ÿþ<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Transitional//EN" "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-transitional.dtd"> <html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"> <head> <title> Poetry and Prose from In Posse Review</title> <meta http-equiv="content-type" content="text/html" charset="utf-8" /> <meta name="author" content="In Posse Review, http://www.webdelsol.com" /> <link rel="stylesheet" type="text/css" href="19_a_style.css" /> </head> <body> <center> <br /> <table border="0" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0"> <tr> <td valign="top" width="35px"> <p> <img src="insposse.gif" width="30px" height="187px" alt=" " /><br />&nbsp;<br />&nbsp;<br />&nbsp;<br />&nbsp;<br />&nbsp;<br />&nbsp;<br />&nbsp;<br />&nbsp;</p> </td> <td valign="top" width="15px" bgcolor="#0f0000">&nbsp;</td> <td width="15px">&nbsp;</td> <td align="left" valign="top" width="400px"> <h1>Broken Teeth</h1> <h2>David Zimmerman</h2> <p> Father Javier stared down into the lopsided rectangular hole he had just dug and wondered if it were six feet deep and whether or not this really mattered. Although he had spoken over many graves in his life as a priest, this was the first he had dug himself. He wiped his face with the sleeve of his cassock and sighed. The last unbroken part of his life had crumbled into pieces that morning like a clod of dry earth. His friend Father Carlos had died in his sleep some time during the night. Now he was alone. Very soon he would have to make a choice. </p> <p> Somewhere behind him on the slope leading down to the ruined village in the valley, the machine guns opened up again. In the distance, they sounded as innocuous as the chattering of teeth, but he knew better. He turned to find out what they might be firing at now, shading his eyes with a hand and gritting his own teeth with frustration. Lately, now that the Republican forces had retreated to Barcelona, that one last bit of unoccupied Spain, and the villagers had fled in their wake, Franco's troops fired at anything that moved. The priest assumed this was mainly out of boredom. The soldiers had been assembling in the far valley for over a week, and to men whose primary pleasure came from murder and rapine, standing still and waiting was no doubt a form of torture. As he watched, the guns fired again, raising a line of dust amid the brush and stunted trees at the bottom of the slope. Father Javier thought he saw a gray blur of movement, but that was all. Next came a round of mortar fire. If they are bored enough to fire shells at rabbits, he thought, God help those who get in their way next. He bent down to climb back into the grave, but then remembered how the older priest had seemed to shrink over the last few weeks and thought better of it. It was deep enough. </p> <p> When Father Javier arrived in Casa Roja fourteen years ago, Father Carlos had already been there twenty-seven years, serving the tiny village and its surrounding farms. Neither of the two men was pleased about the situation at first, and they treated each other with a polite and formal disdain. The congregation wasn't really large enough to need two priests, and it was obvious to them both that the bishop had sent Father Javier as the older priest's eventual replacement. Father Carlos informed him immediately that he had no intention of dying any time soon, so he better get used to waiting. The villagers, however, found this mannered standoff hilarious, and desperate as they were for sources of levity, egged them on whenever they could. Father Javier considered his fellow priest a relic of the 19th century, unbending and overly severe with his flock, and Father Carlos made no secret of the fact he disliked Father Javier's left leaning politics, mild as they were. Their relationship might have continued on in this way indefinitely had it not been for the death of a small child. </p> <p> One spring afternoon while a group of children played outside the chapel before catechism class, a violent storm swept up the valley, bringing with it gusts of sudden wind. Ochre clouds of dust billowed up over the ridge where the church and its outbuildings were located and tiny pellets of hail rattled across the tiled roof of the chapel. The children shrieked with delight when the rain came down. Fig sized dollops that splattered when they hit. It didn't last long. Less time than it would take to say the rosary once around. Just as the storm seemed to be subsiding, lightning struck the largest branch of an ancient oak at the edge of the cemetery. The children had taken shelter beneath this tree, and when the branch came crashing to the ground, it landed atop a child. </p> <p> Father Javier saw all this from the rectory window; Father Carlos heard the brief cry in his study and thought at first the children had cornered his cat once again. Both men rushed to the cemetery as quickly as they could, and after a great deal of straining, they somehow managed to slide the child free. Afterwards, when the village men saw what the priests had done, they were amazed these two small men had been able to lift such a huge branch, much less move it off of the girl's body. The priests pulled her out from under the tree within moments of its falling, but it did no good. She was dead by the time they got her into the church. In their grief and frustration over their inability to save her, they learned to speak to one another. </p> <p> Father Carlos lay on the scarred oak table in the rectory kitchen dressed in his best vestments, which in these difficult times were a bit ragged. This had been the easy part. Now Father Javier had to decide how to cover the body for the grave. He had neither the materials nor the skill to construct a coffin; however, he felt the man deserved more than just a shroud. The kitchen was made of large, pale green stone blocks quarried from a spot behind the church, and as a result the room was cool and dim, but even so, the priest knew he had to get him into the ground before the heat took its toll. On the far side of the kitchen was a large, wooden trunk used to store the dishes and flatware. Father Javier wondered if his friend could be made to fit inside. The small windows along the top of the wall rattled, interrupting his thought. From the other side of the valley, Franco's Moors fired another volley of shells. The explosions caused the pans hanging above the stove to buzz like angry hornets. A bit of dust floated down from the ceiling. </p> <p> The week before, Father Javier had heard the long and somewhat dispiriting confession of an Argentine soldier fighting in the international brigade. He had wandered up from the valley, where his tattered unit was making a fireless camp for the night. Once he finished recounting his sins, the soldier advised the priest to leave. His unit was among the last of the Republican forces south of the Ebro River. Franco's men were just over in the next valley, massing for the final assault on Barcelona. The war was over. If they wanted to save themselves, he told the priest, they had to leave now. </p> <p> "You're priests," the Italian told him in a flat voice, "but your politics are known. What do you think has been protecting you all of this time? It hasn't been the grace of God, I assure you. We Republicans are not known for our love of priests." </p> <p> Father Javier opened his mouth to counter this, but then thought better of it. He saw no point in explaining the subtle avenues of God's will to this man. It was enough he came to be forgiven. </p> <p> The Argentine put a smoke blackened hand on the priest's arm and gave him a weary look. "And if we know, they know. You've heard the stories about what they do to traitors. Surely. To them, liberal priests are no better than anarchists. Why give his Moors the satisfaction?" </p> <p> "Yes," he said, "but Father Carlos is too sick to walk and we gave our only mule to one of the village families." </p> <p> "Then perhaps it's your confession I should have heard." The soldier laughed, but it was an empty sound and conveyed no humor. </p> <p> "Perhaps," the priest agreed. </p> <p> Today, the priest believed the soldier had been right. Franco's men must know who I am, he thought, and what I've said in my sermons. Why else would they be shelling the church? He wasn't sure he could get away now even if he wanted to. And that, of course, was the other question. What was the point, he kept asking himself, what was the point? </p> <p> It was as he prepared for the burial by changing into his Easter vestments, the only respectable costume he had left, that he heard the sobbing. He did not recognize the sound as human at first. He mistook it for a creaky door swaying in the wind. But it was ten in the morning and the valley was as breathless as a corpse. The priest set down his chasuble and walked out into the chapel toward the sound. Just as he reached the door, it stopped so suddenly he wondered if he'd actually heard it. If not, it wouldn't be the first time he'd imagined a sound this last week. </p> <p> With a groan, the tall wooden door at the entrance to the chapel swung open. A small creature wrapped in gray, blood spattered rags squatted in the fierce sunlight at the bottom of the steps. </p> <p> "Hello," the priest said, unsure of the age or even the sex of this little person. <p> What looked up was a child, perhaps a girl. Her face smeared with dust and blood. The thick layers of grime made her features indistinct, except for her eyes, which were the dark, green color of orange leaves in September. They looked disproportionately huge in their sunken sockets. The priest waited for her to speak, but she only stared up at him, clutching at a bundle of brown burlap, the bottom of which was soaked through and dripping. More blood. Where does it end? he wondered. One more soul torn loose and broken. </p> <p> "Come in," he said finally, "let me help you." </p> <p> The child hesitated for a moment before standing up and following him into the dusty gloom of the chapel. Yellow squares of sunlight marked a path between the rough wooden pews. The last few bits of stained glass in the windows had fallen weeks ago. The priest could hardly even remember what they had depicted. He led the child into the kitchen, glancing back at her occasionally to make sure she followed, forgetting until it was too late what was laid out on the table. But the child paid the body no mind, and it was this lack of response that wracked the priest's heart. Of course, he thought, what's another body to this child of war? </p> <p> He sat her down in one of the high backed wooden chairs and proceeded to look her over for wounds. With so much blood, he reasoned, something had to be damaged. It was then he remembered the artillery fire and realized it must have been her they were shooting at. He shook his head at the waste, the total waste of it. With a dampened rag, he cleaned the child's face. She allowed him to push up her sleeves and wash her arms and then examine her legs. The priest pointed to her belly and asked if she had any pain there. She shook her head. Odd, he thought, so much blood, but she seems to be fine. </p> <p> It wasn't until he tried to take her bundle away, only to set it on the stone counter so he could wash her hands, that she first spoke. No, she told him, so he let her be. Once he'd done all he could without stripping her down and giving her a bath, he stepped back and looked her over. </p> <p> "What can I do to help you, child? There is only one of us here now and I'm not sure how much longer I will be around. This is no place for a child to stay. Where is your family?" As soon as he asked her, he wished that he hadn't. The answer was clear. </p> <p> She just shrugged and looked down at the scabs on her knees. </p> <p> "The rest of them," he motioned toward the valley with his chin, "will be here soon. And then&#151;" He shrugged also, unconsciously imitating her gesture. </p> <p> In a small, clear voice, as high and delicate as a spring peeper, she said, "They say you do baptisms." </p> <p> He felt as though molten lead had been poured into his chest, a joy so fierce it scalded him. Thank God. Here at last is something I can do to help repair one of these broken pieces. "Of course," he said, finding it difficult to speak, "of course. Follow me." </p> <br> <br> <p> Although Father Carlos was 67 when the war started, he still possessed a wiry, compressed energy that reminded his fellow priest of a steel spring. He rose each day before dawn and worked at whatever was necessary until dark, sometimes even late into the night. It was this trait, above all, that Father Javier admired most in the man. He had the energy of a teenage boy. And so it was all the more shocking when he took to bed one morning and refused to get up. It happened the day after the Rodriguez family, the last of their parishioners, left on the rectory mule. </p> <p> Father Javier tried his best to rouse him. "You still have many years of good works left in you, Father. Get up. We'll find our way to Barcelona and from there we'll be told what we need to do next." </p> <p> But Father Carlos would not relent. "The world is broken, Javier, and there is nothing either of us can do to fix it now." </p> <p> It went back and forth like this for days, and then, Father Carlos truly became ill. Coughing and hacking. A fever. It was as though he were willing himself into the grave. Javier threatened to leave him if he didn't get up and move. This had no effect. </p> <p> "Perhaps it would be best if you did," was all he said. </p> <p> Along with this legendary energy came a legendary stubbornness. Father Javier saw there was nothing else he could do to convince the old man and decided he would stay with him until the end, come what may. When he told Father Carlos about his decision, it was the older priest who became frustrated and angry. </p> <p> "There is no point for you to stay. You are wasting yourself. I will die and then I will be dead. What can you do? You've already given me supreme unction. All that is left is for Him to take me." </p> <p> But Father Carlos was not the only one who could cultivate an illogical and ferocious stance and stick with it. So the two men whiled away the final days listening to the sound of distant artillery duels and playing a Chinese game the old man loved called Go! Both of them savored the irony. </p> <br><br> <p> Just as the priest and his tiny companion entered the baptistery, a large artillery shell landed somewhere nearby, rattling the shutters and sending dust down from the rafters in gritty clouds. The priest suspected it had hit the graveyard. With a stone pitcher from the kitchen, the priest filled the baptismal font and said a prayer of blessing. Then, taking the child by the arm, he began the ceremony. <p> "Wait," the child said, "it is not for me." </p> <p> She placed her blood caked bundle on a low shelf and carefully unwrapped it. Inside there was a tiny arm, no more than ten inches long. Although it had been crudely torn from its body, the arm itself was unblemished. Lying on the counter in the dim light of the baptistery, it did not quite look real. The priest took a deep breath. The girl wept without a sound. Just a line of quiet tears from either eye. </p> <p> "I ran as fast as I could and then it blew me up. I couldn't see. And when I could, she was gone. All of her but this. I looked everywhere, but " The tears fell one by one from the tip of her chin, darkening the filthy material of her shirt. "Please," she said, "I don't want Paola to go to hell." </p> <p> "Of course," the priest said, and without allowing himself to stop and think about what he was doing, he began the ritual again, sprinkling the tiny arm with the newly blessed water. </p> <p> Once the priest finished, the girl looked up at him and smiled. He saw now that one of her teeth had recently been broken, most likely when the shell exploded. And later, when he thought about it, he believed it was the sight of this tiny broken tooth that had done it. It was this that had changed his mind about God forever. </p> <p> "And now," she said, "God will put her back together, yes?" </p> <p> Outside in the valley, there was a terrific clamor of metal and men. The rumble of tank engines and the sharp pops of diesel truck ignitions. Despite the distance, the shouted orders of officers sometimes pierced the mechanical noise. And below it all, enormous and inevitable, was the low, gritty crunch of many boots marching across rubble and broken stone. To the priest, it sounded as though thousands of men were grinding their teeth.</p> <hr /> <h2>David Zimmerman</h2> <p>David Zimmerman was conceived in Saigon in fall of 1969 and spent most of his youth in Atlanta, GA. He is the author of one novel, <em>Socket</em>, and now lives at the edge of someone else's corn field in a small town in Iowa. </p> <br /> <br /> <div id="logo"><em>In Posse:</em> Potentially, might be . . . </div> <p><img src="tedhead.gif" align="right" alt="logo" /></p> <h3><a href="http://webdelsol.com/InPosse/index.htm" align="right"> Return</a>&nbsp;&nbsp; </h3> <br /> <hr /> </td></tr></table></center></body></html>