Authors: Felicia Rogers
Diamond Mine (14 page)
Hannah started and he said, “You mustn't blame her. My father was adamant that I return at once.”
Taking a deep breath, he continued, “I arrived in London, and my father handed me my registration papers for the British armed forces. By the time I was allowed to use a phone, your number had changed. Then I was put into service and things got a tad busy. I did write to you. In fact several times, but I never received a reply. I assumed you were angry with me so I gave up.”
Studying his nails, he said, “I never forgot you, but by then I was too afraid to find you.”
Running his hand through his hair, he laughed quietly under his breath. “I was on leave and heading to visit me mum in America when I heard these ladies discussing a novel they'd just read. I didn't think much of it, you understand, just a couple of silly ninnies. But one of them laid the novel upside down, and there was your picture.
“The nurse at the airport said I looked white as a sheet. As soon as I was able, I pulled out my cell phone and searched for your name. And there you were on all those romance novels.
“I read every biography I could find, but it didn't get me very far. A website, an email address, and not much more. Before I could do more to find you, it was time to return to my unit.”
He steepled his hands, and gazed into the distance. “I bought all your novels. Read them too. All the boys in the company made fun of me, called me a pansy. But I knew what they didn't. All your macho, handsome, gentlemanly heroes were me.”
Now he looked directly at her. The hue of her cheeks changed to the color of a red rose. He could have told her the rest. About the nights he'd spent in agony outside of her apartment building, but he held back. Hopefully this part of the story would be enough. But if he'd had any hope his words would quail her curiosity, he was sorely mistaken.
“So you didn't want to leave?”
“No.”
“I moved before you could call me?”
“Yes.”
“You wrote letters and sent them?”
“Yes.”
“You would have looked me up if your responsibility to your country hadn't gotten in the way?”
“Yes.”
“And if you would have found me, what would you have done?”
Good question
. One he'd asked himself on many occasions. He paused.
Her fingers fidgeted with the edges of her clothing. “Did you ever marry?”
“No. And you?”
“No. And I didn't have many dates either. I think the idea of living up to a British legend was a little intimidating for most guys.”
“Legend, huh?”
“Did you lose your leg while you were in the service?”
Rory stiffened.
“Sorry, I know we didn't agree to discuss that.”
“No, we didn't.”
“Rory, Iâ”
“I think we should turn in. Grab your sleeping bag from your pack.” He stood and walked to their shelter. His back faced her as he lay down, fearing a restless night ahead.
****
The tone he used relaxed a little, but the rigid set of his shoulders told Hannah how angry Rory really was. Perhaps asking about his leg had overstepped some unspoken boundary.
Hannah stared at the tent. Although exhausted she wasn't ready to sleep. Her mind wandered. Eight years ago, for that one brief summer, she had shared her dreams and her fears, told him things she had not even told Tonya and Melanie to this day.
But what had he told her? Very little. She knew he was originally from England, and he'd visited his mother for the summer. He'd mentioned he hoped to attend college in America. Hearing those words had been a dream come true. But apparently his parents hadn't gotten the memo. According to him, they'd sent him back to England and placed him in the military, without even giving him an opportunity to choose a different path.
And what about the letters he'd mentioned? She'd never received any letters. Could he be lying to her? Could her mother have intercepted them and thrown them away?
Despite her mother's false bravado, she hadn't been herself. Hannah's stepfather hadn't been able to hold a job and money was either tight or non-existent. Her mother had worked two jobs just so they could have food on the table. They'd had a big argument about all the time Hannah spent with Rory. Her mother had thought he was a distraction and had wanted her to expand her horizons, meet new people, do other things like hang out with her.
But if her mother hadn't disposed of the letters, and Rory hadn't been lying, then could his father have kept them from being sent? If he'd placed Rory in the military without his willingness then he would have had no qualms about keeping Rory and some strange new girl from the States from becoming involved.
Gnawing her lip, Hannah rehashed their conversation. When she'd asked if he'd ever married, he'd said no but with a cringe. He had been hiding something.
In her heart she had hoped the newspaper clippings of him and various exotic women were for show and not serious love interests. But what about his fiancée, Monica Tavers? Did his admission mean they had never married? Or did it mean something else entirely?
Hannah paced and tapped her forefinger to her chin. She was suddenly jealous. Insanely so. Logically, she had no cause, but when did logic ever work in the ways of love? Love?
Okay so she'd been in love with him for years, or at least the idea of him. He clearly wasn't what she'd conjured in her head or even in her novels. He wasn't a superhuman. He wasn't perfect, infallible. And most of all, he didn't love her. He wasn't ready to face down a mountain lion with his bare hands or run in front of a speeding train to loosen her bonds.
She plopped onto the log and stared at the flickering flames. The small twigs and brush crackled and popped, sending sparks and smoke into the night air.
The smell of burning wood reminded Hannah of something from the compound. Shivers of apprehension raced along her spine as she thought of Melanie and what Tapiwa might have planned for her friend.
“Children, children, we must remain calm,” whispered Melanie
“Miss Melanie, I'm scared.”
“Me too, honey. But we have to remember we are never alone.”
“God is watching us,” whispered Cara, a five-year-old little girl.
“Yes, dear. God is watching,” said Melanie, controlling the fear that raged within.
They'd been inside the rough wooden cell for five days. One bulb hung from the ceiling on a long wire and blared night and day.
Melanie couldn't see or feel the sun, but she'd been allowed to keep her watch. With a small stone, she marked the wall at twelve-hour intervals. After two marks, she announced the new day.
For five days, they'd been together in this stinking hole. Three times a day, the guards brought one pinch of bread and a thimble full of brown putrid water. The refuse bucket was collected once a day. With ten children and Melanie, that wasn't nearly enough. Dirt surrounding the corner where the bucket sat was saturated with urine and heaped with piles of feces.
Long ago, before she graduated college, she'd volunteered to work at a leprosy hospital. The stench of rotten flesh would remain with her forever, but the smell of fresh feces and unwashed bodies was ten times more potent.
Melanie counted herself lucky that the children had been allowed to stay with her.
At first, every time the door creaked, she'd cringed, expecting the soldiers to come for her wards, her children, but they never had. Finally that fear passed to be replaced by another.
Hannah
.
Where was she? What had they done with her? To her? Melanie hadn't seen her since they'd arrived in the canvas-covered truck. They had been moved from the back and sorted into two groups. Hannah had stood alone, while Melanie had been placed with the children. Brave Hannah had tried to stand up to the men, but it had done nothing but ensure she'd received a mouthful of earth. Cowardice had edged around Melanie's heart and she'd held back assistance.
Before being taken, Melanie had heard rumors that Tapiwa and his men dealt in human flesh. If this was true, then why had he taken Korzan? All she could figure was they'd taken him because he had stood up to them.
For over a year Melanie had kept silent. She'd allowed atrocities of the worst kind and had said nothing for fear of what might happen to her or the children. And for what? So Tapiwa could come in and take Hannah?
The children lay strewn around the room as far from the dung corner as possible. Piled on top of one another, they attempted to sleep. Melanie had told them to lie down, and they had obeyed. But she herself couldn't be still. Her mind was a whir of tumult emotions. Filled with confused thoughts and unanswered questions, she couldn't relax.
The cell was a mere twelve feet by twelve feet. From barred, windowless door and back again, Melanie paced. One⦠two⦠three⦠four⦠ten steps each way, every time. With each step her pulse quickened as her mind ran amuck.
“Why did she have to come?” she whispered.
Why had Korzan sent a ticket to Hannah more than two years ago? Yes, that was around the time she'd lost their child. But it still made no sense.
Melanie massaged her forehead as fresh tears fell. Would she ever know peace? That fateful day had changed everything. They'd left Sudan and come to South Africa only to find more trouble.
Right before they left, Korzan had smiled and told her he had some things to mail. Several packages had been in his arms. No doubt, one of those was Hannah's invitation. But what had happened to keep the package from reaching her? Divine intervention?
Melanie sighed. There had been so little time to talk before Tapiwa and his men arrived. They must have been close by, waiting, hiding. Tapiwa had told her, “One hint and we come for you.”
If only the men had given her time to explain. If only she could have told them that Hannah was a surprise guest. That she had told nothing of the atrocities to her or anyone else.
Guilt and shame assailed her. She'd lied to everyone â Korzan's parents, Tonya, Hannah, herself. She'd sat idly by while Tapiwa and his men, the traffickers, took people against their will.
Melanie was a child of God, His vessel. She'd chosen to be an instrument for His truth in Africa. First in the Sudan and now here. In both countries she'd failed miserably. But no more. She would pray for strength. All things were possible for God. If He could save men from the lion's den and the fiery furnace, and open the doors of prisons for Peter and Paul, then there was hope for her, the children, and Hannah.
****
His back stung as the whip splayed across his flesh. He didn't flinch but kept on working. That was what they wanted. They wanted him to work. Nothing more, nothing less. It would be different if he were doing what he desired, if he were allowed to do his tasks in a more personal fashion.
For instance, he would stand straight and stretch his back. He would wipe the sweat from his fevered brow. He would stop and take a long drink of cool water. There were lots of things he would do had he been in charge of his own life.
But he wasn't in charge. No, they'd taken everything. His clothes, his money, his jewelry, his dignity, his pride, his children, and most importantly, his wife. Everything physical they had ripped away from him, leaving behind nothing but memories. But there was one thing they couldn't take away.
Tapiwa and his men had taken him from his home over a year ago. Korzan had sat at Tapiwa's compound, a concentration camp, for close to two weeks. He'd been beaten, tortured, and almost starved. His knees were rough and calloused from constant hours of praying to the Almighty. Strangely enough, he didn't pray for himself, but his wife and family. He knew his future. Yet a bleak existence on this earth for just a while longer, then he would be rejoicing in heaven with his Lord. But his family. His family's future was more uncertainâ¦
As he lay down in his cell to die,
and
all will to remain here grounded to his planet passed, a strange thing happened.
Tapiwa
entered
the room in a rage.
In his weakened state
Korzan
had
trouble translating the Zulu words as they flew from the trafficker
'
s mouth.
One thing he gathered was that the scathing words weren
'
t directed at him.
Tapiwa
'
s men were unhappy.
They grasped
Korzan
under his arms and dr
a
g
ged
him to another room.
Stripping him naked, they blasted him with cold water
,
yelling
Zulu words that meant filthy pig.
After
ward
,
he was escorted to another room
,
full of raggedly dressed men in varying shapes and sizes.
They sat along the walls on wooden benches
and
star
ed
bl
an
k
ly
into space.
These men had lost hope.
F
orced to sit among
them
,
t
he oppressive spirit of sadness overwhelmed him.
Closing his eyes, he pray
ed
.
“
What are y
'
doing?
”
came a whispered voice.
“
I
'
m praying.
”
“
That
'
s good.
Perhaps I should do the same.
I
'
m from Zambia.
My first visit to South Africa,
”
the man
guffawed
.
“
It is ironic, no?
In Zambia, I worked for the newspaper.
I wrote articles about the lies told
about
South Africa.
I said the country was safe.
I said there was no such thing as human trafficking.
Or people
being
taken against their will to
search for
blood diamonds.
I laughed at the thought that slavery was still a part of
the
culture.
Yes, ironic, indeed.
My first visit.
Just looking over wares in the market place.
They knew I was a foreigner.
I had no wedding band.
They figured no one will miss him.
They k
id
napped me and brought me here.
Here!
A concentration camp in South Africa.
To be sold as a slave by my own people.
”
Korzan had
listened to the man ramble on about the irony of his situation for hours.
However, h
e had not spoken another word.
Then a sudden silence filled the entire room as
the cell
'
s
large wooden door open
ed
.
The men in the room instantly clammed up.
The
group
lean
ed
f
a
rther into the wall
,
hoping to blend into the
i
r surroundings and escape notice.
Through the door walked the epitome of a paradox.
A
n entourage of seven tall,
well-constructed
fellows with dark skin and black eyes
,
t
heir suits tailor
ed
to fit
giants.
Yet as impressive as
the
seven quintuplets were, it was nothing co
m
pared to the man they surrounded.
The auspicious man was around five
-
two in height and almost as round.
The meager light from the crowded room reflected off his bald head.
He wore a white linen suit
that
was covered in so much bling it was a wonder he could move.
The white
stood
in sharp contrast to his ebony skin color.
A Cuban cigar was clench
ed
between gleaming
porcelain
teeth.
When he spoke he s
ound
ed
like Al Pacino in
T
he Godfather.
Grunts and barely perceptible sounds left his throat,
none of which
Korzan could understand
.
However, the others in the room
seemed to have no trouble.
“
Lucky
”
they called him.
He was one of the chosen
few
.
He
'
d left camp that day.
He still didn't know where they'd taken him. All he knew was that now he belonged to Biashara Githinji, The Butcher, and without a miracle he would be destined to work in the diamond mines for all eternity.
