My mind is certain of this. I have spoken with a group that works to bring aid to those in need in Africa. I hope to join them and return to Sudan to carry on the work, unencumbered by the constraints of the church. We will see.
I try not to think of Jumma. That is cowardly, I know, but when I do, I cry. I would cry all day if I did not keep him out of my head. It is hard. I want to remember him. He was the hope of his country, he and the other young men and women. There is such a waste of hope in Sudan and I was part of that process, at least for Jumma.
When Jumma came to the mission, he followed the doctors and nurses, all day, every day. Jumma ignored his fear and sadness, his loneliness, missing his family, he set all of that aside to watch and learn. The doctors did not understand and scolded him at times. Jumma never stopped, was not discouraged by the doctors’ rudeness. He never stopped learning, never stopped wanting to help. It was why I allowed him to be part of the plan to rescue the children. He so wanted to and I so wanted him to. I knew it would make him feel he was helping. Jumma was grateful for the care he received at Mapuordit. He wanted to return the gift of care and hope. Just like you. That was what you sought in coming to Africa, to Sudan. You wanted to know how to give back what you had received, for a lifetime of good fortune. But you already knew. When you stepped into your plane to fly to Sudan, you knew. The flight was simply the beginning, the down payment. The debt you owed was one of your own making. We all do this, we all wonder why we were chosen for good fortune while others suffer. But until the end, until our lives are complete, we will never know if we were fortunate or unfortunate. I think it is always a matter of balance, in the end. If our lives are good and we have helped others, given to those in need, then we have been fortunate. In a way, Jumma was fortunate. The children he saved are a testament to that. He was given a chance to sacrifice for the lives of others and he succeeded. His story will be remembered.
I will write again soon. I hope your recovery goes well.
Adieu,
Sister Marie Claire
***
Rain fell in a drumroll pattern on the roof of Michael Campbell’s Mercedes, sitting outside the white metal hanger at the Saint-Nazaire/Montoir Airport. The wide door at the front of the building was open. Inside, Claire could see the Beech sitting in the darkened space, the gleam of the dull light of the rain-blurred sky a gray glow hovering above the cement floor.
“I have an umbrella, Sister, would you like to go in?” Michael asked, looking between the space between the front seat, making certain of his promise.
“It is no longer Sister Marie Claire. It is only Claire,” she said, looking at the plane, feeling as if she had just discovered a memento in a drawer, once owned by someone whose friendship she lost. “Yes, I would like to see the plane, perhaps look inside, if that is permitted.”
“Certainly. Let me come around before you get out.”
Inside the hangar, the Beech looked bigger than she remembered. It was polished, brilliant even in the gloom. Standing before it, she raised her hand, to touch its nose, her long fingers just brushing the surface. A small sob broke, barely noticeable. Michael Campbell turned at the sound, but said nothing. Bringing her hand down to her chest, she clenched it into a fist, her head bowed. Swaying, her eyes closed, a tear rolled down her cheek. Lifting her head, she turned to her left, walking around the plane, looking, but not touching. As she came to the rear cargo door, she said, “May I look inside?” Michael strode to the door, turned the handle and lowered it, then extended his hand. Claire took his hand, stepped up and in. The interior was almost too dark to see, the general shape apparent, a slight shine from the wood flooring, the cargo net, spider-webbed across a window. The images of the children came to her, their backs against the wall, their arms linked, so small and frightened. There was something else, not an image, but more a feeling, perhaps an aura of sorts. They were resolute, especially when they chanted their belief in Hanley, that he could do it, he could rescue them. That memory, the idea it brought, undid her and she wept, both hands covering her face. This plane would haunt her the rest of her life. She knew this and welcomed it.
37
April 3, 2002
Dear Hanley,
It is late afternoon. I am in my apartment with the sunlight from the window covering the table where I sit, warming my hands as I write. I did not attend mass again this day. My mother will be unhappy. That I cannot help. There is a bitterness in me I am trying to push out, but I have not done that yet. I know what
