Our War Read online

  “No relation, I’m sure,” Aubrey said.

  He laughed, revealing dimples. “Come on, I’ll give you the nickel tour.”

  They followed him into the meeting area. Rows of plain wood benches dominated the main floor, with more seating in a perimeter gallery. Daylight streamed through windows that were set high on the wall so the outside world couldn’t distract the worshippers during meetings.

  The rest of the building was a series of offices and classrooms along with a kitchen and toilets. Quakers worked in these rooms among desks and stacks of office supplies and files.

  “Where will I be working?” Gabrielle said.

  “Wherever you like,” Paul told her. “You won’t have an assigned space. On the days you’re here, we’ll set you up somewhere.”

  She’d spent days navigating city hall with its bureaucracy both frantic and glacial. Hours waiting for this official or that to give her the runaround. Aubrey had stewed the entire time, restless and bored, making everybody uncomfortable by writing down every word they said. At last, Gabrielle had made contact with the right officials and received all the authorizations and assurances she needed.

  Now she could get some work done.

  “Would it be possible to call your people together?” she said. “It’d probably be best if I said hello to everybody at once.”

  “Sure. Can I get you some coffee?”

  Gabrielle knew how expensive coffee was here. She didn’t want to burden these people by taking even a cup. “Just some water, thank you.”

  “I’ll take some,” Aubrey said. “Cream and sugar, if you have any.”

  Wearing bulky sweaters, the Quakers gathered in the children’s classroom. Despite the lack of heating, the atmosphere was warm and stuffy. Gabrielle exchanged smiles with the newcomers as she shed her flak jacket, helmet, and coat. Her pulse pounded in her ears. After running a sniper-infested gauntlet in a speeding car, the prospect of public speaking still made her sweat. She accepted a cup of water from Paul and downed it.

  Then she scanned the crowd, about twenty people. They appeared tired and thin like everybody else she’d seen in Indianapolis, but far more hopeful. Aubrey sipped her coffee while Paul cast furtive looks in her direction.

  “I’m Gabrielle Justine, United Nations Children’s Fund.” She blushed, hating how shaky her voice sounded in her ears. “This is Aubrey Fox with the Indy Chronicle. Thank you for the warm welcome. The US government has allowed UNICEF into the States to help children affected by the war. This war is in direct violation of their human rights.”

  She blinked at their applause and continued in a stronger voice, “I’m here to conduct a needs analysis. There’s a huge need in America, and resources are thin. I will do everything I can to justify a fair share for Indianapolis. Once I’m given a budget, I can pull together a staff and NGOs to help distribute supplies.”

  UNICEF pulled serious weight, and when it wanted something done, it got done. But she wasn’t sure that was true anymore. The American war was too big.

  “We’re with you,” somebody called out, and they applauded again.

  Gabrielle smiled back at them, enjoying a nice buzz from their welcome. She’d felt like she was in over her head since she’d arrived in Indianapolis, like she was drowning. The entire city seemed to be fighting her. But not these people.

  Paul approached smiling as the meeting broke up. “That was great. We may need to reach you when you’re not here. Can I get your cell number?”

  Gabrielle gave it to him. “Thanks again for such a warm welcome.”

  “We need all the help we can get.”

  Paul considered Gabrielle part of his story, not the other way around. After all, the UN had just shown up. He’d been here since the beginning.

  He finished thumbing the numbers into his phone. “Where are you staying?”

  “The Castle.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Oh. Okay.”

  “The UN set it up,” she offered.

  “That’s great,” Paul said. “It’s really nice there. You’re lucky.”

  “Yeah.”

  She wanted to say more, but it wouldn’t change the fact that, unlike these people, she lived in comfort and could walk away from the war anytime she wanted.

  Her buzz evaporated. She’d come to the Vermont Street Friends Meeting House thinking of herself as a savior. She’d leave feeling more than a little like a tourist.

  THIRTEEN

  Hannah hauled an armful of salvaged wood into the kitchen and stacked it by the blazing oven. She lingered to enjoy the heat and the tangy smells of the eternal stew.

  Every day, the cooks put anything they could find into the pot, which the militia ate from but never emptied. It was breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Always rich but never monotonous as its flavors mingled and shifted.

  “It’s how they did it in the Middle Ages,” said Vivian, who ran the kitchen.

  She was a big-boned woman wearing an apron over a khaki shirt and camouflage pants tucked into combat boots. Her tawny eyes gleamed on her wide face, which offered Hannah a bright, comforting smile.

  Hannah switched her gaze from this smile to the bubbling stew. “I like it.”

  “I’m glad you do, sweetie.”

  “Why does it always taste a little different each time?”

  “A chef doesn’t give away her secrets, but in your case I’ll make an exception.” Vivian dropped a handful of powder in the cauldron and stirred. “Spices. It’s all about the spices. It’s how you make a lot out of a little.”

  “What kind of spices?”

  The woman offered her palm for Hannah. “Smell this.”

  Hannah’s eyes went wide. “Cinnamon.”

  Her mind flashed across a series of memories. Her mother standing by the electric mixer. Scent of vanilla and chocolate chips. The mixer’s whir. Mom smiling as she handed over the batter-covered beaters to lick.

  Even the memory was delicious.

  “While everybody else was panic-buying breakfast cereal, I cleaned out the spice aisles,” Vivian said. “Now these spices are worth their weight in gold.”

  “How would you make a cake without flour or butter?” Hannah asked.

  A crushing pressure filled her chest, making her wince. She wished she could touch her memories without them hurting her. This wasn’t as hard during the day, when there was plenty of work to do, but at night, she gave in to her tears.

  “War cake,” Vivian said. “Powdered milk, sugar, cocoa powder, water, some cooking oil, and sliced sandwich bread. It’s a wet mess, but it works. Why?”

  “My mom was going to make me one…”

  A woman entered the kitchen and stripped off her uniform. Nude, she slipped under a white sheet on the massage table set up by the fire. A woman Hannah knew as Sally began to knead her muscles with an oil that smelled like peppermint. This was Sally’s job, rubbing away the aches and stress of fighting.

  Vivian smiled. “From each according to her ability. Speaking of which, we’ve got some potatoes that need peeling, please and thank you.”

  The cause required hard work from everybody, from the frontline fighters to the massage therapist. Right now, it needed Hannah Miller to peel a sack of potatoes resting on the cutting board.

  She washed the potatoes one by one in a bucket of melted snow and laid them out on the board. Taking her peeler, she stroked away the thick skin, which she set aside for mulching. Whatever the greenhouse didn’t need would go into the pot. The militia wasted nothing.

  Her mind went blank as she worked. The babble of women washed over her. It felt like peace. She’d discovered a place she could become both lost and found.

  “Hey, birthday kid,” Vivian said.

  Hannah jumped. How did she know?

  Vivian hadn’t been talking to her, however, but another girl who’d arrived bouncing in the kitchen. Like Hannah, the girl kept her hair cut short against lice. She wore a bulky pink sweater with a waving Santa on the front. Baggy ar
my surplus pants flared from her boots.

  Hannah had seen her helping to clean the rooms, scrubbing at the grime left every night by the oil lamps. She didn’t know the girl’s name. For three days, Hannah had lived with the Free Women, long enough to run across other kids, though she wasn’t ready to make friends. She stayed close to the fire and slept on a cot.

  “Hi, Vivian,” the girl said. “You wanted to see me?”

  “I have something special for you. I know you’ll like it.”

  They went to another part of the kitchen. Hannah put her head down and went on with her scraping. Exposing her potato one peel at a time.

  “Thank you,” the girl said. “Mm, it’s so good.”

  She traced aimless circles through the hubbub, humming as she slurped from a bowl. Hannah kept one eye on her while running her peeler up and down the same spot.

  The girl popped into view. “What’s your name?”

  Hannah frowned at her potato and said nothing.

  “I’m Maria. Look what Vivian gave me.”

  Wary, she looked up. The girl held a bowl of what appeared to be plain pasta.

  “It’s really good,” Maria said. “You want a bite?”

  Hannah nodded and accepted the bowl and plastic fork. She twirled spaghetti onto it and bit down. Cold but amazing, flavored with a little sesame oil.

  She prepared another bite but caught Maria’s expression. She handed the bowl back. “Sorry, I get carried away with food.”

  Maria laughed. “Don’t we all?”

  “It was so good. Thank you.”

  “It’s my birthday today. I’m eleven now.”

  “Happy birthday.”

  “How old are you?”

  “I’ll be eleven just after Christmas.”

  “We have the same birthday! Well, almost.”

  “Yeah, that’s—”

  “Vivian said she’s going to make me a cake. They’re gonna sing to me tonight and everything. If you tell her about your birthday, she’ll make you one too.”

  Hannah pictured a roomful of grown-ups in makeshift uniforms looking at her while they sang happy birthday. “That’s okay. It’s no big deal.”

  “Wait right here. Don’t move a muscle.”

  Hannah went back to peeling. She wasn’t going anywhere.

  Maria returned with a second bowl. “Look what I got. I asked Vivian if it was okay if I shared mine, and instead she made an extra one for you. Isn’t that great?”

  Hannah went to grab the bowl but checked herself. She waited until the girl handed it to her. “Thank you. I’m Hannah.”

  “Nice to meet you, Hannah Banana. We’re both Christmas babies. My mom used to have my birthday party in June.”

  Hannah wolfed down her spaghetti. “That’s a good idea.”

  “It made my birthdays more special.”

  “Do you live here with your mom?”

  “She died on the front line. Where are your parents?”

  “The rebels killed them.”

  Maria gazed upon her as a kindred spirit. “We’re both orphans.”

  Hannah inspected her bowl. It was empty.

  Maria said, “Do you want to play?”

  She gestured to the potatoes. “Maybe later.”

  Vivian walked over. “How did you like your pasta?”

  “It was amazing,” Maria said.

  “Thank you,” Hannah said.

  “I was hoping you two would become friends,” Vivian said. “Christmas will be over soon and then it’s back to school. Are you girls ready for that?”

  Maria nodded with enthusiasm. Hannah shrugged. She hadn’t been to school in a long time. She didn’t know if she was ready. It seemed kind of strange to learn social studies and spelling when these things had nothing to do with survival.

  Vivian gave her a searching look. “Hannah, why don’t you go play with Maria for a while?”

  Her body went rigid. She was enjoying being around people but still wasn’t ready to talk or have fun. “I’m not done peeling these potatoes.”

  “They can wait. To each according to her need. Go play.”

  Maria rattled off their options. They settled on hide-and-seek.

  An hour later, Hannah ran breathless through the facility, looking for a place to hide while Maria counted down from thirty. It was colder here, away from the kitchen, but she didn’t mind. It was good to run.

  She entered the stairwell and banged up the stairs to find doors along a stretch of dark hallway. The building was like a cross between a hotel and a house. No place to hide, though. She had to keep moving. They’d played on the main floor until they’d exhausted the best hiding places. This time, Hannah had decided to roam.

  She paused in front of an open doorway. A woman lay in bed surrounded by uniformed comrades with rifles slung on their backs. One turned and frowned. As she moved to close the door, the woman in bed offered a weak smile. Hannah gave her a little wave as the door shut.

  Back to finding a hiding place.

  At the end of the corridor, she stopped at an open maintenance closet. Mops stood in a yellow bucket on wheels. Bottles of colorful liquids filled the shelves. The room smelled like dust and cleaner.

  Hannah stepped inside and closed the door.

  For a while, she waited. The seconds turned to minutes, but she didn’t mind. She liked it here. Dark and enclosed.

  “Now where could she be?” Maria said in a loud voice as she walked down the hall. “Ready or not, here I come!”

  Hannah got down on her hands and knees and leaned to peer under the crack in the door, a sliver of gray in the black. Maria’s footsteps grew louder.

  Then receded.

  Hannah covered her mouth with her hand so she didn’t giggle. Maria had completely missed her hiding spot.

  The door flew open.

  Maria cried, “Found you!”

  Hannah flinched in terror. Then she laughed.

  A woman’s voice: “Maria, is Hannah with you?”

  “Yeah, she’s right here. We’re playing hide-and-seek.”

  Sabrina appeared in the doorway and smiled down at Hannah. “And you found her.”

  “Do you want to play with us?” Maria said.

  “I have something different in mind for you.”

  Hannah stood and dusted her knees. “Where are we going?”

  Sabrina said, “Today, I’m going to teach you how to shoot a gun.”

  FOURTEEN

  After leaving the Peace Office, Gabrielle visited the Riley Hospital for Children, where she watched the staff treat kids for bullet wounds, horrible burns, and broken bones.

  The doctors said it was worse on the front line. If she wanted to help Indy’s most vulnerable children, she had to go there.

  Back in the car, she stared out the window, still shaken by what she’d seen. Already, the strength she’d drawn from the Peace Office had drained out of her.

  “I think the Quaker has the hots for you,” Aubrey said behind the wheel. Despite the banter, she sounded distant and irritable. Something was eating her too.

  Gabrielle shoved aside the memory of the hospital. “Which one?”

  “Paul. They don’t have a leader, but I think he’s the brains behind their peace operation.”

  “Actually, he was into you. He was checking you out the whole time I was giving my speech.”

  “Then he’s in trouble,” said Aubrey. “I was a commitment-phobe even before the war. He’s too young for me, in any case.”

  “If love ever finds me, I’ll run with it.”

  “Then again, a roll in the hay would be fun. I’m trying to decide whether those dreadlocks were a turn-on or not.”

  “I’m not talking about a roll in the hay. I’m talking about love.”

  “I can’t do love and survive at the same time,” the reporter said.

  “Love is supposed to be one of the things you survive for.”

  “Don’t underestimate the benefit of a good—oh, shit!”

/>   Aubrey slammed on the brakes. Gabrielle gasped during the slide.

  They’d turned a corner and come close to plowing into a river of people flowing along East Washington. Protesters marched to pounding drums.

  A man called out, “Tell me what democracy looks like!”

  The crowd chanted, “THIS IS WHAT DEMOCRACY LOOKS LIKE.”

  Spontaneous cheering broke out as the vanguard filled the treed lawn of the Indiana Statehouse. Signs and American flags waved amid wool hats and winter coats. Armed with batons and plastic shields, a phalanx of riot police had marshaled on the steps.

  Gabrielle gazed across the bobbing fists and signs. SAVE THE UNION, she read. STOP THE CON. DRAIN THE MARSH. Then more protesters streamed past the car and blocked her view.

  She’d seen demonstrations in Montreal, students protesting tuition increases and social injustice, but nothing like this. It reminded her of the Occupy the Mall protests on TV during President Marsh’s trial in the Senate. Tens of thousands of people braving the cold to camp in front of the Capitol and demand his resignation.

  “Look at them,” Aubrey said. “A year ago, most of them didn’t even vote.”

  “What’s going on? Why are they protesting?”

  The reporter leaned on the horn as she tried to clear a path. “It’s complicated.”

  The demonstrators thinned to let them through. Several stayed and locked arms to block their passage. One yelled, “Whose streets?”

  “Our streets!”

  “Whose streets?”

  “OUR STREETS.”

  A woman banged on her window. “Help us! We’re starving!”

  Protesters swarmed the car as word spread it had a UN flag on it. A woman asked her to get a message to her father, who was being held in Greensburg. A man wanted her help to get to Canada. The rest came through only in fragments, lost in the roar.

  Gabrielle cowered. “C’est pas bon ça, j’aime pas ça.”

  The reporter rolled down the window and shouted, “Indy Chronicle!”

  She honked again. The men blocking the road shot each other looks. One by one, they nodded. They broke ranks to allow the car through.

  “Stay safe,” a man yelled as Aubrey raised the window.