The next morning, I sit in geography class but cannot concentrate on what the teacher is saying. I realize, too late, that he is talking to me. I look at him blankly.
“Ato Girma, would you mind repeating the question?”
He gives me a stony stare. “Then will you be joining us for the remainder of this lesson?”
I nod as the rest of the class laughs.
I feel as if the words my mother shared with me last night are hovering above my head. My secret is lit up for everyone to see. No one has mentioned the empty seat next to me, Bini’s seat. Normally Bini and I would see who could solve an equation the fastest, who could finish his exercises first. Today I want to be invisible, and I want my lessons to end so I can run home and discover the other pieces to the puzzle of my life.
To pass the time, I begin to daydream again. If I want to become the best engineer in the country, I must get top grades in math. But for the first time I begin to wonder if that’s what I want. I want to get top grades, of course, but maybe I could do something different. Would I like being a teacher? If I were a math teacher, I could help the smartest kids. Unlike Ato Hayat, I would know how to teach them new things—hard things. Perhaps that’s why my father wanted to be a teacher. To help others learn what he already knew. To do it well.
The bell rings for lunch and I head toward the cafeteria. Other kids from my class sit in groups around the edge. I could go over and join them, but I know they won’t want to talk about differential calculus. Without Bini, I will have to become self-sufficient. I will need to push myself at school because he won’t be there to do it for me.
There is a Bini-shaped hole, threatening to swallow me up.
When the bell rings to mark the end of English, I stuff my things into my backpack and rush to the gate. Maybe the boredom of another day off school has made Bini more desperate to beat me at chess. A small part of me also wonders if Saba will have changed her mind. I push away the thought that something serious must be behind her decision. Something that Mom has promised to explain.
I put the key in the front door and realize that it’s already unlocked. I push it open and see my mother sitting on the bed with Lemlem on her lap and Bini’s mother next to her. I can see that Mom has been crying.
“Shif, come and sit down,” she says without looking up.
As I sit down, Saba hugs Mom and says she will go home to get things ready.
Mom whispers in Lemlem’s ear to go sort through the threads in her sewing basket.
“But I want to stay and listen,” Lemlem says.
“Find some bright thread and maybe I can sew a pattern on your dress this weekend.”
Lemlem hops down and walks eagerly over to the basket in the other room.
As soon as Lemlem has gone, Mom turns to me and says, “Shif, the soldiers you saw two days ago are taking part in a giffa.” Reading my mind, she says, “They are rounding up any boys or girls they think are trying to escape military school. Sometimes they have a tip-off; sometimes they just take anyone who looks old enough.”
“Why do they need to round people up? I thought everyone just went?”
“Whatever you’ve been taught about military school, Shif, forget it. Forget it all. You’ll learn how to march and how to clean. You won’t be allowed to leave for two years, and I won’t be allowed to visit. There will be no math; there will be no lessons. It can be like this for any student. But as the son of a traitor, they will make it unbearable for you.”
I stare at her. “Dad is not a traitor.”
“Of course Dad isn’t a traitor.” She blinks the possibility away. “But that is what they will call him. How else can the government justify what it has done—what it continues to do?”
“When were you going to tell me this? When I was already on my way to military school?”
Mom is unmoved. The truth seems to be giving her a new kind of strength. She hasn’t finished.
“The sons and daughters of traitors don’t serve two years. Some of them never leave.”
“Never?” I gasp, searching her face for a clue that she might be making this up to scare me.
“After your training they’ll send you to the gold mines. You’ll work for sixteen hours a day but earn no money. You won’t even earn the bus fare to come home—not that you would be allowed to use the bus, anyway.”
I stand up. I have no intention of going anywhere, but I cannot sit still while my mother rearranges the pieces of my life around me.
“I’ve been waiting to tell you everything.” Mom looks at me intently. “But I’ve waited too long. Saba and I had a plan to get you and Bini out of military service; we thought we had a couple of years before we needed to act, but you’ve both been pushed up through your grades so fast. We were proud but also frightened by the speed at which you were approaching grade twelve. Then when the soldiers came to our district, Saba decided to take Bini out of school. Lots of parents do it, hoping it will make their children harder to track. Out of sight, out of mind. But you are not out of sight or out of mind. The soldiers did see you, the evening when you went out to get injera. Now they want to track you down. They will be back. Maybe this week. It wouldn’t take them long to find out that Bini is living next door, and he’ll be rounded up, too. That is why you both have to go now.”
“Go where?”
“You have to leave the country.”
Her words don’t make sense. “What about your business? What about school?”
“Shif, school is not important compared with your freedom. As for my business, that doesn’t matter, either. The truth is that you’ll be going without me and Lemlem.”
I feel as if the world is spinning around me, breaking into fragments while I stand in the middle, watching, unable to stop it.
“I’m not leaving without you,” I say.
My mother looks around the room as if the explanation I need is buzzing around it somewhere like a wasp.
“Shif, you must go. I don’t yet have enough money saved for all of us to leave. You’re the one in immediate danger, so you must go first. I’ve arranged everything. Some men will come for you and Bini tomorrow. Saba and I first got in touch with them two years ago. They’re smugglers—their job is to get people out of the country. They’ll take you to the border and then you’ll be met by other contacts who can take you north to the coast, where you’ll take a boat to Europe. Everything will be paid for before you go, but you must memorize my phone number and Uncle Batha’s number in case you need more money in an emergency. There are other numbers you must try to memorize, too—of our friends in England. As soon as you’ve gone, I’ll begin to save for me and Lemlem. We’ll be fine. We’ll join you in six months, maybe a little longer.”
I want to say no. I want to point out a flaw in her logic, but I can’t think of a single thing to say. There is nothing solid upon which to base my thoughts anymore.
I think about leaving Mom and Lemlem, going so far away that we’ll be separated by other countries, by seas, by mountains. We’ve never spent a single day apart. I feel my chest heaving and brush away tears before they run down my cheeks.
Mom stands up and pulls me toward her. She hugs me tightly, then pushes me gently away so she can see my face. “You must pack tonight,” she says quietly. “A warm pullover, one change of clothes, some bread, water, and money. I’ll sew the money into your shoes, just enough to buy some food.”
“So Bini is coming with me? Has Saba told him yet?” I ask.
“She’s talking to him tonight. You and Bini will leave together. You must look after each other. The journey will be much safer with two of you.”
“What about Dad? He’s alive. If I leave this country, I’ll never see him again.”
My mother doesn’t answer at first. She places a warm hand against my cheek.
“If you don’t leave, you won’t see any of us again. I’ve told Lemlem that you’ve passed your exams early so you’re starting your military training early, too. I don’t want to frighten her. Pack now, then we’ll eat together.”
Lemlem bounces back into the room, clutching some bright threads.
In a daze, I open the wooden cupboard. The same wooden cupboard I open every morning and evening. I look at my four T-shirts and decide which ones to take. Suddenly four seems like luxury. I pack some underwear, a pullover, and my chess set. I take a plastic bottle from the yard and fill it with water. I stuff it all into my small fabric duffel bag and leave it at the foot of my bed.
“Can I go and see Bini?” I ask.
“No. Please stay inside now until tomorrow. We don’t want to attract any attention. Anyway, Saba will want to spend this evening with Bini, and I want to spend it with you.”
I want to walk out of my house, then come back and find that everything is the same as it was a week ago. I wonder whether Saba has told Bini yet. I wonder how I will know. Will there be shouting? Of course not. But will he just accept what she says, as I did, or will he refuse to go? It feels as if the course of my life, which had seemed so certain, is shifting like sand beneath my feet and might just suck me under.
We sit down to eat as if it’s any other evening. My mouth feels dry, but I force myself to chew and swallow. There might be no hot meal tomorrow. Tomorrow I won’t be sitting here with Mom and Lemlem.
I look over at my little sister happily shoveling stew-soaked injera into her mouth. I won’t cry in front of her. She notices me staring.
“Can I come and visit when you’re at military school?” Lemlem asks.
“Yes, of course,” I say. “You’re going to start school soon, Lemlem. What do you want to learn about?”
“I want to learn about horses,” she says.
“Horses are very important. Make sure you learn everything there is to know about horses, then I’ll ask you about them when you visit.”
“Okay,” she says shyly.
I try to keep my voice steady. “And look after Mom while I’m away.”