SUSANNA

22| THE POWER OF A SURGEON

There was a commotion inside the grounds of the fort. Gunshots pierced the night.

When Susanna peered through the wooden slits she saw the silhouettes of soldiers, including those stationed outside her door, running in the direction of the fort's entrance. She crouched into her corner and cradled her head in her arms. There was a knock. She listened and waited. The door opened. The light of the moon accompanied the outline of a woman's body inside.

"Susanna?' It was Krotoa, her voice, barely a whisper with an undercurrent of urgency and fear, forced Susanna to rush to side."

"Krotoa?"

"Listen to me-"

"What is happening outside?" Susanna pushed her way past Krotoa but was held back. "Did Nommoa come for me?"

"Hush!" She put her hand across Susanna's mouth while she spoke. "He sent me. I cannot talk now but listen carefully. The Commander wants Nommoa dead and he plans to use you to lure him to the Fort. No matter what happens, deny that he means anything to you. If you see him, ignore him. Treat him like a stranger. You do not know him. Do you understand?" When Susanna nodded, she removed her hand from her mouth. "And I was never here tonight." With that she turned around and was gone.

After a while the commotion subsided and familiar noises resumed of the soldiers at their posts outside her shack. That was the last time she heard the name of Nommoa. Many Sundays had passed since Krotoa came to warn her. She lost count of exactly how many.

Nobody talked to her. She never saw anybody. Only their hands that shoved her daily ration into the opening at the door. Some days she stood close to the door for a glimpse of a the owner of those hands. But on most days the only survival tool at her disposal were her ears, two mental antennas that devised their own game of sanity preservation. Tuning in to the footsteps, voices, laughter and daily routine of those beyond her solitary capsule became an exercise aimed at mental strength and endurance against insanitary.

Since the night of Krotoa's warning the the numbers of the soldiers and their general routine around the grounds of the Fort changed. On most nights the Commander's protectors of the four bastioned walls were on high alert. The boots crunch with extra pace on the cobbles of rough grey stone. but her antennas could no longer pair the footsteps, the voices or the laughter as they moved back and forth, up and down they moved on their rounds right through the night.

They kept warm around the fires, told stories, argued, joked, complained and fought at times. They talked about the nights when they were off duty. How they spend most of their wages at the public inn on cheap arrack from the innkeeper's tap. And about the sweet delights of the women of the night at Barbara's whorehouse.

Before Krotoa's warning Coast was the face of her daily ration of water and beans and a cordial yet distant relationship developed between them. Susanna anticipated every twitch when she called her Coast instead of Maria. In the beginning her Thak you, Coast was met with a certain kind of passive-aggressive eye and face contortions which eventually settled into a quiet acceptance, anticipation even.

Then there were Angela and Catrijn who never disappointed with their mannerisms that bore all the trademarks of two slave women desperate to ingratiate themselves with those who had power. Susanna imagined that Angela always smiled when she spoke to her masters. Catrijn was loud. Outgoing. Jovial.

One day Catrijn came with Angela. Catrijn, the woman who barked orders with a voice that rumbled like thunder and a presence that cast a shadow larger than her physique. The washerwoman who she imagined found pleasure in measuring her water ration to the last drop stood at the opening of the door when Angela put down the water. The eyes of the one who made sure she would never have enough water to extract the stench of slavery from her skin feasted off her shame and indignity and watched as she battled to scrub the dirt from her flesh. The one responsible for her scarred body, her loneliness and filth stood at the opening of the door and stared upon her nakedness with disgust on her face, and without any trace of regret for the misery left in the wake of her malice. But then they were gone and she was alone again.