Shattered (19 page)

“Of course. That's a war being fought by people within the same country.”

“In a rich country a civil war would be terrible, but in a poor country it is devastating. People who had so little to begin with ended up with nothing. Villages destroyed, fields burning or abandoned. Those who were just barely surviving before couldn't survive any more.”

“Who was the fighting between?” I asked.

“The government, which wanted to keep control and wealth away from the people, and those who wanted a say in running the country. Many of those were the people who lived on the land, the peasants, the native peoples. People fled from the conflict. Over one million people became refugees. Fleeing their homes, fleeing the country, searching for a safe place … but there were hardly any safe places.”

“I can't even imagine losing my home.”

“It is better than losing your life. There were also many, many deaths. It is thought that over one hundred thousand people were killed … disappeared.”

“Disappeared.” That was what Jacques called it. “What does that even mean?”

She shrugged. “Disappeared. The people were there at night, sleeping in their beds, but gone in the morning. Disappeared. That's when the death squads came … at night.”

That was how it was for Jacob.

“That is when they came to my house,” Berta said softly.

“Your house?” I gasped.

“To my house,” she said. The words had been just barely audible. She looked up at me. “My father was a newspaper editor in Puerto Barrios. He wrote things that he believed in. Those beliefs cost him his life. And the life of my brother … and my mother.”

I listened intently, not believing my ears—not wanting to believe my ears.

“It was at night when they came. I was sleeping. I heard the noise, the screaming, the yelling, and I scrambled out of my bed and into my closet—the way my father had told me I should. He always told me that we had nothing to fear but then he made me promise to go into the closet if I heard screaming. I hid underneath blankets and clothing on the floor of the closet. They looked—I heard the heavy boots stomping into my room, heard the furniture being overturned, heard the door of the closet being opened, but somehow, like a miracle, like God was protecting me, they did not see me.”
I pictured it all in my mind—I could see it so clearly. It was like with Jacob, except they didn't find Berta. Thank God they hadn't found her.

“I lay there underneath the clothing, trembling, terrified, afraid to breathe or move. I lay there long after the noises had stopped and the voices had faded. I think I even fell asleep. I woke up and it was silent. I lay there for the longest time, listening, hardly daring to peek out from under the blankets. Then I saw a crack of light coming under the door and knew it was morning. I came out, afraid to even call out … afraid that somebody might hear me, but more afraid that when I called there would be nobody to hear me. My room was torn to pieces. Dolls that my grandmother had given me were smashed, the night table overturned, the bed where I had been asleep, the mattress, was slashed open with the stuffing bleeding out. That was what the whole house was like. Nothing taken, just smashed and destroyed, left behind for anybody to see as a warning of what could happen. And, of course, my family was gone. Disappeared.”

She paused and looked directly up at me. I expected to see tears, upset, anguish. Her face was a mask of calm. That was even more upsetting to me than if there had been tears.

“I never saw my family again, never even knew where they had gone or how they had died, but knew that they would never return.”

“I didn't know,” I said, the words barely able to form in my mouth.

“I never told you. I never even told your parents.”

“How old were you?”

“The age you are going to be. Sixteen.”

“And if those men had found you …?”

“I would have known the fate of my family because it would have been my fate too. I would have been killed. Tortured, raped, and then killed. That's when I knew I had to leave … before they came back.”

“Where did you go?”

“First to a neighbour. The place my father had told me to go. From there he brought me to a man who lived in our village. He arranged for me to escape. First to Mexico and then to Canada. My father had, prepared it all, arranged it all. He knew what could happen.”

“But if he knew, why didn't you all just leave
before
it happened?” I asked.

“My mother tried, many times, to convince him that we needed to go. He thought because he was an editor, because of the influence his family had, that we would be safe. He said it was his country and he couldn't just abandon it. He had to try to make changes for the good of his country, for the good of his family.”

“But it didn't do anybody any good.”

“In the long run, who knows?” Berta said. “The things he believed in, that he spoke out for, that he wrote about eventually became real. The death squads are now gone.”

“But so is your family. Was it worth it?” I could scarcely bear to ask her this, but I had to know.

“My father thought it was. Democracy is now alive in Guatemala.”

“I just don't know how you could have gone on after
what happened to your family. I don't think I could have been that strong.”

“You would be surprised what you are capable of when you have no choice. Eon, you are very strong, very strong.”

“I don't know.”

“I do,” she said. She reached over and took my hand in hers. “I know how strong you are, what is inside of you.” “I'm not that strong.”

“No? Does it take strength to go down to that place and help those poor street people?”

“What I do is nothing.”

“Not nothing to those people you help. Not nothing to me. You make me so proud.”

This was all so strange. She was telling me about the terrible deaths of her family and she was the one comforting me.

“I guess I understand why it's so hard for you to get to sleep,” I said.

She nodded. “Silly, after all these years they are still so vivid in my dreams … in my nightmares.” She paused. “Sometimes I think the only way to free myself from the thoughts is to go back home.”

“Would that be safe?”

“It is now. There would be nothing to fear.”

“And you think going back would help?”

“It could.”

“Then why don't you try it?” I asked.

“Not yet. What would you do?”

“I'd be fine for a few weeks. I'm sure that …” It suddenly dawned on me that she wasn't talking about a
vacation. “You mean to go there and live?”

She nodded. I felt my whole body go hot and then cold.

“But not now … someday.”

A wave of relief washed over me.

“Instead I do what I can,” she said. “I send money. I help in my small way.”

“It's not a small way for those seven children.”

“It is like I have read. It is better to light a candle than to curse the darkness. I have seven candles that I keep alight.”

I reached out and took her other hand and held them both in mine. “Eight,” I said.

Eighteen

I WALKED WITH A HESITATION
in my step. I knew what I was going to say and do, I just didn't know exactly why I thought I should. I'd rehearsed the lines, but I was still wondering if I should say them. What right did I have? And even if I did have the right, did I have the guts to follow through? I'd spent the entire day in school thinking about those questions. Was Berta right? Was I strong … was I strong enough?

I turned into the park. I'd keep an eye open for anything that could cause me grief, but if trouble found me, then I'd take care of it. The metal bar was up my sleeve. If I had to use it today I could—I would.

I was going to find Jacques and talk to him. I had things I needed to say. Things he needed to hear. I just had to find him. Find him alone and sober enough that he could listen to me. It was strange—ironic—that I wanted to talk to him about his drinking but I could only talk to him if he hadn't been drinking too much.

I was just going to take the cut-off to the tents when I saw Jacques. He was sitting on a bench. He had a cigarette in one hand and a brown paper bag in the other. He brought the bag up to his face—it was no big secret what
was in the bag. I walked over until I was standing right beside him. He didn't seem to notice.

“Hello, Jacques,” I said.

He looked up and seemed surprised by my presence.

“Hey, Ian, good to see you!”

His words were slurred, his eyes glazed over. The smell of alcohol was incredibly strong.

“I was hoping to talk to you,” I said.

“Talk away. You want a slug?” he asked, holding the bag out toward me.

“What?” I asked in shock, backing slightly away. “You want a drink … red wine,” he said as he removed the bottle partway from the bag to show me the label. “Not the best, but the best four bucks can buy.”

“I'm only fifteen,” I said. “I'm too young to drink.” “Since I was about twelve my parents always let me have a little glass of wine over dinner,” he said.

“I don't want to drink … and I don't think you should be drinking either.” My mouth felt dry—I really didn't know where this was going to go.

Jacques took another sip from the bottle.

“Did you hear what I said?” I asked.

He lowered the bottle. “I heard you.” He raised the bottle again, this time tipping it back farther and longer and chugging down the wine.

I reached over to grab the bottle. “You shouldn't be doing that!” I said.

“And you shouldn't be doing that!” he snapped, shaking off my hand from the bottle. He staggered to his feet and started to walk away. I jumped up and chased after him.

“It's just that I think you should stop drinking,” I said as I caught up and stopped right in front of him.

“I think you should leave me alone.”

“I can't do that. I won't do that. Mac told me about places that can help you to stop drinking.”

“I don't need help.”

“Yes, you do. You could get into a detox centre and from there they could arrange for a treatment facility and—”

“I'm not going no place except to my tent.” He started to walk away but I blocked his way.

“If you stopped drinking you wouldn't have to live in a tent. You could go home.”

“Home?” he asked. “I haven't got any home.”

“But you could.”

“What do you really know about my life?” he demanded.

“I know it could be better than it is now.” I wasn't going to let him scare me.

“You don't know nothing.” He pushed past me.

“It doesn't matter what happened in Rwanda!” I shouted out. He stopped.

He staggered back a few feet toward me. “It
does
matter what happened,” he snapped. “Maybe nobody else cares, maybe nobody else even remembers, but I remember and I will never …
ever
forget.”

“You can put it all behind you … you can put your life back together again!”

Suddenly his arm came up and he tossed the bottle of wine at me! It whizzed by my head and there was the sound of smashing glass as it crashed against the path
behind me! I leapt into the air, spinning around, my heart jumping into my throat!

“You tried to hit me!” I gasped.

“If I tried to hit you, I would have hit you. You see those shards of glass?” he said, pointing to the jagged pieces of the bottle on the ground. “Do you think you can put them together again? Do you think anything or anybody could ever make it whole again? Well, do you? It's not just broken, it's
shattered
into a million pieces and it can never be put back together again. Never. And even if you could, through some miracle, make it whole again, you'd
never
be able to recapture what was inside the bottle. It's gone, forever. That bottle … that's me … nobody, nothing, can ever put the pieces together again. And even if my life could be put back together again, it would never be the same. What was inside of me,” he said, placing his hands on his chest, “that is gone … gone
forever
.”

He walked away. I stood there, my mouth open, my mind empty.

Nineteen

“TIME TO WAKE UP
!”

My eyes popped open. I was suddenly very awake. “Berta, what are you doing?”

“You don't want to be late.”

“I guess I didn't set my alarm or I slept through it. If I get dressed real quick can you drive me to school?” My heart was pounding as I tried to come fully awake.

“There is no school!” Berta said. “It is Sunday.” “Sunday … but why are you getting me up early on a Sunday?” I groaned.

“Because Sunday is the day when church is held.” “Sure, that's the day for church but what's that got to do with you getting me up?” I pulled the sheet up over my chin. “I know it isn't Christmas and I'm pretty sure it isn't Easter either, so I should be sleeping,” I complained.

“You're allowed to go to church more than twice a year—there's no law,” Berta said.

“Maybe not a law, but it's certainly a family tradition.” I yawned. The more Berta was talking the more I was waking up. “I wonder what got into my parents?”

“Nothing. Your parents don't even know you're going to church. They're still asleep.”

“There's no way I'm going to go on my own,” I grumbled.

“Not on your own. With me.”

That really woke me up. “Why would you take me to church?”

“Because we're going to
my
church.”

“Your church? Isn't the service in Spanish?” I asked. “There's a little bit of English. Besides you understand Spanish.”

“Not enough to understand a whole church service,” I argued.