“In some ways, she does run things, but not all,” the doctor said. “It has to do with Father Robineau’s age, some with the time they have spent together. He relies on her because he trusts her to help manage. I have only been here a few weeks, but I know of this. I belong to a network of physicians in Europe, a group that donates our services to the Fathers of Notre Dame. We talk, you know, we share our experiences. The situation here is known to us. It’s not gossip, Mr Martin, it’s preparation.” Another sip and the doctor sighed, saying, “The diocese in Rumbek is not as trusting of the nun as the good Father is. But even he worries about the other issue.”
“Other issue?”
“The children. The good sister has an obsession of sorts. Over the years, it seems, she has watched the devastation this war has taken on the people of Sudan and she is angered. The pain and suffering of the children, which affects us all, has affected Sister Marie Claire more. That pain has caused her pain and has become intolerable. Rumor has it she has become part of a movement, no that’s not right. She has joined a group, an underground, that helps children. Gathering them up and moving them to safety, giving them shelter, food and medical treatment when needed. I have noticed that sometimes we will see children at the clinic in groups, brought by one or two adults. Sometimes the same adults. No one says anything, no one asks questions. The children are cared for and Sister Marie Claire always talks to them and the adults that bring them. There is something there, we know this. Exactly what that is, we don’t ask,” the doctor explained.
From somewhere came the sound of a vehicle, Jumma and his companion returning with the water. Hanley pulled down his pant leg and pushed himself from the box. Stretching, he walked to the corner of the building, leaning against the weathered plywood sheeting, the chipped edge biting into his shoulder. Still holding the glass, he judged by its weight there was a sip or two remaining. Swirling the whiskey around with a barely perceptible rotation of his hand, Hanley thought about his granddaughter, wondered if there would be anyone who would care for her under such circumstances as now existed here in Sudan. Looking into the glass, he thought of her, ached for her a bit. Turning back to the doctor, Hanley asked, “Does the diocese try to stop her from helping the children?”
“I have heard they have ordered her not to be involved. I do know she ignores those orders. Father Robineau does not intervene, allowing the nun to deal directly with the bishop in Rumbek. Father Robineau’s relationship with the head of the order shields him from the diocese, who are left to fight the nun on their own. It is not a fair fight, as they say,” the doctor said. Swinging his legs over the side of the box and onto the grass, Dr Dzyak stood, twisting his upper body in a swiveling motion to stretch and then he turned to face the American. Taking his pursed lips between his fingers, he looked at the ground, seeming to Hanley he was contemplating what he was about to say. Looking up, he smiled and said, “As I am sure you are starting to see, things are done differently in Sudan. A place like this has no rules, the rules are made up as needed. Otherwise, people would not survive. Sister Marie Claire knows this. She knows there are no limits. And she appears to be willing to go to any limit to help these children. Their needs are unlimited and so is her desire to help them.”
“One more thing, doctor, please. If the diocese is not helping her, who is? Is she doing this alone?” Hanley asked.
Shaking his head, Dr Dyzak said, “I don’t know, really. I hear things, we all do. Supposedly there are others involved. Who, again, I don’t know. Perhaps you should ask her. I do know she does not talk about it, at least not here.”
“Maybe I will. Thank you,” Hanley said. Dr Dyzak walked away toward the clinic. Darkness was on the mission now, the night clear and warm. Looking up, Hanley searched the sky for the constellations he knew, which would be difficult. Here in Mapuordit, he was close to the equator. Here, his point of view was different.
***
Jumma walked along the road to the mission, a spiral-bound notebook in his hand, watching the group of children and two adults ahead of him as they neared the compound. The adults, a man and a woman, were perhaps thirty, maybe a bit older, the children were all very young. No one in the group spoke, their pace was brisk. All the children were dressed in bright colored tee shirts and beige shorts, with rubber sandals on their feet. Jumma followed behind, monitoring their progress but also watching the road behind them for dust or listening for the sounds of a vehicle. Seeing dust might give him more time to get the group off the road and hidden in the brush, if need be.
They were a half-mile from the mission, another twenty minutes, Jumma estimated. This was the first group in over a month. In the three months before that, there had been seven groups, almost forty children, all led by two adults, almost always couples, but twice just men. Over the years, the pattern was much the same, sporadic in the sense that there was no set schedule, but the effort apparently constant. The network was in place, the people involved dedicated to their purpose. They stayed at the mission for a few days, then moved on. Each time, a truck came to
