‘Thank you,’ I said. I didn’t know why, but already I was disliking this Danuta.
‘If you like,’ Stefcha offered, ‘after breakfast I’ll take you and show you around the camp. It’s not huge. We’re two kilometres outside of Kondoa town, and there are some nice little cafes there.’
I liked her; she was a little chatterbox.
‘According to the nuns, these huts used to house Italian prisoners of war. There aren’t any now. Ah, here comes the soup.’
Danuta dished it out, and it wasn’t just me who noticed we received less again.
‘Oi,’ Stefcha said, ‘these three have less than us.’
‘Have they?’ Danuta looked embarrassed, ‘I’ve served it now.’
‘Tell you what then, we’ll give them ours, and we can have theirs? How about that?’
‘I’ll see if I can get you all cork hats,’ Stefcha said. ‘We’re just below the equator, so you must wear them at all times when you’re outside. The nuns are very strict about that.’
‘Not just when it’s raining?’ Ella said.
Lodzia clipped her gently under the chin. ‘Sign she’s recovering,’
‘They say there has been no rain for months.’ Stefcha led us to the rear of the huts where a narrow mango-lined lane separated our settlement from the Bubu River. ‘That’s why this one’s arid. The nuns told us that during the rainy season, it turns violent. It’s even washed away the largest trucks, so it’s best not to swim.’
‘When is the rainy season,’ I asked?
‘December to March. It’s mostly dry till then. It’s not rained since we arrived.’
We stood for a while watching the local black children scrape away at the sandy river bed with their bare hands until they reached water beneath. They scooped it up into dried melon skins, which they had fashioned into kitchen utensils and then set about washing. Ella moved closer and crouched down beside them; they were about the same age, and she was ready to muck in with them.
‘Ingenious,’ Lodzia remarked. ‘Who would have thought of using melon skins!’
I too shook my head and smiled.
‘You smiled!’ Lodzia hugged me. ‘It’s the first time I’ve seen you smile since we left Szpitali. Hallelujah! Kohanie, as tragic as everything is, never allow what’s happened to you to destroy your spirit.’
Stefcha led the way to the church, which stood across the road from our huts. Dense clumps of elephant grass sprouted here and there, but on the whole the area was arid with sparse vegetation. I thought it had a melancholy air about it.
‘Mass starts at 7 a.m. each morning. They say it gets greener around Lake Babati,’ she said, reading my mind. ‘There’s also some rock art around here – if you’re interested in that sort of thing.’
‘How many refugees are there here?’ Lodzia asked.
‘Four hundred – excluding the clergy – most are women and children; all the younger and more able men have gone off to fight.’
‘What about school?’ Lodzia asked. Ella was already six years old, and she did not want her to miss out.
‘Yes, we have set up a Grade School since we arrived, but secondary-school children have to travel to Tengeru. Danuta takes the lessons here; she’s a teacher back home.’
‘We have seamstresses who can make clothes if you supply the fabric. There’s an Arab in Kondoa who has a shop. What else? Oh yes, we have a theatre group, embroidery classes, and we’ve also started a scout group. The few men here run that. That’s about it. I think we’ve done about everything to create normality, given we will be living here – well – forever.’
As in all tropical countries, darkness fell swiftly. The heavens were so black yet alive with a raw energy. They reminded me of the last time I gazed at the majestic beauty of the night sky, through the gratings of my prison wagon in Arctic Russia. The sight of it gladdened my heart in a world so cruel yet able to retain its serenity.
I liked to imagine stars were the souls of the dead keeping watch over their loved ones still trapped on earth. The ones that glowed most brightly were Mama and Tatta guiding me in that way which ancient mariners used for navigation. If only I could understand what they were trying to tell me.
Dawn brought shimmering rays through the open door to the foot of my bed as if mocking me for not getting up and giving thanks that I was one of the fortunate ones to have survived the slaughter of our finest at the devil’s command.
The hut was empty, the faithful already giving praise across the road. High notes drifted through the windows and soared on the breeze.
I swung my legs out of bed and stood on a cockroach whose hard shell crunched beneath my bare foot and its squelched body stuck to my flesh. ‘Ugh.’
Making my way to the church, I loitered outside; still mad with God for robbing me of everyone I loved. Yet it wasn’t God’s fault. Only one man was responsible for their deaths – Stalin. As the chant of prayer mixed with incense, I could once more feel elevated towards some higher being. I yearned to belong to something or someone and I prayed He would find me a mission in life. Something where I could make a meaningful difference.
The natives were already congregating for their ceremony, held in the same building. The rosy-cheeked nun told us that they believed in a single deity, yet still practised traditional African religion.
Their women were dressed in red fabric no larger than a tablecloth tied in a knot above their left breast, and the men wore anything red or rust coloured. All were barefoot, and I couldn’t help looking at their ugly feet, shaped by their environment. Their skin was hard and burnt, their heels cracked and their toenails long and bent over where they gripped the bare earth.
No sooner had the Catholics vacated the church, than we heard the sound of their monotonous, rhythmic chanting wafting out through the open windows. These people were dirt poor, stank of body odour and wood smoke, but all was well with their world.
I approached a nun and asked if she knew anything of the drumming and chanting I heard again last night.
‘Just ignore it; it’s the Valangi practising their black magic. What you heard was their rain ritual. They purport to be bringing rain to the land belonging to the chieftain so that no one else gets it. Anyway, it always rains a few weeks into January, but they think it’s down to them.’
41
God answered my prayers sooner than I expected; the next morning, I received a shovel. My mission was to grow beans and corn.
Mr Baranowski inspected us to ensure we were all wearing our cork helmets – he didn’t want anyone to suffer sunstroke – before he took us along to our place of work on the road leading to Kondoa town. Lodzia stayed behind to settle Ella into school.
Our working day began at eight in the morning and ended at noon when temperatures soared. The land belonging to the Mission was rich and gave forth its fullness in food and flowers, unlike the surrounding ground, which was rock hard, and I found I was enjoying contributing to the greater good of our little community.
The temperature rose with each passing hour, and at 12 o’clock Mr Baranowski walked around with a giant alarm clock tied to a piece of string slung over his shoulder, banging a saucepan and shouting, ‘Lunch!’
Work stopped, everyone straightened and ran their forearms across their brows. It was the end of our workday.
Our meal comprised one portion of boiled rice together with meatballs and beans or corn. It was always beans, or corn.
‘These meatballs are delicious,’ I said to Lodzia, who joined us at the table. ‘Did you get Ella settled at school?’
‘I did. Listen, that Danuta holds English lessons in the afternoons. It’s only for an hour – why don’t you go along?’