Broken Ground (24 page)

So I turn back to where Silvia left the book open, and I keep watch over her. I listen to her breathing, her occasional murmurs and moans.

Six o'clock comes and goes, then seven o'clock. But Luis doesn't return for dinner at his usual time; Thomas doesn't knock at the door. Thomas's absence doesn't surprise me; he's kept a distance since the night of my arrival. But Luis always comes home promptly. The three of us share whatever Silvia and I have prepared, and then the two of them slip away to go for a walk, or sit by the river, or gather with others around the bonfire where Thomas teaches each evening, and where, finally feeling well enough, I had hoped to go tonight. But tonight, no Luis. No Thomas. No scent of the bonfire drifting through the air. Silvia sleeps on. I can't leave her alone, not like this. So I stay by her side, watching and waiting, and growing ever more worried.

IT IS NEARLY
ten o'clock when Luis barges in, Thomas just behind him. Their noisy entrance wakes Silvia, who lurches upright in surprise, and then moans, gripping her belly. Luis, a slight, strong man with a dapper mustache, is by her side in a moment, stroking her hair, whispering to her. I turn to Thomas. “What's going on?”

“Emergency meeting.” Thomas is breathless. “Luis, a few other men and women from camp, and me. There was another raid today over at Cooper Camp—people deported, family members left behind, families separated. The remaining folks are going to protest. With their loved ones gone, they feel they have nothing to lose. They're planning a demonstration in the central plaza in Puebla. We met to decide whether to join them.”

“
No!
” Silvia tries to stand, but her swollen ankles buckle; she drops back down on the mattress.

“
Sí
.” Luis's voice is quiet but firm, his hands still stroking her hair. “
Ten cuidado
.”

Despite Luis's request that Silvia be careful, she jerks away from him, uttering a rapid volley of words that I'm unable to translate.

“
No!
” Now it's Luis's turn to cry out.

Silvia reaches out a hand to me. One look at her passionate, determined expression, and I go to her and grip her hand. Pulling her up, I help her stand. Silvia leans on me, unable to bear her full weight, her belly firm and round against my hip. I shift my stance to keep both of us in balance, and something, a tiny elbow or heel—the baby!—jabs into my jutting hip bone. “Did you feel that?” I breathe the words.

“Our child is troubled, too.” She stares her husband down. “
Juntos, no separados
.”

Juntos
. Together.
No separados
. I can guess.

“The more witnesses, the better, far as I'm concerned.” Thomas sinks down in a chair, rubs at his knee and then below, where the prosthesis latches on. His shoulders slump with exhaustion. But when he looks up, his gaze is as intent and earnest as ever. “Whatever you decide—whoever comes tomorrow—you must remember to bring your work permits and any other legal documents. If things get complicated, your papers will be your only hope.”

Somewhere, in some bureaucratic office, I imagine, are stacks of United States citizenship papers, identification papers, and work permits left behind, when people were forced to leave. Or perhaps these documents never made it to an office. Perhaps they, like other material things—photographs, clothes, household goods, books, and family mementos—have been stolen or destroyed. Meaningful or necessary, meaningful
and
necessary, lost in an instant, like the seemingly certain opportunity of my college education. But worse, far worse, is what the deportees have lost and will lose in days to come.

“I'll be at the plaza, too,” I say.

N
ext day, I climb into the bed of a pickup truck, and Luis and Thomas help Silvia, who carries her black book and the burlap bag she uses to hold herbs and medicines. Then,
juntos, no separados
, Thomas and Luis jump in beside Silvia and me. Three other Kirk Camp men have already taken their places here. Two more men sit with the driver. And so we are ten. We confirm that all have their work papers, and then we set off. It is not yet noon. Clear blue sky, birds, and flowers in abundance—it's a picture-postcard day. We rattle down the dirt road toward Puebla's central plaza. A far from sober group, the men seem invigorated, talking about this and that. Silvia sits on Luis's lap so she's at least slightly cushioned against the truck's jouncing. We're
doing
something—something peaceful, something of which Mahatma Gandhi himself would approve, Thomas tells me as we ride, as the farmworkers have shaped their protests after Gandhi's acts of civil disobedience in India. We'll meet with others, exchange information, and make plans. We have to figure out how to better help those who've been separated from their family members. We have to respond better to the local, state, and federal authorities when they make a sweep—as they may do today. “But we're not striking. We have to remember that. Not like we have in the last few years. Strikes are against the law now,” Thomas says. “People were killed during those strikes. Many were injured or seriously wounded. Ultimately, the agricultural unions were dissolved. So we're
gathering
with others from Cooper Camp, that's all. We're doing nothing wrong. We've nothing to hide. These men are all here legally, by invitation of the farm owners, and Silvia is, too. If times were different, there'd be no risk in what we're doing today.”

But I'm well aware every man present is taking a risk, Silvia is taking a risk, and maybe I am, too, who knows. Along with Luis, the hands of the three other farmworkers sitting here with us are stained red from the strawberries they started picking at sunup. These men walked away from their fieldwork. Most definitely, they will lose their few cents an hour. Possibly they will lose their jobs.

One of the men, Marco, holds a red-stained paper bag; he collected some of the bruised strawberries, not worthy of sale, that would otherwise be discarded at the end of the day. He shares these with us now. The strawberries hold the heat of the sun; they are the sweetest, most delicious things I've tasted in I don't know how long. We each get three. I eat mine slowly, finishing the last strawberry as we enter Puebla. Only now, nearing the central plaza, do we fall quiet and grow sober. There are squad cars everywhere, with policemen inside and posted at street corners, waiting.

The truck lurches to a stop beside the plaza—a wide cobblestone square accented by flowering bushes and palm trees, with a large burbling fountain at the center.

“
Estamos aquí.
” Luis squeezes Silvia's hand, then releases it. And then, “
Vámonos
.”

Luis, Thomas, and the other men clamber from the truck. Luis and Thomas help Silvia out, and I get out, too. People have already gathered near the plaza's central fountain—more people than I expected, nearly fifty, I'm guessing. Most look to be of Mexican heritage, though there are a few white people—I count five, all of them men. There are four Mexican women besides Silvia. A man is shouting something in Spanish through a bullhorn. His voice bounces off the buildings—some Spanish colonial edifices; others, the practical storefronts of today—that surround the plaza.

The ten of us start toward the fountain. Silvia slips one arm through Luis's and the other through mine. We walk slowly to help support her. She murmurs something in Spanish to Luis, and then to me: “Why would he do this? Is he a fool?”

I don't understand. Silvia and Luis are talking heatedly. I call to Thomas, who's walking just ahead of us. “What's the man saying?”

Thomas falls into step beside me, his expression tight with worry. “He's chanting a slogan the strikers used during their demonstrations.
Viva La Causa! Viva La Communidad!
At least he's not resorting to
Viva La Huelga
, as they always did.”

“
La Huelga
?”

“The strike. Still, this is not the wisest way to gather our supporters, I'm afraid.”

We stand on the outskirts of the growing crowd, and the chanting crescendos as others begin to join in. Silvia, like the men in our group, has gone tense; her fingers bite into my arm. I tighten my hold on her as well—God forbid we get separated. Signs and placards are popping up around the crowd:
QUEREMOS COMIDA
, and beneath that, translated:
WE WANT FOOD
. Other signs make appeals in Spanish and English for due process of law, security, fair wages, education. Despite the press of people, those bearing the signs hold them high.

Luis says something to Silvia, and then, ignoring her frantic protests, he works his way to the front of the crowd to stand by the man with the bullhorn. The man and Luis exchange a few words, and then Luis takes the bullhorn. He says something in Spanish only to be met with a grumble of resistance from the crowd.

“He's asking them to be quiet and calm,” Silvia tells me. “He's reminding them that strikes are against the law. He's asking them to put down their signs.” Luis continues speaking. “ ‘We are gathered here to work for peace, not for strife,' ” Silvia translates. “ ‘A few of us from Kirk Camp have been talking with members of the Farm Security Administration. Some of them understand our concerns. There's talk of improvement—special camps where we will be safe and able to stay in this country, if we are here legally.' ” Luis calls for Thomas, beckons to him.

“He is asking Thomas to say more about the Farm Security Administration's promises,” Silvia says.

Thomas starts toward Luis. I can't see him now—the people in front of me block my view. I stand on tiptoe, straining to catch a glimpse of him, and as I do, the sound of a gunshot ricochets around the plaza.

Women scream, and men, and children—there must be children in this crowd!—begin to cry. There's a great din of shouting: “
Leva!
” “
Razzia!
” “
Raid!
” “
Roundup!
” I wrap my arms around Silvia. I don't let go of her, though the crowd presses and pushes as people scatter, running in all directions. A stampede—that's what this is. We could be crushed. Silvia and her baby—if she falls down, they could be killed. She cries out as a man shoves us aside, and someone's boot heel comes down hard on my foot. For a moment, that pain surpasses the pain in my head, which has flared again, threatening to obliterate my vision. I look around for help, but Marco and the other men in our group have vanished, lost in the chaos. But then I glimpse the back of Thomas's shirt, his thick brown hair, his skin, so much paler than most. He's forcing his way through the frenzied crowd, trying to get somewhere, trying to get to Luis, who's being throttled by two police officers. “Let him go!” Thomas yells, his voice rising above the din, and then a baton strikes him across the shoulders, and another strikes Luis and they both go down.

The only person I recognize now is Silvia, trembling in my arms.

I hold on to her, and she holds on to me;
juntos, no separados
, we are pushed and pulled by the crowd. Silvia has closed her eyes against her pain and fear; she can't have seen what happened to Thomas and Luis. She doesn't yet know the raw fear opening inside me, the panic of desperation. I need to escape with her. I need to find safety for us. I need to protect the baby.

“Thomas!” I scream. “Luis! Help!”

But then Silvia groans—a low sound, a frightened animal sound—and like that, I understand. Thomas and Luis, Marco and the other men—they're not going to save us. I'm the one who has to get Silvia and the baby she carries to safety. Gunshots sound all around, and my head is about to split open—it hurts so—and there is that meaty sound again and again of fists against flesh and batons thudding, cracking down to the bone. “Get that wetback!” “Catch the roaches!” That's what people—white people—are shouting. Silvia buries her face in my shoulder.

“Come on!” I try to drag her from the fray, only to be swept in another direction. I push my way in front of her. Her arms are around my waist now, and her belly presses into my lower back. I hold tightly to her arms, and we try to move as one creature, intent only on protecting the little life inside her. We stumble and nearly fall. A man lies on the ground before me, his arm twisted at an impossible angle. I try to think what to do—am I able to help him, too?—but the crowd heaves us forward. Using my shoulders, knees, feet, I try to push open a path for us. In this way, we keep going. We stay together.

And somehow, finally, Silvia and I stand at the border of the park. There are palm trees again. We pass through them to the sidewalk. There is our truck, and inside it, our driver—a small, wiry man with salt-and-pepper hair and a hawklike nose. Silvia tries to turn back; she calls for Luis. But I drag her to the truck, fling open the door, wrestle her inside. Then I leap in, close the door, and lock it.

Our driver is bleeding profusely from his forehead. He can't see for the blood in his eyes. I rip my dress at the hem and bind his wound. Then I turn to Silvia. She is gasping for breath, grasping her belly. Her face contorts with pain. Her mouth moves, shaping words, but she is unable to say them. I don't need to hear them. I know exactly what's she's saying: “Luis? Where is Luis? Where is my husband?”

The truck grumbles to life. The man behind the wheel has turned the key in the ignition. He punches the accelerator, gunning the engine in warning, and then wrenches the steering wheel toward the street. People part before us as we inch our way forward. Others fall down, then scramble up and run away. The truck proceeds slowly, often stopping, lurching as people jump into the bed, escaping the panicked crowd for a moment. I look back to see two children, a boy and a girl, perhaps ten years old, their faces pressed to the back window. “
Ayúdanos,
” the girl cries. I don't know what this means. But Silvia twists around, wincing, and raises her hand, then lowers it, palm down. As one, the boy and the girl disappear from view, hunkering down and out of sight in the back of the truck.