Know the Facts

An Extract from 'Jumping to Heaven'

By Katherine Goode

Chapter 9 "Safety House"

The Moonlight Cafe served the best coffee in Adelaide. At least that's what Tony, the owner, always told his customers.

'We only use the highest grade coffee beans and we grind them fresh every day,' he boasted as he presented a frothy cappuccino to a bemused customer.

When Tony hired Hussein to work in the cafe, he said that making good coffee was an art form in itself.

'Never grind the beans too much or the coffee will lose its flavour,' he told Hussein. 'And always serve the coffee immediately. Lukewarm coffee tastes like dog droppings.'

Hussein smiled at Tony's earthy language and enthusiastic gesturing. Not too many people, he had discovered, were willing to hire a sixteen year old Iraqi refugee with heavily accented English. So Hussein was already very grateful to Tony. But now, it seemed working at the Moonlight Cafe was more than just a job. It was a vocation.

Over the next few weeks, Hussein learned how to properly grind the coffee beans, operate the cappuccino machine, make toasted sandwiches and pizzas and serve the customers. Sometimes he got the orders mixed up or put too much foam in the cappuccinos. And once, when a woman ordered a white coffee, Hussein gave her a black coffee with a scoop of ice cream. But nobody seemed to mind terribly much. Hussein more than compensated for the few mistakes he made by being an energetic and cheerful worker.

'Hussein, you're doing a fine job,' Tony nodded in approval. 'You learn real fast.'

Hussein flashed a toothy grin. It was wonderful to feel valued again. In the past four years, Hussein's family, along with the rest of the Kurdish and Turkmen refugees had been regarded as little more than human refuse by the various countries where they had sought shelter. During their escape from Iraq, they had been bombed by government planes. They had suffered from frostbite and starvation on their trek across the rugged, snow-covered terrain of the Toris Mountains to Turkey. Even the refugee camps had offered very little shelter. There they had witnessed the deterioration of the human spirit-people so hungry and desperate that they abandoned their children and fought each other for scraps of food and a moment's warmth near a sputtering campfire.

Hussein gave an inward shudder as he remembered those terrible times. It had not been much better in Turkey. They had been allowed to stay only on sufferance by a government increasingly irritated by the unending tide of refugees. The Osman family of seven were crammed into a small apartment and given a $150 monthly allowance by the United Nations. To supplement their meager income, everyone, including Hussein, got a job. After two years, they were arrested by Turkish soldiers and deported. For two more years they wandered back and forth between Kurdistan and Turkey, living in flea-bitten hotels and foraging for food until they were finally granted permission to come to Australia.

'Hussein!' Tony's booming voice quickly dispelled Hussein's painful reverie. 'Quick. I need you to clean up the front tables. We have customers waiting.'

Hussein grabbed a tray and began clearing the tables. After he had stacked the dirty dishes and placed them on a stand, he wiped down the old-fashioned lino-top tables and put fresh cutlery and serviettes on them. Then he lifted the tray of dirty dishes onto one shoulder and hauled it out to the kitchen. As he emptied the dishes into the sink and hurriedly washed them, he began whistling one of his favorite rock songs. He loved the madcap pace of the cafe. At least at the Moonlight Cafe he never had time to be sad for long.

By nine o'clock, Hussein had nearly finished his shift. He stacked the chairs on the tables and mopped the floor. Tony, waving a piece of paper, came up to Hussein just as he was squeezing out the mop.

'Hussein, you need to re-do your employment declaration,' Tony said. 'You put down your school's address and telephone number instead of your home.'

Hussein's easygoing smile swiftly disappeared and was replaced by a hunted look.

'Why they need my address?' he asked with marked suspicion. '

For the Taxation Office,' Tony explained. 'It's the law.'

Hussein looked increasingly worried.

'If Taxation Office know where I live, then they come to my home?'

'Only if you don't pay your taxes,' Tony teased. Then he noticed Hussein's terrified expression. 'No, seriously it's all done on computer even the mail-outs. To them, you're just a tax number.'

Hussein bit his lip. There were already too many people who knew their address-the people from Immigration, Social Security and the health service. And now there were the tax people. Mrs. O'Shea, the social worker, had assured the Osmans that they could trust the Australian government and that no one would try to hurt them. But how much could they trust Mrs. O'Shea, Hussein wondered? After all, she worked for the government.

'We move soon,' Hussein evaded Tony's gaze. 'I let you know later.'

Tony shrugged in resignation. Hussein was a nice kid and a hard worker. But it worried Tony that the boy was so secretive. Hussein always made excuses whenever Tony tried to invite him and his family over for dinner. He wouldn't accept a lift home from Tony, claiming he enjoyed taking the bus. He eventually gave Tony his home address, but he still refused to give him an emergency telephone number.

'We don't have phone yet,' Hussein had explained.

Hussein always had good explanations but Tony was beginning to feel uneasy. He hoped Hussein wasn't mixed up in anything illegal.

Hussein finished mopping the floors and emptied the bucket of dirty water outside. Then he placed his apron on a hook by the back door and slipped on a baggy windcheater.

'See you tomorrow,' he waved to Tony as he swept out the front door.

'Take care,' Tony called out. On an impulse he followed Hussein out to the street. He was too late. The boy had already disappeared.

'Just like a ghost.' Tony shook his head in disbelief. 'What is that kid running away from anyway?'

Hussein peered around the corner. He saw Tony thoughtfully scratch his head and slowly walk back inside the cafe. Good, he's given up, Hussein thought.

As he walked towards the bus stop, he glanced backwards a few times, but didn't notice anyone following him. When he got on the bus, he saw a woman sitting in the front. She had brown, greasy hair that hung in lank curls over her shoulders. Despite the icy weather, she wore a short sleeved, tight-fitting dress that revealed her plump, dimpled .arms and white, sausage-like legs. Hadn't he seen her on the bus before? Maybe she was checking on him? No, that was ridiculous, Hussein scolded himself. Even if Australia did have a secret police, they wouldn't look like that.

During the next few months Hussein became much more confident about his English and started using Aussie expressions like she'll be right and good on ya with the regular customers. They took it good-naturedly and teased him back by using obscure slang that made Hussein knot his brows in puzzlement.

'Tony, what means technicolour yawn?' he asked one afternoon.

Tony sputtered with laughter.

'It means to chunder,' he said, laugh lines wrinkling around his eyes. 'You know, to throw up, be sick.'

'Oh,' Hussein looked at him with dawning understanding. 'Such a strange language. But it's funny too. I like this technicolour yawn. Tell me another one, Tony.'

'Okay, how about this one,' Tony became suddenly testy. 'If you don't stop yammering away with the customers and get back to work, I'll give you the golden handshake.'

Hussein blanched but then realised Tony was just joking.

'Yes, boss,' Hussein snapped to attention. 'Back to work, right away.'

Tony smiled as he watched Hussein scurrying back to work. He was secretly very proud of how quickly Hussein was settling in. As the son of Italian immigrants, Tony knew from personal experience how difficult it was to learn a new language and way of life. So, whenever there was a lull in the afternoon trade, Tony sent Hussein off to finish his homework.

'My papa always told me that if you want to be a success, you have to get an education,' Tony told Hussein.

'But you didn't go to uni,' Hussein challenged.

'That's where you're wrong,' Tony shook his head. 'I got a degree in Hotel and Restaurant Management. When I bought this place, it was a real dump. I used all my training to turn this place around. In a couple more years I'll have saved enough money to open another place and maybe later, another one.'

'Sounds great.'

'So get to work,' Tony ordered him. But then he softened his tone and winked slyly.

Sometimes, when Hussein got stuck on an assignment, Tony helped him out.

'We have to write an essay on Hamlet. But I don't understand it,' Hussein complained one afternoon.

'What's the essay supposed to be about?' Tony asked.

He had always liked Shakespeare's plays because, like Italian opera, they were filled with passion and intrigue.

'It has to be on one of the play's major themes.'

'Hmm.' Tony thoughtfully stroked his chin. 'Well, how about betrayal?'

Hussein looked blank.

'It's when people who you trust suddenly let you down,' Tony explained. 'In the play, everyone who Hamlet loves and trusts winds up betraying him, even his mother. And the king, Hamlet's uncle, keeps sending people to spy on him and try to kill him.'

At the word 'spy', Hussein suddenly recoiled, as if he had been struck.

'These spies, they tell all your secrets?'

'Yes.'

'In Iraq, we have secret police, the Amen.' Hussein's voice tightened with barely controlled anger. 'They are everywhere, in the shops, the schools, universities. No place is safe.'

'It sounds terrible,' Tony frowned. 'Did they ever give you any trouble?'

Hussein nodded slowly.

'My father taught Engineering at university. There was a man in his department. He was my father's best friend...'

Hussein stopped in mid-sentence, his eyes suddenly fearful.

'Yes, what about this man?' Tony asked, deeply intrigued.

'Never mind,' Hussein shrugged. 'It's nothing, really nothing.'

Tony repressed a sigh. It was so frustrating. Just when he thought Hussein was finally going to unlock some of those mysteries, he froze up. Something had the boy terrified. But what was it? What had happened to him?

Two days later, Hussein practically charged into the cafe, his face flushed with excitement. He dumped his school bag on a table and impatiently rummaged in it until he finally pulled out a pamphlet.

'What is this?' he thrust the paper in front of Tony.

The pamphlet had a picture of a smiling house on the front cover. Tony carefully read the brochure, as Hussein anxiously watched him. Occasionally, Tony grunted in approval or furrowed his brows in a question mark. When he had finished, he handed it back to Hussein.

'So?' Hussein asked with mounting impatience. 'Can you explain it?'

'Sure. It's an application to join the Safety House program.'

'But what are these safety houses? Are they for people in trouble?'

'Well, yes,' Tony nodded. 'They're mostly for children. Maybe a child gets lost or is being chased by someone. If he sees a house or shop marked with this sign, then he knows he can go there for help.'

'What do these safety people do?' Hussein became more and more agitated. 'Do they hide the children, do they protect them from bad people?'

Tony studied Hussein with growing concern. Why was the boy so upset?

'Yes,' Tony assured him. 'They take care of the children and contact their families or the police.'

'The police,' Hussein practically spat out the word. 'I would never call the police.'

Tony wrinkled his brow in surprise. Then he suddenly understood all of Hussein's strange questions and his obvious distress.

'The job of the police here is to help people and protect them.'

'I don't know.' Hussein looked unconvinced. But he glanced down at the sheet, scanning the words. Finally, he carefully folded the brochure and stuffed it back into his school bag.

Tony watched Hussein put his things away and change into his work clothes. Then the owner turned away, kneading his temples with his fingers. He could feel the first sharp pains of a headache drilling into his skull. In irritation, he poured himself a glass of water and swallowed two aspirin.

He took another deep long drink, but a sour taste lingered in his mouth. He felt strangely depleted. He knew he had badly let the boy down.

I just wish he wasn't so afraid. I wish I could help him more, Tony thought miserably. But Tony wasn't able to berate himself too long, for just at that moment the late afternoon crowd began to spill into the cafe. Four students dressed in their school uniforms ordered a pizza with the works. A family of five wanted gelati and cappuccinos. The bookseller next door wandered in for his daily fix of coffee and cannoli. And a group of Japanese tourists needed detailed explanations of everything on the menu.

For the next few hours, Tony and Hussein were too busy to exchange more than a few words. At 5:30, Tony's wife Theresa and his teenage brother Sal arrived with several large dishes of homemade lasagne.

'Just in time,' Tony heaved a sigh of relief. 'We have some early diners these evening.'

'Don't worry,' Theresa smiled. 'I made enough to feed the Italian Club. And for those who want some variety, I made two different sauces - a marinara and a puttanesca.'

'Fantastico,' Tony blew a kiss to his wife.

They all worked together, taking the customers' orders, serving the food, running the cash register, and cleaning up.

By nine, there were only a few late stragglers left in the cafe. Tony's family and Hussein were finally able to relax and eat their dinner.

Theresa served up a hot platter of pasta.

'I made your favorite, Hussein.' Theresa gave him an extra large serve. 'Tonno e Funghi, tuna and mushrooms.'

'Thanks, Theresa.' Hussein rubbed his stomach in anticipation and everyone laughed. He seemed visibly more relaxed after his long evening shift. Hussein picked up his fork and began to methodically demolish the food. For -the next few minutes, no one talked as they poured all their concentration into the delicious meal. A peaceful atmosphere descended over the cafe. For a few precious moments it became a warm and safe haven from the outside world.

Suddenly that peace was shattered as angry shouts rang out on the street. There were sounds of a fierce struggle, bodies slamming against walls, the tinkling of broken glass, the deep, agonised cries of someone injured. A sharp blast of gunfire ricocheted through the night and then there was stunned silence. The terrible moment seemed to hang, momentarily suspended in time. Then a woman screamed a sharp, chilling scream that fractured the air. There were more screams and then the clattering footsteps of someone running away.

Tony jumped to his feet and started towards the door.

'No,' Theresa grabbed his arm. 'Please, don't go out there.'

'I have to see what happened.' Tony gently removed her arm. 'Someone may be badly hurt. We'll have to get an ambulance.'

He ran outside whiIe the others sat in front of their unfinished meals, their faces pinched with worry.

A few minutes later, Tony returned. His face was ashen and his hands shook noticeably. He took a few steps forward and then leaned heavily against a table.

'What happened?' Theresa's voice wobbled uncertainly. 'Are you alright?'

Tony slowly lifted his head. He took out a handkerchief and slowly wiped his brow.

'Yes, I-I'm fine,' he said, still deeply shaken. 'There was a boy shot. It looks pretty bad-blood everywhere. But a doctor's looking after him and they've called the police.'

Then he slowly looked around the room. The few remaining diners had noiselessly crept out during the commotion. Well, he couldn't blame them. After what had happened, they probably deserved a free meal. But then, with mounting uneasiness, he noticed someone else was missing.

'Where's Hussein?' he asked.

Theresa and Sal turned and stared at Hussein's empty chair. In all the noise and confusion, they hadn't noticed his disappearance.

During the next few days, the street buzzed with gossip about the shooting. Some people thought the motive was racial because the victim was white and his attacker was Asian. Others thought the two men had been involved in a drug sale that had gone bad. Tony listened without comment to the other shopkeepers arguing and advancing various theories. He too was angry and distressed by the increasing violence on their street. But he was even more concerned that Hussein had vanished without a trace.

Hussein had not returned to work since the incident. After waiting a few days, Tony decided to ring him at home. After much coaxing and prodding, Hussein had finally given Tony a telephone number several weeks before. But the number proved useless. After Tony dialed the number, a recording informed him the number was no longer working. When Tony called the information operator, she told him the Oman family had a new silent number.

Then Tony phoned Housing's school. At first the secretary refused to give him any information about Hussein. But after Tony explained the seriousness of the situation, she finally admitted that Hussein had also missed several days of school.

'We've tried to contact the family in the post, but we haven't received any response,' she said.

'Have the letters been returned?' Tony asked, clinging to one last hope.

'Well, no,' the secretary admitted. 'But you know how slow the post is sometimes.'

'Yes,' Tony agreed. 'Well, thanks anyway.'

When he got off the phone, he searched through Housing's file and found the address. He stared at the paper, silently debating with himself. It could be a dead-end, just like the phone number. But it was all he had to go on.

'What the hell,' Tony muttered aloud. He grabbed his jacket and called out to his startled wife, who was serving an elderly couple, 'Theresa, I've got to go out for a while. Call Sal and get him to come over to help you.'

Before Theresa could reply, Tony had ducked out the front door.

The Osman's address was in a small block of flats in Prospect. Tony checked the mailboxes and found the name Osman pencilled in on the box for Flat Number 4. When he finally located the flat and knocked at the front door, a tall, thin man with a bristling moustache answered.

'Yes?' the man held the door open a crack.

'Is this where Hussein Osman lives?' Tony nervously cleared his throat.

'Why do you want to know?' The man suspiciously eyed Tony.

'Excuse me, I should have introduced myself. I'm Tony Conti. Hussein works, or rather, worked at my cafe,' he explained.

'Oh, that Tony.' A broad, welcoming grin spread across his face. 'I am Jamal, Hussein's father. Please, comer in. You are most welcome here.'

The Osman's apartment was small and sparsely furnished. Two large posters of the Mediterranean hung on the wall and a bright blue rug in front of the lounge suite brightened the otherwise drab front room.

Hussein and two of his brothers were watching television on a small set with bent aerials. When Hussein saw Tony, he barely grunted a greeting and fixed his attention on the TV.

'Hussein, this is not the way to treat a guest,' Jamal admonished his son. 'You must greet him properly.'

Hussein reluctantly rose to his feet and sheepishly glanced at Tony.

'Hello,' he mumbled.

'That's better,' Jamal said. 'Now, please go to the kitchen and ask your mother to prepare something for our guest.'

'Oh, it's not necessary,' Tony broke in. 'I just came...'

'Please, we are very honoured by your visit. You must let us offer you something,' Jamal insisted, with such firmness it was almost a command.

'Thank you,' Tony nodded politely. He meekly sat down in the chair that Jamal had indicated. Jamal followed him, limping noticeably on one leg, and settled himself heavily into the facing chair. He carefully studied Tony's face, taking in every line, every detail, systematically committing it to memory. Finally, he nodded slowly, as if he was satisfied.

'You have been a good friend to Hussein. He has spoken often of your many kind gestures.'

'He's a good kid,' Tony said, feeling embarrassed by such extravagant praise. 'And a hard worker. That's why I was worried when he didn't show up for work.'

'Ah yes,' Jamal sighed. 'The shooting troubled him much.'

'I understand. And that's why...'

But at that moment Hussein brought in a tray with a small brass coffee pot, delicate engraved cups and an assortment of pastries on a plate.

He poured the thick Turkish coffee into the cups and served his father and Tony. Then he sat down, nervously glancing back and forth between the two.

'I was just starting to tell your father that I hoped you would come back to the cafe.' Tony smiled encouragingly. But Hussein dropped his head, descending into a moody silence.

'Hussein,' his father mildly rebuked him. 'Tony is trying to talk to you.'

'I know father,' Hussein mumbled.

Jamal shrugged in resignation.

'Please excuse my son,' he apologised. 'He is ... we are all very upset about what happened. We thought we had left such things behind.'

'Hussein once told me there was a man who was in your department at the university. He hinted there may have been some problems?' Tony added delicately.

'Ah yes, Yusef,' Jamal grimaced. 'I thought he was my friend, but I was wrong. Very, very wrong.'

And then slowly, painfully, Jamal began to talk about Yusef's terrible betrayal of his family.

Hussein's sister and her husband had gone to Denmark to complete their medical studies without the government's permission. When they returned to Iraq to visit their families they were forced into hiding to avoid imprisonment.

'First they stayed with Ahmad's parents,' Jamal explained. 'But when the Amen found out about it, they killed Ahmad's father. They would have killed Ahmad and my daughter Jasmin, too but they had already found another hiding place.'

He spoke in a plain, matter-of-fact manner, as if he had anaesthetised his feelings. Only occasionally he paused, suddenly jolted by the searing memories.

'Jasmin and Ahmad came to see us before they left for Denmark again,' Jamal said. 'Like a fool, I told Yusef about their visit. I thought I could trust him.'

But Yusef was also a member of the secret police and he informed the authorities. The next day, the Amen visited the Osman family. When they couldn't find the fugitives, they took Jamal instead.

'They questioned me for several days,' Jamal smiled ironically. 'When they were finally finished, my leg was broken in two places and I didn't look very good. But, at least I was alive.'

After Jamal was released, the family fled to Turkey. Two years later they were finally given permission to emigrate to Australia.

Tony listened in stunned silence. Such things seemed almost incomprehensible. Yet he knew, with a sickening clarity, that every word Jamal had spoken was true.

'I am very sorry,' he said, realising how hollow and futile his words sounded. They were like band-aids placed on a gaping wound.

He paused and tried again.

'I know what you went through was terrible. But at least you were able to escape and come here. And hopefully, you can have a better life now.'

'But can we really?' Jamal looked resigned. 'Maybe there is no safe place.'

Tony was momentarily taken aback. But then he answered with calm determination.

'Look, the shop owners don't like what happened either and they're going to try to do something about it. We can't fix everything but at least we can try. And I'd still like Hussein to come back to work for me.'

Jamal folded his arms together, his face suddenly stern and unyielding.

'I don't know,' he frowned. 'I will have to think about it.'

Three days later, Tony was just finishing grinding the coffee beans for the afternoon crowd. Business had picked up again since the shooting and he was beginning to feel the strain of the extra workload. He knew he would have to hire another person soon. After all this time, he didn't really expect Hussein to come back.

'Hey, Tony,' a cheery voice called out. 'Do you need some help?'

Tony raised his head and saw Hussein standing in the doorway with a bright, eager smile on his face.

'It's about time you showed up,' Tony grumbled. 'What do you think I'm running here, a holiday camp?'

'No, sir.' Hussein gave a mock salute. 'What would you like me to do first?'

Tony propped his elbows on the counter, placing his hands under his chin.

'Well, let's see,' he mused. 'You can mop the floors, set the tables, fill up the sugar bowls, wipe down the counters, and then I'll think of something else '

'Sounds good to me. By the way, I like the new sign you put in the window.'

Tony smiled in satisfaction.

'I hoped you would,' he said gently.

Still grinning, Hussein held up a large cardboard sign inscribed with the symbol of a smiling house. Underneath the picture the boldly printed letters read: SAFETY HOUSE.

Excerpt from 'Jumping to Heaven' reproduced by kind permission of the author Katherine Goode, and the publishers Wakefield Press. This book can be purchased online from Wakefield Press

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