Escape

“Escape"

         The island was suspended in a momentary lull.  For weeks, the bombs had never ceased for longer than an hour at a time, scattering shrapnel and bodies like confetti.  Now, three days had passed without a single attack, and the island’s inhabitants waited breathlessly for any news from the outside world.  Had the war stopped?  Even if it hadn’t, was it finally safe to start an evacuation?
         The only remaining means of communication, a radio in the control bunker, brought the grim tidings which the villagers had been waiting for and praying would never come.  There would be another attack that night.  This time, however, it would be different.  This time no underground shelter would keep the people safe.  It would be over in a second, said the voice over the broadcast, and when the dust settled all that remained would be dust.
         Angelito’s father, a fisherman whose family had lived on the island for generations, conveyed this news to his wife.  His voice quavered uncharacteristically.
         “Is there any chance of escape?”  His wife asked the obvious question.
         “No.”
         “If we make no effort, Angelito will think we have surrendered.  I will not have my son die in fear or anguish.  I want him to be calm when it happens.  I want him to feel proud of us.”
         “Yes…”  The fisherman nodded slowly.  “Yes, we must act as if there is hope.  For him.”

********************************

         Underground in the center of the island was the safety shelter, where many families had taken refuge, to stay until the bombings subsided.  Angelito was in his family’s designated quarters, playing absentmindedly with a few blocks.  He looked up when the door opened.
         “Mami, Papi, why are the men shouting?”
         The father began carefully.  “They are shouting for joy, because the blockade has been lowered.  We’ll be able to leave the island,” he lied, trying to sound as hopeful as possible.
         “But I don’t want to leave, I want to go home!”  At the mere thought of his family’s cottage, with its smooth wooden floors and thatched roof, the boy began to whimper and sob.  His mother picked him up and placed him on her lap, allowing the tears to seep through her dress.
         “Shhhh.  Don’t cry.  We have to go, and you have to trust Papi’s judgment.  We’re collecting our things and going to the boat tonight.  We’ll row across to the mainland.  We’ll be there by morning.”
         Angelito’s face brightened at the mention of the boat.  He had always loved when his Papi would go out fishing and take him along.
         “Papi, can I sit up on your lap like I do?  That way I can see farther, right?  I’ll be a fisherman like you one day!”
         “Yes, Angelito, you will.  You will grow into a fine man,” he said, stroking his boy’s dark hair.  “Go to your room and pack up what you brought from home.  We’re leaving soon.”
         When the child was gone, the man and wife collapsed into one another’s arms and sobbed.  The sting of unavoidable lies burned like a thousand fires.

********************************

         After an hour of gathering belongings and eating a last-minute dinner, the little family left the shelter and paced through the streets of their beloved village.  The flames that still crept among the fragile houses lashed their light through the shadowy streets, and scattered an eerie glow into the boundless sky.
         Angelito walked at his mother’s side, his hand tightly gripped in hers, and his father led the way with several bundles strapped over his broad shoulders.
         The man didn’t know why their peaceful island had been forced into such a time of destruction.  He hated the war more than anything, but tried to counter any such feeling towards the soldiers, because he knew that it was not their doing.  He had just as little control over the situation as they did.  The only thing he could do in the face of death was shape the circumstances in which it was delivered.  So he led on, through the blackened remains.
         A presence of rescue workers and sparsely equipped firefighters grew around them as they got closer to the outlying villages where relief had taken the longest.  Then, after looking around at the chaos, Angelito asked a terrible question.
         “Mami, what are those men carrying?  What’s in those long grey bags?”
         A tremor rushed through the woman as she looked at the bags that Angelito had identified, knowing all too well whose burned or broken remains might be concealed in each one.
         “Th—those are people’s belongings.  Anything that survived the fire.”  She hated herself for lying, but how could there be another way?  How could she tell her son the unthinkable, that everyone he had ever known and loved was either dead or would die instantly within the hour? 
         “Don’t look at the houses, just look at Papi and follow him,” she finished, pulling Angelito a bit closer.
         Some of the workers or coughing and staggering survivors looked in amazement at the family that so boldly marched through the wreckage.  Many thought that they were crazy, but no one felt the need to stop them or question their motives, for how a family meets its death is a personal choice.

********************************

         They reached the boats after about thirty minutes.  Angelito’s father untied his small fishing vessel and helped his wife and son aboard.  Never before had all three been in the craft together, and the wooden frame groaned under the weight.  The man in the bow took his son upon his knee, as promised, and began rowing.  The sea ahead was infinite and black, but the fires from the island continued to burn and serve as ghostly beacons behind them.
         Suddenly the sky exploded in light and color as the bombers overhead launched fireworks as visual confirmation.  The specialized military explosives lingered in the air, sparking reds and greens through the half-dark above the island.
         “Look at that,” said Angelito in wonder.  “The sky is beautiful!”
         “Yes, it is beautiful,” replied his mother.
         His father, the fisherman, captain of the tiny vessel, looked up at the blasts with sadness in his eyes.  “Listen to me.  There will be another explosion, my son.  It will fill the sky, greater than any light you’ve ever seen before.  Hold on to Mami, and you’ll be safe.  We will escape.”
         “Will we go home after the war?”  He transferred gently into his mother’s open arms.
         “We’ll be home sooner than you think.  You’ll hardly even notice that we were gone.”
         “Will it be like a sunrise, Papi?”
         “Yes, just like a sunrise…”  His face now ran with sweat and tears.  The woman clutched Angelito to her body, rocking slowly and whispering a lullaby.  The father heard the whoosh of a bomber overhead, and continued rowing defiantly into the darkness.  The smiling child turned his eyes skyward to watch the sunrise.

********************************

         The world was burning white.  As the hot winds had flown towards the boat, Angelito felt no fear.  He knew, as the boat was engulfed by the colorless glow, that they had made their escape.  And the sky was beautiful.