The transfer of Hans plunged Bruno and me into a kind of daze. We had been half expecting it and, now that it had happened, we felt that we had been caught off guard. We were so upset we couldn’t find words to comfort each other. Bruno retreated behind his mosquito net, and I was so dismayed I couldn’t put my thoughts in order.
The sun had not yet set when two guards, rifles at the ready, disturbed our meditation. It was rare for food to be brought to us with firearms aimed at us. Blackmoon placed a tray in front of me with a metal plate on it, in which soup had congealed. He deliberately stepped on my toes and, having attracted my attention, made a sign with his eyes to indicate that the piece of bread that came with the soup had something in it for me.
The pirates left, padlocking the grille. I heard their steps shuffling in the yard before being lost in the noises of the fort. I bent over the slice of bread and tore it with my fingers; a piece of paper was hidden inside. I took it out, unfolded it very carefully and recognised Hans’s feverish handwriting.
His little note was short: two sentences scribbled in pencil and set out on two lines:
Stand firm.
Every day is a miracle.
5
Against all expectations, it was Bruno who cracked first. His thick shell, formed through forty years’ experience in Africa, shattered into pieces. With a kick, he sent his meal flying against the wall, threw himself on the grille, shook it angrily and then collapsed exhausted on his bundle of cloths. When the noises of the fort faded, he got up and started pacing up and down the cell, breathing harshly, like a wild beast looking for an opening in its cage.
The previous day, at nightfall, the pirates had lit a fire and danced like mad gods to music blaring from a huge radio cassette player. Laughing as he watched them writhing about, Bruno had found them brilliant. ‘Do you realise what a sensation they’d be on the Paris stage?’ he had cried, as enchanted as a groupie in the presence of his idol. I had asked him what our kidnappers were so happy about. ‘The end of the civil war, probably,’ he had replied. Actually, it was the transfer of Hans Makkenroth they were celebrating!
The sun had been up for some time when Bruno decided to show signs of life. He stared at the grille as if trying to blow it up with his eyes, then hoisted himself to his feet, shuffled over to the door, his legs like cotton wool, and grabbed hold of the grille in order not to collapse.
‘Hey, Gerima!’ he cried. ‘Gerima, can you hear me? Come out of your lair, you son of a bitch!’
I ran to him and tried to calm him; he pushed me away and started yelling again.
‘What are you waiting for to sell us on the black market, you bastard? You’re an expert in that, aren’t you? You did well for yourself when you filched rations from your unit. What’s the difference between a hostage and a can of food? Can you hear me, Gerima?’
I put my hand over his mouth to stifle his cries; he bit me and, still clinging to the grille, screamed out all his rage and frustration. A guard hit his fingers with his rifle butt to make him let go; Bruno didn’t even notice. He continued to pour out his anger at the captain, who emerged now from his command post, wiping his mouth with a handkerchief.
‘Ah, there you are at last!’ Bruno cried. ‘I thought you were hibernating! I order you to let us go right now. This farce has lasted long enough. You’re going to release us, you piece of shit. What right do you have to keep us in this hole?’
The captain signalled to two guards to fetch Bruno. I wanted to go with him, but I was pushed back inside the cell and the grille was banged shut.
Bruno was forced by the two guards to kneel at the captain’s feet. He immediately got up again and resumed taunting the captain.
‘Who do you think you are? Just because you’re surrounded by a gang of nutcases, do you think you can lay down the law for the whole world? You’re just a common highwayman, Gerima, a bastard of a deserter heading for ruin.’
The captain slapped Bruno.
‘Didn’t even hurt,’ Bruno said.
A second, harder slap.
‘Put a bit more strength into it, captain.’
A third slap.
Stunned, Bruno swayed a little. But then he regained his self-control and, driven by some kind of suicidal stubbornness, put his hands around his mouth like a funnel and cried, ‘You’re nothing but a loser, Gerima!’
Gerima threw his head back in a Homeric laugh, then, contorting his features into an expression of outraged hatred, grabbed Bruno by the throat. ‘Now that you’ve made a spectacle of yourself, why don’t you unplug your ears and listen to me for two seconds. I’m not a crook, I’m a soldier. You’re not a can of rations, you’re part of the spoils of war. You’re going to go back to your fridge and be a well-behaved vegetable until the cook comes for you. And if you ever again bring out this pathetic Spartacus act of yours, I swear to God and all his saints that I’ll hang you by the balls until you crumble to dust.’
‘I’m not part of the spoils of war, and you’re nothing but a trafficker of the worst kind.’
A guard made to hit Bruno, but the captain lifted his finger to stop him. He leant over Bruno and said, ‘We’re at war, and I wage mine as I see fit.’
‘Rubbish! You pillage, rape, massacre poor defenceless devils, kidnap foreigners, blackmail governments that are in no way involved in the mess you’ve made …’
‘That’s war!’ the captain exploded. ‘What do you know about war? TV newsflashes that come on between the adverts while you’re drinking aperitifs in your cosy living room, with your arms around your girlfriend? Newsflashes that you register briefly and then forget almost immediately?’
‘Don’t give me that!’ Bruno retorted, totally unimpressed. ‘We’re following your pseudo-war in close-up, and in real time. We aren’t in our living rooms, we’re up to our necks in your shit, putting up with you morning, noon and night. You’re nothing but a pack of bandits who don’t believe in anything, scavenge on corpses and rob from the poor.’
‘That’s war, too.’
‘I’ll tell you what war is. War is a balance sheet. And yours is disastrous. Lots of murderers like you thought that a uniform would lessen their punishment. That doesn’t work any more. Soldiers or not, the International Criminal Court is ready and waiting for them. You’ll end up in front of it, too, and you’ll be judged for your crimes.’
Mention of the International Criminal Court shook the captain: intoxicated as he was with the impunity he enjoyed in this territory where every abuse was allowed, he had probably not foreseen that eventuality.
He swallowed, then grunted with a flagrant lack of conviction, ‘Your court can go to hell!’
‘That’s what genocidal tyrants cry out loud when they swagger around their village squares. Where are they now? In the dock, trying to make themselves very small. However many witnesses you get rid of, however hard you sweep around your mass graves to wipe out all trace of your crimes, your own accomplices will blab every last detail of your murders and rapes.’
Gerima was taken aback by Bruno’s threats. He tried to appear composed, but in vain. Sweat was pouring down his face, and his nostrils were quivering. Bruno realised that he had knocked him off balance, and that emboldened him to deliver the final blow.
‘The world has changed, captain. There’s nowhere you can escape punishment. The new laws reach far and wide. Wherever you go to ground, they’ll find you …’
Gerima gave a bloodcurdling cry, threw Bruno to the ground and started beating him with his studded belt. Bruno covered his face with his arms and pulled his knees up to his chest to protect himself. In a frenzy now, the captain beat him and beat him, beat him with all his strength, again and again, extinguishing his moans and groans one by one. Bruno could neither get up nor hide behind his bruised limbs. Soon, his convulsions became less frequent and, after a few last jerks and shudders, eventually ceased altogether. The captain continued to strike Bruno’s shattered body as if trying to reduce it to a pulp. It was the first time in my life I had witnessed such a violent, bestial scene. I was overcome, unable to resign myself to the idea that you could attack a defenceless person like that and still call yourself a man.