“Several years ago, the Mexicans organized and joined the union and struck for better wages, but it came with violence. Men died. Jack spent a year in San Quentin. When he came out, he was even more determined.”
Loreda hadn’t considered prison. “How is it illegal to ask for better wages?”
Natalia lit up another cigarette. “It isn’t, technically. But this is a capitalist country, run by big-money interests. After the state’s anti-immigration campaign, when they rounded up all the illegals and deported them back to Mexico, the growers would have had a real problem, but then…”
“We started coming.”
Natalia nodded. “They sent flyers across America, telling workers to come. And they came, too many of them. Now there are ten workers for every job. We’re having trouble getting your people to organize. They’re—”
“Independent.”
“I was going to say stubborn.”
“Yeah. Well, a lot of us are farmers, and you have to be stubborn to survive sometimes.”
“Are you stubborn?”
“Yeah,” Loreda said slowly. “I reckon so. But more than anything, I’m mad.”
* * *
ELSA WOKE TO SUNSHINE coming through glass windows and it made her miss the farmhouse in Lonesome Tree. She would write about that in her journal later, about the simple joy of seeing sunshine through clean glass, golden, pure as the gaze of God, and how it could lift one’s spirit.
It was better than writing about the new and terrifying truth of life: their money was gone.
Their belongings, their tent, their stove, their food. Gone.
Still, someone had left a pale blue dress and a red sweater hanging over the dresser. Small blessings.
Moving slowly—everything hurt after last night—she slipped into the new clothes and still-muddy galoshes and went to the room next door to find her children. When no one answered her knock on the door, she went downstairs.
The street in front of the hotel was cordoned off to traffic. The Red Cross had set up a tent, as had the Salvation Army and a local Presbyterian church. She saw Ant and Loreda handing out food on trays. The sight of them helping others when they themselves had lost everything made her proud. After all they’d suffered—the hardship, the loss, the disappointment—there they were, smiling and handing out food. Helping people. It gave her hope for the future.
Jack stood in a nearby tent, talking to a woman in a beret. Elsa headed toward him.
He gave her a smile. “Coffee?”
“I’d love some.”
He pulled out a chair for her. She saw stacks of flyers on the table around him. Unionize Now! Communism Is the New Americanism. Some of the flyers were in Spanish. A sign-up sheet asked for people to join the Workers Alliance. There was one name on it: Loreda’s.
“Offering a little radical ideology with the coffee?” she said, crumpling the sign-up sheet into a ball. “My daughter is not signing this.”
He sat down near her, scooted closer. “Loreda has been following me around like a bird dog on the scent.”
“She’s thirteen.” Elsa glanced at the people gathered in the street. “She could get in trouble just talking to you, let alone joining the Communist Party. The growers don’t want unions.”
“A sad comment on the times. This is America, after all.”
“Not the America I know.” She turned to him. “Why communism?”
“Why not? I’ve done my time in the fields. I know how hard life is for migrant workers. Big growers helped elect FDR. He’s beholden to them. Ever wonder why his policies help almost all workers except farmworkers? I want to make it better.”
He looked at her. “I have a feeling you know struggle. Maybe you can tell me why most of the folks coming into the state don’t want to unionize?”
“We’re proud,” she said. “We believe in hard work and a fair chance. Not one for all and all for one.”
“Don’t you think a little all-for-one might help your folks?”