“I keep going to the river to pray…”
The
radio perched atop the walk-in freezer was going at full blast and it still
managed to be heard above the din in the kitchen. There was a hot food station
in the center of the kitchen, around which flowed several other workstations.
Closest to the entrance was the cold food station and to the rear were the
stoves and ovens. In the far corner, an industrial sized coffee machine brewed
gallons and gallons of coffee for the guests sat out in the massive tent and a 75-liter
hot water urn stood on a stainless steel stand beside it. It was the Wimbledon
Championships and Tennis enthusiasts had come from all over the world to watch
to and enjoy the beautiful summer sunshine.
Sefiyah
worked quietly and quite by herself, huddled over the pot wash-up, hands submerged
in the warm soapy water up to the elbows. Even within the crowded, busy
kitchen, Sefiya still felt isolated. She generally kept to herself, not that
many people approached her anyways. Not many of the other workers in the
restaurant spoke to the weird Syrian girl with the scar on her face. Maybe if
they did, she would tell them about the squalid conditions of the makeshift
refugee camps, first in Lebanon and then in Jordan. Maybe they would look at
her in a different light if they knew about the arduous journey across the
Mediterranean and how she managed to survive. Maybe then they would see beyond
the skinny, sickly frame and sunken eyes.
But
she wasn’t complaining, not at all. She was grateful just to be alive. She was
grateful that she had a job at all no matter the conditions. She was grateful
to be able to afford at least two meals a day, clothes on her back, warm shoes
on her feet. She was grateful to have a place to lay her head at night.
Grateful was what Sefiyah was.
“Sefiyah!”
The Head Chef bellowed above the din. When she looked up, he motioned with his
hands for her to bring him one of the saucepans she had drying on the draining
board. She nodded, wiping her hands on her damp apron. She grabbed the pan with
both hands, heaving under its weight and started to make her way gingerly
towards the stoves where he was standing. Another one of the Chefs dashed
around her to get to the walk-in fridge. He went around the corner too fast and
slipped. Reflexively, he reached out a hand to steady himself and fell heavily
against the stand that held the hot water urn. In horror, the entire kitchen
turned to watch the urn topple and fall, starting to spill hot, boiling water
onto the dazed Chef.
Sefiyah
screamed and dropped the saucepan with a dull thud. She reached out a hand
towards the Chef, an irrational part of her brain telling her she could shield
him from the scalding water that was just inches from his face and body.
Oh God, he’s going to die! She thought, her mind
starting to freeze up. Suddenly, the urn stopped its downward descent. It hung
there in the air, suspended as if gravity had lost its hold on it, hot water
swirling all around it.
Oh my God, what is happening! Sefiyah wondered, her
hands quivering with the sheer force of holding up the urn and waterfall. The
Chef looked from the hot water inches away from his face to the girl whose name
he didn’t even know, arms held out with fingers splayed and scrambled for
safety. A split moment later, Sefiyah’s quivering arms gave way and dropped
lifelessly to her sides and the urn collapsed to the floor with a crash,
throwing up a cascade of boiling water. The Chef grabbed a now limp Sefiyah and
dove for cover behind the bain-marie before the avalanche hit.
“…give up the ghost, give up the ghost...”
The
radio continued for a few seconds before everyone recovered from the shock and
the kitchen erupted in chaos.
