The note also contained new and encouraging information. Word had come from relatives in Wad Madani that Paul’s niece was working as a servant in a household in that town. She was taken there along with several other young women and forced to work in the home of a wealthy family with ties to a government official in Khartoum. The note did not identify the official or the relationship with the family in Wad Madani. Some of the girls were also working in the family’s cotton processing factory. Two of the girls had been badly abused and may not have survived, the relatives were not sure. The note ended with Paul’s plea for help, asking the nun to find a way of bringing his niece back to his family in Rumbek.
The story was not new to her or the people of the mission, nor was the plea. Kidnappings had become commonplace, serving as both punishment for the Sudanese and income for the Baggara, who seemed fond of the arrangement. She remembered this man, Paul. He was small and wiry with a thin mustache and smile. He owned and operated a popular restaurant near the diocese, specializing in a mix of traditional Sudanese dishes and a close approximation of western food. She knew it well. The restaurant was small with small round tables, their black paint chipped, showing yellow wood underneath, the tables crowded together, the smoke from the grill and the cigarettes of the customers creating a cloud over the room. Savory smells, onion and meat, overcame the smell of tobacco that greeted patrons who waited outside for tables. Church officials and guests dined there while discussing business. Visitors, especially from Europe and America, were warned not to discuss the conflict that surrounded them. All were careful not to discuss any politics in public places.
Khartoum would be a problem. Paranoia, like a thin mist, covered the capital, blinding it, perhaps willingly, to the troubles, the darkness of the people in Darfur and Southern Sudan. Harsh measures were now a standard policy. When suspicious, they moved quickly to quell that behavior, which was any they believed to be a threat to their government, using any means necessary, including the use of militias. Stopping threats was only a small factor in explaining their behavior. Other issues were involved. Many, including the doctors and others at the mission, questioned the church’s determination in matters relating to its human rights record. She knew better, many times trying to convince them of the church’s dedication to ending the conflict, working with the Sudan Council of Churches to bring peace. She wasn’t always successful, but she kept trying. Hanley was the most skeptical. As an American, she expected him to be cynical; from what she saw and read, it was one of their most defining traits, she believed.
Low sunlight through the single window of her room shone as a quadrilateral on the bed cover. She laid the note in the center of the irregular sunshine and walked to her small writing desk. At times like this, when she was reminded of the random cruelty around her, of just how rare the true compassion of humans was or of her inadequacy, she turned to letters and her mother. Knowing that she was now at risk of never seeing her mother again, she missed the simple love and caring her mother had always given to her. A note to her mother, just to state her love and loneliness, was all she would do; perhaps it would be enough. After that, it would be time for the evening meal and a talk with the American.
21
As parties go, this wasn’t much, he thought. He had little experience with parties, not having had any birthday celebrations he could remember. But for a party in southern Sudan, he thought it was probably okay. Hanley watched Father Robineau move around the dining room, saying good-bye to the doctors and nurses, the native staff and officials from the diocese, including the bishop, who had traveled from Rumbek. Shaking hands, exchanging embraces and pleasantries, the old priest seemed genuinely moved by the affection he was receiving. He’d earned it, Hanley thought. This many years in Sudan, serving the people here, he’d damned well earned it.
Sister Marie Claire crossed the room to stand beside Hanley. “I’m glad we had this farewell party. He has been a passionate champion for these people. To most, he seems kind, even timid, but he is not. He has stood up to government officials and even the diocese. Maybe not of late; he has grown tired, but for many years, he did. When I first came here, he was a lion, a quiet lion, but brave. I admired him for his bravery,” she said, a look of genuine admiration on her face. Hanley reminded himself that she recently said Father Robineau did not stand up to the diocese for the children and the network.
“Will your network miss him?” he asked, testing her consistency or at least her memory.
“The network? No, it will not miss him. He has not been involved with the work we are doing, the recovery work, I will call it. He will be missed by many others,” she said.
Hanley watched as a young nurse, talking to Father Robineau, wiped her eyes and then began to weep quietly. Holding the old priest’s hand, she raised it, pressing it to her cheek, her eyes closed. The priest stroked her hair, then bent close, whispering in her ear. The nurse nodded, took the old man’s hand from her cheek and kissed it. Hanley suddenly envied the old priest, not certain why.
