Hanley climbed down from the plane and walked toward the terminal shack. He stopped and said, “Maybe God has a telephone that tells him who is calling and when it rings, he won’t answer when he sees it is Sudan.”
The nun said, “When I return from Aluakluak this evening, I will bring with me some information that I will share with you. It is important that you understand the need to protect this information. You must not share it with anyone. Once I let you into this, you must protect whatever you learn. Always. Protecting the information is protecting the children. Do you understand? Oui?”
“Yes, I understand.”
“Bien,” she said.
***
When Jumma had time to sit and think, his memories would visit him. To ward off his recollections, he wrote recipes, mostly. His recipes were what he imagined he could do with his native foods if they were plentiful. If he could add the herbs and spices, the garnishes he read about in books or those described to him by the doctors and others visiting the mission, the food would be wonderful. He thought his recipes were good. Hunger made him a creative writer of recipes.
Sometimes Jumma wrote of things other than food. He tried poetry, as he understood it to be, tried stories, but was never satisfied with the results. Now he had something else to write about.
Jumma had a new notebook, much larger, thicker than he normally used. The nun gave it to him. This one was not for recipes or stories. No one knew of the contents of this notebook, besides he and Sister Marie Claire. Jumma did not carry it with him unless he was with the nun or Azari, the man who drove the big truck. Even Azari did not know what was in it; Azari could not read. Azari barely spoke at all. Jumma would go with Azari to Rumbek, Yirol and other towns when picking up supplies or moving patients. Jumma rode along to help with the loading and unloading, but that wasn’t all Jumma had to do on these trips.
For months now, Jumma had been visiting families in villages in southern Sudan, searching for the parents of abducted children, gathering names, physical descriptions, birth dates and any other information that may prove useful in finding and identifying those swept away by the war. The nun asked him to so this. It was his part of her plan, a plan to bring these children back to their families.
Jumma wrote a short story in his small notebook. The story was of a man who taught his children to survive in a world where days were always dangerous and tomorrows did not exist.
***
A pain in his lower back, on the right side, like pinched skin, only much deeper, moving back and forth like an electric current, was one of a half dozen things keeping him awake. Rolling over, Hanley grunted and the bed squeaked in response. Trying to find some comfort, enough to sleep if he could, was at least something he could do other than thinking about the nun and her network.
Sister Marie Claire’s offer of information was not surprising; he had expected it, had been asking for it. Now he would get it and with it would come something else, another thing he was expecting; a request. He had the feeling this was all planned, well-planned, for some time. Her objection to his invitation from the church to bring his plane and fly for the mission was probably a ruse used to cover her excitement. When the nun learned he was coming she started planning. Sure she did, he thought. I bet it didn’t take her long to find out what kind of plane it was and how many children it would hold; not long at all.
20
As they rode the rough road to Yirol, Jumma, who had been reading, gave up and now looked out the window at the passing countryside. Driving the Land Cruiser over the rutted road was difficult for Sister Marie Claire, but he knew she enjoyed the challenge. Raising her voice to be heard over the struggling machine, she said, “Jumma, when we get to Shama, we will stop to see a family where I will change the dressing of one of their daughters who we treated last week at the clinic. I want you to find a family there, a family who lost a son, a small boy. I have information that the boy is in a city in the North; Wad Madani is the name of the city. Find the family. Here is their name. I’m told they live on the east end of the village. They have been taken in by the wife’s family. Put this paper in your pocket and don’t lose it. As always, do not talk of what we are doing. Use the story that you are from a private agency, a relief group, and you need information about their boy. Learn what you can. Try to determine if they know where he is. Whatever they know will be useful even if it is wrong. We can compare their information to what we already have, perhaps verifying what we know or eliminating bad information if possible.”
Nodding his understanding, Jumma noted the landscape beside the truck as blurred, but that in the distance was clear; the opposite of his memories. Turning to look at the nun, Jumma saw
