CHAPTER 35

CESELI LOOKED AT HER favorite tree in the compound garden. The cat’s cradle-like spidery needle branches of the Acacia were perfectly symmetrical in their asymmetry. She reminded herself to paint it.

It was November 11, the anniversary of Armistice Day of World War I, and a month since Ras Mulugeta, the Minister of War, led his army north. The small Anglo-American colony was joined by journalists of the London Times and Reuters. They were sitting in the garden after the Padré’s tedious sermon on the lessons learned from the war. Even Rutherford had been forced, grudgingly, to say a few inanities on hopes for world peace.

“Oh, by the way, Ceseli,” Standish said as the others were leaving, “you remember what I said about Mussolini getting the blessing of the Catholic Church?”

“Yes. That it would give him a sacred mission. To civilize the Ethiopians.”

“Well, it’s now official. The Bishop of Milan has declared his full approval.”

After dinner, they learned that the Ethiopians had ambushed an Italian motorized column in the south along the border with Italian Somaliland.

“Wonderful news! That calls for a drink! After Gugsa, they needed a morale booster. You’re sure it’s true?” Rutherford asked.

“I’m reading from a dispatch that Yifru just sent over.”

“Can you read it out loud, please?” Ceseli asked.

“It’s from the Ogaden. In Italian Somaliland. When the Italians took the last Ethiopian outpost of Gorahai, the Ethiopians fled north. General Rudolfo Graziani, the Italian commander in the south, sent bombers after them. The Ethiopians soldiers stopped for water at a watering place named Anale. Their tires were flat and radiators were steaming. They took their wounded off the trucks and put them on the ground. When the Ethiopian commanding officer heard gunfire he ordered his troops to seek refuge in the bush. The Italian tanks pursued them. One of the tanks ran over their wounded men.”

“Ran over the wounded men?” Ceseli asked incredulous. “With a tank?”

“The Italians are following orders,” Rutherford said calmly, “and I’m sure they’re not pretty ones.”

“But running over wounded soldiers with a tank!” She could picture the tanks moving forward, tilting back and forth, like a giant Praying Mantis, as they ran over the bodies and she could hear the screams of the wounded soldiers.

“It’s war, Ceseli, not a sewing bee.”

Ceseli looked at Warren, speechless, as she rubbed her father’s dog tag. “I don’t care what it is. That’s no longer human, or humane.”

“I suspect the tankers couldn’t see very much.”

“Are you justifying running over the wounded?” Ceseli was incensed.

“Certainly not! Just stating a fact,” Standish replied. “The tank’s portholes are pretty small, and if it’s a regular day in the Ogaden, it must have been a furnace. The Italians stopped and must have come out of the tank not knowing that the Ethiopians were hiding in the bush.”

“So?” Ceseli and Rutherford asked together.

“They killed the tanker and the gunner. Altogether, they took over three tanks. The rest of the Italians turned and fled.”

“That’s too bad,” Ceseli quipped. “They should have got them all. I’m tired of hearing what great soldiers the Italians are.”

“I don’t think anybody ever said they were great soldiers. With the possible exception of Il Duce,” Rutherford added.

When Ceseli got back to her tukul that evening, she noticed a letter sitting on the table on the porch. There was no stamp, and the envelope was creased and dirty.

My beloved Ceseli,

How are things in Addis?

I hope this finds you at work on your Bible.

I think of you all the time, Ceseli, and of how I would like to grow old with you. How do you think you’d feel about living in Florence? It’s a wonderful city.

I would like to ask you to write to me, but there is no chance that I would receive your letters. Keep them in your Bible, and I will read them when this hell on earth is over.

Be well, my darling. It won’t be forever.

Marco

Ceseli reread the letter, then folded it and put it in her pocket. What had happened to her letters? She rubbed her forehead hard trying to straighten her thoughts. This war was out of all proportions. Did civilized nations run over the barefoot enemy in tanks? Her whole concept of humanity had changed dramatically in the last few hours. There must be some way to help these people. She thought of Marco. He had the answer. Saving lives was important. Was there something she could do?