Chapter 8

It seemed to Jean that she had barely closed her eyes again when she was awoken by a shrill whistle.

At first she couldn’t remember where she was. She thought she might be at Miss Nadar’s, on the floor of the garage and it was time to get up and to start work in the kitchen.

Then she remembered that Miss Nadir was dead and everyone believed that Jean had murdered her.

Slowly the children were opening through eyes. The little girl beside her looked up at Jean with such gladness and such hope that immediately Jean was panicked.

I can’t save you, she thought. I can barely save myself.

The whistle blew again and in stormed Pastor Francis, who was wheeling in a leather chair.

He surveyed the area and then his eyes rested on Jean. She wished that she really were a witch child, that she could cast a spell on him, that she could make him disappear into thin air.

His squinted eyes studied her and Jean wondered if he could guess what she was thinking. He could if he were the witch.

She lowered her eyes.

“We will begin the day as we always do. In prayer. We will pray for your souls, we will pray that the demons leave you. We will pray that Jesus will save you from all temptations.”

Except, Jean soon learned, that they didn’t just start the day with prayer. The day was prayer. In the morning Pastor Francis put on a pair of glasses, took out a Bible and then led the prayer with a booming voice. All the children were forced to kneel on the dirt floor, while Pastor Francis leaned back on his recliner.

The prayer was the same, over and over again.

“Dear Jesus, please drive these demons from me, the demons which Lucifer brought. Make me an honorable person. Let me trust in Pastor Francis whom God has appointed to be his voice, his rod. Let us, together, combat Satan. Let me break the spell of the witches, let Lucifer leave me in the night when he came. Let the Holy Spirit chase away the evil spirits. I am better dead than evil. God save me.”

Over and over the prayer was the same. But Jean didn’t say it. She moved her lips but all the time she was thinking of the Our Father and the Hail Mary and begging St. Jude to help her think of a plan of escape.

Someone must have heard her prayer. Because, before the end of the day, Jean knew exactly how she was going to do it.

Jean figured that she had to look for the weakest link. That link was certainly not Gertrude, who seemed to sleep with one eye open, clasping the rubber whip and using it at a moment’s notice.

And it certainly wasn’t Pastor Francis, mumbling the same prayer again and again. He watched the children with grave suspicion over his lopsided spectacles, almost daring them to move or protest. Then he sipped coffee from a colorful mug and ate bananas, throwing the peels on the dirt floor, near a bowl which stank so badly that Jean knew it had to be a latrine.

No, the weak link was the Pastor’s assistant, a girl not much older than Jean. She came on after Pastor Francis left, which Jean estimated was in the late afternoon. She had the same mean look in her eyes as Gertrude. But Jean soon realized that she wasn’t as smart as the other two.

And, thankfully, she seemed rather lazy.

While Gertrude and Pastor Francis would occasionally rise from the chair and walk among the children, Patricia sat down with a club in her hand. She didn’t even look at the children, as she drank water from a plastic jug and ate food, always concealed in a brown paper bag.

Jean guessed it was some sort of bread and butter. Patricia ate nonstop, breaking the bread into little pieces and, occasionally, dropping crumbs on the dirt floor. The little girl who had slept with Jean crawled over in an attempt to pick up some crumbs and got hit in the head with the club. She cried out in pain and then touched her bleeding scalp in utter surprise.

After that no one tried to eat the crumbs, except the insects and Patricia didn’t even bother to stamp on them.

When Patricia did rise, it was with great effort because she was so large. Jean had never seen anyone so large, and she wondered how Patricia managed to eat enough food to be so grossly overweight. One thing that Jean knew with absolute certainty.

Patricia definitely could not run.

But the problem was neither could Jean.

While the other children gathered around, sitting down on the ground, Jean watched Patricia eating and eating.

Then Jean knew that was her weakness.

Patricia loved food. The bread would eventually run out and from the way that the bag was deflating, Jean guessed it was going to happen soon. Would Patricia leave, maybe to get something else to eat?

Or maybe she didn’t have any money. Maybe the job of guarding the children didn’t pay enough money. Maybe it didn’t pay any money. Maybe Patricia was dirt poor.

But Jean wasn’t.

“I wish she’d share with us.”

Jean turned around to face the thin girl about her age. The girl was wearing a stained tank top and a shredded skirt. Her entire body was covered with bites. She looked bitter and angry.

“Yeah, right, Matilda,” the blind boy said. “If she gave us anything to eat, she’d probably get whipped by Gertrude.”

The little girl who had snuggled with Jean was drawing a design in the dirt with an old stick. She was clutching a filthy rag doll, so old that the doll’s features had faded long ago.

“What are you doing?” Jean looked down at the illegible scrawls.

“Someday,” the little girl said, “I’m going to be an artist.”

“Yeah, right,” Matilda huffed as she played with a string that was falling from her tattered skirt. “Like that’s possible.”

“Anything is possible,” Jean said.

Matilda shook her head and laughed in Jean’s face. “I’ll tell you what I’m going to be. I’m going to be a dancing girl. I’m going to dance in Paris with all the big orchestras—”

“Can you really dance?” Natalie asked.

Matilda shrugged. “Good enough.”

“Wish I had something to drink.” The little boy leaned against the stone wall.

“Everyone is thirsty, Jimmy,” Matilda said. “What makes you special?”

“Do they give us water?” Jean asked.

“At night, just a few sips,” Jimmy said. “And a tablespoon of rice. It’s our punishment. Sometimes they force us to take pills that make us go the bathroom. So the devil shoots right out of us.”

“Yeah, great,” Matilda crunched up her nose, “the devil lives there, in that pot.”

“Although sometimes if we’re really good,” Jimmy continued on, as though he hadn’t heard Matilda at all, “they give us a little meat.”

“Ain’t no meat,” Matilda sneered, “Ain’t nothing but cat.”

The little boy shrugged. “Tastes okay to me. I think they’re trying to starve the devil.”

Jean drew an exasperated sigh. “I don’t think the devil eats.” She shot a look at Patricia. “At least not all devils.”

“Are you a devil?” the little girl asked.

Jean shook her head and thought about what Roman said. “They told me I’m a witch child but I think they’re wrong.”

“I’m a witch child. I killed my mother.” The little girl paused and then said thoughtfully. “I don’t remember but they told me that I did this. And if I didn’t confess, they would take my eyes out.”

“So you confessed,” Jean whispered.

“But I got sick anyway. After they ironed me.” She stuck out his arm and showed Jean a large, ugly blister, festering with pus.

And all Jean could think of was that this little girl had slept beside her all night, with her infected arm, and maybe she had something contagious and maybe Jean would get it too.

And maybe Jean was a witch child because a good person would want to help the little girl, and not be afraid of her.

“My mother thought I was a witch child, too,” the little girl babbled. “I kept having these bad dreams and wetting the bed. She said the devil was making me do it. I’m going to stay here, until I’m cured.” The little girl lowered his head. “If I don’t die first.” Then she shrugged his tiny shoulders, smiled and hugged her rag doll. Jean noticed that she had no teeth. “My name is Natalie,” she said cheerfully. “What’s yours?”

“Jean.”

“My cousin was a witch child, too,” Jimmy said. “He told Pastor Francis that he was going to kill him. Pastor Francis got scared.”

“What happened to him?” Jean was almost afraid to ask.

“They poured gasoline on him and set him fire.” Jimmy sank down. “You can’t disobey Pastor Francis.”

Jean was just about to say that Pastor Francis was the devil when she bit her tongue. It would not be good to speak against him. She might be lit on fire. She had to escape, get out of this crazy place.

“I guess most people like Pastor Francis.” Jimmy shrugged. “They give him all sorts of things for the church. He tells people that whatever they give him, God will give them back ten times. But God hasn’t given me anything but trouble.”

“He told my aunt her belongings were cursed,” Matilda said. “And then he took them for his own house, the stove, the radio, the fans—”

“Do you have any children?” Natalie asked.

“I’m only fifteen,” Jean said.

“My mother was only twelve when I was born,” Natalie said. “Some soldiers came into town and made her into a mother. She cried an awful lot.”

“Do you have a brothers or sisters?” Jimmy asked.

“I had a brother once,” Jean said. “His name was Lawrence.”

“Was he a witch child too?” Natalie asked.

“No, he was just a baby. Only five years old. I was supposed to be watching him because I was his big sister, almost eight. I was playing in the street and he wanted the chalk to play hopscotch. But he wasn’t good at it,” Jean paused. “I told him to go away.”

“And someone took him?” Jimmy asked.

Jean shook her head. “He went around the corner. There was some fighting in the street. Someone shot a gun. He got hit in the face. I’ll never forget his scream,” Jean stopped and bit her tongue. She didn’t want to talk about this. She didn’t even want to think about it.

“Think about the future,” her mother had told her. “Think about all the happy days you have ahead.” Those were her last words as she lay dying.

But Jean had betrayed her mother. It was a good thing her mother was dead, because if she had seen Jean like this, locked up with a bunch of crazy kids and a cruel, stupid warden, her mother’s heart would have broken.

Jean had been her hope. Her mother had lost one child and now she was about to lose another.

“Who is this Lucifer they keep talking about?” Jean asked.

The three children stared at her in astonishment.

“You don’t know who Lucifer is?” Matilda asked.

Jean shook her head.

“He’s a demon,” Matilda said, almost proudly. “He comes from hell to win souls for the devil. He came for me. I was a street child.”

“You lived in the street?” Jean asked.

“No,” Matilda said in a superior tone of voice. “I lived in the cemetery with a bunch of other kids. That’s where we slept and ate. We called ourselves the sparrows. This one girl, she could even change herself into a cockroach.”

Jimmy hissed.

“I don’t care if you believe me or not. We had a lot of fun. In the daytime we would steal. And at night we drank alcohol and sometime we would do drugs—”

“Weren’t you afraid of the dead?” Natalie asked, her eyes wide.

“Nope, the dead don’t bother you if you respect them.”

Jean didn’t think Matilda sounded too respectful but she didn’t dare argue with her.

“I was happy to be a witch,” Matilda went on. “Inside of me I have a powerful spirit. That means I’m not afraid of the police or of soldiers. I just wish they had taken me to a witch village, instead of this awful place.”

“You, four,” Patricia screamed out and then stared at Jean, Jimmy, Natalie and Matilda. “You should be praying.”

“I already prayed,” Jimmy said meekly.

“Then pray some more!”

She had finished eating. Jean could see that there was nothing more in the bag. Patricia used the front of her hand to swipe her cheek.

Jean watched Jimmy.

“Guess how old I am?” Jimmy asked.

Jean didn’t know. Neither did Jimmy. He admitted that. Jean guessed he was about nine, about Lawrence’s age, if Lawrence had lived.

“I don’t have to be here,” Jimmy said.

“Right,” Matilda huffed.

“It’s true. Ask Pastor Francis. He said if I didn’t want to go to the witches’ jail than I could join the military. And sign up to be a soldier. Lots of boys my age,” evidently Jimmy had forgotten that he didn’t know how old he was, Jean thought, “become soldiers. And they fight and die and they’re all real brave. It’s not a bad life, neither. You get to be in charge and you can kill people who you don’t like and people are afraid of you because you have a gun—”

“What are you fighting for?” Natalie asked.

Jimmy shrugged.

“So why don’t you do it then?” Matilda asked.

“That was before I lost my eyesight. They don’t want me no more.”

Patricia was glaring at them.

“I don’t think we should be talking,” Jean said. “We’re supposed to be praying.”

“I’m tired of praying.” Then Jimmy looked at Patricia, who had finished eating.

“How long does she stay?” Jean asked.

The boy clearly didn’t know.

“When does Gertrude come on?”

The boy didn’t know that either. How could he? He was too young to tell time and even if he could, no one would ever give him a watch. Not in this lifetime.

Jean put her hand in her pocket and felt way deep down. She still had the five francs. And the muddy rocks. She took out the money.

Jimmy released a gasp of surprise which immediately alerted Patricia.

But Patricia didn’t move, only straighten up. “What’s going on over there?”

And then it was like a miracle. A vendor came by. From the crack in the wall Jean saw a man dragging a hand driver cart with a great deal of clamor. She could smell the fresh fish and she caught a glimpse of orange yams and a sweet dessert. Patricia jerked her head.

Jean rubbed the francs lovingly.

“She got money!” Jimmy hollered.

And then Patricia moved. She hoisted her heavy body out of the chair and lumbered towards Jean. Jean thought she’d grab the money right then and there. Instead she looked at Jean with suspicion and asked her where she got it.

“A kind man gave it to me.”

Patricia looked at the coins, as though she wasn’t sure whether or not they were real.

“Please, Miss,” Jean begged, “I am so hungry and so are my friends.”

Jimmy nodded vigorously, as though there was a slight glimmer of hope.

“Could you buy us something from the cart?” Jean pleaded.

Patricia sneered and then she snatched the coins. It was the fastest thing Jean had seen her do. And then she shoved Jean, which Jean didn’t expect. She fell on her bad foot and she cried out.

The vendor was walking away, dragging his cart behind him.

“You wait here,” Patricia said. “I’ll be right back.”

The children looked at each other, bewildered. It was clear that Patricia wasn’t supposed to leave them alone. It was also clear that she didn’t care.

“Don’t anyone move,” Patricia warned as she trudged towards the small stone entrance.

But Jean was already heading towards the stone wall. The problem was that the children were watching her. She was terrified that someone would say something, that someone would call out and report her. But they all stared silently at Patricia and then at Jean, as though they couldn’t believe what they were seeing.

As soon as Patricia was out of sight, Jean sprang to the entrance. Her cry of pain as she pressed down on her foot caused Matilda to gasp. Jean peeked out of the door and saw Patricia walking rapidly towards the vendor.

“I promise I’ll return for you,” she said.

It was Jean’s opportunity and she took it. As fast as she could, she left.

She never looked back.