Berber

Casablanca, North Africa | 1943

2:23A.M

A tall shadow stepped forward, and into the moonlight of his cell’s window. His face was brown, scarred, and wrinkled with age from years in the heat. A blue headdress covered his entire head, neck and shoulders, exposing only the features of his face. He was dressed in a long blue and white tunic, flowing with golden patterns weaved throughout, and he wore crude, leather sandals on his feet. His left hand was gripping a MP40 machine gun, and his right hand held a ring of brass keys - which dangled and clinked together as he stepped across the sandy floor.

Rising from his prison mattress, he raised both of his fists and prepared to defend himself. He had seen this man once before. He was one of the men who brought him to the officer’s quarters to get electrocuted for information. He was quiet, and stoic then, and he was quiet and stoic now. Except this time he was armed, and appeared to be alone. It was also the middle of the night.

Cocking one arm behind his back, he squared his feet.

“Clement! Don’t,” a soft voice said, as another dark shadow blended into the cell.

Joining the armed Moroccan soldier in the moonlight, the image of his wife stood before him. Her thick, long, black curls fell to the crest of her breast. Her face was red, tired, and oddly scared on both cheeks. Her outfit was raggedy, but her neck, arms, torso, legs and feet were covered in a thick brown, hooded tunic. She had a twelve-gauge shotgun slung over her left shoulder, and a blue and white tunic - similar to the one the man with the keys was wearing- cradled in her arms.

“Aida?” He asked, softly, while wondering if this was all just a bad dream.

“You look like shit,” the soft voice said again.

It was Aida, alright, he had no doubt.

Exploding past the armed Moroccan soldier with every ounce of strength left in his body and soul, he wrapped Aida up in his arms, and squeezed her as hard as he could while kissing her forehead with unconditional passion.

Peeling himself away from his wife to allow her a moment to breathe, his heart shattered as the white moon light revealed that the scars on her cheeks were actually burn marks from something small and circular. He cupped his wife’s face in his palms, and gently caressed the skin around each of the burns, trying to provide comfort for the pain, and shame.

Aida closed her eyes, and released herself into Clement’s embrace. It had been nearly two weeks since she had last seen her husband. After being kidnapped at the post office, they were forcefully separated, and then imprisoned within the confines of an old fortress. She had no idea if he was even still alive.

She herself was scheduled to be executed this morning. Fortunately, and for unknown reasons, she was freed from her cell by the tall, quiet Moroccan soldier standing beside them.

“I can’t believe you’re alive,” Clement said, “They told me nothing about your status. Every time I would ask, they would beat me to a bloody pulp until I was unconscious enough to stop asking questions. I was sure you were dead.”

“I’m alive,

“He is to thank,” Aida said, pointing to the Moroccan soldier, “He freed me from my cell, and gave me this tunic.”

“Who is he?” Clement asked, unsure if the man understood English.

“I do not know his name, but he is Berber. And he claims he’s here to help. Considering the skill, and stealth he used to break me out of my cell, then to lead us here, to your cell, I’m going to trust my gut. I was scheduled to be executed this morning, which means you are surely set to receive the same fate. We cannot stay here. If we do, we die. We have no choice. We have to trust this man.”

Clement studied the soldier with the blue headdress, and thought back to what he had once learned about the Berbers. They are a scattered group of indigenous people who have descended from the pre-Arab inhabitants of northern-Africa. During his many travels to Africa, he had met Berbers in Egypt, Libya, Tunisia, Algeria, and now here in Morocco. They were an extraordinarily proud group of warriors, merchants, and nomads who speak a variety of Amazigh languages derived from the Afro-Asiatic family - a dialect related to the ancient Egyptians.

Clement stepped to the man, extending his right hand in a gesture to thank him for rescuing his wife.

The soldier tightened his grip on his machine gun, took one step back, then spoke in a deep, thickly accented voice.

“We must go. Now.”

“They know where we’ve sent it, Clement,” Aida said, handing her husband the tunic she's been holding.

Corrado stumbled back at the news, slightly losing his balance on a raised clump of sand.

Aida spoke again, “Ulrich is hunting our children.”

“How do you know this?” He asked, while taking the tunic and dressing himself with it.

“They didn’t think I spoke German,” she said.

Clement smiled, amazed at the countless skills his wife owned.

With his brown and bronze tunic covering his body, he then donned the blue headdress he discovered wrapped up inside of the tunic. Aida then removed the shotgun from her shoulder, and handed it to Clement.

“You’re better with this than I am,” she said.

Clement took it, but did not sling it. He kept it tightly fastened to his palms, ready to blast their way out if need be.

“How are we getting out of here?” Clement asked.

“I’m following him,” Aida said, pointing at the Berber warrior, who was casing the corridor outside of the cell.

“Are you sure about this?” Clement asked.

“Of course not,” she replied.

“Come. Now,” The soldier said.

Clement allowed Aida to follow first.

Knowing that their children were in mortal danger, they blindly followed the nomadic warrior deeper into the fortress.