Tree Girl (14 page)

“Is it true what you said about the Americans?” I asked.

He nodded. “I was in the Guatemalan military. The United States made the guns that shot our families. They made the helicopters that destroy our peaceful skies. The comandantes that have led the massacres
were trained in the United States of America.”

“How many massacres have there been?” I asked.

The man waved his hand in a circle at the camp. “Enough to cause this,” he said. “And this is only one of many camps. There have been hundreds and hundreds of massacres. This war is nothing short of genocide. Whole generations of Indios are being destroyed. Even here, we’re still not safe. Guatemalan soldiers,
Kaibiles
, have crossed the border to our east and massacred many in other refugee camps.”

“Don’t the Mexican officials stop them?” I asked.

The young man shook his head. “They just stand and watch the Kaibiles commit their murders.”

“So the Mexicans are as much to blame as the Americans?” questioned an older man.

“The Americans have armed and trained the Kaibiles.”

“It can’t be true what you say about the United States,” I argued. “Many Americans help us here in the camp. They send much of the supplies we receive.”

“You speak of American citizens,” the young man said. “Not the American government. Most Americans
don’t know what their government does. They don’t want to know,” he added.

The young man bit at his lip as I sat thinking about what he had said. I didn’t know if the stories about the poor in the United States of America were exaggerated, but I had to admit that they sounded wonderful. Still, how was it possible for a country to be so great and yet allow for the massacres in our cantóns and pueblos?

The young man reached out his hand to me. “I’m Mario Salvador,” he said. “What’s your name?”

“I’m Gabriela Flores,” I replied. “What did you do after leaving the military?”

“I became a teacher.”

I visited with Mario that night until the cold was too much to bear. When I finally slept, I dreamed of guns and helicopters. I dreamed of the new teacher I had met, and as always, I dreamed of a little girl who once cuddled by my side and called me Mamí.

Because I went to bed late, I slept until after the sun came up. It surprised me to see Rosa still lying asleep beside me when I rose. I looked out and saw
Carmen cooking, crouched over a small fire in front of our shelter. I stared again at Rosa and sensed a strange stillness. I reached and touched her back. Then I squeezed her shoulder. “Rosa, wake up,” I said, realizing at that moment that she was dead. I drew in a slow, deliberate breath. “Rosa is dead,” I called to Carmen.

Carmen came to my side, wiping her eyes and shaking her head. “I’ll stay with her until the truck arrives,” she said.

“We’ll stay together,” I said. “Was she sick?”

Carmen shook her head.

“Then why did she die?” I asked. “Maybe I could have found her a little more food.”

Carmen shook her head again. “You couldn’t have stopped Rosa’s death.”

I said a quiet prayer as I waited beside Rosa, knowing even as I mouthed the words that prayers didn’t work anymore, not in a refugee camp. I blamed Rosa’s death on the soldiers, just as I blamed them for the deaths they caused with their bullets.

I wanted to bury Rosa, but I knew refugees weren’t
allowed to bury any of the dead. Rosa would have to wait for the Mexican workers who wore masks to come with the truck. Rosa’s body would be stacked like firewood with other bodies under a tarp on a truck, only to be burned and buried in a common grave far from camp. This was done to stop the spread of disease and epidemics.

In the past, I had been able to ignore the removal of bodies, but that day I could not. When the truck arrived, I insisted on helping carry Rosa’s body. Her thin frame weighed less than a jug of water as we carried her to the truck. I bent and kissed her forehead gently before workers heaved her body on top of the rest. It was a kiss that should have come from her husband or her children.

Before Rosa’s death, I had already worked hard to help care for the old women. Now I drove myself even harder, fighting to escape my thoughts. I obsessed over tasks, quitting only when my weary body collapsed in sleep. I was a terrified child, running from myself in the only way I knew, afraid that maybe tomorrow morning the Mexican workers would carry away the small, thin
body of a homely girl named Gabriela.

“Don’t work so hard,” Carmen scolded me whenever she found me exhausted. “We have enough food to eat.” I always nodded, but I ignored her words.

Each day more refugees straggled into the camp, looking as if they arrived from the grave, their gaunt faces only vague masks of what had once been happy children, proud parents, or dignified elders. Each step of the long trail had robbed them of another shard of their identity, their hopes, their culture, their dreams, and their pride. Now they wandered into the camp not as individuals, but simply as faceless refugees searching for food and shelter. Their ragged clothes and desperate stares blended with all the rest.

Perhaps that’s why I failed to recognize the small girl when I first saw her two months after I arrived. It was late evening as I stood in the long water line, grasping two plastic jugs. The large tanker truck threatened to run out of water before my turn arrived. Already the pressure of the spigot had weakened into a thin stream. As I waited, a group of fifteen or twenty
refugees wandered into camp. Everyone in line glanced at the new arrivals with idle curiosity. As I returned my gaze to the truck, something about the group caused me to glance back.

Several young girls had wandered in with the new refugees. One in particular, who stood turned away from me, had skinny legs that bowed slightly, shoulders that rounded, and long black hair that hung nearly to her waist. Her blue dress was unfamiliar and she kept looking away, but I watched her as the group passed, hoping she would turn or glance my way.

“Alicia!” I called out.

Still the girl failed to turn.

“Alicia!” I yelled more loudly.

The girl turned and stared at me with large searching eyes. My breath stopped in my chest and the empty water jugs dropped from my hands. I took two hesitant steps forward and then broke into a fast run.

“Alicia! Alicia! Alicia!” I screamed.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

T
he stunned little girl stared at me with big eyes, and I fell to my knees and hugged her desperately. The world blurred as I burst into tears. “Alicia, Alicia,” I sobbed.

Alicia hugged me back, clinging to me. She was dirty beyond belief, and her tangled black hair was like that of a thousand other children in the camp. But this wasn’t just one of the other children. This was my sister, and I kept hugging her until a hand touched my shoulder and I looked up.

A large woman stood over me with a small baby cradled in her arms. “How do you know this girl?” the
woman asked accusingly.

I stood and lifted Alicia into my arms and spoke joyfully. “I’m Gabriela. This is my little sister, Alicia.”

The woman looked at me as if she had seen a ghost. “You’re Gabriela?”

I nodded.

“I’m María,” the large woman said.

“Where did you find my sister?” I asked.

“Back in Guatemala, far south of the border. One day as I walked to market, I heard shooting ahead of me in the pueblo. People screamed, and I knew it was the soldiers. When I turned to run, I heard a baby cry. I found this girl and this baby hiding alone behind some thick shrubs. The baby was almost dead, so I took them both with me away from the pueblo and back to our cantón.”

I looked at the child in the woman’s arms. “Is that the baby?”

The woman nodded. “She almost died. Is she your sister, too?”

I shook my head in disbelief, staring at the squirming infant. “No,” I said. “I helped her to be born, but I
think her mother died. I don’t know, because the soldiers came and I had to run.”

“Did you see the massacre?” María asked.

I nodded.

“How did you survive? You must have been very brave,” she said.

I felt new shame. “I hid,” I said, unwilling to talk any more of that day. I looked at the big woman, her skin dusty and cracked from the hot sun. Her hollowed face and sunken eyes told of how hard her long journey had been. “It’ll be dark soon,” I said. “I can help you find a place to sleep.”

“Thank you, Gabriela,” the woman said.

“Can I carry the baby?” I asked, lowering Alicia to the ground.

Maria looked relieved as she handed me the small infant that had grown much since birth. She was dirty and her upper lip was crusted from a runny nose, but her skin was no longer pale. A brightness glowed in her eyes.

My mind struggled with what was happening. It didn’t seem possible that this could be the same baby I
had helped to deliver. “Follow me,” I said, leading Maria through the camp. Alicia clung tightly to my corte.

Carmen frowned when I walked into camp carrying a baby, and followed by a woman and a little girl. Already life was difficult. To feed this many more mouths might be impossible.

“Carmen, this is my sister and the baby I told you I helped to be born. María found them and brought them here.”

Carmen extended her hand, concern heavy on her face.

“I’ll find extra food,” I said, feeling guilty.

“All
of us will need to work harder,” Carmen said, not hiding the intent and sharpness of her words.

I looked at our small shelter. María was much bigger than Rosa had been. And now we also had a young girl and a baby. I hoped Carmen wouldn’t mind. I went to her alone. “Letting María stay with us was the kind thing to do,” I said.

“It’s okay,” Carmen said. “Just remember, Gabriela. Kindness can kill you in this place.”

I nodded and left María and the baby in camp, and took Alicia with me to find food.

Everywhere we went, Alicia clung to me. Even when she helped me to carry rice and bread, she held to me with one hand. Some of the aid workers smiled and tried to play with Alicia, but she remained silent and hid behind my corte.

That night after all of us had eaten something, we sat together on the ground beside our shelter, talking as I brushed Alicia’s long hair. “Something’s wrong with Alicia’s voice,” I explained to Carmen. “She can’t speak anymore.”

María shook her head. “Your sister only refuses to speak. I’ve heard her cry out your name, Gabriela, when she’s dreaming. That’s why it surprised me so much when you told me your name today. Somehow Alicia needs to find her voice when she’s awake.”

While we spoke, Alicia stared at the ground. I turned to María. “Do you mind if I hold the baby?”

María smiled and handed the baby girl to me. I rocked her gently in my arms as I explained to María all that had happened.

When I finished, María told me her story. “Soldiers came to our cantón six weeks after the massacre in the pueblo,” she said. “Alicia and the baby were in the field with me that day, so I took them and fled north toward Mexico. We could not even return to our home first.”

As María spoke, I cuddled the sleeping baby closely to my chest, proud that I had helped bring her into the world. “Have you given the baby a name yet?” I asked.

María shook her head. “We thought some mother had already named her, so we simply called her Little One.”

“There was never time to give her a name,” I said.

María thought a moment. “If the baby has no name yet, maybe we should call her
Milagro.
It’s a miracle that she survived when so many others died.”

I nodded in the dark. “Milagro is a good name,” I said. “Our little miracle.” What had happened to Milagro truly was a miracle. I looked down at the little infant and also at Alicia cuddled by my side, and I pulled them both closer. “Milagro’s mother would have liked that name,” I said.

I reached out and ran my fingers through Alicia’s long black hair. This day had brought me another miracle. “I’ll never leave you again,” I whispered to Alicia, fearful that I might be making another false promise.

With three more bodies to feed, I pushed myself even harder to find food. Alicia walked everywhere with me, and always I had to make sure she was safe. María watched the baby and tried to find special foods for her.

Whenever I tried talking to Alicia, I saw her eyes glimmer with thoughts, but she barricaded those thoughts behind silence. Each night in camp, she sat, digging with a small stick in the ground, or rocking back and forth as she gazed away toward some other section of camp or toward someplace known only to her.

It was more work feeding the five of us, but we survived. In the months after Alicia’s return, the camp grew even more crowded. It hurt the most to watch the children, knowing that the war hadn’t allowed them a childhood. They couldn’t cry or play or laugh or shout. They feared each new day, mindful that they must always be still or die. Now those same children huddled
alone, gazing at the world around them with frightened eyes. In the Ixil section, the Mam section, the Kakchikel, in our Quiché section, and in other parts of camp, mothers kept their children close to their sides and hushed their cries.