Erased Faces (31 page)

“I am your shepherd and I say to you that dialogue is one of the conditions for fraternal relationships. Let us speak to one another, not kill one another.”

A thunderous roar of applause and shouting ripped through the early evening. Here and there small groups sang; others prayed Hail Marys and Our Fathers. Juana shook her head in disagreement. She wanted to reach for a microphone and bring her people to their senses, but she saw that most of them were nearly hysterical in their approval of what he was saying.

“En nombre del Padre, del Hijo y del Espíritu Santo.”

“¡Amén!”

The bishop turned to face the altar and began the prayers of the mass. When Juana heard the response from the crowd, she turned away, nearly convinced that her people saw the resolution to their misery through the eyes of the bishop. As she began to move toward the fringe of the throng, she thought she heard voices speaking. Curious to know why they were not praying, she edged closer to the mumbling.

“I tell you, the time for praying has passed.”

“What do you mean?”

“I intend to arm myself and fight.”

“¡Estás loco!”

“The overseer of my
patrón
took my last pesos a year ago. I had nothing, and my two little sons died of hunger. You say I'm crazy because I want to kill that overseer. Well, then, I'm crazy!”

“¡Shsss!”

“¡Cállense! ¡Tatic está rezando!”

Juana neared the knot of men and women who were whispering despite the ongoing prayers. Behind her was Adriana, and Orlando was another few steps away. Taking a chance of being put off, she tapped the man who had been speaking on the shoulder.

“Amigo
, you're right. Praying will do no good. It's time to fight. Are you ready to leave your
palapa
and follow us into the mountains?”

“¡Shsss! ¡Qué vergüenza!”

“¡Respeto para Tatic!”

Juana, undaunted by the complaints, looked at the man who returned her gaze. He was surprised but not put off. He looked around at his companions, then back to face Juana.

“What's in the mountains?”

“Others who think like you. Women and men preparing to fight the
patrones
. Come! Follow us! It's time.”

She moved slowly, knowing that the man would follow her as she headed toward more voices. This time Juana did not look, she merely stood still and listened.

“What did you think of the demonstration in Tuxla the other day?”

“How should I know?”

“Because you were there. I saw you.”

“No, I wasn't.”

“I saw you!”

“How could you? There were more than a thousand
compañeros
and
compañeras
there.”

“Ha! So you
were
there!”

“So I was there! So what?”

Juana aimed an ear toward the two men who were nearly arguing, and she approached them close enough to whisper. As she did this, she looked over to Orlando, then to Adriana and yanked her head in her direction.

“Why are you afraid to admit that you were at Tuxla, when so many of your own people were there?”

“Afraid? Yes, I'm afraid. The
patrones
are filled with anger and they will be unleashing the
catxul
on us. That's why I'm afraid!”

“Join us up in the mountains and fight back. The
catxul
are afraid of us.”

“Who are you?”

“We're insurgents, but first we are the natives of this land. Don't forget that our ancestors—yours and mine—have inhabited this land since before the
catxul
had memory.”

“Memory is not as important as power. The
catxul
have power.”

“They have power because you give it to them. Without that they are cowards! They fear the insurgents because we will take away that power. Follow me!”

Emboldened, Juana mingled with the crowd as prayers were chanted and hymns entoned, realizing that she was in the midst of a sea of discontented, lost people who had nowhere to go and who were longing for direction. She listened to whispering men who bitterly cursed their burden but who were disoriented as to what to do about it. She knew that she had been mistaken; nonviolence was not what her people wanted.

Juana moved toward women speaking about laws needed for their defense. She looked at them, knowing that despite the prayers that swirled above their heads, they whispered about change. They were now gesturing energetically, head to head, obviously agitated by their own words.

“They say that we can take part in the revolution, even if we are women.”

“What about our children?”

“Those same laws say that we have the right to have others care for them.”

“
¡Dios mío!
”

“I hear that there's even a law against anyone beating us.”

“Even a husband? A father?”

“Even they will be punished.”

“
¡Santa María!
Is that possible?”

While this was happening, Orlando nervously kept Juana and Adriana within sight. He listened to the words of the pastoral letter, along with the singing and other muttering that was going on, while his eyes focused on Juana, who moved from group to group, cautiously
at first, then with more ease, saying words that apparently encouraged people. He saw that sometimes she held Adriana's hand when she changed direction.

Orlando frowned, understanding that Juana was developing a special feeling for the foreign reporter. He had never seen Juana so interested in anyone. He thought of Adriana, and his earlier reservations about her returned. When the council had discussed bringing a photographer to join the insurgents, he had objected because he believed that no one except one of their own, someone who had suffered the blows of a
patrón
, could understand their cause. In spite of his disapproval, he had been overruled, and she had been brought to the insurgents by Juana.

On the other hand, Orlando was now experiencing mixed feelings because he saw Adriana's willingness to risk danger for their cause; her commitment was becoming clear to him. Also, the thought that people suffered in different ways—
patrones
and their world were not the only oppressors—pushed him toward accepting her because, although he did not know her story, he sensed that she had already undergone her own unhappiness.

Still, he worried, believing her too frail, too unused to their ways in the jungle. Adriana appeared to have difficulty speaking, even in Spanish. Despite all of this, Orlando had already begun to accept Adriana, especially since his mind had changed regarding the need to compile a photographic history of the events they were facing. He only wished that someone else had been chosen to do the work.

He was thinking about this as he watched her and Juana moving in and out of small groups, speaking and listening, while the mass was proceeding. Then, something drew his attention away from the women, and he focused on two men who seemed intent on following the prayers. Something about them caught his eye, and he watched them as they made the sign of the cross, mumbled responses, knelt and stood at the right times; they even joined in the singing of hymns. Something about them was not right, but Orlando could not decipher what it was.

When he saw one of them looking at him out of the corner of his eye, Orlando cautiously slid behind a group of women. He forced
himself to look in another direction while mentally reviewing the men's appearance. They were dressed like laborers, yet there were details that did not fit in. Orlando took another furtive glance, just enough to gather new impressions. The shirt on one was new; the creases where it had been folded were still evident. The other wore boots with pointed toes and elevated heels; those were not the shoes of a laborer. Orlando, pretending to participate in the religious service, considered the discrepancies. When he glanced in their direction again, he was startled to find them gone. He spun around and scanned the crowd; this time he spotted them behind him. Convinced that they were stalking him, Orlando plunged toward Juana and Adriana.

“Juana! Adriana! Some of these people are spies. We must leave immediately.”

With Orlando at the head, Juana, Adriana, and several men and women recruits followed as they pushed their way through the crowd, heading up toward the ridge of the mountain. Orlando kept his eye on the rear, but the spies had disappeared. He continued to move at a steady pace. By the time the group reached the highest point, the blaring voice of the microphone had receded, becoming almost inaudible, as had the prayers and singing. When Orlando glanced back for a final look, he saw a squirming mass of people, and he imagined that the canyon was a bowl filled with ants; the countless torches were sweets that had attracted them.

No one spoke as they made their way deeper into the jungle; only once did they stop long enough for Orlando to pull out the pistol he had concealed under his tunic and adjust it around his waist. Juana did the same with the weapon she had hidden under her
huipil
. The new insurgents looked on, amazement and apprehension pasted on their faces, while Adriana jotted down notes with only the light of the moon to make out her writing.

“¡Vámonos!
Juana, I'll bring up the rear.”

Orlando looked at Juana and Adriana, then at the recruits; he was still feeling jittery because of the encounter at the rally. He did not want to admit it, but he was shaken because of the spies, who were most certainly on his trail. He hated this apprehension because it
recurred frequently, to the point that sometimes he wondered if it was his imagination playing tricks on him. He also detested feeling weak and vulnerable; his concentration shattered, distracting it from the plans of the insurgents.

These experiences had been going on since the day he had killed El Brujo, forcing him to become a fugitive. The nightmare he had experienced recently only confirmed his feeling of being stalked and one day being captured and executed. Now, following the small troop through the jungle, Orlando plodded in the dark. His breathing was heavy as he walked, nervously looking back to assure himself that no one was following. Nearly impenetrable darkness, hissing insects and screeching monkeys intensified Orlando's apprehension, forcing him to clench his jaw painfully.

Trying to shake off his agitation, Orlando turned his thoughts to the day he had faced Rufino and watched as he died. He remembered the gratification it had given him, how it had relieved him of the burden of guilt for having abandoned his mother and father. But his satisfaction was short-lived. Each time he remembered, he was forced to admit that even while still elated, he had realized that something inside of him had drowned alongside Rufino, that the death of his parents had not been vindicated after all, that a hollow would always remain inside him, like a wound refusing to heal. Orlando understood that taking vengeance had transformed him into the image of Rufino and Absolón Mayorga; he had become like them. As always when remembering this period in his life, he became saddened and isolated. The memory filled him with hatred for the way of life that created such wickedness.

It was dawn when Orlando, Juana, Adriana and the new recruits made it to camp. The women went in one direction, the men in another. The camp was still poised for war.

Ocosingo, January 1, 1994.

The day came. Juana, with an M-1 carbine held in the assault position, crouched behind a corner facing the plaza of Ocosingo. Next to her stood Adriana, a camera in her grip, and across the street from them stood Orlando, a weapon also in his hands. It was nearly two in the morning on the first day of 1994, and the insurgents had been placed to cover strategic points by their commander, Insurgent Captain Irma. They were waiting for word from Insurgent Major Ramona, commander of the column taking San Cristóbal de las Casas; the plan of attack pivoted on the successful capture of that city. The insurgents, males and females, waited with apprehension. They were eager to fight, and although the night was frozen, perspiration slid down their spines, and minutes felt like hours.

“We have recovered the flag.”

That was the signal. Juana, Orlando and Adriana, along with their squad, followed their commander as she moved to execute the double-pronged attack on Ocosingo's central radio station, as well as its main garrison, which was located inside the municipal palace.

With the element of surprise on the insurgents' side, everything proceeded smoothly. The federal soldiers guarding the radio station surrendered their weapons without resisting, and the same happened at the garrison. By the time sunlight flooded through the cobblestone streets of the town, Captain Irma had reported full command of Ocosingo. Las Margaritas, Altamirano, Chanal, Huixtán and Oxchuc had also fallen into the command of the insurgents before daylight awakened their inhabitants.

In Ocosingo, it took only a few minutes before the federal soldiers were herded into the central patio of the building. There, surrounded
by ornate balconies and columns, Captain Irma faced the commander of the garrison. Juana stood behind, watching her take command, observing how she turned a full circle, assuring herself that her troops were with her. She was backed by her force, all holding their weapons, all masked. Stunned and frightened by the covered faces, the commander handed the rebel leader his weapon.

“¡Feliz Año Nuevo, cabrón!”

Juana saw that the officer was sickening. She knew that it was because the insult of that moment would haunt him for the rest of his life. How would he explain that it had been a woman who had disarmed him, reviling him, calling him a son of a bitch? Even more humiliating, how would he admit that she was an indigenous woman? Juana discerned the turmoil stamped on the man's face and felt pride that her
compañera
had been the one chosen to disarm him.