CHAPTER 55

CESELI BEGAN PACKING THE few things she would carry with her. The first thing was Zeri’s music. He had told her to guard these pages with her life, and she would. She would catch up with him in Rome.

She picked up Marco’s worn leather bible and opened it briefly. She planned to deliver it personally to his father in Florence as she traveled from Rome to Geneva. She thought of whether she should meet his family and decided that yes, it would be hurtful and difficult, but it was a small thing in comparison to saving her life. Her own bible held no surprises as she tucked it into her satchel next to the cameras. The Afar Girl. She looked at the photo again now. The edges were frayed, but the eyes of the girl were haunting.

She took her photos of the war. She must succeed in getting them to Geneva without risking going through any customs point in Italy. Even with the laissez-passer, she was worried. She thought of her options and then went to find Daniele.

“How good are you at carpentry?”

“Is something broken?”

“No. I was hoping you could make a second bottom for my trunk.”

“I’m pretty sure I can do that, Miss Larson.”

And he had. The false bottom was perfectly concealed and now held her photographs. Now she had no doubt she could get these photos to whomever she could get to help. Later, she would vindicate Marco’s death. She would one day prove to all those who believed in decency that the Italians had used mustard gas. Her precious photos must be protected as much as Zeri’s music.

She looked around the small tukul then she sat down on the bed next to the candleholder. She rubbed her eyes trying to eliminate the thoughts that kept pushing themselves forward. So much energy had been used to get her to Axum and so much to get her back. Marco crept into her thoughts, and Yifru and Yohannes. The dreadful waste of the war: the smell of bodies, the burning of houses, and the breakdown of every social structure. She thought of total destruction and of its physical attributes: the arson, pillage, putrefaction that were all part of it. And then she thought of Habtu. What would become of the future generations of Ethiopians? What would become of him? She took her pen and wrote to Sotzy.

Dear Sotzy,

I know you have heard from Warren that I’m alive and well. Well, not as well as I might be, but dealing. I think Warren has also told you about Marco and the circumstances leading to his death.

Ceseli paused. Warren’s telegrams were protected by diplomatic immunity, her letters were not and though she wanted to tell her grandmother about the Red Cross bombings, she didn’t want to play her hand just yet. She also didn’t want to jeopardize her fellowship at the American Academy in Rome.

I’m leaving tomorrow for Djibouti and from there I will catch a ship for Naples. Then to Geneva. I’ll write you from there.

Thank you for paying the bills there. I’ll repay you for that.

All love,

The light knocking on the door of her tukul surprised her. She walked over to the door and slowly opened it.

“Ceselí.”

“Yohannes. What a pleasant surprise,” she said, kissing him three times on the opposite cheek in the French style of greeting.

“Mr. Standish said you were here. I wanted to say goodbye. My uncle says you are leaving with him on the train.”

“I need to go. I have work to do and a life to live. What about you, Yohannes? Where will you go?”

“I’m going with the Freedom Fighters to the mountains. We will wait for the Emperor to return.”

That might take a lifetime, Ceseli thought, but would certainly not voice her misgivings.

“Ceselí, I must go, à bientôt,” he said, again kissing her three times.

“Bon chance, Yohannes, and thank you again for all you did.” She closed the door when he left. What would become of Yohannes, she wondered. She thought about the war. Italy had lost only three thousand men, most of them Eritrean Askaris. Ethiopia was broken. She had lost hundreds of thousands of lives. Those are people, not numbers. They were human beings. People killed for utterly no reason. She closed her satchel and blew out the candle. If Yifru could smuggle German guns in piano crates, she could smuggle her photos in her Louis Vuitton trunk. She was ready. She would do it.