Shattered (16 page)

When I woke up I was lying on a mat. There was bright light. I looked around. I didn't know where I was but I saw other people lying around on mats all around me. I tried to get up, push myself up, and then I saw my arm—what was left of my arm—and I slumped to the ground. That was when the nurse came. She told me I was in a hospital. I asked her about my family. She didn't want to say, but I kept asking and asking. Even before she answered, I knew. Finally she told me.

I was found on the street, trapped beneath a body. Everybody else—all of my family, all of my neighbours—were dead. The street was silent. They thought I was dead too. But I wasn't. And I'm not. And I'm alive to tell my story. This is what happened to me. This is true. This is my story.

I tried to scroll back up the page. My hand was shaking. I moved up until Jacob's picture was once again on the screen. I looked at him. I saw the sleeve neatly pinned to his starched white shirt. And then I looked deep into his eyes. Jacob wasn't a statistic. He was a person.

I'D TRIED
to get to sleep for a long time. Each time I closed my eyes I saw Jacob's. I had wanted to know about a person. Now I knew and I wished I didn't. I couldn't get his picture out of my mind. I couldn't get the story out of my mind. I looked at the dim outline of my door and thought about Jacob lying in his bed, and those men— those evil devils—bursting in through the door.

My mouth was dry. I sat up, reached over, and took a sip from the glass of Coke that sat on my night table. Warm, flat, caffeine-filled liquid. That would really help me get to sleep. All it did was confirm that I needed to go to the bathroom.

I climbed out of bed and went to the bathroom. I flipped up the seat and it clanked noisily against the back of the tank. As I stood there relieving myself I heard a sound—music and voices from outside on the street. I stopped and looked out the window. It was a car, radio blaring, racing away. I watched as the tail lights disappeared around the corner.

Suddenly my whole body felt uneasy, anxious, like I was on pins and needles. I felt my breath catch in my throat. Something was wrong, I didn't know what, but something … then I realized. The voices, the music outside my bedroom … that was what Jacob had heard outside his room before he was grabbed and dragged
outside … before his arm was cut off … before all of his family was killed.

I took a deep breath. Okay, this wasn't good, but at least I knew why I was feeling so anxious. But even though I knew, my heart wasn't slowing down, and I wasn't feeling any better. Maybe a glass of milk would help.

I walked out of the bathroom, through my bedroom, opened the door and peered into the hall. It was silent and dark. The only light was a dim glow leaking up the stairs from the night light in the little bathroom down by the kitchen. Slowly, on bare feet, I moved along the hallway. My parents' bedroom door was slightly ajar. I started to pass by, when I stopped. I listened at the door. Silence. Slowly I pushed open the door. It was dark, but I looked hard until I could make out two lumps under the covers. They were in bed … But of course they were in bed— where else would they be?

I padded down the stairs, guided and safeguarded by the little night light. I flicked on the light in the kitchen and then instantly turned it back off again. The curtains were open and somehow I'd felt open, exposed to anybody outside who was watching or … This was stupid. Nobody was outside, nobody was watching. I turned the light back on, opened the fridge, and grabbed the carton of milk. I took a big chug from the carton. My mother hated when I did that. She was asleep, so what was she going to say or know or do? I took another gulp.

I walked over to the back door. I jiggled the door handle just to make sure it was locked. Of course it was locked. Berta always made sure the place was sealed up
as tight as a drum every night. She was almost paranoid about things like that so there was no need to check … just like there was no need to check the front door or the door that led out of the garage and into the house. I took another drink from the carton, tipping it back and draining the last bit of milk. I put the empty carton down on the kitchen counter. Then I went to check the front and garage doors.

Fourteen

THE SUN BEAT DOWN
strongly and brightly. It felt more like midday in the summer than four in the afternoon in April. But that was how this country went— directly from way too cold to far too hot. Spring lasted about two days.

I was feeling so hot that I wanted to take off my jacket but figured it was best to leave it on. Better to fit in. All the street people still had on their coats, and toques, and in a couple of cases, gloves. Either they hadn't noticed the change in weather or they were just so grateful not to be cold any more that they wanted to get as hot as possible— maybe store a little heat for when they needed it again next winter.

I'd started to recognize some of the faces under those hats. I'd said hello or nodded to a number of people I'd passed. I'm sure there were more that I knew but it was hard because they never looked up, never made eye contact with the people passing by. Even when they were begging change, their eyes were always focused firmly on the ground.

“Beautiful day, eh?”

I turned toward the voice. It was Jack! “It's a great day.”

“Sun feels good against my face,” he said. That was about the only part of him showing. Like everybody else he still wore his thick coat and toque. “You on your way to the Club?”

“Yep.”

“Mind if I walk along with you in that direction?” “Of course not!”

He fell into step beside me.

“So how did things work out with that school assignment … you know … the interview?”

“Really well. I'm pretty well guaranteed to pass now.” “And you weren't before?” he asked, sounding concerned.

“It was sort of touch and go for a while,” I admitted. “That doesn't make sense. Smart kid like you should be doing more than just passing, you should be getting good marks.”

“That's what my parents keep saying.”

“Then it's probably true. So what stops you from getting better marks?” he asked.

“I guess I just don't work hard enough.”

“You can't get anywhere without working hard.”

It was strange to be given advice about working hard from a man who was living in a tent, but somehow the words rang true coming out of his mouth. I knew that he had been somebody who had worked hard, who had taken pride in what he did. That just made where he was now so much sadder.

“Are you going to eat at the Club tonight?” I asked. “Maybe.”

“But maybe not?”

“We'll see.”

“I just figured you were headed in that direction so you were …” I stopped mid-sentence. “Were you going in this direction or were you thinking it would be safer if I had an escort?”

“Two people are always safer than one,” he said with a grin. “Maybe I thought it would make it safer for
me
to be with you.”

“Yeah, right, like you need my help.”

“We all need help.” He was serious now. “Some people just don't get the help they need.”

Those last words struck hard. Was he talking about himself and the rest of the people living on the streets, or the people of Rwanda … those that he couldn't help … or stranger still, was he talking about me?

“When the sun beats down so brightly I can't help thinking of other places,” he said.

“Like Rwanda?” I asked.

“Like Rwanda.”

“I just can't believe that I didn't know, that most people
still
don't know what happened there.”

He shrugged. “Human nature is to look away from what's unpleasant. Ignorance is bliss. If you look you might have to do something about it.”

“I guess. I'm still just trying to understand how all of that could have happened.”

“I've spent a lot of years trying to understand it,” he said.

“And?”

“If you figure it out you tell me, okay?” he asked. “I will. I was reading about the convoys,” I said.

“You know about the convoys?” he asked, sounding surprised.

“I know a little.”

“I'm just surprised you know anything about them.” “I'm interested,” I explained.

He stared straight ahead.

I suddenly started to think better of this. Maybe it wasn't fair for me to be bringing it up. “You don't have to talk about it if you don't want. I don't want to bring back any more bad memories.”

“You can't bring back what never leaves. But don't worry … the convoys are one of the few parts I feel good about.”

“I'd like to know more about them.”

He nodded in agreement but didn't answer right away.

I knew he was thinking through his answer—deciding what to say … and probably just as important, what
not
to say.

“There were certain places, we called them enclaves, where Tutsis were gathered and we could provide them with some level of safety … some. But we knew that the sharks circling around would eventually stop respecting those very fragile boundaries. It was just a matter of time. We had to move them to the territory controlled by the rebels.”

“So you put them in trucks and convoyed them out.” “We did the best we could. You have to understand that our mission in Rwanda—almost all UN missions—are underfunded, undermanned, and under-equipped. Not enough troops or trucks, tents or toilet paper. Not even enough ammunition.”

“Ammunition … you mean like bullets?”

“Like bullets,” he said, nodding in agreement. “We didn't have enough rounds of ammunition to survive a battle. We didn't have the men or muscle to force our way out of these enclaves so we had to wait for the right time and hope we could bluff our way through the roadblocks, through the militia and through the mobs.”

“That would have been terrifying. I mean,
I
would have been terrified.”

“So was I … so were all of us.”

That surprised me—I just didn't think of him as somebody who would be scared.

He glanced at me. “You didn't think I was scared?” he asked.

My expression must have given me away. “I guess not.”

“To not be scared would have been to not understand. I was scared when I had to fight those three thugs. Fear is always with you. You just can't let it overwhelm you. I think you would have responded well if you were with me.”

“Me? I couldn't even handle those punks in the park.” “Don't underestimate yourself, Ian. I know people. I know you would have acted in an honourable manner.”

“The way you acted?” I questioned.

“The way I tried my best to act.”

We walked along in silence for a while. I think I'd pushed him too far—or maybe he'd pushed both of us too far.

“How many people do you think were saved by the convoys?”

“Thousands, perhaps tens of thousands of lives.” “You have to feel really good about that.”

“It's hard to feel good about saving thousands when hundreds of thousands perished. What we did was just a drop in the bucket.”

We continued to walk, but not talk. I knew we were sharing the same thoughts.

“Here you are,” Jack said as we stopped in front of the Club. There were already five men waiting by the front doors.

“You want to come in and get something to eat?” I asked. “You could come in with me right now.”

“That wouldn't be fair to the guys waiting outside,” he said, gesturing to the line.

“It would be different if you came in and offered to help with set-up,” I said.

He gave me a questioning look.

“Mac always needs help,” I explained.

“You know, I might want to do that some time … but not tonight.”

“Some other time. I know Mac would appreciate the help. Maybe you could come back later, talk to him about it and get supper.”

He shook his head. “Not tonight. Not hungry.” “Okay. I'll see you later.”

“You too. Be safe,” he said. Jack started to walk away and then stopped and turned around. “You know, in the beginning my greatest fear was that I would be killed. At the end my greatest fear was that I wouldn't be.”

He turned and walked away. I stood there, too stunned to move, too stunned to speak. As he walked away he
pulled a bottle out of the inside of his coat and tipped it back to his mouth. Maybe there were things he couldn't forget, but that wasn't stopping him from trying. Either that or trying to die.

Fifteen

I OPENED UP
the front door and let in the waiting men. Many of them greeted me with smiles and handshakes. I knew a lot of them. Maybe not by name but I knew them. In the past couple of weeks they'd stopped being a faceless, nameless mass and had started to become individuals. In little bits of conversation with them and things that Mac had told me, I'd gotten to know their stories. Everybody had a story about the path that led them down and onto the streets. And on the way down they were stripped of everything that had once been dear to them: parents, spouses, children, jobs, houses, possessions. Despite it all, somehow against all the odds, some of them had managed to hold on to their dignity. Nobody had come up with that word when Mrs. Watkins had asked for words to describe the homeless, but I saw it all the time.

I let my eyes go to the end of the line, looking for Jack. I hadn't seen him for a week—not since our last conversation—and I was starting to get worried because Mac said he hadn't seen him either.

Mac stood at the counter, serving the chow. Beside him were two older people, two women. They both were well dressed, smiling, and had fancy hair—church ladies.

“He wasn't in the line?” Mac asked as he came out from behind the counter and met me partway across the dining hall.

“No.”