Broken
Prison.
No one had ever tried to gloss over the situation. There was no soft-peddling the story so that Esmiel would regard his mother as a hero. Or see her as some mythic figure to celebrate and emulate. Esmiel’s father had been direct: “Your mother was misguided. She stupidly broke the law.”
“And for that,” Esmiel’s grandmother added, “she deserves the harshest punishment.”
It was no secret that his grandmother wished Esmiel’s father hadn’t married an Enn Sarnthe—usually spit out in disgust as a “sarnther-ahn”—because that made her only grandchild a half-breed.
Still, to Esmiel, the fact that his mother was an Enn Sarnthe who went to political meetings didn’t seem to justify her being sentenced to six years behind bars.
Today, she would be free. Esmiel and his father rode six hours on the train, a picturesque route that cut through fields, climbed over mountain passes, and snaked along the river, from their village to the capital city, the city where a new leader had brought some sense to the world, and agreed with Esmiel that six long years was too much for merely printing pamphlets that criticized the old leaders. Those leaders that tried to convince the population that Enn Sarnthes weren’t worthy of full citizenship.
That his mother had been granted an early release, having served but two years, seemed a miracle to Esmiel. Nothing could top the excitement of her being back home. Though maybe, just maybe, coming in a close second was the journey itself. How he loved the train. It didn’t matter that he and his father had to ride in one of the last two train cars. His father could have ridden in the very first car, but Esmiel’s status as a partial Enn Sarnthe created many inconveniences (his father’s word) or downright burdens (his grandmother’s choice phrase).
Of course, his mother’s position was that these inconveniences and burdens wouldn’t exist if people realized just how inane (his mother’s word) people’s beliefs could be.
Inane, inane, inane! Esmiel had become so fond of the sound of that word that he used to repeat it incessantly, until the day his parents weren’t paying close attention and his grandmother slapped him. Esmiel would never forget the way his grandmother’s lips curled into a smile as her hand made contact with his jaw.
He couldn’t dwell on all that now. The cityscape was too inviting. Esmiel was in awe as he and his father walked from the depot toward the main square. From there, it would be another mile to the prison. He was sure his father was dreading the total distance, but to Esmiel it was another mile of discovery. The parks. Statues. The stone buildings with the giant arched windows of colored glass. The sea of ivy growing up along the fortress wall.
Esmiel wanted to see everything. He wanted to spend the rest of the day, and the entire night, and most of the next morning exploring the city. And now, he could see all these wonders with his mother at his side.
“Slow down, slow down,” his father said. “We should eat first. I’m starving.”
“We’ll eat with Mama,” Esmiel replied, surprised that his father would suggest wasting time sitting down someplace and lingering over a meal.
“Such a long journey, boy. I’m faint.”
Clear as crystal—he could hear his mother’s voice, her native accent— sure as the stars in the night sky: Esmiel’s father did not relish having his wife being back in their lives. Esmiel saw the hesitation, the procrastination at every turn. His father protested the cost of the train tickets, calling it sheer robbery, even though days earlier he had spent twice the amount on a new saw, the old one rusty but in fine working order. And he would now be buying them food at a café, despite deeming food prices at the annual carnival too outrageous for even a small treat.
“Ah, here’s a perfect little spot,” his father said, pointing to a gabled building on the corner.
The smell of fresh bread did make Esmiel’s stomach growl. He thought about a warm slice, slathered with honey. His mother would understand. From his memories, those that Esmiel clung to and was so afraid were diminishing over time, she had always shown so much patience with him. “We’re alike, you and me, my little nestling. No one can break our bond.” She would touch Esmiel’s chest. “I’m always in here.” Then she would touch her own. “And you’re always with me.”
His mother wouldn’t mind if Esmiel ate just one slice of bread.
Inside the café, candles ensconced in iron hubs hung from the ceiling. Esmiel’s brown skin and blue eyes were cast in an unwelcome glow. When he and his father sat down at a long table, Esmiel felt as though he were on a stage.
Two old men turned to glare at Esmiel.
“Tu-pirpst. Sarnther-ahn,” one muttered, a dab of brown sauce clinging to his black-gray beard. Stinking half-breed.
Whenever the term was uttered, Esmiel’s father stiffened, like a statue. As if he had no connection to his son. His father never reprimanded anyone who used the slur. He’d never stood up to those who’d told him it was a mistake that he married someone with such brownish skin. He didn’t raise a hand to the men who had burst through the front door of their home to arrest Esmiel’s mother. Yet his father always stood with Esmiel’s grandmother. His grandmother who smiled as her daughter-in-law was hauled away. No matter what came out of the old woman’s mouth, his father seemed to agree. And echo her words, his eyes alive with enthusiasm.
“What’s your order then?” a man asked, approaching the table. He spoke to Esmiel’s father, clearly, but his eyes were on Esmiel.
His father sat silently. It annoyed Esmiel. They didn’t have all morning to sit around. “Bread and honey,” Esmiel said to the man.
There were gasps from the table behind. Had Esmiel been too loud? Too demanding? Were children not supposed to order in a city? Especially half-breed children?
Plates danced across the table, their contents spilling onto the rough wooden surface. The large hubs above them swayed. No one stared at Esmiel now. Their eyes darted left and right, floor to ceiling.
Glass broke. A woman screamed. Just like the night they raided the village to arrest Esmiel’s mother, along with several other Enn Sarnthes throughout the neighborhood.
And just as Esmiel had done that night, he slapped his hands over his ears, closed his eyes, and hummed a song.
How many times could it feel like the world was ending?
