by Katherine Grace Bond

Smoke and the smell of gasoline choke out the air. Flames from the Indonesian church and the Christian school soar into the sky. Piles of burning chairs and Bibles fill the courtyard. Hundreds of people smash and kick. Petrus claws at the human wall. He must get through!

“Enough!” someone cries out, but the mob keeps on. Petrus falls back against a banyan tree. Smoke clogs his lungs. He begins to scream. . . .

“Petrus! What is it?”

Petrus sat up in bed. His mother's arms surrounded him. He clung to her, hearing the beat of her heart until his panic subsided.

“You dreamed of the attack?” she asked. Petrus breathed the spicy smell of his mother's hands.

“The Muslims burned everything, Mama. The churches, the Christian school. Why?”

“I don't know, Petrus,” she said quietly. Petrus straightened up and pulled away. He knew he needed to be strong for her. With his dad in the hospital, he was now the man of the house.

“I hate them!” He said in a low voice. “I hate the Muslims.”

Mama put her hand on his shoulder. “No, Petrus,” she said. “Do not hate. The Lord tells us to love our enemies, to pray for those who persecute us.”

“But it's too hard,” he said. “They nearly killed Father.”

Petrus balled up the blanket in his fist, pushing away the memories. The day before the attack Petrus' father had helped him finish his map of Indonesia. It had taken months to draw the curving outlines of each island. Petrus drew his own island of Java in the shape of a wild sea creature.

His teacher had praised him while she tacked it to the wall.

“Most people, when they draw Indonesia, only put in the big islands,” she said. “Petrus and Bapak Rahino have drawn more than 3,000 islands.”

The map covered the entire back wall of the classroom. Each colored island floating in the blue sea lit the room like a stained-glass window.

Now Petrus' Indonesia was ashes, along with the desks and books. Making another map would be almost impossible without his father's help. And Father would be in the hospital for months.

How can I not hate the Muslims? Petrus thought. How can I not?

Alone in the Ashes

Petrus drew with a stick in the black-flecked dust in front of the school. The other kids played soccer. They couldn't understand why he returned day after day to the spot where the banyan tree arched over the ashy ground.

For weeks his class had sat in the charred remains of their schoolroom working out of salvaged books as the sun streamed through the roofless building. When it rained, they studied under umbrellas. A metal wall had been erected in front, so the Muslims couldn't see the new doors and windows going up. Petrus had a wall, too-one he had built around his heart.

The government had given money to help rebuild. The governor said he was sorry about the attack. Petrus didn't believe it. There were few Christians in Indonesia. Most of the people were Muslim and even though the government talked about freedom of religion, Petrus had seen town officials standing with folded hands as his school burned.

Looking up from his dirt drawing, Petrus saw a black-and-white ball bouncing down the steep road in front of him. He thought about running out and grabbing it, but it rolled away too quickly. And then, skittering down from the top of the hill, came a boy. He was keeping his eyes on the ball, not paying attention to anything else. When he was almost to the school, a truck pulled out, accelerating on the decline.

“Stop!” Petrus scrambled up. The truck swerved just in time to miss the boy.

The boy slowed, chugging through the dust cloud to the school yard where Petrus stood frozen.

“Thanks.” The boy smiled shakily.

Petrus found his tongue. “That was close.”

“Too close,” the boy agreed. Then he said again, “Thanks.”

They faced each other awkwardly. The boy glanced nervously at the wall shielding the Christian school.

“I'm Ibrahim,” he said finally, digging in the dirt with his toe.

Ibrahim. A Muslim. Petrus' stomach tightened. “I guess your ball is gone,” he said.

Ibrahim nodded.

He must know I'm a Christian, Petrus thought. But the boy didn't leave. Petrus had heard a story about Muslim children attacking a Christian church.

Was this boy one of them? he wondered. Petrus glanced around for his stick, not to hit Ibrahim, but because it would make him feel better to have it.

Ibrahim shifted from one foot to the other. “Do you want to play soccer?” he asked.

He's trying to trick me, Petrus thought, remembering the mob screaming, “Indonesia is Islam!” He pushed the memory away, setting his imaginary wall back in place. He narrowed his eyes at the boy. “Why would I want to do that?”

Ibrahim shrugged and kicked the ground again. “Well, I just thought . . .” His shoulders sagged. “Never mind.”

Petrus watched him walk away. Fine! he thought. I'm glad he's going.

Walking home he saw Ibrahim's ball in a snowball bush. A light dusting of ash clung to his fingertips as he hid the ball near a pile of lumber behind the steel wall.

Unlikely Friend

Every once in a while, Petrus would see Ibrahim, hiding in the shadows near the school. Petrus wondered if he should be afraid, but he wasn't. The boy looked sad, like he was hiding a secret.

One day Ibrahim came loping into the school yard just as Petrus came out of his class. As Petrus watched, Ibrahim walked a slow circle around the banyan tree. It was as if Ibrahim was drawn to the same spot Petrus had come day after day.

He stared at the ground when Petrus approached.

“Looking for my ball,” Ibrahim said and hurried away.

Petrus felt a twinge when he thought of the ball hidden behind the rusty steel wall. “The Lord tells us to love our enemies,” Mama had said.

He could see the boy trudging up the hill as Petrus pulled the ball out from its hiding place. “Ibrahim!” he called. The boy turned, eyes widening.

“I've found it,” Petrus blushed. “I found your ball.”

After that, Ibrahim came often. Petrus wondered why, but he did not ask. It was good to have a friend. A best friend. Each day they went to Petrus' house, got paper from his room and drew with oil crayons while Petrus' mother hummed sad songs over the rice steamer. Ibrahim was good with colors. His skies burst with them, his stars rained down. But he never drew people in his pictures.

“Why don't you draw your family?” Petrus asked him.

“I just don't,” Ibrahim said. “To make people is the work of Allah.”

Allah, the Muslim god. Petrus had let himself forget Ibrahim was a Muslim. Remembering that fact put a sour taste in his mouth. He pushed his oil crayon hard against the paper, and the wall inside him stiffened.

“Is it also the work of Allah to burn schools?” he said.

Ibrahim put down his pencil. He laid his hands flat on the table. “I was there,” he said. “With my father. At your school.”

Petrus pushed his crayon harder, slashing an orange stripe through the house he had drawn. In the kitchen, Mama stopped humming. For a moment the only sound was a dragonfly rasping against the window screen.

Almighty Father

“We tried to stop them,” Ibrahim said. “You must believe me. My father is a man of peace. Many in the crowd were unknown to us. My father called, 'Enough!' But there were so many-”

Petrus looked at him warily. Ibrahim went on. “When the school was set on fire, a Christian man tried to gather some Bibles.”

Petrus clenched his fist around the crayon until it was an oily lump. He tried to breathe evenly as Ibrahim spoke. But his throat tightened and his eyes stung.

“The people kicked the man. They hit him with metal bars.” Ibrahim stopped, then spoke slowly. “The man didn't strike back. With every blow he called out, 'Father, forgive them!'

“I could not understand this,” Ibrahim continued. “Our Allah is not a father. He sits on his high throne above. He does not feel anything for us. No one would dare call him 'father.' But this Christian man said it over and over.”

Ibrahim bowed his head. “He said it until he could no longer speak.”

Petrus shook with uncried tears that pushed against his eyelids.

Ibrahim looked up quickly and put his hands on Petrus' shoulders. “Who was he?” he asked.

“Bapak Rahino,” Petrus whispered. “He is my father.”

The wall fell away, and Petrus sobbed until it felt as if the room was ringing with his grief. Mama stood over the rice bowls crying, “O, Lord Jesus! O, Lord Jesus!” Ibrahim slid his arms around Petrus and absorbed his quaking.

When he sat up, Petrus saw that his friend's face was wet. Ibrahim looked pleadingly from Petrus to his mother. “Please tell me,” he said in a soft voice. “Tell me about this God called 'Father.' ”

	Q: What does an invisible cat drink? A: Evaporated milk. Desi P., 10, Idaho Clubhouse Jr. Click here to subscribe