again,” she said, going up the steps. “I appreciate your concern.”

  CHAPTER 25

  “DO YOU WANT TO come and listen to the emperor’s speech?” Ceseli asked Marco on the telephone. “I’m sure there’d be no objection.”

  “I’d like that.”

  “Come on in,” Ceseli greeted him the next afternoon as she led him to Warren Rutherford’s office.

  “Welcome, young man. Nice to see you,” Rutherford said while shaking his hand. “Sit over here,” he said, motioning to the couch. “It’s almost time.”

  Rutherford turned on the radio and they sat in silence waiting for it to crackle into life. It was September 11, 1935 and according to the agricultural based Ethiopian calendar, the New Year was about to begin.

  The emperor was addressing the world: “At this time, when according to the Ethiopian calendar, the year 1935/36 begins, we wish that this New Year may bring the peace which is essential, and which our people and the world desire with a warm heart. It appears to us right to recall the principal events which have occurred in the past year.

  “This WalWal clash, which we demanded be settled by arbitration, was finally adjudicated on the 3rd of September. The five arbitrators reached the unanimous verdict that neither Ethiopia, nor Italy, was responsible for the attack. As Italy has made WalWal the pretext to wage war upon Ethiopia, Italy is now somewhat short of reasons to make war.”

  Ceseli looked across at Marco who was having trouble understanding the emperor’s English accent.

  “History will judge Italy’s behavior. While Italy claims to be the very essence of civilization, she is making unjust war upon a people that is peaceful, that has been prevented from obtaining military equipment, and which lives still trusting a treaty which Italy publicly signed in August, 1928, so that peace and friendship would persist.

  “The Ethiopian people emphatically seek peace and, moreover, loves its country dearly. It will resist by defending itself against the enemy and protecting its chest in which there is a proud heart burning with love of country.

  “Our peasants, who live tilling their land in peace, whose arm is strong and who are jealous of their freedom, will rise up with their spades and lances to wield them quickly, overturning their ploughs to stop the enemy from invading their land.

  “We do not like war. But we shall not let our enemy pass without defending ourselves fiercely. As Ethiopia’s fa
ith reposes in God, she knows that God’s judgment will prevail over that of man. New weapons and guns which man has devised to destroy his kind, are not a measure of civilization.

  “Finally, Ethiopia desires and hopes that with the assistance of the League of Nations, the quarrel which has broken out between Ethiopia and Italy may be resolved by law and proper judgment in consonance with the Covenant of the League of Nations.”

  As the radio crackling faded into silence, Minister Rutherford tapped the ashes from his pipe into a nearby ashtray. He looked at each one of them. “So?”

  “I hope the American people were listening,” Standish said. “If not the President.”

  “Does the emperor know that war is here?” Ceseli asked.

  “He still has faith in the League,” Standish replied. “It’s hard to understand why.”

  “Because he signed a treaty to avoid war. He committed his name and that of his country,” she answered, looking at him.

  “Of course,” Rutherford said, interrupting. “But Standish is right. He’s been given no reason to think the members of the League will defend him.”

  “Isn’t that what the Covenant says?” Ceseli asked.

  “Yes,” Rutherford added. “President Roosevelt refuses to get involved. Unfortunately, this is the war staring us in the face.”

  “Africa is very far from America. Not only in distance,” Standish added.

  “I’m afraid there is one point which is very clear,” Rutherford remarked. “The majority of the American people agree that Mussolini is a dreadful fellow and they would be happy if someone were to stop him. But it should be someone else.”

  Marco looked at the others knowing that he, at least, was already committed.

  “Thank you for letting me share this with you,” he said. “I’d better get back to the hospital.”

  “It will be hard on you,” Rutherford said. “If there’s anything we can do, please don’t hesitate to ask.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  As they walked hand-in-hand to the entrance, Marco drew her to the side. “Ceseli, you need to leave.”

  “Maybe.”

  “No maybes about it. You need to go.”

  “You know, Marco, I’m really happy here. For the first time since Daddy’s death, I feel that I am doing something I want to do. And I’m getting a lot accomplished. This is wonderful material for my thesis.”

  “That isn’t the issue and you know it! It’s time to go. You know that.”

  “You too,” she said defiantly.

  “I’m a doctor. I can treat the wounded.”

  “Not as well as you, but so could I.”

  “Get on that train, Ceseli. Please.”

  “I can’t,” she said. Marco took her hand and held it tightly. She looked up at him moving into his embrace. Not wanting him to leave her and not wanting to leave him, they stood there, together, her cheek on his chin for a long time. Then he broke away and was gone.

  Later that evening, she sat on her bed and looked around her. The room had changed since she first moved in. It was more personal. Her own photos were on the walls and she had a small table in the bathroom to hold her developing equipment.

  Was he right? Should she get out now? She felt like a child again, sitting in her bedroom at her grandmother’s apartment in New York when she needed to make big decisions. None of them had been very big, but at the time they seemed so. She knew it was very important to her not to leave Marco. To be where he was. She looked over at the smiling photo of her father. She had become more confident about her own decisions.

  CHAPTER 26

  AUGUST WAS UNEVENTFUL EXCEPT for the knowledge that more and more troops were being sent to Eritrea and Italian Somaliland. But as the heavy rains began to peter out, the single most important subject of discussion in bars, hotels, and whorehouses was whether Mussolini was going to bomb Addis and what provisions should be taken for protection. Some people thought of seeking refuge on Mount Entoto, others rented safe houses near the Italian compound. Rutherford sent Daniele up to the roof to paint a huge American flag on it.

  “Make sure it is very big and very bright,” Rutherford ordered. “Or we’ll all be cooked duck.”

  The emperor set up a warning system: three shots fired from an old cannon at the Ghibbi Palace. If the people heard the cannon, they were ordered to leave town, or to take refuge in the shelters they had constructed. During the practice, the cannon exploded. As there is no word for “practice” in Amharic, the whole town panicked. Even though they heard no bombs and saw no planes, people ran to the hills and stayed there.

  The foreigners were leaving. The train station at Akashi was flooded by those seeking to get out while they still could. The gay brown ladies of the night were ordered to prepare to accompany the soldiers to the front, or, if they declined, they could help the war effort by paying a fine of five silver Thalers to the imperial war chest. Most paid and stayed.

  Bill, with his harmonica in his pocket, stopped by the legation to say goodbye. “I’m sorry to have to go, Miss Larson, but there won’t be much mule breeding for a long time. Time to get back to Kansas.”

  “I’m sorry you’re leaving, Bill.” Ceseli smiled, holding out her hand to shake his. “Have a safe trip back, and thanks for stopping by,” she said.

  Several days later, Bruno Zeri, too, was leaving. “I have some new ideas for your bible,” he said, coming abruptly into her office.

  “About the Falasha Jews. You found them?”

  “Finding them wasn’t the problem. There are three communities up there. They do live on land rented from other landowners. That’s true. The center of their religious life is the synagogue. The high priest is the head in each village. He is helped by lower priests. Falasha monks live alone, or in monasteries. There are no rabbis. That’s different because the rabbi is a very important person in most Jewish communities in Europe. Also, the Sabbath requirements are rigid. They observe biblical dietary laws. And the part about animal sacrifice is true. You might want to add that to your bible.”

  “I will. So you’re going to write about them?”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “I thought that was the whole point of your trip?”

  “I went there with that intention. They believe that they are descendants of Solomon and Sheba. They may even be the lost tribe of Dan, one of the ten lost tribes of Israel. One monk told me he thought that when the Red Sea opened not all the Jews crossed in time. They escaped from Egypt by going south and ended up here in Ethiopia.”

  “An interesting thought.”

  “But since I’ve met these people, I’ve changed my mind. If I write about them, they’ll look like something out of a circus. They are what I see as a unique tribe of Jews. History has just passed them by. I don’t want them subjected to ridicule because of me.”

  Ceseli listened to what he was saying, not passing judgment, one way or the other.

  “You don’t like me very much, do you, Miss Larson?”

  “No,” Ceseli admitted.

  “Is it because I’m a journalist or because I’m Italian? Or because I’m a Jew?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You think I’m a brainwashed journalist?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “But you’re not willing to give me the benefit of the doubt. You might be pleasantly surprised. Maybe you have a glorified idea of what I actually do. It’s very simple. I report what happens. The man walked down the street. The dog was shot.”

  “I guess I feel that you have to do more than that.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I feel that in a war you have to take sides.”

  Bruno Zeri hesitated, looking at the photo of the obelisk on the wall. “You mean like the Greek gods did. Zeus. Hera. Troy.”

  “The Gods decided the wars because of their petty differences. I can almost see them up on Mt. Olympus deciding the fate of the world.”

  “I can see them in Geneva,�
� Zeri smiled. “Do you know the book, A Tale of Two Cities? Dickens?”

  “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times . . . It was my father’s favorite book.”

  “Your father was an intelligent man. Very true to his beliefs. I liked him for that.”

  “You never said you knew him.”

  “Mostly of him. He was a very respected man. I was in the Assembly Hall when he collapsed.”

  “He didn’t suffer?” she blurted out.

  “I think he was dead immediately. I’m sorry if I have made you relive memories,” Zeri said. Ceseli could not help noticing that there was kindness in his voice.

  “A day doesn’t go by that I don’t think of it, but thank you in any case.”

  “You remember Madame De Farge?” Zeri asked.

  “Knitting her shawl.”

  “It wasn’t a shawl, was it? It was a list of names. Those who had been executed.”

  “I stand corrected. But I don’t understand the connection.”

  “Someday I’ll tell you. But that wasn’t the purpose of my visit. I’m leaving tomorrow. My paper needs me elsewhere.”

  “Eritrea?” she asked, thinking he would lie.

  “That’s right. I stopped by to thank you for your help. About the Falashas.”

  “But I didn’t do anything, but give you some facts.”

  “That’s what a journalist needs,” he said, taking her hand and kissing the back of it. “It’ll be a dreadful war,” he said. “You should get out now.”

  “I will. When the time comes.”

  “Will you still go to Rome? I’m from Rome, you know. My house is near Torre Argentina. Next to the Jewish ghetto.”

  “I remember where that is. The Roman columns and the stray cats.”

  “The cats of Rome. That’s right. If you get to Rome, give me a call.”

  “Maybe.”

  “I’m not asking for it carved in stone. Just maybe.”

  When he had gone, she tried to analyze what she did feel. Maybe, he was a modern gladiator. She felt that he was baiting her or perhaps even sparring with her. The fact was he made her uncomfortable.