Hostage Zero

As the old woman got closer to her doorway, she beckoned more aggressively. “Comb, comb, comb,” she said.

In that moment, Evan realized that she was saying come not comb. She was trying English, and the effort made him feel warm inside.

“ Gracias,” he said, hoping that it was the right word for thank you. He followed the woman through the open door and into a cramped living space that looked more like pictures he’d seen of teepees in the Old West than of any modern home. There was no real furniture-just some rough-looking wooden chairs-and the floor was made of the same dirt as outside, but somehow felt cleaner against his feet. Certainly drier.

Eight people-six of them old and two of them under five-filled the single room to capacity, yet they all stood as he entered. The old woman spoke a mile a minute, and the people in the room seemed to be pleased by what they were hearing. They pulled away from their tight circle in the middle of the room and made room for him at a table that was otherwise invisible. Just beyond the table was a pot of some kind of stew that smelled like heaven. One of the adults pulled a bowl away from one of the children and placed it on the table in front of Evan. She said something to him that he didn’t understand, but the accompanying smile reassured him that he was being welcomed as a special guest.

As Evan took a seat in the middle of a long bench, a different old woman leaned to the center of the table and ladled out a generous helping of the stew. Evan had no idea what it was, but because the broth was brown and there were green vegetables mixed in, he told himself that it was beef stew. The first sip blew that out of the water, but he refused to think about it. Whatever it was tasted good, and for now, that’s all that was important. That and the fact that it put food into his belly.

After two or three more spoonfuls, Evan realized that he was the only one eating. He looked up at the old woman who had brought him in, and he gestured with his forehead toward the pot. “Please,” he said. “Eat.”

Apparently, those were exactly the words they’d been waiting for because they wasted no time diving in and ladling stew into their own bowls. Conversation he didn’t understand roiled all around him as they crammed onto the benches hip to hip. They all seemed happy, and Evan didn’t understand how that could be the case when one of their tribe-if that’s what you called them-was being brutalized nearby. For all he knew, every one of the soldiers was out there raping someone. Yet the people in here were laughing and having a grand old time. It didn’t seem right.

But the stew was great. He ate like the starving young man he was, slurping spoonful after spoonful down his gullet, barely pausing to chew the vegetables and the occasional hunk of meat that tasted different than anything he’d had in the past. It wasn’t till he’d emptied his bowl that he realized that the others were all way behind him. They were watching him, and whatever expression crossed his face made them all laugh. He felt his ears turning red, and then they laughed some more.

But it was friendly laughter. He smiled along with them and even got the feeling that he probably would have been laughing with them if only he’d known what was so funny.

The lady who’d brought him in leaned close and said something he couldn’t understand. It sounded like blahn key roho. When he shrugged to tell her that he didn’t understand, she repeated it. He still didn’t get it.

She held out her hand palm up, and he gave her his, palm down. She gently lifted his arm and ran her fingers down its length. She fingered his long blond hair. “Wheat,” she said. “ Blanco. ” Then she brushed his cheek and ear. “Roho.” She paused as she searched for a word. “Red?”

Then he got it. She hadn’t been saying wheat all this time. She’d been trying to say white. White boy. White arm, white hair, red face. Evan smiled. He rubbed his own cheeks with his other hand and said, “Blushing. White skin and red face means ‘blushing.’”

She repeated the word, and he didn’t correct her when it sounded more like blooshing. Then they all tried it, and they all laughed. There was some more small talk and laughter, and then the faces of the people across from his turned suddenly fearful.

Evan felt Oscar’s presence before he heard anything. “Kid!” he boomed. “You ready?”

The boy felt his shoulders sag, and the instant it happened, he knew that he’d just telegraphed weakness. “No,” he said. “I like it here.”

Oscar laughed. “Two minutes,” he said. “ Dos minutos. Don’t make me drag you out of here. It’s tough to walk on a broken leg.” Two seconds later, he was gone.

The mood in the hut turned black. His hostess stood, and the others followed. She hooked her arm in his armpit and gently lifted him. When he got to his feet she cupped his chin in her palm and said something to that he couldn’t understand, but the tone of her voice clued him in that it was important.